SaSa lele

manga n book lover | 24 | just reblogging | architectural student down bad for fictional men 😞 SEA

[lilithlikestoread]

gorgeous gorgeous talented putting baby ⛳️🏌🏻‍♂️

[kittennextdoor]

18+ | tw - somno (implied consent) ━ Men who love indulging in their sleeping girlfriend. ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ

He slips into the bedroom late at night, eyes immediately drawn to you lying on your stomach, fast asleep in nothing but his oversized t-shirt. The hem has ridden up, exposing your bare ass and the soft, glistening lips of your pussy. Just the sight of you like this — warm, relaxed, and completely vulnerable — makes him throb.

He quietly undresses and climbs onto the bed. He spreads your legs gently and leans down, dragging his tongue slowly through your folds. You’re already wet. He groans quietly against your pussy, licking deeper, tasting you while you stay lost in sleep.

When he’s nice and hard, he kneels behind you, lines himself up, and slowly pushes inside. Your pussy stretches around him beautifully, hot and silky even while you’re sleeping. You let out a soft, unconscious moan as he bottoms out, clenching around him.

“Fuck, baby… so greedy even when you’re sleeping,” he whispers filthily, starting to thrust slowly. He fucks you with long, lazy strokes, savoring how wet and warm you feel wrapped around him.

Your body reacts on instinct — pussy fluttering and dripping around him with every thrust. He leans over you, pressing his chest to your back as he starts fucking you a little harder, the wet sounds of his entire ltngth sliding in and out of your soaked pussy filling the quiet room.

He reaches around to rub your clit in slow circles while he pounds into you. You whimper and push back against him in your sleep, making him groan. “That’s my good girl,” he rasps, hips snapping faster. “Taking me so well even when you’re out cold.”

When he finally gets close, he buries himself deep and cums hard, flooding your pussy with thick, hot ropes of cum. He stays inside you for a while, gently grinding through the aftershocks, pushing his load deeper.

Only then does he carefully pull out, clean you up, and cuddle up behind you, kissing your shoulder softly. You always sleep better after he fills you up.

@raf3cam3r0n, @alisonsocean, @kissyslut, @sofiasguitar, @orangethecarrotcoloredpaperred, @lilacdreamrxo, @glowinggsssaaaa, @ga33y3

[suigenerisisadiva]

⍟ World's Finest! (Couple Edition) ₊˚⊹ᰔ

Pairing: Tim Drake x Fem!Stark!Reader

Summary: At a gala, Tim finds himself unexpectedly captivated by you, a model, a genius, the daughter of Tony Stark, and secretly a vigilante known as Ironheart. Between black tie events and patrol, the two of you fall for each other, hard.

CW: Swearing, vigilante violences, making out, for the sake of sense, the public doesn't know Tony Stark is Iron Man, readers alias is Ironheart

Word Count: 1.3k (holy moly)

My bae @dulcet-aurora writes the most goated tim fics.

Requested by anon.

Galas.

Tim always hated them, while Bruce pretended not to.

After several rounds of dry conversations, handshakes and fake smiles, if Tim was asked another "do you have a girlfriend sweetie?" from another wife of a billionaire, he'd spontaneously combust. Which is why he was already calculating his escape. Except, it all went out the window when you walked in through the mahogany doors of Edward Elliot's mansion, wearing a glimmering dress in Tim's favourite shade of red, your arm linked with your father's, Tony Stark.

You were magnetic. You were effortlessly charming while sparring verbally with Wayne board members, poking holes in their economic projections with a smile so sharp Tim swore he saw Lucius choke on his champagne.

After some appetisers, Tim worked up the courage to go and talk to you, feeling like a high school boy all over again....and he better do it quick 'cuz this is the only moment he'd seen you without a crowd of pubescent rich kids who think they're all that surrounding you.

"Stark." He acknowledged.

You turned around.

"Drake-Wayne." You hummed.

"It's a pleasure to finally meet you, I admire your work, you've changed the entire field of technology for the better." He stated

"I appreciate that, would you like to take this conversation outside?" While you did struggle to take your eyes off of the gorgeous boy standing right in front of you, you couldn't help but think of the ideas people were getting seeing two, young, attractive well-off teenagers together.

The night was crisp, the dress you wore almost glowing in the dim garden lights. You leaned against the stone railing, finally letting your shoulders drop.

“Do these things always drag like this?” you asked, tossing your YSL heels off to the side like you owned the place.

“Every single time,” Tim admitted, loosening his tie. “Best way to survive is to find another captive and plot your escape together.”

Your smile widened. “Guess you’re my co-conspirator, then.”

That’s when it began, not with flashing cameras or business deals, but with two bored heirs sneaking off into the gardens, laughing under the stars while Gotham’s elite droned on inside.

After that gala, you and Tim kept in touch. At first it was polite emails, Stark Industries to Wayne Enterprises. Then it shifted into texts about tech specs, a little banter about whose company made the cleaner code. Somewhere along the line, it stopped being “networking” and started being… you.

Late nights in Gotham, Tim would be hunched over his keyboard in the Cave, glowing screens reflecting in his tired eyes. Meanwhile, you were in your New York workshop, grease on your cheek, soldering arc reactor cores until your phone buzzed.

Tim: Stark, it’s 2:34. Normal people sleep.

You: Okay Drake, and miss the chance to beat you to solving the circuit problem? Nah.

Tim: You’re insufferable.

You: And yet you keep texting me 😏

The two of you got close.

Really close.

Neither of you knew the other was secretly suiting up between messages. Tim pulling on the Red Robin suit, you slipping into your Ironheart armour. Gotham rooftops and New York skylines blurred together in your minds as your voices kept each other awake through the comm lines. It wasn't only that, he'd secretly rock up to your penthouse whenever your father and Pepper weren't there, and the two of you would either:

A: talk, about literally everything

B: Make new gadgets and all that jazz

C: Watch The Summer I Turned Pretty and shit on Belly and Jeremiah, all while babysitting your little sister Morgan.

However, you really wanted a fourth option,option D, one where it ended with your lips on his, and his hands in your hair. What? Let a girl dream. You two were getting closer, it was undeniable.

Somehow, people noticed.

Photos of you and Tim in coffee shops started floating around. Blurry phone pics of you together at bookstores, tech expos, charity events, every time you were in Gotham or he was in New York, you were seen side by side. The tabloids ate it up. “Wayne Heir and Stark Princess: New Power Couple?”

And honestly?

You didn’t hate it. Because those quiet hours online, and those public “coincidences,” were slowly weaving into something that neither of you could ignore.

Precisely 7 weeks after the gala he first met you, not like Tim was keeping track or anything, Bruce was hosting one in commemoration of WE's a hundredth and something time on Forbes.

And Bruce was definitely catching on. How could he not notice his son get more and more attached to his phone that he already was?

It came to manifest over dinner.

"Would anyone like to come to the gala I'm throwing this Saturday?" He asked, rather slowly, eyes locking upon Tim, who immediately perked up.

"Will the Stark's be there?" He asked rather quickly, cheeks flushing coming to realise how embarrassing that speed was.

"I can invite them, would you like that, Son?"

"So you do like his daughter huh?" Dick asked, accusingly.

"Puh-lease, that girl would not go for you, she's out of your league." Jason shot, in typical older brother fashion.

"I think she's nice! I mean, she got me away from the wives of billionaires who tried setting me up with their daughters." Duke shivered, cringing whilst recounting that time.

"I'll make sure they're on the guest list, Tim." He said, chuckling.

Tim silently rejoiced, counting down the days until he got to see your smile.

The second gala was worse than the first. Bigger crowd, louder orchestra, flashier dresses. But it only took Tim one second to find you.

You were in silver this time, clad in Vera Wang and Versace, with your Stark signature sparkle. He was already halfway through a forced conversation with some CEO when you slipped up beside him, pressing a champagne flute into his hand.

“Rescue mission,” you whispered.

Tim smirked, putting an arm around your waist, sending tingles up your spine. “Thought you’d never show.”

The two of you gravitated to the gardens again, basically a habit now. Out where the music softened and the air smelled faintly of roses, the weight of being heirs fell.

“You ever feel like you’re on display?” you asked quietly, leaning on the railing.

“All the time,” Tim admitted. He hesitated. “But with you? It doesn’t… suck as much.”

You turned toward him, eyes gleaming under the garden lights, and for once, neither of you hid behind sarcasm. You stepped closer. He didn’t step back.

His arms found solace on your hips, playing with the hem of your dress, idly touching the expensive sequin you donned.

You arms wrapped around him, your manicured nails reaching to scratch the nape of his neck, making him shiver. You moved your hand to his cheek, his face moved forward, melting into your touch, almost as though he was seeking it out.

The kiss was soft at first, hesitant, testing, and then you both gave in, weeks of stolen texts and late-night calls collapsing into a single moment. His hands moved further up your back, pulling you closer.

The two of you broke the kiss, and went right back to it, with far more vivacity this time.

An yet, of course, the universe didn’t let you have peace, because when does it ever?

The sky over Gotham ripped open with sirens and smoke, in the distance, the ground was a deep shade of apricot. Explosions echoed from downtown, cutting through the music of the gala. You both broke apart, breathless.

“You should-” you started.

“Yeah,” Tim interrupted. His phone was already buzzing, Bat-signal priority.

"I-, uhm." He started

"Tim, go." You encouraged.

He grabbed your hand, and only after he knew you were safe in the arms of your father, he shot into the night.

And while you were disappointed your fourth option was cut short, you hauled on your iron suit, and flew right into the battle.

A/N: My first solo tim fic! I'm really proud of this one guys, I really like it and I hope you do too <3 Send me ideas for part 2 plsplspls. Also I cannot be the only one who hates belly tf, tsitp is basically ragebait atp, my bf likes seeing my crashout tho.

Hope you all enjoyed this! Likes, comments, reblogs and requests are highly appreciated! Requests are open!

Sources! -

Dividers - @cafekitsune

Icon Header - pinterest

Property of suigenerisisadiva, do not repost my work pls & ty

[k1tk4ttt]

How I feel reading smut while being scared of intimacy in real life

[agnustar]

I LOVED “Thats my chore 😩😩”

Now imagine that but it’s something they’ve been putting off for long enough that you say ‘Fuck it’ and do it yourself, only to get hurt, but also they told you not to do it so you gotta try(emphasis on try) to hide your injury from them 🙏🏾🙏🏾🙏🏾

ACCIDENTS HAPPEN | ft. bruce wayne, dick grayson, jason todd, tim drake

contents :: smau. established relationship. fluff. gender neutral reader. some suggestive content in jason & tim's. tim is a perv and a little freak but he's cute and loveable so it's okay ^u^ ... sort of a part two for this post

lambie's notes :: this was so much fun !! and my first request everrrr ! i hope i did it justice, i soooorta went off a bit, especially in tim's ^^7

— BRUCE WAYNE

— DICK GRAYSON

— JASON TODD

— TIM DRAKE

[oncasette]

kiss & tell.

dick, jason, & wally x fem!reader

you get merch for your favorite marvel hero, much to your boyfriend's dismay

content: not suuuuper fem!reader, but girlfriend is mentioned, crackfic mostly, I had this idea on a whim and thought It was funny

dick

jason

wally

[whatsup124u]

That's My...Dad?!

Batboys x reader

Word count: 1384

Summary: You already knew of their secret identity…it’s just fun to mess with them when you bring their dad into it.

a/n: This idea has been in me for days, and here it is! Enjoy!

Dick Grayson 

“Superman is a way better superhero than Wonder Woman!” 

Dick wasn’t trying to put Diana under the bus, but he had to make a point. 

“He has super speed, Godly strength, heat vision—oh, did I mention, he could fly.”

Dick listed all these things and you couldn’t help but laugh. 

“What?”

“Nothing, I just didn’t realize how passionate you were about Superman.”

“Well, duh, who wouldn’t look up to Superman.”

You hummed, “that’s true. But you gotta admit, Batman is so much cooler…and much sexier.”

Dick stopped eating. 

It was like he was kicked in the balls.

“What?”

“Batman is—”

“Don’t worry, sweets, I heard you. But what the hell?”

“What, you know Batman personally?”

“No, no! It’s just—Batman, am I right?”

“No, I don’t if you’re right.” 

“It’s just Batman doesn’t have superpowers—”

“But isn’t it impressive that he could keep up with the league?”

“He looks like a bad communicator—”

“How would you know that—”

“He wears his underwear outside of his suit, I mean, who does that?”

“Superman.”

“Oh.”

Dick looks back at his food and shoves the spoon in his mouth. 

He looks back at you and points the spoon at you, “you gotta admit, though, Nightwing is far better than Batman.”

You rolled your eyes, 

“You mean Batman’s Walmart version? Yeah, I kinda have to pass on that.”

He smashed his face on his food. 

“Dick!” 

He straightened his back and put his palms together in front of his face, he sighed, 

“Nightwing is the younger, hotter, smarter version of Batman! What’s there not to love about him?”

You grabbed a tissue on the table and wiped the food off his face, “I mean, he’s too overly perfect.”

He grabbed your wrist, “Isn’t that a good sign? He could be your boyfriend.”

“Yeah, but it almost seems like he’s untouchable. He’s known as Gotham’s golden child for a reason.”

“I’m telling you, sweets, he’s very much touchable.” 

You laughed at this. Of course he would say that about himself. You shook your head.

“So is Batman! And he has emotional baggage, plus points for character development.”

“Trust me, honey, he will not be getting better anytime soon.”

You both stared at each other, and started laughing. 

“Okay, okay. You might have a point there.”

He nodded and went back to eating. 

“I still think he’s hotter than Nightwing, though—”

Motherfu—

Jason Todd

He turned on the television and turned the channel to the news. He was in the kitchen, inches away from the living room where you stayed. You were lounging around with a book in your hands. 

He heard vaguely, “Breaking news: Batman has thrown the Joker in jail the sixth time this week. Hopefully, it will not turn into the seventh time—”

He tunes the news out, opting to focus on breakfast. 

“Wow. Batman is hot!”

He stopped stirring the bowl and set it down as calmly (it wasn’t calm) as possible. 

You looked back.

“Dear, are you alright—”

“Batman is hot?” 

“I mean, yeah—”

“Batman is hot?” 

“You repeating it just makes it truer.”

“I—ugh.”

Jason puts a palm in his face. He then drops his hand and reaches for the whisk and the bowl. He started calmly stirring again. 

“Batman is not hot.”

“I mean, it’s in terms of preference—”

“Batman is not hot.”

“Do you just repeat what you say?”

He got a pan under the sink and started heating it by the stove. 

“Darling, he doesn’t kill the criminals. And then they break out and give havoc back in Gotham. If you ask me, he’s just as guilty as the criminals he fights.”

“That’s true, if he didn’t stick to his morals, he would have been the perfect vigilante.”

He nodded and put his hand over the pan. Once it’s hot enough, he started pouring the pancake batter on the pan. 

“Doesn’t mean he’s hot, though.”

He grunted and flipped the pancake using a spatula. 

“Red Hood is way hotter.” 

You blinked. Because—

“Who?”

Jason whipped his head towards you, “what do you mean, ‘who?’ uh, the best vigilante of all time!”

“...who?” 

“The guy with the cool motorcycle? His main weapon is guns? The one with the red mask—” 

“Oh! The creepy lookin’ one? Isn’t he like, a villain, though?” 

You think you smelled burning in the kitchen. 

Tim Drake

You placed the coffee mug down near his computer. 

“Here you go, you coffee freak.”

“Thanks.” 

“What are you doing now?”

“Collecting data for the new launch of the new technology in the Wayne Enterprises.”

You settled down on the couch beside his desk.

“Oh, poor me, I should have never been involved with a CEO.” 

You put one of the back of your hands on your forehead and shake your head slightly. 

“Yes, yes. Poor you, you have money.”

You barked out a laugh and leaned towards him.

“Hey.”

“What.”

“Hey.”

“What.”

You put a palm to your chin. Resting as your head on it while you watch your lover. 

“Don’t you ever wonder what kind of gadgets Batman has?”

He looked at you. Squinted. 

“Doesn’t he have…weapons?”

“I mean, obviously he does. But maybe he has other kind of weapons that could—”

He raised his hand and shoved it a little forward. 

“Nope. I don’t wanna hear it.” 

You pouted, “C’mon, it’s a hot thought!”

“He has at least 10,000 batarangs, 12,000 gas pellets, at least 200 grappling hooks, and other suits like Hellbat, Justice Buster, and Thrasher.”

You squinted, “Did you just hack the Bat?”

He shrugged, “You can’t really hack if you have access.” 

“Well, you wouldn’t know he would be hiding that kind of stuff in whatever place he hides his gadgets. He’d probably hide them where nowhere else could find it. You know, because it’s a secret.”

Tim thought for a moment, your logic does make sense. I mean, after learning the way he talks to Catwoman in an unwanted call. It makes perfect sense. 

“That’s…possible. You’d best be fit with Red Robin anyway.”

You smiled at this, “Red Robin, huh?” 

He does not like your tone.

“Sounds like Red Robin doesn’t know when to move on being a Robin.”

He blinked. And did a double take.

“What a freaky little shit.”

What. 

“He is the most intelligent Robin that Batman has ever had! He is the Brains of the operation for a reason—”

“Gives him more of a reason to stick to the title as ‘Robin’, no?”

God, he needs another coffee.

Damian Wayne

You and Damian are walking around Gotham finding art supplies for your date late that day. Until you stop by a toy shop and look out the window.

“What is it, beloved?” 

“Look,” you pointed at the Batman plushie, “Isn’t he cute?” 

He looks at the Robin beside it, “I see.” 

You both walked forward and you continued to speak, “Sometimes I forget Batman is actually alive, you know? He’s plastered like some celebrity.”

He nodded, “I agree. Civilians should stop idolizing Batman and see him for what he truly is: a man who beats up criminals because he sold his soul to the devil.”

You whistled, “a little dark, don’t you think?”

“That is how Batman is to be perceived.” 

“But you have to admit, though, he is quite sexy.”

Damian’s mind stopped for a second. And then two. 

“You have sexual feelings for Batman?”

“Not as much I do for you,”

Damian turns pink at this, “But he does have a nice body.” 

Damian muttered, “that could be said about Robin.” 

You widened your eyes, “Dami!”

“What is it, beloved?”

“Did you just imply that I should look at Robin in a sexual way?”

“Well, why couldn’t you—”

“Dami! He’s a 12 year old boy.” 

He blinked. 

He forgot about that.

“A literal child!” 

“Beloved, I didn’t mean it in that way—Robin is just adorable that’s all—”

“So you do want me to be a pedophile! Is that how low you thought of me? Thinking of a child that way.” 

You just shook your head and laughed.

“So, which Robin were you referring to? Nightwing? Red Hood? Red Robin?” 

“I wasn’t referring to any of them—”

“So you did think I would be a pedophile!” 

Oh, if only you knew where Robin’s at right now. 

[jtoddsbaby]

a pillow? really?

IN WHICH... after a fight with your boyfriend, you force him to sleep with a pillow between you. here's how he handles it.

featuring: dick grayson, jason todd, bruce wayne, damian wayne, and tim drake.

warnings: fluff, crack, f!reader, established relationship (wife!reader for bruce, gf!reader for everyone else), EXTREME mommy kink!tim—dni if this is "too freaky" for you!!

inspired by this ask

dick grayson:

dick definitely would be upset and would try at least 3 times to ditch the pillow.

but each time he yanks the item from between you and tucks it under his head, you yank it right back and lodge it between your bodies.

he gives up on removing it after attempt #10.

you're turned on your side away from him, seeming way too unbothered for his liking. he's probably pissing you off even more, but attention from you is all he wants.

he pokes your shoulder repeatedly, arm draped over the barrier pillow. "baby, baby, baby, baby," he repeats with each poke.

he grins big and wide when you finally turn over your shoulder, glaring at him. "do i need to get a bigger pillow?" you scoff.

"no. this one's perfectly fine," he chirps. "though i'd prefer no pillow at all. i can't feel my baby up like this!"

you roll your eyes. "you don't deserve to feel me up, richard. go to sleep." you shuffle closer to the edge of the bed, juuust far enough that he can't reach you.

he groans dramatically, flopping down on his side with a huff. "fine, whatever. you don't love me, i get it. goodnight, i guess."

he falls asleep with a big, babyish pout on his face, his lip jutted out like a toddler's rather than a 20-something year old's.

his spirits are definitely raised in the morning, though, because he wakes up to his body being draped over the stupid pillow barrier, head nestled against your chest.

jason todd:

jason would take it much worse than dick. he'd feel personally offended, undoubtedly.

he'd glare daggers at the pillow separating his body from yours, wishing he could burn it to ashes with just his eyes. his arms are crossed over his beefy chest like a child told no to dessert.

finally, he tears his eyes from the pillow and onto your sweet body. your beautiful, worship-worthy body. "can i touch you yet?"

"no, jay! that's the whole point of the pillow. no cuddles allowed, i'm angry with you."

he grumbles. "no cuddles isn't the same as no touching. can't i at least hold your hand, ma?"

"no."

"ma, please?"

"jason peter," you snap, giving him the look. "i said no. goodnight."

his eyes remain trained to your back, watching it rise and fall as you breathe. "...night."

you feel much worse about how you spoke to him when you wake up the next morning. his side of the bed is cold, and the pillow in the middle looks as if it hadn't moved once since it was placed.

you get up, padding to the kitchen where jason is flipping pancakes at the stove. his shoulders are slumped, head swaying as if it's too heavy for his neck. he lets out a deep sigh. you frown.

your arms wrap around yourself as you approach. "jay?" you call softly, standing beside him at the stove. no touching, not yet. he doesn't look at you, so you tilt your head to get a look at his face and oh...

his eyelids droop with exhaustion, eyes a bit red from straining to stay awake. his under-eyes are dark bags. his lips are chapped. "baby? what's up with you?"

alas, he looks at you, his lips don't smile, eyes don't soften. he holds out your plate of pancakes and you accept it. "i did not sleep."

"...why?"

he looks at you as if it's obvious. "well, i did not have you to hold, and i can't guarantee your safety without holding you. i tried to sleep, but then i had a nightmare that i'd...lost you. every time i shut my eyes i saw the same thing as the dream. so, i decided to just stay awake."

you've never felt like a shittier person. you throw your arms around him, feeling him slump against you. you vow to never but him on a touch ban again, no matter how angry he makes you.

bruce wayne:

personally, i feel like bruce just...wouldn't even put up with it lol.

unlike how dick and jason kept the pillow and respected the rule (to an extent), bruce would just laugh in your face when he comes in for bed.

he stands at the foot of the bed, looking at your scowling face and the fluffy pillow at your side. "what's with the barrier?"

you huff. "no touching, bruce. i'm not in the mood."

he places his glass of water on his nightstand, casually crawling into bed and tossing the pillow across the room.

"bruce!" you glare, but you can't do much when he snakes his beefy arms around your waist and tugs you close until your back meets his chest. "i said no touch—"

"—i know what you said, darling. and—no offense—i don't give two fucks," he chuckles, the sound low and deep in your ear. fuck, why does he sound so good when you're so upset? "if i want to hold my wife, i'm going to hold my lovely wife."

you grumble, fighting his grip, but to no avail. "bruceeee," you groan.

"g'night, honey," he only croons, kissing your jawline so sweetly. "i love you."

moments of silence pass.

"i said i love you," he repeats, pinching your waist.

you squirm. "ughhhuh, i love you, too."

"good girl," he grins into your neck, holding you closer. "get some beauty sleep, i'll have alfred prepare you a spectacular breakfast tomorrow morning—y'know, as my apology."

true to his word, you wake up to his arms still locked around you like chains. however, the delectable scent of pancakes, waffles, berries and cream, eggs, and coffee wafts into the bedroom.

"ugh, i hate you, you promising, handsome bastard," you grumble, relaxing into his arms with the assumption that he's still sleeping. "i can never stay mad at you."

you feel lips curl into a grin against your shoulder. "yes, yes, you hate me," he mumbles sarcastically. "my wifey hates me and my lovely arms and the breakfast i make her."

"you didn't make anything. alfred made it."

"i made him make it. lovable by association, honey."

damian wayne:

when damian's told that you'd be sleeping with a pillow between you, your sweet baby's signature scowl is tainted with unshed tears. you feel bad, but your anger from the fight overpowers your remorse.

"a...pillow barrier?" he mumbles. "really, habibti?"

you nod. "a pillow barrier. i'm so upset with you, dami. i don't wanna cuddle."

he nods his head once. "i'll try to cope," he sighs, climbing into bed and throwing the covers over his head.

all of damian that shows is a little peek of jet-black hair from under the sheets. despite yourself, you have to bite back a smile. so cute.

"night, damian," you murmur.

his voice is muffled by the comforter. "goodnight, habibti. i love you oh so dearly, my world."

you're glad that he's hiding under the sheets, that way he can't see your grin breaks through—can't see your walls cracking. "i love you too, dami."

dami. the nickname makes your boyfriend smile. dami rather than damian, that's progress.

what you don't see is damian tossing and turning for hours until the clock strikes 2 am. he just can't sleep without his beloved woman in his arms, without your hair tickling his cheek as you drool into his neck.

so, he crawls out of bed and into the cool nighttime chill of the manor. if you won't cuddle him, he shall find a replacement. he returns to the bedroom a bit later with alfred the cat tucked under his arm and titus trailing lazily behind him.

he reunites with the warm blankets, holding alfred close under his chin. titus climbs into bed, sprawling comfortably over damian's legs.

you awaken the next morning the most adorable sight. your dami, arms (and legs) full of his cherished pets.

his hold on the cat is tight, the animal purring softly into damian's neck. titus has since inched his way up the bed, his head level with damian's—the dog is nearly spooning your boyfriend, doggy drool coating his sleep shirt.

well, at least he found a way to get his fix of drool and warmth. your walls finally crumble, and you reach over the pillow to stroke your knuckles against his cheek. that wakes him up.

he peels one eye open, grinning at the gooey look on your face. "what? i needed something to hold."

tim drake:

mommy kink!tim is activated almost instantly, and he tears each and every one of your walls down until you forget why you were even upset with him in the first place.

his face falls when you announce the pillow's presence. "what?!"

"you heard me, tim. pillow stays."

"no...no, no, no, no," he whines softly, feeling helpless. he tosses his phone haphazardly onto his nightstand, flopping onto the bed. "please, no."

you huff. "i'm upset, tim! i can't cuddle with you tonight, i just can't."

"mommy, please!" he begs pathetically, shoving the pillow out from where it's lodged between your bodies. he nuzzles up into your side instantly. his dark locks brush your cheek. "can't sleep without my mommy...need her to hold me, and love me, and tell me i'm a good boy."

you arch a brow. "but you're not a good boy."

he whimpers, eyes drilling shut in regret at your words. "o– okay, then to tell me i'm a bad boy. that i'm such a bad boy and don't deserve my mommy's affection."

"okay, fine. you're a ba—"

"—no! i change my mind. don't tell me any of those things," he whines, big blue eyes looking apologetically up at you through thick lashes. fuck, the eyes. "i'm so so so sorry, mama. i wasn't a good boy, but i can be! a good boy, that is."

you run a hand through his hair, and he whimpers—loud and desperate for more touch. "you promise you'll be good? you're not lying to mommy so she'll cuddle you?"

he keeps his eyes on yours, so melty and gentle. "i'd never lie to you, mommy. i swear."

"okay, then. if you say you can be a good boy, timmy, then i'll cuddle you tonight. but don't make me mad again, understand?"

"understand, mommy," he coos, smiling happily now that he's won you over. he snuggles into your chest, sighing contentedly. "thank you."

a/n: anyone peep the reference at the end of bruce's headcannons?🫣

[newobsessionweekly]

Terms and Conditions

Main Masterlist | Off Campus Masterlist

Dean Di Laurentis x Reader

Fandom: Off Campus

Summary: You convinced yourself you were the exception to his rule. But when Allie Hayes crashes into his life, you realize you were never playing the long game—you were just warming the bench.

Angst / Hurt-Comfort

Warnings: not proofread, angst, explicit language, sexual references, heartbreak.

A/N: I am so, so sorry it took me over a month to post this request! My finals lasted for almost a whole month and I was so stressed I couldn't even exist. And then right after that, I went to visit my parents in my hometown, and then I had to move apartments and it was absolute chaos. I feel so bad for making you guys wait this long. But I really hope you enjoy this fic! Now that the chaos is over, I will be back with more fics. Anyway. Feedback is much appreciated. Take care of yourselves and lots of love!

Words:

Playing with fire is for amateurs. Fucking Dean Di Laurentis? That was like striking a match in a room full of gasoline.

Dean Sebastian Kendrick Heyward-Di Laurentis. Christ, even his name was exhausting.

Every girl with a pulse at Briar U knew the deal. He was the hockey team's resident golden boy. A walking, talking wet dream with a trust fund, an eight-pack, and these devastating, smoky green eyes.

He was also the undisputed king of casual hookups. Dean always got what he wanted. And ninety-nine percent of the time, that meant someone female, flexible, and completely gone before the morning coffee finished brewing. You knew the rules. You were well aware of the track record. You knew exactly what you were getting into when you let him slide his hands under your shirt.

But human beings are fundamentally stupid, hopelessly optimistic creatures. Somewhere between late-night poli-sci study sessions and lazy Sunday mornings drinking coffee in Garrett’s kitchen, you managed to convince yourself you were the exception to the rule.

It started out platonic enough. You were just another fixture in the hockey house, a girl supposedly immune to the legendary Di Laurentis charm. At least, that was the bullshit lie you sold him.

But then the sarcastic banter started to shift. It bled into lingering touches. The heavy weight of his warm palm resting flat against your lower back. His whiskey-rough voice murmuring filthy jokes in your ear over the thumping bass at Malone's.

When you finally crossed the line, it wasn’t just a quick, meaningless fumble on those god-awful couch cushions. It was supposed to be a one-time thing. An itch scratched. But one time turned into two, and two turned into a dangerously comfortable routine.

It didn't feel like a hookup. It felt... significant. Intimate.

The mornings were what really screwed you over. Instead of the awkward, panicked rush to grab your clothes and sneak out before the rest of the house woke up, he wouldn't let you leave.

He would just groan, reach out with a heavy arm, and drag you right back against his bare, sculpted chest. He'd tangle his legs with yours, press a soft, lingering kiss to your spine, and mumble, "Stay. Just five more minutes, baby doll".

In those rare, unguarded moments, stripped of his usual cocky swagger, you didn't feel like a temporary distraction. You felt devastatingly permanent.

That was the trap. That was how you justified the blurred lines. You told yourself you weren't just another notch on his bedpost because you were more than that. You were his best friend.

You were the one he bitched to about Frank O'Shea, the hardass defensive coordinator who was dead-set on making his senior year a living hell. You were the one who knew the actual scores of his LSATs. You listened to him vent about his looming Harvard Law future.

To the rest of Briar, Dean was still playing the field. But to you? It felt like an exclusive, unspoken secret.

You’d find yourself staring at the ceiling of your dorm room at two in the morning, your heart doing a pathetic, frantic little backflip every time your phone buzzed with a filthy, late-night text from him.

I’m not a puck bunny, you’d tell yourself, stepping over his discarded Timberlands in the hallway. We have a real connection. He just needs time to pull his head out of his ass.

God, you were a fucking idiot.

You fell for him. Hard, fast, and entirely without a parachute.

You fell for that cocky-as-sin grin. You fell for his surprisingly sharp intellect. You fell for the rare moments when he’d look at you like you were the absolute only girl in the crowded room.

You spoon-fed yourself the delusion that it was only a matter of time. Surely, the playboy would eventually wake up and realize the girl he actually wanted was already right there, sitting next to him on the couch.

You thought you were playing the long game. You didn't realize you were just warming the bench.

The illusion didn't just shatter; it exploded in your face, piece by agonizing piece the weekend Allie Hayes crashed at the hockey house in full-blown crisis mode.

She was nursing a broken heart over her ex, hiding out in Garrett's empty bedroom. Logan had even fired off a group text explicitly warning Dean to keep his dick in his pants.

You thought you were safe. Allie was Hannah’s best friend. She was the definition of off-limits.

But since when did Dean Di Laurentis ever give a shit about the rules?

For weeks, their hookups were a heavily guarded secret. Allie was adamant about keeping everyone out of their business, preferring to keep it strictly under wraps.

But you knew Dean better than that. You noticed the subtle, damning little details.

You saw the dark, purplish hickey blooming on his neck the morning after she stayed over. You noticed the way he was suddenly glued to his phone, staring glassy-eyed at the screen while he waited for her to text him back.

And then Dean dragged you into the kitchen, his green eyes burning with a frustrating mix of panic and utter exhilaration.

"I'm screwed," he whispered, leaning back against the counter. "I hooked up with Allie."

Your stomach plummeted straight to the linoleum. "What?"

"It's a secret, so keep your mouth shut," he warned, raking a hand through his blond hair. "But I can't get her out of my head. I even sat through this terrible French soap opera called Solange just to hang out with her".

He said it with a laugh. A helpless, ridiculously besotted laugh.

Then he started dropping the nicknames. Baby doll. Allie-Cat.

The exact same lazy, affectionate nicknames that used to make your own stupid heart flutter.

You had to stand there, plaster a supportive best-friend smile on your face, and listen to the guy you were hopelessly in love with talk about falling for someone else. It felt like taking a slapshot straight to the ribs without any padding.

The absolute worst part was that you couldn't even openly hate her. Allie was so frustratingly sweet, completely oblivious to the fact that she was actively destroying you. There was no villain here. Just you, completely alone in your grief.

So you just... faded out.

You started taking your coffee to go. You hauled your ass to the campus library to study instead of camping out at the guys' kitchen island. When Dean tried to rope you into his usual flirty banter, you shot back short, clipped answers and kept your eyes glued to your textbooks.

You honestly thought you were doing a bang-up job of acting like a ghost.

But you forgot who you were dealing with.

"She's fine, Dean. Leave her alone," Tucker's drawl echoed in the hallway one afternoon.

You froze, your hand hovering over the doorknob.

"She's been dodging me for weeks, Tuck," Dean argued, sounding genuinely frustrated. "I just want to see what's wrong."

"What's wrong is that she's swamped with midterms. Give her some space." Tucker smoothly stepped into Dean's path, effortlessly acting as your own personal human shield.

You backed away, your chest tight with unshed tears. Tucker knew. John Tucker noticed absolutely everything.

Logan, on the other hand, was far less subtle.

A few nights later, while Dean was busy sneaking into Allie's dorm room, a loud knock rattled your door.

It was Logan and he didn't bother waiting for an invitation. He just pushed right past you, armed with two pints of Ben & Jerry's and a pair of plastic spoons.

He took one look at your pathetic, red-rimmed eyes and let out a heavy sigh.

"You look like absolute shit," Logan stated, tossing a pint of your favorite kind onto the mattress.

"Thanks. You really have a way with women," you croaked, wiping furiously at your wet cheeks.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked, dropping his massive frame onto the edge of your bed.

"No."

"Cool." Logan popped the lid off his ice cream like it was just another Tuesday. "Then we won't talk about it. Put on a movie."

He sat next to you in comfortable silence, eating his ice cream while you let the tears finally fall.

The boys knew.

They saw exactly what Dean was too hopelessly blind to see. And they were quietly circling the wagons to protect one of their own.

It was a chaotic victory party at the hockey house, and the bass rattled the floorboards. You were standing by the kitchen island, forcing a laugh at something Fitzy was saying, doing your absolute damnedest to pretend your heart wasn't actively bleeding out all over the linoleum.

Then, a large, familiar hand wrapped around your bicep.

You spun around, the breath catching in your throat.

Dean's jaw was set in a hard line. His blond hair was a tousled mess, and those smoky green eyes were flashing with a volatile mix of frustration and hurt.

"We need to talk," he demanded, his voice dropping an octave to cut through the pounding music.

Before you could even object, he was pulling you through the kitchen. He shoved open the sliding glass door and dragged you out onto the back patio. The frigid spring air immediately bit at your bare arms, but at least the bass was muffled out here.

"What the fuck is going on with you?" Dean demanded.

He crossed his arms over his broad, perfectly sculpted chest.

"You’ve been ghosting me," he accused. "And tonight, you completely walked away when Allie said hi. What is your problem?"

The sheer, blinding oblivion of the man was staggering.

"I don't have a problem, Dean," you lied, fighting to keep your voice perfectly even. "I'm just busy."

"Bullshit."

He stepped closer, crowding your space until that familiar, spicy cologne wrapped around you. It made your chest physically ache.

"You’re my best friend," he pushed, a rare edge of desperation bleeding into his tone. "We used to tell each other everything. Now you won't even look at me."

He ran a hand through his hair, looking genuinely distressed. "Allie thinks you hate her. And I'm starting to think you hate me."

"I don't hate Allie," you whispered. Your hands were shaking so violently you had to cross your arms to hide them. "And I don't hate you. But things change, Dean. You're... you're with her now."

"So?" He threw his hands up in the air. "Garrett and Logan have girlfriends, and you still hang out with them! Why am I the only one getting frozen out?"

The absolute unfairness of it snapped whatever fragile restraint you had left.

"Because Garrett and Logan weren't fucking me, Dean!"

The words ripped out of your throat before you could swallow them back down.

Silence slammed onto the patio, heavy, suffocating, final. The only sound left was the muffled vibration of the music inside the house.

Dean froze.

The anger instantly drained from his perfectly chiseled face. It was replaced by a devastating, agonizingly slow realization.

His green eyes widened as he stared at you.

You could practically see that pretty head of his piecing together the timeline, the sudden distance, the lame excuses. The way the rest of his teammates had been subtly shielding you from him for weeks.

"You..." Dean started, his voice dropping to a horrified whisper. "Wait. You..."

"Don't," you choked out.

You wrapped your arms tighter around yourself, feeling like you might actually shatter. The humiliation burned the back of your throat like acid.

"Just don't say it, Dean. I knew the score. I knew who you were. It's my own stupid fault for catching feelings while you were just getting your rocks off."

"Baby doll, I didn't—" He reached out, his hand actually trembling as he stopped inches from your arm. "You're my best friend," he whispered, his voice cracking, looking at you like you had just betrayed him. "You're the one constant I have. I swear to God, I never would have touched you if I knew it would ruin this."

It was the final nail in the coffin. He didn't regret breaking your heart; he regretted crossing a line that jeopardized his own comfort. The physical intimacy that meant everything to you had meant absolutely nothing to him.

The sliding glass door screeched on its track as it was abruptly shoved open and Garrett Graham stood in the doorway.

His broad shoulders blocked the light from the kitchen, his dark eyes flicking from your tear-stained face to Dean’s horrified expression.

As the team captain, Garrett knew exactly when a play was going south.

"Step back, D," Garrett ordered.

His voice wasn't yelling, but it carried a lethal authority that left zero room for argument.

"G, this is between us," Dean pleaded, looking utterly panicked. "I just need to fix this."

"You can't fix this tonight, man. Open your damn eyes and give her some space."

Garrett stepped out onto the patio. He gently placed a warm, solid hand on your back. He didn't look at Dean again. He just looked at you, his expression softening into total empathy.

"Come on," Garrett murmured. "Let's get you out of here."

You didn't fucking dare to look back at Dean. Because if you looked over your shoulder and saw him standing on that patio—frozen, horrified, looking at you with pity instead of love—you would actually shatter into a million jagged pieces.

Garrett's palm on your back was a steady, grounding weight. He bulldozed a path right through the swarm of drunken frat boys and puck bunnies. He didn't stop until the heavy front door slammed shut behind you.

The freezing air hit your lungs like crushed glass, and you finally let out a ragged, ugly sob.

"I've got you," Garrett murmured. His voice was surprisingly gentle for a guy who spent his life smashing people into the boards.

Tucker was already waiting by Garrett's Jeep in the driveway. Because of course he was. John Tucker always knew exactly where he needed to be.

He took one look at your face, immediately shrugged out of his heavy winter coat, and draped it over your trembling shoulders as he opened the back door of the Jeep and guided you inside.

"G, you driving?" Tuck asked quietly.

"Yeah. Let's get her out of here."

The interior of the Jeep smelled like rich leather and cold winter air. You curled into a miserable, pathetic ball in the backseat, pulling Tucker's massive coat around you like a suit of armor. You squeezed your eyes shut, but it did absolutely nothing to stop the hot tears tracking down your cheeks.

Garrett started the engine, the heater roaring to life. He shifted the car into drive, but before pulling out of the driveway, his dark eyes met yours in the rearview mirror.

"You want me to go back in there and kick his ass?" Garrett asked. His tone was deadpan and entirely serious. "Because I will. Logan is probably already tearing him a new one, but I'm more than happy to take a swing."

A wet, broken laugh scraped its way out of your throat. "No. Don't punch him. It's not... it's not his fault he didn't fall for me, G."

"It's his fault for being a blind, selfish idiot," Tucker corrected from the passenger seat. "He led you on, whether he meant to or not."

You rested your forehead against the cold glass of the window, watching the hockey house disappear into the darkness. The brutal reality of it was settling deep into your bones, heavy and hollow.

It was over.

Whatever messy, undefined, agonizingly beautiful thing you had with Dean Sebastian Kendrick Heyward-Di Laurentis was dead. He was going to move on with Allie Hayes, and you were going to have to figure out how to exist in a world where you weren't his favorite secret anymore. You had to go back to being just a friend.

It was going to hurt like a fucking bitch. You were going to have to mourn a breakup for a relationship that never technically existed.

But as Garrett reached back to adjust the vents so the warm air hit you directly, and Tucker quietly turned up the radio to drown out the heavy silence, a tiny, fractured piece of your heart clicked into place.

You hadn't won the guy. You had lost the golden boy to the blonde girl with the broken heart.

But looking at the two massive, fiercely protective hockey players guarding your front seat, you realized you hadn't lost everything. You had played with fire, and yeah, you'd gotten burned. But you had walked out of the ashes with a family.

[townsendbaby]

The Damn Party

Dean Di Laurentis x Reader (y/n)

Summary: When y/n finds out that her drink has been spiked she has no one to turn to but Dean, her enemy. Dean finding y/n knocking at his door in her barely conscious state brings up clashing feelings.

TW: having a drugged drink at a party

Word Count: 4.8K

The music could be heard from half a block away. The hockey house was already overflowing by the time Hannah and Y/N arrived, laughter spilling out the open front door along with the bass that rattled the porch railings. People crowded every room, cups clinked together, someone was yelling about beer pong in the kitchen, and the living room had already turned into a sea of strangers dancing shoulder to shoulder.

Hannah sighed dramatically, "I swear they invite the entire campus."

"They probably do," Y/N replied, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle from her dress.

She hadn't wanted to come. Not because she disliked parties. Because Dean Di Laurentis would be here. And Dean Di Laurentis possessed an almost supernatural ability to ruin perfectly good evenings.

Hannah nudged her shoulder. "Relax."

"I am relaxed."

"You've been glaring at the front door for thirty seconds."

"I'm mentally preparing."

"For Dean?"

Y/N rolled her eyes. "I'm mentally preparing for his ego."

Hannah laughed as they stepped inside.

Almost immediately, someone called Hannah's name from across the room. It was Garrett. He was standing near the kitchen island, waving her over with an easy grin.

"Go," Y/N said.

"You sure?"

"Yeah, girl, go talk to your boyfriend. I'm not going to spontaneously combust because you're talking to your boyfriend."

"You might if Dean starts talking."

"I'll survive."

"I sure hope you do."

Y/N shoved her lightly.

"Go."

Hannah laughed and disappeared into the crowd.

Y/N made her way toward the drink table, weaving through clusters of people she vaguely recognized from campus. She could feel eyes on her. Not in an uncomfortable way. Just... noticing.

She'd spent longer getting ready than she wanted to admit. Her hair fell in soft waves over one shoulder, and the dark emerald dress she wore hugged her just enough to make her feel confident without trying too hard. It was simple. Elegant and comfortable.

"You look hot," Hannah had declared.

"I look dressed."

"You look hot."

"I look like someone attending a party."

"You look like Dean's going to choke on his own tongue."

Y/N had snorted. "As if Dean Di Laurentis has ever been speechless in his life."

Apparently... Tonight might've been close. Across the room, Dean had been halfway through a conversation with one of his teammates when Logan abruptly stopped listening.

"Dude."

Dean barely looked at him.

"What?"

Logan nodded toward the front hall.

Dean followed his gaze and forgot what he'd been about to say.

"...Oh."

Logan smirked.

"Oh?"

Dean recovered almost instantly.

"So?"

"So…?" Logan echoed.

Dean shrugged.

"She cleans up okay."

Logan barked out a laugh. "Cleans up okay?"

"Yeah."

"You've been staring for like fifteen seconds."

"I absolutely have not."

"You absolutely have."

Dean tore his eyes away.

"I was observing."

Logan’s grin widened.

"Observing."

"Shut up."

He grabbed his drink and headed toward the kitchen before Logan could say anything else.

It was a coincidence. Entirely a coincidence that Y/N reached the drink table at the exact same time. She noticed him immediately. Of course she did. Dean Di Laurentis stood out in any room he walked into, whether she liked it or not. He leaned casually against the counter in a dark shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms, laughing at something one of the hockey guys said.

Then his eyes landed on her. The laughter stopped. For just a second. His gaze traveled from her heels... To the dress... To her face.

There was the briefest flicker of something she couldn't quite read. It disappeared so quickly she wondered if she'd imagined it.

Then the familiar smirk returned. "There she is."

Y/N sighed. "Hello to you too."

"I almost didn't recognize you."

"No?"

"Nah."

He tilted his head.

"Didn't think you owned anything that wasn't a sweater."

She smiled sweetly.

"And I didn't think you owned a shirt with sleeves."

A couple of people nearby chuckled.

Dean nodded once.

"Fair."

Y/N reached for a cup. "I'll cherish the compliment."

"I wasn't complimenting you."

"I know." She looked at him over the rim of the cup. "That would've been very out of character."

Dean laughed quietly. "You really think you're funny."

"I know I am."

"Hm."

He folded his arms.

"I think the dress is trying a little too hard."

The words landed harder than either of them expected. Y/N's smile faltered. Only for a heartbeat. She recovered so quickly that most people wouldn't have noticed.

Dean did.

"So does your personality," she replied evenly.

He smiled again.

"If I wanted my personality judged, I'd have dated an English major."

She stared at him.

"You know, for someone who's supposed to be good with teamwork, you're remarkably insufferable."

"And yet," Dean said with a shrug, "people still invite me places."

"So do people invite me."

He looked around theatrically.

"Really? I assumed Hannah brought you as emotional support."

There it was. The one that actually stung. Y/N's fingers tightened around her cup. She and Hannah had been inseparable since freshman year, and Dean knew it. He knew exactly which remarks would hit where they hurt.

She forced a laugh. "Don't flatter yourself."

"I'm not."

"You've clearly spent all week thinking of that one."

Dean smiled lazily. "Took me about three seconds."

"Must've been exhausting."

He stepped just a little closer.

"Not nearly as exhausting as pretending you're above everyone in this room."

Her eyebrows lifted. "I don't pretend. I just have standards."

Someone behind Dean let out an audible, "Damn."

Dean chuckled.

"There she is."

"What?"

"The real you. The one that thinks she's smarter than everyone."

Y/N held his gaze.

"I don't think I'm smarter than everyone."

"No?"

She smiled.

"Just you."

The surrounding group burst into laughter.

Dean's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. He laughed too. But this time it didn't quite reach his eyes.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The air between them felt strangely charged. Like the room had grown quieter despite the music still shaking the walls. Dean looked at her again. Really looked. The dress. The way she'd done her hair. The confidence she'd walked in with. She looked... beautiful. Annoyingly, unfairly beautiful. Which irritated him more than it should have.

So instead of saying the one thing that had unexpectedly crossed his mind: You look nice, He smiled that infuriating smile and said, "You know..." His voice was light. Almost conversational. "I guess if you were trying to distract everyone from your personality..." His eyes flicked down her dress once before meeting hers again. "...it almost worked.”

Silence.

This time, she couldn't hide it: the hurt. Dean continued, “I just wish Hannah wouldn’t bring you along; it’s just a waste of space, you know. And it’s not like you’re gonna have fun,” he scoffed, “as if anyone would go for that,” he eyed her down, “I sure wouldn’t, and you know damn well I’m all over gorgeous girls all the time.”

The hurt flashed across her face before she buried it beneath a practiced smile. As much confidence as she carried, some words did take her back to high school, where everyone would just shatter and break her heart all around.

"So that's your best one tonight?" she asked quietly. "I expected more."

She stepped around him before he could answer. "Enjoy your party, Di Laurentis."

She walked away without looking back. Dean watched her disappear into the crowd.

Logan appeared beside him a second later. "What the hell was that?"

Dean didn't answer. Logan looked toward where Y/N had gone. Then back at Dean.

"You know..." he said slowly, "I think you just can’t take your eyes off that dress.”

Dean frowned.

"What?"

Logan shook his head. "You looked at her like you forgot how to breathe. And then you immediately acted like an ass."

Dean scoffed.

"I always act like an ass."

Logan smirked, "Yeah, but usually it's because you think someone's annoying."

He looked toward the crowd where Y/N had disappeared.

"This time..." Logan clapped him on the shoulder. "I think it's because you're in trouble."

—

To forget the snarky comment, Y/n went in for a drink. Of course she looked gorgeous: her hair, her dress… everything was just breathtaking, but Dean’s words awakened some hidden insecurity that was resurfacing from high school.

Y/n was making her way to Hannah to ask her to leave the party, but she saw her and Garrett walk upstairs to Garrett’s room.

Shit…

What kind of friend would she be if she interrupted their special time? She needed her friend’s support, but not at the cost of inconveniencing her. So she sighed and went back for yet another drink. There was no point in going home alone and suffocating in bed with resurfacing bitter memories. Y/n chose to drown those with more alcohol.

Y/N lasted exactly twenty-three minutes before she needed another drink.

Not because she'd had that much to drink. Because she needed something to do with her hands. Something to wash away the lingering sting of Dean's words.

She slipped into the kitchen, grateful to find it momentarily less crowded than the living room. She reached for a clean plastic cup. Ice. Lemonade. A splash of vodka.

She stared down into the drink for a second, hoping it’ll help to stop thinking. Dean Di Laurentis had spent the better part of two years insulting her. She should've been immune by now.

So why had that one landed?

She let out a slow breath. Because this one remark hadn't been clever. It hadn't even been funny.

It had just been... Mean.

Then her racing thoughts were interrupted by a stupid comment: "You look like you're making a chemistry experiment."

She closed her eyes. Of course.

Without turning around, she said flatly, “Don't you have girls waiting in line for your attention?"

Dean walked up beside her anyway, grabbing an empty cup. "They'll survive."

He poured himself a drink, leaning casually against the counter.

Silence settled between them. It felt... different this time. Less like a game.

Y/N focused on dropping ice into her cup. Dean watched her from the corner of his eye.

She hadn't looked at him once. Not after earlier.

For reasons he couldn't explain, that bothered him.

"You know," he said, swirling his drink, "Logan thinks I was too hard on you."

She gave a small shrug.

"Good for Logan."

"So you're not gonna defend yourself?"

"I've learned it's usually a waste of energy."

That wasn't the answer he'd expected. He frowned.

"What?"

She finally looked at him. Her smile was polite. Almost painfully so.

"You've already decided who I am." Her voice was calm. "So why bother changing your mind?"

Dean looked away first. Something about that answer sat wrong. He covered it the only way he knew how.

"You know what your problem is?"

She sighed.

"Please. Enlighten me."

"You walk around acting like you're too good for everyone."

A tiny laugh escaped her.

"No."

"No?"

"I walk around trying not to care what people think."

He scoffed.

"That's adorable."

"It works most days."

"Clearly not tonight."

The words slipped out before he could stop them.

He saw it immediately. The way her shoulders stiffened. The tiny inhale she took.

He should've left it there. Instead….

"I mean..." he said lightly, "you spent all that time getting dressed up." His eyes drifted over her outfit again. "And for what?"

She said nothing. Dean smiled, though it felt forced now.

"You really thought tonight was going to be different?"

The kitchen suddenly felt very quiet.

"You thought someone was finally going to notice you?" He laughed once. “I hate to break it to you..." His voice dropped just enough to make every word sharper. "But people are looking because they don't recognize you." He held her gaze. "Not because they're interested."

For a long moment, Y/N didn't move. Dean waited for the comeback.

She always had one. Always.

Instead she looked down into her cup. "Are you done?" Her voice was so quiet that it almost didn't sound like her.

Dean blinked. "What?"

"I asked..." She swallowed. "...if you're done."

He opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

She gave one small nod, as though answering herself.

"Okay."

No sarcastic remark. No eye roll. No smug smile. She simply picked up her drink.

"I hope, one day," she said softly, "someone speaks to you the way you speak to other people."

Dean's chest tightened. She looked at him one last time. Not angry. Not even upset. Just disappointed. Then she turned and walked away. Dean watched her disappear into the hallway. For some reason, he felt awful.

Y/n was so consumed in her thoughts and a need to get away that she shoved through a crowded hallway just to get outside. She didn’t even notice the small splash... a splash that was made when someone dropped something into her drink.

Some guy tossed a pill into her cup with an easy flick of his wrist. It landed with a tiny splash before sinking beneath the ice.

"There." He snorted. "Let's see how long it takes…"

A couple of people laughed.

Y/n was already outside, sitting on an empty chair she found. Still replaying Dean's words in her head, she wrapped her fingers around the cup.

Y/N looked down at the cup for only a second. Then, she took a sip of the drink and then another one, unaware of what happened nearly thirty seconds ago.

—

Dean had never hidden from one of his own parties. Usually, he was the reason they stayed alive. If the music got louder, it was because Dean wanted it louder. If another game started in the kitchen, it was because Dean had convinced everyone to play. If people were laughing, chances were he was somewhere in the middle of it. He thrived in rooms like this. Crowded. Loud. Chaotic. Easy.

Tonight everything felt just a little off. He wandered back into the living room, weaving through people who greeted him with pats on the shoulder and shouted greetings over the music.

"Dean!" Someone shoved a red cup into his hand. He accepted it automatically.

Another guy pulled him into a conversation about next week's game. Dean answered. Mostly he just nodded in the right places, made the occasional sarcastic comment, and even laughed once.

But his attention kept drifting. His eyes searched the room without meaning to. Not looking for anyone in particular. Just... looking.

He caught himself glancing toward the hallway. Then toward the kitchen. Then the staircase. His eyebrows pulled together. What was he doing? He took a long drink instead.

"Dean." A familiar voice.

He turned. A blonde girl smiled up at him, already standing much closer than necessary.

"I've been trying to find you."

"Have you?"

"Mhm."

She reached up, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle from the front of his shirt.

"I thought maybe you disappeared."

Dean looked down at her hand.

Then back up.

"Huh."

She laughed.

"I was wondering if you wanted to dance."

Normally? He would've said yes without thinking.

She was pretty and confident. Exactly the kind of girl who usually made parties more interesting.

Instead his answer caught in his throat. "I..."

For some reason, the image that popped into his head wasn't the blonde standing in front of him.

It was emerald green, the color of Y/n’s dress.

A quiet voice that never seemed to leave his thoughts got louder, “I hope, one day, someone speaks to you the way you speak to other people.”

He blinked. "Maybe later."

The girl looked surprised.

"Oh." She recovered quickly. "Okay."

She disappeared back into the crowd.

Dean watched her go.

That was… weird.

He took another sip.

Someone cranked the music even louder. The living room erupted into cheers. Someone started chanting his name from across the room. Usually, he'd be over there already. Instead, he stayed exactly where he was.

"Dean!" Another voice.

This time, a brunette. She slipped easily into his space, smiling like they'd known each other forever.

"You owe me a rematch in pong."

"Do I?"

"You destroyed me last weekend."

"I probably did."

She laughed, looping an arm through his.

"You sound thrilled to see me."

Dean looked at her.

She was gorgeous. Dark hair. Bright smile.

One of the girls who always seemed to show up whenever there was a hockey party.

She squeezed his arm playfully.

"So?"

"So?"

"The rematch."

Dean looked toward the dining room where everyone was gathered around the table.

Then looked back at her.

"I think I'll pass."

Her smile faltered.

"You... don't want to play beer pong?"

"Not really."

She laughed like he was joking. When he didn't laugh back, she slowly let go of his arm.

"Okay..."

She walked away looking thoroughly confused.

Dean was, too.

What the hell?

He never turned down beer pong.

He frowned into his cup. Something was wrong with him. He wandered onto the back deck. Fresh air. That would help. Except it didn't.

He saw Y/n. After the past two encounters, he didn’t feel like going at it again. He couldn’t even ignore her and go on about his day and enjoy the party.

He wandered back inside, weaving through strangers who moved aside automatically when they recognized him.

Someone called after him. "Dean! Take a shot!"

He waved without looking.

Another voice.

"Dean, come dance!"

He ignored it.

A hand caught his wrist.

He turned. Another girl. She smiled brightly.

"You've been avoiding me all night."

"Sorry."

She stepped closer. "You can make it up to me."

Usually, he'd flirt back. Usually, this part was effortless. She reached up, fingers brushing lightly over the back of his neck. Dean felt... nothing.

Not even annoyance.

Just... Nothing.

"I'm actually heading upstairs."

Her smile slipped.

"Oh."

He gently untangled her hand from his arm before continuing toward the staircase.

Halfway up, he stopped.

He looked down.

The entire house stretched beneath him.

Music. Laughter. People dancing. Friends shouting across rooms. Girls smiling at him every time he looked their way. It was everything he'd always enjoyed. Everything that had always been enough.

Tonight it wasn't.

He ran a hand through his hair. "What the hell..." The words came out barely above a whisper. No answer came.

He climbed the rest of the stairs. His bedroom door clicked shut behind him, muffling the music until it became nothing more than a dull pulse through the walls.

Silence.

Dean leaned back against the door.

He stared at the ceiling for a long moment. Then laughed once. A humorless sound.

"If anyone ever finds out I'm hiding in my room during my own party..." He shook his head. "They'll never let me live it down."

He tossed his phone onto the bed before sitting beside it. For the first time in years, the party downstairs held absolutely no appeal.

He couldn't explain it. Couldn't fix it. Couldn't even name it.

All he knew was that every laugh downstairs sounded too far away. And every time he closed his eyes, he saw a pair of hurt eyes and heard a quiet voice asking, "Are you done?"

—

Outside, the party only seemed to get louder.

Someone had turned the music up again. Cheers erupted from the living room, followed by the unmistakable crash of something breaking and a chorus of laughter that suggested nobody particularly cared.

Y/N stood in the middle of it all.

She couldn't hear herself think.

At first, she assumed it was the music.

Then she realized the room itself had started to move.

She frowned.

The people around her blurred together for half a second before snapping back into focus.

"Weird." She blinked hard.

Maybe she'd stood up too fast.

She lifted her cup to take another sip, but stopped halfway. Her stomach rolled unpleasantly.

No.

Something wasn't right. She lowered the cup.

The bass thudded through the floor beneath her feet, each vibration making the dizziness worse.

Someone bumped her shoulder as they squeezed past.

Normally, she would've stumbled a step and laughed it off. Instead, her knees almost gave out. She caught herself on the edge of a nearby table.

"Oh..." A whisper .Barely audible. "...Oh, no."

Another wave hit. The room tilted sharply to the left before correcting itself.

Y/N squeezed her eyes shut.

Okay.

Okay, breathe.

When she opened them again, the crowd seemed even bigger somehow.

Too many people.

Too much noise.

Too little air.

Her fingers tightened around the plastic cup until it crumpled.

"Oh, shit."

Her voice trembled.

"Oh, shit..."

She looked down at the drink in her hand.

Without another thought, she walked to the nearest trash can and dumped the rest of it out before tossing the cup after it.

She needed Hannah.

That thought came immediately.

Hannah.

She'd know what to do.

Y/N turned toward the hallway.

Then remembered.

Garrett had quietly stolen Hannah away almost twenty minutes ago.

Garrett had simply grinned, taken Hannah's hand, and led her upstairs.

Privacy.

Right.

Y/N swallowed.

She couldn't exactly burst into Garrett's room.

Absolutely not.

Her breathing grew uneven.

The hallway stretched farther than she remembered.

Another wave of dizziness crashed over her so suddenly she reached for the wall. Her palm slapped against it. Her fingers trembled against the old drywall.

Think.

Who else?

Her parents? No way, she was far away in college, what would her parents even do? Fuck.

An ambulance?

No.

That sounded more stupid. Who calls an ambulance to a party?

No, no...

She wasn't even sure what was wrong.

She just... She just needed someone.

Someone she knew.

Her thoughts landed on a name she never would've expected.

Dean.

She almost laughed.

It would've been funny under different circumstances.

Dean Di Laurentis.

The same Dean who'd spent the entire evening trying to make her miserable. The same Dean who'd looked her dead in the eye and told her no one would ever be interested in her.

She hated him.

He was an ass.

Cocky.

Infuriating.

Meaner than he realized.

But...

He would never hurt her in a way bunch of guys in this party would if they found her in this state.

Her drink has been spiked, she thought, and whoever it was was bound to show up sooner or later. She needed to get away.

She knew that with complete certainty.

Her feet were already moving.

The staircase looked impossibly steep. By the third step, her legs felt strangely disconnected from the rest of her body.

Come on.

One more.

She gripped the railing so tightly her knuckles turned white. The music downstairs faded with every step upward, replaced by the pounding of her own heartbeat.

Halfway up, her vision blurred again. She stopped. The stairs shifted beneath her.

"No..."

She squeezed the railing harder.

"You are not passing out." As if scolding herself would be any help.

Another breath.

Another step.

Then another.

By the time she reached the second floor, she was breathing like she'd run a marathon.

Dean's door.

End of the hallway.

So close.

She took one step. Then another.

Her foot caught slightly against the carpet.

She stumbled, catching herself against the wall.

The hallway spun. "Oh, God..."

Everything suddenly felt so far away.

She finally reached Dean's door, raised her hand and knocked.

—

Inside, Dean didn't move.

He stared absently at the ceiling from where he sat on the edge of his bed.

The music downstairs had become little more than a dull vibration through the walls.

A knock sounded.

Dean sighed.

Without getting up, he called toward the door.

"Occupied."

Silence.

Good.

Probably another couple looking for somewhere quiet.

Not happening.

He leaned back against the headboard again.

Another knock.

More insistent this time.

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose.

"I said go away."

Nothing.

Then…. a heavy thud. Like something, or someone had fallen.

Dean's head snapped toward the door. Every trace of annoyance disappeared. He was on his feet before he'd even realized he'd stood.

He yanked the door open. And froze.

Y/N laid crumpled just outside his room. One hand still stretched weakly toward the doorframe. Her hair had fallen across part of her face. She looked frighteningly pale.

"What the…" Dean dropped to his knees instantly. "Y/N?"

She stirred. Barely. Her eyelids fluttered open just enough to find him. For a second, she simply looked at him. Like she was trying to make sure she'd found the right room.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he asked, the question coming out much sharper than he'd intended.

Was he angry? No.

Panicked? Confused? Terrified? Yes.

"I..." she whispered. Her voice was so quiet he almost missed it. "I know..." She swallowed with visible effort. "I know you hate me enough not to try anything…”

Her eyes began slipping shut.

Dean's expression shattered.

Her arm gave out beneath her. Her body pitched sideways.

"Y/N!"

He caught her before she could hit her head.

Dean held her; one arm around her shoulders, the other catching her legs awkwardly before lowering her carefully against him.

"Hey, hey, hey." His voice had changed completely. Every ounce of sarcasm was gone. Every trace of arrogance vanished. Raw panic replaced all of it.

"Look at me." Her head lolled weakly against his shoulder. "Y/N."

Nothing.

"Come on."

Her eyes opened halfway. Just enough.

"There you are."

His hand came up instinctively, brushing loose strands of hair away from her face. She looked exhausted. Not sleepy. Drained. Like staying conscious required more effort than she had left.

"What happened?"

She blinked slowly and closed her eyes.

Dean's heart slammed painfully against his ribs. He tried to control his shaking hands.

"What did you have to drink?"

She frowned.

"...just..." Another slow blink. "...not much..."

"Did you hit your head?"

A tiny shake. "No."

"Did somebody…" His voice caught. He couldn't even finish the question. Y/N looked at him, and nodded.

"I think so..." Her breathing hitched. And she fully closed her eyes.

Dean’s eyes widened. He was trying to hide his panic.

"Okay." He nodded quickly. "Okay."

He wasn't okay. Not even close. But she needed him calm.

"I've got you."

He slipped one arm beneath her knees and the other behind her back. She was lighter than he'd expected. Too light.

She instinctively curled toward his chest as he lifted her. Her forehead rested weakly against his shoulder. Dean carried her inside as though she might break.

The bedroom door swung shut behind them. He crossed to the bed immediately. He lowered her carefully onto the mattress, supporting her head until it rested against the pillow.

She shivered. Without thinking, Dean tugged the comforter over her. He crouched beside the bed.

"Stay with me." He shook her slighly so she’d stay conscious. Y/N looked at him through half-lidded eyes.

"I'm trying."

"I know." His voice cracked. "I know."

She reached for him without really meaning to. Her fingers brushed weakly against his wrist. Dean took her hand immediately. Firm. Steady.

"I'm here."

Her grip was almost nonexistent. She still didn't let go as she closed her eyes one last time to sleep off the drug’s effect.

Dean looked at her. Really looked at her. She was unconscious and laying in his bed. A dark thought crossed his mind. She could have not made it to his room and right now… God knows what would have happened.

She'd climbed the stairs. Walked through an entire house full of people. Passed countless rooms. And somehow she'd come here, to him. And out of all people he chose him not because she trusted him, but because she thought he hated her enough not to try anything another filthy guy would.

A lump settled painfully in his throat.

Y/n’s eyes opened slowly, she was in and out of consciousness.

"I'm here." Dean whispered.

Her breathing slowed again. Her eyelids drooped lower.

"No, no."

Dean gently squeezed her hand.

"Don't fall asleep again, not yet."

"Tired."

"I know."

"Just..." Her words were fading.

He leaned closer. "Stay awake a little longer for me."

She tried.

God, she tried.

He could see it.

The effort it took just to keep her eyes open.

Eventually she looked at him one last time. Really looked. Like she wanted to make sure he was still there. Then, satisfied, her fingers loosened around his hand. Her breathing evened out. Her face relaxed for the first time since he'd opened the door.

"Y/N?"

No answer.

Just the quiet rhythm of sleep.

Dean stayed exactly where he was.

Still holding her hand. Still watching the slow rise and fall of her chest. As if looking away, even for a second, might somehow let something happen to her.

Downstairs, the party raged on. People laughed. Music shook the walls. Someone cheered loud enough for the sound to carry upstairs. Dean didn't hear any of it. His entire world had narrowed to the girl asleep in his bed and the sickening realization that she chose him to be her safe place due to every cruel thing he said to her, because in y/n’s eyes Dean hated her.

[shortnspidey]

COULDN'T MAKE IT ANY HARDER

Dean Di Laurentis X Female!reader || WC: 8K

SUMMARY: The five times Dean realizes you're more than just his childhood best friend, and the one time he finally does something about it.

WARNINGS: Friends to eventual lovers, idiots in love, slow burn romance, psychology!student, fluff, slight angst, non-graphic descriptions of an injury, cursing, jealousy, sexual innuendos, domestic bliss (Dean is down bad), rushed ending sorry!

A/N: Happy Fourth of July!! 🇺🇸 I’ve ALWAYS wanted to write one of these fics and inspiration finally struck! Let me know what you guys think, and if you want to see more! Hope y’all enjoy!! Divider by @dividers-are-us <3

➩ main masterlist

➩ dean di laurentis masterlist

1. Garrett’s not so secret feelings

After a brutal Friday in the weight room with Beau, Dean wanted nothing more than to demolish whatever leftovers Tucker had most likely abandoned in the fridge, scrub the sweat and soreness off his skin, and disappear in his room until Monday. The workout had been relentless. His shoulders ached, his legs felt like concrete, and he was fairly certain Beau got some sick enjoyment out of making him suffer.

As he pushed through the front door of the hockey house, the familiar scent of stale pizza, laundry detergent, and whatever Tucker had cooked earlier greeted him. He kicked off his shoes near the entrance and rolled his neck, already mentally planning his evening. That's when he noticed you and Garrett sitting shoulder-to-shoulder at the kitchen island, textbooks spread across the countertop.

Dean slowed, not because Garrett was studying, that wasn't unusual lately, but because Garrett looked utterly miserable. "Jesus," Garrett groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "Remind me again why you want to pursue a career in this?" His eyes narrowed at the open psychology textbook like it had personally offended him. "Not memorizing the difference between operant conditioning and classical conditioning isn't the end of the world, G."

Dean couldn't help smiling. Somehow, whenever you were around, the house felt lighter. Before either of you could react, he crossed the room and made a beeline toward the kitchen island. Garrett spotted him first, a knowing smirk immediately tugged at his mouth, one which Dean blatantly ignored it. You barely had enough time to look up before all six-foot-two of him folded himself around you.

One arm slid around your shoulders, the other wrapped around your waist as his face buried itself in your hair as he let out a long, exhausted groan. "If you're having trouble distinguishing classical and operant conditioning, just make flash cards," You advised Garrett, as though you weren't currently trapped beneath an oversized hockey player. "Handwritten ones. They always helped me."

Without even thinking about it, your fingers slipped between Dean's where his hand rested against your stomach. The gesture was entirely unconscious. Dean's tired brain barely registered it, but Garrett's definitely did. "Are we not going to address the overgrown golden retriever currently hanging off your shoulder?" Garrett questioned, motioning toward Dean.

In response, Dean didn't move, in fact, his hold only tightened around your waist. You rolled your eyes at both their antics. "Are we not going to address the fact that you're here 'studying' on a Friday night because you refuse to admit your feelings for Hannah and couldn't stand the thought of her going out with Justin tonight?" The reaction was immediate, Garrett immediately went red, really red.

His jaw clenched as he snapped his attention back to his notes with exaggerated concentration. "Your girl is disturbingly insightful, Di Laurentis." He muttered which made you scoff as you playfully nudged his shin with your foot from across the table. “Damn straight she is.” Dean’s answer came instantly, low and smug, with a kiss pressed to your forehead that you unconsciously leaned into which made Dean's stomach do something profoundly embarrassing.

For a few moments, only the rustle of paper and the hum of the refrigerator filled the kitchen. Then you reached across the counter and squeezed Garrett's hand, your expression softening. "Hey, G," You muttered softly as Garrett's eyes slowly lifted to meet yours. "For what it's worth, I don't think Hannah likes Justin nearly as much as you think she does." Garrett squeezed your hand back, hope flashing across his face before he could hide it.

Dean watched the exchange quietly, body still wrapped around you. He didn't notice the way his thumb kept tracing small absent minded circles against your waist. He did notice that when you smiled at Garrett, he felt oddly jealous of his best friend for getting that look. And for the first time in a very long time, Dean couldn't help but wonder if maybe his attachment to his childhood "friend" wasn't quite as platonic as he'd always pretended it was.

2. Self-Care Day with Summer

Safe to say Dean had a shitty day.

All he wanted now was you. He wanted to kick off his shoes, collapse onto his bed, and bury himself in your arms while your fingers lazily carded through his messy hair. He wanted your soft voice filling the silence, your hand rubbing slow circles across his back until the tension seeped from every tight muscle in his body. The guys would never let him live it down if they knew, but Dean really couldn't bring himself to care.

As he pushed open the front door of the hockey house, the familiar sounds of shouting commentators and button mashing greeted him. Logan and Tucker were planted on opposite ends of the couch, controllers gripped tightly in their hands as they battled it out on the TV. An empty pizza box sat abandoned on the coffee table, surrounded by half-empty Gatorade bottles and crumpled napkins.

Dean barely spared them a glance, his eyes immediately sweeping areas where you'd probably be. The kitchen, empty. The dining room, nothing. No backpack tossed over one of the chairs. No oversized sweatshirt draped over the counter. No mug of tea you'd inevitably forget to finish. "Looking for your girl?" Logan's amused voice pulled him from his search. Without taking his eyes off the television, a knowing smirk spread across his face.

Dean didn't even bother correcting him anymore. "You seen her?" He asked, already craning his neck toward the hallway as if you might magically appear. Logan shrugged one shoulder. "She was here with Wellsy earlier. Upstairs probably." That was all Dean needed. He took the stairs two at a time, each step creaking beneath his weight. His exhaustion momentarily forgotten, as he headed straight for his bedroom.

"Y/N?" He called, knocking lightly before twisting the doorknob. The room was empty, bed neatly made, and the hoodie you'd stolen from him last week was nowhere to be found. Dean frowned. Without even realizing what he was doing, his phone was already in his hand, your contact pulled up from muscle memory. His thumb hit the call button before he had a chance to even think twice.

The phone rang twice before: "Hi, Dicky!" Dean physically recoiled. "What the hell— Summer?" His eyebrows shot toward his hairline. "What are you doing with Y/N's phone?" An exaggerated scoff crackled through the speaker, he could practically see Summer rolling her eyes. "Contrary to popular belief, Dicky," Summer huffed. "She doesn't belong to you. She was my friend first."

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose, a fresh headache blooming almost instantly. "Just give her the phone, Summer." He heard muffled voices, the sound of the phone changing hands, and then: "Hi, Dean." It was amazing what two simple words could do. The knot between his shoulder blades loosened. His jaw unclenched. The lingering frustration in his body eased just from hearing your voice. A smile tugged at his lips before he could stop it.

"Babydoll," He murmured, unable to hide the relief in his voice. "Where are you? And why on earth are you with my hellion of a sister?" Your soft laugh drifted through the speaker, warm enough to make him wish you were standing beside him instead. Somewhere in the background, Summer barked an offended, "Dick." You laughed harder before finally answering. "She called me this morning after my eight a.m. class. She was having a bad day, so I drove into Manhattan to spend the day with her."

"You drove all the way to Manhattan?" Dean blinked. "Of course I did, Summer needed me." His heart did that stupid thing it always seemed to do around you. You hadn't hesitated. Summer needed someone, and you'd simply gone. No complaints. Just packed your things and made the drive because someone you cared about asked. There was another shuffle on the other end before Summer snatched the phone back. "Retail therapy works wonders, Dicky," She announced proudly.

"She'll be all yours tomorrow, but today?" Summer continued, smug satisfaction dripping from every word. "Today she's mine. Love you. Bye!" Seconds later, the line went suddenly dead. Dean stared down at his phone for several long seconds before letting out a disbelieving laugh. Of course Summer would steal your phone. Of course she'd hang up before he could get another word in.

But none of that was what stuck with him. What lingered was the realization that the second his sister admitted she was struggling, you'd dropped everything and driven nearly four hours just to make sure Summer didn't have to be alone. No hesitation. No expectation of anything in return. Just because that's who you were. Dean had always known you had the biggest heart of anyone he'd ever met. Today, though...

Today, he caught himself wishing he was more than just a friend.

3. The Injury

"Let her through! She's with the team!" Garrett's authoritative voice cut cleanly through the chaos surrounding the arena tunnel, commanding enough that even over the frantic chatter, blaring arena speakers, and the lingering roar of thousands of fans filing toward the exits, everyone nearby turned their heads. However, you barely heard him. Your heartbeat thundered so loudly in your ears it drowned out almost everything else.

"I'm the captain of this team," Garrett interrupted sharply, stepping between you and security. "She's family." The guard hesitated only a second before stepping aside. The moment the path cleared, your feet carried you forward before your brain had a chance to catch up. Garrett fell into step beside you, one steady hand settling against the middle of your back as if he could feel the way your entire body trembled.  

"How is he?" Your voice barely sounded like your own. Garrett's jaw tightened. "The medic thinks he'll be out at least two weeks." His expression darkened. "Mild concussion and a fractured ankle." Hot fury ignited beneath your ribs. Not at Dean, but at the player who had recklessly swept his stick between Dean's legs. You'd watched it happen. There'd been no attempt to play the puck. It was just a cheap shot.

A dangerous one.

Your hands curled into fists as the replay flashed through your mind all over again. "He keeps asking for you," Garrett continued, his tone softening. "Won't let anyone get a word in." Despite everything, the corner of your mouth twitched. "He's being more annoying than usual," Garrett added with a tired sigh. "Logan and Tucker are about five minutes away from knocking him unconscious themselves."

That definitely sounded like Dean. "I should probably go micromanage before they make good on that threat." Garrett chuckled under his breath and pulled open the door to the medical room. The sight waiting on the other side nearly made your knees buckle. Dean sat propped awkwardly on the examination chair, his hockey pants and jersey still on, shoulder pads discarded in a heap beside him.

His normally perfect blond curls were damp with sweat and flattened where his helmet had been, several loose strands sticking out in every direction. A medic knelt beside him, carefully supporting his injured ankle while a PT intern shined a light into his eyes, checking his pupils. Logan and Tucker both stood on each side of him, still wearing their jerseys, neither looking remotely interested in getting changed until they knew Dean was okay.

"Garrett went to get her, just wait." Logan reminded him patiently, keeping a firm hand planted on Dean's shoulder the second he tried to stand again. "Let the medic finish checking you out, man." Tucker coaxed like the mother hen he was. Dean opened his mouth, ready to argue then his eyes found yours. It was almost eerie, like he'd sensed you before you'd even stepped through the doorway.

The tension visibly drained from his shoulders. Relief flooded his features so quickly it made your chest ache. "Babydoll..." He breathed, every ounce of stubbornness disappearing. "Thank fuck." He sank back into the chair, extending both hands toward you without an ounce of hesitation. "C'mere... please." There wasn't a universe where you wouldn't. You crossed the room in two quick strides.

The second your fingers slipped between his, Dean gripped them like a lifeline. Like he'd been holding himself together by sheer force of will until you walked through that door. Your eyes immediately began searching him. A faint scrape along his cheekbone. Fresh bruising already blooming beneath one eye. A split lip. The ugly swelling around his ankle. "You scared the hell out of me, Dean." You whispered, your voice catching despite your best efforts to keep it steady.

Dean's thumb swept absentminded circles across the back of your hand. Whatever pain medication they'd given him had softened the hard edges around his eyes, leaving him wearing a crooked, hopelessly boyish smile that somehow made him look younger. "How's your head?" You asked gently, your free hand lifted almost on its own, brushing one stubborn blond curl away from his forehead before tucking it back into place.

Your fingertips lingered there for a heartbeat longer than necessary, wanting the reassurance that he was really here. Dean leaned unconsciously into your touch. "Never had any complaints, babydoll." He punctuated the line with an exaggerated wink. An audible chorus of groans filled the room. "Oh my fucking God." Logan muttered, eyes rolling. "He's concussed and still flirting." Tucker complained, rubbing both hands down his face.

You felt heat instantly flood your cheeks, but ultimately chose to ignore it. "Oh, you're absolutely fine." You huffed, rolling your eyes as you tried to tug your hand free. Only Dean wasn't having it. His fingers tightened around yours and with one gentle pull, he drew you closer until you stood between his knees, your bodies only inches apart. The teasing grin he'd been wearing slowly faded.

Something quieter settled over his features, something almost fragile. His thumb continued tracing slow circles across your knuckles, grounding himself in the simple fact that you were here. That he could still hold your hand. "Thanks for being here." The words came quietly. Without the usual confidence. Without a joke to soften them. Just plain, raw honesty. You didn't even have to think about your answer.

Your other hand rose to cup his cheek, brushing over the rough stubble beginning to grow along his jaw. "There's nowhere else I'd be." Dean's breath caught. Those five simple words landed somewhere deep inside his chest, slipping past every wall he'd spent years carefully building. He'd spent so long convincing himself that what he felt for you was just harmless, a silly crush that would eventually go away.

But watching you burst through security with tears threatening to spill down your cheeks. Feeling your hands check every bruise like you could somehow erase the pain. Hearing you tell him there was nowhere else you'd rather be. It unraveled him. The feeling he'd been trying so desperately to bury came rushing back all at once, stronger than ever. Because for one terrifying moment on that ice, he'd thought he might open his eyes and not get to see you looking at him like he was the only person in the room.

4. Tucker’s Deathbed

Dean: Might wanna stay away tonight, Tuck’s got one hell of a cold.

Respectfully, there was no way in hell you were listening to that text. Your psychology paper on stress sat half-finished on your laptop, several journal articles scattered across your desk, but they could wait another night. Tucker couldn't. Besides, you knew exactly why Dean had texted you. He wasn't trying to be controlling, far from it.

He knew how often you caught whatever bug was going around campus, and the last thing he wanted was for you to spend the next week sniffling and miserable. It was sweet, but it was also completely futile seeing as your mind was already made up. You quickly shoved your laptop shut, gathered your keys, slipped your feet into your sneakers, and headed out the door before you had the chance to think twice about it.

Ten minutes later, you were pulling into the familiar driveway of the hockey house. The porch light cast a warm glow over the worn wooden steps, and the second you let yourself inside, the usual atmosphere felt...off. There was no music blasting from Logan's room. No laughter echoing through the halls. No Tucker humming while experimenting with whatever recipe had caught his attention that week.

Closing the front door behind you, your gaze immediately landed on the couch. "Oh, sweet Tuck." Your voice softened into something almost maternal. Tucker looked absolutely miserable. He was cocooned beneath two thick blankets despite the thermostat being turned up, curly hair sticking out in every direction, cheeks flushed an unhealthy shade of pink. A mountain of crumpled tissues littered the coffee table beside half-empty glasses of water and an abandoned mug of tea that had long since gone cold.

Setting your purse onto the nearest chair, you crossed the room quietly until you stood beside the couch. Your hand found his forehead with featherlight pressure, careful not to startle him awake. The warmth beneath your palm made you hiss. His skin was damp with sweat, far warmer than it should've been. He cracked one sleepy eye open before lazily batting your hand away with all the strength of a disgruntled toddler. "You're gonna get sick, Y/N." He mumbled, voice rough from congestion.

"Have you taken anything? Eaten?" You asked, purposely ignoring him. A weak shake of his head made you frown as he burrowed farther beneath the blanket until all you could really see was the top of his head. Without another word, you disappeared into the kitchen. Opening cabinet after cabinet, you smiled when everything was exactly where you'd expected. If there was one thing Tucker took almost as seriously as hockey, it was cooking.

Rolling up your sleeves, you got to work. Butter melted with a quiet sizzle before onions, carrots, and celery joined the pot, filling the kitchen with the comforting aroma of sautéing vegetables. Garlic followed moments later, its rich scent curling through the house. You shredded leftover rotisserie chicken Tucker had prepared earlier in the week, added handfuls of fresh herbs from the windowsill, poured in the homemade stock, and let everything simmer low and slow.

Nearly twenty minutes later, the soup bubbled gently on the stove, filling every room with warmth. Which was probably why the front door swung open. Logan stepped inside first, Garrett followed, and Dean came in last. All three stopped dead in the entryway as the unmistakable scent of homemade chicken noodle soup drifted toward them. Dean's gaze found you almost instantly, it was second nature nowadays.

You stood at the stove in one of Tucker's aprons, sleeves pushed to your elbows as you stirred the soup with practiced ease. Something deep in his chest squeezed painfully the more he looked at you. God, you looked like you belonged there. Like you'd always belonged there. His stomach flipped at the domestic image. The thought came so naturally it almost scared him. He could picture this years from now: Coming home after practice. Finding you in a kitchen making dinner, scolding one of the guys for skipping lunch.

It was such a simple fantasy, one he had absolutely no business imagining. "I thought I told you to stay home." Dean's voice carried equal parts exasperation and concern as he crossed his arms against his chest. "Last I checked, none of you know how to cook," You replied matter-of-factly while ladling soup into bowls. "Tuck needs homemade soup not whatever sodium-packed excuse for soup you three would've heated up from a can." Their silence spoke volumes.

Oh how you loved being right.

You slid two steaming bowls across the island toward Garrett and Logan who were openly salivating. "Sit and eat." Both men obeyed immediately, neither needed to be told twice. "You're my favorite person ever." Logan declared, already reaching for a spoon. "I've been saying that for years," Garrett chimed in, grinning as he accepted the bowl. "Thanks, sweetheart."

Dean watched the exchange in silence, eyes never leaving you as he watched you carry another bowl into the living room. You crouched beside Tucker, placing the soup carefully on the coffee table before setting cold medicine and a bottle of water beside it. "There we go." Your fingers brushed his forehead once more. "A little less warm." Tucker managed the weakest smile imaginable before taking a tentative bite.

Within minutes he looked noticeably more alive. Color slowly returned to his face as warmth spread through him. Dean, however, couldn't stop watching you. Couldn't stop noticing how naturally you slipped into caretaker mode. You remembered everyone's favorite meals. You always noticed when one of them skipped breakfast. You always looked after them without ever expecting anything in return.

It was simply woven into who you were.

"Serious question." Logan's voice pulled everyone's attention back toward the dining table. You looked up, brows furrowing and mentally preparing for what Logan was about to say. He pointed his spoon toward you. "Why has literally nobody wifed you up yet?" Your eyes widened, heat creeping up into your cheeks as you blinked at him processing his words. A nervous laugh escaped as you simply shrugged one shoulder instead of answering.

Thankfully, Logan accepted your non-answer. "Wild." He muttered before returning his full attention to the soup in front of him. You let out a quiet breath of relief, completely missing what happened across the room. Tucker slowly lifted his gaze as Garrett did the same, both men turning towards Dean in perfect synchronization. Dean was already glaring at them, if looks could kill both hockey players would already be six-feet under.

Garrett bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from smiling and Tucker looked seconds away from bursting out laughing despite the gruesome cold. Because they both knew. They'd watched Dean stare at you from the second he'd walked through the front door. Watched his eyes follow every movement you made. Watched the way his expression softened whenever you smiled his way.

Logan, blissfully unaware of the silent conversation unfolding beside him, happily shoveled another spoonful of soup into his mouth. Dean barely noticed, because despite his two smartass friends smirking at his obliviousness, his attention had drifted back to you. Back to the way you tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear as you rinsed dishes. Back to the quiet hum you made under your breath while cleaning Tucker's kitchen.

Back to how effortlessly you took care of people you loved.

You were a catch. Dean had always known that. He'd known it long before anyone else started noticing. Long before Logan blurted it out over dinner. The problem was, other people were starting to realize it too. And someday, someone was going to look at you the way Dean already did. They'd flirt with you. Take you out. Learn your coffee order. Memorize the little wrinkle that appeared beside your nose whenever you laughed.

Most importantly, they'd get to call you theirs. The thought alone lodged itself beneath his ribs like a skate blade carving into fresh ice. It shouldn't have bothered him as much as it did. You were his childhood best friend. He should've been thrilled if someone made you happy. Instead, all he could think was: I hope they don't. And that terrified him far more than any hockey game ever could.

5. The Male Gaze

"Hey, Y/N, is it true that Archer Beckett asked you out?" The question left Beau's mouth so casually you'd think he was asking you about the weather. Dean, on the other hand, nearly inhaled his beer. He coughed violently, setting the bottle down with a little more force than intended as carbonation burned the back of his throat. Beside him, Garrett didn't even attempt to hide his grin, his shoulders already beginning to shake with silent laughter.

Across the table, you took another leisurely sip of your piña colada, completely oblivious to the internal crisis unfolding three feet away. "He did." You confirmed, shrugging nonchalantly. Dean's entire body went rigid, his jaw locked so tightly he could feel his molars grinding together. Archer Beckett, of course it had to be Archer fucking Beckett. The lacrosse captain had been circling you for weeks like a damn shark.

Every time Dean turned around, Archer was "coincidentally" showing up wherever you happened to be, outside the psych building, in line at the campus coffee shop, even at Malone's after games. Dean had noticed, he noticed everything when it came to you. "What'd you tell him?" Hannah wondered from across the table, tucked comfortably beneath Garrett's arm.

Dean sat a little straighter without realizing it, every muscle in his body tensed as he waited for your answer. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Garrett and Beau exchanging identical shit-eating grins. Again. Lately they'd been doing that a lot. Assholes. You swirled the straw around your drink absentmindedly before answering as though the conversation couldn't possibly be less important. "I told him I wasn't interested."

Dean forgot how to breathe. Relief washed over him so suddenly it nearly made him dizzy. It came in one overwhelming wave, loosening the knot in his chest before he'd even processed why. His shoulders relaxed and the death grip he'd had on his beer bottle eased. A part of him, a part he'd spent months trying very hard to ignore, felt absurdly, ridiculously happy.

"The guy's relentless," Garrett observed, lifting his beer toward his lips. "I'm honestly surprised he backed off that easily." Dean caught the smug smirk Garrett aimed directly at him over the rim of his bottle. The silent message couldn't have been clearer: You hear that, Di Laurentis? She turned him down. Make your move, idiot. Dean responded by silently mouthing, I'm going to kill you to which Garrett's grin only widened.

Thankfully, you remained blissfully unaware of the silent death threats being exchanged across the table. "I need another drink." You stood, gathering your empty glass before pointing toward the bar. "Anyone want a refill?" Everyone but Hannah declined. Dean opened his mouth to offer to go with you, but the opportunity disappeared before the words reached his tongue because you were already weaving through the various crowds of people toward the bar.

His eyes followed instinctively as they always did. He watched as you smiled at Allie the second you reached the bar, leaning comfortably against the polished wood as the short brunette reached over the counter to squeeze your hand before beginning your drink. Dean couldn't help smiling too. "Dude, you're so whipped." Beau's voice yanked him back to reality. Dean managed to drag his gaze away from you just long enough to glare murderously at his best friend.

"At least pretend you're listening to us instead of staring at her like she hung the moon. You've watched her walk to the bar like four times already, man." Garrett interrupted, amusement dancing across his face. Dean scoffed at Garrett's words, opening his mouth to rebuttal before Hannah held her hand up stopping him. "Dean, at least try to hide it better." Hannah teased, smiling far too knowingly.

"Wellsy, don't encourage them." Dean groaned dramatically. "I'm not encouraging anything." Hannah's smile only grew. "I'm just observing." Dean rolled his eyes dramatically before looking back toward the televisions mounted behind the bar. Or at least, that was his intention. Instead, his attention landed on you again, watching as your eyes were fixated on Shane Hollander as he carried the puck through the neutral zone while Ilya Rozanov shadowed him stride for stride on the television screen.

Dean smiled despite himself, only you would get distracted by hockey while ordering drinks. Then he noticed them. Three guys at the opposite end of the bar. One of them glanced your way, then another. A fourth turned completely around in his stool. Dean's smile vanished instantly. They weren't watching the game, they were watching you. His grip tightened around his beer bottle until his knuckles turned white.

One of them, a tall brunette with an easy grin and far too much confidence nudged his friend before climbing off his stool. Dean's pulse immediately picked up as he watched the guy walk straight toward you. "I just love it when he gets territorial." Beau snickered as Hannah immediately elbowed Garrett in the ribs hard enough to earn an exaggerated grunt, though the smile she was unsuccessfully trying to suppress betrayed her.

They'd all noticed. Of course they did.

Dean didn't bother with them, his gaze was solely on you, stomach twisting unpleasantly. He had absolutely no right to feel possessive. You weren't his girlfriend. Hell, you weren't even remotely close to being his. You could flirt with whoever you wanted. Accept drinks from whoever you wanted. Go on dates with whoever you wanted. The thought alone made something ugly twist low in his stomach.

Jealousy.

Because it wasn't just that he didn't want Archer Beckett asking you out anymore. He didn't want anyone asking you out. He didn't want another guy making you laugh. Didn't want someone else memorizing your coffee order. Didn't want someone else bringing you flowers during finals week because they knew you were stressed. Didn't want someone else being the person you instinctively reached for.

He didn't want to be just your best friend anymore. He wanted to be the man sitting beside you. The one whose hand you'd reach for beneath the table. The one you'd kiss goodnight. The one you'd introduce as yours. Thankfully, after a few gruesome minutes which really seemed like decades, he watched as the brunette returned to his friends a few moments later. Empty-handed; no longer smiling and head hung low. Only then did Dean realize he'd been holding his breath.

You followed shortly after, balancing two frozen piña coladas with practiced ease, once again, completely oblivious to the emotional crisis currently unfolding inside Dean's head. "What'd he want?" The question escaped before Dean could stop it. You slid Hannah's drink across the table before answering. "Oh," You shrugged, hand waving dismissively as if it was no big deal. "He wanted to buy me a drink, but I told him my boyfriend was waiting for me."

Silence.

Dean stared, his brain stopped functioning altogether.

"Boyfriend?" He echoed weakly. You looked at him as though the answer was obvious, a tiny smile tugged at your lips. "I knew he wouldn't question it if I pointed at you." Dean's heart slammed against his ribs. You'd said it so naturally, so effortlessly. As if pretending Dean was yours had come as easily as breathing. You reached across the table without thinking, your fingers wrapping gently around his forearm, the simple touch nearly undid him.

"You don't mind, do you, Dean?" You looked almost worried, like the possibility of upsetting him genuinely bothered you. Across the table, Garrett looked ready to burst into laughter. Beau had outright stopped pretending to hide his grin. Even Hannah pressed her lips together to keep from smiling. Yet, Dean barely noticed. He was too busy imagining what it would've felt like if your words had actually been true. My boyfriend. God, he wanted to hear you say that again.

Not as an excuse, not to get rid of some random guy at a bar, but because you meant it. The realization settled over him with startling certainty. He wasn't just protective. He wasn't just attached because you'd been friends forever. He wasn't just comfortable around you. He was hopelessly, irrevocably in love with his best friend. And judging by the three idiots trying and failing not to laugh across the table, everyone seemed to know it before he did.

He swallowed hard, giving your hand a gentle squeeze before forcing himself to smile. "Course not, babydoll." You smiled back, satisfied with his answer, completely unaware that the tiny lie had just shattered what was left of his resolve. Because the truth was, Dean minded more than he could ever admit. Not because you'd called him your boyfriend, but because he wasn't. God, he wanted to be. More than his next championship. More than hockey. More than anything.

+1 The Hat Trick

The sharp November air nipped at your cheeks the second you stepped out of the car, your breath curling into soft white clouds as you made your way toward the entrance of the Briar arena. Even after countless games, countless Friday nights spent wrapped in Briar blue, there was still something magical about hockey nights.

The bright arena lights reflected against the freshly resurfaced sheet of ice, music boomed through the speakers as students flooded into the stands. Your eyes immediately searched for one player in particular. Dean, it was always Dean. The knot that had lived in your stomach for the past two weeks loosened the moment you spotted number sixty-six gliding effortless laps around center ice during warmups.

He was back. After the concussion and the fractured ankle. After countless days of sitting beside his bed while he complained about being benched, insisting he was "perfectly fine," and begged you to sneak him out of physical therapy. The team medic had finally cleared him that morning. Watching him skate again should've filled you with relief. Instead, your traitorous brain decided to notice how his practice jersey stretched across his shoulders every time he leaned into a stride.

How the muscles in his thighs flexed beneath his hockey pants as he dug his edges into the ice. How one damp blond curl escaped beneath his helmet while he stretched against the boards. You tore your eyes away with an embarrassed cough. Absolutely not. There was a hockey game to watch, not Dean Di Laurentis looking unfairly attractive while doing literally anything. Beside you, Hannah caught the direction of your gaze, hiding a knowing smile behind her cup of hot chocolate.

Thankfully, the referee's whistle echoed through the arena, signaling the start of the game before she could say anything. The opening puck drop snapped your attention back where it belonged. The first period against Harvard flew by in a blur of hard checks and blistering speed. Dean looked like he'd never left the lineup. He was everywhere. Breaking up passes through the neutral zone. Winning puck battles along the boards. Setting crushing screens in front of Harvard's goalie.

Even when he wasn't scoring, he dictated the pace every time his line hopped over the boards. Midway through the first period, Garrett intercepted a sloppy pass just inside Briar's blue line.Without hesitation, he banked the puck off the boards toward Logan, who exploded down the right wing with Tucker keeping pace on the opposite side. The three connected like they shared one brain.

Logan faked a slapshot which allowed for Tucker to intercept, cleanly sliding the puck into the goal. The red light flashed, the goal horn erupted, and the arena exploded. You shot to your feet along with Hannah and everyone else, cheering until your throat burned. Dean was the first one to reach Tucker, wrapping an arm around his shoulders before shoving his helmet affectionately.

By the middle of the second period, Logan buried one of his own after Dean fought through two defenders behind the net to feed him a perfect no-look pass. A few minutes later Tucker struck again on the power play after Garrett rifled a shot from the point that bounced straight onto Tucker's stick. Everything Briar touched seemed to turn into goals tonight. The chemistry between the four upperclassmen was almost unfair to watch.

Every pass landed tape-to-tape. Every line change happened seamlessly. Every player seemed to know exactly where the others would be before they even got there. At the end of the second period, Briar held a comfortable 3-1 lead against Harvard. "Dean is going to lose his mind when he sees you in his jersey tonight." Hannah leaned closer with an unmistakably mischievous smile, which made a blush climb up your neck as you instinctively glanced down.

Dean's navy blue jersey hung almost to the middle of your thighs, the sleeves swallowing your hands completely. You'd borrowed it from Beau after he'd insisted Dean deserved a little 'extra motivation'. "He hasn't even noticed." Hannah smiled knowingly, eyes twinkling with mischief. "Trust me babe, he'll notice." Before you could ask what that cryptic statement meant, the buzzer sounded meaning that the third period had officially began.

Harvard came out desperate. Every shift became increasingly physical as the numbers of the clock counted down. Bodies slammed into the glass hard enough to make the boards rattle. Unfortunately, the referees' whistles remained suspiciously quiet. You hated when games turned like this, knowing that the desperation made players reckless. Halfway through the period, Dean carried the puck through the neutral zone with impossible speed.

One defender challenged him, luckily Dean was able to effortlessly slip around him effortlessly only for a second to step up. Dean toe-dragged the puck between the man's skates. The crowd collectively rose to its feet, only before he could shoot, a Harvard defenseman drove him shoulder-first into the plexiglass. Your breath caught as the impact thundered through the arena. Dean, however, bounced off the boards, somehow maintaining possession before spinning away from another defender.

He never even looked shaken, instead he cut toward the slot. Garrett anticipated the play perfectly. One crisp pass was all it took for Dean to snap a wrist shot through the two defenders. The net rippled as the goal horn blared yet again. You were already on your feet before you realized you'd moved. Dean pointed toward the student section as his teammates swarmed him in congratulatory helmet bumps. For one irrational second, you could've sworn he was looking directly at you.

When you finally sat back down, Hannah's grin could've powered the entire arena. "Told you." You shoved her shoulder, which only made her grin widen. "Oh, shut up." Only, you were smiling too hard to sound annoyed. Barely ninety seconds later, Dean struck again. Logan forced a turnover at center ice and immediately passed to Garrett. In response, Garrett threaded a pass between two Harvard sticks that had absolutely no business making it through.

Dean picked it up in stride, one fake forehand made the goalie drop in anticipation to which Dean calmly pulled the puck back to his backhand and slid it between the goalie's pads before anyone could react. Another goal and another explosion from the crowd. Your hands hurt from clapping, voice embarrassingly hoarse yet you couldn't find youself to care. The scoreboard now read 5-1 which in turn made Harvard's frustration boil over.

With just over two minutes remaining in the third period, one of their forwards blindsided Logan long after he'd dumped the puck in the net. Gasps echoed around the arena as Logan crashed awkwardly into the boards. Dean was halfway across the ice before Logan even climbed back to his skates, Garrett and Tucker followed immediately after seeing Dean shove the Harvard player backward with enough force to send him stumbling several feet.

Luckily, the freshmen on Briar's bench dragged the upperclassmen away before punches started flying. One minute remained. The arena buzzed with nervous anticipation despite Briar's lead, your lip was caught between your teeth watching as Garrett and Dean wordlessly communicated with one another. No words were exchanged. Years of playing together had made communication almost instinctive.

Garrett stole the puck near Briar's blue line and Dean was there in an instant, already alert. Garrett feathered a perfect stretch pass through the neutral zone. Dean caught it in stride without breaking rhythm. One defender remained, shifting left as the the defenseman followed. Dean snapped the puck back right through his own skates, slipping around him with breathtaking ease. The goalie lunged. Dean, however, waited until the last possible second lifting the puck cleanly beneath the crossbar.

The red light flashed and the horn sounded. For a heartbeat, the arena went completely silent, then every single person inside exploded. "A HAT TRICK BY #66, DEAN DI LAURENTIS!" The announcer's voice echoed through the building. Without thinking you threw your arms around Hannah, the two of you laughed as you nearly toppled into the row in front of you, hugging each other while the entire team tackled Dean beneath an avalanche of helmets and gloves.

Six-two. Final. Dean Di Laurentis. Hat trick.

You'd never been prouder. By the time you and Hannah reached the tunnel, your heart was still racing, body buzzing with adrenaline. Players filtered through in small groups, laughing loudly as they relived every goal. Garrett appeared first and Hannah didn't hesitate. She practically flew into his arms, you couldn't help but beam as Garrett caught her effortlessly, spinning her once before pressing a kiss against her forehead before dipping down and pressing one to her lips.

Then, Dean walked through. His helmet had disappeared somewhere during the celebration, blond curls damp with sweat, sticking up in every direction, cheeks flushed from exertion. When his eyes caught yours, everything ceased to exist. The coaches. The teammates. The reporters. The noise. There was only you. In two quick strides he was right in front of you. One second there was a few feet separating the two of you and the next, his hands were around your waist, lifting you effortlessly off the concrete.

A startled laugh bubbled from your lips as your feet left the ground. Instinctively, your arms wound around his neck, fingers brushing against the damp curls at the nape of his neck. He held you impossibly close, burying his face against your shoulder for the briefest moment as his heartbeat hammered wildly against your chest. He'd just scored a hat trick. The arena had chanted his name. Thousands of hats had rained onto the ice. Yet none of it compared to this. None of it compared to having you in his arms.

You melted into his embrace without hesitation, holding him just as tightly. "That was amazing!" You laughed, pulling back just enough to cup his flushed cheeks between your hands. Your eyes sparkled with so much pride that it stole what little breath he had left. "A hat trick, Dean! I'm so fucking proud of you." Dean couldn't remember the last time someone had looked at him with so much unfiltered admiration. Maybe no one ever had.

His eyes drifted downward before he could stop them and his breath caught. You were wearing a jersey, but not just any Briar jersey. His. His last name stretched proudly across your shoulders, and the white number on the front rested directly over your heart. Something inside his chest squeezed so painfully he almost winced. It really shouldn't have affected him the way it did. It was just a jersey. Just fabric. Except, it wasn't. Seeing his name on you awakened every selfish, possessive thought he'd spent months trying to bury.

It looked right. Far too right.

"You're wearing my jersey." The words escaped almost reverently. Your gaze followed his before a rosy blush crept across your cheeks. "Oh." You smiled sheepishly, smoothing the front of it with your palms. "Beau practically insisted. He claimed it was good luck since you guys are only two games away from another Frozen Four." Yet, Dean barely registered your explanation. His thoughts were spiraling too quickly. His jersey. Your smile. The way you'd waited for him in the tunnel instead of celebrating with everyone else.

The way you'd hugged him before anyone else had the chance. The way you'd looked absolutely radiant cheering for him from the stands. His mind replayed every moment from the last few months in painful succession. You showing up with homemade soup when Tucker got sick. Driving hours just because Summer needed a friend. Holding his hand while the medic checked him over after his injury. Calling yourself his girlfriend just to get another guy to leave you alone.

Every forehead kiss he'd lingered on a little too long. Every hug he'd held a few seconds longer than necessary. Every excuse he'd made just to have you close. He'd spent months convincing himself that wanting you around all the time was normal. That missing you after only a few hours was normal. That getting irrationally jealous every time another guy looked at you was normal. Only it wasn't. It had never been normal. He couldn't keep pretending anymore, he wouldn't.

"Dean?" Your voice was soft, tinged with concern now that he'd gone completely quiet. Your thumb brushed gently across his cheek. "You okay?" His eyes found yours again. God. How had he been so blind? He was so unbelievably in love with you it almost hurt. A helpless laugh escaped him as he shook his head once, mind made up. "Fuck it." Before doubt had a chance to creep back in, he surged forward and captured your lips with his.

The kiss was soft at first, almost hesitant. As if he was giving you every opportunity to stop him. You didn't. Instead, your surprised gasp melted into a smile against his mouth before you kissed him back with equal certainty. Every ounce of fear he'd carried for months dissolved in an instant. His hands slid more securely around your waist, holding you like he'd dreamed about doing for far too long.

Not because he was afraid you'd disappear, but because after wanting this for what felt like forever, he couldn't bear to put even an inch of distance between the two of you. Your fingers disappeared into his blond curls, gently scratching at his scalp as your tilted your head deepening the kiss, tongue sliding against his. Dean nearly melted. The one thing he'd imagined over and over whenever his feelings became impossible to ignore. The reality was infinitely better.

When the kiss finally broke, neither of you moved very far. Your foreheads rested together, noses brushing. His eyes searched yours almost nervously, as though waiting for someone to tell him he'd imagined the whole thing. Instead, you smiled completely enamored. "Took you long enough." You whispered, your lips brushing his as you stole another quick kiss simply because you could. Dean let out a breathless laugh. "You mean," He searched your face in complete disbelief. "We could've been doing this the whole time?"

A sheepish grin spread across your face as you nodded. Dean stared at you for a long moment, then groaned dramatically. "God..." He dropped his forehead against your shoulder. "I really am such a clueless bastard." You laughed, the sound vibrating against his chest as he buried his face in the crook of your neck. "It's okay, I still love you." Dean practically tackled you into another kiss, finally hearing the words he'd been waiting for months to hear without knowing it. "God, I fucking love you too, babydoll." He muttered against your lips.

Finally. Finally. Finally.

Off to the side, Hannah bumped Garrett's shoulder with a knowing grin. "See you guys at Malone's?" Dean didn't even glance in their direction. "Sorry, Wellsy." His answer came automatically, one hand absentmindedly tracing circles against your back. "I've got a lot of lost time with my girl to make up for." Because, now that Dean had you, there was absolutely no way in hell he was letting you go anytime soon.

Thanks for reading! likes, reblogs, and comments are always appreciated! Feeling generous? Leave a tip!

[skyrigel]

me: feels unloved *searches x reader tag*

[ngestwo]

⊹₊⋆Secrets | Rook Hunt x GN Reader

synopsis — Rook has eyes and ears everywhere, especially when it involves the individual he holds in high regard. His unwavering focus is directed toward the prefect, and he has uncovered a potential romantic interest that they may have. True to his nature as a seeker, Rook is determined to delve deeper into this secret that remains unknown to anyone else at NRC. genre — yandere, slight angst warning — none note — this one is a bit different bc i used minimal lines from the lyrcis and if you want you can always change the other person to another character from other media or smtg ashsshd more works: masterlist

now playing: secrets - the weeknd

As evening approaches, classes have concluded, and various club activities have commenced. The hallways appear quite deserted, save for a solitary figure leaning against one of the open arched windows. The prefect gazes down at the scene below, observing students strolling by or loitering on the school grounds.

While their mind isn't preoccupied with anything specific, their attention is drawn to a particular individual on the lower level. They might believe that no one notices their silent observation, but there is indeed a certain hunter whose gaze remains fixed upon them. From a distance, the Pomefiore huntsman quietly reveals himself in his own distinctive manner.

"Everybody here wants you, mon amour."

The prefect is startled by the sudden voice beside them. There stands Rook, radiating his charm. He greets them with a grand bow, unexpectedly taking their hand near his face, where a gentle kiss is placed. The feel the warmth of this gesture, with their cheeks slightly redened. Although accustomed to his playful antics, his behavior continues to intrigue them. He is indeed a gentleman, yet uniquely so.

“I didn’t mean to strike terror in your heart, mon trickster.” He gazes at them with apologetic eyes, but he can’t help but admire their figure, much like a connoisseur appreciating a fine piece of art, wishing to savor every intricate detail.

"Ah, je dois rester forte. You have a completely unfair effect on my heart rate right now." He strikes a dramatic pose, his hand lingering over his forehead, while the prefect just giggles at his antics.

“Shouldn’t I be the one to say that?” The smile they flash him warms his heart yet again within just a few minutes of their interaction. “You can’t be here just to surprise me, can you?” They lean casually against the window while gazing at the upperclassman.

For what he is known for, Rook has a deep fascination with uncovering the secrets of various individuals at Night Raven College. However, the one person who consistently intrigues him is the very individual standing before him. With their captivating eyes, enchanting smile, and otherworldly charm, he feels as though their secrets keep slipping away from him, despite his relentless efforts to uncover them. The fact that they are an outsider to this world complicates matters, limiting the resources available for his exploration. Yet, he finds endless joy in dedicating every moment to studying them, whether up close or from a distance, day and night. At this point, he won't deny that it has become his obsession.

"And what do you mean by what you said earlier?"

“Certainly, you possess the utmost beauty, whether it be on Sage's Island or at Night Raven College. It is only natural that many admire you.” The prefect smiles sheepishly at the compliment and is unsure how to respond.

"Don't say that when Vil is here." Rook remains unshaken with his declaration.

"Non! You possess a certain charm that no one in this world could hope to replicate, mon trickster."

He's aware that he is not the only one paying close attention to them. Numerous peers, including the fairest housewarden, also have their sights set on the prefect. Rook can only sigh at the thought of having rivals. But it no longer bothers him too much. Rook only smiles, a hint of something darker in his eyes, because he knows a secret—something precious about the prefect that no one else at school could ever uncover.

Today, he is prepared to investigate further into a particular individual who appears to hold great significance in their life. He dares to suggest that it might even be in a romantic context. The idea of someone else taking up space in their heart causes him more pain than being struck by an arrow. Yet, true to his nature as a hunter, he is determined to delve deeper to uncover the truth. Perhaps someday he would deal with that person in his own way.

"There seems to be someone that you pay attention to these days, mon trickster." Each word that came from his mouth felt heavy in their prefect's ears. With confusion etched across their face, they merely tilted their head in response. The hunter maintained an air of calm. This secret, it turns out, encompasses two matters. Though he's willing to take his time dissecting it. But the prefect is no stranger to his unique antics.

"You think so? I don't remember having favorites other than Grim in this school." They keep their casual composure while somewhat challenging Hunt to elaborate more on his assertion. “So, why don’t you tell me which student you believe I have a preference for?”

The prefect is keenly aware of Hunt's deep understanding of individuals... including details that are not meant to be disclosed. Even someone as unique as them isn't immune to his curiosity; in fact, they suspect it only piques his interest further. This is why they often strive to keep a low profile, even though they realize it rarely works. At times, they can't help but wonder what Rook might have discovered about them that they may have unintentionally revealed. They could only wish he remains unaware of their true knowledge of the world they unwillingly got into.

“Ah, there he is.” Both of them turn their attention to the scene on the ground floor, where a group of first-years is engaged in lively conversation. Rook gestures towards a student wearing a Scarabia vest—he has a warm, charming smile adorned with a dimple, and he comes across as thoughtful and diligent. Rook is not wrong. “He is a fine young man. However, I must confess, I believed you were worthy of someone even better, mon trickster.” Though he is mistaken about the reason behind it. The prefect's expression remains flat.

"There is nothing romantic, I assure you." Their eyes stay fixed on the young man from afar. Their heart clenches instead of the opposite. On the other hand, Hunt's focus is entirely on the prefect, a blend of admiration and a quest for concealed hints about their true feelings. If only their heart were solely his.

"May I ask what your heart desires? mon amour."

"He reminds me of someone in my past. Someone I once knew...” Their voice faded, carried away by the wind. The breeze grew louder, almost a song in its intensity. If it weren't for Rook facing them now, they might not have noticed the subtle sadness woven into their words. An idea creeps into Rook's mind. He stands silently behind the prefect, while their attention is occupied by the boy below.

Rook has seen everything and heard everything. During the quiet nights when everyone is asleep, he picks up on the faint cries emanating from the Ramshackle dorm. Occasionally, he hears unfamiliar names, yet one name resonates more frequently than the rest. When fortune smiles upon him, he might find a journal left open on a desk, featuring that same name accompanied by small illustrations. He has glimpsed them before. In theory, he has encountered that other person.

I hear the secrets that you keep, when you're talkin' in your sleep

“Could it be that the person is the same as…?” As the final syllable escaped his lips, time seemed to freeze for just a moment. The prefect turned to Hunt, eyes wide with disbelief. Memories flooded their mind, and a solitary tear rolled down their cheek. Hearing that name from another person felt strange, particularly from someone from a different world who knows nothing of their past. They quickly look away from the hunter and wipe away their tears. Lips quivering.

"I-it's not what it looks like." Soft sniffles escape from them as more tears continue to fall onto the floor. Rook gently wipes away some of the tears with a tissue he quickly retrieved, offering more to them.

"It's just strange." They struggle to articulate their feelings through the tears, but they persist. “It's not like we ever had a relationship, but their face continues to haunt me. It intensified after I encountered that boy who strikingly resembles them.” Turning once more to gaze out the arched window, the tears have finally ceased to flow.

"If only I could've been more direct with my feelings." Hunt gently encircles the prefect with his arms, careful and deliberate. They welcome the embrace, believing he is simply offering comfort. Unbeknownst to them, however, are the dark, piercing eyes he holds. Although his hat casts a shadow over half of his face, a sinister smile lingers.

“Ah, mon amour. Cast aside your worries, for your existence weaves a tapestry richer than you could ever imagine. You are a rare gem, a breeze that whispers life into our weary souls. This moment heralds the dawn of a new tale.” His embrace tightens as he gently brushes his cheek against theirs, followed by a tender kiss on their cheek. “In the dance of the stars, you are fated to find the one whose heart beats in harmony with yours, someone who will treasure you as the most precious of treasures. Trust in destiny’s gentle hand. You are meant to shine here.”

The prefect, enveloped by the warmth of his words, let themselves sink into the embrace, momentarily setting aside the unease that had settled in their heart. As for Rook, there was never a real obstacle in the way; he simply needed to convince the prefect to trust his words and ultimately release their attachment to that other person. However, there are still some people he must handle before he can whisk them away. And they are much more complex than simply cutting them off.

---

"je dois rester forte" : "I must stay strong" (i used a translator for this so😭)

[humanjarvis]

we see the same moon

“i hate that i have to go.”

“you've conquered the business trip a million times before, mr. chairman. why hate it now?”

“before, i didn’t have you.”

“oh?” smiling gently, you reach out to cup valko's cheek. he lies across from you on the mattress, trusting you’ll share the burden of his distress. 

“in the first month after mating, wolves have a hard time being away from the one they’re fated to.” he gives a halfhearted chuckle. “i guess you could say i’m a little attached.”

“i’m a little attached to you, too.” you pinch his nose, and his eyes cross slightly when they focus on your fingers. he tries to lick them, but you dodge just in time. “nothing wrong with that.”

“except i lied just now,” he blurts nervously. if he expects a reaction from you, he doesn’t get it. you knew that already. “it’s more than a little. it’s a lot—a whole lot. and now, it feels like i’ll never see you again.” his voice is hoarse, strained, like this has been weighing on him for some time.

humming softly, you sit up on the bed, crossing one leg over the other. as you reach out to stroke his hair, gold eyes glisten up at you.

“i know this is new for us, and i know that it’s scary. but i like to think of it…as a way for the world to show us how close we really are.

“whenever we’re apart, look up at the sky. look at the stars and any clouds left behind. then, look at the moon. look at its peaks and its craters, and every beam it shines down on us. and know that whatever you see, i see it, too.” 

as your words become images, flashing and fading in his mind, valko struggles to keep his eyes open. this is the last time he’ll see you like this for two weeks, after all, and he wants the memory etched there forever. but your voice has lulled him to sleep before, and he won't start resisting you now. 

“think of how much you'll have to tell me when you get home,” you whisper. “‘when,’ not ‘if,’ valko. focus on that. let when drive you forward. let when bring you back to me.”

──────

it’s been six days since your eyes last met.

now, on the top floor of a hotel in a city whose name is buried below thoughts of you, valko looks at the moon. 

he breathes one, two, three, four, just like you taught him before he boarded. 

then, he closes his eyes. 

he hears the low hum of the refrigerator, feels the friction of his suit jacket too tight against his skin. he smells the foreign air, crisp and clean, though missing something sedative. 

when he next opens his eyes, the moon looks a little different. a little more like home.

in it, valko sees you.

your strength, your brilliance, your persistence and perseverance. your miraculous existence, like you're too good to be true. 

if the moon is your essence, it’s your appearance, too. little by little, it reflects your face back to him: how it shines like your smile; how it has its own scars, like the ones fading on your skin. how it’s steady and calm, like your favorite expressions to show him. 

all its facets combine to paint a picture of you in the sky—one he now knows he can take with him anywhere. 

before, you'd told him that you see the same moon.  but when you look up at the sky at night, who do you see? does your moon look like him, too? 

do you see him in the stars, like he sees you? 

the mere thought brings a welcome feeling to his chest, one he thought he'd be missing for a few days longer. 

it’s warm, it’s weightless. 

comfort. 

valko never thought he’d feel comfort while being apart from you. 

but for the first time since he arrived, he turns his back to the moon. he feels safe doing it, knowing you’re there to watch over him with that soft, encouraging smile. 

and you, he hopes, see his face shining down at you, soothing you to a restful sleep.  

maybe your moons are different after all. 

[amaraenth1ne]

⋆˙⟡ cockwarming with valko is a bad idea.

❣️MDNI!

for the better part of an hour, he’d been not-so-subtly inching closer to you on the sofa, rubbing your thigh and playing with your hair — anything to get your attention off of the numbers on your computer screen (as if the little whimpers that occasionally slipped out weren’t obvious enough).

“val, you’re not helping…” you sighed.

“i’m sorry.” he didn’t sound it. “just give me five minutes, please. an orgasm’ll help with that headache I can tell you’re nursin’. or…do you not want me?”

he looked so genuinely distraught that you had to scratch him behind the ears. “of course I do, but I also want to be able to sleep for more than three hours tonight.”

finally, you give in (you always do) on the pretense that you’d both get some work done. between val’s newest research project in the experimental phase and your pile of unreviewed investigation reports, there hadn’t been much opportunity for quality time in the past week or so. admittedly, you could use a bit of stress relief, too.

so it was a decent compromise in your mind.

but you should have known better than to think valko, of all people, would be able to focus with his pants hanging around his ankles. from the moment you sank onto his cock, settling comfortably on those plush thighs, he was a distraction — nipping at your neck while his glasses caught in your hair, “adjusting” beneath you, sneaking his free hand between your legs before you swatted it away.

after about twenty minutes, you’ve had enough.

“okay, this is the opposite of productive,” you lift the laptop off your thighs and set it on the couch beside you. “we can try again after I get at least halfway through these.”

but when you try to stand, well…you can’t. a sharp tug on your insides sends a burning sting reverberating through your core, keeping you locked onto him.

“what — how? we weren’t even…moving!” incredulous, you twist around to glare daggers into your boyfriend’s golden eyes, which are far too glazed and self-satisfied for your liking behind his foggy lenses. glutton.

“pup, I’ve been tryin’ not to burst for a while. since I got inside you, even. surprised you didn’t notice.”

huh. guess all that training to take his knot had backfired.

you huff. “well, can you, like, relax? just sit still and think about car accidents or rabies vaccines or something?”

“yeah, no, doesn’t work that way for me.”

“val, I don’t have time for this! my reports are due tomorrow —“

“then,” the word vibrates against your shoulder, followed by wet kisses leaving a shining trail up your throat as he taps your hips like he’s spurring on a horse. “I suggest you get moving, pup. knot’s not gonna go down by itself.”

belatedly, you realize this might have been his plan all along.

[calebunny]

Valko puts u in Air jail

“Okay, that’s it.”

You were busy absentmindedly gnawing on Valko’s arm like a feral, teething puppy. “Huh–”

Your voice was cut off as he stood up from his chair, turning toward you and picking your body clean off the ground.

“I’m gonna have to put you in air jail now, pup.”

“What?! Val, what are you– c’mon, why?” you flailed in his hold, arms and legs thrashing in the air, but his grip on your waist remained steady, as if you weighed absolutely nothing.

Realizing you weren't going to be put down anytime soon, you resorted to just pouting up at him, your body going completely limp like a doll being held up.

“You know why. You have been very distracting while I’m working.”

You looked down at his well developed arms, finding them littered with blooming red and purple bite marks. The view had the exact opposite effect on you, your cheeks flushed hot, and you practically drooled.

Valko gave you a light shake to snap your focus back to him. “Eyes on me now.”

“Five more minutes of this,” he said, tilting his head. It was the look of a man who was absolutely not playing.

“Then you’ll learn to be better behaved, won’t you?”

[lvl1l1]

Valko likes to act like he’s got his shit together.

He’ll flash you a charming, confident grin as he slides down your body, kissing along your stomach like he’s in total control. “Missed you, sweetheart,” he murmurs all smooth, like he’s doing you a casual favor. He’s getting pretty good at this boyfriend thing. He’s cool, collected even

But his tail is a fucking snitch.

The second he starts kissing down your thighs, that fluffy tail starts swishing behind him, slow at first, then faster, betraying just how excited he actually is. The closer his mouth gets to your pussy, the twitchier his ears become, flicking and turning toward every little sound you make. By the time he’s eyelevel with your core, breathing hot against your slick folds, his tail is going absolutely crazy.

He buries his face between your thighs with a deep, satisfied groan, tongue dragging up through your wetness like he’s starving. And that’s when his tail really loses it.

Thump. Thump. Thump-thump-thump.

It’s smacking loudly against the floor, then slapping the back of your calves where your legs are draped over his broad shoulders. The more he eats you out, licking, sucking, moaning into your pussy like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted, the wilder it gets. His tail is just going for it, thwacking against your legs, the bed, whatever it can reach, completely out of rhythm with how hard he’s trying to look composed.

You can’t help but giggle breathlessly, threading your fingers through his hair (right at that stupidly hot undercut).

“Val… your tail is going crazy back there.”

He only growls against your clit, refusing to pull back even an inch. His ears are pinned flat with embarrassment but his tongue never stops, licking deeper, messier, more desperate. The tail just wags even harder, like it’s got a mind of its own and it’s thrilled to expose Valko for how he’s exactly where he wants to be, face buried in your sweet pussy, arms wrapped around your thighs, holding you down while he devours you.

He might not admit with words how fucking desperate he is to taste you…

…but his tail never lies.