streamer!kenma fucks his girlfriend on stream because his fans are insufferable.
the losing streak starts subtly enough that kenma almost convinces himself it isn’t real, though watching from behind your own screen makes it painfully obvious things are about to go downhill.
the first match slips away because of a cheater, the second because of a teammate disconnecting halfway through, and the third— well, the third is entirely his fault, though he refuses to acknowledge that out loud.
the quiet hum of his computer fills the pauses between rounds, broken only by the rapid clicking of his mouse and the occasional soft sigh he lets out when another objective falls apart on screen.
chat, naturally, notices before he does.
messages begin stacking faster with every defeat, laughing emotes multiplying as the scoreboard appears again and again with his name sitting stubbornly on the losing side. kenma leans forward in his chair, eyes narrowed slightly.
“it’s not a losing streak,” he murmurs, voice calm but edged with quiet defensiveness. “the matchmaking’s just weird tonight.”
chat disagrees immediately.
he queues again anyway.
the next game lasts longer, long enough that hope briefly returns, only to collapse during the final minutes when everything spirals at once— the unmistakable sound cue of defeat appearing before he can fix it. the screen fades, results loading slowly, and kenma stares at it without moving, fingers resting lightly on his keyboard as if continuing might somehow undo it.
on his other monitor, his chat is absolutely dragging him
apple.creampie: disrespectfully please retire
kodzukenkink: just unplug that mouse ☠️☠️
kenmasbbg: UR WASHED its time to get off unc
ilovegamerhands: blink once if u need coaching
one hand comes up to push his hair away from his eyes, headset shifting slightly as he tilts his head toward the scrolling messages.
a donation alert cuts through the noise, cheerful and traitorous— and to his surprise, it's yours.
kodzukenkink donated 1000$! “maybe try winning?”
“…wow, you guys are assholes. 'specially you, kodzukenkink.” he says after a moment, faint amusement slipping into his tone. “…you’re all very confident for people not playing,”
he’s not tilting, not really; he just exhales through his nose, leans back in the gaming chair until it creaks, and lets his voice drop into that lazy, velvet register the chat eats up.
“alright. i’m ass tonight. chat, save me. what do i do?”
the sidebar ignites. the usual mix— get good, switch to fortnite, take a nap— but one phrase starts spamming, gaining traction, bold and relentless.
he doesn’t even hesitate. a tiny, almost imperceptible smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth— the one only you ever really clock. he knows exactly what he’s doing.
“fine. you degenerates win.” he opens twitter on his phone, searches his @ with zero shame, and starts scrolling. “let’s see what you freaks are saying about me this week.”
hecanruinmykda: why'd bro fold under 0 pressure
hiswifiwife: he was waiting for this 😭☠️
first one he reads is tame, almost sweet. he tilts his head, reading it slow on purpose.
“‘kenma’s fingers are so long and pretty i want them in my mouth.’ huh.” he flexes said fingers against his phone, lets them hover over the keys for a second like he’s considering it. “that's bold. zero out of ten creativity, though.”
he keeps going, voice low and amused, like he’s reading the weather instead of porn disguised as compliments.
“‘imagine kenma whimpering your name while you ride him—’ nope.” he cuts himself off, but not before letting the sentence hang just long enough for the chat to explode. he snorts softly. “you guys are so embarrassing.”
kenmasbedhair: DEGRADE US MORE KENMA
verifiedkoduzukenobserver: ready set GOON
needsleepandkenma: all 10 fingers
“‘kenma’s voice is made for dirty talk bf ASMR i need him to call me a good girl while he takes it out on me after he loses in ranked.’”
he pauses, lips curving into the smallest, softest smile— the kind that’s just for the camera and maybe a little for you. “good girl, huh? that’s sweet.” he lets it linger for a beat, then adds, gentle, “i like the imagination. you guys are creative tonight.”
they’re eating it up. the teasing shifts, predictable as clockwork.
rankedwithkenmawhen: no gf to say that to??
spectatingmyhusband: lonely kenma canon
parasociallystable: dw dada i can be ur gf <3333
he reads the last few silently first, eyes scanning, then exhales a soft, fond sound— like he’s smiling at an inside joke.
“you keep saying i’m single like you’re trying to manifest it,” he says, voice light, teasing without bite. he tilts his head, golden eyes catching the ring light just right. “what makes you so sure?”
the chat stutters for half a second— then explodes.
respectfullyunwell: ?? WAIT HE DIDN’T DENY IT
apple.creampie: KENMA HAS A GF???
ilovegamerhands: PROOF PLS KING
verifiedkoduzukenobserver: PROOF OR BAN
he doesn’t laugh at them. doesn’t brush it off like a joke. he just lets his gaze settle on the camera like he’s talking to a friend who’s being adorably clueless.
“so… you really think i’m single?” he asks, soft, curious, almost gentle. no mockery, just that quiet invitation to keep going, to dig deeper if they want.
the chat goes nuclear— screaming, crying emojis, frantic “SHOW HER THEN” and "MUST BE PROPAGANDA," and donations flying in with hearts and question marks. he doesn’t give them anything concrete. just that same small, warm smile as he reaches for his drink, takes a slow sip, and lets the moment stretch.
“interesting,” he murmurs, voice dropping into something softer, more private. “guess we’ll see how long that theory lasts.”
he stretches then— lazy, hoodie riding up just a hint at the waist—and gives the camera his usual wave.
the stream cuts to black, and the room goes quiet except for the low hum of his pc fans winding down. you hear the familiar creak of his chair as he pushes back, the soft shuffle of his slippers on the floor, and then the door to your room easing open.
kenma slips in without knocking and immediately spots you on the bed, propped against the pillows with your phone still in hand, one eyebrow arched like you’ve been waiting for this exact moment.
he doesn’t say anything at first. and watches you with that half-lidded, golden-eyed stare that’s equal parts tired and amused.
you break first, because of course you do.
“so,” you say after a moment, voice carefully neutral, “i see you decided to soft launch me to several dozen thousand people tonight.”
“they were being annoying,” he says simply, dropping onto the bed beside you. his thigh presses warm against yours. “figured i’d give them something to chew on.”
you set your phone aside, shift so you’re facing him properly, knees bumping his hip. “oh, you gave them something alright. i think all your thirsty fangirls are screaming crying right now."
“they’ll survive.” he says, voice low, almost lazy. he reaches out, hooks two fingers in the waistband of your shorts, tugs you an inch closer like it’s nothing.
you lean in a little, voice dropping to that playful murmur you save just for him. “so… are you going to hard launch your beautiful, sexy girlfriend tomorrow, or are you gonna keep dangling the carrot and let them beg for crumbs?”
he hums, thoughtful, thumb brushing idle circles against the skin just above your shorts. “could be fun.” his gaze flicks down to your lips, then back up.
your pulse kicks up— not nerves, just heat, anticipation, the thrill of knowing exactly how chaotic he’s willing to let things get when he’s in this mood.
“that's bold,” you say, grinning. “you sure you’re ready for that level of degeneracy? they’re already feral tonight. tomorrow they’ll be even worse with visual confirmation.”
"i'm used to it by now. wanna show off my pretty girlfriend to everyone."
he kisses you then— slow, unhurried, like he’s got all night and tomorrow’s stream is just bonus content. when he pulls back, his voice is a murmur against your lips.
“better get some sleep. s'gonna be a nightmare tomorrow.”
you laugh against his lips, low and sure. “you’re the one who poked the hornet’s nest, babe. don’t act like you’re not excited.”
and tomorrow comes fast.
by the time he starts stream the next day, you’re already settled: pink gaming chair dragged right up next to his black one, close enough that your knees brush his when you shift.
he doesn’t announce you. doesn’t even look at the camera when he hits “go live.” just leans back, a can of coke in hand, and says in that deadpan drawl, “hey, chat. got company today. also known as yesterday's biggest dono 'kodzukenkink'” he raises his hands briefly, putting quotation marks around the username.
canonicallydownbad: HE WAS BEING FR ???????
kneesweakforkozume: KENMA SOFTLAUNCH TO HARDLAUNCH IN 24HRS???
certifiedkenmasimp: HOLY FUCK SHES GORGEOUS
you don’t flinch. just tilt your head toward him, smirking, and wave once. the donations start pouring in like someone opened a faucet. hearts, crying emojis, “MARRY ME BOTH OF YOU”, “KENMA-SENSEI SHOW US YOUR WAYS”.
kenma glances sideways at you, the tiniest curve to his mouth, then back to the screen. “chill,” he says, but there’s no heat in it. he’s enjoying this. “she’s not going anywhere. be normal for once.”
they’re not normal.
they never are.
the questions come fast, overlapping, shameless.
verifiedkoduzukenobserver: IS SHE THE ONE U CALL GOOD GIRL 💔💔💔💔😭😭😭😭
kenmasbedhair: bet she’s the reason you end stream early sometimes 💔💔
hecanruinmykda: does she make you whimper kenma
hiswifiwife: Q&A SESSION STARTS NOW TELL US KING
you laugh— clear, bright, unbothered— and lean closer to his mic just enough for your voice to carry. “you guys are so nosy."
kenma’s ears go faintly pink, but he doesn’t pull away. instead he sets the drink down, and turns his chair toward you a fraction.
“they’re asking if you’re the one,” he says, voice low, almost conversational, but his eyes are locked on yours. “the good girl thing.”
you arch a brow, leaning into his touch. “am i?”
he doesn’t answer with words. just lets his gaze drop to your lips, then back up, slow and deliberate.
chat loses what little composure it had left.
apple.creampie: NOT THE EYE SEX????
spectatingmyhusband: HELLO? ARE WE INTERRUPTING SOMETHING
parasociallystable: ATP JS BEND HER OVER THE DESK ALREADY 💔😭
certifiedkenmasimp: I SECOND THAT
kneesweakforkozume: we need an onlyfans yesterday
kenma reads the last one aloud, voice dropping into that velvet register they all lose their minds over. “'we need an onlyfans'.” he pauses, lets the silence stretch, then looks straight at the camera. “keep talking like that and i’ll bend her over this table right now. you want that?”
the sidebar turns into a wall of yes yes YES YES caps-lock and barking drooling emojis.
you feel the heat crawl up your spine— not embarrassment, just raw want. you shift in the pink chair, thighs pressing together, and meet his eyes with a slow, challenging smile. “y'know, babe, you're threatening both them and me with a good time.”
he exhales a soft laugh, then— “alright,” he says to the camera, voice flat but laced with that quiet amusement only you ever get to hear fully. “enough foreplay. we’re playing two player obby on roblox. you degenerates can behave or i’m ending stream early.”
you watch your tiny blocky avatar spawn on top of his on a floating pastel platform suspended over an endless sky, cheerful music chiming through both your phone speakers and his headset at the same time. the title screen proudly announces two player obby. you're playing on your phone while he plays on his pc, streaming his screen for his viewers.
"ooh, get ready to lose, kenma."
"(y/n).. we're supposed to work together to get to the end."
then, your avatar jumps.
misses.
falls directly into the void.
the oof sound effect plays through your speakers.
kenma exhales a quiet laugh beside you, shoulders shaking faintly.
you glance sideways at him. “don’t laugh.”
“i didn’t say anything,” he replies, which is technically true, though the amusement lingering in his voice makes it worse.
his avatar waits patiently at the edge of the platform while yours respawns, blocky arms lifting stiffly as you try again. the controls on your phone feel slightly delayed, thumbs tapping carefully as you line up the next jump.
you make it this time.
barely.
“okay,” you mutter, leaning closer without realizing, concentration pulling your brows together. “this game is stressful.”
“you’re supposed to jump when it moves,” kenma says, tone calm, eyes flicking between his monitor and the corner of his screen where chat scrolls endlessly.
“i am jumping.”
your character slips again, teetering dangerously before regaining balance at the last second.
chat explodes in celebration like you’ve achieved something monumental.
you’re both leaning into your screens, trading quiet commentary. “wait, stand on that button,” you mutter. “got it,” he replies, voice soft, focused. your characters sync up effortlessly, and it’s nice. domestic. almost normal.
almost.
then the chats starts creeping back.
jokingly, of course.
certifiedkenmasimp: bend her over when she dies again
kneesweakforkozume: lmao co-op but make it 18+
canonicallydownbad: kenma if u die she has to ride u on cam
apple.creampie: we’re kidding… unless 👀
respectfullyunwell: SPICY CONTENT OR RIOT
your eyes glance up to the chat and you immediately smirk, a mischievous idea now planted in your head. "woah. your fans really want you to fuck me on live. y'sure you don't wanna give your sweet fans what they want?"
kenma reads a few silently, lips thinning. you catch the exact second his patience snaps— not dramatic, just a quiet click. he pauses the game mid-level, and looks up directly into the camera.
"you guys really don't know when to stop," he sighs.
apple.creampie donated 500$! "kenma if you hate us so much just fuck your gf on stream and end our suffering 😒"
he doesn’t speak right away.
just reaches, wraps those long fingers around your wrist, tugs once—sharp enough to make your breath hitch— and pulls you right between his spread thighs so your ass bumps the edge of the desk, facing him.
“sit.”
you start sideways like a coward. but he lifts you up, spins you until you’re sitting on him proper— facing the camera, thighs forced wide with his knees, with your back glued to his chest. you let out a small yelp from how rough he was.
chat loses its fucking mind instantly.
he doesn’t even glance at the spam. his left arm snakes around your and his right hand dragging slow up the inside of your thigh. his middle finger traces the soaked seam of your shorts, presses just hard enough to make your hips twitch like a needy little bitch.
“look at them.” kenma's chin jerks toward the monitor. “they've been begging to watch me ruin you nonstop. and you—” his fingertip circles your clit through the cotton, slow and mean, “—you've been egging them on.”
you try to hide your face but he catches your jaw and forces it right back to the lens.
“eyes on camera, slut.”
two fingers shove under the fabric, sinking in knuckle-deep and curling right into your g-spot. your whole body jolts.
“fuck—kenma—” you try to bite your lips to keep your sounds in,
“shut up.” his thumb presses your clit in tight, nasty little strokes. “already dripping down my hand like a desperate whore. don’t act shy now.”
his chat is actual chaos. half keysmash, half straight-up “please fuck her on stream” donos lighting the sidebar on fire.
he repeats one comment, deadpan.
“‘bend her over when she dies again’.” he lets out a tiny dry huff. “so fucking predictable.”
fingers scissor once, twice, then rip out. you whine like you’re dying.
he drags those slick fingers straight to your mouth, pushes them past your lips.
“clean your mess.”
you do as he says— tongue swirling, tasting yourself while thousands watch you choke on his fingers.
“good girl,” he breathes, almost sweet. then, “such a filthy attention whore.”
pulls them out with a wet pop, smears the spit and slick across your thigh like he’s marking territory, then grips your hips and stands— lifting you like you’re nothing.
he folds you over the edge, tits mashed to the wood, ass up, face inches from the camera. ring light catches every bead of sweat, every flutter of your lashes, every tremble.
he yanks your shorts and panties down— fabric tangled around your thighs like makeshift cuffs.
with his fists in your hair, he yanks your head back so the camera gets the perfect money shot: lips swollen, eyes glassy and nearly fucked-stupid already, drool at the corner of your mouth.
“look at them,” he orders, quieter, darker. “let them see the face they’ve been paying to wreck.”
he pulls his sweatpants and boxers down just enough— blunt head nudges your entrance, fat and hot, rocking there just to make you feel how thick he’s gonna split you open while the entire stream watches.
“say it.”
“haah, fuck me.”
“louder. make them hear how bad you need it.”
your eyes flick to chat— pure depravity, begging in every language.
“fuck me, kenma— please— fuck me on stream—”
he slams in, one long, brutal stroke that punches the air out of your lungs.
your mouth falls open in a silent scream. he doesn’t let you breathe, just sets a punishing rhythm— deep, mean snaps that make your palms slip on the desk every time his hips slap your ass.
“keep looking at the camera,” he orders when your head tries to drop. hair yanked back harder. “let them see your pretty face while i use this cunt.”
tears prick your eyes— not pain, just the overwhelming stretch, the exposure, the sick thrill of being their porn.
his free hand snakes around, fingers finding your clit again, rubbing fast and filthy until your thighs are shaking like you’re gonna collapse.
“clenching so fucking tight,” he mutters, almost to himself. “you love being their camslut?”
you can’t speak— just broken, pathetic moans every time he bottoms out.
he folds over you, chest to your back, lips brushing your ear.
“come for them,” he whispers, voice pure command. “show the chat what their money bought.”
you shatter.
your whole body seizing, mouth wide in a soundless wail as you gush around him, vision blurring white. he fucks you through every pulse, relentless, until you’re whimpering, oversensitive, legs trembling so bad he has to hook an arm under your hips to hold you up.
only then does he let go— few more thrusts before he buries balls-deep and fills you with a low, guttural groan the mic eats right up.
silence for a beat. just both of you panting.
then he pulls out slow, lets you slump boneless over the desk, and finally— finally— ends the stream.
god bless any loved ones who joined Just Chatting | Things Got Weird expecting wholesome gameplay.
Boyfriend!Kozume Kenma who builds a whole 5-star resort for you in minecraft. And its only for you.
Boyfriend!Kozume Kenma crushed on you so hard in highschool and even up until now, a simple caress from your hands makes him bricked up. That man easily folds when you make eye contact with him.
Boyfriend!Kozume Kenma who likes to sleep with his arm underneath your shirt, hugging your waist from behind, and occasionally always fondling your boobs. He's got his leg on top of your leg, chest pressed againts your back, hand under your shirt playing with your breasts, and his lips kissing your neck to your shoulders.
Boyfriend!Kozume Kenma who enjoys you straddling him on his lap when he plays his games in his living room. He'd have his arms hugging your back, your head in the crook of his neck while he tries to quietly play because he knows you drifted off to sleep.
Boyfriend!Kozume Kenma who ends his livestreams amd game sessions earlier now that he's finally got you to be his. He's just happy and excited to be with you, all comfy in his apartment, under his bedsheets.
Boyfriend!Kozume Kenma who always leaves social parties with the excuse of "Sorry, I gotta go home to my girlfriend." and when they ask why, he just says:
"'Cause I wanna be with my girl."
Boyfriend!Kozume Kenma who manhandles your body for your butt to sit on his lap, just 'cause he's feeling extra clingy. He rests his chin on your shoulder and hugs your from behind, his hands holding the console rests on your lap.
Boyfriend!Kozume Kenma who doesn't like to admit that he likes loves it when you grind on him. But you know he does, because he doesn't remove you from his lap. Instead, the poor man just grunts and whines, helplessly complaining about how he can't focus on his game, but he still holds you down so tight so you can't stand up.
Boyfriend!Kozume Kenma who's both a top and a bottom.
summary: Dean DiLaurentis gives you the "I don't do relationships" speech, and you say okay and come back the next day to fix Tucker's cooking. Turns out the most dangerous thing you can do to a man like that is simply not need him.
word count: 11.5k
warnings: 18+ explicit sexual content, minors do not interact. situationship dynamics, brief angst, dean being cruel in a moment he regrets, dirty talk, slow burn, eventual fluff.
Daily calls with your mother had become more sparse over the course of your college years. They started daily and had slowly tapered to every other Saturday, which, in all honesty, was a bit of a shock given that she wasn't the type to loosen her grip easily. She had always been overprotective, and when you announced you weren't going to Texas University but to a college in Massachusetts, she had genuinely flipped her shit. Two years later she seemed kind of cool about it. Just texting. Sending random updates about your dog, like the Halloween costume from last year that you'd screenshot and saved.
You were sitting in your room in the sorority house, legs extended and resting on the desk, phone propped against your water bottle while you FaceTimed her and tried to paint your nails without smudging anything. The room was quiet except for your mom stirring something on the stove.
"So I ran into Olivia Tucker — you remember her, right? From church? She had a son named John," she said, not looking at the camera.
You had learned years ago that it was easier to say yes, of course than to endure five minutes of your mom describing a person like she was giving a statement to the police.
"Yeah, of course. I remember Mrs. Tucker."
"She mentioned her son John is attending the same college as you." She said it like she was reading off a notecard. Matter of fact. "She said he's playing hockey now."
Oh. That John Tucker.
"Yeah, I know who he is," you said, cleaning up the mess on your middle finger.
"Isn't that a big coincidence?"
"I mean, not really — he's like a year younger than me, right?"
"Yes, but you two used to play together when you were kids. At church, remember?" You did not remember. Your family went to church maybe twice a year. "Anyway, I gave her your number so she could pass it along to him. So you two could talk."
"Mom — what, that's not really —"
"She's probably not even going to use it."
She used it. Mrs. Tucker called three days later, and with the grace of a good Southern woman, she asked you to keep an eye on John — not in so many words, of course. She said he'd moved into a house with some of the other players and she just wanted to know he was taking care of himself. She didn't want you to do much. Just stop by, take a look around, report back. She'd handle the rest by phone.
What she did not tell you was that Tucker already knew about her plan.
He opened the door looking completely unsurprised to see you, leaned against the frame with his arms crossed and a grin that said nice try. He was, it turned out, perfectly capable of taking care of himself and, annoyingly, other people too.
Which is how you ended up here, almost a year later, sitting on one of the stools at the kitchen island in the off campus house, crying into an onion.
"I'm just saying, get a dicer," you said, keeping your eyes on the knife because you had to. "This is inhumane."
"A real chef doesn't use those kinds of things," Tucker said from across the kitchen, doing significantly less chopping than you were.
"Well, good thing you're not a real chef then."
He turned around, visibly offended. "What did you just say?"
You opened your mouth to repeat it — and then Garrett wandered in from the living room, grabbed an apple from the counter, looked at Tucker's side of the kitchen and then at yours, and pointed at you. "She's doing all the work," he said, to no one in particular, and wandered back out.
"He's right," you said.
"He's a traitor," Tucker said.
You opened your mouth to agree and then the sound of footsteps came down the hallway, and Dean came around the corner fresh out of the shower, towel low on his hips and water still tracking down his chest.
You sniffed, eyes watering, nose red.
Dean stopped. Looked at you. And then let out a slow, deeply entertained laugh.
"Well," he said, "I've heard a lot of reactions from girls seeing me like this. But crying might be a first." He tilted his head. "You alright there, sweet pea?"
"It's the onion," you said flatly. "Tucker's making me cut it."
"Sure." He was already turning toward the stairs, completely unbothered. "Whatever floats your boat."
He winked at you over his shoulder as he disappeared around the corner.
You looked back down at the onion.
Tucker was very pointedly not looking at you.
"Not a word," you said.
"I didn't say anything," he said, in the tone of someone who was saying everything.
The party invitation from Tucker arrived as a single text on a Thursday night.
party saturday, be here, i made a playlist
You were in the middle of your readings and you looked at the message for a moment before typing back: do I need to bring anything?
yourself and good energy
You put your phone face down and went back to your reading. Then picked it up again.
what time
nine but come at eight so we can hang before it gets loud
That was Tucker's way of saying he wanted to cook with you beforehand, which you appreciated more than you would ever tell him out loud because he would absolutely use it against you. You sent back a thumbs up and returned to your notes, and you did not think about the fact that Dean would be there, because that was not a relevant consideration.
You thought about it the entire rest of the week.
Not in a dramatic way. Just in the quiet, persistent way of something you kept putting down and finding in your hand again. You were honest with yourself about Dean, had been from the beginning. You knew what he was. Charming in a way that looked effortless because it mostly was, easy with people, the kind of person who filled a room without trying. You'd watched him for almost a year. You knew the way he talked to people, the way he leaned in when something was funny, the way he'd come into the kitchen sometimes when you were there and open the fridge and just stand there for a full thirty seconds like the answer to whatever he was looking for might eventually appear.
You knew that he'd noticed you too. That wasn't ego, just observation. The way his eyes would find you first when he walked into a room where you already were. The way he'd aim a comment at you specifically when he had a whole group to choose from. The way he'd said I've heard a lot of reactions like your reaction was the one that mattered.
You'd been sensible about it for a year. You'd made the choice, every single time, to not do anything about it. And you were fine. You were genuinely fine with that. You knew what Dean was, knew what it would be, and you'd decided the math didn't work out in your favor so you'd left it alone.
It was just that sometimes, quietly, in the back of your head, a voice said but what if you didn't.
You got dressed Saturday night and told that voice to shut up, and went to the party anyway.
Tucker met you at the door at eight on the dot, already in a good mood, which meant either the playlist was really good or he'd already had a drink.
"You look great," he said, holding the door open.
"You say that every time."
"Because it's true every time." He handed you a beer from the counter as you came into the kitchen, already comfortable, already home in the easy way the house had started to feel over the past year. "I was thinking we do something with the leftover rice from yesterday, I got peppers —"
"Tucker."
"What."
"We're not cooking. There are already people here."
He looked genuinely confused. "So?"
You took the beer from him and looked around the kitchen. Logan was leaning against the far counter talking to someone from the team, and Garrett was already in the living room, and the house had that particular pre-party hum to it, not yet loud, still settling into itself.
Dean wasn't in the kitchen.
You noted this the way you noted a lot of things quietly, without making anything of it.
Logan glanced over when Tucker handed you the beer. "You're here early."
"She's basically a resident," Tucker said, like this was a fact.
"I'm a guest," you said.
"Guests don't know where we keep the good knives," Logan said and winked, and went back to his conversation.
You spent the next hour in that easy pre-party mode, moving between the kitchen and the living room, talking to people you knew by name now, accepting a second drink from someone who was mixing them near the back. Tucker orbited you loosely the way he always did at these things, appearing at your elbow every twenty minutes or so to say something that made you laugh and then disappearing again. This was one of your favorite things about him, he was never clingy, never needed to keep you close, just checked in like punctuation.
Dean appeared sometime around ten.
He came down the stairs and into the living room and you saw him before he saw you, which felt important. He was wearing a dark green shirt, sleeves pushed to the elbows, and he had that easy unhurried way of moving through a room like it had already arranged itself around him. He said something to Garrett near the bottom of the stairs and laughed, and you looked away before he could look up.
So. He was here. That was fine. That was completely normal and fine.
You went to find Tucker.
The next hour you spent being very deliberate about not being obvious. You talked to people on the back porch when Dean was in the living room. You came inside when he drifted toward the kitchen. You were not proud of it exactly, but you were not going to stand around waiting for him to decide whether tonight was a night he felt like paying attention to you. You'd done a lot of things in your life. That was not going to be one of them.
Your friend Anna, a sorority sister, texted at eleven: how's the party
You typed back: fine. dean's here.
Three seconds.
oh. OH. okay. call me tomorrow.
maybe
that means yes. don't do anything I wouldn't do
You locked your phone and put it in your pocket and thought about the specific, limited list of things Anna wouldn't do and found it unhelpfully short.
The thing was, and you'd been over this, you'd been reasonable about this, you knew what it would be. A night, maybe a few nights, comfortable and uncomplicated and then done. Dean DiLaurentis didn't do anything that looked like what came after. You'd watched him long enough to know that too. And you'd decided that wasn't what you wanted, so you'd kept your distance, and that had been the right call, and it remained the right call.
You were in college at a party on a Friday night and you had been sensible about this for almost an entire calendar year.
The voice in the back of your head said but you knew that going in and it doesn't have to mean anything you don't want it to mean.
You told it to shut up.
It had a point though.
You refilled your drink. Stood near the back door where the air was a little cooler and the noise slightly less consuming. Watched the party happen around you. Thought, very clearly and deliberately: you know what it is. you've always known. that doesn't have to be the reason not to.
You were still working through the logic of that when you felt someone come to stand beside you.
"(Y/N). You've been avoiding me."
Dean. Not accusing, just observing, the same way he did most things, like he was simply noting a fact about the universe. He had a drink in one hand and he wasn't looking at you yet, eyes scanning the room like he'd just happened to end up here beside you, which you both understood wasn't true.
"I've been talking to people," you said.
"You've been talking to people on the opposite side of every room I was in."
"Maybe I just like that side of the room."
He looked at you then. Really looked, in that direct way of his that felt like being assessed and appreciated at the same time. The music was loud enough that the conversation existed in its own small space, just between you.
"You've been doing that for a year," he said.
"Has it been a year?" You kept your voice light.
"Almost." He took a drink. "I've been patient."
The word landed simply, without performance. Patient. Like he'd been waiting. Like the last year had been something he'd noticed too, kept track of, decided to let run its course.
You looked at him for a long moment. The party moved around you, loud and warm, and you stood in it and made the decision clearly, with both eyes open, which felt like the important part.
"Bathroom's upstairs," you said.
Something shifted in his expression, not surprise, just confirmation. Like he'd known, and now he knew for certain.
"Yeah," he said.
He followed you up the stairs without touching you, which felt somehow more loaded than if he had. You could feel him behind you the whole way, that particular awareness of someone close, and by the time you reached the top of the stairs your heart was doing something inconvenient.
The upstairs bathroom was at the end of the hall. You went in, he came in behind you, and you turned to click the lock and found him already there, close enough that turning around put you nearly chest to chest with him, close enough that you could feel the warmth coming off him before he'd laid a hand on you.
He didn't kiss you right away.
That was the first thing. You'd expected him to, he'd been patient for a year, you'd just told him where the bathroom was, you'd expected him to close the distance immediately. Instead he just looked at you, and the looking was its own thing, slow and deliberate, like he was taking his time now that he finally had you here and he wanted you to know it.
"You made me wait a long time," he said.
"You could have said something sooner," you said.
"I said something tonight."
"Barely."
Something shifted in his expression, not quite a smile, more like he'd just decided something. He reached up slowly and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, fingers grazing your jaw, and the touch was so light it was almost nothing, which somehow made it worse.
"You're going to be like that," he said. Quiet. Certain.
"I don't know what you mean," you said, which was a lie and you both knew it.
He tilted your chin up with two fingers, not roughly, just — directing. Making you look at him. "Yeah you do," he said, and then he kissed you.
It wasn't tentative. It was a kiss from someone who had thought about this specifically, who knew what he wanted and had decided tonight was when he was going to have it, and you kissed him back and felt a year's worth of deliberate distance dissolve somewhere at the back of your mind.
He walked you backward until your hips met the bathroom counter and left you there, stepped back just enough to look at you again with that same unhurried attention, and you understood then that he wasn't in a hurry. That he'd waited this long and now he was going to enjoy it, and you were going to have to let him.
"Take your jacket off," he said.
You did.
He watched you do it. That was all — just watched, arms loosely crossed, completely at ease, like this was exactly where he'd planned to be tonight. You set the jacket on the counter and looked at him and he looked back.
"Good," he said, like that meant something.
Your heart was doing the inconvenient thing again.
He came back to you slowly, hands finding your waist, and kissed you again, deeper this time, one hand sliding into your hair and gripping, not painfully, just holding you exactly where he wanted you. You made a small sound against his mouth and felt him smile.
"There it is," he murmured.
"Shut up," you said.
"Make me," he said against your jaw, and then his mouth was on your throat and the option to respond coherently became briefly unavailable.
He took his time with your throat, your collarbone, the soft place below your ear that made your fingers curl into his shirt without your permission, and every time you moved to pull him closer he'd ease back just enough to remind you that he was running this. Not mean about it. Just clear.
"Dean —"
"I've got you," he said, against your skin. "I'm not going anywhere."
His hands moved to the hem of your top, pulling it up slowly, and he stepped back to pull it over your head and dropped it somewhere on the floor and looked at you again with that particular focus, and you had to actively resist the urge to cover yourself, because that was not what you did, but the way he was looking at you made you feel like you were already coming apart.
"You have no idea," he said quietly, more to himself than you, and then his mouth was on your collarbone and his hands were at your waist and you gave up on dignity entirely.
His hands moved to the button of your jeans, unhurried, and he looked up at you first — not asking exactly, just checking — and you nodded and he undid it and crouched down to pull the fabric down your legs with a thoroughness that felt like a point being made. He looked up at you from there, and whatever was on your face made him look deeply, quietly satisfied.
"You've been thinking about this," he said. Not a question.
"Don't," you said.
"Don't what?"
"Don't be smug about it."
"I'm not being smug." He pressed a kiss to the inside of your knee, which short-circuited something. "I'm just paying attention."
He stood back up slowly, hands trailing up the outside of your thighs, and lifted you onto the counter like it was nothing, stepping between your knees. You pulled him back in by the collar of his shirt and kissed him harder than you'd meant to and he made a low sound and kissed you back the same way, one hand flat against the small of your back pulling you closer.
"Tell me what you want," he said, against your mouth.
"You know what I want."
"I want to hear you say it."
You pulled back and looked at him. He looked back, completely unbothered, and you understood that he meant it, that he was going to stand here all night if he had to, patient as anything, until you said it out loud.
"Dean."
"I'm right here," he said pleasantly.
"You're so —"
"Tell me."
You told him.
"Please"
The expression that crossed his face was worth it. He kissed you once, hard, like a reward, and said good against your mouth, and then his hand moved and all the words you'd been planning to say next went somewhere inaccessible.
He knew what he was doing in a way that felt almost unfair, thorough, attentive, like he'd already decided exactly how this was going to go and was now simply executing. When you tried to rush it he slowed down. When you made a sound he filed it away and came back to it. The tile was cold at your back and his hands were warm on your thighs and his mouth was at your cunt and the things he said there were quiet and precise and designed specifically to ruin you.
"You've been driving me crazy," he said. Low, unhurried. "All year. You know that."
"Dean —"
"Every time you walked into a room." His hand didn't stop. "Every time you looked at Tucker instead of me. Every single time."
"That's your fault," you managed.
"I know," he said. "I know it is." Something almost rueful in it. "Doesn't change the fact."
When you finally came it was with your head hitting the mirror behind you and holding his shoulder and his name somewhere in the middle of it, and he stayed with you through the whole thing, unhurried, like he had nothing else in the world to do.
He gave you a moment. Then he pulled back and looked at you with an expression that you could only describe as thoroughly pleased with himself, which should have been annoying and wasn't.
"Don't," you said.
"I didn't say anything."
"You were about to."
"I was going to ask if you were okay," he said, which was such an obvious lie that you laughed, and the laugh broke something open in the room, and he grinned, a real one, unguarded in a way you hadn't seen before, and kissed you again before it could turn into a whole thing.
You worked his belt with hands that weren't entirely steady and he helped without comment, and then his hands were at your hips and he pressed his forehead to yours for just a second.
You watched him look for a condom on his backpocket.
"Yeah?" he said quietly. All the performance gone.
"Yeah," you said.
He pushed into you slow and you exhaled against his jaw, fingers gripping his shoulders, adjusting to the feeling of him. He gave you a moment, forehead still to yours, patient, present, and then he moved and everything else became temporarily beside the point.
It was charged the way it only gets when two people have been waiting too long. Not frantic but urgent, with a focused intensity that felt like something being resolved. His grip was firm and deliberate and you pulled him closer when he slowed down and he got the message and didn't slow down again. The mirror was fogging and somewhere below you the party was still happening and it was completely irrelevant.
"Look at me," he said.
You did. He held your gaze and something passed between you that neither of you named, and you felt it in your chest more than anywhere else.
"Months," he said again. Quieter now.
"I know," you said. "I know."
When he came he buried his face in your neck and went quiet and still, one hand flat against the small of your back holding you against him, and you held onto him too because it seemed like the thing to do, and because you wanted to, and those were the same thing tonight.
You stayed like that for a moment longer than necessary.
Then you both exhaled at roughly the same time, which broke the tension, and Dean huffed a quiet laugh into your shoulder.
You untangled carefully, straightened yourselves out. You hopped off the counter and turned to the mirror, fixing your hair, smoothing your top back into place. He leaned against the wall watching you do it, arms crossed loosely, shirt back on. His hair was a mess and he didn't appear concerned about it.
You met his eyes in the mirror.
"This doesn't have to be a thing," you said. Even, matter of fact. Not cold, just clear. You were giving him an out because you'd rather give it than have him feel like he needed to take it badly.
Something moved across his face. He pushed off the wall slightly. "What if I want it to be a thing?"
You turned around. "What kind of thing?"
He held your gaze. Didn't answer right away, which was an answer, and you'd known it would be, you'd known before you came upstairs, and still it took a small quiet moment to settle.
"Right," you said simply.
Not angry. Not hurt, or at least not visibly. You'd gone in with both eyes open and you'd meant it, and the math was what you'd always known it was. That was fine. You were fine.
You unlocked the door.
"Hey," Dean said.
You looked back.
He opened his mouth, closed it. Something in his expression that you couldn't entirely read. "Nothing," he said finally. "Never mind."
You nodded once and stepped out into the hallway.
Downstairs, the party had peaked without you. The music was louder and the living room was full and Tucker was in the kitchen, which is where Tucker always ended up at some point. He took one look at your face when you appeared in the doorway and turned to open the fridge and produced a beer, which he held out without a word.
You took it.
"Having fun?" he asked, very casually, eyes on the fridge.
"Yeah," you said. "Party's good."
"Cool." He closed the fridge. "I made queso."
"Tucker."
"It's in the pot on the back burner."
You looked at him for a second. He looked back, perfectly neutral, perfectly unbothered, and completely full of information he was choosing not to say.
"Thank you," you said.
"Don't mention it," he said. "Seriously, don't. I have a reputation."
You laughed despite yourself, and some of the tightness in your chest loosened, just a little.
Tucker handed you a chip.
You both stood at the stove and ate queso and said nothing about any of it, and that was, genuinely, one of the nicest things anyone had done for you in a while.
Dean came downstairs eleven minutes later, you weren't counting, you just noticed, and grabbed a beer from the fridge and leaned against the counter across from you, and the three of you stood in that kitchen like nothing had happened at all.
Dean looked at the pot on the stove. "Is that queso?"
"Made it myself," Tucker said.
"You absolutely did not."
Tucker looked at you. You said nothing, scooping queso onto another chip. Dean's eyes moved between you both and landed on you with something unreadable in them.
"Can I have some?" he asked.
"It's your house," you said.
He got a chip. Ate it. Looked at the pot. "That's really good."
"I know," you said.
Tucker stared directly at the wall and smiled at absolutely nothing.
It didn't have a name. That was the thing , it never got one, and neither of you tried to give it one, and somehow that made it easier to just let it exist.
It started simply enough. A week after the party, Dean texted you at eleven on a Tuesday night. Just: you up?
The second text was a trailer link. No context, no explanation, just: this.
You watched it once. Typed back: that looks pretentious.
i know. yes or no.
fine.
The house was quiet when you got there , Garrett's door closed, Tucker apparently out, and Dean was on the couch with a beer and the energy of someone who had been waiting without admitting to waiting.
You sat in the middle of the couch.
He pulled up the movie without comment.
It was pretentious and it was also actually good, and you told him so twenty minutes in when he glanced over to see what you thought. He said told you without looking back at the screen. You said you said it looked pretentious, which is not the same as saying it wasn't good. He said that's a very specific distinction. You said I'm a specific person. He didn't say anything for a moment, and then said: yeah.
Somewhere around the third act the distance between you closed. You weren't sure who moved, maybe both of you, gradually. His arm along the back of the couch and your shoulder under it and neither of you addressed it.
The movie ended and neither of you moved.
He found something else. A documentary, shorter, that turned out to be genuinely interesting. You watched most of it. Somewhere in the second half you were closer still his arm properly around you now, your feet tucked up beside you — and the lamp in the corner was the only light, and in here it was warm, and you were paying attention to about thirty percent of the documentary.
You woke up at two in the morning with a blanket over you that hadn't been there before. Dean was asleep at the other end of the couch, head back, completely unconscious. The TV was still on. You looked at him in the blue light of the screensaver, the line of his jaw, the stillness of someone actually asleep and felt the quiet weight of something you were not going to examine.
Then you got up, folded the blanket, left it on the cushion, and walked home.
You didn't text him about it. He didn't text you about it. Two days later he sent: you around tonight? and you said depends and he said on what and you said what's the plan and he said no plan and you said okay.
That was how it started.
By November it had a shape, even if it didn't have a name.
You came over two or three times a week. Sometimes it was a movie, sometimes it was just you in the kitchen making something with whatever was in the fridge while Dean sat at the counter with his phone and ate everything you put in front of him without comment except occasionally this is really good in a tone that suggested he was a little annoyed about it. Sometimes the whole house was there, Tucker loud and cheerful, Garrett and Logan drifting in and out, the TV on in the background and sometimes it was just the two of you and the house was quiet and those evenings had a quality to them that you tried not to examine too closely.
He texted you things that weren't questions. A link to an article about something you'd both argued about in passing. A photo of a sunset he'd apparently seen from the library roof, no caption. A voice memo once, at midnight, that was just him reading something in the flat unimpressed tone he used when something was genuinely getting on his nerves — listen to this, the message said, and you did, and you laughed, and he sent back a single: right?
You sent him things back. A recipe you thought he'd actually like. A clip of something that reminded you of a conversation you'd had. He always answered. Not immediately, not performatively, just he answered.
Garrett had noticed, in his way. He'd stopped doing double-takes when you were in the kitchen on a Tuesday night, had started just saying hey and opening the fridge like your presence was a given. Logan was less subtle, he'd caught your eye once across the living room when Dean laughed at something you'd said, and raised an eyebrow, and you'd looked away and he'd had the decency not to push it.
You talked to Anna about it on a Sunday afternoon in November, feet up on her bed, staring at the ceiling while she did her readings across from you.
"So it's a situationship," she said, not looking up.
"I didn't say that."
"You described a situationship."
"I described two people who spend time together."
"With benefits."
"Occasionally."
She finally looked up. "How often is occasionally?"
You said nothing.
"That's what I thought." She went back to her reading. "Are you okay with it?"
You thought about it honestly, the way you tried to think about most things. "Yeah," you said. "I went in knowing what it was."
"That's not what I asked."
You looked at the ceiling. "I'm fine," you said. "It's fine. I know what it is."
Anna made a small noncommittal sound that you chose not to interpret.
The physical part of it was easy in a way you hadn't entirely expected. Comfortable in a way that felt like it should have taken longer to get to. He knew what you liked with an attentiveness that might have been alarming if you'd let yourself think about it, and you knew what worked for him, and there was none of the awkwardness of newness anymore.
The only thing you were consistent about was the condom. Every time, without exception. Until one night in late November when Dean caught your wrist gently before you could reach for the nightstand.
"Why do you always —" He stopped. Nodded toward it. "Every time."
"Because I'm not stupid," you said. "You were getting around a lot before this and I don't know what this is and I'm not asking but I'm also not —"
"I haven't," he said. "Since the party. I haven't slept with anyone else."
The room went quiet.
"Oh," you said. A beat. "Me neither."
Something moved across his face that he didn't entirely manage to control. His thumb traced a slow absent line against the inside of your wrist.
"Okay," he said quietly.
"Okay," you said.
The air in the room changed into something neither of you was going to name. Then he kissed you, and it was different, slower, more careful, like something had been confirmed that he hadn't known he was waiting to confirm, and you let yourself feel it without examining it too closely, because that felt fair.
The first sign was the texts.
Not that they stopped completely, that would have been obvious, and Dean was too smart for obvious. They just slowed. A reply that came four hours later instead of forty minutes. A shorter answer where there used to be a real one. The voice memos stopped. The links stopped. You'd send something and get back a single word where there used to be a sentence, and you'd look at it and feel the shape of what was happening without being able to name it yet.
You told yourself it was school. Exams were coming, everyone was disappearing into the library, that was normal. You told yourself he was busy, stressed, in his head about the end of semester and the hockey team. You were busy too. You had your own readings, your own papers, your own life that existed completely separately from the off campus house and always had.
You kept coming over. Tucker needed someone to watch the game with and you'd promised him a recipe you'd been meaning to show him and you were not going to rearrange your life over a shift in text frequency.
But you noticed.
You noticed the way Dean would come into the kitchen when you were there and open the fridge and not look at you the way he used to. Not hostile, just absent. Like you were furniture. Like the awareness he'd always had of you in a room had been switched off at a source you couldn't locate. He ate the food you made without commenting on it. He answered direct questions. He didn't start anything.
You didn't push. That wasn't who you were.
But by the second week of December you were lying in your room at night doing the math and the math was not coming out well, and you were tired of pretending it wasn't.
You went over on a Thursday.
Tucker was at a class. You'd known that, you'd checked, because you wanted the house quiet, because you wanted five minutes of honesty without an audience. Garrett's truck wasn't in the driveway either. You knocked on Dean's door and he opened it in sweats and a Briar hoodie, textbook open on his desk, and the look on his face when he saw you was almost nothing, which was its own answer.
"Hey," you said.
"Hey." He stepped back to let you in, which you took as an invitation, and you came in and stood in the middle of his room and he closed the door and leaned against his desk with his arms crossed. Not aggressive. Just closed.
You looked at him for a moment.
"What's going on with you?" you asked. Quiet, direct. No accusation in it, just the question.
He shrugged one shoulder. "Nothing. Finals."
"Okay," you said. "That's not what I mean and you know it."
A beat. Something moved behind his eyes and then went still.
"I don't know what you want me to say," he said.
"I want you to say what's actually happening."
He looked at you. Then he looked away, jaw tightening slightly, and you recognized the particular quality of someone deciding something, not discovering it, deciding it, and some quiet part of you braced.
"I think this has run its course," he said. Flat. Careful.
You kept your face even. "Okay. What does that mean."
"It means —" He stopped. Started again. "I don't want this anymore. Whatever this is. I don't want it."
"Okay," you said.
He looked at you, and something in your steadiness seemed to irritate him, which you hadn't expected, and that was maybe the thing that cracked something open in him that should have stayed closed.
"I don't know what you thought this was," he said, and his voice had an edge now, "but it wasn't — I wasn't —" He made a short, almost contemptuous gesture. "You've been coming over here for months like you live here. Cooking, watching movies, acting like this is some kind of —"
"I never called it anything," you said.
"No, but you acted like it was something. You act like everything is fine and nothing bothers you and you're so —" He stopped, and the word he landed on was quiet and precise and clearly chosen to land: "You're so comfortable here. Like you belong here. And you don't."
The room was very quiet.
You looked at him. He looked back, and you could see the moment he heard what he'd just said, saw something flicker across his face that might have been regret but came too late to matter.
"You're right," you said. Your voice was completely level. "I don't."
He opened his mouth.
"I'm not going to make this into something," you said. "You don't want it, that's fine. I went in knowing what it was." You picked up your jacket from where you'd set it on the edge of his bed. "I hope finals go okay."
"Hey —"
"Good night, Dean."
You left. You closed the door behind you, not hard, just closed, and you walked down the stairs and through the front door and out into the December cold and you kept your shoulders straight the whole way home.
You didn't cry until you were in your own room with the door locked, and even then it wasn't for very long, because you'd known, you'd always known, and knowing didn't make it nothing but it made it survivable.
You texted Anna: you were right.
She called immediately. You let it ring twice, then picked up.
"I'm okay," you said, before she could ask.
"I know you are," she said. "Tell me anyway."
The hard part came later, at midnight.
You were lying in bed and you saw a link, a restaurant that had just opened, a tasting menu you'd been meaning to mention and you had his name pulled up in your contacts before you caught yourself. Thumb over send. The restaurant unremarkable and the gesture everything.
You put your phone face down on the mattress and looked at the ceiling for a while.
You'd known. You'd always known. That didn't make it nothing. It made it survivable, which was what you'd agreed to, and you were keeping that agreement.
The next afternoon you went to the off campus house.
Not because of Dean. Tucker had texted you at noon — i made something and i think i made it wrong, come look at it — and you'd said what did you make and he'd sent a photo that made you genuinely concerned for his wellbeing, and you'd said I'm coming over because that was what you did.
You showed up at three in the afternoon in your good boots and your coat, hair done, bag over your shoulder, because you had a study session after and you were not rearranging your life. You walked into the kitchen and Tucker was standing over something on the stove that smelled questionable and turned around with the expression of a man who needed saving.
"What is that," you said.
"I was trying to do the thing you showed me with the —"
"Tucker."
"I know."
You put your bag down and took your coat off and hung it over the stool and rolled up your sleeves and looked at whatever was happening in the pot, and Tucker stood next to you like a man watching a surgeon assess a patient.
"It's salvageable," you said.
He exhaled. "I knew it."
"Get me the garlic."
You cooked. Tucker hovered and passed things when you asked and made commentary that you ignored selectively and the kitchen filled up with something that smelled the way the kitchen was supposed to smell, and it was normal. It was completely normal. You were fine.
Logan came through at some point, stopped in the doorway, looked at the pot. "That smells good." Then he looked at Tucker. "Did you make that?"
"We're collaborating," Tucker said.
Logan looked at you. You said nothing. He grabbed a water from the fridge and left, which was exactly the right thing to do.
Dean came downstairs at some point, and you heard him stop at the bottom of the stairs, and you stirred the pot and didn't turn around.
"Hey," Tucker said, in the careful voice of someone being very casual.
"Hey." Dean's voice from the doorway. A pause. "What are you making?"
"She's fixing what I made," Tucker said.
You felt Dean's eyes on your back. You reached past the stove for the spice rack.
"Smells good," Dean said.
You said nothing. Not pointedly — just nothing. Tucker handed you the paprika.
Dean didn't leave. You could feel him still standing there, which told you something you set aside for later. You plated what you'd made, put Tucker's portion in front of him, put the extra in a container that you labeled with a piece of tape and a marker the way you always did, and started washing the pan.
"There's extra," Tucker said, to the room.
"I can see that," Dean said.
Tucker ate a bite. Made a sound of profound relief. "You're genuinely talented, you know that?"
"I know," you said, drying the pan.
You stayed another forty minutes, finishing your tea, going over the recipe with Tucker so he could try again, answering a text from Anna. Normal. Easy. The house the same as it had always been, Tucker the same as he'd always been, you the same as you'd always been.
When you left you said, "Bye Tuck, don't touch the leftovers until tomorrow, they're better the next day."
"Noted," Tucker said.
You pulled on your coat. Picked up your bag. "Later," you said, generally, to the room, and you walked out.
Dean stood in the kitchen after the front door closed.
Tucker was eating. Not looking at him. The kitchen smelled incredible and there was a labeled container in the fridge and the pan you'd used was clean and back on the rack like you'd never been there.
"She labeled it," Dean said.
"She always labels it," Tucker said.
Dean looked at the fridge. "For who."
"I don't know, Dean." Tucker turned a page in whatever he was reading. "Whoever wants it, I guess."
He couldn't focus in class the next morning.
The professor was talking and Dean had his laptop open and his notes half-started and none of it was going in because he kept coming back to the same thing, the same image, which was you standing at his stove with your back to him like nothing had happened.
Not performing like nothing had happened. Actually fine. The difference between those two things was something he understood logically and couldn't reconcile emotionally and it was making him insane.
He'd expected — he didn't know what he'd expected. Something. Some sign that what he'd said had mattered, that he had mattered, that the months of you being in his space and in his kitchen and in his bed and knowing how he took his coffee and showing up when Tucker texted you and falling asleep on his couch and leaving your chapstick on his nightstand —
You'd taken the chapstick. He'd noticed.
You'd taken it and labeled the leftovers and said later to the room and walked out and that was it, apparently. That was the whole thing. He'd said you don't belong here and you'd said you're right and you'd meant it, and that was the part he couldn't get past. You'd meant it not because you believed it but because you weren't going to fight him on it. Because you didn't need to.
You act like you belong here. And you don't.
He'd said that. He'd actually said that.
He stared at his laptop screen.
You'd been coming to that house since before he'd ever spoken a full sentence to you. Tucker's mom had called you, you'd shown up, you'd been folded into the house slowly and completely the way only people who actually fit somewhere ever are, Tucker texting you unprompted, Garrett knowing your coffee order, Logan moving over on the couch without being asked, and Dean had stood in his own room and told you that you didn't belong there and you'd looked at him like you were giving him the chance to hear what he was saying and he hadn't taken it and you'd left.
And then you'd come back the next day and cooked Tucker's disaster and labeled the leftovers and said later.
Later. Like you'd see them around. Like the house was still just a place you came to, unconnected to Dean, existing independently of whatever he'd decided.
Because it was. Because Tucker was your friend. Because you'd built something there that had nothing to do with Dean DiLaurentis and apparently had no intention of dismantling it on his account.
He wrote something down without reading it.
The thing was and this was the part that was sitting in his chest like something he couldn't shift, he'd ended it because it was getting too real. That was the honest answer, the one he hadn't said out loud to anyone including himself until approximately right now, which was not ideal timing. He'd felt it getting heavier and closer and more like something that had a name and he'd panicked, and when Dean DiLaurentis panicked he went cold, and when he went cold long enough he said things he couldn't take back.
You don't belong here.
He closed his laptop. Opened it again.
You hadn't fought for it. He'd said something genuinely cruel and you'd said you're right and you'd left, and the version of events he'd been running in his head where you'd be upset, where you'd pull back from the house, where he'd see the evidence of having mattered somewhere in your behavior, none of that had happened. You'd come back with your boots and your coat and your labeled container and your later and you were fine.
He was not fine.
That felt deeply, profoundly unfair, and he was self-aware enough to recognize that he had no one to blame for it but himself, which made it worse.
Wait, said something in the back of his head, quiet and inconvenient.
He picked up his pen. Put it down.
Wait.
He didn't finish the thought. He stared at his notes until they stopped meaning anything, and outside the window the Briar campus went on being cold and grey and completely indifferent to the fact that Dean DiLaurentis was sitting in class slowly understanding something he wasn't ready to understand yet.
The problem with ending things, Dean was discovering, was that it only worked if the other person let it end.
You hadn't made a scene. Hadn't texted him anything he had to respond to, hadn't shown up at his door, hadn't done a single thing that gave him something to push against. You'd just continued. Existing in the house, in the kitchen, in Tucker's orbit, completely unchanged, like Dean's opinion of the situation was one data point you'd received and filed appropriately and moved on from.
He ate everything you made. That was the humiliating part. Every single time you left something in the fridge he ate it, sometimes within the hour, standing at the counter in the kitchen alone like some kind of punishment he was administering to himself. Tucker never commented on this. Tucker never commented on anything, which was its own form of commentary.
You'd left soup once. Labeled, like always — back burner, twenty minutes, don't let Tucker have more than one bowl he'll eat the whole thing. Dean had read the label four times. Eaten two bowls. Stood at the sink washing the pot afterward feeling like a man losing an argument he wasn't allowed to be having.
Garrett had found him standing there once, staring at nothing, and said "you good?" and Dean had said "yeah" and Garrett had looked at the labeled container still on the counter and said nothing further, which somehow made it worse.
He started noticing everything.
The way you'd laugh at something on your phone and not share it with the room, just smile to yourself and put it face down. The way you always took your shoes off at the door and lined them up neatly to the left, always the left, and he'd started checking for them when he came downstairs, the presence or absence of your boots telling him things about the afternoon before he'd even gotten to the kitchen. The way you said Tucker's name — comfortable, fond, like a shorthand — and the way you had, at some point, stopped saying Dean's name at all. Not pointedly. Just it didn't come up. He wasn't who you were talking to.
He'd done that. He understood that he'd done that.
He just hadn't understood what it would feel like to have done it.
He tried, for a while, to be reasonable about it.
He made a list, mentally, of all the reasons this was fine. He didn't do relationships. He'd never done relationships. He had a plan for his life that had been in place since he was sixteen, and that plan had no room in it for whatever you were. Whatever you'd been. The comfortable weight of your presence, the evenings when you were in the house versus evenings when you weren't, the way he'd started coming across things during the week and thinking you'd have something to say about this —
That was the problem right there. That was the thing he kept running into.
He'd been having conversations with you in his head for weeks. Full conversations, with your actual responses, because he knew how you thought well enough to fill both sides, and that was, that was not the behavior of someone who was fine.
He talked to Garrett on a Tuesday night, which he never did, and talked around the subject for twenty minutes before Garrett said, flatly: "Just tell me what she did."
"She didn't do anything," Dean said.
A pause. "Then tell me what you did."
Dean stared at his ceiling. "I ended it."
"And?"
"And she's fine."
"That's it? She's fine and you are like this?"
"She's too fine," Dean said, and hated how that sounded.
Garrett was quiet for a moment. Then: "Dean."
"What."
"You absolute idiot."
January settled over Briar cold and grey and Dean settled into a particular kind of misery that he was too proud to name properly. He went to class. He did his readings. He played well enough at practice that Coach didn't get on him, which required more effort than it should have because his head was not where it was supposed to be.
You came over on Saturdays, usually. Sometimes Thursdays. Tucker had apparently taken to texting you about things that had nothing to do with cooking, Dean had seen the thread once, accidentally, and it was just the two of you sending each other increasingly unhinged videos with no context, a friendship that existed completely on its own terms, owed nothing to Dean, and was apparently thriving.
Logan had said, once, carefully, over breakfast: "She was here yesterday."
"I know," Dean said.
Logan looked at him. "Just saying."
"I know," Dean said again.
Logan went back to his cereal and didn't push it, which was the right call, and Dean appreciated it and resented it in equal measure.
He watched you from across rooms and told himself he wasn't doing that.
You never looked uncomfortable. That was the thing that was going to actually kill him. You'd come in, take your boots off, left side of the door, say hey to whoever was around, drift toward the kitchen with the ease of someone in a place they belonged, and it would be normal. Warm. Real. And Dean would be somewhere in the same house eating himself alive and you would be completely, genuinely fine.
He thought about the things he'd said. You act like you belong here. And you don't.
He thought about those words with a frequency that was becoming a problem.
It was a random Wednesday in late January.
Dean came home from a late class tired and cold and in the specific bad mood that came from hours with a professor who seemed to find his suffering amusing. The house was lit up when he got there, which meant people were home, and he could hear voices from the kitchen before he'd gotten his coat off.
Tucker's laugh. And then yours.
He stood in the hallway for a second with his coat half off.
"—absolutely not, that's not how that works—" Tucker, indignant.
"I'm telling you, Tucker, I watched you do it, that's exactly how you did it—"
"I was recovering, there's a difference—"
"There is no difference, the result was the same—"
Tucker said something Dean didn't catch and you laughed, full and real, the kind of laugh that meant you'd actually been caught off guard by it, and the sound of it hit Dean somewhere undefended and just stayed there.
He finished taking his coat off. Hung it up. Walked to the kitchen doorway.
You were at the island, Tucker leaning on his elbows across from you, some kind of card game between you that Dean didn't recognize. You had a mug of something and your hair was down and you were still smiling from whatever Tucker had just said, and Tucker was looking at you with the expression of someone who had won a point. Garrett was on the couch in the next room, feet up, barely paying attention, the way Garrett existed in the house like ambient weather.
"Dean," Tucker said. "Tell her that recovering from a bad move is a valid strategy."
"Depends on the move," Dean said, automatically.
"See," Tucker said to you.
"That's not what he said," you said, and glanced at Dean briefly,not long, not loaded, just a glance, the kind you'd give anyone and looked back at Tucker. "Your move."
Dean got a glass of water. Stood at the counter. The card game continued. Tucker accused you of cheating, you denied it with the specific serenity of someone who was absolutely cheating, Dean watched and said nothing and felt the sensation of standing outside something warm.
An hour later you started putting your coat on.
"Okay," you said, gathering your things. "Tucker. Rematch Thursday."
"Thursday," Tucker confirmed. "I'll win."
"You won't." You pulled your bag onto your shoulder. Looked at Tucker with something genuine and warm. "Bye, Tuck."
"Bye." Tucker was already looking back at his phone.
"Later, Garrett," you called toward the living room.
"Later," Garrett called back, not looking up.
You walked toward the door. Past Dean, close enough that he could have said something, close enough that the window was right there, and he stood at the counter with his glass of water and said nothing, and you pulled the door open and walked out, and the door closed, and that was it.
Tucker looked up from his phone.
The two of them sat in the quiet kitchen, the card game still spread out on the island, your mug still on the counter.
"She forgot her mug," Dean said.
"She'll get it Thursday," Tucker said.
Dean put his glass down. Picked it back up.
"She said bye to you first," he said.
Tucker looked at him for a long moment. Set his phone down. "Yeah," he said. "She did."
The kitchen was very quiet.
"Tucker —"
"I'm not doing this, Dean."
"I'm not asking you to do anything."
"Good." Tucker picked his phone back up. "Because I really, genuinely, am not getting involved."
From the living room, Garrett said nothing, which meant he was listening to every word.
Dean looked at the door.
"She left her mug," he said again, quieter, to no one in particular.
Tucker said nothing. Which was, as always, its own kind of answer.
He lasted four days.
Four days of your mug on the counter — Tucker had washed it and left it there — four days of picking up his phone and putting it down, four days of being a reasonable adult who had made a decision and was living with it, and then on Sunday night at eleven p.m. he put on his shoes and his coat and walked across campus to the Kappa house like a man who had exhausted every other option.
He stood outside in the cold and looked up at the second floor windows and felt genuinely insane.
He found a handful of small rocks from the landscaping border. Looked at them. Looked up at the windows.
He threw one.
It hit the wrong window. A light came on and someone looked out — not you, someone he didn't recognize — and he stepped back into the shadow of the tree until the light went off again.
He tried the next window. Nothing. The one after that.
The window opened.
You leaned out, hair messy, clearly pulled from sleep or close to it, and looked down at him in the dark with an expression that moved through several phases: confusion, recognition, disbelief. Before settling on something that was almost exasperated and almost amused and fully of course.
"Dean," you said, not loud. "What are you doing."
"I need to talk to you."
"It's eleven o'clock."
"I know. You weren't answering my texts."
You stared at him. "You texted me twenty minutes ago."
"You didn't answer."
"I was asleep."
"Can I come up?"
The expression on your face did something complicated. "You want to climb the sorority house."
"There's a trellis."
You looked to the left, apparently confirming the existence of the trellis, then looked back down at him. "Dean."
"Five minutes," he said. "I just — five minutes. Then I'll go."
You looked at him for a long moment, and he stood in the cold and let you look, because he'd run out of ways to manage how this went. You could close the window. That was a real option and he'd accept it.
You didn't close the window.
"The trellis is on the left," you said. "Don't break anything."
He made it up without incident, which he felt was frankly more than he deserved. You'd stepped back from the window to let him climb through, and he came in trying not to knock anything over and stood in the middle of your room feeling the full absurdity of the situation settle over him.
Your room was small and warm. Books on every surface, a desk lamp on low, a quilt on the bed that looked like it had been in your family for a while. It smelled like you, something warm, something that had been living in the back of his brain for months without his permission.
You sat on the edge of your bed and looked at him with your arms loosely crossed, not hostile, just waiting. Giving him the floor.
"I need to say something," he said.
"Okay."
"And I need you to let me say it without — I need to actually get through it."
"I'm not stopping you," you said.
He looked at you. You looked back, and there was something in your expression: patient, steady, not giving him anything, and he understood suddenly that you were going to make him do this himself. All the way. No half measures.
He took a breath.
"I said things to you that I can't take back," he started. "That night in my room. And I knew when I said them that they weren't — I knew they weren't true. I said them because I was scared and I was trying to make you leave and I wanted it to work so I made it as —" He stopped. Tried again. "I wanted you gone and I made sure you'd go and then you went and I've been —" He stopped again.
You waited.
"I've been losing my mind," he said. "For weeks. You keep coming over and cooking Tucker's food and laughing at his jokes and you left your mug on the counter and you said bye, Tuck and walked out like I wasn't standing right there and I —" He stopped. The words that needed to come next were the ones he'd been circling for weeks and he was done circling. "I'm in love with you."
The room was quiet.
"I'm in love with you," he said again, because it had come out steadier the second time and it was true and he was done with it living only in his head. "I have been for a while. I didn't know what to do with it so I — I did what I did. And I know that's not an excuse. I know what I said. But I needed you to know that it wasn't because you didn't matter. It was because you mattered too much and I didn't know how to —"
"Dean," you said.
He stopped.
You looked at him for a long moment. Something in your expression that was careful and real and not entirely closed.
"I know," you said quietly.
He blinked. "You —"
"I knew." You said it simply, without cruelty. "I've known for a while. I needed you to know it too." A pause. "And I needed you to say it. Out loud. To me. Without me making it easy for you."
He held your gaze. "Because you're not going to make it easy for me."
"No," you said. Not meanly. Just honestly. "I'm not."
He nodded slowly. That was fair. That was completely fair.
"I'm sorry," he said. "For what I said. You don't belong here — I knew that wasn't true when I said it. That's the worst part. I knew and I said it anyway."
You looked at him. And he watched something in your expression shift, not all the way, but enough, a small careful opening.
"I know," you said again. Softer this time.
"Can we —" He stopped. Tried to find the right shape for the question. "Is there a way back from this. Is that something that exists."
You were quiet for a moment that felt very long.
"Come here," you said.
He crossed the room and you stood from the bed to meet him and he kissed you carefully, like he was asking, and you kissed him back like you were answering, and it was nothing like the first time and nothing like any of the times in between, because those had all been about desire and this was about something that didn't have the same kind of ceiling.
His hands came to your face, gentle, and you let him, and he kissed you like he was trying to say the things that words hadn't been sufficient for the weeks of watching you from across rooms, the soup, the mug, the way your boots on the left side of the door had started to feel like something he needed, all of it, moving through the kiss like it had somewhere to go now.
You pulled back after a moment and looked at him.
"Say it again," you said quietly. Not a test. Just you wanted to hear it again.
"I'm in love with you," he said, without hesitating.
You looked at him for one more second. Then you kissed him again and this time you meant it differently, your hands in his collar pulling him in, and the tenor of the whole thing shifted from careful to something warmer and more certain.
He walked you back to the bed gently, and you sat and pulled him down with you, and he went willingly, propping himself above you, and looked at you for a moment. Your hair on the pillow, your expression open in a way he hadn't been allowed to see in weeks.
"Hi," he said, quietly.
The corner of your mouth moved. "Hi."
He kissed you again, slower this time, and his hands moved over you with a deliberateness that was different from anything before not performing, not proving anything, just present. Your shirt came off and his followed, and he pressed his mouth to your collarbone, your shoulder, the soft curve of your throat, taking his time in the way of someone who wasn't going anywhere.
"Dean," you said softly, fingers in his hair.
"I know," he said, against your skin. "I've got you."
You exhaled like something releasing.
It was slow and close and almost unbearably tender, the kind of thing that didn't have anything to hide anymore. He was attentive in a way that felt different now not just knowing what worked but wanting you to feel it, wanting you to know he was there, all the way there, not halfway out the door. You made soft sounds against his jaw and pulled him closer and he went, and you moved together in the small warm room with the desk lamp still on low and neither of you suggested turning it off.
When you came it was quiet and deep and you said his name and he held you through it with his face pressed to your temple, and afterward he stayed close, closer than strictly necessary, and you didn't move away.
When he followed he was holding your hand, fingers laced, which hadn't been planned and was completely true, and you held on.
Afterward you lay in the small bed in the quiet and the lamp was still on.
Your head was on his chest. He had his arm around you. Neither of you had suggested otherwise.
"You really threw rocks at my window," you said, to the ceiling.
"Small rocks."
"You hit Anna's window first."
"She didn't see me."
"She definitely saw you." A pause. "She texted me twenty minutes ago asking if I had a 'nighttime visitor.'"
Dean closed his eyes briefly. "Great."
You laughed, quiet, against his chest, and he felt it more than heard it and thought: there it is. there's the thing I've been missing.
He pressed his mouth to your hair.
"For the record," he said, "you do belong there. In the house. That was — I need you to know that was the opposite of true."
You were quiet for a moment. "I know," you said. "I always knew."
"You're annoyingly self-possessed, you know that?"
"You've mentioned it."
"Not a complaint."
You tilted your head to look up at him. Something in your expression that was warm and a little careful still, not closed, just real. This was going to take time, he knew that. He'd put something between you that didn't disappear overnight and you weren't going to pretend it had, because you didn't do that.
"Tucker's going to be insufferable about this," you said.
Dean thought about Tucker, who had said absolutely nothing for weeks and washed your mug and left it on the counter. "He already knows," Dean said.
"He's known for months."
"I know."
"He texted me two weeks ago," you said, "and said 'just for the record I think he's an idiot.' I asked who and he said 'you know who.'"
Dean stared at the ceiling. "I'm going to kill him."
"You're not."
"No," he agreed. "I'm not."
A beat.
"Garrett's going to say I told you so," you said.
Dean closed his eyes. "Did he tell you so?"
"He texted me a single thumbs up the morning after the speech. No context."
"I'm going to kill Garrett too."
"You're really not."
"No," he said. "I'm really not."
You settled back against him and the room was quiet and warm and your hand was resting on his chest and outside the world was doing whatever the world was doing and in here it was just this, finally, with a name on it.
˖᯽ ݁˖ : The morning after an eventful night with Dean, you overhear him talking with Tucker...
Tags: Miscommunication, Misunderstanding, reader has bad self doubt, hurt comfort
A/N: i've only watched an episode and a half of off campus so if this seems a little OOC , im new gen ☝🏽🤓
You wake up in the all to familiar bedroom, the sun rays shining in harsh against your face, you groan as you turn over, reaching for Dean only to be met with cold sheets. Your eyes flutter open to scan the room but nope, he's not here. Reluctantly you sit up, grabbing the first shirt you see (of course it's Dean's) it drapes down to your knees so you don't bother putting on pants. You swing your legs over the bed and pad over to the door groggily.
before you can step out you hear talking. Being the noisy person you are you hang back just to see what's being said.
"Are you sure there's not more between you and y/n?" Tucker questions
Oh..well this is getting good, now your curiosity is completelyspiked.
"I mean..yes and no??..look, I know she's been around more than any other girl but you know I don't have time for serious. girlfriends never work out."
You knew what went down between you and Dean wasn't meant to be serious. Hell, you didn't expect it to be but after so long of waking up next to him and looking into those soft blue eyes you couldn't stop your mind from subconsciously wanting more. You never said anything though, not wanting to scare him off but hearing Dean reiterate nothing more can happen between you two makes that sinking feeling pool in your stomach.
You turn on your heels, scrambling back into the bedroom before you hear anymore, you feel stupid. did you really think that the Dean di laurentis would ever settle for you? give you a label that wasn't fuck buddy? As quickly as sadness filled you, Anger took over. Your hands shook with frustration as you snatched up your bag from the floor, stuffing all your disregarded clothes and other essentials then getting dressed into proper clothes.
A lump swells in your throat as you hear the door open. You turn to meet his gaze, feeling your resolve wobble as you eye up his bare top half, wanting nothing more than to cuddle up in his thick arms.
"Hey, you're up, I can make you..." He starts but his words die in his throat as he sees the clearly frantic state you're in, clothes sticking out of your terribly packed bag.
"I've gotta go. I have to study for a big exam coming up."
A lie. a lie that burned your lips once it left you. You never lied to him but what else could you tell him just so you could get out of here. His eyebrows slightly furrow
"Why can't you study here? you've done it plenty of times before.."
He steps a little closer, immediately sensing something is up. Your brain short circuits trying to make up another excuse, another lie.
"Yeah but...clearly i've over stayed my welcome."
you don't think before the bitter sentence flows out into the air, you notice the shift in his eyes, the softness turning into confusion and concern. It honestly felt good to get that out, throw a jab at him to hurt him like he hurt you.
"What?? that's not true. you're always welcome here, you know that."
He says softly, approaching you and reaching for you but you nudge away, grabbing your bag, slinging it over your shoulder.
"I don't know, Am I?? or am I just a piece of meat you can't wait to throw away?"
He tilts his head at your words and looks genuinely affected. He opens his mouth to respond but nothing comes.
"You know if you're so adamant on getting rid of me why don't you find another girl to fuck, huh?"
You didn't want to fight fire with fire but the hurt you harbored was just too much to contain, you fly past him and stomp downstairs, not wanting to be in this god forsaken room or house any longer. Dean flys after you, making long strides to grab your wrist.
"Hey, just hold on a minute. I never said any of that..what makes you think that's what I feel?"
His blue eyes search yours, desperate to know where all of this came from, he doesn't want to belittle you but this whole conversation is bullshit. You won't let him touch you, you snatch out of his hold, not noticing the other boys watching with shocked faces around the kitchen island, eating their breakfast.
"I know what you say about me behind closed doors. I'm just a girl you fuck when you get bored. You like making me think you love me then you pull that "i'm too buzy" bullshit when things get real well guess what? I'm done."
Tears burn in your eyes as you force your body to turn away and walk out the front door. you don't look back. knowing your knees would give out if you face him again. It's only when you're driving away in the comfort of your own car you let your walls down, broken sobs leaving you as you try to focus your blurry vision on the road.
You burst into your dorm, slamming the door behind you and marching to your room, you hope Allie isn't here to bother you or ask questions, right now you just want to curl up in your bed and die. You grab your pillow and squeeze your face into it. You can't even be mad at Dean. You're the one who screwed up, falling in love with him knowing damn well that was the only rule you had to follow. Now look at you. heartbroken and crying over guy you never had in the first place.
—⊹₊⟡⋆
"Dude, what the fuck happened?" Garrett loudly exclaimes. Dean doesn't hear him at first, his ears ring was uncertainly. His brain didn't have time to catch up, to formulate comforting reassurances. He was blown away but the accusations you threw at him. You were never a "just a girl" to him. he knew that the moment he felt warmth spread in his chest when he saw you smile, when he'd see you wear his jersey and cheer the loudest in the room whenever he was on the ice. There were so many times where he almost said "I love you" while being inside of you or just a simple slow morning together, bare and cuddling while you toy with his hair.
Of course the domesticity of him freaked him out but the sensation of finding someone he meshes with so well felt so good he would forget the rules he implemented. All the other puck bunnies never got the soft side of him, he would fuck them a couple times then be bored and move on but one night with you chemically changed him. He found himself yearning for your touch the moment he first opens his eyes, searching for you in the crowd at every game, getting jealous at the sight of you with a guy that isn't him.
He turns around to meet the questioning looks he's receiving. He doesn't know what to say. For the first time in forever he doesn't have a sly comment to make.
—⊹₊⟡⋆
You lie boneless in your bed. eyes puffy and tender from crying, your phone's been buzzing nonstop but you don't have the desire to check it, fading in and out of sleep.
"Y/n! You've got to see this new dress I got it's-"
Allie excitedly turns the corner, clutching the new party dress she got but her smile falters once she sees the state you're in, disregarding the dress entirely, rushing over to your side.
"Babe what's wrong? you look awful.." she sits next to you, caressing your tear stained face.
"I love him Al..." your voice breaks, tears welling in your eyes once again. Allie knew what you were doing with Dean, She encouraged it– wanting you to put yourself out there after burrowing yourself so deep into your studies. The pieces click together immediately in her mind, not needing you to say anything else as she takes you in a tight embrace.
"I know...I know you do."
She just holds you and waits until you calm down, pulling out your laptop and turning on a movie she knows is your favorite. A little later there's a knock at the door. Allie gets up to answer it, you eventually notice she's gone for a while so you go to check who it is, that's when you meet eyes with Dean. Your heart drops and you feel your knees might do the same, you don't know if your happy to see him or angry.
"I'll uh...leave you two to talk"
Allie awkwardly says before grabbing her purse and leaving out the door, letting the heavy cloud of tension dawn on you and Dean now that you're alone.
"Can we talk?" he doesn't make an effort to move closer just yet, wanting to gauge if you're going to hear him out or tell him to leave. Regardless, he's not leaving until he's cleared his name. He doesn't want the version you have of him in your head to be the last thing you remember.
"Dean..." there's warning in your voice, knowing that the longer he stands here in front you with those pleading eyes the more likely you'll give in, dooming yourself to be hurt again once he reminds you that he can't give you a relationship.
"Please." Dean pleads, finally allowing himself to take a step closer.
"Fine...come sit." You sigh. saying no to Dean was never your strong suit that's how you ended up in this situation to begin with. You lead him over to the small sitting area, He sits down next to you but there's respectable distance. You anxiously fidget with your fingers.
"I don't know what you've heard but I want to set the record straight that you aren't any of those things. I'm sorry I ever made you feel that you were.."
You don't look at him yet. your field of vision planted solely on your fingers, plucking at the skin around your nail beds. Dean plants his hand ontop of yours, he knows your anxious habits and he hates that you're doing it because of him.
"Talk to me." He can feel you pulling away and he won't allow that. He gently lifts your face to meet his. There's no judgement or anger in his expression– just raw desperation and devotion.
"I thought we were different...I thought I was different. You started being so lovey dovey with me I just thought..."
you trail off, feeling the all too familiar sting of tears threatening your vision again, Dean squeezes your hand reassuringly
"You are different. that's what I like about you. That's why I don't want anyone but you."
"Then why did you tell Tuck that you basically wouldn't make me your girlfriend?"
Dean dryly chuckles to himself, so that's where all this came from. Dean thinks to himself.
"I didn't mean it like that. You didn't hear what I said afterwards"
You perk up, wanting nothing more than an explanation for all of this so you can not feel like roadkill inside. The softness in his gaze makes your heart calm a little, l
"What...What did you say?" He grins, his blue eyes glistening as he pulls you closer to him.
"I said that I wanted to be with you anyway. I know i'm busy a lot but I want to try with you. I want to make it work because no one has ever made me feel the way you do."
His voice gets softer as he continues, his warm hand coming up to cup your cheek. You melt into his touch, feeling the weight melt off your shoulders
"I want that too. so bad." You don't care how desperate you sound, He smiles causing you to break into a smile too, Leaning in to kiss you. It's short but says a lot.
"What took you so long?" you tease, nudging him playfully.
"I was scared. I've never done anything like this before, there were so many moments when I wanted to tell you but I chickened out.." He admits, a rosy pink spreading on his cheeks
"But now.." he starts, grabbing you and pulling you into his lap causing you to giggle in his hold.
"I'm sure of what i want and i'll gladly endure the challenges if that means I get to call you mine."
You chuckle, leaning in to kiss him again, longer and harder this time. The love bubbling underneath your skin flowing into your synchronized lip movements against one another, his hands hold your hips, pulling you into him more as you cup his face.
"I love you" you admit, letting the 3 words you thought would drive him away press into his lips, you feel him smirk against you before mirroring your words back to you.
⌗ warnings — smut with no plot, oral (fem receiving), dirty talk, dean being a man starved for your pussyyyyy. no seriously i mean this man cannot get enough of you. use of the word ‘cunt’ (my writing, not dean saying it or anything). not proofread! (0.8k words)
⌗ authors note — i hope you guys like this! please let me know your thoughts, reblogs and comments are so helpful and motivating! requests are open for dean as of now <3
the air was thick with smell of sweat and your arousal. dean’s large hands were holding your hips down harshly as his tongue lapped relentlessly at your aching cunt. he had been at this for thirty minutes and there was no sign of him stopping anytime soon. you’d already came twice, but dean didn’t care, he wanted more. the man couldn’t get enough of you. the way you tasted, the way you smelt… fuck, it drove him mad.
“dean…” you whimpered, your fingers sliding into the mop of blonde hair. his nose nudged your pelvis as he sucked your clit into his mouth, a groan escaping his lips and vibrating your core. “that’s it, baby. just let me take care of my girl.” dean mumbled against your clit, tongue messily and lazily licking at your hole. the sounds that filled the room were absolute filth. dean forced your hips deeper into the mattress, holding you in place so he could properly devour you without you trying squirm around too much.
“‘s too much…” you whined, your hand fisting in his hair, your back arching off the mattress. you were sticky with sweat, breath still shaky from previous orgasms. dean’s blue eyes met yours from where he was between your thighs, his mouth still latched onto you. his brows furrowed. “too much? sweetheart, i’m just getting started.” just getting started? was he crazy? what part of this was just — but your thought process was cut short when dean’s tongue plunged inside you. your eyes rolled back, your jaw falling slack.
“there it is.” dean grinned, sucking sweetly at your clit while his tongue thrust in and out of you, your pussy quivering around him. “just let me eat, ‘m hungry.” he murmured, closing his eyes. his cheeks, chin, and lips were drenched with you, your arousal dripping down his chin. “dean, stop.” you gasped, but you didn’t really mean it. the pleasure was just too much for you to handle. “didn’t anyone ever teach you it’s rude to disrupt someone’s meal?” dean groaned between your thighs. his massive, muscular arms wrapping around your thighs, practically gluing you to him.
he’d make you cum several more times before deciding he was finally done and let you relax. but don’t get too comfortable because just a few hours later, he’s wanting more. “please, baby.” his bottom lip stuck out in a pout, giving you his best puppy dog eyes. you hated when he did that, you literally couldn’t tell him no. and god, he looked so hot like that too. he’d smile triumphantly, grabbing your thighs as he laid down on his back, this time bringing you to him so that you’re straddling his face.
his large hands gripping your hips would gently guide you to lower your hips, bringing your already soaked pussy directly to his mouth. dean looked up at you, knowing that seeing him like this between your thighs drove you crazy. your eyes fluttered shut, breath hitching as deans warm mouth covers your cunt. your stomach tensed from the immediate pleasure, hands finding his hair to hold on.
“you taste so good, princess. like heaven.” dean moaned between your legs. fuck, he was too good at this. your hips started rocking against his mouth, your entire body warm and fuzzy with pleasure. “fuck yeah, ride my face, baby.” dean groaned against your pussy, his tongue circling your clit as his fingers spread your lips open further. his hands slid up to your tummy, just wanting to feel your skin beneath his palms. his hands eventually moved up to your breasts, his fingers finding your nipples, pinching and rolling the hard peaks, the pleasure making you buck your hips against his face. “couldn’t believe you made me wait this long to eat again.” dean practically pouted between your legs. made him… wait?! it had only been a few hours since the last time he ate you out, this man was fucking insatiable.
“i know, you poor baby.” you moaned, your head falling back as his tongue flicked against your clit over and over again. his hand landed a sharp smack to your ass, causing you to yelp. the sting of the slap melted into pleasure, your hips twitching against his face. “don’t talk back to me; don’t act like you don’t love this. you love knowing how obsessed i am with you and the way you taste.” and it was true. you loved knowing how obsessed dean was with you and eating your pussy.
within minutes, your vision was blurring, your toes curling as you desperately fucked dean’s face, chasing your orgasm over the edge. a loud cry of pleasure ripped from your throat as you came hard, dean greedily swallowing every last drop of you. you rolled off his face, dropping down onto the bed completely spent and breathing heavily as you attempted to recover. “you did so good for me, baby.” dean praised softly, wiping his mouth off with the back of his hand and leaning in to press a gentle kiss to your shoulder. “i’m already thinking about my breakfast in the morning.” he smirked. fuck me.
Pairing : Dean Di Laurentis x Fem!reader Warning : jealousy , possesive Dean, popular hockey boy x shy girl, accidental confession Word Count : 1,6k Summary : When Dean gets unexpectedly jealous at a Briar party and pulls you onto his lap in front of everyone, the line between friendship and something more suddenly disappears.
You hated Briar parties. Too loud. Too crowded. Too many drunk athletes screaming over terrible music.
Honestly, you would’ve stayed home if Dean hadn’t practically dragged you there himself.
“C’mon, sweetheart,” he complained dramatically while walking backwards in front of you. “You can’t spend your entire Friday night hiding in your dorm.”
“Yes I can.”
Dean grinned immediately.
“Not anymore.”
Your stomach flipped stupidly. That happened a lot around Dean Di Laurentis. Which was unfortunate because Dean flirted with literally everyone.
Waitresses.
Classmates.
Random girls at parties.
Meanwhile you could barely survive eye contact with him.
“Relax,” he teased softly once you reached the crowded house. “I’ll protect you from the evil social interaction.”
You rolled your eyes, but still followed closely behind him inside. Dean noticed. He always noticed. That was the problem. People thought Dean was shallow because he joked constantly and flirted with everyone around him. But you knew better.
You noticed the little things:
how he always walked on the outside of sidewalks,
how he remembered your coffee order,
how he touched your lower back in crowded rooms without thinking,
how his eyes automatically searched for you first whenever he entered somewhere.
It was confusing.
Especially because Dean acted like you belonged to him half the time. Even though you definitely weren’t dating. Probably. Maybe. Honestly, you didn’t know anymore.
“Stay here,” Dean said while handing you a drink. “I’m grabbing Logan before he destroys someone at beer pong.”
You laughed quietly.
“Okay.”
“Don’t let anyone kidnap you while I’m gone.”
Heat rushed to your face immediately. Dean winked before disappearing into the crowd. You hated how easily he affected you. A few minutes later, you were standing awkwardly near the kitchen trying not to look completely uncomfortable. Bad idea. Because apparently standing alone at a party attracted attention.
“You look terrified.”
You looked up nervously to find a football player smiling down at you. Cute. Very tall.Definitely drunk.
“Oh,” you laughed weakly. “I’m okay.”
“You sure?” He leaned casually against the counter beside you. “You’ve been hiding over here all night.”
You smiled politely, unsure what to say. Social interaction was already hard enough. Flirting was worse.
“I’m Mason, by the way.”
You told him your name softly. Then immediately regretted it because his smile widened.
“Well,” Mason said, “you’re definitely the prettiest girl here.”
Your face burned.
“Oh, thank you.”
“You here with someone?”
Before you could answer, Mason’s hand landed lightly on your waist.
And suddenly,
“She’s sitting with me.”
The voice cut through the noise instantly. Your breath caught. Dean stood a few feet away staring directly at the football player.
And for once? Dean Di Laurentis wasn’t smiling. Your heartbeat immediately sped up.
Mason lifted his hands awkwardly. “Dude, I was just talking to her.”
“Cool.” Dean walked forward slowly. “Now you’re done.”
The tension shifted instantly.
You stared at Dean in complete shock while Mason looked between both of you confused.
“Wait,” Mason frowned slightly. “Are you guys together?”
Dean’s arm wrapped around your waist without hesitation.
“She’s with me.”
The words hit your chest so hard it almost hurt. Mason looked uncomfortable immediately.
“My bad.”
Dean didn’t answer.
He just guided you away from the kitchen with his hand still firmly against your waist.
Your entire body felt warm where he touched you.
“What was that?” you whispered once you reached the living room.
Dean looked down at you innocently.
“What was what?”
“You basically threatened him.”
Dean scoffed.
“He was flirting with you.”
“And?”
“And I didn’t like it.”
The answer came too fast. Too honestly. Your heart nearly stopped. Dean seemed to realize what he’d admitted because his expression shifted slightly. But instead of taking it back… His hand tightened against your waist.
“You’re sitting with me,” he decided suddenly.
Before you could process the sentence, Dean dropped onto the couch and pulled you directly into his lap. Your entire brain short-circuited.
“Dean!”
He looked completely relaxed despite the fact that your heart was trying to kill you.
“What?”
“I can’t sit on your lap!”
“Too late.”
Around you, several hockey players immediately started staring. Logan nearly spit out his drink. Garrett looked deeply unimpressed.
And Allie whispered:
“Oh my God finally.”
Your face burned hotter. Dean only looked smug. One of his hands rested casually against your thigh while the other held his drink. Completely comfortable. Like this was normal. Meanwhile you could barely breathe.
“Dean,” you hissed quietly. “Everyone’s looking.”
“Let them.”
Your stomach flipped violently.
“How are you acting normal right now?”
He leaned closer slightly.
“I’m always normal.”
“You’re literally holding me hostage.”
Dean grinned lazily.
“Sweetheart, if I was holding you hostage, you’d know.”
Your brain stopped functioning. Absolutely stopped. And the worst part? You didn’t even want to move. Because sitting in Dean’s lap felt stupidly safe. Warm. His fingers absentmindedly traced circles against your leg while he talked to Garrett about hockey, completely unaware he was actively ruining your life.
Or maybe he was aware. That was somehow worse.
“You’re quiet,” Dean murmured eventually, looking down at you.
“I wonder why.”
He laughed softly.
Cute.
Dean Di Laurentis was annoyingly cute.
Which felt deeply unfair considering he looked like that and had the personality of a menace.
“You okay?” he asked more gently.
The softness in his voice caught you off guard. You nodded slowly.
“Yeah.”
Dean studied your face for a second too long. Then his thumb brushed absentmindedly against your thigh. Your pulse jumped instantly. And suddenly something shifted. The teasing atmosphere faded slightly.
Now it was just:
Dean looking at you,
your body pressed against his,
and way too much tension between both of you.
“You know,” Dean said quietly, “I really hated watching him flirt with you.”
Your breath caught.
“Dean…”
“I’m serious.”
His expression softened completely now. No jokes. No flirting. Just honesty. And somehow that terrified you more.
“I didn’t like the way he looked at you,” Dean admitted softly. “Or touched you.”
Your heart pounded painfully.
“Why?”
The question slipped out before you could stop it.
Dean stared at you silently for a second.
Then laughed quietly to himself.
“Jesus Christ.”
“What?”
“You seriously don’t know?”
Your stomach twisted.
“Know what?”
Dean looked almost frustrated now.
“Sweetheart,” he whispered, “I’ve been obsessed with you for months.”
Silence. Complete silence. The party noise faded into background static. You stared at him, convinced you misheard.
“What?”
Dean’s hand moved carefully to your waist again.
“You think I drag you to parties because I enjoy watching you avoid eye contact with everyone?”
Heat rushed violently to your face.
“You flirt with everybody,” you whispered.
Dean immediately shook his head.
“Not like this.”
Your chest tightened painfully.
“Then what is this?”
Dean smiled softly.
“This,” he murmured while pulling you slightly closer, “is me losing my mind over one shy girl.”
Your heart completely melted. And suddenly everything made sense. The constant attention. The touching. The jealousy. The way Dean always looked at you like you were something precious.
“Oh,” you whispered.
Dean laughed quietly.
“Yeah. Oh.”
You stared at him nervously.
“So…” Your voice came out tiny. “You like me?”
Dean looked genuinely offended.
“Baby, I’m one bad day away from writing poetry about you.”
A startled laugh escaped you instantly. Dean smiled immediately like hearing you laugh was his favorite thing in the world. God. You were so done for.
“You know what the worst part is?” you admitted quietly.
“What?”
“I think I liked when you got jealous.”
Dean froze for half a second. Then a dangerously smug grin appeared on his face.
“Oh, you’re into possessive behavior?” he teased.
Your eyes widened immediately.
“No!”
Dean laughed loudly while your face burned alive.
“You’re cute when you’re embarrassed.”
“You’re horrible.”
“And yet,” he murmured while leaning closer, “you’re still sitting in my lap.”
Your breath caught instantly. Because he was right. You hadn’t moved once. Not even a little. Dean’s eyes flickered briefly toward your lips. Then back up again.
“You wanna know something?” he asked softly.
“What?”
“I’ve wanted to kiss you since the second week I knew you.”
Your heartbeat became unbearable.
“Dean…”
“Tell me to stop.”
But the problem was… You really, really didn’t want him to stop. So instead, you whispered:
“Maybe I don’t want you to.”
Dean stared at you for half a second before kissing you immediately.
Warm. Confident. Perfect.
One hand settled against your waist while the other tilted your chin upward carefully, like he wanted to make absolutely sure you felt everything behind the kiss. And honestly? You thought Dean flirting was dangerous. Kissing him was worse. When he finally pulled away, both of you were breathing hard. Dean rested his forehead lightly against yours.
“Well,” he murmured lazily, “that’s gonna make parties way more interesting.”
You laughed softly despite yourself. Across the room, Garrett looked exhausted already. Logan looked deeply entertained. And Dean? Dean looked ridiculously pleased with himself.
“Still hate parties?” he whispered.
You glanced at him before smiling shyly.
“Maybe not this one.”
Dean grinned immediately before kissing your forehead. Then, because he was incapable of behaving normally for even five seconds, he looked around the room proudly and announced:
“Everybody relax. She likes me back.”
You immediately hid your face in his shoulder while the hockey team erupted into chaos.
A/N : Here's my third fanfiction on Dean Di Laurentis!!! Hope u like it ! Don't forget to LIKE,SHARE, COMMENT & SUBSCRIBE !! Next one gonna be GARRET GRAHAM !
fratboy satoru gets too possessive during sex because of his secret. 18+
satoru gojo, the man whom you had given your heart to after he had been courting you for two months. at first, it didn’t make sense to you nor your friends.
satoru gojo, the man in the fraternity, who would ingest vodka in a shot while having a marlboro adorning his fingers.
satoru gojo, who would be known to satisfy himself to the exploding basses of incoherent music, flashes of purple, green and red lights embracing his party freak nature.
satoru gojo who would have a (new) girl every week, her grasping on to his sturdy forearm as they stumbled in to cramped dorms.
satoru gojo, who had the reputation of being a charmer who couldn’t obtain a relationship— not because there was something lacking within him, but, because he never understood the importance of having some sort of romantic established connection.
so, you did wonder as to why satoru would try to get your attention, your time, your words. you were nothing like him.
in fact, you guys were truly polar opposites. your faculties didn’t align (he was in business, you were in humanities), your personalities didn’t align (he was an extrovert, you were an introvert) and most of all, your reputation (he was a fraternity member, you were known as the quiet, shy girl who refrained from engaging with men without necessity).
so, truly, how did it get here?
where your cheeks were pressed on to the mellow cotton of the pillow. where the white sheets of the bed were heavily wrinkled because of the way you clenched it within your fists. where you tried to mutter out his name in any way possible, “sa-satoru—mhm”. where you didn’t know if you wanted him to slow his pace down or keep going at this rate like a brute animal.
his cock was expanding in your hole it seemed, the firm veins were pulsating against your plush walls. his tip, the oh so pink tinted head of his cock you had come to love was stimulating your cervix. his balls were slapping on to your pounded pussy while both his hands held on to your waist, preventing you to move from the maddening position he had you in.
you felt it. his hands had shifted. one of them, framed with veins, had come around to feel the bulge on your womb— signifying to you, that he was in you, too deep. while the other hand spread its large palm on one of your ass cheeks.
“fuck yeah doll, wan’ me to put a baby in this huh?” he groaned, his breath cutting between the words. “wan’ me to, fuck, make you full? leakin’ from me? shit just say yes baby.” you had rested your flustered cheek on to the pillow, your iris moving to the corner to see him. god. he was a vision of pure ecstasy. his white hair too frivolous, the bangs had been plastered on to sweaty forehand, his chest heaving with red scratches from the previous sessions.
you saw the bridge too, not vivid, just a slight blur but enough to make blood rush hastily into your face. creamy paste clustered around the rim of his cock, the base was too slimy, an evidence of the lustrous passion. “no one’s havin’ you like this, fuck, only me. only me. only” he groaned as he slapped against your rim faster and faster.
“shit, i swear i’m gonna marry you, my wife” “need you, ugh, in the mornin’s, noons and nights in my fucking house ’nd my fucked up life” he wouldn’t shut up, not at all. his groans gritted. his voice going sore.
“nobody gets this. this pussy. this body. no one will have you. no one” his breath cut hard. you gasped as he hit the spot too perfect, his entire length inside you. he was ramming into you as his fingers gathered both your dainty wrists behind your back in a single grip.
slap sounds of his skin meeting yours echoed too loud. tomorrow might be awkward with your neighbors.
“i’m never leavin’ you, ngh, never. yer’ not goin’ anywhere from me” he was close, you could tell. his thrusts were way faster now, too fast. rapid with the way he moved while biting his lower lips, plumper shade of red now.
you had already came earlier than him while he had to remove himself and stroke to milk out even the littlest remaining bit.
you were gasping, for air and dissatisfaction from the loss of contact. he was too rough today, contrasting to his usual self— the sweet, the careful and the softly doting.
his clammy palm had slithered its way on to your waist, turning you around. your back on the mattress, your front to his view. you noted around. clothes scattered on floor while the condom box sat lonely on the bedside table because satoru wanted to go raw this time, just to “feel you”.
satoru had finished wiping you with the wet towel, throwing it on the little table, knocking off the durex box. he planted himself beside, close. too close like he wanted to be your second skin. his head rested low on to your chest as you giggled. he had always been very clingy after sex. always liked having his hair played with by you. only you.
“was something wrong today? you were a bit .. rough..” you tentatively asked with a shy gaze on to him, only able to see the slope of his nose and the outline of his lips. he scrambled deeper in to your embrace, his breath exhaling on your spent nipple making you shiver.
“no, just, i love you. so fucking much” it was true. he did love you. you were his first girlfriend in a long time, since middle school.
he loved you. completely and irrevocably.
hence, it haunted him. what if you found out?
what if you found out that the two of you existed together only because of a stupid bet made between him and his friends during an alcoholic stupor.
drinks paid for the whole year if he took your virginity.
tweaking thinking about reader waking up in the hospital in a small coastal town with no recollection of who she is and where she came from, only to look over and meet the wide, charming grin of a Scottish stranger who introduces himself as her husband when she asks who he is.
the doctor says she’s fine otherwise though; no concussion, no symptoms apart from her total lack of memories. nothing to do but rest and wait for them to come back, he says, shrugging like the massive dearth of identity - the black hole in her memory spanning from the beginning of her life until precisely twenty minutes ago - is something he can just shrug off.
he takes her home though - Johnny, her husband, handsy enough as he leads her out of the hospital that she has to imagine he’s done this with her before - and drags her to bed the same day, brushes off all of her concerns by reminding her that his hands and lips only feel unfamiliar because she took a tumble and shook her memories loose. they’ll come back to her eventually though, and won’t she feel silly then trying to bat her own husband’s hands off her when he was so worried about her.
(that’s not the truth though, is it? but how is she to know that he just wandered in off the street, a stranger in the right place at the wrong time. was in the hospital for some other reason - couple stitches after he nearly cut open his hand doing a bit of work in the yard - when he spotted her unconscious form as the paramedics wheeled her in on a gurney and just followed them to her room, lying through his teeth the whole while. couldn’t believe his luck when she woke up and couldn’t even recall her own name.)
(he’s just got to wait her out. keep her happy and sated and fucked and pampered to that when those pesky memories come back, she won’t want to leave him.)
What you did not expect was to fall through a glowing hole in the ground and land directly on top of a tiny red man who swears like a sailor with a head injury.
He’s loud. He’s kinda pointy. He’s offended you crushed him.
You’re a little offended he thinks your “a clumsy fucker with tits.”
Congratulations. You’re in Hell. The Ø is silent.
Apparently the glowing holes just spit you out like you’re a defective product, and the tiny red rage-gremlin decides this is your problem but it's also somehow his problem too, so he drags his “friend" into this mess too, he doesnt excatly call him a friend. You’re pretty sure it’s his situationship ?
Enter: A stupidly-tall owl man in a bathrobe who talks like a Victorian ghost trying to seduce a houseplant. He calls you what you think passes for a pet name within thirty seconds and you’re 90% sure he’s flirting with both you and the angry red guy.
Neither of them can explain why you’re stuck…
Until Owl Daddy Deluxe finds a dusty book.
P.1 - Or: I.M.P & Dubious Hospitality
P.2 - Or: How to Explain "I Accidentally Kidnapped a Human"
P.3 - Or: What's with all the Horses ?
P.4 - Or: Rude Awakenings and Ruder Introductions ❤️🔥 18+
What you did not expect was to fall through a glowing hole in the ground and land directly on top of a tiny red man who swears like a sailor with a head injury.
He’s loud. He’s kinda pointy. He’s offended you crushed him.
You’re a little offended he thinks your “a clumsy fucker with tits.”
Congratulations. You’re in Hell. The Ø is silent.
Apparently the glowing holes just spit you out like you’re a defective product, and the tiny red rage-gremlin decides this is your problem but it's also somehow his problem too, so he drags his “friend" into this mess too, he doesnt excatly call him a friend. You’re pretty sure it’s his situationship ?
Enter: A stupidly-tall owl man in a bathrobe who talks like a Victorian ghost trying to seduce a houseplant. He calls you what you think passes for a pet name within thirty seconds and you’re 90% sure he’s flirting with both you and the angry red guy.
Neither of them can explain why you’re stuck…
Until Owl Daddy Deluxe finds a dusty book.
P.1 - Or: I.M.P & Dubious Hospitality
P.2 - Or: How to Explain "I Accidentally Kidnapped a Human"
P.3 - Or: What's with all the Horses ?
P.4 - Or: Rude Awakenings and Ruder Introductions ❤️🔥 18+
— keiji doesn’t despise you. i’m sure he has a folder of your printed photos somewhere.
yandere!akaashi keiji x f!telepath!reader
i had a lot of fun with this! i hope you guys like it as much as i do (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶) .ᐟ.ᐟ SOMEONE hold me back from writing more keiji fics.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
the one where akaashi keiji is your biggest fan, literally.
you know how they say ignorance is bliss?
yeah. well. they were right.
because today, out of all the possible things the universe could have cursed you with, you woke up with the ability to read minds. no instructions. no warning. no off-switch. just… one minute you’re brushing your teeth, and the next you’re hearing your neighbor’s internal panic about whether or not almond milk counts as dairy.
and you were fine. you were okay. it was manageable. you could ignore it.
until you saw akaashi keiji.
akaashi keiji, who—you were sure—hated your guts. akaashi keiji, setter of fukurodani, king of the resting bitch face, mr. "i am only polite to you because bokuto would kill me otherwise." akaashi keiji, whose brain you really didn’t want to wander into—
except, of course, you did. and that’s when your entire worldview shattered.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
you’re standing outside the gym, waiting for bokuto to finish his fifth water break, when you accidentally brush against akaashi. his arm. just for a second. and then—
‘oh my god. oh my god she touched me. i’m never washing this arm again. i’ll cut the sleeve off and frame it. i could cry. no. stay cool. don’t look at her. she’ll know. she always smells so good, what is that, vanilla? cinnamon? holy hell, marry me already.’
you freeze.
akaashi doesn’t. he just stands there, calm, cool, collected, expression neutral as ever.
except in his head, he’s a screaming, crying, shaking mess.
you blink. surely you misheard. maybe your brain powers are glitching. maybe—
‘look at her hair today. it’s so shiny. i want to run my hands through it. i want to braid it. i’d do it better than she could. she’d look so cute with little ribbons. oh god, imagine if she called me keiji while i braided her hair. i’d pass out. stop. stop thinking about it. don’t get a nosebleed. you’re a man, akaashi, have some dignity.’
you blink harder.
akaashi, still, does not blink at all.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
“you good?” bokuto asks, appearing at your side with two bottles of water balanced on his head.
“yep,” you squeak, voice about three octaves higher than normal. “totally fine. never been better.”
akaashi glances at you then, just once, with that infuriatingly unreadable face. except now you can read it. or, more specifically, you can read the psychotic mess behind it.
‘say something to her. no. don’t. she’ll know. she already hates you. wait—does she hate you? she must. she never talks to you unless bokuto’s there. god, i’m so pathetic. i wrote three thousand words of her comforting me after practice yesterday. i even added the author’s note that said "just a self-indulgent drabble lol." kill me. no, don’t. then i’d never see her smile again.’
you choke on air.
akaashi side-eyes you. “you okay?”
you nod violently. “fine! so fine!”
inside, you are anything but fine. the only thing fine here is akaashi.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
the problem is, you’ve had a crush on akaashi since day one. because he’s pretty. disgustingly pretty. like, unfairly pretty. and also because he’s nice. not to you, of course—he’s always a little short with you, a little dismissive, a little too quiet—but to bokuto.
and you love bokuto, your best friend in the whole wide world, so you love anyone who treats him right. and akaashi treats him like he hung the moon.
so you spent months convincing yourself akaashi just didn’t like you, and that was okay, and you’d get over it.
except now you know he’s apparently been mentally writing fanfiction about you. and braiding your hair. and proposing marriage.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
the next day, you test it again. you sit at the back of the classroom, and akaashi’s two rows ahead. you focus, just a little, and—
‘don’t turn around. she’s back there. i can feel it. she probably looks so cute, tapping her pencil like that. oh, she dropped it. should i pick it up? no, she’ll think i’m weird. god, her handwriting’s adorable. i could look at her notes all day. i’d laminate them. i’d put them in a scrapbook. wait, normal people don’t do that. stop. stop stop stop.’
your pencil rolls off your desk. akaashi catches it mid-air without looking, turns, hands it back to you with a polite nod.
“thanks,” you say.
“mo problem,” he says.
‘she spoke to me. she actually spoke to me. do i look sweaty? i’m sweaty. oh my god, her voice. play it at my funeral. engrave it on my tombstone. thanks. no problem. pathetic. you’re pathetic, keiji.’
you almost burst out laughing in the middle of math.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
it only gets worse from there.
because every time you’re near him, you hear it. the mental rambling. the unhinged devotion. the diary entries happening live in his head.
‘look at her tying her shoe. that’s the cutest knot i’ve ever seen.’
‘she said hi to me. that’s basically a marriage proposal.’
‘i memorized her schedule. not in a creepy way. okay, maybe a creepy way.’
‘bokuto, if you don’t move so i can see her, i swear to god—’
it’s insane. it’s overwhelming. it’s also… kind of flattering.
because, well. you like him. a lot. and knowing that the stoic, unbothered akaashi keiji is actually your number-one fan? yeah. it’s doing things to your heart.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
the kicker, though—the absolute kicker—is the day you find out about the fanfics.
you’re at bokuto’s house, scrolling on his laptop while he showers, when you accidentally stumble onto a file labeled “akaashi’s stuff.”
and inside?
well.
it’s hundreds. literally hundreds. of word documents. all named things like “comfort fluff ver.7” and “domestic au FINAL FINAL edit.”
you open one. and immediately want to scream.
because it’s you. and akaashi. holding hands after practice. you patching him up. him kissing your forehead.
you slam the laptop shut so hard you almost break it. bokuto runs out of the shower in a towel, panicked.
“what happened? earthquake?”
“nope!” you squeak. “everything’s fine!”
except nothing is fine. because akaashi keiji writes fanfiction about you.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
the next day, you corner him after practice.
“hey, akaashi,” you say, trying to act normal.
“hey,” he replies, normal as ever.
‘she’s talking to me. she cornered me. this is it. this is how i die. god, she’s so pretty when she’s sweaty. did i put deodorant on today? i did. okay. don’t panic. do i look weird? i look weird. i always look weird. marry me.’
you take a deep breath. “so. uh. i read something yesterday.”
he blinks. “okay?”
‘oh god. oh god. she found it. she found my fics. she hates me. she’ll never speak to me again. run. fake your death. move to canada. change your name. keiji who? never heard of him.’
“and i just wanted to say…” you pause, grin, lean in close— “…you’re a really good writer.”
akaashi keiji, the picture of composure, the king of neutrality, turns bright red.
‘what. what. WHAT. she LIKES them? she knows? she knows. i’m going to implode. this is the best and worst day of my life. holy shit.’
you laugh. you can’t help it. he looks so lost, so mortified, so utterly whipped. and maybe you’re just as whipped, because all you want to do is grab his stupid pretty face and kiss him.
so you do.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
akaashi’s brain short-circuits.
‘she kissed me. she kissed me. she kissed me. i’m in heaven. i’m dead. bury me in her handwriting. wait no, i want to live. i want to marry her. i want to buy her three cats and a house by the sea. i want to—’
you pull back, grinning. “you think i hate you, don’t you?”
he swallows. “…yes?”
“idiot,” you say fondly. “i’ve liked you since forever.”
he stares. then, very quietly, “oh.”
‘oh? that’s all you can say? she likes you. she LIKES you. do a backflip. no, don’t. you’ll die. smile. no, not like that, you’ll look creepy. stop staring. oh my god. she LIKES you.’
you laugh again, because he’s so painfully, stupidly gone for you. and maybe you’re just as gone for him. no, sweetie, he’s much worse than you think.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
and that’s how your mind reading curse turns into a blessing.
because you never stop hearing it. the devotion. the obsession. the constant stream of thoughts that range from “her handwriting could cure diseases” to “i’d kill for her, no hesitation.”
it should be concerning. honestly, it is concerning.
but it’s also the sweetest, most ridiculous thing in the world.
akaashi keiji, your boyfriend now, still looks perfectly calm on the outside.
but in his head?
‘she called me her boyfriend. holy shit. i’m framing this moment. i’m never letting her go. she’s mine. mine mine mine. forever. till death do us part. and even then i’ll haunt her.’
and you can’t stop smiling. because yeah, ignorance might be bliss—
but knowing akaashi keiji is hopelessly, terrifyingly, obsessively in love with you?
that’s even better.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
timeskip.
life with akaashi keiji as adults is almost offensively domestic.
you wake up, and there’s coffee already made. you get home late from work, and dinner’s waiting. you curl up on the couch, and he wordlessly drapes a blanket over you before sitting down to read.
and the whole time, he looks perfectly calm. perfectly collected.
except in his head.
‘she looks so cute in my hoodie. i’d let her ruin every single piece of clothing i own if it meant she’d wear it around the house.’
‘she left her mug on the table. don’t touch it. i’ll clean it. she deserves to rest.’
‘god, i want to kiss her until she forgets her own name. why is she looking at me like that? oh, right, because i’m staring. stop staring. no, don’t. she’s beautiful.’
same old akaashi. never outwardly showing it. inwardly? a walking, talking shrine to you.
and you… you’ve gotten used to it.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
sometimes you tease him.
like when he’s chopping vegetables: “i would look good with a knife, thanks for noticing.”
he pauses just a beat too long before replying, “…that’s not what i said.”
but you heard it. loud and clear.
‘look at her leaning against the counter like that. she could stab me with this knife and i’d thank her. why am i chopping onions, oh right, she should never have to cry, so i’ll do it for her.’
you giggle and steal a piece of carrot from the cutting board. he sighs, fond but exasperated.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
another day, you’re curled up on the couch with a book while he edits something on his laptop.
“stop overthinking,” you tell him casually.
he doesn’t look up. “i’m not.”
you grin. “you’re literally wondering if i’d prefer cats or dogs first when we move somewhere bigger.”
akaashi’s typing pauses. then resumes. “that’s a normal thought.”
‘she caught that? i should’ve thought quieter. no—she probably guessed. right? doesn’t matter. i’ll get her both. she deserves both. and a yard. and a garden. i’ll build her the garden myself if i have to.’
you shake your head. he has no idea.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡ goodluck.
it’s comforting, really.
the fact that after all these years, his thoughts haven’t changed. still simpy. still desperate. still so hopelessly wrapped up in you it’s almost ridiculous.
sometimes you wonder how he hides it so well. how he manages to keep that serene face when his brain is basically liveblogging his obsession 24/7.
but that’s just akaashi. unreadable outside, catastrophic inside.
and you love him for it.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
one night, you’re lying in bed together. the apartment is quiet, the city outside humming low through the windows. his arm is draped over you, steady, warm, grounding.
you’re drifting toward sleep, lulled by the rhythm of his breathing, when his voice threads into your mind.
‘oh i would kill for you. i would never ever let you go.’ you hum at his thought, not really minding that he referred to you as ‘you’ and not ‘her’.
‘you can hear me, right, my y/n?’
your eyes snap open.
slowly, you turn your head to look at him.
akaashi keiji is watching you. his face calm, unreadable as ever.
and then—deliberately, slowly—he smirks.
‘now, you’re never getting away from me.’
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
a/n: GAWD I LOVE MYSELF, HOW DID I COME UP WITH THIS, I NEED TO GIVE MYSELF A SMOOCH
izzy806
romaincrisis
amandla
pixelskylines
