Venus

Old man enthusiast | 22 | ICE OUT 🇬🇹🇬🇹 mi gente Latina

[deansdeer]

Hi really quickly sorry

FUCK TRUMP

FUCK ICE

FUCK FASCISTS

FUCK ISRAEL

FREE PALESTINE

FREE THE CONGO

FREE SUDAN

I LOVE IMMIGRANTS

I LOVE QUEER PEOPLE

I LOVE PEOPLE OF COLOR

HUMAN RIGHTS ARE BASIC RIGHTS

If you support ice, support the genocide, racist, homophobic, maga, or a nazi.

THEN YOU ARE NOT WELCOME ON THIS BLOG.

This isn’t a matter of “opinion” it’s a matter of are you a fascist or are you normal

[jackietaylorfart]

Fighting for my life in this male dominated fandom 🫩

[loveletters2cowboys]

Yes, Father

Pairings: Priest! Joel Miller x reader

Summary: Father Miller finds your vibrator while doing dorm inspections and makes you use it while confessing your sins.

Warning: MDNI (18+), free use, improper use of rosary, use of stainless steel vibrating dildo, oral (f!recieving) mock sympathy, dub-con, orgasm denial, pussy slaps, priest Joel, priest kink, condescending praises, praise kink,overstimulation,vaginal stretching, asshole stretching, anal gaping, corruption kink, degradation, objectification, power imbalance, cum-eating, triple stimulation, rosary insertion, age gap, grumpy Joel, improper use of Bible verses, getting shamed for human nature, overstimulation, masturbation, use of pet name (little lamb), dacryphilia(mild), Boston QZ Joel, JOEL IS IN LATE 40S, READER IS IN MID 20S, internal stimulation, external stimulation, Joel is a perverted, internal penetration, external penetration, TENSION. (READ AUTHOR’S NOTE)

Author’s Note: Hello guys, I just wanted to add a disclaimer that my blogs do not reflect how JOEL MILLER acts in the series nor game. Sorry if this is unrealistic, I do not know much about the Catholic religion and I do not want to seem disrespectful to it. I just saw a priest Joel picture on pinterest and this idea came to mind. If the smut in this one-shot is too disrespectful I do not have a problem with taking this story down. I really hope you enjoy it! Sorry for any typos or errors, English isn't my first language and this is not edited. LISTEN TO TEACHER’S PET FOR THE FIRST PART AND YOUR GIRL BY LANA DEL REY FOR THE SECOND PART.

Word Count: 6.4k

The scrape of chairs echoed throughout the classroom as Father Miller gathered the stack of graded quizzes from the corner of his desk. He thumbed through the papers before clearing his throat. “Before I let y'all go,” Father Miller began, his deep southern drawl rough with effortless authority. “Here’s your results from last week’s quiz.”

You barely paid attention to him. You dragged the tip of your pen across the edge of your notebook, doodling meaningless swirls while you rested your cheek against your palm. He walked between the rows of desks, placing each paper down against the wooden desks.

You hated being at an all-girls Catholic university;every hour of every day seemed to be dictated by someone else. There were mandatory religion courses, weekly chapel attendance and curfews in the residence halls and enough rules to make you question whether you were an adult or a child. Every mistake felt like it carried the weight of failure instead of it simply being human nature.

Most of the students here seemed to thrive on this campus. They volunteered for campus ministry, answered Father Miller’s questions before he even finished asking them and somehow always looked excited to discuss scripture.

But for you, you counted the minutes until class ended because religion wasn't your strongest subject to begin with. Father Miller’s course required you to memorize historical context and essays that connected scripture to everyday life. Every assignment and quiz asked questions that were impossible to answer.

The polished leather of Father Miller’s boots halted right beside your desk before your quiz landed in front of you with a loud smack.

You softly flinched as you briskly looked up at his towering frame. Your gaze settled on Joel’s captivating face, watching as his lips pressed together with a quiet disapproval written on his expression.

Father Miller rested two fingers on the paper before gradually sliding them across the paper with the failing grade. This disappointing bold 35% stared back at you from the top of the page.

“Stay after class.” Father Miller ordered as his dark eyes held you in place. “We need to have a serious talk.”

“Okay.” You quietly said while straightening your posture against the rigid plastic of the chair.

His jaw flexed almost unnoticeably before he continued down the row.

You let out a slow breath as you lowered your gaze down to the paper. You weren't even surprised that Father Miller placed another failed quiz onto your desk but it would only be a matter of time before you are put on a strict academic probation.

The university made it painfully clear that students were required to maintain a minimum GPA and pass every required religion course. Father Miller’s class was mandatory and If your grade didn’t improve soon, you could lose your place at the university altogether if it stayed where it was.

The realization settled heavily in your chest as you fidgeted with the pen before dropping it in the center of your notebook.

The room was loaded with chatter as girls whispered excitedly, comparing their passing grades to each other.

Father Miller eventually returned to the front of the room, setting the remaining quizzes down before clasping his calloused hands together.

“That’s all for today.” He declared while unhurriedly sweeping his gaze across the classroom. “Remember to read Romans before next Monday.”

The room resumed into conversation as backpacks zipped shut and chairs scraped across the aged wooden floors. Within a few minutes, the classroom emptied until it was only the two of you that remained.

You swallowed the lump of uncertainty forming in your throat as you continually glanced at the failing grade, pretending not to notice Father Miller watching you. He quietly strolled to the classroom’s door and pulled it closed behind the last student.

You gathered your notebook before carrying it to the front, choosing the chair directly across from his desk.

The latch of the door finally clicked as a comfortless silence evolved in the room. He walked back over to his desk but he didn't sit down. Instead, he leaned against the edge of his desk while folding his muscle-shielded arms across his broad chest, his biceps unintentionally flexing under the tight fabric of his shirt.

“You know…”Father Miller paused as if he was searching for the right words to say. “Faith without discipline doesn't get many things accomplished.” His gaze remained on you, watching as you nervously crossed your legs over each other.

You didn’t reply as you lowered your gaze to your skirt-covered thighs.

“You never turn assignments in on time.” He started. “You fail every test I put in front of you.” He gestured toward the quiz sitting on your notebook. “You are late to my lectures then spend the next hours looking out the window like a lost puppy.”

“It’s nothing.” You shamefully mumbled as your damp palms found their way to the cotton of your plaid skirt.

“It ain't nothing?” He repeated in a condescending tone as his eyes narrowed slightly at you. “Sister Rena caught you in the back of the garden smoking instead of being in my class.”

Your fingers instinctively tightened around the material of your skirt as heat crept up your neck. There wasn't much you could debate on because he was accurate about everything he was stating.

Father Miller studied you before letting out a heavy breath through his nose.

Father Miller studied your face for another moment before letting out a quiet breath through his nose. He then glanced at the silver watch around his thick wrist while looking back at you.

“If you don't want to talk now, that is fine.” He said, his voice remained calm but there was enough firmness behind it to make you shift in your seat. “But things aren't looking too good for you if this keeps up, little lamb.” He added before pushing himself off from the desk.

“It won't happen again.” The words slipped off your tongue snappier than you planned.

He halted after he started walking to the chalkboard, offering you an extended stare. “I’ve heard that one before.” He stated, his voice sounding severely dissatisfied. He brought his attention to the blackboard before picking up the dry-eraser.

The tension between the two of you came back as you didn't reply. Father Miller slowly rubbed the felt eraser against the board, removing any remaining chalk marks. “Actions have consequences.”

Your heart forgot its rhythm as he turned back to you after placing the eraser back down. “I’ll be in the chapel this afternoon.” He said before gradually strolling up to you, his hands sliding into the pockets of his dark trousers. “I want you there.”

“Okay, Father…”You said in a quiet response as you gathered your belongings and hastily rose from the chair.

Father Miller stepped right in front of you, his commanding frame towering over you and blocking you from being able to exit the narrow row between the desk.

He was so near you that you could almost feel his warmth radiating on your prickled skin.

“And when you come, you better have an honest reason for why you’re failing my class.” He said as his darkened green eyes pierced through your soul. Before you could reply, he stepped out of your way and proceeded to pick up textbooks from some of the desks, signaling that the conversation was over.

You slipped the straps of your backpack over your shoulders and strolled away to the door, eager to put as much distance between you and this hell of a classroom. You gathered your notebook and slid the failing quiz between its pages before quietly stuffing everything into your backpack.

You barely made it to the door before his deep voice prompted you to stop. “One more thing, little lamb.” He said but paused when you started to slowly turn around to face him.

Father Miller’s eyes lowered from your face to the hem of your uniform skirt while placing the textbooks onto the dense wooden shelves.

He let out a low sigh before pinching the bridge of his scarred nose, as if he was already tired of having to say it. “That skirt’s too short.” Disgrace sat in his controlling tone.

“It shrunk in the wash,” You explained under your breath as your hands flew to the back of your thighs, instinctively tugging the fabric lower.

A skeptical hum came out of him, telling you he didn't believe a word from you. “Get it fixed before Sister Mary writes you up.”He ordered, his presence so powerful that it made you squirm.

“I will.”

For a brief second, Father Miller raised his eyebrows in wonder before nodding once and dragging his attention back to the books on the shelf.

Without hesitation, you slipped out into the hallway, already knowing you’d spend the rest of the day wondering why his opinion about your skirt had embarrassed you far more than the failing grade ever did.

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰

With a reluctant sigh, you halted in front of the aged wooden doors, chewing on your lip as you rehearsed explanations in your head.

The heavy wooden doors groaned when you pushed them open. Warm air drifted over your body, carrying the familiar scent of old wood, melted candle wax and incense. The sunset filtered through the stained-glass windows, scattering collars across the wooden floor.

Father Miller stood near the altar with his back toward you, he seemed deep in thought until the door clicked shut behind you.

“You are late, little lamb.” He said as he turned his attention to you, his Southern drawl echoed through the empty chapel.

You swallowed and began strolling up the center aisle, your shoes clicking against the floor with every slow step. “Sorry, I had something to turn in.” Father Miller watched you approach without saying another word.

When you finally stopped a few feet away, he brought his eyes toward the door of the chapel before looking back at you.

“I spoke with Sister Mary.” He said before clearing his throat as sliding his hands into the pockets of his dress trousers.

You blinked up at him as you awkwardly shifted your weight; your heart was hammering against your rib cage.

“They are discussing removing you from the university.” He said as he took a few steps closer to you, his tall frame towering over you.

“What…no…” You breathed out as your shoulders immediately sagged as the reality settled in.

“I asked her to hold off.” He chimed in before you spiraled.

You halted as you pulled your eyebrows together in perplexity, searching his face. His eyebrows remained furrowed, deepening the creases of irritation on his face. “Why?” You inquired.

“Because I see a great potential in you.” His sentences caught you off guard. You expected disappointment, especially when coming from him. Instead his tone held something almost reassuring under his sternness. “Every one of your professors speaks highly of you.” He trailed off as he shook his head slightly. “You pass those classes without much trouble.” He continued as he proceeded with motioning over to the altar, his fingertips brushing along the wooden edge.

“So why are you failing mine?” He raised the question, stopping beside the altar.

Your mouth opened but an answer refused to come out. Every last explanation you had spent all afternoon rehearsing vanished under his intense gaze.

Father Miller waited, slightly tilting his head as his tongue poked against the inner flesh of his cheek. A sigh escaped him before he nodded to himself. “Still don't have a reason?” He questioned as he leaned against the altar, not once taking his eyes off of you.

“No Father.” You quietly answered as you brought your attention back down to your Mary Janes to avoid his gaze pinning you.

As an uncomfortable silence evolved in the room, he clicked his tongue while narrowing his eyes at you. “Is there something you’d like to confess?”

“No…” You said, the words almost came out as a whisper.

“That’s right?” He challenged.

You gave him a single nod before bringing your hands into each other, fidgeting with your fingers as heat crept up your neck.

Neither of you spoke for a brief moment resulting in the silence in the chapel to stretch; the only thing audible was the faint ticking of an old clock near the entrance.

“Okay.” He simply replied before leaning off of the altar and making his way to the small oak table beside it.

Every muscle in your body relaxed as you thought the worst of the conversation might finally be over.

Your eyes followed him as he opened one of the chipped wooden drawers, humming in amusement. When Father Miller pulled out your stainless-steel vibrator that was precisely molded into the shape of a small cock, your heart nearly dropped.

He held it between his fingers before darting his gaze back at you. “Now…”He muttered as he slowly turned it over, examining it beneath the warm light of the chapel. “If sister Mary was the one doing dorm inspections instead of me…”

“I bought it as a joke.” You blurted out as embarrassment flooded through your veins.

Father Miller stopped examining the steel vibratorto dart his attention to you. “You bought it as a joke?” He echoed your explanation before huffing a humorless laugh.

“Yes Father.” You replied as you nodded quickly.

“Then explain why it was hidden in the back of your dresser.” He said, the doubtful look across his features made it clear he wasn't convinced.

Your fingers picked nervously at the edge of your sleeve, not being able to think of anything to say.

“You're lucky that I was the one assigned to inspect your room.”Father Miller said while stepping closer to you, toying with the vibrator against his large palm. His thumb brushed over the flared end that had the button for the vibrator settings as he gave you a long look.

“Have you been using it?” He asked as the pad of his finger ghosted over the button in interest.

“No.” You breathed out in unwillingness, finally drifting your attention away from his glance.

“Look at it.” He mumbled as his eyes immediately returned to yours, waiting for you to obey.

At his demand, your gaze naturally dropped toward the faint stains marking the stainless steel.

“It’s all stained so don't lie to me.” He lifted the vibrator up to your face, forcing you to take a better look at the series of dull stains left behind from your cunt’s juices excessively leaking on it. “Because when you stand in the chapel and lie, you ain't just lying to me.” He elucidated while glancing briefly toward the crucifix above the altar.

“I used it….” You hesitated before admitting the truth. “I got tempted and gave in anyway.”

Father Miller nodded, as if he’d expected you to eventually tell him the truth. He didn't reply immediately, he just brought his other hand to his trimmed beard, skimming the tip of his fingers against the hairs that streaked with grey.

“Temptation’s real,” He broke the silence, his rough draw carrying a calmness you hadn't heard from him once all semester. “But you have to learn how to respond when it comes.” Father Miller said as his fingers continued to toy with the steel.

“I know I failed.” You said.

“You did, little lamb.” He replied, the bluntness made your lips press together. “That's where repentance comes in and you acknowledge what you did and take responsibility for it.” He said as he gestured the toy towards you. “Use it.”

“What?” You asked as you blinked up at him in astonishment, your tone lower than aimed for it to be.

“Go on.”He closed the small distance between the two of you before reaching for one of your hands and placing the cold, rigid steel in your damp palm.

“Father in front of you?” You question too stunned to process what you’d just heard as your hands clutched around the shaft of the small molded cock.

“Yes.” He replied. “Like I said, the first step is acknowledgement.”

You looked up at him for a second, swallowing hard beneath his gaze before forcing yourself toward the table.

Father Miller tracked your every movement as you leaned against the wood. A surge of shame coursed through you before you unhurriedly brought the toy up to your lips. You spat right on the tip, making your warm saliva evenly blanket the steel.

Father Miller rubbed his thumb against his knuckles as he watched your smooth lips wrap around the toy.

You lapped your tongue around the steel tip before welcoming the toy entirely into your mouth. A soft gag escaped your throat as the cock bullied the back of your throat. You then bobbed your head against the toy causing a ring of saliva to form at the corner of your mouth.

After a few moments, you pulled back until only your mouth suctioned against the rigid tip. While Father Miller’s gaze scorched against your sweaty skin as you eventually dragged it from between your lips, a line of saliva connected you to the toy.

You halted as you looked up at him through your lashes, waiting for his judgment.

“That’s all?” He asked. “Do you think I was born yesterday?”

“No Father..” Though the air was incredibly warm in the chapel, goosebumps still managed to prickle across your skin. You slid into the edge of the table before setting both feet at each corner of the table without another word.

From the angle you spread out in, your skirt had no choice but to hike up your body, pooling around the small of your waist. Father Miller’s eyes traveled down your body before pausing right between your thighs. Your underwear was wet; a darkened line from your slick ran down the center of the cotton, pathetically revealing your arousal.

You heard his breath caught in his chest as you eventually peeled the damp cotton to the side, uncovering your glistening pussy. Your fingers rested on the flared end of the toy, switching on the vibration settings. Without hesitation, the steel started vibrating, a low buzz reverberating in the air. You swallowed the lump forming in your throat as you looked down at your damp mess of a cunt before delicately running the cold tip against your lips. You lazily circled the toy around your swollen bud, prompting your hips to instinctively buckle from the mild vibrating stimulation. Your body responsively stiffened as the low vibrations of the steel cock buzzed against your cunt.

Your breath evolved into unsteady patterns as you unhurriedly brought the wand up to your swollen bud, the low vibration buzzed directly on the nerve. A breathy whimper left your lips as the continuous vibrations sent a knot to construct in your lower stomach.

You immediately knew you weren’t going to last long.

You never did.

Father Miller stood there with a sharp unreadable expression, watching you nurse your perfect pussy.

You threw your head back in euphoria as a soft moan rolled off your tongue. You pressed the tip of the toy firmer against your clit, craving more of the vibration it was providing to your throbbing point.

The ecstatic sensation in your lower belly continued to build rapidly. You whimpered out a breath that was caught in your chest as you rubbed the wet steel around the sensitive nerve.

You slowly proceeded to drag the tip away from your swollen clit and towards the entrance of your clenching pussy. Your face creased in pleasure as the desire in you burned like a rapid fire. Your legs quivered as the vibration against your entrance forced thick fluids to leak out of you and coat the oak table.

“Is…is this enough, Father Miller?”You choked out as you pressed the tip against your hole; the tightness of your walls refused to make the toy go in any further than the tip.

“Does it feel like enough?” He raised a question, his deep Southern drawl rough as he took a few steps forward. He halted between your legs as his gaze lowered to your cunt forming a creamy ring around the head of the toy already.

You blinked up at him with parted lips as longing flushed over you, tempting you to push the toy deeper into you. In an instant, your eyes widened as you yelped at the foreign stinging sensation.

You never inserted the toy before.

Sweat began rolling down your neck as your chest heaved laboriously. You steadily plunged the vibrating toy deeper into your hungry cunt, too eager to give your walls a moment to adjust to the new stretch.

Father Miller’s calloused hands found their way to the back of your thighs in silence, spreading your legs further apart. The warm air of the chapel fanned against your cunt as the toy now had an opportunity to sink deeper into your tight pussy. His piercing gaze focused on the mess between your legs, attentively monitoring the way your pussy needily swallowed up the entire girth of the steel until only the flared end was visible.

Another severe wave of ecstasy settled low in your stomach as the smooth tip vibrated right against a delicate spot up against your wall. Your trembling legs made an effort to clamp but Father Miller securely held them open.

A puff of air escaped through your nose as your cunt cried from the buzzing stimulation, bringing your thickened fluids to drop down to the table.

You left the toy in you, letting your walls finally mold the shape of the vibrating rigid steel. A breathy squirm escaped your lips as your body constricted and pussy pulsed from how near your orgasm was.

You then trailed your hands up your slick-coated lips, spreading them open until your throbbing clit slightly rose from its hood. You two held eye contact as he dragged his tongue briefly along the inside of his cheek, watching you unravel into a moaning mess.

“Get off the table and bend over.”He ordered sternly, his hands finally loosening their grip on your thigh as he stepped back. “Leave the toy in.”

You quickly obeyed, sliding off the edge of the table before bending over so you were back to being fully exposed to him. Your cheeks burned under his gaze as he gave a brief, approving nod before turning away. A loud moan escaped your lips as the vibration became more potent due to the angle you were in, relentlessly buzzing against the precious, spongy area in you. Your mouth continually fell open as you glanced over your shoulder at him, immediately catching the way his hardened expression settled over his sharp features.

Father Miller then motioned over to the altar before reaching for his wooden rosary then returning to you.

“What is lust, little lamb?” He inquired. “It was one of the many questions you got wrong in the exam.”

“A sin…it’s a sin…” You managed to choke out, not being able to reply to your best advantage because your body was concentrating on chasing your building release.

“We all know that,” He said as he grazed the wooden beads of his rosary over the curve of your back. “Explain why it's a sign.” He mumbled as he hauled it down to the fat of your ass then inner thigh.

“Because it gives you an overpowering craving.” You replied as your walls helplessly clamped around the vibrating steel. Your hips jerked as he carried the wooden beads through your puffy folds, deliberately coating them in your slick.

“And?” He continued, his tone indicating that he wasn’t too happy with the shortness of your explanation.

“Please…I don't know…” You whimpered.

“How pathetic.” Father Miller tssked before shifting the rosary away from your pussy, halting it right at the rim of your unused asshole. His thumb and the bead ghosted the delicate, clenching flesh before he spat directly on the hole. He then smeared the thickness of his warm saliva around the rim before it had a chance to roll down to your stuffed cunt.

“I’ll tell you why.” He muttered before pressing the wet wood right against your asshole. “It reduces a whole person into a physical object for personal pleasure." He explained before unhurriedly stuffing the first bead into your hole.

The unfamiliar sensation drove your knees to immediately buckle as your untrained hole desperately stretched around the wood, entirely swallowing the bead.

“And it distracts the mind from higher moral and spiritual focus.” He added before pushing another one of the slick-covered beads against your rim, prompting your hole to open up for him.

“Father..”You wailed out in euphoria as your hole frantically created more room for him to fit another one into you. Your rim stung in a pleasurable discomfort as you sank your teeth into your bottom lip, biting back your frequent moans.

“It’s okay, you are taking everything so well.” He cooed as he gently pushed the last few beads in the hole.

You were now full of his rosary beads.

You struggled to stand still as the buildup in your lower stomach was about to release, forcing your walls to frantically spasm in wave-like motions around the vibrator and beads.

“Here’s what I want you to do, little lamb.” He spoke as his eyes lingered on your tightly clenched hands in fulfillment. “Quote every verse you can think of that explains why lust is a sin.” He instructed as his calloused palms slowly guided up the smooth skin of your ass.

His delicate touch sent a jolt of electricity through your body, awakening every nerve within you.

“You need to understand the roots of what you're up against.” He said that when he noticed your tremendous hesitancy.

You clamped your eyes shut as you desperately made an attempt to gather yourself and put your brain to work.

“Well…first..”You let out an audible moan as your nails clawed against the oak table. Your lips remained parted but not another sound was able to come out as your hips jerked from the feeling evolving in you.

“Go on…”

“Matthew 5:28…” You choked out, feeling your juices leak down your inner thigh before saturating the top material of your knee-high socks.

“Mhm?” He attentively hummed before bringing one of his hands in between your quivering thighs and switching the vibrator to the second setting; a mode you never dared to surpass.

You immediately attempted to lean off the table and stand straight but his other hand flew to the middle of your back, firmly pinning you to the hardwood.

“Everyone who looks at a woman with lustful intent has already committed adultery with her in his heart.” You rushed out in one extended breath before clamping your thighs shut to ease the excessive pleasure from the dual stimulation.

He immediately gave the inside of your legs a hard nudge, forcing your legs to widen again.

“Is that all your pretty little brain could think of?” He asked, his voice carrying a dry, condescending edge. A deep, humorless chuckle escaped his mouth as he slowly shook his head. “You know I expect better than that.”

Your heart rate increased as sweat endlessly rolled down your temple. “Galatians 5:19.” you stuttered as you felt the rough pad of his thumb slide between your folds before settling right on your pulsing bud.

“It says the works of the flesh and lust are right at the top, showing it pushes us away from the Spirit." You brainlessly trailed off, trying to come up with the right words as his thumb started delicately circling your throbbing point.

A groan of disappointment came from deep within his chest as he switched the vibrator to the third setting. “It speaks about sexual immorality and impurity but lust specifically isn't the exact word used there.”

In response, you whimpered at the pleasure of the tip of the toy providing continuous vibration to your delicate walls.

“What’s next?”

“Proverbs 6:25.” You breathed out as your hips jolted from his thumb applying excessive pressure to your swollen nerve. “Do not lust in your heart after her beauty or let her captivate you with her eyes.”

Before Father Miller told you if you were right or wrong, you felt the settings switch into a higher vibration. You practically cried out as the euphoric sensation drove every muscle in your body to twitch. Your pussy didn't stand a chance against the deeper wave of vibration patterns.

“It was Job.” He corrected with a quiet note of disturbance as if he couldn't believe he had to explain it again. “One more.”

“Corinthians 6:18.” You replied as your hips instinctively rocked against his thumb. “Flee from sexual immorality…a sexually immoral person sins against their own body.”

“Precise when you’re under pressure, hm?” He taunted, his Southern drawl thick with mockery. He gave your aching clit a few firm slaps, causing your body to almost twist away from his torture on your clit.

“So you can do good when it matters,” he said, tilting his head slightly. “You just choose not to most of the time?” He questioned like he'd just caught you proving his point before pulling away.

A breathy squirm escaped your lips as your body constricted from how intensely your orgasm was about to wash over you. “I'll be good whenever you want.” You blurted, turning mindless as the consistent vibration in you resulted in your body suddenly pulling tight as an arrow. “I'm cumming…forgive me, Father.” You glanced at him like a lost puppy.

“No you aren't, hold it in.” He ordered as he folded his arms across his broad chest. “Show me how much of a good girl you truly can be.” He didn't take his eyes off you as he watched you fight to stay bent over on the table.

“I can't…”You admitted as your moans became labored; your orgasm wasn't slowing down.

“If you cum…you are going to wish you didn't.”He cautioned, planting his rough hands onto your ass. “I’ll make sure to get every last orgasm out of you.” He added before widely spreading your cheeks apart, admiring the creamy mess your pussy was creating.

Your heart hammered against your chest as you forced yourself to count backward in your head so you didn't cum. You confused the numbers while the rush of ecstasy coursed through you.

“And you’re making a damp mess,” Father Miller remarked, his eyes dropping to your juices leaking down to your socks. “Uncleanliness is next to ungodliness, little lamb,” he stated, a faintness of teasing in his voice as he glanced back at you.

Before you could respond, he lowered himself to the floor with a grunt. “Now I’m gonna have to clean you up.”His breath aired against the skin of your thigh before he took a long lick from your inner thighs up to your pulsing nerve ending. The moment his slick-covered tongue began lapping around your swollen clit, you were pushed to your release.

Sweat was dripping off your body as your throbbing cunt clamped tightly from the variety of stimulation.

“I’m so sorry Father…” You repeated your apology in a weak moan as you shamelessly came on his tongue. Your breathing hitched as the euphoria that had piled in your lower stomach finally burst. In an instant, your needy whimpers continually rolled off your tongue as your body went sluggish and legs jerked from the extreme pleasure.

“Obeying is better than sacrifice, I warned you.” He said before leaching his soft lips onto your sensitive clit, not giving your aftershocks a chance to kick in. “Confess.” He grunted between sucks as his hands gripped your hips in a rough hold, inching you closer to his face.

As the vibrations overstimulated you, you hastily brought your hands behind you in an attempt to slide the toy out of your overworked cunt. “Please, too much to handle…i can't.” In response, he held on to your hand, using it as an anchor to bury his face deeper against your pussy.

“Action has consequences when you are disobedient.” He then commented as he pulled back to catch his breath. “So start confessing.”

A guttural moan broke out of your mouth as your eyes rolled to the back of your head, your body wriggling away from him. The vibrator continued buzzing in you while Father Miller latched his lips back on you, his mouth following you wherever you twisted to.

As he sucked on you, he flicked his tongue directly on your swollen bud.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.” You cried out as your body tensed at how strongly he was sucking you. “It’s been 7 days since my last confession.”

He groaned against your clit while delivering consistent licks to your bud. Your body twitched against his hot mouth as his beard scraped against your folds.

“I confess my sins of engaging in the act of lust.” You rasped as your legs quivered from another orgasm arriving deep in you. The moans that escaped out your mouth got louder the second he delicately bit down on your clit.

Your walls pathetically clamped down around the steel girth of the toy as the knot in your stomach quickly coiled again.

“I had impure thoughts and gave into the temptation.” You wailed out in bliss before digging your nails into the flesh of your palm.

The sound of your wet cunt gushing against his mouth reverberated through the chapel as he shook his head against your pussy. With that action, you knew you weren't going to last too long.

“I’m greatly sorry.” You gulped as your entire body buckled from the excessive amount of suction he was providing your clit with.

He grunted at the sweet taste of you, shoving you even closer to his lips. You attempted to move away from his touch due to how sensitive you were. Moving didn't do much because of the tough grip on your arm and hip.

His warm saliva saturated between the crevices of your folds as he skillfully feasted on you, repeatedly flicking your bud without any mercy.

“I detest all my sins out of fear of thy punishment.” In daze, you ended the confession as your toes curled from the sensation of him lapping his tongue around your overstimulated clit.

“I absolve you of your sins.” He replied to your confession before creating a strong suction on the nerve.

Your thighs nearly clamped shut again as he devoured your cunt like it was his last meal. Your next orgasm was coming faster than you anticipated. You let out a sob; the triple stimulation ripened a tangle of bliss in you as Father Miller pushed you over your limit.

“Cum for me, little lamb.” He ordered between a suck before flicking his tongue on your aching nerve. “Give me that orgasm.”

“Yes, father.” You strained out as you rocked harder against his face. Your body tightened mightily at the ecstatic release while he circled his tongue around your swollen clit.

Your orgasm hit you like a brick before waves of pleasure crammed into every nerve of your body. Your body went limp as you felt him gradually start to pull the vibrating steel out of your stretched cunt. A sob left your throat as your chest frantically heaved. Every nerve in your body buzzed as your walls spasmed around the wooden beads while the aftershocks came in.

He licked your puffy bud a few kitten licks, helping you ride out your orgasm. When your breathing eventually stabilized, he finally detached his lips from your pussy.

In exhaustion, you rested your head against the oak, blankly blinking at all the empty pews in the chapel as you gradually came down from your high.

From behind you, you heard him switch the vibration settings off before pressing himself right against your sweaty body. Your body stiffened when you felt the girth of his shaft right on your ass. He leaned forward while snaking his hands into your frizz hair, holding it in a loose ponytail. “Clean your mess up.” He instructed as he brought the vibrator that was covered in your thick fluids up to your lips.

You swiftly obeyed his order, wrapping your lips around the steel that was now warm from your body heat. The immediate citrus taste of yourself struck your taste buds as you sucked harder.

You bobbed your head up and down, the tip hitting the back of your throat. He then shoved it deeper into your mouth, earning a gag to escape from your throat. For a few seconds, he kept the toy in your mouth, forcing your mouth to produce an excessive amount of saliva that it started to messily roll down to your chin.

“I expect to see you here every Friday.”

——————————————————————————

Taglist: @strawberrylipglossx , @stargirl331 , @haloramyun , @drabbotsweetheart , @pedrofan , @4ngelarchive , @an5559275555gel @shrewdreader @readerlover-x @alyloops @untamedheart81 @speaktothehandpeasants @k-d--h

[avocad0ess]

I wonder who I would be today if I didn’t develop an obsession with fanficion when I was 11

[devinemist]

[umber-cinders]

[pluvial-lake]

Reader who has a real job and actual bills. Reader who prioritizes her own peace over his feelings. Reader who has hobbies that don’t revolve around a man. Reader who actually has a life outside of him. Reader who says “no” and means it. Reader who isn't easily impressed. Reader who’s petty. Reader who has trust issues. Reader who chooses her girls every single time. Reader who has a body count and isn't ashamed of it. Reader who is exhausted by male fragility. Reader who holds grudges. Reader who’s a mess. Reader who’s mentally ill. Reader who makes mistakes. Reader who’s manipulative. Reader who’s selfish. Reader who’s morally gray. Reader who’s awful. Reader who genuinely doesn’t give a fuck.

[lovergirlcinema]

i’ve been seeing people online being upset about David Jonsson being the new Black Panther over Damson Idris, and even going far enough to say that he’s not cute. Y’all David Jonsson is too fine, and most of he’s definitely talented. If y’all haven’t watched him in Industry, Rye Lane, Alien: Romulus, or The Long Walk, y’all are missing out on some talent!!

Also to go as far as implying that Ryan didn’t hire Damson bc of Michael is crazy work. We all know that Ryan hires based on who he feels will best bring the vision to life. I wish people would give David a shot before immediately writing him off bc I can see an Oscar in his future frfr!

Mind y’all, this is the man they trynna call unattractive 🥴

[pucksandpower]

controlled burn (part one)

Dean Di Laurentis x Rozanov!Reader

Summary: you don’t tell him your last name. By the time Dean finds out, he’s too far gone to do anything but brace for impact. Falling for the ice-cold, vodka-drinking Russian freshman is one thing. Falling for Ilya Rozanov’s little sister is a death wish. Dean decides he doesn’t care

Warning: 18+ content

Read part two here

The 2000s hits blasting from the speakers are so loud they rattle the floorboards, but Dean is undeniably bored.

He leans against the doorframe of the living room, a red Solo cup dangling loosely from his fingers. The party is packed, a sweaty sea of grinding bodies, spilled beer, and bad decisions, but it’s the exact same crowd as last weekend. And the weekend before that. Dean is a guy who thrives on variety, and lately, the scenery is getting repetitive. Money is no object, and usually, neither are women. He rarely spends a night alone. But tonight? Nothing is catching his eye.

“You look miserable,” Garrett remarks, bumping Dean’s shoulder as he passes by with a fresh keg of beer.

“I’m not miserable,” Dean corrects him smoothly. “I’m uninspired.”

Logan snorts from his spot on the ratty couch. “Uninspired? You literally took twins home on Tuesday.”

“That was Tuesday, Logan. It’s Friday. I’m a growing boy. I need fresh stimulation.” Dean sighs, pushing off the doorframe. “I’m going to the kitchen to find something stronger than this watered-down piss.”

“Good luck,” Tucker calls out over the music. “I think the football team raided the liquor cabinet an hour ago.”

Dean navigates the crowded hallway with the effortless grace of a guy who owns the place. He dodges a couple making out against the thermostat and sidesteps a puddle of questionable origin. As he rounds the corner into the kitchen, the noise level shifts. It’s less thumping bass and more rowdy, escalating shouts.

A crowd is gathered around the center island. Specifically, a crowd of massive, tank-like senior football players. And right in the middle of them is you.

Dean stops dead in his tracks.

You are perched on one of the barstools, looking entirely out of place and yet completely in control. Your hair falls over your shoulders in messy waves, and you’re wearing a cropped leather jacket over a tight top that leaves exactly the right amount to the imagination. But it isn’t just the way you look — though you are undeniably, breathtakingly stunning. It’s the way you’re holding court.

“You are slowing down, big guy,” you say, your voice carrying over the chanting. It’s smooth, slightly raspy, and laced with a heavy, unmistakable Russian accent.

You push a brimming shot glass of clear liquid toward a guy Dean recognizes as Meathead Mike, a defensive lineman who weighs close to three hundred pounds.

“I’m not slowing down,” Mike grunts, looking slightly green around the gills. “I’m pacing myself.”

“Pacing,” you repeat, a smirk playing on your lips. It’s a wicked, self-assured smirk. You pick up your own shot glass. “In Moscow, pacing is for the weak. We drink, or we go home to sleep. Which one are you doing, Mishka?”

Dean is instantly fascinated.

“I’m drinking,” Mike growls, snatching the glass.

You tap your glass against his. “Na zdarovye.”

You toss the vodka back effortlessly, not even a flinch crossing your features. You set the glass down with a sharp clack against the granite. Mike follows suit, but he gags halfway down, coughing violently into his elbow. His buddies groan and slap his back.

“Alright, alright, he’s done,” one of the other linebackers laughs. “Jesus, girl. What are you made of?”

“Mostly spite,” you reply, your face deadpan, though your eyes gleam with amusement.

You glance over your shoulder at a blonde girl standing nervously by the fridge. Your roommate, Morgan, the quintessential all-American girl next door whom you dragged here because you were bored.

“Morgan,” you say, snapping your fingers lightly. “Pass the bottle. I think the offense wants a turn.”

Morgan looks terrified. “Um, I think maybe we should stop? That’s, like, a lot of vodka.”

“It is barely a warm-up,” you insist, reaching over to grab the handle of Smirnoff yourself. You look at the bottle with a mix of pity and disgust.

Dean watches you, completely captivated. He knows the type of girls who hang around Briar parties. They giggle, they flirt, they bat their eyelashes at the hockey players. You are doing none of that. You look like you could buy and sell everyone in this room, and honestly? You probably could.

Six years younger than Ilya Rozanov, the infamous, cocky Boston Bruins center, you are practically a miniature version of him. Ilya brought you to the United States the second you turned eighteen, pulling you out of Moscow and away from your emotionally abusive father and older brother. He bought you a luxury apartment just off the Briar campus, filled your bank account, and told you to get an education — mostly because, in Ilya’s words, “hockey players are dumb, and we need at least one brain in the family.” Ilya spoils you rotten and guards you like a dragon hoarding gold. But right now, nobody in this kitchen knows that.

Dean takes a step forward, sliding into the gap left by one of the retreating football players.

“I don’t think you should waste your time with the offense,” Dean says, leaning his hip against the counter right next to you. He flashes you his trademark, million-dollar smile — the one that usually has girls melting into puddles. “They drop the ball when it counts.”

You pause, the vodka bottle hovering over a glass. You turn your head slowly, raking your eyes up and down Dean’s frame. You take in his messy blond hair, his sharp jawline, the casual but expensive fit of his casual sweater.

Your expression doesn’t change. You don’t melt. You don’t even blink.

“And who are you?” You ask, your tone bordering on bored. “The waterboy?”

A few of the remaining football players snicker. Dean’s eyebrows shoot up. Okay. Not the usual reaction.

“Dean Di Laurentis,” he says, offering his hand. “I live here. Play hockey.”

You look at his hand, then back up to his face. You don’t shake it. “Congratulations on paying rent, Dean Di Laurentis. But as you can see, I am busy.”

Dean lets his hand drop, entirely unbothered. The chase is the best part, and you just handed him a massive head start.

“Busy giving the entire offensive line alcohol poisoning,” Dean notes, glancing at the bottle. “You know, that’s cheap shit. It’ll eat straight through your stomach lining.”

You snort, pouring yourself another shot anyway. “Please. I am Russian. This,” you tap the bottle of Smirnoff, “is practically flavored water.”

“A Russian,” Dean says, stepping a fraction closer. “That explains the accent. What brings you to a sweaty college basement in Massachusetts? Boston isn’t exactly Moscow.”

“Thank God for that,” you mutter under your breath. You pick up the shot glass, twirling it between your fingers. “I go to school here. First semester. Which means I am currently trying to enjoy a party, but people keep talking to me instead of drinking.”

Dean laughs, a genuine, startled sound. “You’re a freshman? Could’ve fooled me. You’re holding court like a senior.”

“Age is a number,” you say dismissively. “Maturity is knowing when a man is trying to hit on you with terrible opening lines.”

“Terrible?” Dean clutches his chest in mock offense. “Ouch. I’ll have you know my opening lines have a very high success rate.”

“Then the women here have very low standards.” You toss the shot back. Again, no chaser. No wince.

Dean shakes his head in amazement. “Okay, color me impressed. You’re completely unbothered by that.”

“I am unbothered by most things,” you reply. You slide off the barstool, landing lightly on your feet. You’re a few inches shorter than Dean, but the way you hold yourself makes you seem taller. You have this undeniable, gravitational pull.

You turn to your roommate. “Morgan. Are we having fun yet, or do you want to go?”

Morgan jumps, startled to be addressed. “Um! I’m having fun! But, uh, maybe no more shots?”

“Fine. No more shots.” You look back at Dean. “See? I am very compromising. A delight to be around.”

“I can tell,” Dean says, his eyes tracking the movement of your mouth. “But you know, you never told me your name.”

“I did not,” you agree.

Dean waits a beat. “Are you going to?”

“No.”

Dean laughs again. He loves this. He is completely, hopelessly intrigued. You are stunning, sharp-tongued, and just the right amount of a bitch. It’s a breath of fresh air. “Come on. Give me something. A fake name? A nickname?”

“You can call me when you have better vodka,” you deadpan. You step around him, your shoulder brushing lightly against his chest. The contact sends a sudden, sharp jolt of electricity straight down Dean’s spine.

“Hey, wait,” Dean says, turning to follow you as you start walking toward the living room. “At least tell me what you’re studying. Let me guess. Business? Political science?”

You don’t stop walking, but you glance back over your shoulder, a patronizing smile on your lips. “Do I look like I want to wear a pantsuit and argue in a boardroom?”

“You look like you’d win every argument,” Dean fires back effortlessly.

“Obviously. But I don’t need a degree for that.” You weave through the crowd with expert precision.

Dean keeps pace, ignoring the people calling his name. “So what is it then? Art history? Bio?”

“You ask too many questions for a hockey player,” you tell him. “Aren’t you supposed to just grunt and hit things?”

Dean grins, stepping directly into your path to force you to stop. “I can do that too, if you’re into it.”

You look up at him, your eyes narrowing slightly. It’s a purely assessing gaze, like you’re weighing his worth on a scale and finding him somewhat lacking, but not entirely useless.

“You are very confident,” you note.

“I have reason to be,” Dean says, his voice dropping a fraction of an octave, turning rougher, more intimate. “I’m a good guy to know around here. I throw the best parties. I know the best places to eat. I can get you out of that dorm and into places you actually want to be.”

“I do not live in a dorm,” you say smoothly. “And I go wherever I want to go.”

Dean’s grin widens. “An off-campus freshman. Interesting. Who’s funding that? Rich daddy?”

A shadow crosses your face so fast Dean almost misses it. The mention of your father in Moscow hits a nerve, pulling at the dark memories Ilya dragged you away from. Your jaw tightens.

“Not my father,” you say, your voice suddenly cold enough to freeze hell over. “My brother.”

Dean instantly realizes he stepped on a landmine. “Hey, I didn’t mean anything by it. Just making conversation.”

“You are making assumptions,” you correct him sharply. You take a step back, the playful banter completely evaporating from your posture. You look at Morgan, who is hovering a few feet away. “We are leaving.”

“Wait,” Dean says, reaching out instinctively. He catches your wrist, his fingers wrapping around the warm, soft skin.

You freeze. You look down at his hand on your wrist, and then slowly bring your eyes back up to meet his. The look you give him is so lethally calm it actually makes Dean’s heart skip a beat.

“Remove your hand,” you say softly.

Dean lets go immediately, holding both hands up in surrender. “My bad. I’m sorry. Seriously.”

You brush off your sleeve, even though he barely gripped you. You are Ilya’s sister through and through, you don’t take shit from anyone, especially not pretty-boy athletes who think they own the world.

“Do not touch me again,” you say.

“I won’t,” Dean promises, and he means it. He watches as you turn on your heel and stalk toward the front door, Morgan trailing anxiously behind you.

“Hey!” Dean calls out, unable to help himself. He takes a few steps after you. “Can I at least get your number? To apologize properly?”

You stop at the front door and look back at him. The coldness has receded a bit, replaced by that same haughty, amused superiority from the kitchen.

“You do not need my number, Dean Di Laurentis,” you call back over the thumping bass of the music. “You are clearly used to girls making things easy for you.”

“And you’re not going to?” Dean asks, a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth.

You smile — a full, devastatingly gorgeous smile that hits Dean like a physical blow to the chest.

“I do not make anything easy for anyone,” you say.

With that, you open the front door and step out into the cool September night, pulling it shut behind you.

Dean stands in the hallway for a long, silent moment. The party rages on around him, people bumping into his shoulders, girls laughing in his direction, but he doesn’t notice any of it. He is staring at the closed front door, his mind completely blank except for the echo of your heavy Russian accent and the sharp, burning realization that he needs to see you again.

Garrett appears out of the crowd, clapping a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “Hey man, who was that? She completely ghosted you.”

“I don’t know,” Dean murmurs, still staring at the door. “But I’m going to find out.”

Garrett laughs. “Looked like she was about to rip your throat out.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, a slow, entirely genuine smile spreading across his face. He finally turns to look at his teammate, his eyes bright with a sudden, fierce energy. “I think I’m in love.”

***

Outside, the air is crisp, biting at your exposed skin. You pull your leather jacket tighter around yourself as you walk down the sidewalk, the rhythmic click of your boots echoing in the quiet street.

“Oh my god,” Morgan gasps, rushing to keep up with your long strides. “Are you insane? Do you know who that was?”

“Some guy named Dean,” you say dismissively, checking your phone. A text from Ilya sits on the lock screen: Are you home? Drink water. Lock door. Love you.

“Not just some guy!” Morgan insists, practically vibrating with anxiety and awe. “That’s Dean Di Laurentis! He’s, like, Briar hockey royalty. He’s gorgeous, he’s rich, and he literally never gets turned down. You just rejected the hottest guy on campus!”

“He is arrogant,” you reply, typing a quick reply to Ilya: I am fine. Going home now. Do not be annoying.

“Well, yeah, they all are!” Morgan huffs. “But he was so into you! Why did you blow him off?”

You slide your phone back into your pocket and look at Morgan. You like her — she’s sweet and harmless — but she clearly doesn’t understand how the world works. At least, not your world.

“Because, Morgan,” you say patiently, your Russian accent softening in the quiet night air. “Men like that are used to getting what they want the moment they want it. They think the world is a vending machine. You put in a little charm, and a woman falls out.”

“And you’re not a vending machine,” Morgan finishes, nodding slowly.

“Exactly.” You smile, looking ahead down the dimly lit street toward your luxury apartment building. “I am the prize. If he wants me, he is going to have to work for it. And I am going to make him work very, very hard.”

You know exactly what you’re doing. You saw the look in Dean’s eyes when you walked away. The shock, the frustration, the desperate, clawing hunger. It’s the exact reaction you wanted.

Ilya taught you a long time ago that on the ice, you never let the opponent know your next move. You make them chase you. You make them exhaust themselves trying to figure you out, and then, when they’re completely off balance, you strike.

Dean Di Laurentis thinks he’s a player. He thinks this is a game he knows how to win.

But as you walk back to your apartment, a small, triumphant smile playing on your lips, you know one thing for absolute certain.

He has absolutely no idea who he is playing with.

***

The sharp, scraping sound of steel biting into ice is the first thing that actually makes you feel like you can breathe since you landed in America.

You sit in the third row of the arena, the chill of the rink seeping through your designer sweater, and you close your eyes for just a second. The smell of the cold, the faint metallic tang of sweat and Zamboni fumes — it’s universal. It smells like Moscow. It smells like the freezing, dilapidated local rinks where you used to sit huddled in a thick coat next to your mama, her gloved hands wrapped around a paper cup of awful coffee, watching a scrawny, angry little Ilya learn how to check kids twice his size into the boards.

Hockey is in your blood just as much as it is in Ilya’s. Before your mother passed away, the rink was your sanctuary. It was the only place your father didn’t care to go, which meant it was the only place you, Ilya, and your mama were truly safe. Now, there are very few things in this world you genuinely love: Ilya, expensive clothes, fast cars … and this.

“I don’t understand what’s happening,” Morgan complains loudly over the roar of the crowd, pulling you out of your memories. She is shivering beside you, holding a foam finger she bought at the concession stand. “Why are they hitting each other so much? Isn’t the puck over there?”

“It is a forecheck,” you say, not taking your eyes off the ice. “They are establishing physical dominance to force a turnover in the defensive zone. Keep up.”

“I thought we were just here to look at hot guys,” she mutters, taking a sip of her hot chocolate.

“You are here to look at hot guys,” you correct her smoothly. “I am here because I appreciate the sport.”

And you do. But as you watch the Briar Hawks cycle the puck in the offensive zone, your eyes inevitably track back to number sixty-six. Dean Di Laurentis.

You haven’t seen him since the party last weekend. You haven’t texted him, and since you didn’t give him your number, he hasn’t texted you. But on the ice, he is impossible to ignore. For a guy who spends his weekends trying to charm freshmen out of their clothes, he is undeniably lethal on the blue line. He’s a defenseman, playing right side, and his skating is fluid, almost effortless.

“Oh, look,” Morgan gasps, pointing. “It’s Dean! He’s the guy you yelled at!”

“I did not yell at him,” you say calmly. “I simply declined his unsolicited advances. There is a difference.”

“He’s really good, isn’t he?”

You narrow your eyes as Dean receives a pass at the point. He fakes a slap shot, dragging the puck around a sliding defender, and fires a wrist shot through traffic. It clangs hard against the post and deflects out.

“He is decent,” you allow, your voice flat. “But his gap control is inconsistent, and he relies too heavily on his forehand.”

Morgan stares at you blankly. “Is that English?”

“It is hockey,” you reply, leaning back in your seat. “Which is better.”

The buzzer sounds a few minutes later, the scoreboard flashing a 4-3 victory for Briar. The crowd erupts into a deafening cheer, the student section banging on the glass. You offer a polite, golf-clap level of applause. It was a sloppy third period. Briar let up on the gas, allowing two unanswered goals in the final ten minutes. Ilya would have been screaming on the bench if his team played like that.

“Okay, they won! Can we go now?” Morgan begs, teeth chattering. “I can’t feel my toes.”

“We can go,” you agree, standing up and brushing invisible lint off your jeans. “Your toes are weak.”

You navigate the crowded concourse, weaving through the sea of Briar hockey jerseys and drunken college students. You are halfway to the main exit, your mind already jumping ahead to the heated seats in your car, when a voice cuts through the noise.

“Hey! Moscow!”

You don’t stop walking. You know exactly who it is, but you are not a dog to be called.

“Hey, wait up! Come on, I know you hear me!”

Footsteps jog up behind you, and suddenly Dean is stepping right into your path, forcing you to stop or physically walk into his chest.

You pause, looking up at him slowly.

Dean is slightly out of breath, his chest heaving under a crisp, perfectly tailored charcoal suit. His blond hair is still damp from the post-game shower, pushed back casually, and his tie is already loosened at the collar. He looks ridiculously, unfairly handsome, and the smug, triumphant grin on his face tells you he knows it.

“You know,” you say, your accent thick and unbothered, “usually, the players wait until they have left the arena to harass the fans.”

Dean laughs, dragging a hand through his damp hair. “I saw you walking out. Had to run to catch up. I didn’t peg you for a hockey fan.”

“I am full of surprises,” you reply dryly. “Now, if you will excuse me, my friend is freezing to death.”

Morgan, standing a few feet away, gives a tiny, terrified wave. Dean shoots her a dazzling smile that makes her blush furiously, before immediately turning his full attention back to you. The laser-focus in his eyes is intense. It’s the same look he had on the ice.

“So you came to watch me play,” Dean says, his voice dropping into that smooth, confident purr. “I’ve gotta say, I’m flattered. You played hard to get at the party, but you show up to my game? That’s a mixed signal, sweetheart.”

You let out a soft, patronizing laugh. “I came to watch a hockey game, Di Laurentis. You just happened to be on the ice. Do not flatter yourself.”

“Ouch,” Dean says, though his grin doesn’t waver. “You’re killing me here. But hey, we won. You can’t deny we put on a good show.”

“A good show?” You tilt your head, crossing your arms over your chest. You look him up and down, your expression perfectly deadpan. “Is that what you call that third period?”

Dean blinks, the smugness faltering for a fraction of a second. “Uh. Yeah. We got the win.”

“You got lucky,” you correct him seamlessly. “Your team played a neutral zone trap for the first two periods, which was effective against a slower offensive line. But in the third, they adjusted their breakout, and your defense collapsed. You were scrambling.”

Dean is staring at you now. The playful, flirtatious energy completely drains out of him, replaced by genuine, unadulterated shock. “Wait. You actually … you know the systems?”

“I know when a team stops moving their feet,” you say, stepping a fraction closer. You don’t even realize you’re doing it, but the hockey analysis is completely taking over. “Your forwards stopped backchecking, which left you and your partner hung out to dry on odd-man rushes. You were playing on your heels for the last ten minutes.”

Dean’s mouth opens slightly. He looks like he’s just been hit by a truck. “I … yeah. Garrett was pissed on the bench. We gave up the blue line way too easily.”

“You specifically,” you point out, tapping a finger lightly against his expensive suit jacket. “You pinched on the boards with four minutes left. It was a stupid risk. If their winger had been half a second faster, that was a breakaway, and the game goes to overtime.”

Dean swallows hard. He’s looking at you like you just sprouted a second head, but more importantly, he’s looking at you like you are the most incredible thing he has ever seen in his entire life. His eyes track the movement of your finger on his chest, then snap back up to your lips.

“You saw that,” he murmurs, his voice suddenly sounding a lot rougher.

“I have eyes,” you say dismissively. “But the real problem is your transition game. You are fast, I will give you that. But you are predictable.”

“Predictable?” Dean echoes, his competitive streak flaring up. He steps closer, closing the distance between you so that you have to crane your neck slightly to maintain eye contact. “I’m the leading scoring defenseman in the conference.”

“Because you play against college boys,” you fire back, unimpressed. “But you rely entirely on your forehand. Every time you pick up the puck behind the net, you pivot right. Every single time. You never transition to your backhand to make the breakout pass up the left wing.”

“Because my forehand is stronger,” Dean argues, a defensive edge creeping into his tone. “The pass is more accurate.”

“Because your backhand is weak,” you correct him bluntly.

Silence falls between you.

Even the dull roar of the crowd leaving the arena seems to fade into the background. Dean just stares down at you, his green eyes wide, his chest rising and falling visibly under his shirt.

He is completely silent.

For a defenseman who prides himself on his skill, being called out like that should infuriate him. It should make him defensive, angry, or at least dismissive. But you watch as a slow, dark flush creeps up his neck. You watch the way his jaw tightens, and the way his gaze drops to your mouth again, heavy and hot.

Holy shit, Dean thinks. His brain has short-circuited.

He’s spent his entire life surrounded by puck bunnies. Girls who wear his jersey, girls who tell him he played great even when he knows he played like garbage, girls who only care about the post-game parties and the status of hooking up with a Briar hockey player.

And then there is you. Standing in the middle of a crowded lobby, ripping apart his blue-line transitions and calling his backhand weak with a heavy Russian accent and an expression that says you couldn’t care less if you bruised his ego.

He has never been so incredibly turned on in his entire life. It’s actually a little terrifying. His pants suddenly feel uncomfortably tight, a heavy knot of pure lust coiling in his gut.

“My backhand is weak,” Dean repeats slowly, his voice dropping an octave, practically vibrating with tension.

“Very weak,” you confirm, completely oblivious to the internal crisis you are causing him. Or maybe you aren’t oblivious. Maybe you just don’t care. “If you ever make it to the pros, a smart forechecker will notice that in the first period and shut down the right side of the ice. You will be useless in your own zone.”

“Useless,” Dean whispers. He licks his lips, stepping even closer. The scent of his expensive cologne mixed with the faint, lingering smell of his body wash hits you. “God, you are brutal.”

“I am honest,” you reply, though your breath catches slightly as he invades your personal space. You hold your ground, refusing to back up. “Do you want me to stroke your ego and tell you that you are perfect, Di Laurentis?”

“No,” Dean says immediately, and he means it. “I want you to tell me everything else I did wrong.”

You pause, caught off guard for the first time. You expected him to get mad. You expected him to puff up his chest and rattle off his stats. You did not expect him to look at you like he wants to drag you into the nearest broom closet and let you dissect his entire life.

“You missed a wide-open pass to Graham on the power play in the second period,” you say, your voice a fraction softer, the air between you suddenly thick and electric.

“Keep going,” Dean murmurs, his eyes dark, his body angled entirely toward you.

“You … you over-commit on the penalty kill.” You feel a flush rising to your own cheeks now, furious at yourself for losing your composure. Why is he looking at you like that? “You chase the puck instead of holding the box.”

“What else?” Dean asks, his voice practically a gravelly whisper. He reaches out, and for a second you think he’s going to touch you, but he just rests his hand on the wall next to your head, leaning in. “Tell me my gap control is shit again.”

You swallow hard. Ilya warned you about American boys. He did not warn you about this.

“Your gap control is shit,” you say, forcing your voice to stay steady. You lift your chin, meeting his intense gaze head-on. “And if you do not fix it, you are going to cost your team the championship.”

Dean lets out a harsh breath, shaking his head slightly as a slow, wicked smile spreads across his face. “Jesus Christ. Who are you?”

“I am the girl who is leaving,” you say, ducking swiftly under his arm.

The spell breaks. You grab Morgan by the sleeve of her coat, practically dragging her toward the glass doors.

“Wait!” Dean spins around, his dress shoes slipping slightly on the tile. “Seriously! What’s your name? I can’t keep calling you Moscow!”

You push through the double doors, the freezing night air hitting you like a physical wall. You don’t stop, but you look over your shoulder one last time. Dean is standing inside the lobby, framed by the bright fluorescent lights, looking after you with a mixture of desperation and awe.

“Fix your backhand, Di Laurentis,” you call back, a smirk finally breaking through your icy exterior. “Maybe then you will earn my name.”

You turn away, letting the doors swing shut behind you.

“Oh my god,” Morgan gasps as you speed-walk toward the parking lot. “What just happened? What was that? Was that flirting? Because it sounded like you were insulting him, but he looked like he wanted to eat you alive.”

“It was hockey analysis,” you say firmly, though your heart is hammering against your ribs in a way that has absolutely nothing to do with the sport.

“No, that was … that was aggressive sexual tension disguised as hockey analysis,” Morgan insists, pulling her keys out of her pocket. “Y/N, I am not joking. I think you just broke Dean Di Laurentis.”

You reach your car, leaning against the cold metal door as you wait for Morgan to unlock it. You think about the look in Dean’s eyes when you called out his play. The sudden shift from arrogant playboy to entirely, intensely captivated. You didn’t expect him to care about the sport as much as the glory. You didn’t expect him to listen to you.

And you certainly didn’t expect to feel this sudden, terrifying urge to see him again.

“I did not break him,” you say softly, mostly to yourself as you pull open the passenger door. You stare out at the darkened arena one last time, the cold air biting at your cheeks.

“But I think I might.”

***

Inside the arena lobby, Dean is still standing exactly where you left him.

He feels like he’s just been hit by lightning. His heart is pounding against his ribs, his blood rushing hot and fast through his veins. He replays the last five minutes in his head on a loop. The way your eyes flashed when you criticized his transition game. The heavy, intoxicating purr of your Russian accent. The absolute, unshakeable confidence radiating off you.

Garrett walks out of the locker room hallway a minute later, dressed in his own suit, his gym bag slung over his shoulder. He spots Dean standing completely still in the middle of the empty concourse.

“Hey,” Garrett says, walking over and waving a hand in front of Dean’s face. “Earth to Dean. You good, man? You look like you just saw a ghost.”

Dean slowly turns his head to look at his captain.

“Garrett,” Dean says, his voice totally deadpan.

“Yeah?”

“I need to run drills.”

Garrett frowns, confused. “What? Now? We just played a game, dude. We’re going to Malone’s to celebrate.”

“No,” Dean says, shaking his head. He looks back at the doors you just walked through, that wicked, determined smile returning to his face. He has never wanted a challenge more in his entire life. He has never wanted a girl more in his entire life. “I need ice time. Right now.”

Garrett stares at him. “Are you sick? Are you concussed? What drills do you even need to run?”

Dean adjusts the cuffs of his suit jacket, his eyes gleaming.

“Backhand passing,” Dean says simply. “I’ve got a lot of work to do.”

***

The Briar University quad is a rare picture of New England perfection today. The sun is shining, the sky is a crisp, cloudless blue, and the temperature is hovering right around seventy degrees — an absolute miracle for early October.

Because of this, half the student body has decided that classes are optional. The sprawling green lawns are covered with students lounging on blankets, throwing Frisbees, and pretending to study.

You are one of the people pretending to study.

You sit on a plaid blanket under the shade of a large oak tree, a heavy microeconomics textbook propped open on your lap, and a pair of oversized, dark sunglasses resting on your nose. You have a highlighter in one hand, but you haven’t marked a single page in twenty minutes.

It is entirely too loud to focus, mostly because of the pickup soccer game happening fifty yards away.

Normally, you would just pack up and go back to the quiet luxury of your off-campus apartment. But there is a reason you are still sitting here, pretending to read about supply and demand curves.

Dean Di Laurentis is playing soccer.

He is running around the makeshift field with his teammates along with a guy you recognize from a party as Beau, the star quarterback of the Briar football team. They are loud, obnoxious, and taking the game far too seriously for a Thursday afternoon.

“Pass it, Di Laurentis, you puck hog!” Beau shouts, jogging backward as Dean weaves the black-and-white ball between his feet.

“It’s a ball, Beau, not a puck,” Dean fires back, his footwork surprisingly nimble for a guy who spends his life on ice skates. “And maybe I’d pass if you knew how to finish a play!”

“I throw seventy-yard bombs for a living,” Beau laughs, trying to steal the ball. “I finish plenty.”

“Yeah, but your footwork is trash,” Logan calls out from across the grass. “Stick to using your hands, golden boy.”

You watch them over the top of your textbook, hidden safely behind the dark lenses of your sunglasses. Dean is wearing a grey Briar Hockey t-shirt and athletic shorts, his blond hair sticking up in sweaty, messy spikes. He is laughing, completely in his element, shouting trash talk at his friends.

And then, he turns around to jog backward, scanning the perimeter of the quad.

His eyes sweep over the crowds of students, past the girls clustered on a nearby blanket who have been practically drooling over him for the last hour, and land squarely on the oak tree.

He stops. He actually trips over the soccer ball, stumbling forward a few steps before catching his balance.

“Hey, watch it!” Tucker yells as he steals the abandoned ball. “Head in the game, Di Laurentis!”

Dean completely ignores him. He is staring straight at you. Even from fifty yards away, you can see the exact moment the cocky, playful grin melts off his face, replaced by that sharp, predatory focus he had in the arena lobby.

You do not wave. You do not smile. You simply flip a page in your textbook, pretending you haven’t noticed him at all.

“Man, it’s hot out here, isn’t it?” You hear Dean say loudly a moment later.

“It’s seventy-two,” Garrett replies, sounding thoroughly confused.

“Scorching,” Dean insists. “Absolutely boiling.”

You glance up just in time to see Dean grab the hem of his grey t-shirt and pull it over his head in one smooth, practiced motion. He tosses the shirt onto the grass, running a hand through his damp hair, and stands there in the dappled sunlight.

He is built exactly the way a Division I athlete should be built. Broad shoulders, a sculpted chest, and a torso lined with sharp, defined abdominal muscles that disappear down into the waistband of his shorts. He looks like a centerfold for a fitness magazine, and he absolutely knows it.

The group of girls on the blanket nearby actually let out a collective gasp.

You, however, slowly raise an eyebrow behind your sunglasses. Really? “What are you doing?” Logan demands, hands on his hips. “Put your shirt back on, nobody wants to see that.”

“I’m cooling down,” Dean says easily, though he is looking directly at you. “Gotta let the skin breathe, right?”

“You’re an idiot,” Garrett mutters.

Dean ignores them. He leaves the soccer game entirely, jogging across the grass at a slow, deliberate pace. He is making sure you have plenty of time to look. You make sure your eyes are glued firmly to the page about market equilibrium.

“Hey there, Moscow,” a smooth, slightly out-of-breath voice says a minute later.

A shadow falls over your textbook. You wait three full seconds before you slowly tilt your head up. Dean is standing at the edge of your blanket, his chest rising and falling from the run, a bead of sweat tracing a path down his stomach. He has his hands planted on his hips, flashing you that million-dollar, dimpled smile.

“You are blocking my light,” you state plainly.

Dean’s smile widens. He drops down onto the grass, sitting directly across from you on the edge of your blanket, completely uninvited.

“You’re studying,” he observes, leaning back on his elbows. He stretches his long legs out, crossing them at the ankles. “Econ. Boring.”

“It is only boring if you lack the intelligence to understand it,” you reply, picking up your highlighter. “Which, I suppose, explains your opinion.”

Dean barks out a laugh, entirely unoffended. “God, I missed you. Where have you been hiding? I’ve been checking the stands at practice every day.”

“I do not hide,” you say smoothly, turning a page. “And I do not attend practices. I have a life.”

“A life that involves sitting on the quad, reading a textbook, and secretly watching me play soccer?”

“I was not watching you.”

“Right. You were just staring intently in my general direction.” Dean shifts closer, the scent of fresh air, grass, and masculine sweat washing over you. It is entirely distracting. “Did you enjoy the show, at least?”

You pause. You look up from the book, sliding your sunglasses down the bridge of your nose so you can look him directly in the eyes. You let your gaze drop down his chest, over his abs, and back up to his face.

“You took your shirt off in seventy-degree weather,” you say dryly. “It was the most obvious display of male ego I have ever witnessed.”

“Did it work, though?” Dean challenges, a teasing spark in his green eyes.

“I am not a fan of theatrics.” You push your sunglasses back up. “Put your shirt on, Di Laurentis. You look ridiculous.”

“You’re lying,” Dean murmurs. His voice drops into that low, gravelly register that he used at the arena, the one that makes the hair on the back of your arms stand up. He leans forward, closing the distance between you. “I saw the way you looked at me just now. You like the theatrics.”

Your breath hitches slightly, but before you can fire back a cutting remark, a sharp, loud ringing cuts through the tension.

Your phone, sitting on the blanket beside your leg, is vibrating. The caller ID flashes brightly in the sunlight.

You let out a soft sigh, breaking eye contact with Dean. “I have to take this.”

“Boyfriend?” Dean asks, his voice suddenly losing its playful edge. His jaw tightens, a flash of genuine territorial annoyance crossing his face.

“None of your business,” you say smoothly. You pick up the phone and swipe to answer, bringing it to your ear.

Dean doesn’t move. He sits right there, completely invading your personal space, watching you intently. He clearly expects you to get up and walk away, or lower your voice.

Instead, you lean back against the trunk of the oak tree and slip effortlessly into your native tongue.

“Hello, Ilyusha,” you say in Russian, your voice softening just a fraction, the sharp consonants and flowing vowels rolling off your tongue perfectly.

Across from you, Dean practically stops breathing.

His eyes widen, locking onto your mouth. He doesn’t understand a single syllable of what you just said, but the sound of it hits him like a physical blow. Your voice is huskier in Russian, deeper, and the cadence is incredibly intimate.

“Y/N. Little bird,” Ilya’s booming voice comes through the speaker, loud enough that you have to pull the phone away from your ear for a second. “Why did it take you three rings to answer? Are you safe? Is someone bothering you?”

You roll your eyes, though a fond smile touches the corner of your lips. “I am sitting on the grass at school, Ilya. I was reading. Nobody is bothering me.”

You glance at Dean. He is staring at you with an intensity that is bordering on feral.

“Well, except maybe one idiot,” you add, a smirk forming.

Dean shifts his weight, leaning closer. “What did you just say?” He whispers, his voice thick. “Are you talking about me?”

You ignore him.

“An idiot?” Ilya demands, his protective instincts instantly flaring. “What kind of idiot? A boy? Do I need to fly back to Massachusetts and break someone’s kneecaps? Because I have a game in Dallas tomorrow, but I can make the flight tonight.”

“Do not be dramatic,” you sigh, switching your phone to the other ear. “It is just a hockey player. He thinks he is charming.”

“A hockey player?” Ilya groans. “God, Y/N. I told you to stay away from them. They are stupid. They only want one thing. Trust me, I know. I am one.”

“I know you are,” you laugh softly. “I am handling it.”

“You better be,” Ilya grumbles. “But listen to me. You are in college. You are beautiful. You are going to have boys chasing you. I do not like it, but I cannot stop it.”

“You are remarkably self-aware today.”

“Shut up and listen,” Ilya says, though there is warmth in his voice. “I am your brother, so it is my job to threaten to kill them. But I am also realistic. If you find a boy you actually like — which is highly unlikely because your standards are terrifying — you have fun. Do you hear me? Have fun. Use protection. Make him buy you dinner.”

You feel a flush creeping up your neck. Having your older brother give you sex-positive dating advice is always a bizarre experience.

“I am hanging up now,” you tell him, embarrassed.

“Wait, wait! Let me finish,” Ilya laughs. “If he crosses a line, you break his heart. If he makes you cry, I break his legs. It is a very simple system.”

“I understand the system, Ilyusha.”

“Good. Give them hell, little bird.”

“I always do. Good luck with the game tomorrow. Love you.”

“Love you too. Call me this weekend.”

You hang up the phone, tossing it back onto the blanket. You let out a breath, centering yourself, and then you turn your attention back to Dean.

You fully expect him to have a smug comment ready. You expect him to ask who you were talking to, or tease you about the foreign language.

Instead, Dean is staring at you like a starving man looking at a feast.

His pupils are blown wide, almost entirely swallowing the green of his irises. His chest is rising and falling rapidly, and there is a dark, heavy flush high on his cheekbones. He is leaning so far forward that his face is only inches from yours.

“Di Laurentis?” You ask, frowning slightly. “Are you having a stroke?”

“What the fuck was that?” Dean asks, his voice so raw and raspy it barely sounds like him.

“It was a phone call.”

“In Russian.”

“Yes,” you say slowly, as if explaining something to a child. “I am Russian. I speak Russian to my family. This is not a new development.”

“You didn’t sound like that when you spoke English,” Dean breathes, his eyes tracking the movement of your lips. “Your voice … it dropped. It was completely different.”

“It is a different language,” you point out. “The inflection changes.”

“Do it again,” he demands softly.

You raise an eyebrow, your heart suddenly giving a hard, erratic thump against your ribs. The sheer, overwhelming wave of lust rolling off him is palpable. It is thick enough to choke on.

“Do what again?” You ask, keeping your tone carefully neutral.

“Speak it,” Dean says. He reaches out, and this time you don’t pull away when his fingers lightly brush against the side of your knee. The touch sends a jolt of pure electricity straight up your thigh. “Say something else. Anything.”

You look at him, really look at him. You see the desperate curiosity, the absolute fascination. But beneath that, you see exactly what he is thinking.

Dean doesn’t just want to hear you speak Russian. He wants to hear you speak it in his bed. He wants to hear you whisper it in his ear when the lights are out. He wants to know what you sound like when you lose that rigid, icy control.

The realization makes the breath catch in your throat. It is intoxicating. The power you hold over this guy right now is absolute, and you both know it.

You lean forward, mirroring his posture. You let your sunglasses slide down your nose slightly, locking eyes with him.

“You are completely out of your mind,” you say in Russian, your voice a soft, husky murmur.

Dean lets out a ragged exhale, his eyes slipping shut for a fraction of a second. “God. I have no idea what you just said, but say it again.”

“No,” you say, slipping back into English. You sit back against the tree, pulling your leg away from his touch. The sudden loss of contact leaves a cold spot on your skin. “The show is over.”

“Come on,” Dean groans, running a hand over his face. He genuinely looks pained. “You can’t do that to a guy and just stop. It’s cruel and unusual punishment.”

“I told you at the party,” you remind him, picking up your highlighter and turning back to your textbook. “I do not make things easy for anyone.”

“I don’t want it to be easy,” Dean says. The playfulness is completely gone from his voice. It is replaced by a quiet, fierce sincerity that makes you look up again.

He is staring at you, not with the smug arrogance of a playboy, but with the focused, unwavering determination of a D1 athlete who has his eyes on the championship.

“I don’t care how hard you make it,” Dean tells you, his voice steady. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You hold his gaze for a long moment, your pulse hammering a frantic rhythm in your ears. Ilya’s voice echoes in the back of your mind. If you find a boy you actually like … give them hell.

A slow, wicked smirk curves your lips.

“We will see, Di Laurentis,” you murmur.

“Yo, Dean!” Garrett’s voice echoes across the quad, breaking the heavy tension. “Are you playing or are you just going to sit there and bother the girl all day?”

Dean doesn’t take his eyes off you. “I’m busy!” He yells back.

“We’re down a man!” Beau shouts. “Get your ass back over here!”

Dean finally tears his gaze away, looking over his shoulder at his friends. He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Duty calls. But this isn’t over.”

“It has not even begun,” you correct him.

Dean smiles. It’s a softer smile this time, smaller and much more dangerous. He pushes himself up off the grass, grabbing his discarded t-shirt. He doesn’t put it back on, much to the delight of the girls on the nearby blanket, but simply slings it over his shoulder.

“Have dinner with me,” Dean says, looking down at you.

It isn’t a question. It is a demand.

“I am busy tonight,” you reply without missing a beat.

“Tomorrow, then.”

“I have plans.”

“Saturday.”

“I study on Saturdays.”

“Sunday night,” Dean counters, refusing to back down. “My treat. Any restaurant in the city. You pick.”

You tap your highlighter against the page of your textbook, pretending to consider it. You are pushing him, testing the limits of his patience. Most guys would have walked away by now, their egos bruised.

Dean just stands there, waiting.

“Sunday,” you finally say, your tone conceding an inch. “But I pick the place, and you pay.”

“Deal,” Dean says instantly, looking like he just won the Stanley Cup. “I’ll pick you up at seven.”

“You do not know where I live.”

“I’ll figure it out,” Dean promises, taking a step backward toward the soccer game. “See you Sunday, Moscow.”

“Do not call me that,” you call after him.

“Then give me your real name!” He shouts back over his shoulder, jogging backward.

You smile, looking back down at your textbook. You wait until he is halfway across the quad before you answer, your voice carrying easily over the grass.

“It’s Y/N.”

Dean stops. He turns around, a massive, genuine grin breaking across his face. He points a finger at you, backing away toward his friends.

“Y/N,” Dean repeats, testing the sound of it on his tongue. He nods slowly. “Sunday, Y/N. Be ready.”

You watch him turn and jog back to the game, immediately tackling Beau to the ground in a mess of limbs and laughter.

You let out a long, shaky breath, closing your textbook. Studying is officially impossible now. You pull your knees up to your chest, resting your chin on your arms as you watch the group of boys on the grass.

Dean is laughing, shoving Logan out of the way to steal the ball. He looks carefree, happy, and entirely out of your league when it comes to emotional availability. He is exactly the kind of guy Ilya warned you about. A player. A distraction.

But as Dean suddenly looks over his shoulder, catching your eye from across the field and shooting you a quick, blazing wink, you know exactly what is happening.

You are giving him hell.

And you are enjoying every single second of it.

***

The date is, annoyingly, perfect.

You expected Dean to stumble. You picked an upscale, impossibly hard-to-book French-Asian fusion restaurant in the heart of Boston — the kind of place with a six-month waiting list that you only bypassed because Ilya knows the owner. You expected Dean to look out of place, or complain about the portion sizes, or act like the typical, uncouth college athlete he pretends to be.

Instead, he showed up at your apartment building right on time, wearing a tailored black button-down that made his shoulders look impossibly broad, and a pair of dark jeans that hugged his legs in all the right ways. He opened the car door for you. He ordered wine in flawless, unaccented French. He kept up with your sharp, biting banter effortlessly, matching you insult for insult with that constant, devastating smirk on his face.

He didn’t just survive the test. He passed it with flying colors.

“You look annoyed,” Dean observes as he steers his sleek black SUV off the highway, taking the exit back toward the Briar campus.

“I am not annoyed,” you say, looking out the passenger window at the passing streetlights.

“You’re a little annoyed,” he teases, glancing over at you. The dashboard lights cast a warm glow across his sharp jawline. “You thought I was going to embarrass myself. You thought I’d order chicken fingers and ask for ketchup.”

“I thought you would be a hockey player,” you correct him, turning your head to meet his gaze. “Instead, you were surprisingly tolerable.”

Dean laughs, a rich, genuine sound that fills the quiet interior of the car. “Tolerable. Wow. I’ll have to add that to my resume right under top scoring defenseman.”

“Do not let it go to your head.”

“Too late.” Dean reaches across the center console. He doesn’t ask. He just slides his hand over yours where it rests on your thigh, lacing his long, warm fingers through yours.

Your breath catches slightly, but you don’t pull away. His palm is rough with calluses from his hockey stick, a stark contrast to the soft leather of the car seats and the smooth fabric of your slip dress. The casual intimacy of it sends a sudden, sharp jolt of heat straight to your core.

“So,” Dean murmurs, his thumb brushing a lazy circle against your skin. “The date is over. I paid. I was charming. I didn’t embarrass you in front of the waiter.”

“Barely.”

“Where to now, Y/N?” He says your name softly, testing the weight of it. “I can take you back to your ivory tower. Or …”

He lets the sentence hang in the air, thick and heavy with implication.

You look at his hand holding yours, and then up at his profile. You can feel the electric tension radiating off him. You know exactly what he’s asking, and you know exactly what the answer is. You made up your mind somewhere between the second glass of wine and the way his eyes darkened when you laughed at one of his jokes.

“Your house is on the way,” you say, your voice perfectly steady, though your heart is suddenly hammering against your ribs. “It would be inefficient to drive all the way to my apartment.”

The SUV actually swerves a fraction of an inch as Dean’s hands tighten on the steering wheel. He exhales a harsh, shaky breath.

“My house,” he repeats, as if making sure he heard you correctly.

“Unless you are scared your roommates are awake.”

“I don’t give a fuck if my roommates are awake,” Dean says instantly. He hits the turn signal, taking a sharp left onto the residential street that leads to the off-campus hockey house. “My door has a lock.”

The drive takes less than five minutes, but it feels like an eternity. The air in the car is so thick with anticipation you can barely breathe. When Dean finally throws the SUV into park in the driveway, he doesn’t wait for you. He is out of the car in a flash, opening your door and offering you his hand.

The house is surprisingly quiet. The usual thumping bass and smell of stale beer are absent. As Dean unlocks the front door and ushers you inside, you see exactly one person.

Logan is sprawled on the ratty living room couch, a bowl of cereal balanced on his chest, watching SportsCenter on low volume.

He looks up as the door clicks shut. He sees Dean. Then he sees you.

Logan’s spoon freezes halfway to his mouth. His eyes dart between the two of you, taking in Dean’s dark, focused expression and your thoroughly unimpressed, perfectly manicured appearance.

“Di Laurentis,” Logan says slowly, lowering the spoon. “You brought a girl home.”

“Astute observation,” Dean says, not stopping as he guides you toward the stairs by the small of your back.

“No, I mean, you brought a girl home,” Logan insists, sitting up slightly. “Not a puck bunny. Not a sorority girl. You brought an actual woman who looks like she could murder you and hide the body.”

“I will not hide the body,” you tell Logan calmly over your shoulder as you start up the stairs. “I will leave it in the living room for you to clean up.”

Logan’s eyes widen. He looks at Dean with pure, unadulterated respect. “Good luck, man. You’re going to need it.”

“Shut up, Logan,” Dean snaps, though he is smiling as he pushes you gently up the final few steps and down the narrow hallway.

He opens the door at the end of the hall, pulling you inside, and kicks the door shut behind him. The heavy click of the lock sliding into place echoes in the quiet room.

Dean’s bedroom is surprisingly clean. The bed is large and freshly made, there are no clothes on the floor, and the faint scent of his expensive cedar and citrus cologne lingers in the air.

You barely have a second to take it in before Dean is right in front of you.

The playful banter is completely gone. The energy shifts so fast it gives you whiplash. He crowds you against the heavy wooden door, his hands coming up to bracket your head. He looks down at you, his green eyes completely dilated, dark and hungry.

“I’ve been wanting to do this since you yelled at me in the kitchen,” Dean whispers, his voice rough and vibrating with need.

“I did not yell at you,” you breathe.

“Shut up,” he murmurs, and then his mouth crashes down onto yours.

It is a devastating kiss. There is nothing hesitant or gentle about it. It is pure, unfiltered demand. His lips are hot, his tongue immediately parting your lips, tasting the expensive wine and sweeping inside to claim every inch of your mouth.

A sharp, electric shock rips through your body. You kiss him back just as fiercely, your hands flying up to grip the lapels of his black shirt. He lets out a low, guttural groan, sliding his arms around your waist and pulling your hips flush against his.

He is hard. Achingly, brutally hard against your stomach.

The realization sends a thrill of pure power straight to your head. Ilya taught you to never let anyone dictate the pace of the game. You pull your mouth away from his, leaving him chasing your lips with a frustrated sigh.

“My turn,” you say smoothly.

Before Dean can process what you mean, you grab the collar of his shirt and push. He stumbles backward, completely caught off guard. You advance, pushing him again until the back of his knees hit the edge of his mattress, and he falls backward onto the bed with a soft thud.

Dean looks up at you, his chest heaving, his dark hair messy from your hands. He looks completely thoroughly derailed. “What are you doing?”

“Taking control,” you tell him. You step between his spread thighs, looking down at him with a wicked, predatory smile. “You are very used to running the show, Di Laurentis. But you are playing my game now.”

Dean swallows hard. He leans back on his elbows, watching you with wide, fascinated eyes. “Okay. Show me your game, Moscow.”

You climb onto the bed, straddling his hips. He groans instantly at the friction, his hands twitching at his sides, but he doesn’t touch you. He lets you set the pace.

You reach down, your fingers deliberately slow as you start undoing the buttons of his tailored shirt. You watch his face as you work, taking in the rapid pulse at the base of his throat, the way his jaw tightens with every agonizingly slow brush of your knuckles against his bare skin.

Once the shirt is fully unbuttoned, you push it off his shoulders, letting it fall onto the sheets. You run your hands flat over his sculpted chest, feeling the heavy, frantic thud of his heart beneath his ribs.

“You are impatient,” you murmur, leaning down to press a soft, teasing kiss to the center of his chest.

“I’m dying,” Dean corrects roughly. His hands come up, gripping your hips tightly. “Y/N. Please.”

“Please what?” You ask, your voice dropping into a sultry, teasing purr. You shift your weight, grinding down against his hard length right through his jeans.

Dean’s head throws back, his hips automatically bucking up against you to chase the friction. “Fuck,” he gasps. “Take it off. All of it.”

You smile. You reach down, finding the hem of your slip dress, and pull it up over your head in one smooth motion, tossing it to the floor. You are wearing nothing but a matching set of sheer, black lace lingerie.

Dean stares at you. He actually stops breathing for three full seconds.

“Holy shit,” he whispers reverently. “You are … you are perfect.”

“I know,” you say confidently.

You lean down, capturing his lips again. The kiss is deep, wet, and incredibly hot. You move your hips in a slow, rhythmic grind that has Dean cursing into your mouth. He is letting you ride him, letting you dictate the rhythm, his large hands resting on your waist, guiding your movements but not forcing them.

You reach for the buckle of his belt, your fingers completely steady, but before you can even undo the clasp, the dynamic shifts.

Dean’s patience completely snaps.

“Okay. You’ve had your fun,” Dean growls softly against your lips.

Before you can even react, his hands tighten on your waist. He lifts you effortlessly — like you weigh absolutely nothing at all — and in one fluid, powerful motion, he flips you.

You let out a startled gasp as your back hits the mattress. Suddenly, Dean is hovering over you, his broad shoulders blocking out the overhead light. His eyes are entirely black now, the playful, indulgent boy completely gone, replaced by something dark, dominant, and terrifyingly hot.

“You think you’re the only one who likes control?” Dean murmurs, leaning down so his mouth is a breath away from your ear. “You think you can just climb on top of me, grind against me like that, and I’m just going to lay there and take it?”

“You were doing a very good job of it,” you try to say haughtily, but your voice is suddenly a little breathless.

“I was letting you win the first period,” Dean corrects, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of your earlobe. “But the game is mine now.”

He doesn’t give you a chance to argue. His hands are everywhere. He unclasps your bra with a single, practiced flick of his fingers, tossing it aside. He takes your mouth again in a bruising, dominant kiss, swallowing your soft gasp as his warm, rough palm cups your breast. His thumb drags firmly over your nipple, and a jolt of pure pleasure shoots straight down to your core.

You arch your back, your hands tangling in his thick blond hair. The icy, untouchable Russian princess act is rapidly melting under the sheer, scorching heat of his attention.

Dean breaks the kiss, moving his mouth down your neck, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone. At the same time, his hand slides down your stomach, hooking his fingers into the waistband of your lace panties and pulling them down your legs.

He steps off the bed for exactly three seconds. The sound of his zipper dragging down, his jeans hitting the floor, and the tear of a foil wrapper are deafening in the quiet room.

When he comes back over you, he is completely bare, beautiful, and completely focused. He settles between your thighs, his knees pressing your legs wider.

He reaches down, his fingers finding your slick, aching center. He strokes you once, two fingers pressing deep inside, and you let out a sharp, genuine cry.

“You’re so fucking wet for me,” Dean groans, his voice dark with triumph. He leans down, his mouth hovering over yours. “Tell me you want this.”

“I want it,” you breathe, your accent heavy. “Do not make me wait, Dean.”

He doesn’t. He grips your hips, aligning himself with your wet heat, and pushes forward.

He fills you completely in one long, agonizingly slow thrust. You gasp, your nails digging half-moons into the hard muscles of his back as he buries himself to the hilt. It’s incredibly deep, stretching you so perfectly it makes your vision swim.

Dean freezes, a low shuddering groan tearing from his throat. He rests his forehead against yours, his eyes closed, his jaw clenched tight as he fights for control.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he breathes, his body trembling over yours. “You are so tight. So incredibly tight.”

“Move,” you demand softly, your hips instinctively arching up to take him deeper.

Dean’s eyes snap open. “Yes, ma’am.”

He starts to move. He pulls back almost completely before driving his hips forward, burying himself deep inside you again. The friction is immediate and explosive.

“Oh!” You gasp, your head throwing back against the pillows.

Dean sets a brutal, relentless pace. He isn’t rushing, but he isn’t being gentle either. Every thrust is deep, hard, and perfectly angled. He hits the exact spot that makes your toes curl with every single stroke. The skin-on-skin slap of his hips meeting yours echoes loudly in the quiet room, a dirty, incredibly erotic sound.

“Is this good?” Dean asks, his voice thick, thrusting hard into you. “Is my form okay for you, Moscow?”

“Shut up,” you moan, your hands gripping his shoulders desperately.

“You had a lot of opinions about my performance on the ice,” Dean taunts darkly, dropping his head to bite lightly at your neck as he pounds into you. “Critique this.”

“Dean-”

“Say my name again,” he demands, his grip on your hips tightening. He angles his hips differently, grinding hard against your clit with his pelvis as he thrusts deep inside you.

The sensation is so sharp, so overwhelming, that your brain completely short-circuits. The English language entirely evaporates from your mind.

“Bozhe moy,” you cry out, your voice fracturing.

Dean freezes for a fraction of a second, his head snapping up. His eyes are wide, wild with sudden, explosive heat.

“What did you just say?” He breathes, thrusting back into you with sudden, renewed ferocity.

“Da,” you gasp, completely unable to stop yourself. The pleasure is mounting too fast, spiraling out of control. “Da, pozhaluysta.”

“Russian,” Dean groans, the sound completely animalistic. “Fuck, yes. Keep doing that. Talk to me in Russian.”

He speeds up, his thrusts becoming a rapid, punishing rhythm. You are completely lost in it, clinging to his broad shoulders as the world spins around you.

“Sil’neye,” you beg, your nails scratching down his back. Harder. “I don’t know what that means,” Dean rasps, his chest heaving, sweat dripping from his forehead onto your collarbone. “But I fucking love it. Tell me you’re mine. Tell me in Russian.”

“Tvoya,” you sob, the word slipping out as the tension in your core finally snaps. “Ya tvoya.”

The climax hits you like a freight train. You cry out loud, your back bowing off the mattress as wave after wave of intense, blinding pleasure rips through your body. Your inner muscles clamp down hard around his thick length, milking him perfectly.

Dean lets out a loud, raw shout. He drives into you two more times, impossibly deep, and then completely falls apart. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his body shaking uncontrollably as he empties himself inside the condom, completely surrendering to you.

For a long time, the only sound in the room is the ragged, desperate sound of both of you fighting to catch your breath.

Dean’s heavy weight is crushing you into the mattress, but you don’t care. You feel thoroughly, beautifully wrecked.

Slowly, the haze begins to clear. Dean shifts his weight, pulling out of you with a soft, wet sound, and carefully rolls off to the side to dispose of the condom. When he comes back, he drops onto the mattress beside you, throwing one heavy arm and a leg over your body, pulling you flush against his side.

You rest your head on his bare chest, listening to his heart still hammering against his ribs.

“Wow,” Dean breathes into the quiet room.

“Yes,” you agree softly, your voice still a little raspy.

Dean presses a soft kiss to the top of your head, his fingers lazily tracing the curve of your hip. “You completely lost your mind there at the end, didn’t you?”

You feel a flush creeping up your neck. “I do not know what you are talking about.”

“Liar,” Dean laughs softly. “You lost your English entirely. It was the hottest fucking thing I have ever experienced in my entire life.”

You turn your head, resting your chin on his chest so you can look up at him. His eyes are soft now, completely completely devoid of the cocky arrogance he usually wears like armor. He just looks entirely, thoroughly captivated by you.

“You played a good game, Di Laurentis,” you tell him, your accent soft and thick in the quiet room.

Dean smiles, reaching up to tuck a damp strand of hair behind your ear. “Good enough for a second round?”

You raise an eyebrow, your old, haughty confidence returning in full force. “Do not flatter yourself. Let us see if you can handle the conditioning drills first.”

Dean throws his head back and laughs, a bright, happy sound that makes something warm and completely foreign bloom in the center of your chest. He pulls you up slightly, capturing your lips in a soft, lazy kiss that tastes like contentment and the promise of a very long night.

“Whatever you want, Moscow,” Dean murmurs against your mouth. “I’m not going anywhere.”

***

The house living room smells like stale pepperoni, cheap beer, and the distinct, aggressive musk of four college athletes who have been yelling at a television for the past two hours.

Dean is sprawled in the worn armchair, a long-necked bottle of Corona resting on his stomach. On the ratty couch, Garrett, Logan, and Tucker are packed shoulder-to-shoulder, their eyes completely glued to the sixty-inch screen mounted on the wall.

It is a Tuesday night, which means the Boston Bruins are playing the Toronto Maple Leafs, and in this house, an NHL game is basically a religious event.

On the screen, Ilya Rozanov, the Bruins’ star center and arguably the most terrifying, arrogant, and talented player in the league, intercepts a pass at center ice. With a burst of speed that defies the laws of physics for a man of his massive size, he blows past two Toronto defensemen, dekes the goalie out of his crease, and casually roofs the puck on his backhand.

The goal horn blares through the TV speakers, shaking the floorboards of the living room.

“Holy shit,” Garrett breathes, leaning forward so fast he almost knocks over his beer. “Did you see that edge work? The guy is an absolute machine.”

“It’s disgusting,” Logan agrees, shaking his head in awe. “He makes NHL defensemen look like Pee-Wee players. It’s physically embarrassing for them.”

“And there are still idiots out there who claim Shane Hollander is a better player,” Tucker snorts, reaching for a slice of cold pizza from the box on the coffee table. “Hollander is great, sure. He’s got the golden boy reputation. But Rozanov? Rozanov is a killer. He has zero conscience on the ice.”

“Hollander has better defensive metrics,” Garrett points out, ever the captain. “But yeah, offensively, Rozanov is in a league of his own. If I ever meet him, I think I’d actually ask him to sign my chest.”

Dean laughs, taking a slow sip of his beer. “You literally have a poster of him in your bedroom, Garrett. It’s creepy. You’re twenty-two years old.”

“It’s not a poster, it’s a framed print,” Garrett corrects defensively. “And it’s about respecting greatness, Di Laurentis. Try it sometime.”

Dean just grins, leaning his head back against the armchair. He feels relaxed. Better than relaxed, actually. He feels completely, terrifyingly anchored. It’s been three weeks since that first date with you, and his life has practically flipped upside down. He spends half his nights sneaking into your luxury apartment, and the other half trying to convince you to stay at his place. You are demanding, brilliant, ruthlessly critical of his defensive zone coverage, and the best thing that has ever happened to him.

He hasn’t looked at another girl since the night you called his backhand weak.

On the TV, the broadcast cuts away from the Bruins’ bench celebrating the goal.

“An unbelievable individual effort from Ilya Rozanov,” the play-by-play commentator announces over the roar of the TD Garden crowd. “His tenth goal of the season already, and we’re not even fully into November.”

“And you know who’s loving it up there?” the color commentator chimes in. “Let’s take a look up at the Bruins’ friends and family suite.”

The camera cuts from the ice to the luxury boxes high above the lower bowl. The shot zooms in on two young women sitting in the plush front-row seats, leaning over the glass barrier to look down at the ice.

Dean’s brain instantly short-circuits.

He stops breathing. The bottle of Corona slips dangerously in his grip.

It’s you.

You are right there on the sixty-inch screen, wearing a flawless black leather jacket over a form-fitting white top. Your hair is styled in perfect waves, and you are currently in the middle of an animated, laughing conversation with the woman sitting next to you.

“Whoa,” Logan says, leaning forward. “Who are they? The one on the left is gorgeous.”

“Shut up, John,” Dean croaks, his voice cracking horribly.

The broadcast graphics flash at the bottom of the screen, highlighting the two of you.

“That’s Svetlana Vetrova on the right,” the commentator explains cheerfully. “Daughter of the legendary Soviet goaltender Sergei Vetrov. She and Rozanov grew up together in Moscow.”

The camera pans slightly, focusing entirely on your face as you laugh at something Svetlana says.

“And with her is Ilya Rozanov’s younger sister,” the broadcaster continues, the words echoing through the dead silent living room like gunshots. “She just moved to Boston this fall to attend university locally. The Rozanov siblings are famously close. Ilya practically raised her, and rumor has it he is incredibly protective.”

The TV screen shows Ilya skating back to the bench. He looks up toward the suite, pointing a gloved finger directly at you. You smile, rolling your eyes affectionately, and give him a small, sarcastic golf clap.

In the house, the silence is so heavy it could shatter glass.

Garrett’s jaw is practically on the floor. He slowly, mechanically turns his head to look at Dean.

Logan and Tucker follow suit, their eyes wide with absolute, unadulterated horror.

Dean is frozen in the armchair. All the blood has rushed out of his face, leaving him pale and dizzy. His heart is hammering a frantic, terrified rhythm against his ribs.

He thinks about the way he pushed you against his bedroom door. He thinks about the sheer, insane volume of highly explicit texts he has sent to your phone in the last forty-eight hours. He thinks about the massive, bruised hickey he left just below your collarbone two days ago — a hickey that Ilya Rozanov could probably see with his naked eye from center ice.

“Dean,” Garrett whispers, his voice trembling slightly. “Is that …”

“Yes,” Dean says hollowly.

“That’s Moscow,” Tucker confirms, sounding like he’s at a funeral. “That’s your girl.”

“She didn’t tell me,” Dean gasps out, clutching the beer bottle like a lifeline. “She told me her brother paid for her apartment! She never said her brother was the most dangerous player in the National Hockey League!”

“You’re sleeping with Ilya Rozanov’s little sister,” Logan says, the reality of the situation finally crashing down on him. A slow, hysterical laugh bubbles up in his chest. “Dean. He is going to literally kill you. He is going to break your legs with his bare hands.”

“I have a poster of her brother in my room,” Garrett says, staring blankly at the wall. “I’ve been in the same room as you two while you were making out, and I have a poster of her brother on my wall.”

“What do I do?” Dean demands, panic finally settling in. He drops the beer onto the side table and runs both hands through his hair, gripping the blond strands tightly. “Do I text her? Do I ask why she didn’t tell me? Do I change my name and move to Mexico?”

“You can’t move,” Tucker says solemnly. “Rozanov has Russian mob connections. He will find you.”

“He does not have mob connections!” Dean yells, though his voice pitches up nervously. “Does he?”

“Dude, he led the league in penalty minutes for three consecutive seasons,” Logan points out, highly unhelpful. “He shattered a guy’s jaw last year just for looking at his goalie wrong. If he finds out you — Briar’s biggest, sluttiest defenseman — are hooking up with his baby sister? You’re dead. They’ll never find your body.”

Dean stares at the television screen. The broadcast has moved on, showing a replay of the goal, but Dean can’t see the puck. All he sees is his own impending doom.

He is so incredibly fucked.

***

Two hours later, you are sitting in a private booth at one of the most exclusive steakhouses in Boston.

The post-game adrenaline is still buzzing in the air. Ilya is sitting across from you, casually dressed in a dark designer sweater that stretches tight across his massive shoulders. He has a faint, purpling bruise on his jaw from a high stick in the second period, but his mood is absolutely electric.

“I told you,” Ilya says, cutting into a massive, rare ribeye steak. “Toronto defense is weak this year. They leave the middle of the ice wide open. It is insulting.”

“You showboated on the breakaway,” you point out, sipping your sparkling water. “You did not need to go to the backhand. The five-hole was open.”

“I am an entertainer, Y/N,” Ilya replies smoothly, chewing his steak. “The fans pay a lot of money to see me play. I must give them a show.”

You roll your eyes, picking at your truffle fries. You love him, but his ego takes up ninety percent of any room he walks into. Still, the dinner is nice. Sibling bonding time is rare during the NHL season, and you cherish the moments when it’s just the two of you, speaking Russian and acting entirely normal.

“Sveta looked well,” you say, changing the subject. “I hear she is thinking of taking a job with the Bruins.”

“She is good,” Ilya nods. “She asks about you. She says you are distracted lately.”

You pause, a fry halfway to your mouth. You lower it back to the plate, keeping your expression completely neutral. “I am not distracted. I am adjusting to a new country and a new curriculum. Economics is demanding.”

Ilya stops chewing. He swallows, rests his forearms on the heavy mahogany table, and pins you with a dark, intensely knowing look.

“Do not lie to me, little bird,” Ilya says softly, his heavy accent wrapping around the Russian words. “You have been living here for months. You were not distracted in September. But the last three weeks? You are checking your phone during the game. You are smiling at your screen.”

“I look at memes,” you lie smoothly.

“You do not understand American memes,” Ilya shoots back without missing a beat. “So, let us skip the part where you insult my intelligence. Who is putting that smirk on your face?”

You let out a slow sigh, leaning back against the leather booth. You knew this conversation was coming. Ilya is overprotective on a good day, and completely tyrannical when it comes to the men in your life. You intentionally haven’t told him about Dean because you wanted to enjoy the early stages without your brother accidentally ending Dean’s hockey career.

“It is nothing serious,” you say carefully, sticking to Russian so the waiter passing by won’t understand. “Just a boy from the university.”

Ilya’s eyes narrow instantly. “A boy. Does this boy play a sport?”

“That is irrelevant.”

“It is highly relevant. If he is a hockey player, I need to know immediately so I can arrange an accident on the ice.”

“Ilya.” You give him a sharp, warning look. “I am nineteen years old. I am allowed to have fun. You told me to have fun.”

“I told you to have fun with respectable men,” Ilya argues, jabbing his steak knife in your direction. “Not college athletes. They are animals. They do not know how to treat a woman.”

“He treats me very well, actually,” you fire back, defending Dean instinctively. The memory of Dean’s complete devotion — both in and out of the bedroom — flashes through your mind. “He takes me to nice places. He is polite.”

“Polite,” Ilya snorts, taking a large gulp of his red wine. “Sure. And what does this polite boy think is happening between you two? Does he know it is casual? Because men like that, they get attached. They get possessive.”

“He knows,” you say smoothly, though a tiny flicker of doubt sparks in your chest. Does Dean know it’s casual? He certainly hasn’t been acting casual lately. He acts like he owns you, and worse, you find yourself letting him.

“He knows,” Ilya repeats sarcastically. He shakes his head, cutting another piece of steak. “I worry about you, Y/N. You play these games, but eventually, someone gets hurt. You cannot just keep things casual forever. Eventually, you have to commit or walk away.”

You stare at your brother. The sheer hypocrisy of his statement actually leaves you speechless for a moment.

You slowly pick up your glass of wine, swirling the dark red liquid. You look at Ilya over the rim of the glass, a slow, lethal smirk curling the corners of your mouth.

“You are giving me advice on commitment?” You ask, your tone dangerously soft.

Ilya pauses, a flicker of unease crossing his features. “I am your older brother. It is my job to give you advice.”

“Interesting,” you note, leaning forward and resting your elbows on the table. “Because as far as I can tell, you have been in a situationship for the last six years, and you still refuse to put a label on it.”

Ilya’s jaw drops slightly. The smug, overprotective older brother act completely shatters. A dark, furious blush creeps up his neck, disappearing into his hairline.

“I do not know what you are talking about,” Ilya says rigidly.

“Oh, please.” You take a sip of your wine, enjoying the sudden shift in power. “How is Jane?”

Ilya actually chokes on his wine. He coughs, grabbing his napkin and pressing it to his mouth, his eyes watering.

You watch him without an ounce of pity. You have known about “Jane” for years. You know exactly who “Jane” is. You know that Jane is not a woman, and you know that Jane happens to be a certain golden boy captain of the Canadian national team who plays in Montreal. You know that Ilya and Shane Hollander have been hooking up in secret hotel rooms across North America for years, wrapped up in a bitter rivalry that is a very thin cover for a desperate, consuming obsession.

Ilya refuses to admit it out loud, but he knows that you know.

“Jane is fine,” Ilya grits out finally, glaring at you across the table.

“Good. Tell her I say hello,” you say pleasantly. “And tell her that if she ever breaks your heart, I will break her legs. That is the system, yes?”

Ilya stares at you. For a long, tense moment, the air between you crackles with unspoken threats and sibling stubbornness.

And then, slowly, the tension breaks.

Ilya lets out a low, rumbling laugh, shaking his head. He wipes his mouth with the napkin, looking at you with a mixture of immense pride and total defeat. You really are his exact replica.

“You are a menace, Y/N,” Ilya says softly.

“I learned from the best,” you reply smoothly.

Ilya sighs, raising his glass of wine toward you in a gesture of surrender. “Fine. You win. I will stop asking about the boy from university. For now. But if he hurts you, Y/N, I am serious. I will end him.”

“He will not hurt me,” you say confidently, clinking your glass against his. “I would never give him the power to do so.”

“Za zdarovye,” Ilya murmurs.

“Za zdarovye.”

You take a sip of the expensive wine, feeling a rush of affection for your brother. You handled him perfectly. He is backed off, your secret is safe, and your casual arrangement with Dean remains uninterrupted.

But as you set your glass down, your phone buzzes in your purse.

You pull it out, glancing at the screen under the table so Ilya can’t see.

It’s a text from Dean.

Actually, it’s six texts from Dean, sent in rapid succession.

Dean: Tell me right now you’re not actually Ilya Rozanov’s sister.

Dean: Holy shit.

Dean: They showed you on the broadcast.

Dean: Garrett is hyperventilating into a paper bag.

Dean: Why didn’t you tell me?

Dean: Are you with him right now? Don’t let him look at your neck.

You stare at the screen. Your carefully constructed, compartmentalized life is suddenly colliding in real-time.

You look up across the table. Ilya is casually cutting into his steak, completely oblivious to the absolute meltdown happening on your phone. He is relaxed, happy, and entirely unaware that his beloved little sister is sleeping with a hockey player.

You look back down at the screen, your thumb hovering over the keyboard.

A tiny, wicked thrill races down your spine. The game just got a lot more interesting.

You: I am having dinner with him now.

You: Do not panic, Di Laurentis. He does not know about you. Yet.

You hit send, slide the phone back into your purse, and pick up your fork, completely unbothered.

Across town, Dean receives the text.

He stares at his phone screen for a full minute, the words burning into his retinas. The terrifying confidence of your reply does nothing to soothe his racing heart.

“Well?” Logan asks nervously from the couch. “What did she say?”

Dean slowly lowers his phone, looking at his three best friends. His expression is completely haunted.

“She told me not to panic,” Dean whispers.

“Oh, you’re dead,” Tucker nods sagely. “That’s exactly what people say right before they execute you.”

“Can I have your signed Marchand stick when you die?” Garrett asks, entirely serious.

Dean ignores them. He falls back against the armchair, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. He is terrified. He is absolutely, completely terrified of Ilya Rozanov finding out that Dean has had his hands all over his little sister.

But beneath the terror, beneath the very real threat of physical violence, there is another feeling. A feeling that Dean can’t ignore, no matter how hard he tries.

He thinks about you sitting across from the most intimidating man in the NHL, calmly texting him, completely in control of the situation. He thinks about the way you challenge him, the way you speak Russian against his skin in the dark, the way you make him want to be better, faster, stronger just to earn a shred of your approval.

Dean drops his hands, staring blankly at the ceiling of the hockey house.

He is terrified. But he isn’t going to run.

“I’m keeping her,” Dean says suddenly, his voice quiet but incredibly firm.

The three guys on the couch stop talking. They stare at Dean like he has just lost his mind.

“Dean,” Garrett says slowly. “Did you hear what we just said? Her brother will end your career. He will end your life.”

“I don’t care,” Dean says, sitting forward. The panic is fading, replaced by that fierce, undeniable stubbornness that makes him the best defenseman in the conference. He grabs his beer, taking a long pull. “Let him try. I’m not letting her go.”

Logan sighs, rubbing his temples. “We’re going to need to buy so many deadbolts.”

Read part two here

[heavenly-angell]

[kteague]

[moodyabbott]

i made this to respond to a tiktok comment for one of my edits. sharing with u guys too lol

[lovergirlcinema]

You are Cordially Invited...

Dearest Lovergirls, It is with the greatest honor and pleasure that I announce the official wedding of our lovely couple, YN YLN and Jack Abbot. The happy couple has asked our team to present you all with official wedding invitations, which will be hosted in Oak Bluffs.

As you are all aware, we've watched this couple grow from their first accidental meeting at the ER to their first intimate moments with each other. You've all been there for every step of the way on this spectacular journey. I can't thank you all enough for being here and supporting them through it all. We've laughed, we've cried, we've made freaked-out comments about Jack Abbot, and some of us have even been placed in timeout. Nonetheless, we have made it to our big moment. Before our wedding chapter, we will have the wedding weekend, which will include all of the activities that our happy couple does before the big day. To reserve your seat for this special ceremony, I do ask that you RSVP either in the comments or by reblog! Thank you all so much. I look forward to seeing you all at the ceremony!

link to the series here:

The Guest List (taglist):

@cosmicneptune @abschaffer2 @slvtformyman @naibaby

@blyffe @xxohsnapitspatxx @accountforreading123

@danielle143 @butterpas2 @thebabykashmere @1dhoe93

@heyimmisunderstood @chubbyblackhottie @hollddgk

@tyinek @dynasty1996 @a-true-janian-reply @nainai5243

@amacohet @blueblizzardreview @itzpixiebabe

@periesque @ace-spades-1 @silovicbaird @no-effortlol

@thatonecarebear @pitstop-piastri @slytherclaw1978

@closetednerd @ifyoubewooedingoodtime @mirathebookworm

@irissunshines @beas-mind @kellthegreatest @twilight0306

@expensiveazzqu33n @hi-im-dr-spencer-reid @osoyums

@jsamara52 @tinypalacehumanpsychic @anniebelsworld2

@spicypsionthunder @ynniksslirg

[itsaintmebabe]

selfish

୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ summary: jack finds out that his daughter has a boyfriend which leads him to find out that he’s been absent in her life for far too long.

pairing: jack abbot x teenage daughter! reader

warnings: brief descriptions of a fight, blood, hospital setting, medical terminology and probably inaccurate medical scenes

notes: this fic is based of this request! if you wanna make a request feel free to ask and let me know if i should do a part 2 to this fic!!

୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ masterlist

This hadn’t been the plan in the slightest.

One minute you were at your boyfriend’s soccer game, sitting on the sidelines with the rest of the sports med team and trying to finish your chemistry homework between water breaks. The next, you were following the ambulance he was in to the emergency department.

Yeah. Definitely not the plan.

It wasn’t like injuries were rare in soccer. Fights weren’t exactly unheard of either, especially during rivalry games. You’d seen sprained ankles, dislocated fingers, concussions, even one really nasty tib-fib fracture during your sophomore year.

But this was the first time you’d watched something happen to your boyfriend. And somehow that made everything feel slower.

One second Noah had been yelling at one of his teammates to back off after a shove near midfield. The next, he was trying to separate two players before things escalated. Then someone from the other team swung.

You still remembered the sound. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just sickeningly solid.

Noah stumbled backward immediately, hands flying to his face as blood started pouring between his fingers almost instantly.

Training took over before your brain did.

By the time you reached him, you already had gloves on and gauze pressed firmly against his nose. Noah was swearing under his breath while blood soaked through the first pad almost immediately.

“Don’t tilt your head back,” you snapped automatically when he tried to lean his head upward.

“I know that,” he muttered, voice thick and congested.

“You’re literally doing it right now.”

One of the other sports med girls was already radioing for EMS while the coach tried, and failed, to calm down the screaming players still arguing near midfield.

“Think it’s broken?” Noah asked.

You gave him a look.

His nose was visibly crooked already.

“I think you should stop talking.”

That earned the tiniest laugh from him before he winced hard and spit blood onto the grass.

Okay. Cool. Awesome.

Your stomach turned a little at that.

The paramedics arrived quickly after that, kneeling beside Noah while you gave a rushed report automatically.

“Male, seventeen, punched in the face during an altercation,” you said, still holding pressure to his nose. “Brief dizziness immediately after impact but no loss of consciousness, no vomiting, pupils equal and reactive. Heavy epistaxis initially but slowing with pressure.”

One of the paramedics glanced at you, impressed.

“You planning on med school?”

“My dad works in an ER,” you answered automatically.

That somehow explained everything.

They transferred Noah onto the stretcher mostly because of the amount of blood and the dizziness, though everyone seemed pretty confident it was a nasal fracture more than anything life-threatening. Still, facial injuries could be tricky, and they wanted imaging done to rule out anything worse.

You barely even registered following the stretcher toward the ambulance until one of the paramedics opened the doors.

“Family only, sweetheart.”

“Oh.” You blinked quickly. “Right.”

Noah reached for your wrist before they could close the doors.

“Meet me there?”

“Obviously.”

One of the paramedics told you they were heading to PTMC, and you nodded quickly before jogging toward your car.

The entire drive there, adrenaline buzzed uncomfortably beneath your skin. Not because Noah was dying. Rationally, you knew he wasn’t. But because this was going to become a whole thing the second your dad found out.

So here you were pulling into the staff parking lot, because Jack got tired of hearing you complain about the walk from visitor parking months ago and added your car to the access list, and speed-walking toward the ambulance bay entrance of the ED.

You checked your phone while you moved quickly towards PTMC.

6:34 p.m.

Perfect.

Robby was still here and Jack wasn’t on shift yet. Which meant you could probably explain the situation to him first before having to explain to your father that you’d had a boyfriend for six months and somehow forgot to mention it.

That felt manageable. Slightly humiliating, but manageable.

Before you knew it, you were pushing through the sliding ambulance bay doors, immediately getting hit with the familiar noise of the ED. Phones rang nonstop somewhere near the nurses’ station, monitors beeped in uneven rhythms, and someone down the hall was loudly asking for a psych consult.

None of it really phased you anymore. You’d spent enough time in this department growing up that it almost felt normal. Which was probably concerning.

You moved through the chaos quickly toward the hub, hoping to spot either Dana or Robby. Usually at least one of them was hovering somewhere nearby trying to keep the entire department from collapsing in on itself.

Neither were there.

Great.

You glanced around before looking up toward the patient tracking board overhead, scanning for Noah’s name among the list of room assignments and triage notes.

“Excuse me, you can’t just come back here.”

The voice came from beside you.

You turned to see a tall, lanky guy with shaggy light brown hair and an expression that somehow managed to be both smug and exhausted at the same time. Scrubs. Badge clipped crookedly to his waistband. Probably a med student or resident.

Definitely new.

“Oh, I’m just looking for my boyfriend. He just got brought in by EMS—”

“You still need to get a visitor pass,” he interrupted. “I can show you to the front desk.”

You let out a short breath somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. “I know where the front desk is, I—”

“Good,” he cut in again, already gesturing toward the waiting room. “So let’s head over there, get you checked in properly, and then you can go find your boyfriend.”

“No,” you said plainly, turning back toward the board. “I’m gonna go see him right now.”

The guy blinked at your tone before letting out an incredulous scoff.

“Look, if you don’t come with me to get a visitor pass, I’m gonna have to call security to—”

“Do what?”

Robby’s voice cut cleanly through the conversation.

You looked over immediately to see him approaching from the sink area near the trauma rooms, still rubbing sanitizer between his hands as he walked over. His expression already carried the exhausted irritation of someone who’d dealt with three separate disasters in the last ten minutes and was prepared for a fourth.

The guy beside you straightened slightly.

“Dr. Robby, this girl just came in through the ambulance bay, and I told her she needs to get a visitor pass, but she’s refusing, so I think we might need security—”

“‘This girl,’” Robby interrupted calmly, “is Dr. Abbot’s daughter.”

You watched the man’s face change instantly.

Robby continued before he could recover. “And she also happens to be my niece.”

The guy’s entire posture shifted into immediate panic.

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” you said, unable to help yourself.

Robby finally looked over at you fully now, one eyebrow lifting slightly.

“You came through the ambulance bay again?”

“You gave me the code.”

“That was your takeaway from that sentence?”

You shrugged.

“Where’s Noah?” you asked quickly before he could start lecturing you.

Robby’s expression softened slightly at the genuine concern in your voice.

“South fourteen. Probably getting sent for imaging soon.” He paused, giving you a once-over. “You okay?”

“Yeah.”

“You sure?”

You nodded once. “I’m fine. He got punched in the face, not hit by a bus.”

“Good,” Robby said. “Because your dad is already having a bad enough day, and if I have to add ‘teenage relationship reveal during shift change’ onto it, I might actually quit medicine.”

You winced.

“Can we maybe… not tell him yet?”

Robby stared at you for a long second.

Then he sighed heavily. “Oh, this is gonna be a disaster.” He motioned with his head toward the hallway. “Come on, I’ll walk you over there.”

“I know where South Fourteen is—” you started.

“I know,” Robby interrupted, softer this time. “But I haven’t seen you in a while.”

The slight sentimentality in his voice caught you off guard enough that you decided not to make fun of him for it.

Barely.

You just nodded and moved over beside him so the two of you could walk together through the department. As you did, Robby glanced back toward the guy from earlier.

“Ogilvie, go check on your patient.”

The man, apparently Ogilvie, immediately pivoted and disappeared toward one of the rooms without another word.

You looked back at Robby. “He’s new?”

Robby let out a long sigh through his nose. “Yeah.”

“That explains a lot.”

“He means well.”

“He threatened to call security on me.”

“He threatens to call security on everybody.”

That actually made you laugh a little.

The two of you continued down the hallway, weaving around nurses, stretchers, and an environmental services cart parked halfway in the middle of the corridor for absolutely no reason. A trauma alert was being called overhead somewhere nearby, and you instinctively stepped closer to the wall to let a team rush past.

It was strange how normal all of this felt to you now. Most people your age would probably find the ED overwhelming. Loud. Chaotic. Maybe even scary. To you, it just smelled like antiseptic wipes and bad coffee.

“So,” Robby said after a moment, “you haven’t told him yet?”

You shot him a look immediately.

“Hey, I’m just asking,” he defended. “You guys have apparently been dating for, what, six months now?”

“About that.”

“And Jack has no idea?”

You exhaled slowly, already annoyed by the conversation. “I mean, it’s not like he’s ever home.”

“That’s not true,” Robby said automatically, instinctively defending him.

You gave him a look. A very pointed look.

Robby sighed.

“Okay,” he admitted. “Maybe not the best argument.”

“Exactly.” You crossed your arms tighter over your chest as you walked. “He’s either picking up extra hours here, doing SWAT stuff, asleep because he worked a night shift, or off doing something with Samira.”

Robby stayed quiet.

“And now that I’m a senior,” you continued, “it’s like he thinks I can just handle everything myself.”

“You can, though,” Robby pointed out carefully, clearly very familiar with your aggressively independent personality.

“I mean, yeah,” you admitted. “But that’s not the point.”

Robby glanced sideways at you but didn’t interrupt this time.

“The only time I see him is if I make time for him,” you said, voice quieter now but sharper somehow. “It’s never him making time for me.”

You shrugged like it didn’t matter. Like you hadn’t clearly been thinking about it for months.

“So honestly,” you finished, “it’s not really his business.”

The bitterness in your voice lingered between you.

Robby was quiet for a few steps. When he finally spoke, his tone had shifted completely.

“You know he loves you, right?”

“That’s not the point,” you shot back almost immediately.

Robby looked over at you for a long moment as the two of you slowed near the South hallway rooms.

“So what is the point?”

The question hit harder than you expected.

You glanced away quickly, eyes drifting around the department instead of looking at him. A nurse pushed a portable monitor past you. Someone laughed loudly from behind the nurses’ station. Overhead, another page echoed through the ED speakers.

Anything was easier to focus on than that question. Because the annoying thing was that you didn’t even fully know the answer yourself. You knew your dad loved you. Objectively, logically, unquestionably.

Jack Abbot wasn’t exactly great at talking about feelings, but he showed up when things mattered. He remembered stupid little details about you even when he forgot to sleep. He made sure your car always had gas in it. He texted you reminders to eat before exams even when he was working fourteen-hour shifts.

But somewhere along the line, it had started feeling less like having a parent and more like having a really overworked roommate who occasionally checked your location. And admitting that out loud felt cruel. Especially because you knew how hard he worked. Especially because everyone else in the hospital constantly reminded you how amazing he was.

“Oh look,” you said suddenly, spotting the room number ahead of you. “It’s South Fourteen.”

Robby narrowed his eyes immediately, recognizing the escape attempt.

“Bye, Robby,” you continued quickly, already stepping away from him toward the room.

“You know you can’t avoid the conversation forever,” he called after you.

You grabbed the door handle, turning back just long enough to flash him a quick smile.

“Bye, Robby!”

Then you slipped inside the room before he could say anything else, letting the door swing shut behind you.

The noise of the department dulled instantly.

Noah was sitting upright on the stretcher with an ice pack balanced awkwardly against his face while dried blood stained the front of his jersey. His nose was swollen enough now that the crookedness was even more obvious.

And somehow, despite all of that, the first thing he said when he saw you was:

“You look stressed.”

You stared at him. “You got punched in the face.”

“Yeah, but you look stressed.”

“I mean this is probably the day my dad is gonna find out about you so,” you said flatly.

Noah’s expression shifted immediately into understanding. “Oh.”

“Yeah.” You dropped into the chair beside the stretcher. “And I’m not exactly sure how it’s gonna go, Robby said it’s gonna be a disaster.”

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes.”

Noah winced slightly, though this time it was probably emotional rather than physical.

“Cool. Cool, cool, cool.”

You snorted despite yourself.

Princess walked in a second later carrying supplies for bloodwork, glancing between the two of you before looking at Noah.

“Radiology should be ready for you soon,” she explained while tying the tourniquet around his arm. “CT maxillofacial without contrast. Dr. Langdon wants to rule out any orbital fractures.”

You relaxed slightly at that, at least Frank was the one working on him.

Standard imaging. Precautionary. Nothing sounding immediately catastrophic.

Noah, meanwhile, looked horrified by the needle now approaching his arm.

You blinked at him. “You literally got punched in the face and this is what scares you?”

“I contain multitudes,” he muttered.

“Uh huh,” you said skeptically, shifting your chair closer so you could take his free hand before the nurse stuck him with the needle.

Noah immediately relaxed a little at that.

“You are such a baby,” you informed him.

“Says the person who almost started a fight with hospital staff ten minutes ago.”

“He started it.”

Princess snorted softly under her breath while labeling the blood tubes.

“Vitals are stable,” she said after glancing at the monitor again. “Dr. Langdon will probably come by after CT.”

“Thanks,” you said automatically.

Princess gave you a quick smile before leaving the room, and Noah immediately looked back at you.

“So,” he said carefully, “how bad is this gonna be with your dad?”

You leaned back in the chair dramatically. “I genuinely don’t know.”

“That’s reassuring.”

“I mean, he’s either gonna be weirdly calm about it or become emotionally constipated and avoid the conversation for three months.”

Noah considered that. “The second one sounds worse.”

“It is.”

He squeezed your hand lightly. “For what it’s worth, I’m not scared of him.”

You stared at him for a second.

“He literally works trauma medicine, is a SWAT medic for fun, and was in the army.”

“Okay, I’m a little scared of him.”

“That’s smarter.”

— — — — —

“Well, this is gonna be great.”

Robby sounded deeply unenthused as he approached the hub where Dana had finally returned.

“What is?” Dana asked, looking at him over the top of her glasses while scrolling through something on her tablet.

Robby dropped into the rolling chair behind the counter with the exhaustion of a man who had already worked twelve hours too many.

“Y/n just came in,” he started, rubbing a hand over his face, “with her boyfriend Jack doesn’t know about.”

Dana looked up immediately. “Noah’s here?”

Robby froze mid-spin in his chair. “You know about Noah?”

Dana blinked at him. “Of course I know about Noah.”

Robby looked genuinely offended by that.

“She talks to me,” Dana continued simply. “That girl needs somebody normal to discuss her life with.”

“I thought she only told me,” Robby muttered.

Dana’s mouth twitched. “What? Jealous?”

Robby just stared at her.

Dana laughed quietly to herself before looking back down at the tablet in her hands.

“Why’s he here?”

“I don’t know,” Robby admitted. “Apparently he got punched in the face during a soccer game.”

Dana grimaced sympathetically. “Ouch.”

“Yeah. Sounds like probable nasal fracture. Maybe orbital involvement, so they sent him for a CT.”

Dana nodded once, unsurprised. Then her expression shifted slowly into amusement again.

“Oh, Jack is gonna lose his mind.”

Robby pointed at her immediately. “See? That’s what I said.”

“No,” Dana corrected. “You said this was gonna be a disaster. I said it was gonna be entertaining.”

“What’s gonna be entertaining?”

Jack Abbot’s voice cut into the conversation as he walked toward the hub, stopping a few feet away from them. Dark scrubs on, coffee in one hand. Already looking exhausted before his shift had even technically started.

Robby reacted immediately.

“Brother, hey,” he said quickly, standing up so fast his chair rolled backward into a cabinet. “Ready for shift change?”

He moved toward Jack almost aggressively, grabbing onto his shoulder and steering him slightly away from the desk in what was possibly the least subtle distraction attempt in human history.

Jack narrowed his eyes instantly.

“What’s gonna be entertaining?” he repeated.

“Um—”

Robby visibly searched for literally anything else to say.

“Y/n’s here,” Dana answered calmly from behind the desk.

Robby whipped around to stare at her. Dana just shrugged without looking up from her tablet.

“What?” she said. “He was gonna find out eventually.”

Jack’s attention snapped back immediately. “Why is she here?”

The exhaustion disappeared from his face in less than a second, immediately replaced with alertness. Concern. That very specific ER-doctor hyperfocus that made people start answering questions before he even asked them.

“She’s not hurt or anything,” Robby said quickly.

Jack raised an eyebrow, clearly waiting for the rest of the explanation.

Robby hesitated just a fraction too long. Which, unfortunately, was enough.

Jack’s expression shifted immediately into suspicion. “Robby.”

“It’s not a big deal.”

“That sentence has literally never once been true.”

Dana snorted quietly. Robby ignored her.

“She came in with someone,” he admitted carefully.

“With who?”

Another pause.

Jack’s eyes narrowed further.

“With her boyfriend.”

Silence. Complete silence.

Even Dana looked up for this one.

Jack blinked once. Then again. “…Her what?”

“Oh boy,” Dana muttered under her breath.

Robby held both hands up immediately like he was trying to de-escalate an active hostage situation.

“Before you react—”

“How long has she had a boyfriend?”

Robby glanced at Dana briefly like maybe she wanted to take over now.

Dana absolutely did not.

“About six months,” Robby admitted.

Jack stared at him. “Six months.”

“Roughly.”

“And everybody knew except me?”

“Not everybody,” Dana corrected. “Just us.”

“That is not helping, Dana.”

Jack rubbed a hand over his face slowly, looking somewhere between offended and genuinely confused now.

“She has a boyfriend,” he repeated, like he still couldn’t fully process the sentence.

“She’s seventeen,” Dana pointed out reasonably.

“I’m aware of how old my daughter is.”

“Questionable based on how surprised you seem right now,” Dana said.

Robby actually had to bite back a laugh at that.

Jack ignored both of them completely. “Where is she?”

Robby hesitated.

Jack pointed a finger at him immediately. “Don’t do that thing where you hesitate because then I assume it’s worse.”

“She’s in South Fourteen.”

“With the boyfriend?”

“Yes.”

“What happened to him?”

“Soccer fight,” Robby answered. “Probably broken nose. CT’s pending.”

Jack exhaled sharply through his nose. Then, without another word, he turned and started toward the South hallway.

Robby watched him go.

“…Should we warn her?”

Dana considered it for half a second.

“Nah.” She took a sip of coffee. “This feels educational.”

— — — — —

You had been alone in the room for maybe five minutes.

Noah had just been taken down for his CT scan, leaving you behind with the uncomfortable plastic chair, the faint smell of antiseptic, and hospital Wi-Fi that apparently operated using pure spite.

You frowned down at your phone as Instagram attempted, and failed, to load for the third time.

“How does this place have million-dollar CT scanners but the world’s worst internet connection?” you muttered to yourself.

The loading circle continued spinning mockingly.

You let out a sigh and slumped farther down in the chair, one leg bouncing restlessly against the tile floor. Honestly, now that Noah was gone for imaging and you weren’t actively distracted anymore, your brain had started circling back to the real problem here.

Your dad.

Because there was absolutely no way Robby and Dana had managed to keep this from him for long.

Right as that thought crossed your mind, the door swung open. You glanced up only halfway at first, expecting a nurse or maybe Noah coming back from radiology.

Instead, you nearly launched yourself out of the chair.

“Oh my God—”

Jack stood in the doorway, arms crossed tightly over his chest. Not yelling. Which somehow felt more threatening.

“Hey, Dad,” you said quickly, instinctively holding your hands up a little like that would somehow help. “Are you starting your shift in a bit, or—”

“You have a boyfriend?”

Straight to it.

Cool.

You let out an awkward laugh immediately.

“Um… yeah.” You shifted your weight uncomfortably. “Surprise?”

Jack just stared at you. You knew that look. It was the exact same expression he used on patients who insisted they “accidentally” fell onto obviously dangerous objects.

“You’ve had a whole relationship for six months and didn’t think to mention it to me?”

“Well, now it sounds bad when you phrase it like that.”

“How else is there to phrase it?”

You opened your mouth. Then closed it again.

Fair enough.

Jack looked around the room briefly before looking back at you.

“So where is he?”

“CT.”

“What happened?”

“Soccer game fight,” you answered automatically. “Got punched trying to break it up. Possible nasal fracture, maybe orbital involvement, but he was neurologically intact at the scene. No LOC, no vomiting, pupils equal and reactive—”

Jack held up a hand.

“You gave EMS report?”

You shrugged a little. “I was already there.”

Of course you were.

Jack’s expression softened for exactly half a second at the reminder that you’d probably been helping on the field before it shifted right back into full Dad Mode.

“You should’ve told me,” he said firmly. “At least asked for permission.”

You stared at him.

“Permission?” you repeated incredulously. “Dad, it’s not the eighties anymore. If I want to date someone, I’m gonna date someone.”

The second the sentence left your mouth, you regretted the wording. Because now it sounded way more confrontational than you’d meant it to.

Jack looked irritated immediately. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Really?” you shot back. “Because I’m pretty sure that’s exactly what you said.”

“I said you should’ve talked to me.”

“And when exactly was I supposed to do that?” you asked, crossing your arms over your chest. “Between your extra shifts or before you disappeared for another SWAT call?”

Jack’s jaw tightened instantly. “That’s not fair.”

“No, actually, it is.”

“You think I want to miss things?”

“I think you do miss things,” you snapped back. “Constantly.”

Jack looked taken aback for a second before frustration replaced it just as quickly.

“I am working to provide for you.”

“I know that!”

“Then stop acting like I’m choosing not to be around.”

“But you are!” you shot back louder now. “Every single time you pick this place over literally anything else!”

The words echoed harder than you intended in the small exam room. Jack stared at you. Outside in the hallway, a monitor alarm sounded somewhere distant before abruptly shutting off again.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, voice low and controlled in that way that somehow made it worse.

You laughed sharply. “Oh, I don’t?”

“No.”

“You missed parent night.”

“I was working.”

“You missed Senior awards.”

“I was working.”

“You forgot my interview for college counseling because you picked up someone else’s shift!”

Jack rubbed a hand down his face, visibly trying not to lose his temper now too.

“And you think I don’t feel bad about that?”

“You never even talk about it!” you argued. “You just act like everything’s fine because I’m ‘independent’ or whatever.”

“You are independent.”

“Because I had to be!”

The second that left your mouth, the room went completely still.

Jack looked like you’d slapped him. And honestly, maybe you had.

You were breathing too fast now, adrenaline and anger mixing together in a way that made your chest hurt.

“I’m not saying you’re a bad dad,” you said quickly, though your voice still shook. “But you don’t get to act surprised that I didn’t tell you about Noah when half the time it feels like you’re barely home long enough to know what’s going on with me anyway.”

Jack opened his mouth immediately.

But before he could respond, the door swung open.

“Alright, we’re back from CT—”

Princess stopped mid-sentence as she helped Noah back into the room.

Noah still had the ice pack against his face, dried blood faintly visible near the collar of his shirt, but he looked significantly more alarmed by the tension in the room than by his possible broken nose.

His eyes moved between you and Jack instantly.

“Oh,” he said carefully.

Princess looked between all three of you exactly once.

Then immediately turned to Noah.

“…You did not mention the dad worked here,” Princess said carefully.

“I didn’t know he was here yet,” Noah muttered back.

Jack straightened slightly, visibly trying to pull himself back together now that there were other people in the room. You, meanwhile, looked away immediately, blinking hard a couple times because your eyes suddenly burned in the worst, most embarrassing way possible.

God. Great.

Now you were crying.

Fantastic.

Noah glanced awkwardly between the two of you, immediately noticing both the tension and the noticeable amount of space now between you and your dad.

“Um… hi, Dr. Abbot,” he said carefully.

He stepped forward a little, awkwardly balancing the ice pack against his swollen nose with one hand while sticking the other out for a handshake.

“I’m Noah.”

You let out a shaky breath as one tear slipped down your face.

And then Jack just…

Stared at Noah’s hand. Arms still crossed. Not moving. The silence lasted maybe two seconds. But it felt way longer. And suddenly the anger that had already been building in your chest flared right back up again.

Seriously?

You wiped at your face quickly, glaring at your dad now.

“Are you kidding me?”

Jack looked over at you immediately.

“What?”

“He’s trying to be nice!”

“I’m aware of that.”

“Then shake his hand!”

Princess took one very deliberate step backward toward the computer in the corner of the room. Noah still looked horrified, hand awkwardly half-extended between the two of you.

Jack finally uncrossed his arms with a frustrated sigh before giving Noah a quick handshake.

Too quick. Barely even a handshake.

Noah immediately pulled his hand back.

“Sorry,” Noah muttered. “This is probably a bad time.”

“No, apparently this is a great time,” you snapped before Jack could answer.

“Y/n—” Jack warned.

“No, because what is this?” you demanded, gesturing between him and Noah. “He didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I didn’t say he did.”

“You don’t have to say it!”

Your voice cracked slightly at the end, which only made you angrier. Jack noticed immediately, his expression shifting. But you were too upset now to stop.

“He got punched in the face tonight and still somehow has better manners than you do right now.”

Princess physically turned away at that point, very obviously pretending to check Noah’s blood pressure so she didn’t have to witness the argument directly.

Jack exhaled sharply through his nose.

“I’m not doing this in front of your boyfriend.”

“Oh my God,” you laughed incredulously. “You can barely even say the word.”

“That is not the issue here.”

“Then what is the issue?” you shot back. “That I didn’t tell you? Or that I have a life you don’t know about because you’re never around long enough to actually see it?”

The room went quiet again. Noah looked like he wanted to disappear into another dimension entirely. Jack’s jaw tightened hard enough you could see the muscle move.

“That’s enough.”

“No, it’s not enough,” you said immediately. “You don’t get to walk in here and act like I betrayed you because I didn’t tell you about Noah when you barely know anything going on in my life lately!”

Jack looked genuinely angry now too. “I know plenty about your life.”

“Really?” you challenged. “What colleges did I apply to besides Pitt?”

Jack opened his mouth.

Stopped.

Your chest hurt.

“There it is,” you said quietly, tears falling faster now no matter how quickly you tried wiping them away. “Exactly.”

Jack looked genuinely stunned. Not defensive anymore. Not angry. Just stunned. And somehow that made everything hurt worse. Because it proved your point.

The room had gone painfully quiet around you. Even the usual ED noise felt distant now.

Noah shifted awkwardly near the stretcher, still clutching the ice pack against his face while Princess stood frozen beside the monitor like she was trying to decide whether this counted as a medical emergency.

You laughed once under your breath, shaky and miserable. “You didn’t even know I applied to UCLA until Robby brought it up at dinner.”

Jack finally found his voice again. “That’s not true.”

“It literally is.”

“I knew you were applying out west.”

“That is not the same thing.”

“Y/n—”

“No, because you keep acting like I shut you out for no reason!” you interrupted. “I stopped telling you things because every time I do tell you something, you’re either too tired to listen or halfway out the door.”

Jack’s expression hardened slightly again. “That’s unfair.”

“How?” you demanded. “Tell me how.”

“I am doing my best.”

The words came out sharper this time. More frustrated. More exhausted. And for some reason, hearing that finally snapped something in you.

“I know you are!” you shouted back immediately. “That’s the problem!”

Jack blinked at the sudden volume.

“You think I don’t know why you work this much?” Your voice shook violently now. “You think I don’t get it? Mom died and you buried yourself in work because it was easier than being home!”

The second the words left your mouth, the room went dead silent. Complete silence.

Noah looked absolutely stricken. Princess slowly lowered the blood pressure cuff from her hands.

And Jack went completely still.

You could actually see the moment regret hit you. But you were too upset to stop now.

“You act like I’m supposed to understand everything all the time because you’re helping people,” you continued, crying openly now. “And I do understand it. I understand it all the time.”

Jack’s face had lost all color.

“But sometimes I wanted you to stay home with me instead of picking up another shift!” you admitted, voice breaking completely now. “Sometimes I wanted my dad more than I wanted some amazing trauma doctor everybody else gets to brag about!”

“Y/n,” Jack said quietly.

But you kept going anyway.

“And then you started acting like I didn’t need anything anymore because I got older and handled things myself and—”

“Enough.”

The word cracked through the room hard enough that even you stopped talking immediately. Jack almost never raised his voice at you. Which made it worse when he did.

His chest rose sharply with one uneven breath, eyes glassy now in a way you’d almost never seen before.

“You do not get to stand there,” he said, voice tight with emotion and anger and grief all tangled together, “and act like I stopped loving you because I was trying to survive losing her too.”

Your breath caught instantly.

Jack dragged a hand over his face hard, clearly trying to pull himself back under control.

“You think being at work fixed any of that?” he asked, quieter now but somehow more intense. “It didn’t. It just kept me moving.”

You couldn’t even answer. Because suddenly all the anger had crashed into guilt so hard it made you feel sick. Jack looked at you for another long second before glancing away completely, jaw tight.

Then, finally, he spoke again.

“I need a minute.”

And without another word, Jack Abbott turned and walked out of the room. The door swung shut behind him with a soft click. Silence followed immediately after. Heavy silence.

The kind that pressed against your chest and made everything feel too warm and too tight all at once.

You just stood there staring at the closed door, breathing unevenly while tears continued sliding down your face faster than you could wipe them away.

God. What had you just done?

“I’ll be back in a little while,” Princess said gently after a moment, clearly trying to give you space. “Dr. Langdon should be coming in soon to go over the CT results.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t really answer. You just kept staring at the door like maybe your dad would walk back through it if you looked long enough.

Beside you, Noah gave Princess a small apologetic smile and a nod.

“Thanks.”

Princess squeezed his shoulder lightly before slipping out of the room quietly, leaving the two of you alone.

More silence.

Then:

“It’s okay.”

Noah’s voice was soft, slightly congested from the swelling in his nose as he lowered the ice pack from his face and sat back against the hospital bed. You shook your head immediately at his words.

“No, it’s not.” Your voice cracked completely.

You pressed the heels of your hands against your eyes hard, trying unsuccessfully to stop crying.

“I’m horrible,” you muttered.

“No, hey,” Noah said instantly. “No, you’re not.”

You laughed weakly through your tears.

“I just threw my dead mom into an argument.”

“You were upset.”

“I said horrible things.”

“You said honest things.”

“That doesn’t make them okay.”

Noah watched you quietly for a second before holding his hand out toward you carefully.

“Come here.”

You finally turned to look at him fully.

His nose was bruised purple now beneath the swelling, gauze still tucked loosely beneath one nostril in case the bleeding restarted. He looked exhausted and uncomfortable and probably concussed enough to not even fully be processing what had just happened.

And somehow he was still worried about you.

“Come on,” he said again gently.

This time, you moved. You crossed the small space between you and sat carefully beside him on the edge of the hospital bed. Noah immediately wrapped an arm around you, pulling you against his side as carefully as he could considering his face was probably in agony.

The second he did, you broke again. You buried your face against his shoulder, crying quietly while Noah held you without saying anything for a minute.

Outside the room, the muffled chaos of the ED continued on like normal. Somebody laughed down the hall. A monitor alarm beeped repeatedly. Overhead paging echoed faintly through the ceiling speakers.

Meanwhile your entire chest felt hollow.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” you whispered finally.

“I know.”

“I know he loves me.”

“I know.”

You pulled back just enough to look at Noah.

“He looked so hurt.”

Noah nodded slowly.

“Yeah.”

Fresh guilt twisted painfully in your stomach.

“When my mom died,” you said quietly, voice shaky, “everybody kept telling me how hard it was for him. And I remember thinking that I had to make everything easier because he already looked like he was barely surviving.”

Noah stayed quiet, letting you talk.

“So I stopped asking for things,” you admitted. “I stopped complaining when he missed stuff. I stopped crying in front of him because every time I did, somebody would look at me like I was making things harder for him.”

Your throat tightened painfully.

“And I know that sounds selfish—”

“It doesn’t,” Noah interrupted immediately.

You swallowed hard.

“It just felt like everyone gave him grace because he lost his wife,” you continued softly, staring down at your hands now. “Which, obviously they should’ve. I’m not saying they shouldn’t have.”

Noah nodded once.

“But nobody ever really talked about me like that,” you admitted. “People would ask if he was okay. If he was eating. If he was sleeping. And I’d just be standing there.”

Your voice cracked again.

“And I know he was hurting. I know he still is. But I lost my mom too.”

The words came out quieter than everything else. Smaller. Like admitting it still felt wrong somehow.

“I was a kid,” you whispered. “And everybody acted like I was supposed to understand why he disappeared into work all the time because he was grieving, but nobody really stopped to think maybe I was grieving too.”

Noah’s arm tightened around you carefully.

You laughed weakly through the tears slipping down your face again.

“I think after a while I just got really good at being ‘easy,’” you admitted. “Like if I handled everything myself, then nobody had to worry about me.”

Noah looked at you sadly.

“That’s a lot for anybody to carry around.”

You shrugged even though your chest hurt.

“And now whenever I get upset about him missing things or not noticing stuff, I feel guilty immediately because I know why he’s like this.”

“That doesn’t mean your feelings stop mattering.”

You looked away.

“But it feels like they’re supposed to.”

Noah was quiet for a second before speaking carefully.

“You know two things can be true at once, right?”

You frowned slightly.

“He can be a grieving husband who tried his best,” Noah said softly, “and you can still be hurt by the fact that you needed more from him.”

The two of you sat quietly with his words for a moment. The steady beeping of the monitor beside the bed filled the silence while the chaos of the ED carried on outside the room like nothing life-altering had just happened in here.

You wiped at your face again, exhausted now more than anything.

“You guys will be okay,” Noah said gently after a minute.

You nodded slowly against his shoulder, tears still slipping down your face even though they’d finally started slowing.

Because you knew he was right. You and Jack loved each other too much not to be okay eventually. That didn’t magically fix everything. But it mattered.

“But seriously,” Noah added after another beat, “do you think he actually hated me or…?”

You immediately pulled back enough to punch him lightly in the arm.

“Ow—”

“Oh my God, shut up,” you muttered, sniffling. “That is not important right now.”

“I mean,” Noah said, clearly trying to make you laugh now, “I personally think it’s extremely important.”

“You’re so annoying.”

“Your father looked at my handshake like it offended him.”

Despite yourself, a tiny laugh escaped you.

Noah pointed immediately. “There it is.”

“Don’t.”

“You laughed.”

“I did not.”

“You literally did.”

You rolled your eyes, scrubbing at the last of the tears on your face.

Noah smiled a little at that, though he winced immediately after because apparently smiling hurt his broken nose.

“Okay, ow,” he muttered, pressing the ice pack back against his face.

“That’s what you get.”

“I’m injured.”

“You’re dramatic.”

“I got assaulted protecting the integrity of high school soccer.”

“You got punched because Tyler can’t regulate his emotions.”

Noah gasped weakly. “Way to minimize my trauma.”

You snorted softly, shoulders finally relaxing for the first time in the last twenty minutes. Noah looked disproportionately proud of himself for managing to make you laugh even a little.

Then his expression softened again.

“For what it’s worth,” he said quietly, “your dad definitely doesn’t hate me.”

You raised an eyebrow skeptically.

“He shook my hand eventually.”

“After staring at it like he was considering putting you back in the ambulance.”

“That’s basically approval from a trauma doctor dad.”

Another laugh escaped you before you could stop it.

Noah smiled again, gentler this time.

“He was scared,” he said quietly. “Not about me. About realizing he missed something important.”

Your expression faltered slightly.

“And honestly?” Noah continued carefully, “you scared him too.”

You frowned. “How?”

“You yelled at him like somebody who’d been holding all that in for years.”

The words hit a little too accurately.

You looked down at your hands. “I didn’t want to hurt him.”

“I know.”

“But I did.”

Noah was quiet for a second.

“Sometimes hurting somebody’s feelings and being honest aren’t the same thing.”

You let out a slow breath. “Robby says things like that too.”

“Robby’s emotionally intelligent. It’s upsetting.”

You smiled faintly again. “He’s only emotionally intelligent sometimes, don’t give Robby so much credit.”

Then the room fell quiet once more, though this time it wasn’t suffocating. Just tired.

Eventually Noah nudged your shoulder lightly. “So… hypothetically.”

“Oh no.”

“If your dad does kill me, do you think Dana would testify that I was charming?”

You groaned loudly. “Please stop talking.”

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[lockssteps]

im a fake fan of everything i like because i cant remember anything

[laughconfetti]

no context needed

[carmenlikeme]

Jack Abbot fanfic but reader and Jack have the dynamic of Penelope Garcia and Derek Morgan, send tweet

[itsysnail]

How I feel