content: Peter starts pulling away spending late nights at work and neglecting your family. You are sick of the constant disappointment filling your home as seven men from Tsalal going missing only submerging him more into work.
moodboard
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jack and robby eating your pussy at the same time...
you were lying on the crumpled bedsheets, your legs spread wide to make room for both jack and robby. their massive bodies were squeezed between your inner thighs, but neither of them seemed to mind – not when their tongues were resting on your sensitive pussy, licking and savouring it as if it was the sweetest dessert.
your body trembled with the almost painful and overwhelming sensation of pleasure you were experiencing. your hands, tangled in both men’s hair, held on tightly, unsure whether to pull them impossibly closer or perhaps push them away.
but they decided for you.
holding you in the almost iron grip of their strong arms, controlling your sweaty body however they pleased, while their lips ravaged your swollen folds and your pebbled clit, kissing and sucking.
"too much" you moan breathlessly, arching your whole body as another electrifying wave of pleasure washes over you.
"don’t lie to us, sweetheart" robby says, his beard brushing against your soft skin, making you shiver "i can see you want more. i can feel you want more."
there’s no point in denying it because you know he’s right. the sensation is overwhelming; you can feel them everywhere. you can feel jack penetrating you with his tongue, kissing your folds. you can feel robby sucking your puffy clit, his long fingers brushing along your entrance, sliding deep inside you the moment the other man finds another spot to torture you with.
your pussy is covered in their saliva and your juices, of which there’s so much that it’s dripping down their chins and your thighs, showing just how long this has been going on.
and yet you still want more, even when you say otherwise, because your mind can’t keep up with their greed, but your body, your body begs for more, as if addicted to the feeling of jack and robby on your body.
and when the orgasm finally hits you, it’s sharp and rough.
your legs clamp down on both men’s shoulders. moans and cries that are downright pornographic escape from your lips and you can feel yourself squirting, but you don’t even have the strength to pull away, letting jack and robby lick up your cum, making you feel as though you’re on the brink of another numbing orgasm.
"you think you can give us one more baby?" jack’s raspy voice snaps you out of the haze almost instantly, but before you can reply, their tongues are back on your sweet pussy, devouring it once more.
WALLY WEST eating you out and moaning like he's the one receiving head.
he's blabbering muffled praises as he practically makes out with your pussy, "taste s'good babe", "fuck- all mine, huh?", "could do this all day". he just can't shut the fuck up when you're moaning his name and squirming under his tongue, he feels like the luckiest man in the world.
his tongue vibrates at an inhuman pace against your puffy, swollen clit, making your hand fly to his auburn hair to tug on his mullet.
he feels his dick twitch at that, "feels good?" he teases, and you can feel that shit-eating grin against your cunt. any remark you had died in your throat when you caught the sight of him, looking up at you with lovesick eyes, blown-out pupils, pink swollen lips, and slick running down his chin obscenely. he was having the time of his fucking life.
he dove back into your pussy, sucking on your sensitive clit before letting go of it with a soft 'pop' and moving to tongue-fuck your sopping hole.
and, in the midst of moaning his name, you notice the bedframe shaking from just how hard he's humping the plush mattress underneath him.
his tongue never falters, he even inserts two fingers into your velvet heat, grinding against the bed speeding up when he feels how you flutter around his digits deliciously. you like it, he's making you feel good. that turns him on more than anything.
when you cum on his fingers and tongue with a cry, he cums right along with you, splurting warm release into his boxers and lapping at your heat like it's liquid gold.
you end up having to pull his head away from your heat, because he obviously couldn't care less about overstimulation, as long as he gets to eat you out for longer, not caring one bit about the sticky mess in his boxers either.
he looks up at you with those big puppy-like eyes, and that expression of pure admiration. his tongue darts out to lick his lips, collecting your release. his voice is raspy when he speaks,
summary: dean di laurentis has been setting an alarm to go off well before morning practice so that he has more time in bed with you. you are barely aware of this in your sleep-induced fog. he prefers it that way.
word count: 1.1k
warnings: very brief sexual implications. disgustingly in love DDL.
Dean wants to set the record straight and remind everyone out there that he has never done this, for anyone, ever.
Sleep is very important to a man like him. He’s eating upwards four-thousand calories a day and burning another fifteen-hundred between practice, conditioning, and games, with potential for another couple hundred if he spends an hour going down on you and then bending you over his desk like he did last night. He won’t entirely admit it, but he is meaner on anything less than a full night’s sleep, and functioning before 6AM is hard enough as it is, but now he’s also expected to do it on skates?
Which is why anyone else might be confused by this deal he’s made with himself. It makes perfect sense to him.
It happened by accident the first time. He had been drunk the night before, obviously, squinting through heavy-lidded eyes while fumbling with the alarms on his phone. Daylight savings might have been involved. But you had been there, sweet and pliant on his chest, smelling so good and distracting him completely, mumbling something about Pink Whitney and stars circling your head. Your arm had flopped against his abs and your nose had tucked into his neck a minute later before you were out without another word. Really, it’s not his fault he was left unsupervised pressing buttons.
His alarm went off precisely an hour before he even needed to be awake to blearily drag his sweatpants and hoodie on. The shrieking mixed with the pounding of his head, but he was quick to cover one of your ears with his hand and press the other into his chest. You had only heard the sound of his heartbeat; he had braved the shrillness of everything else himself. He scrabbled with the bedsheets until the offensive inanimate object was firmly grasped in his hand. You hadn’t even shifted. He was proud of himself for only thinking you two were under attack for, like, a minute.
Going back to sleep would have been impractical. He was already awake, annoyed by that fact, and too damn aware of where you were pressed against him, which was everywhere and then some. Your leg was slung over his waist. Your hair was in his mouth. Your scent was on his comforter and his hands and probably deeply embedded into his bloodstream. His phone was now tucked somewhere safely, just like you, and he hadn’t felt the need to pass the time with it.
He simply gathered you closer. He used precious moments to memorize everything about you when he otherwise might not be able to because you’re awake and mouthy and less vulnerable. Something fizzled and popped at that word - Dean had never been trusted so much so quickly, not even with dropped passes or the middle of the ice by his brothers for life, and he became increasingly obsessed with the extra time he was given to guard you like a growling watch dog.
The second time, he set the earlier alarm on purpose. He was still ready for a tornado drill when he jolted awake before you could. He settled and spent the hour tracing his fingertips over your arms, barely containing a smile when you mewled something unintelligible before rolling back into him.
The third time, he had opened his eyes just seconds before it went off, like it was slowly becoming a part of him.
Around the next handful of instances, it became a part of his daily routine altogether. It didn’t matter if you were sharing your bed or his; the alarm always came with it.
The best part? You had no idea it was ever happening. Dean considered that both very good and very bad for his pride, because he felt like he was gifting you another hour of rest while still having something just for himself.
There’s one night you feel particularly clingy, teary-eyed about something that only makes Dean want to kill someone more than usual, sniffling about how he has to leave so early in the morning.
“S’all good, baby,” he murmurs in your hair, smiling about something to himself. “I’m right here.”
You pull back marginally to meet his eyes, a pout between your brows. “What are the chances Jensen cancels completely?”
Dean hums. “Very, very low, babydoll, and not even if the sky is falling.”
You tilt your head back and groan. Dean uses the movement to slot his mouth into the space where your shoulder meets your neck, nibbling and licking until you’re squirming and laughing underneath him. He kisses your tears away. He pushes you into the mattress with his hips. He melts every bad thought in your head with only one flick of his tongue.
The next morning, when it’s just Dean, he’s delicately smoothing that crease in your forehead with his thumb until your dreams are rid of your frowning, too. You reach for him even in your sleep to chase the rest of the bad away.
His other favorite thing about this whole ordeal? He can move you however he likes without you waking: folded under his chin on your sides, sprawled over his chest with him on his back and his hands low on yours, you on your tummy and him covering you completely with both sets of arms underneath the pillows. He even starts making up new positions that he genuinely believes coveted publications ought to reach out about.
You almost catch him one morning. Almost.
You sleepily blink your eyes open, wincing against the first rays of sunshine the day has seen. You think you might still be dreaming, but Dean is already awake, looking right at you. Your body catches up to you and you realize your hands had already been searching for him beneath the blankets.
“Hi?” you whisper.
“Hey, baby,” Dean murmurs. He tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear; you nuzzle your face into his palm. “You wanna go back to sleep for a little?”
You nod quietly against his hand. He makes a sound of endearment somewhere low under his breath. He turns you onto your side carefully and sidles up against your back.
“What are you doing up?” you mumble.
“Nothing, baby.” He pecks the back of your neck and then leaves his mouth there, warming you. You relax against his chest and smile when you feel his head drop gently atop yours on the pillow. “Was just looking for you.”
You close your eyes with another sleepy noise. Dean keeps his eyes open and squeezes you like he might keep you here forever.
casually sexting jack abbot while you’re on the couch eating snacks with a face mask on, barely paying attention but still amused by how excited he was getting. lazily lifting your shirt and snapping a pic of your tits from a low angle, smirking, quite satisfied with yourself. and quickly returning your attention to the tv.
and he’s at work, hunched over in the bathroom and trying not to whine your name while he jerks his cock at a frantic pace. his other hand braced against the wall while he grips his phone, trying not to drop it. alternating between that and sloppily typing out the dirtiest things with his chubby thumb. it takes a while for him to type what he wants — some versions of “need that little pussy so bad” “so fucking hard right now” “please send another pic baby” you ignore the typos.
he’s imagining you touching yourself too, back arching, body glistening with sweat, moaning like a whore for him. he grits his teeth and closes his eyes, imagining his cock enveloped by your drooling pussy instead of his rough hand. in reality you’re fully clothed, immersed in your newest reality tv obsession.
another message from you. he scrambles to read it, his orgasm approaching.
“can you pick up food on the way home”
and he cums all over his fist anyway, the thought of taking care of his sweet, sexy girl pushing him over the edge.
can't help but think of frank castle with his forehead pressed to yours hovering over you with his big fucking arms on either side of your head while you grind and buck your hips up like a desperate dog basically fucking yourself on him from below whining and scratching at his sides and he's all "atta girl, make yourself come on this dick, baby, you know it's all yours"
꒰ ⟡ 𝟣𝟪+ blurb — ❤︎ 𝐉𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐀𝐁𝐁𝐎𝐓 & 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐆𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐍 𝐒𝐂𝐑𝐔𝐅𝐅 . . It’s longer, a gleaming silver, gilding over his chin and jaw, while you’re forced to feel it. That thickened, rough, unshaven texture alongside every thick, wet lap he makes at your little puffed-up pussy. His tongue, licking and slipping through sticky folds, soft and sweet in contrast to the sharp texture of his facial hair, which is unintentionally marking up your thighs. It has just grown so much, prickly and nearly white, rubbing against your tender, pulsing hole while his tongue licks up in languid glides. His chin firms itself on your perineum to feel your pulsing little slit rubbing against the coarseness; to feel his baby grinding up on his own face. Jack just wants you shuddering, helpless and humping his silvered, rough-fuzzed jaw. His lips part to slick you up with saliva, allowing a thick, wet string to connect his face to your needy, swelling pussy. The wetness pools up in the seam of your clit, and he spreads his tongue onto you, flat and demanding, stiffening it for a moment on your needy bud, before licking and kissing into where your clit hood is exposed — pulled back, alit, and inflamed, all from his face between your thighs.
"Gonna lick you 'til you're raw." Jack admits hoarsely into your little cunt. "Just need to have my mouth on you, honey."
He wraps himself on the thickened flesh of your bulbed-up clit, suckling wildly and coating his chin in you during his latch. His thicker scruff frictions right against the skin of your chubby and delicate pussy lips, before his tongue swirls hard, just once more, and retracts away from where you're spread. His fat, aged and freckled hands keep your soft thighs speared wide open, just to observe your desperate, aching hole. You’re beard-burned and sensitive, a soppy little cunt rubbed raw from his face; chafed up, creamy, and fluttering wetly around nothing. Jack's jaw is steeped in you, wet on the growth that shrouds the curve of his face and neck. He takes a long, rough breath, an open-mouthed aspiration to taste your sweetness through the air, swallowing the scent as his head lilts in working condescension. Silver curls, dampened with his own sweat, swath over his lined forehead with the tilt.
“Aww, pumpkin… does she like it? Little pussy likes my scruff? I think she does…" Jack coos, his voice enough to make your legs quiver under his pinion. He inhales, puckers his lips, and effuses a jet of his hot breath, runneled right to your needy hole. His lips upturn, thumbs pinching deeper into your thighs.
"Look at her. She’s already clamping up – just ‘cause Daddy had his mouth on you…”
A finger glides through the mess, thick and seeping down irritated, velveted flesh, clinging to the sheets below your puckered hole. Jack can't halt his hand, which lifts to press his thumb pad to the cleft of your ass, like he's surveilling the vicious throb of you through your puddle of arousal.
“Is it all stingy, baby? Should Daddy shave so he doesn't hurt your little pussy anymore?”
Your head shakes violently, writhing on the sheets, whimpering as you gush out more between your forcedly spread thighs.
“No? You like it? I can tell. My baby’s already too close…” Jack sighs with a sated grin, and his digits ascend back up to your throbby little hole.
“Should we let her, hm? Let your little cunt just cum – all messy on Daddy’s beard?” It’s rhetorical, plainly mean, and Jack completely rescinds a response from you when his jaw presses right up against where you're pulsing. He fucks his tongue inside, driving it in deep, without warning or clemency.
Jack adheres his face and stubbly bristles to your soft, sloppy folds, prompting you to leak, fresh and hot, all over him. The strong muscle licks inside at inner walls, his fingers rubbing at your quivering clit to feel you grip onto him in tighter, cinching pulses. He pulls away just enough to watch your tiny hole cling to his tongue, his scratchy fuzz slick and sticking to your slit, and then he's lapping at you, from entrance to bud once more. He curves his lips onto your swelled clit, suckling and licking into the fleshy rift. Your whines crack open to sharp-pitched moans when your orgasm torments every nerve ending, muscle, and cell. Your belly swoops, warming in your release, riveting the heat through to your trembling thighs. Your eyes shimmer with tears through the cascades of pleasure and the prickle of his chin, which Jack rubs over your poor pussy well into the aftershocks. And he still doesn’t stop – his silver hair is lambent and streaked with your cum, and he strokes his mouth down you to elicit a shiver, patting your hip in coax. “That’s it – My good little girl. Daddy’s just gonna get you real clean now.”
people aren't even exaggerating indeed is literally like that. walmart attendant $13 an hour, target attendant $13 an hour, AI dick sucker $40 an hour, home depot attendant $13 an hour, guy who designs bullets that can only kill children $160k a year plus benefits, gas station manager $18 an hour
summary: when your fierce independence collides with hockey’s favorite playboy, a hidden reality forces you both to rewrite the rules of your future. (7.2k)
pairing: dean di laurentis x reader.
content: accidental pregnancy, pregnancy, generational trauma, feelings of loneliness, childbirth (implied), angst, language, initial lack of communication, domestic fluff, hurt/comfort.
author’s note: this is based on a request by @maellatargaryen (this request is from a long time ago i do apologise i didn’t forget). this is the first time i’ve wrote a fic that is heavily related to pregnancy i think so first time for everything i guess (hehehe).
you kept your eyes glued to the frayed cuff of your knitted sweater, deliberately avoiding the couple sitting three chairs down.
you had been staring at that loose thread for at least ten minutes, tracing the weave of the yarn just to keep your gaze from wandering.
but you could still see them in your periphery.
the man was gently rubbing the woman's lower back, his thumb making small, reassuring circles through the fabric of her shirt.
every few seconds, he would lean in, whispering something in her ear that made her laugh—a soft, tired sound. she looked exhausted, but she looked completely safe.
a heavy, suffocating lump formed in your throat, and you looked down, your fingers instinctively pressing lightly against the flat expanse of your stomach.
there was nothing there yet, not to the casual observer. just a secret wrapped in layers of wool and denim.
it was your choice, you reminded yourself, repeating the mantra that had kept you upright for the last twelve weeks. you chose to walk out of his room. you chose not to call.
"he's not your father," your roommate and best friend, trinity, had argued just the night before.
she had been pacing the worn linoleum floor of your shared campus apartment, her eyes tracking you with a mix of fierce worry and frustration while you sat on the bathroom floor, throwing up into a plastic trash can.
"dean is a lot of things. he's a flirt, he's loud, he's a massive distraction, and he lives in a house that smells like stale beer and hockey sweat. but he isn't a monster. you have to tell him, or i swear to god i'm going to find tucker at the rink and have him do it for you." she sighed as you shook your head.
you knew trinity meant well.
you really, truly did.
she was the one who bought you saltine crackers at two in the morning, the one who held your hair back, and the one who looked up single-mother grant programs on her laptop when you were too exhausted to think.
she wasn't trying to force your hand out of malice; she just hated seeing you carry an entire universe on your shoulders when there was a perfectly capable guy who helped put it there.
but trinity didn't have your history.
she hadn't grown up listening to the bitter, cautionary tales of a mother who got pregnant at a college party by a boy (your father) who vanished into thin air the second the test turned pink.
she hadn't seen the quiet, exhausting toll of a woman working two jobs just to buy school supplies, always reminding her daughter that boys with bright smiles and big reputations were nothing but a beautiful trap.
to you, dean di laurentis was the ultimate manifestation of that danger.
he was briar university's golden boy, a hockey legacy with a jawline carved by the gods and an easy, effortless charm that made everyone in his orbit feel like the center of the universe.
he possessed a reputation for a rotating door of admirers that preceded him everywhere he went, from the campus coffee shops to the crowded lecture halls.
you had been one of those quiet admirers for semesters, harboring a private, desperate crush from the safety of the upper student section at the arena.
you were a psychology major, someone who spent her days analyzing behavior and defense mechanisms, yet you couldn't analyze yourself out of the way your chest tightened every time he took the ice.
then came a party in early november.
emboldened by a little too much vodka and the sheer, infectious electricity of the team's victory, you had actually pursued him.
you hadn't just watched from the corner this time; you had walked right up to him at the kitchen island, matched his easy, arrogant banter with a sharp wit he hadn't expected, and when the chance arose to leave the noise behind and go up to his room, you took it.
and god, he had been wonderful.
that was the part that terrified you the most.
he wasn't the careless, selfish playboy you had braced yourself for; he was attentive and entirely intoxicating.
he had asked you questions, looked at you like he actually wanted to hear the answers, and held you like you were something fragile and precious.
but when you woke up the next morning wrapped in his sheets, the freezing weight of reality had set in.
the morning sun filtered through his blinds, illuminating the hockey medals on his dresser and the stray red plastic cups on the floor.
you were just a tuesday night after a massive win.
to save yourself the humiliation of a polite, dismissive text three days later, you had gathered your clothes from the floor, slipped your shoes on, and walked out of his life before he even stirred.
three weeks later, the morning sickness had started.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
"patient 114?" a nurse called out, holding an electronic chart and looking around the waiting room with an expressionless, practiced gaze.
you swallowed the lump in your throat, stood up completely alone, and smoothed down the front of your sweater.
you walked past the couple, feeling the immense, crushing gravity of a secret that was growing bigger by the second.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
the briar u campus was experiencing an unseasonably warm spring afternoon two months later.
winter had finally cracked, leaving the quad packed with students lounging on blankets, tossing frisbees, and desperately trying to absorb enough vitamin d to survive the final stretch of the semester.
you sat under the deep, cool shade of a massive oak tree near the psychology building. you were wearing a loose dress—a highly tactical choice. at five months, you couldn't hide the changes with just oversized hoodies and clever posture anymore. the dress camouflaged the distinct, rounded curve of your belly perfectly, as long as you remained sitting down with your knees pulled slightly toward your chest.
you opened your heavy developmental psychology textbook, trying to focus on a chapter about early childhood attachment styles, but the heat and the persistent, dull ache in your lower back were making your eyes heavy.
your mind kept wondering how you were going to afford a crib and how you were going to explain to a child one day why their father was just a face on a hockey trading card.
more than anything, you were determined to continue your studies.
you hadn't spent years maintaining a high gpa just to drop out.
you were going to graduate from briar, baby or no baby.
your due date was calculated for mid-august, right before the fall semester began.
it was going to be a logistical nightmare, juggling a newborn and upper-level psychology seminars, but you were already mapping out a rigid study schedule in your planner.
you would survive it.
you had to.
a loud, booming laugh echoed across the lawn, instantly making your chest tighten so fast you lost your breath.
you looked up from the pages.
a dozen yards away, the hockey team was walking back from an afternoon workout at the campus gym.
they were a loud, boisterous pack, trailing duffel bags over their shoulders and laughing at some inside joke.
at the very center of the group was dean.
his damp hair was pushed back from his forehead, his gray briar athletics t-shirt clinging to his chest, and that trademark, effortless smile was polished across his face as he joked with garrett graham.
your hand moved automatically to your stomach, protectively covering the life growing inside you.
you pulled your massive textbook higher up against your chest, freezing like a deer caught in the high beams of a semi-truck.
please don't look over here. please just keep walking to the dining hall.
dean was laughing, his shoulders shaking as garrett gestured wildly, but as his eyes scanned the quad, his gaze inadvertently drifted toward the shade of your tree.
you looked down instantly, staring so hard at a paragraph on cognitive dissonance that the black ink blurred into meaningless lines.
dean paused mid-stride.
his brow furrowed, his sneakers digging into the soft grass.
the easy, permanent smile faltered as a sharp, incredibly vivid memory flashed through his mind.
the specific, soft scent of your skin, the quiet, grounding confidence you had shown when you walked up to him at the party, and the sudden, confusing sting of disappointment he had
felt when he woke up to a cold, empty bed.
he had looked for you for weeks after that night.
he had asked around, looked through social media, but briar was a massive university, and you had intentionally made yourself a ghost.
"hey, dean, you coming or what? the burrito place fills up fast on thursdays," tucker called out, noticing his friend had suddenly dropped back from the group.
"yeah. go ahead, man. i'll catch up with you guys in a minute," dean muttered, his eyes locked entirely on the girl under the oak tree.
he started walking across the grass.
every step he took felt like a countdown to an explosion you couldn't prevent.
you saw his shadow fall over your open textbook, blocking out the filtered sunlight, before you finally forced yourself to look up.
"hey," dean said. his voice was softer than it usually was, completely stripped of the loud, easy bravado he carried around his teammates.
he rubbed the back of his neck, looking uncharacteristically nervous, his fingers twitching against his duffel bag strap. "it's... you. right? from my place, a few months ago? you kind of vanished into thin air."
"dean. hi," you managed to choke out. your heart was hammering against your ribs so violently you were certain he could see it through your clothes.
your palms were slick with sweat against the cardboard cover of your book. "yeah. i—i have a class to get to, actually—"
terrified of what he might see if he looked too closely at your posture, you scrambled to gather your things.
but your balance was off, your center of gravity completely shifted by the pregnancy.
your coordination failed, and the heavy psychology textbook slipped from your fingers, hitting the grass with a dull thud.
papers and highlighters tumbled out.
you instinctively reached down to grab it, but the physical restriction of your five-month belly made the movement clumsy.
as you bent over, the fabric of your dress pulled tight across your torso, outlining the unmistakable and beautifully rounded curve of your stomach.
dean bent down at the exact same time to grab the book for you, his large hand reaching for the cover, but his movements froze entirely.
from his angle, right at eye level with your lap, there was no hiding it.
the truth was standing between you, loud and undeniable.
dean's eyes widened, the blue of his irises bright with absolute shock.
his mind, usually so quick with a joke or a strategic play on the ice, ground to a screeching, chaotic halt.
he looked from your stomach, up to your terrified face, and back down again.
the timeline crashed into his head like a brutal body check against the boards. late fall. the championship party. five months ago. the night she left.
"is that..." dean's voice cracked, losing all of its usual suave composure. he dropped the textbook entirely back into the grass, his hands hovering in the air between you as if he were afraid to touch reality, his fingers trembling slightly. "wait. hold on. is that mine?"
panic, cold and sharp as ice water, flooded your veins.
the judgment of the campus, the ghost of your mother's past, the terrifying fear of him laughing or calling you a liar—it all hit you at once, blinding your senses.
you grabbed your tote bag, shoving the loose highlighters inside with trembling hands, and pushed past him, your boots skidding on the dirt.
"i have to go, dean. just leave it alone."
"hey, wait. please. stop." dean scrambled after you, his long, athletic strides easily catching up before you could even reach the paved pathway.
he didn't grab you roughly, but he placed a gentle, pleading hand on your forearm, just enough to anchor you, his grip warm and remarkably steady despite his shock.
when you spun around to face him, you had tears blurring your vision, the quad spinning around you.
dean looked entirely breathless, his chest heaving under his t-shirt as he stared at you. there was immense shock in his eyes, yes, but beneath it, moving in like a tidal wave, was an intense, unexpected expression of sheer protectiveness.
"please don't run away again," dean whispered, his gaze dropping down to the curve of your dress, then right back up into your tear-filled eyes. "just... talk to me. please. you don't have to run."
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
an hour later, you were sitting in the farthest corner booth of a quiet, dim, off-campus diner that was usually empty between the lunch and dinner rushes.
the jukebox in the corner was dark, and the only sound was the low sizzle of the kitchen grill behind the counter.
dean had bought you a grilled cheese sandwich and a massive, condensation-covered glass of milk.
he hadn't forced you to say a word since he had guided you into his car. he just sat across from you, his large frame filling the vinyl booth, watching you with an intensity that made your skin prickle, his hands clasped tightly on the table.
"why didn't you tell me?" he asked quietly, breaking the long silence.
his fingers traced the ring of water left by his glass on the tabletop. "i've been racking my brain for the last hour trying to figure out if i did something wrong that night. what did i do? did i hurt you? did i make you feel like i wouldn't care? did i say something stupid?"
"no," you said, your voice cracking as you looked out the window at the passing traffic.
your fingers tore off a tiny piece of the sandwich crust, though your stomach was too twisted to eat. "you were great, dean. it wasn't you. it was... everything else. it was me."
"it's obviously not just you," he said gently, leaning forward, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that demanded honesty. "help me understand. please. because waking up to an empty room was bad enough, but finding out you've been carrying this around for five months by yourself? that hurts."
and then, because the weight of the last twenty weeks was simply too heavy for your shoulders to bear anymore, the dam broke.
the psychological walls you had meticulously built up over years crumbled into dust.
you told him everything.
you told him about your mother.
you told him about growing up in a tiny house where every bill was a crisis, listening to the story of a popular college athlete who had promised your mother the world under the red solo cup lights of a fraternity house, only to pack his bags and transfer schools the second the word baby was spoken.
you told him about the terrifying statistics of single-parent households you read in your text books, the deep-seated fear of being a burden, and the agonizing weight of those clinic appointments where you sat alone in a sea of happy, supportive couples.
"i looked at them, dean," you whispered, a tear finally escaping and slipping down your nose. "i sat there every month, watching these guys hold their wives' hands, carrying their bags, looking at the sonogram photos like they'd just won the lottery. and i was just... patient 114. i didn't want to see the look on your face if you thought i was trying to trap you. i didn't want to see you walk away like he did."
dean listened to every single word, his body perfectly still.
his jaw clenched tighter and tighter with every sentence that left your mouth, not with anger directed at you, but with a profound, simmering fury at the ghost of the man who had raised you to believe that all men were cowards.
his chest rose and fell heavily.
when you finished, wiping your cheek with the back of your hand, dean didn't hesitate.
he reached across the table, his arm bridging the distance between your separate worlds, and took your hand in his.
his palm was rough from hockey sticks, warm, and incredibly solid.
"i am not him," dean said, his voice dropping an octave, completely fierce and steady. there was no hesitation in his eyes, no panic, no calculation. "i don't care about my reputation. i don't care that we're still in college. this is my kid, too. and more importantly, it's you. i'm not going anywhere. do you hear me? i am right here."
you looked down at his large hand covering yours, desperately wanting to believe the warmth of it, but the old survival instincts were hard to kill.
"dean, you don't have to pretend for my sake. you have a life. you have scouts coming to games, you have a professional career ahead of you, you have your friends—"
"hey," he interrupted gently, his thumb rubbing circles against the back of your hand, mimicking the gesture you had envied in the waiting room months ago. "let's make a deal. no pressure. i know i have a lot to prove to you. just let me be your friend. let me carry your bags. let me take you to the doctor. let me show you that you don't have to do this alone anymore."
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
true to his word, dean shifted his entire universe within forty-eight hours.
the transformation was nothing short of a statistical anomaly to anyone who knew him.
the guy who used to sleep until noon on days off and survive on cold pizza and protein shakes was suddenly standing outside your dorm building at 9:00 am.
he would be waiting in his idling car, the passenger seat already stocked with saltine crackers and pre-packaged ginger ale because he had spent the previous night reading medical forums about morning sickness trends in the second and third trimesters.
at first, it was kind of awkward.
you were protective of your routine, used to relying only on yourself and trinity but dean was persistent in the most gentle way possible.
he became your shadow on campus.
he would meet you outside your difficult seminars, completely unbothered by the lingering stares and whispers of his teammates or the girls who used to follow him around the quad.
he would silently take your heavy canvas backpack from your shoulders, slinging it over his own massive arm alongside his hockey gear, and walk at your slower, deliberate pace without a single complaint.
"you know people are talking, right?" you asked him one afternoon as you walked toward the library, your hand resting on the small of your aching back.
"let them talk," dean said, shrug of his shoulders easy and unbothered. "they're just jealous i get to hang out with the smartest girl on campus. besides, tucker tried to ask me about it yesterday, and i told him if he didn't shut his mouth i would chuck him into the net during practice. he hasn't brought it up since."
you couldn't help the small laugh that escaped you, the sound surprising even yourself.
dean looked down at you, his eyes softening at the sound, a faint spark in his gaze that made your stomach do a completely different kind of flip.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
by the sixth month, your apartment had become a secondary storage unit. dean had told his parents. you had been terrified of that phone call, expecting high-society rejection, but his mother had apparently gone into full grandmother mode within thirty seconds.
huge boxes began arriving weekly—baby blankets, organic cotton onesies, a high-tech stroller, and specialized maternity pillows.
but the most significant change was inside dean's shared house. he had cleaned out the small spare room on the first floor, moving out old fitness equipment and broken hockey sticks.
in its place, he had moved in a massive, incredibly plush velvet rocking chair.
"what is this?" you asked, standing in the doorway of the room during a saturday visit where he had insisted on making you lunch.
"it's a glider," dean said proudly, wiping his hands on a kitchen towel as he stood behind you. "i read that the movement helps with lower back pain during the third trimester.
and, you know... just in case you ever want to visit and your back hurts, you have a place that's yours."
you looked at the chair, then at the hockey star who had bought it, feeling the cold, icy edges of your old trauma melting away a little bit more every day.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
the true turning point came during the eighth-month ultrasound appointment.
the clinic waiting room looked exactly the same as it had during your first trimester—same low hum, same couples holding hands.
but this time, the space felt completely different. you weren't hiding under an oversized sweater, and you weren't staring at a frayed thread.
you were sitting next to dean. his large frame was crammed into the small plastic waiting room chair, his knees nearly touching his chin, but he didn't look impatient at all.
he was reading a pamphlet on newborn sleep cycles with a level of concentration usually reserved for analyzing a rival team's defensive plays.
"patient 114—sorry, i mean, by your last name?" the nurse called out, correcting herself with a warm smile as she recognized you.
you stood up, and before you could even reach for your purse, dean was already on his feet, grabbing your coat and slinging your tote bag over his shoulder.
he extended his free hand to you, his fingers open, waiting.
you hesitated for a fraction of a second before sliding your hand into his, letting his warmth steady you as you walked down the narrow hallway.
the ultrasound room was dim, the monitor glowing with a soft blue light.
you laid back on the paper-covered table, pulling up your shirt to expose the massive, high, tight curve of your eight-month belly.
dean sat in the chair right next to your head, his eyes wide as the technician squeezed the cold, clear gel onto your skin.
he didn't look away for a second, his grip on your hand tightening as the technician pressed the transducer against your stomach.
at first, there was only static—a rushing, hollow sound of fluids and movement. then, with a slight adjustment of the plastic wand, the audio cleared, and a loud, rhythmic sound filled the small room.
thump-thump, thump-thump.
"there we go," the technician said gently, pointing a finger at the grainy, gray-and-white screen. "there's a strong heartbeat. looks like baby is growing right on schedule."
you looked over at dean, expecting him to look overwhelmed by the sheer finality of the sound.
instead, you found him staring at the monitor with thick, silent tears streaming straight down his cheeks.
his jaw was slightly slack, a soft, breathless laugh escaping his lips as he stared at the little flickering shape on the screen.
"that's... that's our baby," he whispered, his voice thick and raspy with an emotion so raw it made your own eyes well up with tears.
he leaned over the edge of the table, completely unbothered by the technician's presence, and pressed a gentle, lingering kiss to the back of your knuckles, his forehead resting against your hand for a long moment. "look at that, sweetheart. we made a little athlete. listen to that pace."
in that exact moment, the final, stubborn, defensive walls around your heart—the ones built by your mother's warnings, the ones built by years of watching men walk away from hard things—completely crumbled into nothing.
you realized that trinity had been right from the very start. dean wasn't your father.
he was entirely, undeniably his own man.
and he was already a father.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
by the time your ninth month arrived, the unseasonably warm spring had turned into the suffocating heat of late summer.
walking across the campus pavement felt like trekking through a desert, and your ankles had reached a level of swelling that made shoes feel like instruments of torture.
the platonic friendship dean had insisted on maintaining had grown desperately fragile over the last few weeks—not because it was failing, but because the sheer, undeniable gravity of the romantic tension between you had become too loud to ignore.
every touch lingered a second too long; every look held a weight that had nothing to do with doctor's appointments or crib instructions.
one evening, a thunderstorm was rolling in over the campus, the sky a bruised purple color that brought a temporary coolness to the air.
you were sitting on the plush sofa in dean's living room, surrounded by a mountain of freshly washed baby clothes that needed to be sorted into bins.
dean's teammates were away for the weekend, leaving the house uncharacteristically quiet, save for the low rumble of thunder outside.
dean was sitting on the hardwood floor right by your feet, a bottle of lavender lotion in his hand.
he had your bare, swollen left foot resting on his knee, his large, calloused thumbs working in slow, rhythmic circles across your arch with a level of focus that made your heart ache.
"dean?" you said softly, breaking the steady sound of the rain against the windowpane.
"yeah, sweetheart?" he murmured, his gaze remaining down on his hands, his thumbs never stopping their steady, soothing pressure.
"why are you doing all of this?" you asked. the question had been sitting on your tongue for weeks, a final, lingering piece of uncertainty that needed to be aired out. "the baby isn't even here yet. you've spent every weekend for months building furniture, reading parenting manuals, handling my moods, and taking care of me. you didn't have to go this far just to prove you're a good guy. you proved that a long time ago."
dean stopped his movements.
his hands remained cupped around your foot for a long, silent moment while the thunder rolled outside the house.
slowly, deliberately, he let go of your foot and shifted his weight, rising until he was kneeling on the floor right in front of you, his face level with yours.
he reached up, his hands large and incredibly warm as he placed them gently on either side of your face, his thumbs wiping away the sudden, familiar spike of anxiety in your eyes.
"you really are a psychology student, aren't you? always trying to find the hidden motive," he said, a soft, incredibly tender smile breaking across his lips—a smile that was completely devoid of his usual arrogance, leaving only the raw truth underneath. "i stopped doing this just for the baby a long time ago."
your breath hitched in your throat, your fingers tightening against the fabric of the baby blanket in your lap. "dean..."
"i love this kid, yeah. i would do anything for them," he confessed, his blue eyes burning into yours with absolute, unshakable certainty. "but i fell completely, totally in love with you. i love how fierce you are. i love how hard you tried to protect this baby from the world, even when you were terrified. i love the way you laugh when you think i'm being an idiot. i don't want to just be a great co-parent, and i don't want to just be the guy who carries your backpack. i want the whole thing. i want you."
your tears, warm and entirely relieving, spilled over your eyelashes, wetting his thumbs.
for the first time in your entire life, the ghost of your mother's past was entirely gone, vanished into the air like smoke.
there was no trap here.
there was only the beautiful, terrifying, certain reality of the man kneeling in front of you.
"took you long enough to finally say it," you whispered, a watery, breathless smile breaking through your tears.
dean let out a low, rough laugh as he leaned up the remaining few inches to press his lips against yours.
the kiss was sweet, slow, and full of a million quiet promises he had already spent the last four months keeping.
it tasted like rain and lavender lotion and home.
his fingers slid through your hair, holding you close, while his other hand moved down, flattening completely against the large, warm curve of your belly, feeling the faint, rhythmic kick of the life you had created together.
when he finally pulled away, just enough to breathe, he rested his forehead against yours, his thumbs tracing your cheekbones.
"we're going to be completely fine," dean whispered against your skin, his voice a fierce, unbreakable vow meant for both you and the little heartbeat inside you. "the three of us. i promise you. i'm right here."
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
the rhythmic click of a ballpoint pen was the loudest sound in the massive, tiered lecture hall.
you sat in the middle row of your advanced cognitive psychology seminar, your notebook laid out flat on the folding desk, your hand flying across the page to copy down the professor's slides on memory retrieval mechanisms.
beside your desk, tucked safely into the wide aisle, sat a heavy car seat wrapped in a soft navy blanket.
inside, just thirteen weeks old, rowan di laurentis was dead to the world.
his tiny fists were curled up next to his cheeks, a soft, rhythmic whistle puffing past his parted lips with every breath.
when the professor paused to switch slides, you glanced down, your heart swelling with a fierce, possessive warmth.
rowan had been born right on schedule in mid-august, and while the rest of your class spent the last week of summer partying, you and dean had been operating on two-hour sleep cycles, mastering the art of the swaddle, and staring at this tiny boy like he held the secrets to the universe.
some of your classmates had looked surprised to see you walk in three months after college had began with a stroller, but you had just offered them a polite, unbothered smile.
you were going to be a psychologist and rowan wasn't a reason to stop—he was the reason to run faster.
you dipped your hand down, gently brushing your index finger against rowan's minuscule knuckles.
his tiny hand instinctively locked around your finger, holding on tight even in his sleep.
you smiled, unhooked your finger, and went right back to typing your notes.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
across campus, the atmosphere was entirely different.
coach jensen's whistle blew, a sharp, piercing sound that sent the players scattering toward the benches for a two-minute hydration break.
dean skated hard over to the boards, his chest heaving under his heavy briar jersey, his face flushed red from the intense cardio drill. but he didn't reach for his water bottle first.
instead, he skated right toward the end of the team bench where a familiar, high-tech stroller was parked just behind the safety plexiglass, safely out of the way of any stray pucks.
trinity was sitting on the bench next to it, typing on her phone, fulfilling her promised shift of baby duty while she studied for her own classes.
dean ripped his heavy padded gloves off with his teeth, dropping them onto the ice, and leaned over the boards.
rowan was awake now, wearing a miniature, custom-made briar hockey jersey over his onesie, his massive brown eyes staring up at the bright stadium lights.
"how's my little winger doing?" dean breathed, his voice dripping with an absurd, high-pitched softness that made garrett graham laugh from three feet away.
dean reached over the plexiglass, his hand gently resting against rowan's tiny chest, his thumb stroking the soft cotton of the jersey. "you being good for auntie trinity? you watching daddy's skating form?"
rowan let out a tiny, erratic gurgle, kicking one foot up.
"he's been perfect," trinity said, looking up from her phone with a smirk. "a lot better behaved than you usually are during practice, di laurentis. now drink some water before jensen screams at you."
"yeah, yeah," dean grinned, finally grabbing his water bottle and taking a long swig. he looked back down at his son, a fierce, determined spark in his blue eyes.
balancing division one hockey and fatherhood was the hardest thing he'd ever done, but he had never felt more alive.
he was going to give his kid the world, and he was going to do it right alongside you.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
later that evening, the winter heat finally broke as dusk settled over the town.
dean's black suv pulled into the gravel driveway of a small, neat house on the edge of the university district.
the porch light was already on, casting a warm, golden glow over the front steps.
dean hopped out of the driver's seat, walking around to your side to open the door before you could even reach for the handle.
he offered you his hand, pulling you up gently, his fingers lingering against your palm before he turned to unbuckle rowan's car seat from the back.
you walked up the steps together, the familiar scent of garlic and homemade pasta sauce drifting through the screen door long before you even knocked.
before your knuckles could even touch the wood, the door swung open.
your mother stood there, her apron tied around her waist, her eyes instantly bypassing the two of you to lock onto the plastic car seat in dean's hand.
a massive, radiant smile broke across her face, smoothing away the lines of a lifetime of hard work.
"there's my grandson," she beamed, her arms already reaching out as she stepped onto the porch.
dean smiled, handing the car seat over with a practiced ease that showed just how natural this had become for him.
"hi, mom. he slept the whole ride over." you smiled as your mother carried the seat inside, cooing at the sleeping baby.
you and dean stood on the porch for a quiet second.
dean looped his arm around your waist, pulling your back flush against his chest, his chin resting comfortably on the top of your head as you both watched your mother unbuckle her grandson through the front window.
there was no ghost of the past in this house anymore.
there was no fear of a running man or a broken promise.
there was only the smell of a warm dinner, a grandmother's laughter, and the solid, heavy weight of the man who had promised to stay—and meant every single word.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
the dining room of your childhood home was small, but tonight it felt entirely full. the air was thick with the rich, comforting scent of your mother's signature marinara sauce, a recipe that had historically been reserved only for birthdays or the rare moments when a budget stretch allowed for a celebration.
dean was sitting at the worn wooden table, a space that had only ever known the quiet presence of two women.
his massive, athletic frame practically engulfed the modest chair, his broad shoulders casting a long shadow against the floral wallpaper.
yet, he looked completely at ease.
he had rolled up the sleeves of his cotton blue shirt, exposing his forearms as he expertly navigated a massive bowl of spaghetti, passing it to your mother with a respectful, easy smile.
"seriously, alisha, this is incredible," dean said, calling your mother by her first name just as she had insisted he do three visits ago. "if you ever want to open a restaurant near campus, the entire hockey team would probably fund it. tucker survives entirely on frozen burritos and sheer willpower. he would cry if he tasted this."
a sound of genuine, lighthearted laughter escaping her lips as she leaned over to scoop another portion onto his plate. "don't flatter a woman, dean. but please, eat up. god knows you burn enough calories on that ice rink."
you watched them from across the table, your fork twirling slowly in your pasta.
a strange, dizzying wave of emotion hit your chest.
for twenty-one years, this room had been a fortress of caution.
it was the place where you sat while your mother meticulously balanced checkbooks, reminding you that reliance on anyone else was a vulnerability.
it was where you learned to be fiercely independent, wrapped in the protective armor of her warnings.
and now, briar university's golden boy was sitting in the center of it, arguing playfully with her about whether garlic bread should be baked or broiled.
from the corner of the room, a soft, low grunt came from the portable bassinet.
rowan was waking up, his tiny limbs stretching beneath his blanket.
before you could even set your fork down, dean's hand was already moving.
he caught your eye across the table, offering a reassuring nod.
"i got him, sweetheart. finish your dinner," he murmured, his voice dropping into that quiet, intimate tone he reserved just for you.
you watched as he stood up, his tall frame moving with a practiced, gentle fluidity as he navigated the tight space between the table and the bassinet.
he reached down, his hands completely cradling rowan's tiny torso as he lifted him out.
rowan let out a tiny, soft squeak, his little face puckering before he settled instantly against dean's chest, his small head tucking perfectly into the crook of his father's neck.
dean walked back to the table, shifting rowan effortlessly to one arm while he picked up his fork with the other, completely unfazed by the logistics of eating one-handed.
your mother stopped eating.
she watched dean—watched the way his thumb absentmindedly traced small circles on the back of rowan's custom jersey, the way his eyes constantly flicked down to check on the baby's breathing, the way he didn't even hesitate to put his own comfort second.
when she looked back at you, her eyes were bright with a quiet, profound sheen of tears.
she didn't say anything out loud but she didn't need to.
the unspoken apology and the sheer validation of your choices was entirely written in the soft smile she gave you across the table.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
by eleven o'clock, the drive back to the campus apartment was quiet, save for the hum of the car tires against the asphalt and the steady, rhythmic breathing of a fast-asleep baby in the backseat.
the apartment was dark when you unlocked the door.
trinity was out for the weekend, leaving the small living space peaceful.
dean carried rowan inside, the car seat clicking quietly as he set it on the floor, while you carried the diaper bag and the heavy tote containing your psychology textbooks.
you dropped the bags by the kitchen counter, a heavy, bone-deep exhaustion finally settling into your limbs.
finals week was creeping up, the stack of case studies you needed to analyze was growing, and your body was still recovering from the monumental task of bringing a human into the world.
you leaned against the counter, closing your eyes for just a second.
two warm hands slipped around your waist from behind, a familiar, solid chest pressing into your back.
dean buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath warm against your skin.
"hey," he whispered, his lips brushing against your jawline. "go take a hot shower. i'll handle the nighttime bath and get him down in his crib."
"dean, you have a 6:00 am video review session" you protested softly, turning around in his embrace to look up into his tired, beautiful blue eyes. "you spent three hours on the ice today. let me do it."
"absolutely not," dean smiled, a faint, stubborn dimple appearing in his cheek.
"we're a team, remember? you aced your seminar quiz today, you took ten pages of notes, and you didn't complain once when rowan spit up on your favorite sweater earlier. let me take the night shift, sweetheart. go relax."
you stared at him, the old, defensive instinct to say 'i can do it myself' rising to your throat out of sheer habit. but looking at the absolute, unwavering certainty in his gaze, you let it go.
you let the breath out of your lungs, your forehead coming to rest against his chest, right over the steady, pounding rhythm of his heart.
"thank you," you breathed into his shirt.
"anytime," he murmured, pressing a lingering, sweet kiss to the crown of your head before stepping back and picking up the sleeping bundle from the floor.
half an hour later, you stepped out of the bathroom, wrapped in a plush robe, your skin warm and smelling of vanilla soap.
the apartment was silent.
you padded softly down the short hallway toward rowan's small nursery.
the dim, amber light of the moon-shaped nightlight illuminated the room.
dean was sitting in the massive velvet glider he had proudly bought months ago.
rowan was freshly changed, wrapped tightly in a swaddle blanket, fast asleep against his father's bare chest.
dean was rocking back and forth in a slow, hypnotic rhythm, his hand completely cupping the back of rowan's head.
he wasn't asleep.
he was staring down at his son, his expression so fierce, so intensely protective, it took your breath away.
in his lap, balanced precariously on the armrest of the chair, was his hockey playbook, his eyes flicking between the diagrams of defensive strategies and the tiny, perfect face of the boy in his arms.
he was balancing it all. the pressure of the scouts, the demanding expectations of his legacy, the exhaustion of college life—he was holding it all in his hands, and he wasn't letting a single piece drop.
you leaned your shoulder against the doorframe, a soft smile tugging at your lips.
dean looked up at the sound of your breathing, his eyes softening instantly as he caught sight of you. he didn't speak, not wanting to break the fragile silence of the nursery, but he extended his free hand toward you, his fingers open.
you walked across the small room, sliding your hand into his warm palm.
dean pulled you down gently until you were sitting on the wide armrest of the glider beside him.
he leaned his head against your hip, his grip on your hand tightening into a silent, unbreakable vow.
you looked down at the two of them.
the future was going to be chaotic.
there would be exams to study for while rocking a crying infant; there would be away games where you would have to manage the nighttime routine alone and there would be endless loops of exhaustion.
but as the glider rocked gently in the quiet apartment, the absolute certainty of his warmth against your skin told you everything you needed to know.
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