hi! welcome to the masterpost of all the fics that I have read and loved!! i have tried to keep this list as organized as possible and try to update regularly! none of these are mine, they belong to and are written by amazing authors so check them out pls! also feel free to tell me if i linked anything wrong or if the link isn’t working so i can fix it!!
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started: 2/3/2021
last updated: 6/10/2026
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summary: what starts as a wrong number nude becomes something neither of them planned for. a week of texts, a facetime call neither of them hangs up from, and a party where jealousy finally shows its hand you and dean end up somewhere that doesn't have a name yet but feels like the beginning of one.
warnings: explicit sexual content, sexting, nudity, oral sex (f receiving), edging, dom!dean if you squint, jealousy, slow burn compressed into one week, strangers to whatever this is, dean diLaurentis being shameless about it, probably slightly ooc dean
author's note: hii i'm back! i know i've been mia this week and i missed you guys, but i come bearing gifts. this one is long, it's explicit, it's a little self indulgent and i had so much fun writing it. as always your comments and reblogs mean everything to me, let me know what you think
It was a slow Thursday night and you should have been studying.
But the list of TikToks was genuinely unstoppable, and you had been meaning to put your phone down for at least ten minutes, but you just couldn't, and then your phone beeped with a text from an unknown number.
unknown number: it's missing you…
unknown number: thinking about what we did last night at the bathroom of malone's. can we repeat that?
The picture that followed was so far from PG it made you quiver.
It showed a male body cut from the head down, a well defined torso, white boxers sitting low on his hips, left hand gripping himself while the right held his phone up to the mirror. You were a little shocked honestly. It was quite girthy. That couldn't be the right word but it was the one your brain produced and you were going with it. Not that you were going to pay a compliment to this unknown manwhore who was sending you unsolicited nudes at 7pm on a Thursday night. Also last night? This meant he was hooking up with people in a bathroom on a random Wednesday? Malone's dirty, sticky floored, one broken lock bathroom at that. Manwhore was definitely the right word.
yn: wrong number dude
Three dots appeared immediately.
unknown number: aw babygirl don't be telling lies ik you liked what we did last night
You stared at the screen.
yn: babygirl? ew
yn: also last night i was asleep by like 9pm
unknown number: oh geez i didn't know i sent an accidental nude to a nun
yn: fuck off. i just like to go to bed early
unknown number: sure you do sister
You made a face at your phone. The audacity. The complete and total audacity of this person.
yn: at least i'm not some dirty manwhore hooking up in malone's disgusting bathrooms on a wednesday night
unknown number: gosh. slut shaming. that's a low even for you
yn: you don't even know me?????
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again. Disappeared again. You stared at the screen. Appeared.
unknown number: fair point
A pause. Then:
unknown number: so who are you then, early bedtime girl
You should not be entertaining this. You should put the phone down, go back to your notes, pretend this never happened. You had a reading you hadn't even opened yet and a paper outline due Friday morning.
And yet.
yn: someone who now knows more about you than she ever wanted to
unknown number: be honest
unknown number: did you like it
You made a sound that was almost a laugh. Almost.
yn: goodbye
unknown number: that's a yes
yn: it's a goodbye
unknown number: same thing
You put the phone face down on your desk. Picked up your highlighter. Read the same sentence four times without absorbing a single word of it. Outside your window someone was playing music too loud and down the hall your roommate was on a call and everything was completely normal and you were sitting here with your highlighter hovering over the same sentence like an idiot.
Your phone buzzed.
unknown number: i'm dean by the way
unknown number: since we're basically intimately acquainted now
You flipped it back over before you could decide not to.
yn: we are not intimately acquainted
unknown number: i mean
unknown number: you've seen my left hand and dick
yn: i hate you
unknown number: you don't even know me?????
You stared at him throwing your own words back at you. Felt something move through your chest that was warm and annoying and completely unwelcome.
Then, against every instinct you had, against every reasonable self-preserving impulse in your body, you typed:
yn: …yn
Three dots. Then:
unknown number: yn
unknown number: pretty name for a nun
yn: i will block you
unknown number: no you won't
You put the phone down. Stared at the ceiling.
The worst part was he was right.
You didn't block him.
You also didn't text him first. That was the rule, and you held it with both hands because it was the only rule you had left and without it the whole thing became something you'd have to think about seriously, which you were not prepared to do. You did not text him first, not once, in the three days that followed. He always started it. A meme at 11pm with no context. A "hey nun" at 2pm on a Friday when you were between classes and your phone buzzed and your stomach did something you pretended didn't happen. A "what are you doing" on Sunday afternoon that you answered before you'd fully processed that you were doing it.
It was nothing. It was just texting. People texted. It meant nothing.
dean: okay but genuinely what are you wearing right now
You were in your roommate's oversized sweatshirt, frog socks, and a hair clip that was losing a structural battle. You looked down at yourself.
yn: why
dean: just curious
dean: academically
yn: academically.
dean: i'm a curious person yn. intellectually invested in you as a human being
yn: you're so full of shit
dean: okay but what are you wearing
yn: something you'd find very disappointing
dean: try me
You looked down at yourself again. The frog socks. The sweatshirt that reached your mid thigh. The hair clip dangling precariously off a chunk of hair that had given up.
yn: an oversized sweatshirt
dean: okay
dean: what else
You felt something shift in the air of your room. Subtle. Like pressure changing before rain.
yn: socks
dean: what kind
yn: …frogs
dean: okay that's genuinely adorable
dean: what's under the sweatshirt
You should have put the phone down. You were capable of it. It was a documented skill you possessed.
yn: why don't you tell me what you think is under the sweatshirt
You sent it before you could think about it too hard. Three dots appeared immediately, like he'd been waiting.
dean: oh so we're doing this
yn: i didn't say that
dean: you kind of said that
yn: i said tell me what you think. that's not confirmation of anything
dean: fine
dean: i think you're wearing something small. something comfortable that you'd never admit you wear for any reason other than comfort but that fits you really well
dean: i think about what's under that sweatshirt more than i should probably admit
The sentence landed before you could brace for it.
yn: you think about that
dean: since the minute you said wrong number dude and didn't block me
dean: yeah
Your room felt very small. You were very aware of the specific square footage of it suddenly.
yn: that's insane
dean: probably
dean: take the sweatshirt off
yn: absolutely not
dean: why not
yn: because i don't do this
dean: yn you've been doing this for twenty minutes
Annoyingly, infuriatingly, completely accurate.
yn: if i take a picture you better not be weird about it
dean: i will be so normal
dean: the most normal i have ever been in my entire life
yn: dean
dean: yn i promise on my life
You looked at yourself in your phone camera for a long moment. The grey bralette under the sweatshirt. The lamp light. You looked good. You looked like yourself which was the best you could say about most things.
You took the sweatshirt off. Took the picture before your nerve ran out. You made sure to adjust the bralette so you boobs could look better in the picture. You sent it.
Immediately wanted to be unconscious.
Three dots appeared. Stopped. Appeared. Stopped. Appeared. Stopped.
dean: okay
dean: so
dean: i need a minute
yn: you said you'd be normal
dean: i lied. i'm so sorry i completely lied
A picture came through forty seconds later and you were not prepared for it.
Same mirror but this time he was not wearing any boxers, just some towel wrapped around his hip, hanging very low, so low you could see that he had shaven recently, which was its own problem. But this time he wasn't doing anything. Just standing there, one hand braced on the bathroom counter, head tilted down, face still out of frame. The line of his stomach, the cut of his hips, and the very obvious, very clear, very present fact that he was already hard and making absolutely no attempt to hide it.
Your mouth went dry.
dean: you started it
yn: i didn't start anything
dean: yn
yn: what
dean: take the bralette off
yn: you first
The picture came through in under fifteen seconds. You made a sound. You were glad you were alone.
It showed him, in what you think it was his bed. The towel still there but now it was not covering him anymore, and you could see the total of his nature. He took the picture from the side, so you could see the way his member was hitting on his abs.
dean: your turn
Your hands were not steady. You were aware of that and chose to file it under irrelevant. You reached back, unclasped it, let it fall somewhere on your bed. Took the picture fast. Sent it before the part of your brain responsible for self-preservation could intervene.
dean: god
dean: yn
yn: what
dean: i've been thinking about this since thursday and somehow it's still better than what i had in my head
dean: which was already pretty good
yn: stop
dean: i'm not going to stop
dean: can i tell you what i'd do if i was there right now
yn: …yes
What followed was not brief. It was not vague. It was not tasteful. Dean DiLaurentis typed the way he apparently did everything else, with complete shameless commitment and an almost offensive amount of specificity and detail. He told you exactly where he'd start. How long he'd stay there. What he'd say while he did it. What he'd do when you tried to rush him. What he'd do when you tried to be quiet about it. He was detailed in a way that made your face hot and your thoughts go static and your hand move south without you fully authorizing the journey.
yn: you're really good at this
dean: i know
dean: are you touching yourself right now
yn: …maybe
dean: yeah?
yn: shut up
dean: i'm not saying anything
dean: keep going
dean: tell me what you're doing
yn: no
dean: yn
yn: i said no
dean: okay
dean: then i'll keep telling you what i'd do
He did. In more detail than before. More specific. He described it like he had all night and no intention of rushing any part of it and the combination of his words and your own hand and the particular airless quality of your room at 11pm on a Sunday had you pressing your face into your pillow trying to muffle yourself.
yn: dean
dean: yeah
yn: i hate you
dean: no you don't
dean: are you close
yn: …yes
dean: good
dean: don't yet
You stared at the screen. Your hand stilled involuntarily.
yn: excuse me
dean: you heard me
yn: you can't tell me what to do
dean: yn
yn: what
dean: wait
yn: dean i swear to god —
dean: wait
dean: send me a voice note
dean: wanna hear you when you come
You waited. Hating him. Breathing. Staring at the ceiling with your hand completely still and your entire body in open revolt.
dean: okay
dean: now
It took approximately thirty seconds and you were embarrassingly loud about it for someone who lived in an apartment with a roommate.
You lay there after staring at the ceiling, heart rate doing its slow return to baseline, phone resting on your chest going up and down with your breathing.
yn: i hate you so much
dean: that's fair
dean: for the record i just had to take a very cold shower
dean: so
yn: good
dean: yn
yn: what
dean: you're really pretty
Not hot. Not sexy. Not any of the words he'd been using for the last forty minutes. Pretty. Quiet and simple and completely unprepared for.
yn: goodnight dean
dean: goodnight yn
You put your phone down. Stared at the ceiling. Thought about the word pretty and how he'd said it like it was just a fact he was reporting. Like he wasn't performing anything.
You were in so much trouble.
It was Tuesday night, almost midnight, and you couldn't sleep.
You'd been lying there for an hour doing the thing you did when your brain wouldn't cooperate, cycling through everything unfinished, everything not tight enough yet, everything that still needed work. Your Political Science thesis proposal. Your reading for Thursday. The general low hum of being someone who wanted things badly and couldn't fully turn that off even at midnight even when there was nothing productive to do with it.
You were not thinking about Dean. You were specifically not thinking about the fact that it had been two days since Sunday and your phone had been quiet and the rule was the rule and you were fine.
Your phone lit up.
Not a text. A FaceTime request.
dean d.
You stared at it. One ring. Two rings.
Third ring.
You answered.
His face filled your screen and you understood immediately why he'd stayed out of frame in the photos. It would have been unfair to include it. Blue eyes, slightly messed up hair, the particular look of someone lying in bed at midnight who had picked up the phone and just called without letting himself think about it too hard. He was in a grey t-shirt and he looked — a lot. He looked like a lot.
He looked at you for one second and the corner of his mouth moved.
"Frog socks," he said.
You glanced down involuntarily then looked back at the screen. "You can't even see my feet."
"I assumed."
"That's —" You shifted against your pillow, propping the phone up against your lamp so you didn't have to hold it. "Hi."
"Hi." His voice was different out loud. You'd built a version of it in your head from the texts and the reality was lower, warmer, slightly rough with lateness. "You weren't asleep."
"No. You couldn't sleep either?"
"No." He shifted, adjusting how he was holding his phone. Behind him you could see the ceiling of what was presumably his room, dark except for the ambient light from outside his window. "I kept almost texting you."
"Why almost?"
"Didn't know what to say." He looked at the camera. "Figured this was harder to overthink."
"Is it?"
"Little bit." The corner of his mouth again. "You look —"
"Don't."
"I was going to say you look like you've been staring at the ceiling."
"Oh." You felt something unknot in your chest slightly. "Yeah. Thesis stuff."
"What's wrong with it?"
"The argument isn't tight enough yet. I know what I want to say but the through line isn't —" You stopped. Looked at him. "Why are you calling me at midnight to talk about my thesis."
"I'm not." He held your gaze. "I'm calling you because I've been thinking about Sunday and I handled what came after badly and I wanted to —" He paused. "I don't know. See you I guess."
The words landed quietly. See you. Not text you. See you.
"You went quiet for two days," you said.
"I know."
"After everything you said Sunday."
"I know." Something moved through his face. "It freaked me out a little."
"What did."
"Sunday." He exhaled. Ran a hand through his hair, briefly out of frame, back. "It stopped feeling like a bit somewhere. And I woke up Wednesday and I didn't know what to do with that so I did nothing. Which was —"
"Cowardly," you said.
He looked at you. "Yeah."
"You said you weren't a coward."
"I said I don't think of myself as one." His jaw moved. "There's apparently a gap."
You looked at him on your screen. His face in the low light of his room, honest and slightly tired and not performing anything. You'd been talking to him for a week and this was the first time you'd seen him and somehow he looked exactly like you'd expected and completely different at the same time.
"I'm bad at this," you said.
"At what."
"At —" You gestured vaguely at the phone. "This. Whatever this is. I don't usually —" You stopped. Started again. "I keep things separate. School and everything else. I don't text strangers at midnight and I definitely don't —" Another stop.
"Send pictures to them?" he said.
"I was going to say trust them." You watched something shift in his expression. "But yeah. Both."
He was quiet for a moment. Looking at you on his screen the way you were looking at him on yours.
"I keep things separate too," he said finally. "I'm pretty good at it usually. Compartmentalizing." He paused. "You're bad at staying in a compartment."
"Is that a complaint?"
"No." He said it immediately. No hesitation. "It's really not."
Outside your window the rain had started, that slow Tuesday night rain that made everything feel very still and very enclosed, and your lamp cast its amber light across your bed and Dean's face was on your phone screen and it was almost midnight and none of this was something you'd planned for.
"Tell me something true," you said. You didn't know why you said it. It came out before you'd decided to, which was becoming a pattern with him.
He looked at you for a long moment. Something working through his face.
"I haven't wanted to be a lawyer since I was about sixteen," he said. "I've been pre-law for three years and I haven't told anyone that."
"Not anyone?"
"Not anyone who'd have an opinion about it." He held your gaze.
"Why are you telling me?"
"Because you asked for something true." A pause. "And because you're bad at staying in compartments so I figure I might as well return the favor."
You smiled. Couldn't help it. Small and involuntary and probably visible on his screen.
"Your turn," he said. His own mouth doing the thing. "Something true."
"I'm terrified of wanting things too much," you said. "Policy work, the thesis, all of it. I've been building toward it since I was seventeen and sometimes the wanting is so loud I can't hear anything else and that scares me. Because if it doesn't work —" You stopped. Steadied. "It's a lot to carry around."
"Yeah," he said quietly. "I get that."
"You?" You looked at him. "You walk around like nothing touches you."
"Yeah." Something moved through his face. "That's a choice."
You held his gaze on the screen. The rain outside. Both of you quiet for a moment.
"What do you actually want," you said. "If you could just — want something."
He was quiet for a long time. Long enough that you thought he wasn't going to answer. The dots of his thinking visible on his face even through a screen.
"Hockey," he said finally. Quiet. Like he was saying it carefully. "I want to coach. Not eventually, not as a retirement plan — I want to work with players. I want to be on the ice, watching someone figure something out, building something. I played all through high school and college and I was good but not good enough to go anywhere with it and I think —" He paused. "I think I'd be good at the coaching side. I see things. What players need. What's missing."
"Dean —"
"It's stupid," he said. "I know it's —"
"It's not stupid."
"It's not exactly the future my parents planned for me."
"Dean." You looked at him on your screen. His face slightly guarded, waiting. "It's brave. Knowing what you actually want when everyone around you has already decided what you should want — that's brave. That's exactly what that is. Don't minimize it."
Something moved through his face. Slow and significant.
"Yeah," he said. Very quietly. Like a decision being made. "Okay."
He looked at you for a moment. Something soft in his expression now, different from before, the careful guardedness of it gone.
"(Y/N)."
"Mm."
"Why don't we know each other."
Something moved through your chest. Quiet and warm and a little painful around the edges.
"What do you mean," you said.
"Like — why is this the first time we've actually talked. How does that happen. You're clearly —" He shook his head slightly. "You're a lot. How have I been on the same campus as you and not knowing."
"I don't know," you said softly.
"I feel like I've been missing something and I didn't know what it was until five days ago when I sent a nude to the wrong number."
You laughed. Out loud, alone in your room at midnight, genuinely laughed. He smiled at the sound of it, something lighting up in his face that made your chest ache slightly.
"That is the most unhinged sentence anyone has ever said to me," you said.
"But you know what I mean."
You did. That was the thing that kept catching you off guard — how much you understood what he meant, how readily, how little you had to translate.
"Yeah," you said. "I know what you mean."
"Okay." He settled back against his pillow, phone propped up now. "Good."
A pause. Softer than the ones before.
"What does your name stand for," he said.
You smiled at your phone in the dark. "That's for me to know."
"And me to find out?"
"Don't push it DiLaurentis."
"You googled me."
"I was being safe. You sent me a nude."
"What did you find."
"That you're annoyingly good looking in photos and you are on the Hockey team" You paused. "Which tracks, apparently."
Something in his expression. Warm and quiet. "Annoyingly good looking."
"I said what I said."
"(Y/N)."
"Goodnight Dean."
"Tell me about the thesis," he said. "The through line thing. What's not connecting."
You looked at him. "You don't want to hear about my thesis."
"(Y/N)." He looked at the camera. Steady. "I called you at midnight. I want to hear whatever you want to say."
So you told him. About the argument, the framework, the part that wasn't landing yet. He listened with his head tilted slightly on the pillow, and he asked questions that were better than they had any right to be, and at some point you stopped noticing you were talking to a screen and started just talking to him.
He talked too. About hockey, about watching players and seeing the gap between what they were doing and what they could do, about the specific satisfaction of being the person who helped close that gap. He talked about it differently than everything else, less careful, more alive, the words coming faster and easier.
"See," you said.
"See what."
"You lit up. Just now."
He looked at the camera. Something soft moving through his face. "Yeah."
"Do that," you said. "Wherever it takes you. Do that."
He looked at you for a long moment.
"Okay," he said quietly. Like a door opening.
The rain outside. Both of you quiet. The comfortable kind of quiet that didn't need filling, that felt like something rather than the absence of something.
"I'm glad you called," you said finally.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"Even though it's —" He checked something offscreen. "12:53."
"Even though."
A pause. Warm. Unhurried.
"You should sleep," he said.
"You should sleep."
"I will if you will."
"Fine."
Neither of you moved to hang up. Your lamp. The rain. His face on your screen, relaxed now in a way it hadn't been at the start of the call, the careful control of it dissolved, just him. Just the person underneath all of it, lying in the dark talking to you.
"Dean."
"Yeah." His voice had gone slow. Tired in the good way.
"Don't go quiet again after this."
"I won't." Immediate. Certain. "I promise."
"Okay."
"Okay." A pause. Barely anything. "(Y/N)."
"Mm."
"You're really pretty."
You closed your eyes. Felt yourself smile against your pillow.
"Goodnight Dean."
"Goodnight."
You didn't hang up. He didn't hang up. Your lamp on, the rain going, his face on your screen quiet and still. At some point the silences between words got longer. At some point you stopped filling them. At some point your eyes got heavy and you stopped fighting it and the rain outside was the last thing you were aware of before you weren't aware of anything.
You fell asleep with his face on your screen.
He was still there when it happened. He watched your breathing slow, watched the moment your face went fully still, the lamp casting its light across you, your hair half out of the clip, the sweatshirt. He stayed there longer than he probably should have, just — watching you sleep. Feeling something settle in his chest that had been restless for longer than a week. Longer than he'd been paying attention to.
He turned his own light off eventually.
Lay in the dark with your face small and quiet on his screen, the rain still going outside your window, and thought about hockey and thesis arguments and the way you'd said do that like you meant it, like you'd decided something about him that he was only just deciding about himself.
His phone died at 3am. The call cut out silently.
Neither of you noticed.
He didn't text on Wednesday.
You noticed at 11am between classes, phone in hand, no notification. You noticed at 3pm coming back from the library. At 7pm making dinner, stirring pasta on autopilot, checking your phone and putting it face down and checking it again ten minutes later like something might have changed. At 10pm in bed, lamp on, the specific silence of a phone that wasn't going to buzz.
You didn't text first. The rule was the rule and you were keeping it.
Thursday was the same. Nothing. You told yourself it was fine. You told yourself it had run its course — a week of wrong number texts and one FaceTime call that had ended with both of you falling asleep and that was a nice thing, a strange thing, a thing that had apparently meant more to you than it had to him, and that was okay. That was information. You were a person who dealt well with information.
You were a very good liar when you needed to be.
Friday night your friend Maya texted the group chat about a party at Phi Delta. You said no. Maya sent a voice note that was forty seconds of your name in escalating tones of disbelief. You said fine.
You wore the black top, which Maya had called fondly the slutty top. Not for any particular reason. Just because it fit.
The party was exactly what parties always were too loud, too warm, cheap beer and someone's vanilla candle losing the fight. Maya disappeared within five minutes and you got a drink, found a wall, and told yourself you were having a perfectly fine time.
You were fine. Everything was fine.
You were doing your idle party scan when you saw him.
Dean.
Across the room, red cup in hand, laughing at something. Dark green shirt pushed up at the sleeves, hair slightly messed up, looking easy and comfortable the way he always looked from what you'd gathered, like every room had been built specifically around him. He looked like the last two days of silence had cost him absolutely nothing.
You looked away.
Took a sip. Looked at your phone. Looked at nothing.
Looked back, because you were apparently incapable of basic self-governance, and that's when you saw her.
Dark hair. Good smile. Hand on Dean's arm with the comfort of someone who had a map of him. She leaned up and said something in his ear and he tilted his head toward her and laughed and your chest did something immediate and ugly.
And then your brain, unhelpfully, connected the dots.
The ease between them. The specific body language of two people who had been somewhere private together. The way she touched his arm like she'd done it before and expected to do it again.
thinking about what we did last night at the bathroom of malone's.
Her.
You looked away. This time you meant it. You pushed off the wall and went to find the kitchen.
Across the room, Dean laughed at something Jessica said and heard approximately none of it.
He'd seen you the second you walked in. Black top, drink in hand, finding your spot against the wall with the self-contained ease of someone who didn't need the room to come to her. He'd seen you and something in his chest had done something immediate and then Jessica had said something and he'd laughed on autopilot and thought I need to go over there and then thought about the two days of silence and wondered if you'd even want him to.
He was going to go over. In a minute. He just needed to figure out what to say first.
Jessica's hand on his arm, sliding slightly. "You okay?"
"Yeah." He scanned the room. "Sorry. Yeah."
He looked back to the wall.
You were gone.
The kitchen was quieter, the music muffled through the walls, someone's abandoned game on the counter. You made yourself a drink and leaned against the far counter and tried to look like someone who was completely fine and at a party by choice.
"You look like you're doing very complex math."
You turned. Tall, broad shoulders, easy to look at. He was looking at you with mild amusement, red cup loosely in hand, clearly also just occupying the kitchen for no particular agenda.
"That obvious?" you said.
"Little bit." The corner of his mouth lifted. "Bad night or just bad party?"
"Neither. Just needed a minute."
"Yeah." He nodded like that was a complete and reasonable explanation. "I get that." He shifted his weight, easy. "I'm Garrett."
"(Y/N)."
"You go here?"
"Yeah. You?"
"Yeah." He leaned against the counter beside you, comfortable distance, just companionable. "What are you studying?"
"Political Science. You?"
"Business." He tilted his head. "So you're either going to run the country or make everyone's lives very difficult in an official capacity."
You laughed despite yourself. "Those aren't mutually exclusive."
"Fair point." His eyes were warm. "You know anyone here or are you flying solo tonight?"
"My friend Maya. She evaporated within five minutes."
"Classic." He grinned. "I came with my housemates. Two of them are definitely playing beer pong." He glanced through the kitchen doorway into the main room, something briefly crossing his face. "One of them is around."
You followed his glance without thinking. Through the doorway. Across the room. And found those blue eyes doing a very focused scan of the party that landed on the kitchen doorway and stopped.
You looked back at Garrett. He wasn't looking at the room anymore. He was looking at you, easy and present, no agenda.
He had absolutely no idea.
"So Political Science," he said. "What do you actually want to do with it?"
"Policy work. Education reform specifically."
"That's —" He looked genuinely interested. "That's actually really cool. I have a cousin in education, she'd probably lose her mind talking to you." He leaned against the counter, unhurried. "Do you like it? Like genuinely, not the resume answer."
You looked at him. It was a good question. A real one.
"Yeah," you said. "It's the first thing that ever made me feel like I was pointed at something."
"I get that." Something moved through his expression. "Hockey did that for me. It does that for me—" He shrugged, easy.
The conversation kept going, easy and warm, moving through things the way good conversations did when you weren't trying to have one. He was kind of funny in an uncomplicated way, interested without being performative about it, and you'd stopped scanning the room and stopped thinking about tall blonds and started just talking to this person who was genuinely good at talking to people.
At some point he said something that made you laugh and you leaned toward him slightly to hear it better over the music bleeding in from the main room and he leaned toward you and you were close, just close, just the natural physics of a loud party and a good conversation, and —
"(Y/N)."
Low. Tight. From the kitchen doorway.
You looked up.
Dean was standing there. Hands in his pockets. Jaw doing significant structural work. His eyes moved from you to Garrett to the distance between you and back to your face in a sweep that took half a second and communicated quite a lot.
Garrett straightened. Looked at Dean. Looked at you. Looked back at Dean.
You watched the understanding move across his face slowly, like something assembling itself piece by piece. His eyes tracked between the two of you once, barely perceptible.
He didn't move away from you.
"Dean." Warm. Genuinely pleased to see his friend. No agenda yet — just Garrett being Garrett. "Hey, man. Do you know (Y/N)? Political Science. Really interesting."
"We've met," Dean said.
"Have you." A statement. He glanced at you, something in his expression recalibrating.
"Briefly," you said. "Hey," you said pleasantly.
"Hey," he said. Something moved through his face. "You look —"
"Garrett was just telling me about the house," you said, turning back to Garrett.
Garrett, to his credit, looked genuinely angelic. "Was I?"
"You were about to."
"Right." Garrett nodded seriously. "Yeah, so there are four of us. Me, Tucker, and two others." He paused. "Dean actually."
You turned back to look at Dean with an expression you kept very neutral.
Dean looked at Garrett with an expression that said several things, none of them printable.
Garrett looked back at Dean with the innocent open face of someone who had made a choice and was at peace with it.
"Housemates," you said. "Fun."
"It's great," Garrett said warmly. "Really great. We're very close. Like brothers almost."
"That's nice," you said.
"It is," Garrett agreed. "Dean especially. Very important to me. I would hate for anything bad to happen to him."
"Garrett," Dean said.
"Just saying."
You looked at Dean. He looked at you. The kitchen felt very small.
A beat. Jessica appeared in the kitchen doorway behind him.
You felt her before you saw her — the atmospheric shift of someone entering a room with an intention. She stood in the doorway with her drink and her dark hair and her eyes moving between you and Dean with an expression that was very calm and very assessing. Her hand found Dean's arm again, light, proprietary.
Dean didn't look at her. He was looking at you.
Jessica looked at you. One sweep. Taking stock. Her hand pressed slightly on Dean's arm.
He shifted his weight. Almost imperceptibly. Away.
Her expression didn't change but something behind it did.
"Can I talk to you," Dean said to you. Not a question.
"I'm in the middle of a conversation."
"(Y/N) —"
"Garrett was talking."
"I really was," Garrett said. He had his drink raised to his lips. His eyes were very bright.
"(Y/N) —"
"We were in the middle of something."
"We really weren't," Garrett said helpfully. "I mean — we can be. (Y/N) seems great. I'm happy to continue."
Dean looked at his housemate with an expression of profound betrayal.
Garrett smiled at him with profound innocence.
You set your cup down on the counter and looked at Garrett. He was cute. He had a good smile and an easy energy and under literally any other circumstances you'd have been happy to keep talking to him all night. You looked at him now and then you looked at Dean — jaw tight, eyes on you, something desperate moving underneath all that control — and you made a choice.
You turned back to Garrett. Leaned against the counter so your shoulder was almost against his. Looked up at him. "So the house," you said. "How many bedrooms?"
Garrett blinked. Recovered admirably. "Four. Dean's is the —"
"(Y/N)." Dean's hand was on your arm, light, just fingers. Same as before. "Please."
Dean looked at his housemate with an expression that Garrett received with complete serenity.
"Two minutes," Dean said to you.
"I'm fine here."
"(Y/N)."
"You didn't text," you said. Pleasantly. Conversationally. Like you were noting the weather.
Something moved through his face. "I know —"
"Two days."
"Phone works both ways, you know."
Your mouth opened. Closed.
"What are you," you said, "my divorced dad?"
Garrett made a sound behind his cup. Not quite successfully contained.
Dean stared at you. The controlled expression cracking slightly, something underneath it that was almost a laugh that he was visibly, effort fully refusing to let happen.
"I —" He stopped. Reset. "That's —"
Jessica's hand dropped from his arm.
"(Y/N)." Dean's voice lower now. The control fraying properly at the edges. Something real pushing through. "I know. I know I should have texted. I kept picking up my phone and putting it down because I didn't know how to say —" He stopped. Looked at you. "Can we please go somewhere that isn't the kitchen?"
"I like the kitchen."
"Garrett —" He looked at his housemate.
Garrett looked back at him with the expression of a man fully at peace with his choices.
"I'm not going anywhere," Garrett said pleasantly. "Spiritually this is my kitchen."
"You don't live here —"
"Spiritually, Dean."
Dean looked at the ceiling. Looked back at you. His face doing something complicated and unguarded and very much not the easy composed version from across the room twenty minutes ago.
And then his eyes moved past your shoulder and something in them changed. Went very still.
You turned.
Jessica was still in the doorway. She wasn't looking at Dean anymore. She was looking at you with an expression that was perfectly calm and perfectly clear and said everything without saying anything. She knew. She didn't know who you were or what had happened but she knew what Dean's face looked like right now and she knew it wasn't about her.
She looked at Dean one more time. He met her gaze. Something passed between them — not unkind, just final. She turned and walked back into the party without a word.
The kitchen went quiet.
Garrett looked at the doorway. Looked at Dean. Looked at you. Took a long slow sip of his drink.
"Garrett," Dean said. Not looking away from you. "I need you to leave."
A pause.
"Yeah, okay," Garrett said. He pushed off the counter. Looked at you with a smile that was warm and genuine and knew entirely too much. "It was really nice to meet you, (Y/N)."
"You too, Garrett."
He looked at Dean. Something in his face that was fond and exasperated and rooting for him all at once. "You got this," he said quietly.
Then he walked out of the kitchen and you heard him immediately start talking to someone in the main room, easy and unbothered, like nothing had happened, like he hadn't just witnessed the complete dismantling of his housemate's composure in real time.
You looked at Dean.
He looked at you.
Just the two of you and the muffled music and the kitchen counter and everything that had been said and not said for a week.
"Talk," you said.
"Jessica," he said. "She's the one from Malone's. I need you to know I didn't invite her tonight, I didn't answer when she texted, I came here and she was just already —"
"I know who she is," you said.
Something moved through his face. "You figured it out."
"Yeah."
"When?"
"When I saw you with her." You kept your voice even. "Body language. The way she touched your arm." You paused. "The way you let her."
"(Y/N) —"
"I don't have a claim on you," you said. "I know that. We've been texting for a week. You don't owe me anything."
"That's not —"
"I was jealous." You said it clearly. Cleanly. Looking right at him. "I saw you with her and I knew who she was and I was jealous and I hated myself for it and then I went and talked to your housemate like an idiot."
"You didn't know he was my housemate."
"I kept talking after I found out."
Something moved through his expression. Warm and wrecked at the same time. "I know you did."
"I was making a point."
"You made it very effectively." He took a step toward you. Not touching. Just closer. "I was watching from across the room."
"I know."
"The whole time."
"I know, Dean."
"You and Garrett were —" He stopped. His jaw. "You were close."
"We were talking."
"And then you were laughing and leaning toward him and I was standing across the room watching it and I —" He shook his head slightly. "I hated it. I really hated it. Which I have no right to feel given that I didn't text you for two days."
"No," you said. "You don't."
"I know."
"You fell asleep on that call," you said. "And then you didn't text."
"I know." His voice dropped. "I know. I woke up Wednesday and my phone was dead and I plugged it in and I thought about texting you and I didn't know how to say — what that call was. What Sunday was. I didn't know how to say any of it in a text so I said nothing. Which was —"
"Cowardly," you said.
"Yeah." He held your gaze. "There's a gap between who I think I am and how I acted this week and I know that and I'm sorry. I'm really sorry, (Y/N)."
You looked at him. His face close and honest and tired of holding it all together.
"How long did you stay on the call?" you said.
He looked at you for a moment. "Until my phone died."
"What time was that?"
"3 a.m."
You held his gaze. Felt something in your chest do the cracking thing, the hairline fracture spreading just enough.
"You watched me sleep," you said.
"For a while," he said quietly. "Yeah."
The kitchen. The music. His face.
"Don't go quiet again," you said. Not angry anymore. Just — asking. "Whatever this is. Don't do that again."
"I won't." Immediate. "I promise I won't."
You looked at him for a long moment.
"Your place or mine," you said.
His whole face changed at once.
"Yours," he said. "Please."
"Say goodbye to Garrett."
"Garrett can —"
"Dean."
He was already texting with one hand, the other finding the small of your back to steer you out of the kitchen.
From somewhere in the main room a whoop rang out. Unmistakably Garrett. Followed by Tucker's voice saying "What?" and Garrett saying something you couldn't catch and Tucker apparently losing his mind entirely.
Dean closed his eyes for exactly one second.
"Your friends," you said.
"I know," he said. His hand warm at your back. "Come on."
The Uber was six minutes away and you spent all six of them standing outside in the November cold, not talking, which should have been awkward and wasn't. Dean stood close enough that your arm was against his, and the cold air bit at your shoulders and neither of you moved away from it or from each other. The party noise muffled behind the door. The street quiet ahead of you.
"You're doing the math thing," he said.
"Garrett told you about that."
"Garrett tells me everything. Mostly when I don't want him to."
"He seemed like a good person."
"He's the worst." A pause. "He's genuinely the best. Don't ever tell him."
The Uber pulled up. Dean opened the door and you got in. Dean folded in after you and the door shut and the back seat was very warm and very small and his leg was against yours from knee to mid thigh, solid and warm. The driver pulled out without a word. Some low music from the front. The city moving past the windows in intervals of light and dark.
Neither of you moved away from each other.
You stared out the window. Felt him looking at you periodically. Didn't look back. Could feel the quality of his attention like a hand on your shoulder — present, focused, pointed entirely at you.
"(Y/N)."
"Mm."
"I've been thinking about you for two days." His voice low, just for the back seat. "I'd be in class and just — thinking about the call. What you said. The way you said it."
"You could have just texted," you said.
"I know."
"Would have been considerably easier than all of this."
"Yeah." His mouth moved. "But you talked to Garrett."
"I didn't know he was your housemate."
"And when you found out?"
You turned your head to look at him. Close in the back seat, the city lights moving across his face.
"I was making a point," you said.
"You made it." Something heated in his expression. Something that hadn't been there in the kitchen — the composure fully gone now, replaced by something more direct. "It worked."
The Uber slowed. Your building. You got out, Dean behind you, the lobby, the elevator. The numbers going up in the quiet. You watched the display and not him and felt him watching you and not the display.
Your floor. Your door. Your keys, which you managed.
The door opened. You stepped inside. Reached for the lamp.
Dean stepped in behind you and the door clicked shut and before you could find the switch his hand caught yours in the dark — gentle, just his fingers wrapping around yours, stilling them.
"Hey," he said. Right behind you. Close.
You turned around.
He was right there. Closer than the hallway at the party, closer than the Uber, close enough that you had to angle your chin up to find his face in the dark. And you'd been building him in your head for a week from a torso in white boxers and a voice you'd invented for his texts and the FaceTime call that had felt like finally, and the reality of him — close, in the dark of your apartment, looking down at you with an expression that wasn't performing a single thing — was a lot. It was genuinely a lot.
"Hi," you said.
"Hi." His thumb moved across your knuckles. Once. "You okay?"
"If you ask me that one more time —"
"(Y/N)."
"I'm okay," you said. "I've been okay. I'm very okay and I'm going to need you to stop asking and start —"
He kissed you.
Not tentative. Not exploratory. Immediate and certain, his hand coming up to cup your jaw, tilting your head back, kissing you like he'd made a decision and the decision was this, specifically and completely this. You kissed him back and got your hands into the front of his shirt and pulled and he made a sound against your mouth that did significant and lasting damage to your nervous system.
He walked you backward through your apartment with a confidence that suggested he'd clocked the layout the second the lights came on. His mouth didn't leave yours except to drag briefly to your jaw, your throat, the soft place just below your ear that made you pull in a sharp breath.
He came back to it. Of course he came back to it.
"Dean —"
"Yeah."
"Bedroom is —"
"I know." He did. His hand found the hem of your black top. He pulled back just far enough to look at you in the low light from the window, asking without asking.
You lifted your arms.
He pulled it over your head and dropped it somewhere and then just looked at you. The way he'd said pretty over text, that same undone quality, like he was actually stopped by it. Like it required a moment.
"What," you said.
"Nothing." He reached out and traced your collarbone with two fingers, just the path of it, watching his own hand. "Just —" He exhaled. "Yeah."
"Eloquent."
"Shut up." He walked you the rest of the way to the bedroom. The backs of your knees hit the bed. You sat. Looked up at him. Reached for the hem of his shirt and he helped you pull it off and then he was standing there in your lamplight and you finally had the full picture — not a mirror, not a photo, not a screen. Just him. Looking down at you with blue eyes and a mouth that wasn't smiling and something in his face that was only for this room, only for right now.
You pulled him down by his belt loop.
He pressed you back into the mattress and took his time about it in a way that directly contradicted the energy of the last hour. He kissed your throat, your collarbone, the curve of your shoulder, hands moving over you with a patience that was a choice, deliberate, made with full awareness of what it was doing to you.
"You said you weren't going to go slow," you managed.
"I said a lot of things." His mouth against your sternum. Moving lower. "I'm revising."
"Dean —"
"(Y/N)." He looked up at you from where his mouth was making its way down your stomach, chin resting just below your ribs, eyes dark and entirely calm. "I've been thinking about this for a week. I'm not rushing it."
"I will actually —"
"You'll what." One eyebrow. "Finish that sentence."
You couldn't. Your brain had stopped producing complete sentences approximately thirty seconds ago.
"That's what I thought," he said, and moved lower.
He was good at this. You'd had data suggesting he would be: the texts, the specific confident detail of them, but the actual reality of his mouth and his hands and the focused attention he brought to learning you was something else entirely. He figured out what worked faster than felt fair. What made you grip the sheets and what made you forget you were supposed to be quiet and what made you say his name like it was the only word you currently had access to.
His hands on your hips. Pressing down. Holding you in place with a firmness that made your breath go unsteady.
"Dean." Strained. "Dean I'm —"
"I know." He didn't stop. Didn't adjust. Kept going with the same patient devastating focus until you were pulling at his hair and had completely abandoned the project of being quiet about any of this.
"I'm going to —"
He pulled back. Just enough. The loss of it was almost criminal.
"Are you serious," you said to the ceiling.
"Very." He pressed a kiss to your inner thigh, unhurried, like he had all the time in the world and your sanity was not his problem. "You did this to me Sunday."
"You told me to wait —"
"And now I'm returning the favor." He looked up at you again. Blue eyes, completely unbothered, completely in control in a way that was profoundly unfair given the current situation. "Problem?"
"Yes," you said. "Significant problem. I have several —"
"(Y/N)."
"What."
"Ask nicely."
You stared at him. "Absolutely not."
He smiled. It was a terrible smile. It was a fantastic smile. He pressed another slow kiss to your thigh and you made a sound that surrendered significant ground in this negotiation.
"Dean." Through your teeth. Barely holding it together.
"Yeah."
"Please."
"Please what." Infuriatingly calm. His thumb drawing a slow circle on your hip. "Be specific."
"Please," you said, "don't stop."
"Since you asked so nicely."
He moved back and you stopped being capable of organized thought entirely.
When it finally tipped over the edge your hand was fisted in his hair and you were considerably louder than you'd planned and you felt him smile against you which should have been annoying and was not even slightly.
He came back up. Hovered over you, forearm by your head, looking down at your face with an expression that was heated and soft and something underneath both that you didn't have the capacity to name right now.
"Hi," he said.
"Hi." Breathless. "You're the worst."
"You're welcome."
You grabbed the front of his hair and pulled him down and kissed him, which he allowed for approximately two seconds before he took over, and his hand moved to your waist and lower and you shifted against him and felt exactly what you'd seen in that photo a week ago and made a sound against his mouth.
"Dean."
"Yeah."
"Now."
"Yeah." He reached past you. Nightstand drawer, you'd already told him with your eyes and he'd already known. "Yeah."
He paused. Looked down at you. Something moved through his face, not quite a smile, something more than that. Something that felt like recognition.
"Left side," he said.
"Don't read into it."
"I'm not reading into anything."
"Good."
"I'm just —"
"Dean."
He kissed you once. Quick and certain and warm. "Right."
The thing about the texts was that he'd told you exactly who he was in them. Exactly how he operated. And he delivered on all of it, present in a way that felt total, attentive in a way that tracked everything, adjusting without being asked, paying attention in a way that made it feel specific to you rather than general, like he was interested in you specifically and not just in the thing itself.
His hands, which you'd had opinions about since Thursday.
The low way he said your name when he meant it, not as punctuation, just — yours. Like it meant something to say it.
At some point you said his name like a question and he said yours back like an answer.
At some point his forehead dropped to yours and you both stayed there for a moment, just that, just breathing, and neither of you moved to change it.
At some point everything tipped and he said your name against your temple and you pressed your face into his shoulder and felt the whole week, the wrong number and the texts and the call and the two days of silence and the party and the kitchen and Garrett's chaotic loyalty and Jessica's quiet exit and the Uber and his hand in the dark finding yours — all of it moving through you and landing somewhere soft.
The room quiet. Lamp still on. Both of you horizontal, breathing slowing back to something normal, the particular warm stillness of a room after something that mattered.
Dean was on his back. You were beside him, your shoulder almost against his, staring at the ceiling. Outside the November cold. Inside just the lamp and the quiet and the sound of him breathing next to you.
"(Y/N)."
"Mm."
"You okay?"
You turned your head. He was already looking at you, head turned on the pillow, close enough to see every detail of his face you'd been denied for a week — the line of his jaw, his eyes in lamplight, darker and quieter than across a party room, the thing in his expression that wasn't performing anything at all.
"You have to stop asking me that," you said.
"Probably." He didn't look away. "You okay?"
You looked at him for a long moment.
"Yeah," you said. "I'm really good actually."
Something in his face settled. Like something he'd been holding released.
"Good," he said quietly.
A pause. Comfortable. Easy.
"Garrett is going to be unbearable," you said.
"For the rest of my natural life." He paused. "He's going to tell Tucker."
"Is Tucker worse?"
"Tucker is going to make a bracket." Another pause. "Tucker is going to frame a bracket."
You laughed. Actually laughed. He smiled at the ceiling, small and private and genuine.
"Dean."
"Yeah."
"Don't go quiet again."
He turned his head. His expression did something you felt in your sternum.
"I won't," he said.
"I mean it."
"I know." He moved his hand across the space between you. Found yours on the sheets. Wrapped his around it, loose and warm, like it was the most natural thing. "I won't."
You looked back at the ceiling. His hand around yours. The lamp. Outside the city doing whatever the city did at this hour, indifferent and ongoing.
"Dean."
"Yeah."
"The coaching thing." You felt his hand go slightly still. "You should tell your dad."
A long pause.
"(Y/N) —"
"I mean it. Not being a lawyer. Hockey. Coaching. The thing that makes you light up when you talk about it." You turned your head to look at him. "Tell him."
He looked at the ceiling. His jaw moved. Something working through his face that was complicated and real and not resolved yet.
"Yeah," he said finally. Very quietly. "I know."
"You know?"
"I know." He exhaled slowly. Turned his head to look at you. "I've known for a while. I just —" He shook his head slightly. "I needed someone to say it out loud I think."
You held his gaze.
"Consider it said," you said.
Something moved through his face. Soft and significant.
"Yeah," he said. "Okay."
Outside the November cold. Inside the lamp and the quiet and his hand around yours and something that didn't have a name yet but felt like the beginning of one.
"What does your name stand for," he said.
You smiled at the ceiling. "Goodnight Dean."
"Tell me."
"Goodnight."
"I'll ask Garrett. First thing tomorrow."
"Garrett doesn't know."
"I'll make something up. Tell the whole team."
"You don't have a team yet."
"I will." He said it simply. Certain. Like a door that was already open. "I will."
You looked at him. Felt something in your chest that was warm and a little terrifying and completely worth it.
"Goodnight," you said softly.
"Goodnight (Y/N)." A pause. His thumb moving across your knuckles, once, slow. "Whatever it stands for."
Summary: Nothing was a challenge for Dean Di Laurentis, until his latest girlfriend but a run for his sex drive. What is really a problem?
Warning: mentions of sex, throat fucking, daddy kink, dean being a coward, name calling, little bit of degrading, mentions of porn
You weren’t the famous Dean Di Laurentis’s type. Well, did he really have a type? He would hook up with any girl that showed him any sort of interest. But you? You were different and that made him even more interested in you.
You weren’t the type that followed him around constantly texted him. You didn’t even walk up to him. Which he wasn’t used to that. You stood there at a party awkwardly at your good friends Hannah’s side and waved. Girls didn’t wave to him.
But since then? You guys had been inseparable. Hannah and Garett were a little on the fence. I mean, you went to the library to study instead of going to parties. You weren’t a big drinker, you would go up to people stating the facts on why alcohol was bad. You weren’t shy and didn’t speak unless being spoken too. You were one of those.
One day before you and Dean had ever gotten intimate, John Logan who was working on the sink for the third time this week had told him. ‘It’s always the quiet ones’. Dean didn’t know what he meant until Logan winked and 2 weeks later he knew exactly what he meant.
“I think my dick about to fall off” Dean said as he stood infront of Garett who was trying to peacefully lift weights. Garett looked at him with a concerned. “I mean, okay not really. But she makes it seem like it. Yesterday we had sex 3 times in a row. I can’t usually go that long. Girls are always one and done. She? She’s different” Dean said as he shook his head. He was shocked the first time you had asked him to fuck you again.
He thought it was a one time thing and you would be lot as soon as you made a mess on his cock but that was wrong. He was convinced that you went into the bathroom later to pleasure yourself again. He had never seen a girl with that high of a sex drive. He assumed your last boyfriend was just a dick and you would grow out of it. But you were far from that.
“Is the sex not good?” Garett asked as he dropped the weight at his feet and checked himself out in the mirror. Dean was known to be a ladies man and fuck like there was no tomorrow but this was different. His friend would never back away from something like this.
“No. It’s fucking perfect. Best I ever had actually. She’s the kinkiest girl I’ve ever met. She’s wearing me out” Dean said as he sat down on the bench. He had abandoned working out 30 minutes ago when he could not stop thinking about you. I mean it wasn’t a problem. Dean never thought he would complain about sex ever.
“Just talk to her. I’m sure you guys could work something out” Garett said as he shrugged his shoulders. Dean probably assumed his sex life with Hannah was boring. Which it probably was. Dean nodded and he knew what he was going to do.
“Hey, sweetheart” Dean said as he walked into his bedroom. Practice had ran a little late that usually and you were sitting in his bed with his hoodie on and some random pj shorts reading a book. You smiled as you shoved your book to the side and stood up to meet him.
“Hi” You mumbled as you wrapped your arms around his neck and he picked you up softly and wrapped his arms around your waist. Moments like this made Dean so lucky to have a girl like you.
Okay, don’t get him wrong he loved you. He loved the fuck out of you. He just didn’t expect a girl like you…to be so damn horny all the time. It didn’t match him, it knocked his out of the park. And how was he going to tell his sweet beautiful girlfriend you really did nothing wrong that she was way too much in the bedroom?
“Wanna talk to you bout something” Dean said as he let go of you softly and sat down on the bed. you sat down right next time him and you looked up at him. Dean, the guy that never got nervous before a game and had ran around campus naked one time for a bet…got nervous in this moment right now. It was like all the words he was going to say completely vanished.
You looked at him with your big eyes innocently, you had no idea that your world was about to be crushed just like that, just by a couple simple words by your boyfriend. Dean looked at you and sighed. You licked your lips as you nodded his head to keep going.
“Yeah? You’re scaring me” You said slightly as you shifted as you looked at him. You racked your mind of things that had happened today to see if you had done anything wrong. And of course Dean was clueless. You did nothing wrong. And you of course would never do anything wrong in his eyes.
“Nothing baby, forgot” Dean said as any serious conversation he wanted to have with you ran from his head. The way you were looking at him he couldn’t stand it anymore. He leaned in and kissed you softly on the lips. You maimed into his mouth as you move on top of his lap. You were already grinding softly on his lap. “Damn, baby. So eager huh?” Dean asked as he pulled away and watched you rut your needy cunt in his grey sweatpants.
“Been thinking bout you” You mumbled as you already felt the heat in your cheeks start to rise. You felt embarrassed how easy you were for your boyfriend. One minute you were worried he was going to break up with you and the next you thought about how many positions you could do in the next hour.
You were a closeted child. You didn’t watch YouTube or tv that often you weren’t allowed. The only thing you had access to were books. And sooner or later you learned about sex. I mean your parents didn’t pay attention to the books you brought home from the public library because they were books…right? You kept your grades up and you were the perfect child.
The books got more and more explicit as you got older. And the more you read the more you wondered what it would feel like to have those things get done to you. Going into collage still a virgin was not a very big flex to you. But when you saw Dean at a party you knew he was the perfect guy for you. You’ve heard stories about him and how skilled he was with the women.
He would be perfect for your first time. He would know how to make you feel good and he would say all the right stuff. And you woudknt get attached…but you didn’t know how good his cock felt and how perfect and innocent you seemed to him. But he was wrong. And sleeping with you was probably the best thing that’s ever happened to him.
“Yeah? Wanna show me how bad you missed me?” Dean asked as you eagerly nodded your head. Dean was the one enabling you anyway. He was just as bad as you were. He never met a girl who wanted to fuck his cock so bad before. He would usually have to do something in return, but with you? You would get off to just that.
“Yes daddy” You said with a smile as you got down on your knees. Dean felt his cock get even more hard in his sweatpants. Any thoughts he had were gone before all he thought about was fucking your throat.
“Fuck baby, you’re going to be the death of me” Dean said as he gripped the back of your hair and shoved you closer to his clothed cock. You smiled as you felt your panties starting to stick to your warm cunt. You were so turned on and wet you couldn’t take it.
You pulled down Deans pants and his boxers. You didn’t want to waste time at all. His cock was big, the biggest you’ve ever seen. And you haven’t slept around a lot of guys before. But you did have a little bit of experiencing watching porn. You thought his cock was pretty, the slight curve at the end, the pretty pink tip and the veins on the under side of his cock.
You leaned forward and slowly moved your tongue around the tip of his cock. You tasted his pre cum, the sweet and salty taste hit your tongue and you never been so eager to take his whole cock in your mouth. You slowly started to stuck him off. With the parts you couldn’t fit in your mouth you jerked him off. You realized that you were actually pretty good at this.
It was the best Dean has ever gotten his whole entire life. He didn’t know that a bookworm could fulfill his sexual needs like this. He didn’t also know that he could be so fucked out he couldn’t take it. He was sure she was going to drain him before the time he hit 30. But if this is how he was going out he didn’t mind?
“Daddy’s gonna use your throat” Dean granted as he stood up. You smiled as his cock slipped out of your mouth, and you looked up at him with your big innocent little eyes. “Stick out your tongue” Dean muttered, and you easily stuck out your tongue and looked up at him. He slapped his cock against your tongue, a couple times. “So fucking beautiful” he muttered more to himself than anything.
You moaned against his cock. His cock twitched on your tongue before he shoved his cock in your mouth. Your eyes roll back in your head as you gripped onto his thigh. Your nails digging into his skin as he held the back of your head as he pushed his hips further into your mouth.
“You like that? Choking on daddy’s cock?” Dean grunted as he couldn’t help but go even faster than he was before. You didn’t say anything, but you dig your freshly manicured hands harder into his thigh and he knew he was right.
Spit was dripping down your chin but you didn’t care. This is where you belong just like this. And you didn’t care how pathetic you looked. You needed to be handled like this. You needed to be handled like a dumb slut by him. That’s what made you open your mouth even wider.
If anyone was upstairs, Dean of course didn’t care, they would hear the lewd noises coming from his room. Deans soft grunts, the sound of choking. If Garrett had walked by he would have just rolled his eyes. He knew that Dean was forced wrapped around your finger. I mean who wouldn’t? If Garrett had a girl like that he wouldn’t leave his room. 
“Fuck, baby. Daddy’s gonna cum” Dean grunted as his hips started to twitch as ir became more sloppy then before. He leaned his head back as he felt his balls tighten up. He released inside your mouth and kept your head all the way down on his cock as he spilled down your throat. His warm salty seed filled up your mouth as you swallowed it all.
“Remember what you were gonna tell me?” You asked as you stayed on your knees as you looked up at him. You licked your lips as you watched as he looked down at you with clouded eyes.
“No, baby. Come here” Dean mumbled and you gladly did so as he kisses you on the lips. He would have the balls to say something later. But for right now? This is what he wanted.
𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 — tucker thinks you’re pulling away from him. the truth is much bigger than either of you know how to hold.
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 — accidental pregnancy, pregnancy test, established relationship, emotional argument, fear of the future, realistic panic, crying, supportive but scared tucker, no smut.
𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 — 3,979
𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫's 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 — i told myself that if i reached 600 subscribers today, i’d post another one-shot before tomorrow's post. we’re currently at 657 subscribers, so here's another one-shot about Tucker (Jalen’s constantly on my mind). i’m sorry in advance for what you're about to see (i cried while proofreading it). thank you for your support, I love you all. and tomorrow, the one-shot about Beau is coming <3
𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ⟶ you can find my temporary taglist here!
𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ⟶ you can find my masterlist here!
━━━━━━━━ 🏒 ━━━━━━━━
Tucker knew something was wrong. You hated that he knew.
You hated that he knew you well enough to tell the difference between tired and quiet, between busy and avoiding, between I’m fine and please don’t ask me again because I’ll fall apart if you do.
He noticed everything. Usually, you loved that about him.
Usually, it felt like one of the safest things in the world, the way Tucker paid attention without making a performance out of it. He noticed when you were cold before you said anything, when parties started to overwhelm you, and when you were hungry but too stubborn to admit it. He remembered the kind of coffee you liked, the songs you skipped, and the exact look you got when Dean said something that made you want to throw something.
He noticed because that was how Tucker loved you, quietly and steadily and carefully, and now all that care felt like a light pointed straight at the thing you were trying to hide.
At first, you told yourself it was stress. Your period was late, sure, but not late enough to panic.
By the second day, you decided your body was just being weird. On the third, you stopped looking at the calendar. By the fifth, you knew—not for sure, but enough. Something heavy had already settled in your stomach before you even bought the test, a quiet, awful certainty that made your hands shake as you stood in the pharmacy aisle, staring at pink boxes and trying not to cry in public.
You bought three, and you didn’t really know why, maybe because one felt too fragile, too easy to doubt. Maybe because part of you wanted the universe to have to say it more than once.
It did. All three were positive.
Three little answers sat lined up on your bathroom counter, blunt and impossible, nothing like the moments in movies where music swelled, and people somehow knew what to do with their faces.
You just sat down on the floor and stayed there for a long time, until your phone buzzed beside your thigh.
tuck
hey baby, you still coming over tonight?
You stared at his name until it blurred. Then you turned your phone face down and cried so quietly it made your throat ache.
After that, everything became about avoiding him without making it obvious, which was impossible because Tucker had never been stupid.
You canceled on him that night.
Then the next one.
You stopped going to the hockey house because you couldn’t stand the thought of sitting beside him on the couch while everyone yelled around you, pretending nothing had changed when your life had already split into before and after. You stopped staying over because his room felt too much like the place where it had happened, not the test, but the ordinary night that hadn’t seemed important enough to remember in pieces.
You and Tucker had always been careful. That was the part you kept circling back to until it made you feel sick.
You’d been careful. He’d been careful, because of course he had. He was Tucker. He always asked if you were okay before kissing you deeper. He checked in even when you rolled your eyes and told him he was being too sweet. For Tucker, responsibility had always been another kind of love.
And still, it had happened.
The sixth time you ignored one of his calls, you pressed your phone to your chest afterward and whispered, “I’m sorry,” to a room that couldn’t answer.
The next day, he stopped texting as much. He never stopped completely, but there was less of him on your screen.
Somehow, that was worse.
Somehow, that was worse, because it meant he thought space was what you wanted, and because you were hurting him, but he was still trying to be kind about it.
By Thursday night, you were sitting on the floor beside your bed, staring at the drawer where you’d hidden the tests, when there was a knock on your apartment door.
You went still.
Another knock followed, gentler this time, and then came his voice.
“Baby?”
You squeezed your eyes shut. No, not tonight. Please, not tonight.
“It’s me,” Tucker called softly through the door, as if you didn’t know, as if your heart wasn’t already trying to crawl out of your chest.
You didn’t move.
For a moment, there was nothing but silence from the hallway.
Then his voice came quieter. “Hannah told me you were home.”
You let out a shaky breath that almost turned into a laugh, because of course she did. You’d deal with Hannah later. Right now, Tucker was outside your door, and three positive pregnancy tests were hidden in your nightstand.
You pushed yourself to your feet on unsteady legs and crossed the room. Your hand hovered over the doorknob for too long before you finally opened it.
Tucker stood in the hallway in sweats and a faded Briar Hockey hoodie, his hair still damp from a shower, like he’d come straight over after practice. He looked tired, but not just physically.
His eyes softened when he saw you, but something in his face stayed guarded, like he was bracing for bad news and hated that he had to.
“Hey,” Tucker said softly.
Your throat felt raw, but you still managed, “Hey.”
He looked at you a little too long. “You look like you haven’t slept.”
“I’m fine,” you lied.
His mouth tightened just barely, but you saw it. “You keep saying that.”
You looked down when you said it. “Because I am.”
Tucker was quiet for a moment, and when he spoke, his voice was still gentle but firmer than before.
“Can I come in?”
You wanted to tell him no. You wanted to shut the door and sit alone with the truth for just a little longer, even though it’d already hollowed you out. But Tucker looked like you’d already been shutting doors in his face for days, so you stepped back and let him in.
He stepped inside quietly and closed the door behind him, and your room had never felt smaller.
The room felt different with him in it.
Tucker glanced around once, not because he was nosy, but because he noticed things, especially when you were falling apart. The unmade bed. His hoodie, the one you’d been sleeping in, was shoved halfway under your pillow like hiding it could make you miss him less. The mug on your desk with cold tea you hadn’t touched.
His eyes flicked to your nightstand, just for a second, before coming back to you.
You hated how quickly he noticed, and you hated even more how much you loved him for not asking yet.
“I’m not here to pressure you,” he said.
You crossed your arms over your chest, as that could somehow hold you together. “Okay.”
“I mean it,” he promised.
“I said okay,” you muttered.
He flinched a little, not dramatically, but enough for you to see it.
You wanted to take it back the second it left your mouth, but you didn’t know how. Apologizing felt dangerous, like one soft word might make you unravel.
Tucker pushed a hand through his hair and looked away for a second.
“I don’t know what’s going on,” he said. “I’ve tried to be patient because I thought maybe you needed space, but I’m worried about you.”
“I do,” you answered too quickly, and his gaze found yours again.
“From me?” His voice went quieter.
Your chest tightened, and his name barely made it out. “Tuck—”
“Is it me?”
You couldn’t answer, and that was answer enough.
He nodded once, as he understood, but it wasn’t agreement. It was the look of someone trying to absorb the hit without making it their problem.
“Okay.”
You hated the way that word landed, hated the way he said it so low and carefully, like he was placing something sharp between you.
“It’s not like that,” you got out.
“I don’t know what it’s like.” His voice cracked a little, and he looked away again. “That’s kind of the problem.”
Your throat burned around his name. “Tucker.”
He let out a hard breath through his nose. “I’ve been trying to figure out what I did.”
Your stomach dropped. “What?”
His eyes were wet, though he wasn’t crying yet, only close enough to make you feel like the worst person alive.
“I keep replaying everything,” he said. “The last few weeks. The last time you came over. The game. That night.” His jaw tightened around the words. “I keep thinking maybe I pushed you somehow, or missed something, or said something stupid and didn’t realize it.”
“No,” you got out quickly.
“Then what is it?” His voice was quiet now.
You shook your head because the words still wouldn’t come. “I can’t.”
Tucker stared at you like he was trying to understand how to reach you, but the hurt on his face only deepened.
“You can’t tell me?” he asked.
“I don’t know how,” you admitted.
“Try.”
A brittle laugh slipped out of you. “It’s not that simple.”
“I’m not asking you to make it simple.”
“You don’t want this.”
Tucker went still, and for a second, neither of you seemed to breathe.
When Tucker spoke again, his voice had lost some of its steadiness. “Are you breaking up with me?”
The question cracked something open inside you.
“What? No.” The answer came out fast, almost frantic.
“Then why does it feel like you are?”
“I’m not.”
“You won’t call me back. You won’t come over. You barely answer texts. You don’t look at me when I see you.” His voice stayed quiet, but the panic underneath it was starting to fray. “What else am I supposed to think?”
“You’re supposed to leave it alone,” you snapped, and regretted it immediately.
Something in Tucker’s face changed, and it would’ve been easier if it had been anger. He looked like you’d finally said out loud the thing he’d been afraid of hearing.
He nodded slowly and took a step back, like he was trying to give you exactly what you’d asked for.
“Right,” he said, and panic shot through you before you could stop it, because he sounded like he was giving up.
“Tuck—”
“No, I get it.” He rubbed a hand over his mouth, eyes dropping to the floor. “I don’t want to be the guy who keeps pushing when you’re asking me not to.”
“That’s not what I meant—”
“I just needed to know if I did something wrong.”
You couldn’t breathe, not when he looked so sad, not when he was still trying to respect you, and not when you’d somehow made him think this was his fault.
Suddenly, the truth felt too heavy to keep holding alone.
“You didn’t do anything wrong, Tuck.” His gaze lifted to yours, and you heard your own breath shake. “I’m pregnant.”
For a second, it felt like everything stopped. The words didn’t echo because they didn’t need to. They just landed between you and sat there, impossible to take back.
Tucker stared at you like he was afraid to move.
For a moment, nothing happened. There was no movement, no sound, no immediate reaching for you, no perfect line or soft, cinematic promise. Just Tucker, frozen, his face going blank like every thought in his head had disappeared at once.
Then Tucker blinked once, and his gaze dropped, not quite to your stomach, just down, like he couldn’t help it, before coming back to your face.
“What?” he breathed, barely above a whisper.
Your arms tightened around yourself as you said it again. “I’m pregnant.”
His lips parted like he wanted to say something, but nothing came out. The color slowly drained from his face, and you watched the moment he understood.
The color slowly drained from his face, and you watched the moment he understood, watched as the boy who always knew what to do with his hands suddenly had no idea where to put them.
He stepped back once and sat down on the edge of your bed.
He took one step back and sat down on the edge of your bed, not because he was leaving or because he didn’t love you, but because his legs looked like they’d forgotten how to hold him up.
Seeing him like that made you want to disappear.
“I’m sorry,” you got out.
Tucker’s head lifted sharply, but no words came, and that was the part that hurt.
You knew he was shocked, knew he needed time, knew, logically, that no one could respond perfectly to those words. But his silence cracked open every fear you’d been carrying for days.
“I’m sorry,” you repeated, faster now. “I know we were careful, I swear. I don’t know how it happened. I took three tests, and they were all—”
“Three?” he echoed.
You nodded, and the tears finally spilled over. “Yeah.”
His gaze drifted toward the nightstand, like he couldn’t help it, and this time, you didn’t miss it.
“They’re in there,” you whispered, nodding toward the nightstand.
He didn’t reach for it. He just stared at the drawer like maybe it could answer for him.
Then he dragged both hands down his face and breathed, “Okay.”
Your heart sank, because that was all he had: okay. Not good, not bad, just the word people said when they had no idea what else to say.
“Okay,” he repeated, quieter this time.
“That doesn’t sound okay, Tuck.”
His hands dropped into his lap. He looked up at you, and for the first time since you’d known him, Tucker looked completely lost.
“It’s not,” he whispered, and somehow, his honesty hurt more than comfort would’ve.
You flinched, and Tucker saw it immediately.
“No, baby, I didn’t mean it like that—”
“You regret this.”
His face twisted at that. “What?”
“You regret this,” you repeated.
“No,” he said, like the word had been ripped out of him.
“You do.” Your voice broke. “You’re looking at me like everything just ended.”
“I’m scared,” he admitted, his voice cracking. “That’s not the same thing.”
The room fell quiet again. You looked at him, and he looked back, eyes wet now, his jaw tight like he was using whatever strength he had left to hold himself together.
“I don’t know what to say,” he admitted. The sentence felt small, awful, and real.
You nodded, tears sliding down your cheeks. “Me neither.”
“I don’t know what happens now.”
“Me neither.”
“I don’t know how to—” He stopped, swallowed hard, and looked down at his hands. “I don’t know how to be what you need me to be right now.”
That nearly broke you because he sounded ashamed of it, as if being shocked made him cruel and being scared meant he’d failed you.
“Tuck,” you whispered. He looked up. “I don’t know how to be what I need right now either.”
His face crumpled a little.
For a second, he looked younger than you’d ever seen him. Not like a hockey player, and not like the steady boyfriend who always remembered your coat, walked you home, and kissed your forehead when you got anxious. Just a scared boy sitting on your bed, staring at a future neither of you’d planned.
“I thought you’d hate me,” you admitted.
His brows drew together like he couldn’t understand the words. “Hate you?”
“I know that’s not fair to you.”
“No.” His voice came out rough, but sure. “It’s not.”
Tucker closed his eyes for a second, like he regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth. When he opened them again, he looked at you.
“But I get it,” he said. “I hate that you thought it, and I hate that you were alone with it. But I understand being scared enough to think the worst.”
You cried harder then, not loudly, but silently, with tears falling faster than you could wipe them away.
Tucker stood slowly, careful not to rush you or assume.
His hands lifted a little before dropping again, like he wasn’t sure what he was allowed to do.
“I want to hug you,” he admitted, his voice unsteady. “But I don’t know if you want me to.”
That was what undid you, not a speech or a promise, but the fact that even shattered and terrified, he still asked.
You nodded, and that was all it took. He crossed the room carefully and pulled you into his arms.
You broke against him then, completely. You pressed your face into his hoodie, hands gripping the fabric at his sides as you sobbed hard enough for your chest to hurt. Tucker held you tightly, not because he knew what to do, but because he knew you needed him there. His breathing was uneven, and his hand shook against your back. At one point, he whispered your name like it hurt to say.
“I’m scared,” you choked out, and his arms tightened around you.
“Me too,” he admitted, holding you tighter.
It wasn’t the answer you wanted, but it was the answer that made you believe him. He didn’t tell you not to be scared or promise that everything would be fine. He didn’t say the easy thing just because it would sound better. He only held you and admitted he was scared, too.
After a while, when your legs started to feel weak, he guided both of you down to the floor instead of the bed. The two of you sat on the floor beside your dresser, half tangled together, your knees touching and his shoulder pressed against yours.
It wasn’t romantic. It was ugly, quiet, and real. Tissues were scattered near your desk from the night before, and your laundry basket was overflowing. Tucker’s hoodie was still half-hidden under your pillow. Your face felt swollen from crying, and your eyes were red.
“What do we do?” you whispered.
Tucker looked down at his hands. “I don’t know.” Your stomach turned, but then he added, “Not tonight.”
You looked at him.
“I mean…” He rubbed his palms against his sweats, still nervous. “I don’t think we have to know all of it tonight.”
“All of it?” you echoed.
“Yeah.” His voice was careful. “Whatever all of this ends up being.”
The words sat between you. Neither of you said ‘options,’ ’ decisions,’ or ‘baby.’ Not yet. It was too big, too soon, too terrifying.
“I don’t even know what I’m supposed to want,” you whispered.
Tucker nodded slowly, accepting that for now. “Okay.”
You looked at him, scared of the word again, and of course, he noticed.
“I mean… you don’t have to know right this second,” he said quickly. “That’s what okay means. Not that I don’t care.”
“I know.”
“I care.”
“I know.”
“A lot,” he added, and your lips trembled. His eyes did too. “I just don’t want to say the wrong thing,” he admitted.
“You already thought I was leaving you.”
“That was before you said something that kind of changed everything.”
A broken laugh slipped out before you could stop it, surprising both of you.
Tucker looked at you for a second, then let out a shaky little sound that almost passed for a laugh before it was gone.
Then the silence came back, but it wasn’t the same silence as before. It still hurt, still scared you, but it wasn’t lonely anymore.
“Are you mad?” you whispered.
“No,” he answered immediately.
“Not even a little?”
He looked at you then, really looked.
“I’m mad that this happened when we were careful,” he said. “I’m mad that you felt like you had to hide it. I’m mad that I didn’t know you were this scared.” His voice softened. “But not at you.”
Your eyes burned again when you said his name. “Tucker.”
“I’m not mad at you,” he repeated.
You pressed your hands over your face, and he waited.
After a moment, you felt his fingers gently touch your wrist, not pulling, just there. You lowered your hands.
He looked at you like his whole world had tilted, but even then, he was still trying to find you in it.
“I might need a second sometimes,” he said. “I might say the wrong thing, or get quiet, but I don’t want you to think that means I’m leaving.”
Your breath caught. “I don’t know how not to think that.”
“I know.” His thumb brushed gently over your wrist. “Then I’ll keep reminding you.”
You stared at him. “What if you change your mind later?”
Tucker looked like the question hurt, but he didn’t rush to answer, and that made it scarier and better at the same time. Because when he did speak, it sounded like he’d chosen the words instead of reaching for the prettiest ones.
“I can’t promise I won’t be scared tomorrow,” he said. “Or next week. I can’t promise I’ll always know what to say. I can’t promise this won’t be messy.”
Your throat tightened, but you still managed, “But?”
His hand slid down until his fingers carefully tangled with yours.
“But I love you.” His voice broke around the words. “And I’m here right now.”
A tear slipped down your cheek. “Just right now?”
“No,” he said quickly, shaking his head. “God, no. I don’t mean it like that.” You couldn’t breathe. “I mean…” He squeezed your hand, eyes wet. “I don’t want to make a promise so big it sounds like I think this is easy, because it’s not. I’m scared out of my mind.”
You nodded, tears slipping down your cheeks in silence.
“But I’m here right now,” he said again. “And when right now turns into morning, I want to be there too. And after that… I want to keep showing up, as long as you’ll let me. I don’t know how else to say it.”
There was no perfect answer, no neat line that fixed anything, and no magical moment where the fear disappeared. But Tucker’s hand was in yours, still trembling, still there.
You leaned into him, and he pulled you gently against his side.
For a while, that was enough. Not enough to solve it or make you less pregnant. Not enough to make either of you ready or make tomorrow easier. But enough to get through the next minute, and then the one after that.
At some point, Tucker shifted closer and rested his cheek against the top of your head.
“I love you,” he whispered against your hair.
The words sounded different now, not lighter or easier, but still true, and that was what made you cry again.
“I love you too,” you whispered into his hoodie.
His fingers tightened around yours. Neither of you moved toward the bed. Neither of you talked about doctors, parents, the team, school, or what it would mean after tonight. Those things waited outside the room, as if neither of you was ready to step into.
For now, you stayed on the floor: two scared people, one impossible truth, no plan, no answers. Just Tucker breathing shakily beside you, his thumb tracing small, uneven circles over the back of your hand.
“I don’t know how I’m supposed to do this,” you whispered.
He was quiet for a second. “Me neither.” His hand stayed wrapped around yours. “But maybe we don’t do it all tonight.”
Another tiny, broken breath shook through your chest.
“Then what do we do tonight?” you whispered.
Tucker swallowed. When he answered, his voice was barely a whisper. “We sit here until it feels like we can stand up.”
It was neither a solution nor a plan, and it did not make anything okay. But it was real, so you nodded, and Tucker stayed.
━━━━━━━━ 🏒 ━━━━━━━━
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you're holding the door shut against everything you’re terrified to feel, but tucker's not interested in the barrier—he’s just waiting for you to realize he’s already on the other side.
word count : 4k — FWB dynamic — little bit of angst — smut, minors DNI — enjoy and please tell me what you think !
The sheets are still warm, tangled around your ankles as the biting winter air of the bedroom hits your bare skin. You reach for your underwear on the dark hardwood floor, the rustle of lace and denim loud, almost violent, in the heavy quiet.
From the shadows of the mattress, a hand reaches out. Fingers light, almost tentative, trace the line of your spine. Tucker props himself up on an elbow, his dark hair a messy halo, his eyes heavy with sleep and that soft, unguarded warmth he only wears in the dead of night.
"You could stay a bit," he murmurs, his voice a low rasp that vibrates straight to your chest. "Just sleep here tonight."
You don't let yourself look at him for too long. If you look, the armor splinters. You slide your shirt over your head, pulling your defenses back on piece by piece, hiding the skin he just spent hours worshiping. Leaning down, you press a quick, dry kiss to his lips—a boundary line disguised as affection—and offer a tight, practiced smile that doesn't reach your eyes.
"Can't, Tuck. Early morning tomorrow."
The lie tastes like ash, but you say it smoothly. You never stay the night. That was the unspoken law governing the arrangement you both shook hands on weeks ago. Friends with benefits. No strings. No emotional overhead. You had made him repeat it back to you, forcing the words out of his mouth before you ever let him touch you, because you knew the danger of a boy like John Tucker.
John Tucker feels like a hundred lifetimes of safety meant entirely for a version of you that doesn't exist. If you ever let him look past the surface, if you ever open the door, the sheer weight of his disillusionment would kill you. It’s a mathematical certainty in your head : eventually, he will see too much, he will realize you aren't worth the trouble, and he will leave. So you leave first. Every single time. You take what you can get—the physical heat, the temporary distraction—and you run before the sun can expose you.
I grew up pretendin' sticks were little guns
I would point 'em at my dad, and he'd get mad
Cause God forbid I hurt someone
I'd hurt anyone I could
Anyone who got too close, and anyone who wouldn't look
But the problem with John Tucker is that you can’t stay away from him. No matter how many times you tell yourself this is the last time, no matter how many walls you build during the day, the moment the sun goes down, the magnetic pull between you becomes a physical ache. It’s an addiction you both share, a mutual gravity that constantly drags you back into his orbit. You find reasons to cross his path, and he always, always stops to look at you.
And slowly, without permission, things start being more than just sex.
It happens first at a crowded house party. The air is thick with beer, loud music, and sweaty bodies, and you’re trying to navigate the narrow hallway to the kitchen when a hand grips your wrist. Before you can gasp, you're pulled into the shadow of the linen closet, and Tucker is there, towering over you. You expect the usual routine. You expect him to mutter a low, dirty suggestion, to tell you to meet him upstairs in the bathroom in ten minutes, or to feel his heavy hands immediately sliding up your skirt to find your naked thighs.
Instead, he just places his palms flat against the wall on either side of your head. He looks down at you, his chest rising and falling, his eyes burning with a desperate sort of hunger that has nothing to do with a quick thrill. He leans in and kisses you. It’s deep, slow, and breathtakingly thorough. His tongue tangles with yours in a way that feels like a quiet conversation, his lips soft and demanding all at once. He tastes like basil and warmth. He doesn't touch the rest of your body—he keeps his hands flat on the wall, entirely focused on your mouth, breathing you in like he's trying to memorize the taste of you before you can slip away again. When he finally pulls back, his breath is shallow. He doesn't say a word. He just looks at you, lets out a soft, breathtakingly sweet smile and walks back out into the party, continuing with his night. You’re left leaning against the wall, your knees shaking, realizing with a spike of terror that he is rewriting the rules without your permission.
The shift bleeds into his bedroom, mutating every touch into something holy, something that threatens to break you wide open. A week later, you’re on your stomach, the sheets bunched beneath your knuckles as he takes you from behind. His weight is heavy and grounding over your back, his fingers wrapped firmly around your throat in a tight, possessive chokehold that makes your vision blur with heat and yielding submission. He’s driving into you, deep and relentless, but there is no cruelty in it—only a desperate need to be as close to you as humanly possible. With every thrust, a low, ragged moan tears from his chest, and he keeps saying your name. Over and over. Your name. On his lips, it doesn't sound like a dirty word muttered in the dark. It sounds sacred. The reverence in his voice makes your throat tight and your chest ache with a violent, beautiful agony. You feel the tears leaking into the pillowcase, because you know that if he says your name like that just one more time, you will completely melt. All your locked doors will fly open, and he’ll see the wreckage inside.
I was born into a one-hundred-year storm
Foot of ice across Vermont
And in that dark, and in that frost, a heart was formed
Malcontented and unwarm
The breaking point comes on a sunday afternoon when he coaxes you into the bath. The water is steaming, smelling faintly of the expensive soap he keeps just for you. Tucker is leaning back against the porcelain, his long legs framing yours, and you are sitting between them, your back pressed flush against his chest. The water laps at your collarbones, warm and enveloping. It’s supposed to be casual, but it’s entirely too sensual.
His right hand slides beneath the surface, his fingers moving inside you with an agonizingly slow, rhythmic pressure that makes you whimper, your head dropping back against his shoulder. He’s reading every shudder of your body, mastering your pleasure with a quiet confidence. But it’s his other hand that ruins you. His left hand rests on your wet thigh, his thumb absentmindedly tracing small, gentle shapes against your skin. You track the movement through the clear water, and your heart stops when you realize what he's doing.
He’s drawing little hearts. Over and over, tracing the shape against your skin without even realizing he’s doing it, a subconscious manifestation of what he’s actually feeling.
A cold wave of absolute panic cuts through the heat of the water. He’s getting too close. He’s slipping beneath the armor, finding the softest parts of you, and if you let him stay there, the fall will kill you when he inevitably realizes you aren't enough. So you push his hands away, scrambling out of the tub onto the cold bath mat, ignoring the confused look that crosses his face. You wrap a towel around yourself tightly, your teeth chattering from the sudden drop in temperature—and the sudden realization that you have to end this before it destroys you.
You were unsuspecting, not unwarned
That I'm the trouble ahead, that I scream in my sleep
You're putting money on red, I'm a sure bet at a losing streak
I keep showing you doors, but you can't open them up
Cause it gеts harder to see me the closеr you try to look
I just live here, babe, but you're the one who decided to knock
You knocked
Which brings you back to tonight. The aftermath of another night where you tried to use his body to forget your soul, and failed. You’re almost fully dressed now, your hand resting on your bag, while Tucker stands by the bed, his chest bare.
He reaches out, his hand hovering over the empty side of the mattress for a second before he shifts, patting the soft fabric. He looks up at you through his eyelashes, his voice soft, trying to make it sound casual, like a joke he doesn't entirely mean. "There's still room for two in this bed, you know."
You look down at your feet, your voice completely flat, detached. "I can't, Tuck. We talked about this. I don't do sleepovers."
The lack of warmth in your tone makes something shift inside him. The softness drains from his face entirely, replaced by a sharp, stung look that makes his jaw tighten until the bone shows. He steps out of bed, blocking your path to your clothes, his bare chest heaving.
"Stop doing that," he whispers, frustrated, his voice cutting through the peaceful silence of the room. "Stop putting the wall up the second you get out of bed."
You force yourself to look up, hardening your expression into a mask of pure indifference, though your heart is hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. "We agreed on this. No strings, no expectations. You can't get mad at me for sticking to it."
"We agreed, yeah," Tucker steps closer, a desperate, angry heat rolling off him. "But don't look me in the eye and tell me you don't feel what's happening every time we're in this room together."
You do. Of course you do. It’s a terrifying, living thing that sits in the space between your chests every single time his skin hits yours. It’s there in the way his breath catches when he touches you, and the way you completely lose your bearings the second he pulls you close. You feel it so acutely that it makes you feel naked even when your clothes are still on, a heavy, unshakeable truth that you are completely powerless against. You feel it, and it scares the hell out of you.
"Believe me," you say, your voice dropping to a harsh, skin-crawling whisper, desperately trying to save him from yourself. "You don't want this. You think you do, but you don't."
Tucker’s gaze drops, his jaw tightening as he absorbs the dismissal, the quiet exhaustion in his posture mimicking your own. He doesn't yell, he doesn't press closer. He just stands there, a heavy, suffocating silence settling between you as the distance feels more like an ocean than a few feet of floorboards.
Have you ever stared directly at the sun?
Have you ever shared some closeness, so exposed
To have it spit back by someone?
So, forgive me if I jump
At the rattle of your keys
"Oh, are you leaving?," "No, babe, I'm just waking up"
And now what?
I'm left staring at the ceiling, listing reasons you should pack all your shit up
History had taught you that letting someone beneath your skin was a guarantee of definite, absolute ruin. Every time you had dropped your guard, if only by a fraction, it had merely offered a roadmap to your undoing for the person walking away. You couldn't handle the fallout of another ending. Not from him, and not when the reverent, terrifying way he looked at you meant the fall would be fatal.
So you protect yourself by bracing for the impact of the end before it can even start, counting down every flaw, every hesitation, every single reason why you shouldn't let this happen. You convince yourself that staying away is the only way to survive, turning his kindness into a deadline you have to beat.
"You're already gone, aren't you?" Tucker's voice shatters the silence, sharp and bleeding with a new kind of realization. He looks at you, seeing the way your eyes have gone totally distant. "You're standing right here, but you're already gone."
You don't say anything. The silence between you stretches, heavy and agonizing, as you pull your jacket over your shoulders. You reach down and lift your bag, your knuckles white against the strap, your jaw locked so hard it aches.
He looks at you—really looks at the rigid line of your shoulders, the frantic, defensive look in your eyes—and a quiet, crushing realization washes over him. He can't make you stay when you’ve already decided to leave.
His hands drop slowly to his sides. The silence that follows is deafening, heavy enough to crush the air right out of your lungs. His chest heaves, a profound, exhausting hurt settling into his features. The fierce, fighting light in his eyes slowly dulls, leaving him looking entirely hollow, entirely defeated.
"Fine," he says quietly, his voice flat, completely stripped of all the southern warmth you’ve grown so used to leaning on. "Just leave then." He walks past you, stopping at the bathroom door to look back at you one last time. There is no anger in his eyes, just a heavy, hollow exhaustion as he throws a tired line over his shoulder. "You know where the door is."
The click of the lock feels like a physical blow to your chest.
I'm the trouble ahead, and I scream in my sleep
You're putting money on red, I'm a sure bet at a losing streak
I keep showing you doors, but you can't open them up
Cause it gets harder to see me the closer you try to look
I just live here, babe, but you're the one who decided to knock
You knocked
The moment the door closes, your knees give out. You collapse onto the edge of his bed, the sheets still smelling like him, and a violent, silent sob tears through your chest. You have to clamp both hands over your mouth to stifle the sound, terrified he’ll hear you through the thin bathroom wall, terrified he’ll come out and see the absolute disaster you are. You shake so violently you can barely pull your jeans up, your fingers fumbling uselessly with the button. Blinded by a steady stream of hot tears, you gather your things, shove your shoes on, and practically flee the room.
Days blur into a week. Then two.
Every single second is a slow, agonizing torture. Without the distraction of his touch, the truth you’ve been running from settles into your bones like lead. You do love him. You love him so much it physically hurts to breathe, a constant, dull throb in the center of your chest. But when you think of Tucker, you see the sun—something bright, pure, and life-giving, and if you go back, you’ll just choke out his light. You can't bear the thought of becoming the reason he loses his warmth. So, you starve yourself of him. You stay in your room, ignoring the ache, choosing to bleed out in silence rather than drag him down with you.
Meanwhile, Tucker is a ghost of himself. He doesn't joke around in the locker room anymore. At home, he sits in the quiet of his room, staring at his phone, his thumb hovering over your name, waiting for a text that never comes. He’s furious at you for quitting, furious at you for deciding his limits for him, and furious at himself for letting you walk out into the dark.
By midnight on the fourteenth day, the guilt becomes too heavy to carry. You can't keep his spare key on your nightstand anymore; it feels like a physical brand, a constant reminder of the safety you threw away because you were too terrified to hold it. You decide to get rid of it when you know he won't be around to stop you.
The university ice rink is a tomb at midnight, the massive building shrouded in shadows and the smell of damp leather and pulverized ice. You slip through the side door, your sneakers making no sound on the rubber mats. The plan is simple: drop the silver key into his hockey locker through the metal vents and vanish back into the dark before the winter can catch you.
The heavy door clicks shut behind you, the latch locking into place with a definitive, echoey thud.
You take three steps inside, and your entire body locks. The air leaves your lungs as if you’ve been punched. He’s there.
Tucker is sitting on the wooden bench at the very end of the row, his massive frame hunched over, a roll of black stick tape clutched in his large hands. He’s still half-dressed in his gear, his heavy nylon hockey pants on, but his chest is bare, his skin glistening with a thin layer of sweat from an extra hours-long practice he clearly used to beat himself into exhaustion. He doesn't look up, but his voice stops you dead.
"You really thought you could just disappear, didn't you?"
He lifts his head, his eyes locking onto yours and you feel the floor vanishing beneath your feet. He stands up slowly, the movement languid and predatory. He doesn't look like the resigned boy who let you walk out of his bedroom two weeks ago. He walks toward you, his heavy steps unhurried, until he’s standing directly in your space, radiating a suffocating heat that cuts through the metallic chill of the rink.
“It was the only way I knew how to handle this," you whisper, clutching the key so hard it bites into your palm.
Tucker stops. He looks at your hand, then slowly up to your eyes, his expression stripping away everything but a tired, raw frustration. He reaches out, his fingers wrapping firmly around your wrist, his grip burning. He doesn't pull you in; he just holds you there, forcing you to face him.
"Handle this?" he asks, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. "You think cutting me off and ghosting me for two weeks is handling it?" You look at him, really look at him, and see the exhaustion etched into the lines around his eyes. "You don't get to decide that you’re not worth the risk."
I'm the trouble ahead, and I scream in my sleep
You're putting money on red, I'm a sure bet at a losing streak
I keep showing you doors, but you can't open them up
Cause it gets harder to see me the closer you try to look
I just live here, babe, but you're the one who decided to knock
You knocked
He gently pries the key from your hand, letting it clatter to the concrete. He takes a half-step closer, his hand coming up to cup your jaw, his thumb brushing over your lower lip. You can feel the air between you charging, the silence stretching until it feels like a physical weight, thick with the scent of cedar, sweat, and something inevitable.
"I got scared," you admit, your voice cracking. "I'm still scared."
"Yeah," he mutters. "I noticed."
He leans down, his mouth hovering just a breath away, and you can feel the heat radiating off him like a furnace. You bring your hands up, your fingers trembling as they find the damp skin of his shoulders, and the stupid, desperate reality of how much you missed him just collapses the rest of the distance.
When his mouth finally hits yours, it isn't an invitation—it’s the frantic, starving wreck of fourteen days of silence, a collision that tastes like copper and desperate, long-overdue relief. He tears your coat aside, and his hands, burning hot, move with ruthless speed—shoving your sweater up and over your head, his fingers catching on the fabric in his hurry. He doesn't stop, his palms dragging down your skin, tugging your jeans down until you’re shivering and exposed in the cold, dim air of the locker room. He lifts you, your legs locking instinctively around his waist as his heavy hockey pants drop to the bench with a heavy thud.
He steadies you against the steel lockers, the metal biting into your back as he guides himself to you.
The first push feels like a homecoming and an invasion all at once—he is thick and searingly hot, stretching you until the air leaves your lungs in a sharp, broken gasp. You claw at his shoulders, your eyes blown wide as he fills you completely, the cold room turning irrelevant against the crushing, rhythmic weight of his body.
Your bodies align with terrifying, natural precision—two halves of a broken whole finally finding their center. You move with an urgent, ravenous hunger, a primal need that transcends speech. With no space remaining between you, there is only the friction of skin against skin, the frantic hitch in your breathing, and the profound, overwhelming sense that this—being joined like this—is the only way to silence the noise in your heads.
Your hips collide in a chaotic, beautiful symphony of desperation. You ache for his weight, for the way he fills the void and anchors you to reality. As he drives into you, the brittle walls of your self-doubt crumble, replaced by the jarring, exquisite reality of his presence. You aren't just being taken, you are being reclaimed. He is here, he is real, and he is entirely yours to hold. You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him down until you are flush, heartbeat against heartbeat, skin against skin, until you can no longer tell where you end and he begins.
He pushes into you with a steady, bruising rhythm, crowding his weight down until his mouth is pressed against your throat, swearing softly under his breath.
"I'm not leaving," he grunts against your skin, his hips slamming into yours.
He pulls back to look you in the eyes, his face flushed, his breath coming in broken hitches. "I'm not leaving," he repeats, his voice vibrating through the hollow steel at your back.
He drives into you again, slower now, with a terrifying, agonizing control that forces you to realize that this—this weight, this heat, this absolute refusal to let go—is exactly what you needed all along. He leans in, his forehead pressed against yours, his movements syncing with the frantic, newfound rhythm of your own heart. He moves with a purpose that is almost holy, a slow erosion of your defenses until the panic is gone, replaced by a clarity so sharp it hurts.
"I'm not leaving," he whispers, his breath hot against your ear.
He grinds his hips against yours, hitting that sweet, devastating spot that forces a sob from your throat. He doesn't let you look away—he captures your gaze, locking it to his, even as he drives into you one last time.
"I'm not leaving," he vows, his voice a final, breathless promise that settles deep in your bones.
Esdeekid x Olympic champion figure skater reader part 4
warnings: non just fluff
(also this is when they arrive at the restaurant)
he gets out of the car and jogs to her side and opens her door, she smiles as he helps her out “who would have thought that you are such a gentleman” he scoffs and links his arm in hers and walks into the restaurant with her. The waiter recognizes him and smiles and leads them to a table in the corner and sets out two menus and pours some wine for each of them. “It smells heavenly in here, I can smell the pizza being baked” “mhm, and the food is even better” they both end up ordering margarita pizzas and enjoy eating them in silence, when they finally finish she sighs “ugh this place is so good, of course it’s in Liverpool and not oxford, as posh as Oxford is, lots of the food just looks good but doesn’t actually taste amazing” “guess you’ll just have to come Liverpool more then” “guess so” “any room for dessert? They have wonderful tiramisu here” “ufff I love tiramisu but I’m stuffed” “that’s okay, we will just get some to go, you can have it when you get back to your hotel room”
they get the tiramisu and esdeekid pays the bill “wanna head out” “yep” they walk out of the restaurant and they see that it’s raining heavily “weather is so nice” “nice?” “Mhm, I love miserable weather, just feels so peaceful and quiet, like there’s no one else around you know” “yeah guess so…I was planning for us to go to a spot I know but I don’t know if we can now that it’s raining” “oh” “yeah, you have something you wanna do?” “Idk, I’m chill with anything” “okay well let’s get to the car and then we can think about it, you wait here I’m pretty sure I’ve got an umbrella in my car” “it’s fine” “nah, I ain’t letting you ruin your clothes, makeup and hair” he says and runs to his car, sure enough there is an umbrella in it, he walks back to her and covers her with the umbrella as she walks to the car and gets in “ugh I love your car, I am really going to need to buy one” “glad you like her so much, guess I’ll always be picking you up in her then” “always?” She sounds a little confused “ yeah, you didn’t think this was a one time thing did you?” “I mean I live in Oxford and both of us are very busy so I kinda did” “darling I’d take a flight to the other side of the world if it meant I got to see you, and my schedule can always be moved about and changed to fit yours” “oh.” She smiles softly as if she didn’t think of that “unless you want it to be a one time thing?” “Oh no not at all, I thought we wouldn’t get close since we are so busy but I’d be happy if I got to see you often, I enjoy your company” “glad you do, likewise for me” for a few minutes neither of them talk, the sound of the rain pattering against the car is peaceful “I- I know this might be a bit quick but your leaving tomorrow and I’m not sure when I’ll get to see you next but I was wondering if you’d mind me being your boyfriend?”
A/n: hope y’all enjoy this, feel free to let me know if y’all want this to progress in a certain way
A/n: idk why but it wouldn’t let me write more, do part 4 coming soon
part 4 is out
She arrived at the venue where the show was being held, she sits down to get her face and heir done, suddenly she gets told that they are doing pre show interviews
“so this is your first show?” “yep, who would have thought that because I won the Olympics I would end up modeling for Vivian Westwood, not complaining at all tho” The interviewer laughs, “I think if someone was complaining about modeling for Vivian Westwood then that means there is something wrong with them “period, cause its literally Vivian Westwood, huge moment for me especially since I always used to dream of owning Vivian Westwood jewelry and clothes, little me would be so happy” “and now your living the dream, what an achievement, any music recommendations? Lots of fans are wondering what you listen to on your day to day life” “okay so I’m a firm believer that you shouldn’t listen to depressing music, especially if your sad cause that will make it worse” “mhm” “I like songs by Lana del ray, phonk, oh esdeekid, he eats, need to do a walk to one of his songs, I also listen to a lot of like Russian songs” “how come Russian songs” “ when I was first learning Russian I switched to Russian songs to help with learning the language and i found some I loved so I still listen to them. Over all I do like think lana del ray or edit songs, you know, good confidence boosters” “good advice, good advice. any plans this week?” “Well after the show I have….something, so that and then tomorrow I’m going back to Oxford so back to the normal routine” “oooh what’s this something, meeting up with someone special?” “Uh yeah” she chuckles a little nervously “well good luck with that, welp I’ve gotta go but good luck with the show, we are all looking forward to it” “thanks”
-after the runway-
she flops down onto a couch, finally out of the makeup and back in her normal clothes, she picks up her phone and opens messages
“hey, finally finished. Need to get back to my hotel and get ready tho”
“hey, saw your post, as I predicted, you look gorgeous. Take as much time as you need, just lmk when you want me to pick ya up”
“Oki great”
an hour later she is finally ready,
“Hey I’m ready”
“great omw love”
she goes down to the lobby of her hotel, there she sees him standing with a bouquet of tulips and two Red Bulls “for me?” “Of course love” she takes them from him smiling “why thank you” “my pleasure, come on let’s get going, I’m sure you must be hungry” “oh I am, all I ate today was some mango slices before I had to rush to the venue for the show” they walk to his car, a different Benz this time “you trying to impress me by showing off your collection of Mercs to me or what?” She says grinning as helps her in “perhaps. is it working” “eh, more impressed by the car itself than you” he chuckles “fair I suppose, she’s one of my favorites” “ and I can see why” she relaxes into the seat “man I need to get a Benz” “why don’t you have one?” She side eyes him “cause I’m not some rich ass rapper” he laughs “surely you have money now that your an Olympic champion, I mean you also just walked to Westwood so that must have payed well” “well yeah but I’m trying to save and not spend it all, I suppose a car is considered a necessity tho so I might aswell get a nice one” “mhm, feels real nice to drive” “so, where are you taking me?” “It’s a surprise” “oh come one just tell me” “nah, wanna keep it a surprise” “your no fun” “I’m plenty fun, a surprise is more fun than just telling you where we’re going” “for you perhaps” he laughs “why you wanna know where we are going so bad anyway” “so that I can look up the menu and start contemplating what to get, I take forever to order when I go to a new restaurant” “that’s alright, take as long as you want, I won’t mind whatsoever” “thanks but still I wanna know” “nahhhh, plus we’re going to be there in ten minutes so don’t worry, you won’t have to wait to find out for too long” “gah to you” she says rolling her eyes, he just laughs “gah to you too love” he stops at a red light “by the way, there’s a bag in the back seat, feel free to grab it” *she leans over to the back seat and sees a white paper bag. She grabs it “what’s this? A glitter bomb or something” “a glitter bomb??? Why is that your first reaction” “cause someone once did that to me but jokes on them cause I opened it in their car so they had to deal with a glittery car for the rest of eternity” “why would they even do that, anyways, look inside, got you a little something” she looks inside the bag and takes out something wrapped in tissue paper, she carefully unwraps it and takes out a pair of white leg warmers with little black stars on them “thought you’d like em, I know skaters use them and noticed that you were wearing the same ones in all of your posts” “I do like them, thanks, I love star and shiny motifs…….you were stalking my insta?” “Uhhh not stalking, consider it doing research” “mmmmmm sure…. Tho if it means that you get me thoughtful gifts I don’t think I care” “great, now I’ve gotta find your Pinterest” “AYYYY noooo let’s- let’s not do that” “why ever not” “cause that’s my Pinterest, that’s me, like fully me, every part of me, my Pinterest knows me fully so no, anyways I don’t have an account in my name so you won’t be able to find it anyway” “don’t understand why your so adamant” “it’s like if I were to read your journal or something” “don’t have one” “yeah well let’s say you did and you write down everything how you feel and everything, you going through my Pinterest is like if I were to go through your private diary” “I wouldn’t mind” she looks at him and shakes her read “in the words of my grandmother, aiaiai men” he laughs “guess I’ll have to get you more Red Bulls” “guess so” he parks in front of a fancy looking Italian restaurant “here we are” “oh good, I’m actually craving pizza”
A/n: lowk filler but I wanted to write more before I went to sleep and I don’t have any more energy to keep going, hopefully next part tmr but after that I’m not sure since ima be having finals then ima be traveling but I’ll try to update as much as possible (also I need to think of a name for this since it’s turning into a series) also I fear the fanfic author curse alr got me cause I was stretching and I way over stretched my left leg and now its really painful
As esdeekid gets back to his apartment he gets a notification, he opens it
“lol, just got this on my fyp”
he clicks on the video and sees that it’s an edit of her skating with LV Sandals playing in the background
“that you? Looks really impressive, no wonder you got gold”
“yeps lol, that’s me in my short program. And ty for the compliment ;3”
“Just the plain truth love ;)”
“lmao”
“you said your in uni right? What you studying?”
“physics”
“dang”
”was between that, chemistry or architecture”
“I’m pretty sure you named the hardest things to study and you claim you didn’t know which one to choose? Are you sure that your feeling okay”
“lmao yes, god forbid a girl just want to be overly educated”
“in all seriousness tho don’t over work yourself yeah, not good for you”
“I’ll think abt it :p”
“….bruv”
“lols yeah dw”
“great, when is your show btw?”
“it’s tmr at 7, Vivian Westwood show”
“I alr know that your going to look gorgeous”
“*side eye* you tryna flirt or some shi”
“just stating facts love”
“get outta here”
“Nah I don’t think I will, I’m comfy, you get out”
“Nu uh, I’m as snug as a bug in a rug and Im not moving any time soon”
“tsk tsk, excuses”
“Nu uh”
“uh huh, anyways, you free after yer show tomorrow?”
“Yeah, why, tryna take me out for dinner?”
“Yes, what food you like?”
“Italian, desi, basically anything as long as I don’t have to eat veggies, call me a kid but I still hate them, but aside from that I’m good w anything. Nvm most sea food too, but I love octopus, shrimp, the octopus but not octopus idk I forgot its name and salmon, all those I loooove”
“okay great, also I think your talking about squid?”
“yesss squid, that’s what it’s called, your useful”
“because I remember names?”
“uhhhhh yes???? I’m bad w name so that way now I can just describe what it is and you can tell me what it’s called”
he looked at his screen in confused affection, huh, well he didn’t mind if that meant that she would message him more
“okay, sure no problem”
“yay lovely, you get extra points for that”
“anything else I can do to get extra points? ;)”
“idk actually, I’ll think and let you know”
“Wonderful, need as many extra points as i can get, I’m sure there are lots of guy competing w me”
“well lots of guys certainly think that they are”
”as is they arnt actually competing?”
“mhm”
“lovely, now would you mind sending me the names and addresses of the guys that I’m competing against?”
“lol why? Gon go exchange ways to gain points w them?”
“lolz”
“….bruh look at the time it’s 5 am, okay I actually need to go and sleep”
“okay yeah go to sleep, gotta get your beauty sleep after all, sweet dreams, see ya tomorrow”
{ just wanna say this is very self serving and the flu kicked my ass last week so this spilled out of me warning of flu, fever, throwing up, etc.}
"honey?"
i could vaguely register someone calling out for honey.
oooooh honey sounded so good right now, that would do wonders for my sore throat.
the room gets brighter as my door opens making me wince from the harshness of the hallway light. i try to turn away quickly but that only encourages the contents of my stomach to rise.
'please no more puking' i thought to myself.
"oh baby, you look wrecked," i finally open my eyes when i feel calloused fingers moving strays hairs away from my face, "how long have you been like this?"
"tuck?" my voice came out hoarse. i knew those hands anywhere. that voice too. my amazing man. "what're you doin' here?" i manage to mutter.
"came to check on my girl," his smile was so soft and so pretty i could kiss him, but im trying to restrain myself, "haven't heard from you in days, i got worried. how long have you been feeling like this?"
the back of his hand felt cool against the skin of my forehead.
"days?" i frowned trying to find something to tell time with before getting dizzy and nauseous, laying back down, "what day is it?"
"oh babe," i felt a kiss press to my forehead, "its thursday. last time i heard from you was monday night..."
closing my eyes and squinting i tried to recall the time frame i've felt like this, but honestly everything is blending together.
"d'know. its thursday? i don't- im really sleepy tuck. im sorry."
"hey no, no none of that. im gonna get you back to health baby. you can go back to sleep. ill be here,"
all i could do was nod and close my eyes, preventing the nauseous wave you feel building inside you. but it didn't stop your mind from trying to piece together what's going on around you.
the sound of dishes cluttering, curtains being shut, and clothes being thrown in my hamper could be heard echoing through the quiet room.
it was peaceful in a way, distracting enough to lull me to sleep. which exactly what happened, that or i passed out.
when i wake up again it's because im having a cold towel pressed to my forehead. if i had the energy to do so it probably would've scared me enough to jump five feet in the air.
"tuck?"
"hey there soldier... how was your nap? feeling any better?"
"i think so. can't really tell if im being honest, i feel like i could sleep for whole 'nother week."
"yea well the flu can do that to you honey," tucker pressed a kiss to my forehead but i gave him the weakest shove known to man, "hey now- what's that about?"
i shake my head trying to sit up, "can get you sick. garrett will wring my neck if i give you the flu."
"darlin, i don't care about that. not right now. besides, it looks like you've got some color back. not much but its a start. which is why i made you some soup, don't worry its mostly broth."
"i don't think i can stomach anything tuck-"
"well its okay if you don't, but i need you to try for me ok?"
that's what the next 36 hours looked like for me, being coddled and doted on by my beautiful boyfriend. i would've felt guilty for it had i not been so exhausted. truly i was the luckiest woman alive to have tuck as my boyfriend.
i know so many of my girlfriends that had boyfriends that wouldn't have even kissed their hand let alone clean their designated puke bowl.
if that's not true love i don't know what is.
and the beautifully disgusting thing about it is, he knows id do it for him too. in a heartbeat.
but tucks always been the caring one, he wears his heart on his sleeve and it makes him happy knowing he's needed. even if its likes this.
"there's my girl," he grinned stepping out of my bathroom with a towel around his neck, "how are you feeling?"
"like i got hit by a truck, but a smaller truck than a few days ago."
that at least pulled a chuckle out of the both of us.
"well that's an incredible recovery for two truck collisions don't you think?" he plops onto the bed next to me with a knowing smile, "looks like this round of soup is staying in you well. im glad you're feeling better darlin. gave me a good scare."
"oh cmon i wasn't that sick-"
"no, i mean you went radio silence for two days i was afraid id done something to piss you off," he laughed it off nudging me, "you being sick actually made me relieved."
"oh you're such an asshole," you nudged him back smiling, "thank you for taking care of me though... id say you'd make a great nurse but id rather not lose my boyfriend to medicine."
pulling me closer to his side he pressed a kiss to the top of my head.
"yea you're the only person who's puke im cleaning. oh- and i forgot to tell you, i emailed all your teachers and made sure they knew you were one foot in the grave."
"my hero"
"you are no damsel, you know that. now get some sleep honey. ive got a feeling you'll be perfect as a peach tomorrow. and ill be here to say i told you so."
pressing a kiss to his chest i close my eyes feeling lighter than i have in days.
Plot: Tucker asked you to bring the apple pie and stuffing, but once you walk into the house, you notice hell is about to break loose.
Warnings/Plot lines: fluff?, stressed Tucker, reader is mentioned to be a good cook, lowkey kinda short?? SORRY! Not proofread
A/N: okay this was my first request for one of the guys!! I LOVE THIS IDEAAA! I am a girl that likes to cook/bake soooo duh. Anyways I hope you all like it and keep REQUESTING! if there are any mistakes they’re aren’t…okay?
—
You stand holding your homemade pumpkin pie and stuffing awaiting for one of the guys to open the door. The air is crisp, the leaves have started to fall, and there is going to be snowfall within the next week. This time of year was a favorite of yours, the holiday season was always so perfect.
“Hello y/n” Logan says opening the door wide, reaching towards the large pie you made. Taking it from your hold, he shuts the door behind you. “Hey Logan” you say which a smile on your face, “what’s up?”
“Tuck is freaking out over the thanksgiving dinner, Dean ditched us for New York, and G left us to see his dad.”
“With Hannah?” You ask looking around for the girl. Unzipping your jacket you shrug it off your shoulders, and hold it out to the man in front of you.
“Who else?” Logan sighed before reaching out to take your jacket from your hands. “Tuck’s in the kitchen, just an FYI he gave us a whole list to complete”
A laugh leaves your mouth, because of course he does. He always did. That is something you truly liked about him. He was organized, and extremely well at ordering others around in a kind manner.
You walk over to the kitchen, Logan following close behind. “Hey Tuck” his eyes meet yours and softens. “Hey, I’m so glad you’re here. These guys don’t know a thing or two about food. We need to do the Turkey, mashed potatoes, green beans, sweet potatoes, corn, and thank God you brought the pie because we have approximately an hour and ten minutes until we need to fry the turkey and I- ”
Smiling you walk over to him, giving him a tight hug around his neck. “Chill out Tuck, we can figure it out I promise” you say into his neck. Tucker’s breath releases as soon as he is in your embrace, “Happy Thanksgiving” he whispers landing a kiss to the side of your head before pulling you into a tighter hug.
“Happy Thanksgiving T”
Calling you a couple would be a stretch. You two just met at the start of the fall semester in a math class. You two were paired up for partner quizzes and Tucker took a liking to you. It started small, like asking to study together, then inviting you to parties, then to his hockey games, then Halloweekend, and now Thanksgiving. Considering the amount of time you spent together, you thought he would have asked the question by now. The “what are we” question. Yet, it never came. You did couple like things, go out to eat, go to movies, couple costumes, and even kissed too many times to count. But not knowing what you were was frustrating, annoying even. You didn’t want to push him.
Logan places your pie and stuffing on the counter, breaking you both away from each other. Clearing your throat you smile towards Logan and say thank you. He nods towards you two, before exiting the kitchen.
“So what do you need help with” you ask walking towards the other apron on the hook. The guys bought it for you when you made them your famous marry me chicken. They told Tucker right there to marry you so they could have it for the rest of their lives. And they weren’t joking.
You slid your apron over your head, and Tucker comes up behind you to tie the apron. His fingers brush your back making you suck in your breath. Once he is done tying your apron, you walk over to the sink. “Can you cut up the sweet potatoes so we can boil them” Tucker asks as he runs around to gather several other food items. “Uh yeah” you answer pulling your hair up out of your face. You could practically feel the stress oozing off his body. Grabbing a knife, you grab the freshly washed and peel sweet potatoes, cutting them into equal cubes.
“Thank you so much, Dean, Hannah and Garret bailed on us. So, thank you for coming. It means a lot to me.”
Looking up at him you smile, “anytime, I like to be around you. And I guess the guys are okay too.” That comment makes him chuckle a little, but a slight smile lands on him face. “The guys like you too, like really like you. They say you’re a better cook than I am, which I totally agree with by the way”
You grab the next sweet potato before answering “I’m pretty great I guess, thanks for the ego boost Tuck.” He shakes his head while he reaches to grab the green beans from the fridge, “once your done with those can you please was these and cut the ends? You’re great, I mean it.” Nodding you grab the bag of green beans to place them next to you.
“So” you pause for a moment “why did everyone decide to ditch the Friendsgiving they planned?” Tucker is now peeling the regular potatoes directly in front of you. “I have no idea, I guess they wanted to be with their real families. But I got you, Logan, and Jules. I think you all make it worth it.”
“Well I was just sitting at my house all by myself, so thanks for the invite T”
He looks up at you “of course. If you don’t mind me asking why didn’t you go home?”
Clearing your throat you answer quietly “I can’t afford to travel all the way back to Wisconsin, and my parents can’t either. So, I’ll have to wait for Christmas.” Tucker stops cutting, giving you his full attention. “I mean at first I had a hard time with it, when I was a Freshman I hated it, but I know why I can’t go and that’s okay. What about you?”
Tucker grabs the peeler and starts to peel the potatoes once more “I wanted to cook for everyone, and I felt like I needed to be here for G, Jules and Logan. They deserve the best Thanksgiving.”
Setting the knife gently back on the counter you walk over to Tucker. “You’re a really good guy Tuck” you whisper reaching around his neck pulling him into a tight hug once more. In reality you really liked to be held by him, your favorite part of going to bar with the guys was the fact that you just got to be around Tucker the entire time. You could hold his arm, randomly wrap around him and he didn’t care. He just held you back.
He leaned into your hold, wrapping his arms around your waist. “The potatoes are done by the way” he laughs, “thanks, I’ll throw them in the pot.” He breaks away from the hug, and walks over the to the sink, washing his hands, then reaching for the cut up sweet potatoes.
Summary: John Tucker’s been running a secret cooking social media page, selling e-book recipes for students. Just as he branches out to desserts, a competitor appears on campus. Tucker’s on a mission to find out who’s behind it all.
After getting fired from a hotel bakery, you decide to make money selling brownies and cookies. Something simple, tray bakes that aren’t too time consuming to bake between classes and on weekends.
Dodging a hockey player though wasn’t something you thought would come with a creating a new baking business
💖 Competitive!Tucker
- Series masterlist -
Once John Tucker’s got his mind set on something, he doesn’t back down. Whether that be on or off the ice. Cooking and baking normally helps him destress, but the fresh dark chocolate brownies in Logan’s hand has him bolting for the front door. He spots the familiar yellow bicycle, your ridiculous blue and white daisy helmet. The same delivery girl that’s been in Dean’s pocket since he admitted his love for sweet treats. He doesn’t think twice, hurtling in front of you and grabbing the handlebars to stop you before you knock him over. Your fingers clutching the brakes for dear life. The basket secured above your rear wheel shakes, no doubt more cakes and bakes packed inside.
“Dude! What the hell?” You snarl, your balance teetering to one side as you plant your platform sneaker to the ground. Sweat rolls down your forehead, your lilac eyeshadow smudged beneath your lower lashes.
“Uh, sorry. I…are you the one baking?” He lets go of the handlebars, scratching his nape as he inhales your vanilla scent. He’s not sure if the cinnamon’s coming from you or the baked goods in the basket.
“No im just making some extra cash working delivery,” you say, fiddling with the clasp of your helmet. “Never met ‘em, I pick up and drop off. You got a problem with the bakes, you email them.”
Tucker stumbles back, raising his hands. “Oh, no. There’s no problem with…” he shakes his head, “I didn’t mean to scare you.” only just realising he’d come on too strong.
“Riiight…” you say, adjusting your grip on the handlebars and looking between him and the pavement. “You wanna talk to the owner, you’ll have to email them.”
He steps out of your way, watching you cycle down the road. All of your orders were done strictly online, bigger ones requiring the buyer to fill out a form. No phone number, just an email that communicates the order confirmation and the scheduled delivery time, which is normally after studies and midday on the weekends. So you must be a student on campus. That’s all Tucker’s come up with.
The kitchen counters are piled with your boxes, courtesy of the party this evening to celebrate the big game win. Tucker can smell the rich cocoa without opening them, well that and the pot laced beneath it. Something for the guys to let loose to after a big game and a break between training. The pink ‘Brookies’ sticker on the box. A selection of brownies and cookies delivered to the mailbox. Apparently you’re the go to for pot brownies, Dean knows the pick up for that discreet exchange, but he doesn’t know who’s behind ‘Brookies’. No one does. Just two delivery girls and a pick up point as the address.
He’s tested your recipes, attempted to guess the exact ingredients and recreate them, but they’re never the same. Not even like the recipes he’s scoured online in hopes of finding his mysterious competitor. He’d launched a new e-book on desserts and it didn’t do as well as he thought it would. Even eyed the comments on his cooking profile mentioning ‘Brookies’. He’s getting sick of anything sweet, chocolate this, chocolate that.
Maybe he’ll stick to meal plans, cooking tutorials and recipe lists like usual. Or maybe he’ll figure out whoever’s behind this ‘Brookies’ and challenge them to a bake off. For now though he’ll fill the gap in your market and create a pastry e-book, branch out of the student shadow and aim for experienced bakers.
-
Business owner wasn’t ever the plan during studying, but it was something you dove straight into after you got fired from your hotel job. Luckily the room you rented from an old lady offered you a spacious kitchen to bake. The perks of living close to campus at a fraction of the cost meant helping out around the house and driving her to doctor appointments. Alba was a sweet old dear, letting you use her car for groceries and encouraging you to start from scratch. She’d usually be sitting at the breakfast table each evening whilst you baked and she boxed them up so that your friend and fellow renter Sen could deliver them.
Sen rented the bigger room, connected to a shared bathroom and your much smaller room. You baked straight after classes on the weekdays, paying Sen a percentage of sales to deliver them same day. The weekends were all on you though, baking and delivering. Not that you minded, it got you out of the house and increased your money. You just made sure you finished delivering by 2.pm Saturday and Sunday’s so you could catch up on studies and live a little. Riding bikes made you untraceable, plus you didn’t have to pay for gas.
The same yellow bike you used to ride to school, Sen of course has a high spec electric bike and that’s how the two of you got to/around campus. Now they carried ‘Brookies’ your cookie/brownie boxes. Simple desserts for the burnt out student. Not all had the time to bake or wanted to. You’d done a few parties too, those were your biggest earners, but they weren’t regular. What you didn’t expect was the target on your back and the hockey player who was hellbent on finding out who was behind your own tasty treats. You’re certain he coulda ran you over and crushed your bike in one charge, but you can’t help but think of the flex of his biceps and the front wheel of your bike between his thick denim clad thighs. He was too busy trying to grill you for information on the owner, yeah your details, to notice your blatant wandering gaze.
You stuff some off cuts of brownie in your mouth, prying the box open of a squashed batch of cookies. “Some hockey guy stopped me in the road asking about ‘Brookies’. Well the owner, me. Not that I admitted to being behind it,” you say, hand covering the food you’re chewing. A recipe for disaster if a disgruntled customer wasn’t happy.
Thankfully Alba’s taking her routinely afternoon nap and Sen’s nursing a hungover in the kitchen as you both pick at imperfect bakes. Which means weekend debrief, a.k.a catching up on gossip and the nitty gritty details of the week. Sen does most of the talking normally.
“Dark curly hair, moody Captain or dark curly hair cowboy, chocolate brown eyes and thick thighs?” Sen raises a brow, pouring herself another black coffee and topping yours up across the kitchen island.
“Thick thighs, chocolate brown eyed cowboy.” You say, sliding your cup back in front of you.
Oddly specific words Sen had chosen to describe him, but they fit him well. You didn’t follow sports or keep up with the hockey players on campus, only knowing Dean who had befriended you as his friendly neighbourhood delivery girl and John Logan who accompanied him last time you delivered. He’d invited you to a few parties, but you’d declined each one. Sen’s still trying to convince you to go to one with her.
“That’s John Tucker, he asked me the same last week,” Sen says, her gaze trailing after her finger tracing the grout between the tiles. Anything to avoid your gaze and the fact she didn’t warn you. Probably for the best, you’d only overthink the interaction like you are now.
“Why’s he so interested in me? Well ‘Brookies’ that is?”
“We should go to that party, you know to gather intel,” Sen pauses, turning her phone screen to you and tapping the campus wide message, the party invite. “Maybe even flirt with some hot hockey players and cute cowboys.”
There’s a string of replies, Sen seems to be in every social circle in Briar university. You have no idea who most of the people are.
“Only to gather intel.” You point to her, “no flirting, okay maybe a little.”
[ ]
A little short first part to set up for the part two. Thank you for reading :) I hope you enjoyed this first part. I’m dyslexic so there might be some mistakes I miss when editing.
Summary: John Tucker’s been running a secret cooking social media page, selling e-book recipes for students. Just as he branches out to desserts, a competitor appears on campus. Tucker’s on a mission to find out who’s behind it all.
After getting fired from a hotel bakery, you decide to make money selling brownies and cookies. Something simple, tray bakes that aren’t too time consuming to bake between classes and on weekends.
Dodging a hockey player though wasn’t something you thought would come with a creating a new baking business
Esdeekid x Olympic champion figure skater reader Part 1
warnings: slight driving under influence (do not do this at home or anywhere else)
she looks at herself in the mirror, her make up is good, she’s sure of that but it’s her outfit she’s not sure of, black trousers with a shirt and a hooded jacket on top for just incase situations, after a few minutes of contemplating she decides to put on flares instead of her normal trousers. A knock rings through her room and she walks to the door, a blond girl in white heels with a pink top and sparking mini skirt greets her “great your ready, come the car is outside, your going to have so much fun, finally celebrate your win” she says nudging her as they walk to the car
They arrive in front of a large mansion, she gets out of the car and walks in with the other girl, as soon as they enter she is hit by the sound of music blasting, seeing as the girl she came with seems to have disappeared she decides to wander around, the place is huge but packed, finally she finds the kitchen and notices some redbulls on the counter along with other drinks, she grabs one and cracks it open taking a sip, “don’t want anythin else with that?” Says someone behind her, she turns around and is met by someone dressed in black baggy jeans with a hoodie and balaclava on his face “uuuh nah, I’m good with just a Red Bull” “odd bird” he goes to the fridge and pours himself a purple drink into his plastic cup “want any? It’s lean, you look like you could use it” “nah I’m good” “suit yerself, so, what brings you to my party if all your doing is drinking plain redbulls” “it’s your party? Oh, didn’t know that….uhh someone I know dragged me here so that I can celebrate and take a break…what’s the party for anyway or is it just fir shits and giggles” “ party is to celebrate my success, names esdeekid, what are you celebrating?” “Oh uh I won gold at the Olympics but had finals right after so I didn’t get to celebrate so now I’m..making up I suppose” “you won gold at the Olympics? For what and how many?” “Women’s singles figure skating, won all three medals” thats cool, that’s the sport where you do jumps and spins on the ice right?” She nods, he takes another sip from his cup “so if your here to celebrate then why are you not celebrating?” She shrugs “I don’t really know anyone here so it’s a bit awkward” “well now you know me so now you can celebrate, come let’s go to the dance floor” he nods to the door “uhh I’d rather not, too many people and too much smoke” “Kay then, wanna go to a balcony? Get to know you a bit, ya seem interesting” “why not I guess…..you said that the party is to celebrate your success, in what?” “Ma rap taking off” “ah…..now that I think of it I think I might have heard some of your songs” they walk onto a large balcony and he starts to smoke a blunt “so, what’s it like being a figure skater, you enjoy it?” “Yeah, I really love it, used to be my dream and now it’s my reality so it’s a nice feeling” “ah bit like me then” he looks at her and she looks back at him not knowing what to do “so uh, how old are you?” “How old are YOU” “18” “similar age” “ah, Kay….i like your hoodie, very stylish” “thanks, you also look good” “thanks, didn’t know if it would be suitable for a party” “nah don’t worry, your good”
a few hours pass as they continue to talk about anything and everything, every now and then a friend of his comes to the balcony looking for him and they introduce themselves. “It’s getting late, I should be heading back” “you got a ride?” “No” “I’ll take you, wanna get out of here and get some food anyways” “you sure?” “Yep, where you at?” She tells him the name of a hotel “you don’t live here” “nope, live in Oxford for uni” “ah, what brings you here then?” They weave through crowds “modeling gig” “thought your an ice skater” “I am but with Olympic fame lots of other things comes with it, including modeling” “make sense suppose, especially for you” they make it outside and he clicks his car keys and a Mercedes lights up in front of them “merc” “yep, you like mercs?” “Yeah, since I was a kid, dad has one when I was like four” “good taste” he says as he opens her door for her “oh, thanks” she says getting in “wanna go get some Bint to eat first?” “Uh sure” “great, I know this kebab and wrap place near your hotel, we can grab some and eat it in the car if your chill with that” “yeah I’m chill” twenty minutes later they are in his car eating kebab wraps, she quickly snaps a picture of her food before taking a bit of out of it “sgood” “told ya” he notices how she looks away when he puts his Bally to eat
they arrive outside her hotel twenty minutes later “take care love” “ I will, thanks for dropping me off and for the food” “no problem…wanna take my number so we can stay in contact?” She chuckles “was this all so that you can get my contact?” “Perhaps…..so you wanna or not” “yeah sure” she passes him her phone and he inserts his number into it “good night love, see ya soon I hope” “good night, see you, thanks again”
when she gets to her hotel room she flops down onto her bed and texts his number
“Hey, this is the girl from the party”
“hey, made it safe to your hotel room I guess?”
“yep, not that hotel hallways are known for being dangerous lol”
“yeah but you can never tell with these weirdos”
”yeah Ig. Was nice getting to know you tonight”
“like wise love, how long you staying in Liverpool for?”
“three more days”
“alr, ima sort out something. You should sleep, it’s almost 4”
“Oki lol, also you also need to sleep so learn from your own preaching”
“oops caught my ass”
“lol, good night sd”
“Good night”
A/n Heyyy this is the first time I write fan fic in a really long time so I’m sorry if it’s a bit rusty, this is hopefully going to be a series tho I’m not sure how long, let me know if you have any tips or suggestions on what should happen
You stirred slowly, feeling a shift in the bed beside you, then the faint press of Tucker’s hand brushing your shoulder. At first, you ignored it. Then he did it again, a little firmer this time.
“Baby,” he whispered. “Come on.”
You made a sleepy sound and pulled the blanket higher. “No.”
He laughed quietly. “That’s fair.”
You cracked one eye open. The room was still dark, the air cool, and Tucker was sitting up beside you already dressed in a soft flannel and jeans, hair slightly messy, looking very unfairly awake for this hour.
You squinted at him. “What time is it?”
“Early.”
“That is not a time.”
He smiled. “You know what I mean.”
You dragged a hand down your face. “Tucker.”
He leaned down and kissed your forehead. “Come watch the sunrise with me.”
You groaned. “You are insane.”
“Maybe.”
“You planned this?”
“I did.”
You stared at him for a second, then at the clock, and then back at him with deep suspicion. “Why?”
Tucker’s smile softened. “Because the sky was pretty last night.”
You blinked at him.
He shrugged like it was no big deal, but his voice had gone gentler. “Thought you might want to see it.”
That was all it took.
You sighed and sat up with a dramatic amount of effort. “You are lucky I like you.”
Tucker’s mouth curved. “I am very aware.”
He handed you a sweatshirt before you even asked, and you pulled it on while he stood at the side of the bed watching you with quiet amusement. The apartment was still dark when the two of you slipped outside, the world not quite awake yet.
The porch boards were cool beneath your feet. A soft breeze moved through the yard. Tucker led you down the steps and toward the field behind the house, where the horizon was just starting to pale.
You stood beside him in the half-light and rubbed sleep from your eyes. “You dragged me out here for a mood.”
He looked at you, offended. “It’s not a mood. It’s a sunrise.”
“That is literally a mood.”
He laughed softly, then took your hand and laced his fingers with yours. “You’ll see.”
The fields stretched out in front of you in a quiet, wide expanse. The sky was still mostly gray-blue, but there was already a soft gold line beginning to gather at the edge of the horizon. Everything felt very still. Very slow.
You looked at Tucker.
He was staring at the sky with the kind of calm expression he only got when he was home. Here. Quiet. Open. His hand warm in yours, his shoulders relaxed, the soft edge of his flannel catching the early light.
He noticed you looking and turned his head. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“That means something.”
You smiled. “You look happy.”
Tucker blinked, then glanced back out over the field. “I am.”
Your chest softened a little at that.
The first real sliver of sun crept over the line of the trees in the distance, turning the whole field gold in pieces. The grass caught the light. The fence posts stretched long shadows behind them. The sky began to warm from gray to peach to pink.
You went quiet.
Tucker watched your face instead of the horizon for a second, and the look he gave you was so soft it nearly took your breath away.
“What?” you whispered.
He smiled. “You’re doing that thing.”
“What thing?”
“The one where you forget to be sleepy because you’re looking at something pretty.”
You laughed under your breath. “You think this is pretty?”
Tucker glanced out at the sunrise and then back at you. “Yeah.”
That landed deep and warm.
You squeezed his hand. “You’re sweet in the mornings.”
He gave you a look. “I’m sweet all the time.”
You smiled. “That’s not true.”
“It is if I’m trying.”
A quiet laugh escaped you, and Tucker leaned in just enough to kiss your temple while the sun climbed higher behind the fields.
For a while neither of you said anything.
There wasn’t much to say.
The sky did all the talking.
The orange light spread slowly over the grass, the trees, the fence line, the old barn in the distance. Everything looked softer in the morning. Quieter. More honest somehow.
You leaned your shoulder lightly against Tucker’s arm and let your head rest against him.
He glanced down at you, then settled his arm around your shoulders. “Worth it?”
You looked at the sunrise one more time and smiled.
“Yeah,” you said softly. “Definitely.”
Tucker kissed the top of your head and kept holding your hand while the first full light of morning stretched across the fields, and for a little while the whole world felt calm enough to keep.
summary your brother's best friend gets a boner when you sit on his lap
contains boner alert... mature content, dry humping, coming in pants, sexual tension, forced proximity, public sex (kinda...), reader is a tease, wc 2k
a/n this is not supposed to be realistic... at all... just fun and horny yay!!
Fitting eight people into one car isn't very ideal.
You tried to get past it, understand the situation you're in, but you can't wrap your head around it. How the hell did Garrett manage to convince seven people to squeeze into his car without holding a gun to their head?
The scene you're greeted with when you make your way downstairs is baffling, suffocating almost.
Garrett and Hannah sit comfortably in the front, giggling over a stupid joke he made as Hannah presses some random buttons to get the music working. Your eyes drift to the back, and that's when you see the disaster.
Jesus Christ.
You can't even tell people apart from how cramped it is inside. Logan's sitting by the window, with Jules on the edge of his lap. Tucker sits next to him, tense and looking very uncomfortable.
Beau is glued to Tucker's side, with Allie comfortably positioned on his lap. They're giggling together as she shows him something on her phone. It's a very warm sight, they've grown really close after their trip to New York together.
As if things couldn't get any worse, Dean is here. His side of the car is definitely... emptier. He's positioned in the seat behind Garret with his legs stretched over the rolled down window. The door to his side wide open, letting in much needed air.
He's busy scrolling on his phone, only noticing your presence when your voice erupts through the chaos.
"Wow, you should've invited a few more people," your tone fills with sarcasm, statement directed towards your brother. "Too much space."
An amused chuckle escapes Dean's throat at your snarky comment, legs back on the ground as his attention shifts to Garrett.
"Haha, very funny, Graham." Garret rolls his eyes, causing Hannah to shove his side. "Get in, you kept us stalling forever."
"Where am I supposed to sit?" You argue, pointing towards the rammed car.
Your eyes flicker back to Dean, who adjusts his position at your question. His legs spread apart, fingers lightly patting his lap, the silent gesture an invitation, something he voluntarily did to catch your attention.
The idea of straddling Dean's lap for the entire car ride makes your heart flutter, cause air to get stuck in your throat. You can barely act normal when he's around, turning into a stuttering mess as soon as he joins any conversation, and now you have to sit on his lap for the next thirty minutes.
"You're the only one complaining," Garrett interrupts through your thoughts, gesturing for you to get in the car. "Quit being a baby and find yourself a place to sit."
A sigh dreads past your lips, dragging a deep exhale out as you step towards the vehicle. Dean clears his throat, fumbling around to put his phone away and straighten his back. You almost scoff if not for how nervous you are.
"Hi," you start, avoiding Dean's gaze.
"Hi," he repeats, but his tone is teasing, amused by how flustered you seem. You pause for a second, mustering up the courage to ask him to scoot, but Dean beats you to talking. "What are you waiting for?"
"Huh?" You hum, caught off guard.
"Sit," his voice lowers into a whisper, gesturing you to sit on his lap. Your stomach twists into knots, the demand carrying so much tension, it makes your knees grow weak. "Sit on my lap."
You fight the choked breath threatening to leave your chest, flashing him a tight-lipped smile, but still doing as you're told. You shuffle around to get in the car, carefully propping yourself across Dean's lap.
Your whole body's tense, and you're sitting uncomfortably at the edge of his lap, barely providing yourself any space. The length of his legs is of no help, unnecessary long, you're practically holding onto the headrest to keep yourself from falling.
"I'm gonna fucking kill you, Garrett Graham." You mutter through gritted teeth, causing your brother to freeze in his spot.
"Alright, now that everyone's here," Hannah bursts into laughter at Garrett's change of topic, completely ignoring the threat you threw in his direction.
Annoyance fades into surprise when Dean slings his arms around your waist, using your astonishment as an opportunity to tug you close. Your back hits his firm chest with a thud, the proximity of the touch overwhelming you in an instant.
Your body radiates with heat, as Dean's breath fans over your ear, the feather-like sensation causing goosebumps to break out across your back. He's so close, you can smell his stupid cologne, the aroma intoxicating, it almost melts you in your spot.
You try to shuffle back into your old position, in case you're too heavy or causing Dean any discomfort, but the hand he presses to your hips interrupts those thoughts from rummaging through your head.
"You should get comfortable," he whispers in your ear, drawing circular motions to the sliver of skin just above your skirt. "It's a long ride."
Fuck.
Heat travels to in between your legs, gaze lowering to the arms caging you in place. His grip is firm, unwavering even when you move around to adjust yourself into a comfortable position.
Dean doesn't budge, he pretends you're not even in his lap. He laughs, makes jokes, sings along as Hannah plays music, and it's like you're not even there. Unlike him, you're having a hard time playing this off as casual, nothing about this is normal, you skipped from ground zero to a thousand in the span of minutes.
You try not to pay him too much attention, or his fingers as they're tracing small patterns to your hips, or his breath gradually blowing over your neck. All of it is so overwhelming, you want nothing more than to break free and breathe.
This feels intimate, maybe too intimate, even more so because you're aware his touches are for you only, everyone else is doing their thing, and you two are in your own little world.
After a while of resisting, you eventually settle back and relax against Dean's chest, satisfied by the way he tenses beneath you. His breath grows ragged, but he doesn't let you have it, tightening his arms in response, his hold engulfing most of your frame.
This is okay, it's totally fine that you're tangled in this position with your brother's best friend, whom you've had a crush on since forever.
You can get used to it.
But you can't. Not when he's pulling every string to get your attention and get a reaction out of you.
A few minutes pass by, and your body feels stiff from maintaining the same stance for too long. You shuffle around to find a comfortable position, hips stuttering when you feel something twitch underneath you.
You're mistaken, have to be. It's all in your head, there's no way what you felt just now is real.
"Fuck," Dean grunts, confirming your suspicions.
Oh.
Oh.
He sighs, very shaky, but delibaret, the sound ringing in your ear, and making you pulse in reaction. You can feel hie semi-hard erection growing beneath you, failing to keep it under control.
Fuck, Dean Di Laurentis is hard.
You hate how much it's turning you on, your heat heaving with arousal when you feel another pulse through the thin fabric of his sweats.
You angle your face towards the window, casually, without causing any suspicion, and Dean fights the embarrassment he feels to spare you a glance, regretting it soon as your hips move forward, instantly earning a choked breath out of him.
It's not on purpose, you only realize what happens after he reacts.
"Do you want me to–" he gives your hip another squeeze, locking you in place as the words die on your tongue.
"Don't fuckin' move," he warns, practicing restraint. "Please."
How can you not when his crotch is practically poking at your entrance, drenching your pussy from how tingly it's making you feel.
"Dean," you whisper through a breath, causing his cock to twitch with need. The reaction you receive is immediate, anticipated, the only sign you need to grind down against his hardened length.
His lips part in a hefty moan, barely dismissed by the loud music occupying everyone else.
"You did that on purpose, didn't you?" He whispers, toying with the hem of your skirt, as his other hand caresses the exposed flesh around your stomach.
"Maybe." You coyly offer him a response.
This is your brother's best friend, someone way out of your orbit. You shouldn't cross the line, and let your lust drive you over the edge when you fought to keep yourself under control.
Your brain short circuits, and panic rises in your chest before you can even stop it, but the pleasure surging through your body takes over when Dean's hips meet yours halfway, completely dismissing the guilt you're feeling.
You've avoided Dean just fine till now, so why is it that you're involuntarily rolling your hips down for a mere fraction of his cock?
Your pedicured nails dig into his arms, the force of the touch forming red marks all over his flesh. Dean smoothes out the fabric of your skirt to hide the circular motion of your hips. You ground him into place, repeatedly rubbing your wet cunt over his crotch.
Pleasure builds through your insides, and you start to lose control over your grinds, messy and needy. Dean encourages you with a hand to your side, guiding you down to chase his own high, slowly building.
His cock aches, leaking with precum that stains a a patch in his underwear, wet and sticky, but he doesn't feel disgusted from it, but more so turned on because you're the cause of it. You're the reason he's in this mess, risking one of the most precious things to him just to touch you, feel you, even for a little.
"I'm–" You fight the whimper threatening to leave your lips, leaning your head against the head rest to avoid locking eyes with anyone.
Your pussy drenches in your arousal, thrusts growing sloppy as you feel your orgasm reaching its peak. Dean can almost tell that you're close, grip tightening around your stomach as he thrusts into you, rolling his hips once more before you came undone.
Your legs shake from the overstimulation, Dean uses his hands to stabilize you in his lap. You ride him through your orgasm, sensitive, but desperate to please him and make him feel good.
"You don't have to," he whispers, like he knows exactly what you're thinking. "I can take care of myself, darling."
"I want to," you reply, out of breath, with sweat forming at your forehead. Your face flushes with heat, and your energy goes down the drain in an instant, but you're persistent on making Dean come.
His breath gets caught in his throat, and he uses your back as a shield to hide his expression as he reaches his own high. It only takes you a few more grinds for him to come undone.
He releases into his pants, sticky stripes of semen coating a mess in his underwear. He stills your hips as he comes down from his high, a sigh of relief escaping his throat in the process.
"That was– fuck." He chokes out, "So good for me, baby."
You almost mewl at the praise but hold it back for the sake of not being caught.
That was... insane. Probably the best orgasm you've had.
The rest of the car ride seeps into silence on both your ends, too tired to engage with the rest of the group as they broke into a whole karaoke session. It's not uncomfortable, nor is it unbearable, just... silence, you almost find it comforting.
Garrett announces your arrival soon after, wrapping up the karaoke session as everyone engaged in another conversation.
You use their banter as an opportunity to pull at the strings of your thong, wiggling around on Dean's lap in an attempt to get them off. They slide down your thighs, bunching around your knees before eventually falling down your legs.
Dean doesn't do anything, simply sits back and observes you with a hint of confusion, eyebrows pinching as you bent down to grab it into your hold.
And as everyone's busy getting out, you turn around and hand him the lacy material.
"Huh?" He questions, taken aback by the sudden offer.
You get off his lap, and land on the ground, smoothing down your skirt. Your gaze flickers back to him, a teasing grin smeared all over your lips.
"A gift." You reply, attention shifting down to the mess on his lap. "Good luck cleaning that up."
And with that, you take off with the rest of the group, barely sparing him a second glance.
Fuck, now he has to deal with another boner.
a/n lowk rushed towards the end but hey i wrote most of this at a gathering so it's something 😓 oh and i havent written in a while so i'm trying to get used to it again this is hard man my bad if this sucked i can't write smut to save my life 💔 also this was lowk lowkkkk inspired by that one scene from off limits it made me miss writing it sigh
Summary: You find out Tucker got another woman pregnant while you were on a break.
Word count: 4.4k
⋆˚࿔ tina's note 𝜗𝜚˚⋆ I freaking love John Tucker so much please please please somebody write more stuff for this man. Also reader is in college for education and then a special ed teacher, sorry if you don't relate to that but i panic chose a career and it's mentioned like once and carries no actual importance so you can ignore it/imagine it differently. (not proofread or edited) a lot of angst with a happy ending.
Off campus masterlist
bean there at 5?
You stare at your phone screen with reproach as if you hadn't just sent the message yourself. There's no immediate response, logically you know it is because he is probably on the ice at practice while his phone is in the locker room but the waiting makes you heart pound at twice the normal speed.
Absolutely, see you there
His response comes at 3:32, immediately after he gets off the ice.
It's been almost three months since you went on a break. A mutually agreed break, not a breakup but enough distance to feel the space and re-explore options.
It happened after you realized how much your lives revolved around each other. Your friends had pointed it out one night when he showed up to the bar you were at for girl's night with his friends, the catch? He hadn't shown up because he was a toxic asshole who didn't trust you, he'd shown up because you'd asked him to.
When you brought up your concerns he told you about the comments his friends had made, how it wasn't healthy that you two had met right at the beginning of freshman year and hadn't separated ever since, even when you swore up and down that you weren't a couple back then trying to prove it with random hookups (or a foursome, in Tucker's side) that ended with one of you calling the other straight after.
So yeah, you agreed a break would be beneficial for both of you. You however, disagreed on the terms of said break, you pushed for him to be able to sleep with other women, insisting that it was part of the reason you needed the break, he argued he didn't need to sleep with anyone else because he knew you were the one for him.
Now, almost three months later you had no idea if he'd stuck to his initial argument or not, but you had not slept with anyone. You'd gotten drunk one night and made out with Justin Kohl, but regretted it immediately after and hadn't been with anyone else since.
Bean there had been a popular date spot for the two of you, which was the reason you hadn't been back since the break. The place hadn't changed much, the polaroid wall had grown significally, but everything else looked the same, even the baristas who smiled at you when you walked in.
"I'll take an ice mocha and an americano please" You ordered at the counter.
"Absolutely" Mila, the barista you knew by name because of how often you used to come in before, said "You wanna add a cinnammon roll to that?"
You thought about it for a second, surprised that she remembered, Tuck would always order one for you to share, even though you'd end up eating most of it "Yeah, thanks"
Your usual table is occupied by three girls with their heads burried in text books and flashcards sprawled across the surface so you take a different one.
"Hey" He walks up behind you, because he always insisted he took the seat facing the door in case there was an emergency.
"Hi" You expected this to be a little awkward, but the way he's acting, with a tense frame and his hands stuffed in his pockets hesitating his every move, puts you in high alert "I got you an americano"
"Oh, yeah, uh, thanks" You motion for him to sit down and he hurriedly takes his jacket off and does so "I- uh- how are you?"
"I think I'm the one who should be asking you that" You chuckle nervously because he looks like he'd rather be anywhere but here right now.
He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and then blurts out five words you never expected to hear out of him "I got a girl pregnant"
You're not sure you heard him right so you ask him to repeat himself.
"I… I hooked up with this girl a few weeks ago and… she's pregnant" You swallow thickly because what the fuck?
He expects you to get up screaming, dump your coffee on him, make a scene, anything, but instead you close your eyes, nod slowly, stand up and leave quietly.
He wants to get up and chase you but his body doesn't respond to his brain, or rather his brain is not working properly right now because this is not how he had wanted this meeting to go. He had a plan, you'd catch up and then he'd tell you about it and apologize and assure you that while yes, he was planning on being a part of his kid's life, he still wanted you more than anything else.
He wasn't supposed to freeze up and blurt those words like that, he had a speech prepared.
But now he sat there alone at your favorite coffee spot with a melting iced mocha, a cold americano and a hardening cinnammon roll.
You make it about a block away before you have to run into the, thankfully conveniently placed, campus toilets to puke. When you're done and rinsing your mouth you can't help but to wonder if Tucker's new girl is experiencing morning sickness.
Tucker's new girl.
The thought of calling another girl Tucker's girl is enough to make you nauseous again, you breath in and out, splash some water on your face and walk out, the clean air making your head feel a little less cloudy.
"Hey, you okay?" It's Hannah and Garrett standing in front of you.
Garrett calls your name after you don't reply "Shit, should we call Tuck?"
"No" Hannah replies fast "Or yes? I don't know… let's just… here, let's sit yeah?
They lead you to a bench nearby and sit with you.
"Are you okay?" She asks again.
"Yeah" You manage to let out, but your ears are still ringing and your hands are trembling.
"Do you want me to call Tuck?" Garrett's already pulling his phone out and that's what makes you snap out of whatever daze you were in.
"No!" You all but slap the phone out of his hands "No, no… I'm okay, I'm fine" You stand up.
"Wait! " Hannah calls, Garrett looks confused "Are you sure? Can we at least give you a ride?" You wonder if they know.
"I think I need to walk, thank you though" And you're gone.
"Should we like… follow her?" Hannah asks her boyfriend who's already standing up.
"Yup" He nods "And I'm absolutely calling Tuck and finding out what this is about, he said they were going out for coffee today"
Turns out, he doesn't have to call his friend because as soon as they make sure you're safely inside your apartment, even though you have no idea they were following, the 'SOS house meeting' text comes from Logan.
"Well that explains things" Garrett mutters after the news are dropped.
"The hell are you talking about?" Dean asks, he's still trying to catch up and he's sure he heard wrong because there's no way one of his best friends just announced he's having a baby with Sabrina James.
"Hannah and I saw y/n earlier, she looked like death. I imagine she got the news before us" The captain explains.
"Wait, where does she fall in all of this I thought you two were only on a break" Logan asks.
"We were… we are"
"No, if what you just said is true I'm pretty sure you're broken up with dude" Dean jumps in "And she's so valid for it, Sabrina James, really? Out of anyone you could've cheated on your perfect girl with, you went for Sabrina fucking James?"
"I didn't cheat on her, we were on a break" Tucker defends.
Dean snorts sarcastically "Yeah okay Ross"
"And you don't get to talk about the mother of my child like that"
"Like what? Like a fucking homewrecker? Because that's what she is Tuck! And it is cheating! Double cheating if you think about it because from what I can remember you were the one who pushed for not sleeping with other people while on break" Dean and Tucker are now face to face, Logan and Garrett flanking one each ready for the moment they inevitably will have to break up a fight.
"Shut the fuck up Dean, you have no idea what you're talking about"
"I think I do, you're ruining your life, she's ruining your life, and you know it, that's why you're this angry" Dean pushes through, done with the conversation and ready to leave the house.
"No, I'm angry because my best friends are not being supportive in a moment when I need them to be" Tuck lets out before the blonde can walk out.
"Of course I'm not going to support you when you're being a complete idiot" The blonde spats out and leaves.
You on the other hand, are in your apartment livingroom with all the lights off sitting in somewhat of a catatonic state. You imagine if someone saw you right now and knew the whole context of the situation they'd call you ridiculous.
But you can't believe you have found yourself in this situation, because months ago, before the break, you'd been talking about your plans for the future, about how Tucker felt like he needed to go back to Texas because he owed it to his mom, but how he wasn't sure that was what he actually wanted. You'd talked about the business possibilities for him back home that would allow both of you to live comfortably enough and maybe get a house up north to be close to your friends ar some point in the future.
You'd been in his family house with his mom showing you baby pictures and pointing out clothes he had ben wearing that she'd saved for his future children, your future children. You knew his grandmother's ring was tucked safely and, to his knowledge, secretly inside his latest skates box.
You had a future planned, you'd go back to Texas and work your assess of, him with whatever business he chose, you would make use of your special education degree, get married, have kids, eventually, and live happily ever after.
Those plans had disappeared in just 5 words.
And now you were left with the uncertainty of what came next.
Because the break was supposed to answer that concretely, and it had. It made you realize what you already knew, that you wanted it all with Tucker.
But you couldn't have that, not anymore.
Because he had broken his own rule, he had slept with someone else.
And now he was having a baby with another girl.
You didn't sleep that night, in fact you didn't even get up from your spot in the couch until your alarm went off at 6am.
You went through your morning routine like a robot programmed to move with eficiency. Then you walked to your first lecture because no matter how shitty your personal life was, the rest of it didn't stop.
Allie and Hannah found you on your way back to your apartment after your last class. You didn't even notice them by your side until Allie said your name.
"Are you okay?" She asked and then answered herself when you looked at her with glassy eyes "Right, dumb question"
Hannah gave her a look "Can we stay with you for a while?" You nodded and the three of you didn't speak until you were back inside your place.
"This is not me excusing him or trying to make you guilty of anything because I think he should be feeling this way but he does feel terrible" Allie says once you're all seated in your sofa.
"And we know you probably feel horrible but if I've learned anything in therapy is that you should talk about it" Hannah adds.
"I don't know what to say" You admit "It just feels like my life crumbled in an instant and I- I couldn't do anything about it" You shake your head "No, it feels like I had been blinded by this fake sense of safety while everything around me had already broken"
"Oh babe" Allie pulls you in when your shoulders start shaking and tears fall down.
"I went into the coffee shop thinking I'd come out of it in his arms" You say in between shaky breaths "And the worse part is that I don't think I can blame him for sleeping with someone else when I told him it was okay to do so, and him having this kid and being in their life is the most Tucker thing ever I can't even be mad at him for it"
"You can be mad" Hannah says "He told you he wouldn't sleep with anyone else and then he went and did it anyways"
"We were on a break"
"That was complete bullshit by the way" Allie adds "You kissed someone and then felt guilty about it for a week straight, you kept asking us for updates on him and I he wouldn't go a day without asking about you"
There's a knock on the door.
"That must be Grace" Hannah goes to open the door.
"Alright, crisis package, dinner from Malone's, half the shelves of candy from the gas station, every ice cream tub that didn't sound gross and wine curtesy of one John Logan because I still can't buy alcohol myself" Grace, who had been shy and skittish when you first met her but was now that you were friends a total firecraker, lifted her arms full of bags.
"Thanks Gracie" You mutter.
You're 30 minutes into Chicago when Dean, who'd joined right before you decided to start the movie informing that he was a part of the 'hating John Tucker club' spoke up "You know, I told Allie once that we could sic Logan on her ex, I think we could do the same with yours"
"You're not beating up your best friend" You tell him, no matter how messed up the situation is for your relationship with Tucker, you know he's going to need a support system now more than ever and the guys have to be that for him.
"And you're not using my boyfriend for your twisted ideas" Grace adds.
"Okay, fair, no Logan, but I think I can take him on myself" The blonde nods sipping on his wine, the sight of him is so comical that if you weren't teetering towards a meltdown you'd laugh. He has a sheet face mask on, his hair is held back with a bunny hairband and he's sipping on a half empty glass of cheap rosé.
"Sure you can big boy" Allie pats him on the arm and shakes her head at you from behind him.
"Thanks for being here guys" You say.
"Hey! We're family" You wish that was true, but you know things have to change, these are Tucker's people and you don't plan on taking them away from him or making them choose sides, you don't plan on abandoning them all together, but you do need to put some distance between you.
You nail the distance part, it's easy when everyone is rushing around during their last few weeks of class before graduation. You don't talk to Tucker at all, at some points his messages stop coming in and last you heard about him he'd decided to stay and move to Boston, you hadn't been looking for that information, rather his mom had called you and told you.
And while you still had no contact with Tucker, his mom was a whole other challenge. She'd called regularly, tried to convince you to talk to him and was dead set you would be getting back together.
You'd since chosen to forgive Tucker.
Not that you'd told him that, but you held no resentment anymore, you decided you needed to move on.
So you got a job, in Boston because you didn't have enough money to move anywhere else, plus even if you did, you had no idea where you'd go.
And then, when your life was just starting to take shape again, destiny, or whatever grand power that existed decided that you just needed to reconnect with him.
You are struggling with the books and binders in your arms that didn't fit into your bag, student papers threatening to fall out when you pump into a stroller.
"I'm so sorry" You look up only to be shocked by the person in front of you. Tucker.
"y/n" Your name sounds irrationally unnatural yet so familiar out of his lips.
"Tuck, hi" then the baby makes a sound, tiny and bothered, like a complaint to her father for stopping "Oh"
"Uh, this is James" He doesn't know what to say, over the past 8 months he's been trying to come up with multiple scenarios of what he would do if he were ever in this position again and now that he has you here he doesn't know what to say.
You nod and give him a small smile "Cute, congratulations" Then you lift up the books in your arms "I've gotta go, got some work to do, have a nice day"
"You too" Tucker lets out because he is an idiot but then he curses himself and turns around calling your name "Any chance we could meet up? I think we uh… I think I owe you a talk"
"Oh… I- um" You don't know what to say, you want to, you really want to, but you're not sure it is the best idea. You know him and Sabrina are not together, both his mom and the girls made sure you knew that, still, you can't help but to think you meeting up with him will mess something up between them, something neither of you can afford "I don't know Tuck"
"Okay" He sighs resigned "But if you ever decide you do want to talk, my number is the same"
You nod and walk away.
A week, it's all it takes for you to crumble.
In your defense, you weren't planning on texting him, not until Tucker told Logan that he'd seen you and asked to talk and then Logan told Grace who told Hannah who told Allie who told Dean, because thankfully the two were back to being friends, and Dean reached out.
"You don't owe him anything" He'd said "And I know he really hurt you, but I do think if there's even a speck of a chance of wanting to hear him out you should. I know I would've really regretted not talking with him"
And so here you are, walking into a coffee shop that reminds you a little too much of Bean There. Tucker's already at a table with his drink, yours and a cinnammon roll in between waiting for you.
"Thank you" It's the first thing he says after your initial, awkward, greetings "For hearing me out"
"Don't thank me yet" You try to joke "I just got here"
He nods "And you can leave whenever you want"
"So…"
"I hated myself the moment I realized what I'd done. Before I even knew she was pregnant, I'd already decided I was going to tell you about it" He cuts to the chase "But it wasn't something I thought I should tell you over a text or a call and then for one reason or another I never found the time to meet up with you, the team was drowning, I was swamped with assignments and Dean was going through his Allie crisis"
"Okay" You nod and take a sip of your iced mocha.
"I'm sorry, I know that doesn't change anything but I really am, because I promised I wouldn't do that to you and then I went and I broke that promise"
"We were on a break" You spew out the same words you've been using to justify the situation this whole time "You were free to sleep with whoever you wanted, in fact, I told you you should sleep with other people"
"I didn't want to though" He lets out "That's the thing. I was angry that night, mom was putting pressure on me for my plans to come back, and I still wasn't used to not being able to just call you and none of my friends seemed to be around and I just… I don't even know why I did it, I just know I regretted it the second it was over"
"I kissed Justin Kohl and then had a week long meltdown over it" You admit, you don't know why, but you feel like you have to.
He laughs because yeah, that sounds like you, you've always been an overthinker, never been able to acept things happened and move on quickly.
"I'm not with Sabrina" He tells you "I'm not telling you that thinking you'll just take me back, but I think you should know. We tried, a couple months after I told you about the pregnancy we thought maybe we could try to become something more, give our kid a typical family, but we couldn't. She was extremely busy with school and the pregnancy and I couldn't get you out of my head for a moment. So we decided we were better as just co-parents"
"I don't know what to tell you" You say.
He nods "That's fair"
"I'm not mad at you anymore, haven't been in a while" You don't look up at him while you speak, afraid of what you'll find in his eyes if you do "I think you did the right thing for yourself, the Tucker thing"
"I think so too" He nods even though you don't see him "But only halfway"
"You're missing your mom" You say remembering how his future plans always included his mom, no matter how much they changed, she was a part of every single one of them.
"No" He replies fast, you look up with raised eyebrows "Well yes, but… I'm also missing you" He admits "After we met there was never a version of my future I could picture without you in it. And then I went and I fucked up and I think about that every single day"
"Tuck-" He shakes his head stopping you.
"I know you probably want nothing to do with me anymore. But if this is goodbye I need you to know you'll always be it for me, I will spend the rest of my life wishing I could go back and do things right"
"Tuck" Your gaze softens and you place a hand on top of his "You can't say that. You don't mean that, because if things had gone differently you wouldn't have your daughter and I know for a fact you don't regret her, you wouldn't, ever, because that's not the kind of person you are John Tucker"
"So either way it's a lose lose huh?" He sighs, his fingers intertwining with yours.
You close your eyes and take a deep breath hoping you won't regret this "You haven't lost me" His expression lightens up "I mean, I don't know if we'll ever go back to the way it used to be, we're not that people anymore. But we also dont't have to be strangers, we can't, there's too much history between us"
"You have no idea what this means to me" He lets out a shaky chuckle "You know I'm a patient hardworking man baby, we'll get there, it will take time, and things will be different, I know that, but I also know we belong together"
"You're sounding awfully cocky over there sir" You joke.
"Oh honey you have no idea"
You really don't.
Because over the course of that year John Tucker embeds himself so deeply into your life without you realizing just how much he does so.
It's in the little things, morning messages, check in calls, lunch dates, iced mochas and cinnammon rolls.
By the time you catch up with him, he's showing you his new business, a bar.
A bar with a duplex on top of it, one unit completed as a safe space for his daughter and her mother, the other a work in progress, way smaller, something not definite, a place to rest until life gives him back all those plans he had with you.
Eventually you meet Sabrina and James and you're surprised to find the woman being so open about the father of his daughter dating another woman, she's a bit cold at first, overprotective of her daughter as any mom would if another woman was brought into her life the way you were.
But then, one night when Tucker was downstairs swamped with bar work she knocked on Tucker's unit, baby monitor in one hand, glass of wine in the other, a peace offering, even though there was no conflict between you. An apology that was not needed, and a new friendship request.
"We're going to be in each other lives for the rest of out time in earth" She'd said "I've seen the way Tucker looks at you, I saw him when you weren't around and there's no doubt in my head that he will never let you go again. But that also means you'll be in James' life and I just hope you can someday love her as much as you love him. So what I'm trying to say is, I'd like it if you and I were friends, or cordial at least"
You'd fallen in love with James from the first time you spent some time with her. The little girl was all the good traits of her parents combined, and you already loved Tucker and had come to respect Sabrina so much that the task seemed effortless.
She was the flower girl on your wedding, then there the day her little sister was born, and when her little brother did too, and her and Sabrina were there for first birthdays and first words and first steps. And you vacationed together at the family farm in Texas for a few weeks every year.
In the end, your life with Tucker seemed nothing like you'd planned, but you knew now that you wouldn't change a thing because you loved your non-typical family. You loved your kids having a bonus mom and you loved your three kids and you loved your husband and they were all healthy and happy and nothing else mattered.
summary: dean will do anything to win you back, but winning you over proves harder than why he bargained for. (5.9k)
pairing: dean di laurentis x reader
content warning: relationship dysfunction, dean di laurentis is a mess, yearning, jealousy, language, alcohol, hurt/comfort.
authors note: this is for everyone who wanted to see how taking him back would play out. this may be the longest piece i’ve wrote on record but i couldn’t let this man get off so easily…
part one.
the tail-lights of suni's honda civic bled into the darkness of the gravel driveway, leaving nothing behind but the exhaust fumes and a hollow, ringing silence.
dean stood frozen under the dim glow of the porch light, his hand still half-raised in the air as if he could somehow catch the car and pull it back.
the cold night air slapped against his face, a brutal contrast to the suffocating heat of the house behind him, but he couldn't feel it.
his mouth was slightly open and his throat was completely dry.
i am officially withdrawing my terms.
the words repeated in his head, sharp and clinical, cutting right through the lingering buzz of the alcohol in his system.
dean di laurentis didn't get left hanging on driveways.
dean di laurentis didn't get tongue-tied.
he was the guy who always had the perfect pivot, the effortless laugh, the smooth reassurance that smoothed over any wrinkle.
but as he stared at the empty space where you had just been standing, a sickening wave of realization crashed over him.
he hadn't been playing a game.
you had just seen right through the defense mechanism he had been using his entire life.
the heavy front door thudded open behind him, letting out a brief burst of blaring music before closing again.
two sets of footsteps crunched on the gravel.
"hey, man."
a heavy hand came down on his shoulder.
dean flinched, snapping his head around to see tucker standing there, his face tight with a mixture of pity and disappointment.
right next to him was beau maxwell. his arms crossed over his chest and his usual laid-back energy completely gone, replaced by a rare, dead-serious frown.
"i told you, dean," tucker said quietly, looking down the empty road. "i warned you that she doesn't do the whole half-in, half-out thing."
"i wasn't half-in," dean snapped, his voice suddenly raw, a dangerous edge cracking through his usual easy-going demeanor.
he ripped his shoulder away from tucker's grip, running a frantic hand through his blonde hair. "i was going to tell her tonight. i was waiting for the house to clear out so i could ask her to stay. permanently."
beau let out a low, heavy sigh, shaking his head. "then why didn't you say it in front of everyone? why did you let her watch you flirt with some sophomore if she's the one you wanted? you can't treat a girl like a secret and then expect her to treat you like a priority."
tucker nodded in agreement. "beau's right. you let her think she was just another hookup that half the campus has already been with. you can't blame her for cutting you off."
dean quickly opened his mouth to defend himself.
he wanted to explain that the girl by the keg meant absolutely nothing, that it was just muscle memory.
it just the casual persona he put on so nobody looked too closely at how much he actually cared.
but the words died in his throat.
i know when someone is just trying to win over a crowd.
you had called it.
every single bit of it.
he had been so terrified of admitting, even to himself, that he had finally found the right girl. the one he had been passively waiting for his entire life.
but he had treated her like a secret and in doing so, he had completely destroyed the only real thing he had.
"i fucked up, guys," dean whispered, his voice dropping into a register they had never heard from him before.
it was entirely stripped of pride, heavy with a terrifying, sudden desperation. "i really, really fucked up."
beau looked at tucker, then back at dean, his expression softening into something deeply sympathetic. "yeah. you did. and if i know her? she's not the type to give you a second chance just for the sake of it. you're going to have to actually work for this one."
dean didn't go back inside the party.
he walked straight up the stairs to his room, locked the door, and sat on the edge of his bed in the dark.
the scent of your coconut shampoo still lingered faintly on his pillow.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
the hum of the tires against the asphalt was the only sound inside suni's car for the first three miles.
after the oppressive, vibrating bass from earlier, the silence inside the sedan felt less like an absence of noise and more like a physical weight, settling deep into your bones.
you blankly stared out the passenger window, watching the streetlamps bleed past in long, blurry streaks of amber.
"do you want me to say it?" suni asked quietly, her brown eyes fixed on the dark road ahead.
her hands were gripped tight on the steering wheel, still vibrating with that protective adrenaline.
"say what?" you murmured, your forehead resting against the cool glass.
"that you are an absolute fucking badass," she said, a small, fierce smile tugging at the corner of her lips.
"i mean it. people don't just walk away from dean. girls usually dissolve into a puddle when he looks in their general direction, and you just destroyed him on his own driveway."
you let out a breath that was half-laugh, half-sigh, feeling the tight knot in your chest loosen just a fraction. "i don't feel like a badass. i feel hollow."
"that's just the detox," suni promised gently, reaching over to give your knee a supportive squeeze before putting both hands back on the wheel.
"it's the sugar crash after two months of eating nothing but empty calories. it'll pass."
she was right.
it was a crash.
but as you pulled up to your apartment building, the relief you expected to feel was shadowed by a lingering, dull ache.
you had drawn the line. you had won the argument.
so why did it feel like you were the one recovering from a blow?
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
four days passed in a tense, quiet limbo. you stayed away from the standard student hangouts.
you kept your head down, and entirely avoided the athletic side of campus.
which was much easier said than done.
it was actually hannah wells who broke the radio silence when you bumped into each other at work.
you two weren't particularly close outside of your shifts, but you had always been good coworkers, and she gave you a sympathetic look the second she saw you.
she admitted right off the bat that garrett had practically begged her to feel you out and see if you would be willing to hear dean's side of things.
but hannah made it clear she wasn't actually pushing his agenda.
you let her know, gently but firmly, that you just didn't want to hear him out right now.
she nodded immediately, completely understanding.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
you were halfway through your shift at malone's when the bell over the front door chimed and beau maxwell walked in from the cold.
the dinner rush hadn't started yet, leaving the restaurant washed in a warm, lazy quiet.
soft music drifted through the speakers. behind the bar, hannah was busy polishing glasses, while allie was sitting in one of the booths near the window. she was seemingly looking over her homework but clearly tuned into the room.
you looked up from the hostess stand and immediately narrowed your eyes.
beau rarely came here unless dean dragged him.
and judging by the guilty, deeply uncomfortable look on his face, this definitely wasn't a social visit.
"it's that bad, huh?" you asked dryly before he could even open his mouth to speak.
beau blinked. "what?"
"you drew the short straw." you crossed your arms. "dean sent you to talk to me."
hannah stopped wiping her glass, an amused smirk spreading across her face. the fact that beau's expression instantly gave him away nearly made you laugh.
"oh my god," you said, an incredulous smile finally breaking across your face. "he did."
"to be fair," beau said carefully, raising his hands in surrender, "i volunteered. mostly because i couldn't take another night of him pacing the living room floor like a caged animal."
allie leaned out of her booth slightly. "wait. dean di laurentis is sending representatives now?"
hannah leaned her elbows on the bar, looking entirely entertained. "please tell me he at least prepared a speech."
beau groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. "you people are evil."
"no," you corrected lightly, grabbing a stack of menus from the counter beside you, "he's pure evil."
that earned you a reluctant laugh from beau. he shoved his hands into his pockets, looking both amused and slightly helpless.
"okay," he admitted. "maybe this does look a little pathetic."
"a little?" allie echoed from her booth, shaking her head. "beau, i don't know why you're doing this for him."
hannah pointed a bar towel at you. "his approval ratings are in the toilet."
you pressed your lips together, fighting another smile.
it was ridiculous.
dean was apparently moping around because you stopped answering his texts.
a month ago, the idea would've satisfied you.
now it mostly just felt surreal.
beau's expression softened as your smile faded slightly. "i've known dean a long time," he said quietly. "and i've honestly never seen him like this before."
you focused on straightening the menus in your hands even though they were already perfectly aligned. "beau—"
"no, seriously." he leaned against the hostess stand, dropping his voice. "the guy is a disaster. garrett says he's playing like crap at practice because he's distracted all the time. coach yelled at him so hard yesterday his face literally turned purple.”
“and logan threatened to throw dean's phone into a lake because he keeps checking if you texted him back every thirty seconds. he doesn't sleep. he just... he stares at his phone."
a reluctant laugh slipped out before you could stop it, but it died quickly.
"this is insane," you muttered, covering your face briefly with your hand. "he's literally running a pr campaign."
"that's actually exactly what tucker called it," beau admitted.
the amusement faded entirely after a second, though, something heavier settling back into your chest. because underneath all the ridiculousness... there was still hurt.
a deep, aching bruise left by a boy who thought everything in life came easy.
you slowly lowered your hand. "did he send you because he thinks if enough people tell me he's miserable, i'll magically forget why i left?"
the teasing atmosphere immediately evaporated. beau straightened slightly, his voice turning serious.
"no." he shook his head.
"i came because he knows he hurt you. and because for once in his life, he's too scared to make it worse. he's terrified that if he pushes you, you'll completely erase him."
that caught you off guard.
even hannah went quiet behind the bar, returning to her glasses. you looked down at the menus in your hands, tracing your thumb absentmindedly along the edges.
beau hesitated before continuing. "he's not trying to charm his way out of this anymore," he said carefully. "honestly? i think that's freaking him out the most. he doesn't know how to exist without his armor."
before you could respond, the front door opened again and a group of customers entered, breaking the moment apart. hannah immediately pushed off the bar, professional mode clicking back in. "right, back to it before della catches us."
allie slid back into her booth to give the customers room. beau stepped away from the hostess stand, giving you one last careful look. "i'm not saying you should forgive him," he said gently. "that's your call. but i do think losing you finally forced him to become a person instead of just a personality."
and annoyingly enough, that line stayed with you long after he left.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
by the end of the week, the hurt had hardened into a reckless, heavy spike of anger.
suni practically forced you out the door to the pre-game mixer at the phi kappa house. "you need to show up, look stunning which isn't hard for you, and prove you aren't hiding in your room crying over a some hockey player," she insisted.
the house was a sensory overload—a wall of thumping bass, sticky floors, and sweat-fogged windows.
it took exactly five minutes for the room to feel subtly dialed into your arrival. across the crowded living room, the hockey team was gathered near the back patio.
and right in the center was dean.
he looked exhausted, his gaze drifting aimlessly until logan nudged him, pointing in your direction. the moment dean's blue eyes locked onto yours, his entire posture changed.
his chest rose sharply, and he took an instinctive step forward, completely abandoning his conversation.
his eyes flared with a sudden, desperate hope.
you felt the invisible weight of the room watching, waiting for the classic fallout. a dark, defiant spark ignited in your chest.
dean had spent months keeping your relationship a secret, acting like a casual observer while he entertained a crowd.
two can play that game.
you deliberately tore your eyes away from him, turning your gaze toward liam. liam was a handsome football player who had been hovering in your orbit since the start of the academic year.
he was tall, built, and more than happy to have your sudden, undivided attention.
out of the corner of your eye, you saw dean freeze. the hope on his face shattered.
you leaned in close to liam, letting your laughter trail off into something softer, low and intimate.
you stepped directly into his space, your hand sliding deliberately up his arm to rest against his shoulder, your fingers brushing the nape of his neck.
liam's eyes darkened instantly with surprise and heat. his hand came up, wrapping firmly around your waist and pulling you flush against him.
across the room, dean looked like he had been physically struck.
you could see his jaw clenching so hard a muscle jumped in his cheek, his knuckles turning stark white as his grip tightened around his red cup.
garrett muttered something in his ear, placing a grounding hand on his shoulder, but dean brushed him off as his eyes burned into you with a raw, bleeding agony.
you didn't look back at him. instead, you leaned up on your toes, your eyes dropping to liam's lips.
"you're incredibly beautiful tonight," liam murmured, his voice thick, his thumb sliding beneath the edge of your top, tracing the bare skin of your hip.
"thank you," you breathed out, tilting your head up slightly. "liam?"
"mhm?"
"kiss me."
he didn't hesitate. liam leaned down, slanting his mouth over yours.
he didn't hold back at all. his lips were warm and demanding, his hand pressing firmly into the small of your back to hold you tight against his chest.
you let your eyes close and leaned into the weight of him, wrapping your arms around his neck, deepening the kiss into something slow, deliberate, and deeply sensual.
you made sure it lingered, playing your part perfectly for the crowd.
and for the specific boy breaking apart by the doors.
a low ripple of whispers washed through the immediate room. the kiss was thick with heat, but it didn't ignite that familiar, electric ache you only ever felt with a certain stupid idiot.
when you finally pulled back, liam was breathing heavily, a dazed, smug smile tugging at his lips.
you offered him a quiet, heavy-lidded smile before finally looking past his shoulder.
the satisfaction immediately turned to ash in your throat.
dean looked physically ill. the fierce, possessive anger had completely drained out of him, leaving behind a hollow, entirely defeated devastation.
his face was completely pale, his eyes wide as he stared at you. it was like he was looking at the end of his life.
watching you give someone else that kind of intimacy had entirely undone him.
dean's fingers slacked. his cup slipped from his hand, clattering against the floor and splashing beer across his shoes, but he didn't even notice.
he turned on his heel and blindly pushed through the crowd, fleeing out the back doors into the freezing night air.
beau shot you a heavy, disappointed look before turning to follow him out.
you stood frozen beside liam, the adrenaline completely evaporating, leaving behind a bitter, hollow ache in your chest. you had hurt dean exactly the way he hurt you.
so why did you feel like throwing up?
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
dean didn't find you until two weeks later. it took him two full weeks after that party to gather the courage to approach you again. when he finally did, it wasn't at a party, or in his bedroom, or under dim lights where he could press his mouth against yours and make you forget.
it was the middle of the afternoon in the campus library.
you were sitting cross-legged in one of the armchairs near the back windows, a stack of annotated articles spread across the table beside you.
for a long minute, he just stood at the end of the aisle.
god, he looked awful. the sharp jawline you used to trace was covered in a rough, uneven stubble. his signature silver-tongued confidence was entirely absent.
you sensed him before he even spoke. your eyes lifted slowly from your laptop. no warmth or softening. just... nothing.
dean flinched. "hey," he said, his voice raw and stripped of its usual smooth cadence.
you looked back down at your laptop screen, your voice flat. "dean."
he swallowed hard, stepping closer, his hands shoved deep into his pockets as if to keep himself from reaching out. "can we talk for maybe a second? please. just... two minutes. i'll leave right after, i swear."
"i'm really busy right now, dean."
"i know. i know you are." his voice cracked. he hesitated, his eyes flashing with a sudden, sharp spike of residual pain from the party. he swallowed hard, trying to keep his composure, but his voice shook. "are you... are you seeing him? liam?"
you didn't even look up from your screen. "that's really none of your business."
"none of my—" dean let out a bitter, breathy laugh, his eyes swimming. he leaned slightly over the table, his voice dropping to a harsh, desperate whisper. "that was low, you know. even for you. putting on a show like that in front of everyone just to rub my face in it?"
you finally shut your laptop softly, leaning back in your chair and crossing your arms.
you scoffed at him, a cold, mocking sound that cut right through his defense.
"low?" you repeated, your voice slicing through him. "you should worry less about who i'm kissing, dean, and worry a lot more about yourself. you don't get to lecture me about public displays when you practically pioneered them."
the reality of your words hit him like a physical punch to his ribs. he actually took a half-step back, his chest heaving as the hypocrisy collapsed on him.
he was desperate to know if you were talking to liam. he was paralyzed by the thought that you had moved on, but he knew he had no right to ask.
"i'm sorry," he whispered, the defensive edge completely evaporating, leaving him entirely exposed. "you're right. i have no right. i just... i think i genuinely don't know how to handle this."
"i think you genuinely don't understand why you hurt me in the first place," you countered calmly, the honesty of it cutting deeper than your anger ever could.
"you understand that i left. you understand that your bed is empty and your ego is bruised. but i don't think you actually understood what it felt like to stand next to you and constantly feel temporary. to feel like a placeholder until someone better, or flashier, caught your eye."
dean went completely still.
"i liked you so much, dean," you admitted quietly. it made you almost sick to say it. the words tasted bitter and heavy as they left your tongue, but unfortunately it was true.
"it was enough to make excuses for things i normally wouldn't tolerate. i let myself believe you actually cared, and you made me feel stupid for it. you treated my feelings like they were disposable. i'm not doing it anymore. i'm done."
"please," he whispered, his voice dropping to a raw, desperate plea. "don't say it's over. just give me something to fix. tell me what to do."
"there's nothing to do," you said, your heart aching behind the wall you had built, but you forced your voice to remain steady. "i just need you to leave."
he stood there for a long, agonizing beat, looking at you like a man watching his life sentence being handed down.
finally, he closed his eyes, took a shaky, ragged breath, and nodded.
"okay," he sighed, his shoulders hunched in complete defeat. "okay. i'm sorry."
he turned around and walked away, his heavy footsteps fading down the library aisle, leaving you alone with a crushing, heavy silence.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
two more weeks passed. then three.
if dean's initial reaction to the "breakup" was a loud, messy public moping tour, his reaction to the library confrontation was a total blackout.
the campus gossip machine slowed down because dean stopped giving them material.
he wasn't partying.
he wasn't hovering at the edges of your vision.
but he hadn't given up instead he had just changed his tactics.
the loud gestures were replaced by quiet, undeniable consistency.
every tuesday and thursday morning—the days you had an 10.00 am seminar on the opposite side of campus—there was a large vanilla latte waiting for you at the barista counter, already paid for.
no note.
just your exact, complicated order.
when you tried to refuse it, the barista just shrugged. "he said if you don't take it, i have to throw it out. every day."
you left it on the counter the first three times.
by the fourth time, the cold winter air bit too hard, and you took it.
it tasted like an apology.
then came the hockey games. suni dragged you to the friday night game against yale.
you sat twelve rows up, determined to look indifferent.
but the moment the team skated onto the ice, it was clear dean wasn't playing for the scouts or the crowd anymore.
he played with a brutal, self-punishing intensity. and when he scored the game-winning goal in the third period, the stadium erupted.
normally, dean would skate a lap, flashing his devastating smile to the student section, soaking in the god-like adoration.
instead, he skated straight to the center line, stopped, and looked directly up into the stands. right at you.
he didn't smile. he just held your gaze for three agonizing seconds, chest heaving, before skating back to the bench.
"okay," suni muttered beside you, watching him go. "that was... actually kind of miserable. he didn't even wink at the girls."
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
the next afternoon, you were heading out of the science building when a shadow fell over you.
you braced yourself, expecting to see blue eyes and a desperate expression, but when you looked up, it was tucker.
he stepped right into your pace, unceremoniously slinging his heavy arm over your shoulders, pulling you briefly into his side to shield you from a sudden blast of freezing wind.
"hey," tucker said quietly, giving your shoulder a firm, reassuring squeeze before letting his arm drop back to his side. "you got a minute? i'm not here on his orders, i swear. he doesn't even know i'm talking to you."
you didn't walk away, but you still kept your guard up. "tucker, if this is about dean—"
"it is," he interrupted gently. he gestured toward a quiet bench under a bare oak tree.
once you both sat down, he leaned his elbows on his knees, looking at you with complete sincerity.
"i'm not here to tell you he's miserable, because you already know that, and honestly, he deserves to be. but he's always been the guy who keeps one foot out the door because he thinks if he doesn't fully commit, nothing can actually hurt him."
you let out a bitter, breathy sigh, looking down at your boots. "so i'm just supposed to wait around while he plays psychologist with himself?"
"no," tucker said firmly, catching your eye.
"absolutely not. you did the right thing by walking away. you forced him to look in a mirror, and he hated what he saw. but what i'm trying to tell you, as your friend he's not trying to trick you back. he's genuinely terrified because he realized his own cowardice cost him the only real thing he's ever wanted."
tucker leaned back slightly against the bench. "i've never seen dean look at a girl the way he looks at you. he's not trying to smooth things over anymore, he's just trying to figure out how to be a man you could actually trust. i'm not asking you to take him back. i'm just asking you not to completely write him off before you let him speak."
you sat in silence for a long moment, the weight of tucker's words sinking deep into your chest.
tucker wasn't an enabler. he was your friend, and he was the moral compass of that friend group.
if he was defending the sincerity of dean's change, it had to mean something.
"thank you, tuck," you murmured softly.
he gave you a brief, supportive nod, standing up from the bench. "just think about it, okay? see you around."
you watched him walk away, your mind a chaotic blur.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
a few days later, you were sitting on the couch in your apartment, staring blankly at a textbook, when suni dropped a mug of tea onto the coffee table in front of you.
"you're thinking about him," she said flatly, crossing her arms as she leaned against the back of the chair.
you let out a long sigh, rubbing your temples. "i don't want to be. but it's been a month, suni. he's not stopping. every time i turn around, there's a coffee, or he's clearing out of a room the second i walk into it so i don't feel uncomfortable. and his friends are trying to reason with me. it's infuriating."
"why is it infuriating?"
"because it's working," you admitted, your voice cracking. "it's making me remember why i fell for him before he started acting like a coward. but i'm terrified. if i let him back in, what happens when he gets bored of making amends? what happens when the crowd calls his name again?"
suni searched your face, seeing the deep, defensive armor you had built. she slid onto the couch next to you, pulling your hand into hers.
"then you make him earn the right to even ask that question," suni said softly, squeezing your fingers.
"you don't fold just because he's acting like a human being now. that's the baseline expectation, not a reward. if you want to talk to him, talk to him. but don't let him off the hook until you are 100% sure he knows he's lucky to breathe the same air as you."
just promise me you walk away if he slips back into his old habits." she sighed holding onto your hands.
"i promise," you whispered, a sudden wave of clarity washing over you.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
you didn't go to the rink to find him.
it was close to midnight when you found yourself walking toward the athletic center to drop off a borrowed, heavily annotated textbook for hannah.
but as you stepped into the corridor, the muffled, echoing thwack of a puck against boards drew you toward the main arena doors.
armed with suni and tucker's advice echoing in your head and a tug in your chest you couldn't ignore anymore, you pulled open the heavy side doors of the rink.
the stadium was dark, except for the bright, stark floodlights illuminating the pristine white sheet of ice.
dean was alone.
he was stripped down to his practice jersey and skates. there was no crowd to impress, no scouts watching, no teammates to joke with.
it was just him, a puck, and a net.
he was doing suicide drills—skating full sprint to the blue line, stopping hard enough to spray a cascade of ice shavings, skating back, and doing it again.
he was panting, his blonde hair soaked with sweat, his movements driven by a furious, desperate energy.
he was trying to skate away from his own head.
you stood by the player's bench, your arms crossed, watching him coolly.
"you're slacking on your defense di laurentis," you called out. your voice echoed sharply in the cavernous, empty arena.
dean froze.
his skates dug into the ice with a harsh screech, breaking the silence.
he snapped his head around, his chest heaving as he stared at you.
for a second, he looked entirely paralyzed, as if he thought he was hallucinating.
"you're here," he breathed, slowly skating toward the boards. he stopped a few feet away, looking up from the ice.
"i'm here," you said softly, your tone steady, giving him absolutely nothing to work with. no smile or softness. you unlatched the heavy wooden door of the player's bench. "i think you've done enough pacing around campus, dean. come here."
before he could answer, you took a tentative step out onto the ice. you were wearing regular winter boots, completely unequipped for a freshly zambonied sheet of ice.
"wait, wait, hold on—" dean warned, his eyes widening in alarm.
naturally, you didn't listen. your heel hit a patch of smooth ice, and your balance instantly vanished. your arms flailed as you slipped backward, a short gasp escaping your throat.
but you didn't hit the ice.
dean moved with the terrifying speed of a professional athlete. in a fraction of a second, he closed the distance, his strong gloved hands catching you right around the waist. he hauled you against his chest, his skates digging hard into the ice to anchor both of your weights.
you gasped, your hands automatically flying up to grip his broad shoulders. you were pressed flush against him, the cool scent of the ice and his familiar cologne enveloping you completely.
"gotcha," dean whispered, his breath puffing white in the cold air.
he didn't let go.
his hands stayed firmly clamped around your waist, pulling you so close that you could feel the rapid, thumping beat of his heart against your chest.
he was looking down at you like you were the only thing left in the entire world, his eyes intense, wide, and bright with unshed tears.
no armor. just dean.
but even wrapped in his arms, you kept your gaze sharp.
you didn't melt….. just yet.
"you're a fucking idiot," you murmured, your voice level and direct. "you really messed up, dean."
"i know," he whispered, his voice cracking as a tear finally slipped down his cheek, cutting through the sweat on his face. he didn't even try to brush it away.
"i'm the biggest idiot. i ruined everything. the night you left... i sat in my room and i realized i've spent my whole life making sure nobody could ever reject me by making sure i never fully committed to anything.” he continued.
“and then i met you. and i was so terrified of how much power you had over me that i tried to make you small so i could feel big."
he took a shaky breath, his grip tightening around your waist as if you might vanish if he let go.
"seeing you with liam? it nearly killed me. but the worst part wasn't jealousy. the worst part was realizing i was the one who drove you into his arms. i am so sorry. i am so, so sorry for making you feel like a secret. i swear to god, i love you. i don't want anyone else. i just want you."
you stood steady in his hold, letting the weight of his words hang in the freezing air.
your heart was pounding, but you kept your hands firm against his shoulders, maintaining your boundary.
"words are easy for you, dean," you said quietly.
"you've always been good with a crowd. you've always known exactly what to say to smooth things over. i don't want a public spectacle. i care about what this is."
"this isn't a performance," he choked out, his shoulders hunching in complete defeat, entirely exposed to you. "tell me what to do. anything. i don't care how long it takes."
you looked at him for a long moment, watching the genuine, stripped-back desperation in his eyes. only then did you let a very small, guarded smile touch your lips. it wasn't a total surrender, but it was a crack in the ice.
"i'm not ready to give you a second chance," you told him firmly, your voice unwavering.
"and i'm definitely not ready to forget how you treated me. but i am willing to stop running so if you want to try and earn my trust back, you can start by taking me on a real date. next friday. and if you slip back into your old habits even once? i'm gone. do you understand me?"
a breathless, stunned laugh escaped dean's lips. it wasn't his usual confident chuckle.
it was a sound of pure, unadulterated relief, heavy with the realization of just how close he had come to losing you.
"yes," he whispered fiercely, his eyes shining as he looked down at you. "yes, absolutely. whatever you want. however long it takes. i'll be exactly who you need me to be."
you let your eyes drop to his lips, then back to his eyes, finally allowing yourself to relax against his chest. "show me."
dean didn't hesitate.
he leaned down and captured your lips in a deep, desperate, passionate kiss.
it wasn't the smooth, practiced kiss of a guy trying to charm his way into a girl's room.
it was heavy with weeks of longing, raw with the terror of almost losing you, and overflowing with a profound, aching relief.
he poured everything he couldn't put into words into the press of his mouth against yours, his fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of your neck, holding you to him as if he could bind your paths together right then and there.
when he finally pulled back, just an inch, his forehead rested against yours. both of you were breathing heavily, the white puffs of your breath mingling together in the cold air.
dean let out a soft, shaky laugh, a brilliant, breathtaking smile finally spreading across his handsome face—the first real smile he had had in weeks.
"so," dean murmured, his thumb gently tracing your jawline, though his eyes still held that cautious, vulnerable edge. "does this mean my approval ratings are finally going up?"
you let out a genuine laugh, but you didn't let him entirely off the hook. "don't push your luck, di laurentis. you are still on probation."
"i'll take it," he whispered, before leaning right back down to kiss you again, your laughter echoing beautifully in the empty arena.
