joyflws

18•infj

[flwrhui]

NOONA NEOMU YEPPEO pt 1 , juhoon x older!f!rdr

SYN . It's a well known joke in the group that Juhoon's got a thing for Martin's older sister. But when the time comes when your boyfriend actually starts slacking off, Juhoon wastes no time to swoop in and take his chances.

✏️ ... whoop! my first ever juhoon fic lolz lemme know watchu think this is inspired by shinee's replay

✏️ .. part 2 any1? comment #teamjju to root for our man and get tagged for the 2nd part🤞🏻

cortis taglist . @taelvvrzz @en-dream @anniyahhh @hyuneskkami @toomanyfanficsbruh @maraaaa105 @wowbyselene

©️ flwrhui 2026

[wiishies]

LMAOOO NOT HIM GETTING BROTHER ZONED

[mayegasm]

ᢉ𐭩 stoner! sukuna’s supplier is… adorable?? huh???? feat. nephew yuji & little megumi

᧔ ⑅ ᧓ 𝓼toner! sukuna who was shit out of luck for a couple weeks when his last plug got in legal trouble, leaving him to deal with his nephew fully aware of every stupid thing that toddler did. he got the contact of another supplier nearby.

᧔ ⑅ ᧓ 𝓼toner! sukuna who first contacted you over the phone. he was surprised you were a woman, but that's really it. he thought of it proceeding as normal business. he'd order, someone would deliver it personally. however, the thing did surprise him was when his stuff was in pink packaging — even the blunts had pink wrapping paper with bows.

᧔ ⑅ ᧓ 𝓼toner! sukuna who got a bit ticked off at the fact one of your deliverers was jacking up the price, so he decided to meet you in person next time.

᧔ ⑅ ᧓ 𝓼toner! sukuna who met you after a series of unfortunate events following him being scammed out his money (leading to your deliverer being hospitalized). in all honesty, the act of you showing up at his door with not only his weed looking like a gender reveal present, but also looking like the cutest thing in the world, threw him off.

᧔ ⑅ ᧓ 𝓼upplier! reader who has worked with children before turning to this choice in career.

᧔ ⑅ ᧓ 𝓼toner! sukuna who ended up introducing you to his nephew, yuji after a couple of times. " damn brat doesn't know what 'go upstairs and play with your toys' means. " he grumbled under his breath, glaring at the boy who seemed to have barely started kindergarten.

" he's so adorable! " your squeal made him suck his teeth and roll his eyes. you cradled yuji in a hug, he was clinging to you like a koala on a branch. " and he's strong for his age. you have the cutest nephew...! " yuji started appearing every time you arrived to sukuna's apartment; you treated him like he was your nephew.

᧔ ⑅ ᧓ 𝓼toner! sukuna who would show up to your apartment unannounced sometimes with yuji holding his finger, which barely fit in his hand. a good once a month, megumi, yuji's kindergarten friend would come along too (he would drag him along). " he brought a friend, " sukuna's deep voice deadpanned.

you were hesitant about letting two children barely over 5 years old into your space where substances were present. but you hid them good enough so they wouldn't accidentally find it.

᧔ ⑅ ᧓ 𝓼toner! sukuna who questioned your true intentions with your field of choice when he got back from running whatever errands that caused him to drop off yuji and his playdate at your home. " how'd you get this job? i'm wonderin'... " he scrunched his face in concern, " you seem better with kids. "

" being a teacher doesn't pay the bills as it should," you responded, pulling the homemade cookies from the oven. " cookies are done, boys! " your voice pulled them from megumi teaching yuji how to make shadow animals on the wall, watching them race to gobble all of the crumbs left.

" use your manners. " sukuna lifted yuji by his collar, making him squirm. " thamk you! " he spoke with a mouth full. " gross, itadori. you're getting crumbs everywhere, " megumi repulsed.

᧔ ⑅ ᧓ 𝓼upplier! reader who used the fact she was sukuna's plug and his babysitter as a way to get closer to him.

© 𝓜𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐆𝐀𝐒𝐌

♥︎ 𝓷𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: i love sukuna fluff 🥹 euphoria inspo + tokyo toni sneak if you squint / was also thinking about making this a series should i hm

taglist pt. 1 :: @nonchalantfiend @kissthesword @1cckedheart @alex-021222 @catboygumi @leviackermanswaifu @sstorule @starlightwater @vanillaapples @velvetjpg @amix28 @hollowedv @whatthehellybronjames @stqrgumi @lilfluffybunny @razzleeeee @incandescent-night @megumour @stillsearching1name @sugerfilled @megumisrighttoe @brookeleanne @josuni @kalihrts @catgvrl @qrxswan @megurei @fushigurlfriend @iluvfictionalmen4eva @ilovejollofrice @hanawoof @stqrgumi @skeepingsecrets @sneak2013 @ferliouscupcake @dreamydaredevil @satorugojo-is-hot @jennyistrendy @fushigummy @skeepingsecrets @meganthestallionswife @chaosiskeycauseiamchaos @megssleepygirl @anqii @paincakezzz @tengensbigtiddies @cave-dweller4eva @luvrs-isle @galinathepanda @sunnyfieldsz

[lovebugism]

PEAR MILLE-FEUILLE ─── carmy berzatto

summary: the evolution of you and carmy's relationship, as told by the layers of the dessert that brought you together in the first place, and almost ruined your life. or: the four times carmy caught himself falling in love with you, and the one time he actually let himself. (10k)

characters: carmy berzatto / fem!reader, mentions of claire / carmy, luca, richie jerimovich, sydney adamu, chef terry

contents: slow burn, strangers to friends to lovers, idiots in love, angst (hurt/comfort), jealousy, so much yearning, reheating sydcarmy nachos, canon divergent (i kinda mish-mash the events of season 2 and 3 together here for funsies), cw for mentions of grief, talks of depression and anxiety, smut 18+ (carmy's touch-starved and cries during sex, you heard it here first guys!)

( NAVIGATION ) | ( AO3 )

pear mille-feuille, a classic parisian dessert, meaning "a thousand layers" in french, pronounced: pair-meel-fwee.

—

I. BURNT CARAMEL

Carmy rushed out of the restaurant with his pulse thrumming in his throat and the word of David Fields bouncing around in his pounding skull. “I don’t think about you at all,” he’d said. “I don’t think about you at all. I don’t think about you at all—” Carmy shoved the metal door open with a too-aggressive hand, so hard it hit the brick wall on the other side with a resounding bang.

He waited for the cool Chicago night air to smack him in the face, to remind him how to breathe again. He got a heavy whiff of warm caramel and sweet pear instead. 

With his tattooed knuckles running hard along his tight chest, he turned his head to find a strange woman he only vaguely recognized sitting on the curb a few feet away — dressed for a funeral, wearing a wrinkled black dress and a run in her tights along the knee. A plate of something sweet rested in her lap.

“Uh… Hi,” Carmy greeted shakily, half-strangled from the leftover panic still clutching him hard by the throat.

“Hi,” you responded quietly, as if choked by some strange emotion of your own.

The man’s wet, ocean eyes flit between your face and the food in your lap. A rogue brown curl fell over his forehead as he nodded down towards you. “What’s, uh… What’s that?”

“My mortal enemy,” you answered gravelly, before turning away. “It’s a Pear Mille-Feuille… I thought maybe I could finally get it right before we closed…”

Carmy blinked owlishly at your profile. “…Well, did you?”

“Nope…” you answered through a heavy sigh, popping your lips together. “The pastry’s too soft. But somehow the pears are still overdone, so… I can’t win.”

Carmy looked it over with an inquisitive eye — the thin gold layers of puff pastry, all stacked neatly atop one another; pears poached to the perfect amber color; thick cream piped with a near impossible precision. It looked like something straight out of a magazine. And, if Carmy had to guess by how hard you were on yourself about the whole thing, it’s entirely likely you’d been published in one before.

“Well, it looks good, at least.”

“That’s only ‘cause you’re standing six feet away.”

Carmy scoffed a quiet laugh and found his breath coming more easily to him. “Here,” he offered, shoes scraping the worn pavement as he approached you. “Let me try it.”

Your head snapped in his direction. Your wide eyes raised to follow his form as he loomed suddenly over you, black blazer rippling in the cool, late-summer breeze. The night air filled suddenly with the scent of him — deep cologne, cigarette smoke, and nicotine gum.

“Wh…What?” you stammered.

“Sometimes you just need a fresh perspective, is all. Like, uh… A new pallet, you know?”

Carmy reached a tattooed hand in your direction, leaving little room for argument. You got the feeling that he must run a restaurant of his own as you passed him the ceramic plate, fingers trembling. You watched anxiously as he took the fork in his large hand and cut himself a slice of the pastry.

He shoveled it into his mouth — an explosion of butter, vanilla, pear, and caramel — the near-perfect balance of elegant and comforting. Just refined enough not to impose too much on itself. 

His cheek jut softly out as he chewed. He nodded to himself until the words caught up to him. “Yeah, this is… incredible, Chef,” he said through the mouthful, laughing slightly through his nose. The sweetest thing he’d ever tasted.

You didn’t believe him, not entirely, but the line in your taut shoulders relaxed slightly at his praise anyway. Sometimes, feeding others felt like a leap of faith. Sometimes, feeding someone felt like handing over a piece of yourself to them, and hoping they found something worth keeping.

—

Months later, Carmy realizes that there are only two kinds of things a person holds onto in this world — things they can’t bear to lose, and things they never meant to keep.

Mikey belongs perpetually in the first category. And, ever since you started working here, he’s begun to realize that you belong in the second. Maybe that’s why he felt himself on the verge of a panic attack for the third time today, ‘cause he was spending his evening excavating his brother’s office like an archeological dig, and found himself surrounded by both at once.

This office had belonged to Mikey, and would be the last thing that ever truly did.

Carmy thinks, knows, that’s why he put off cleaning it out for so long — like keeping it exactly the way his brother left it would preserve his ghost there in some way. This place was practically his tomb, made of four concrete walls faded to the color of old dishwater, an ancient desk so cluttered you can barely see its surface, and a bunch of dented filing cabinets that haven’t been organized in at least three presidential administrations.

They’re all half empty now, organized in boxes with Mikey’s frantic scrawl left on every crumpled receipt, invoice, and payroll record. Soon this office would match the rest of the place — clean, sleek, erased — and what’s left of his brother would be gone.

Carmy slouches against the cool brick with his arms propped on his bent knees, holding the last of Mikey’s things in a tattooed hand. A prescription pill bottle with the label scratched off, which he found while grave-digging through the cabinet drawers. He clutches it tight in his fist, holding the remnants of addiction as if it were his brother’s hand.

The grey, mildew-and-coffee-scented abyss of his grief is abated only by the sound of your laughter, which bounces off the concrete walls and finds him like the rays of milky-orange sunlight filtering through the stained window above his head, which turns his wild curls a more golden shade of brown.

His heavy ocean eyes lift and find you instantly — the way they always seemed to do — and his features flood with horror when he finds you with his sketchbook in your hands.

“What’s all this?” you wonder with a quiet laugh, beneath the subtle thwipping of the pages as you flick through them with your thumb.

Inside are random lists, phone numbers, and mock-ups for the restaurant, all in Carmy’s scrawled handwriting. Then you stumble upon a series of sloppy portraits — some of them of the others in the kitchen; most of them of you, like he was trying to capture you just right.

They feel like memories in some way, moments stolen when no one else was looking. They’re slightly messy, as if drawn by a loose and absentminded hand. It’s quite strange, looking at yourself from another person’s perspective. But even still, you don’t think you’ve ever looked so pretty, so alive, than on these pages of smudged ink.

“I didn’t know you could draw.”

Carmy shrugs lazily with his pink mouth softly jutted, feigning an air of indifference despite the red tint speckling across his cheeks.

“I can’t,” he mumbles through a huff as he stands to full height again, bracing himself on the cleared-out desk beside him. He tucks the pill bottle into the front pocket of his slacks and clears his throat when he feels his pulse skipping there. “N-Not really.”

“Well, I beg to differ,” you scoff and turn another page.

Another scribbled portrait of you sits in the center, drawn in blue ink this time. You’ve got the eraser end of a pencil in your mouth and another sitting behind your ear, concentrating on coming up with a new dessert menu. You were captured quite beautifully, even in your subtle frustration. “I didn’t think I was capable of looking this good until now.”

“You look good all the time,” he dismisses quietly, curls swaying when he shakes his head at you.

He grimaces at himself right after the words spill from his lips, face flaring hotter when the expression on your face shifts slightly in response to them. He lacks the courage to meet your eyes as he looms before you, smelling of stale cologne and sweat from days of renovation.

“What do you, uh— What do you usually draw?” you stammer and pass the sketchbook back to him.

“I don’t know…” Carmy mutters. “Whatever’s, you know, on my mind, I guess—”

Your heart lurches in your chest, both at his words and at the office door slamming suddenly open across the room. Your heads snap to the side in tandem to find Richie towering in the narrow doorway. “Cousin, I swear to god, I’m about to fuckin’ lose it, man—”

“You’re so dramatic, Richie, jeez…” Sydney sighs as she walks past him and further into the newly renovated kitchen, to busy herself with actual work.

Carmy hangs his head and closes his eyes, digging his thumb and forefinger into the sockets in a quiet frustration. “I thought we agreed you wouldn’t come to me with any problems while I was in here—”

“I know that,” Richie shrugs. “It’s not a problem.

“—I don’t have time for this shit right now, Rich.”

“Well, it’s not a fuckin’ problem, Carm! What do you want me to say?” the older man repeats, louder now.

“It’s literally a problem,” Syd monotones from somewhere further inside the kitchen.

“Well, Ms. Know-It-All over here wants less tables in the dining room— says it’ll fuckin’… make it more systematic or whatever, I don’t know,” Richie rambles, gesturing wildly with his hands. “But I told her we’re opening a restaurant here. Not a library. More seats means more customers, which means more money— Which we’re slowly running out of, might I add!”

He turns over his shoulder to yell into the kitchen. You wince when his voice bounces off the bare concrete walls.

“Yeah, Syd’s right,” Carmy nods.

“Thank you!” the girl calls distantly.

Richie blinks slowly in offense. “…What?”

“Syd’s right—”

“No, I heard you—”

“Then why’d you say what—?”

“‘Cause you’re fucking with me,” Richie scoffs an emotionless, half-delirious laugh.

“I’m trying to be efficient here, Rich—”

“You’re all fucking with me—”

“We can turn over tables quicker if there’s less of them,” Carmy explains, much more calmly in response, though there’s a sudden bite behind his words that you don’t miss. He keeps one hand propped on his waist while his other gestures with the sketchbook between his fingers. “Which means more customers, which means more money, which… we are running out of…”

Richie laughs like it’s funny. “Well, that’s real funny, Carm, ‘cause I bet if I brought Claire-Bear in here, and she agreed with me — which she would, by the way — you’d change your mind like that—”

Carmy flinches when the man lifts his hand to snap in his face. He swats him away with a little more aggression than probably necessary. “Get your hand out of my face— What are you twelve?”

“Yeah, you’re mad ‘cause you know I’m right.”

Your head tilts to the side like an intrigued puppy at the foreign name, which you haven’t yet become acquainted with in your weeks working here. Your wide eyes dart between the two men in front of you. Your smile trembles slightly at the edges.

“Who’s… Who’s Claire-Bear?”

Carmy’s head snaps in your direction. His mouth parts, but nothing comes out for an embarrassing fraction of a second, as if he wasn’t entirely sure how to answer. Bringing her up in front of you feels wrong in a way he can’t explain.

“She’s uh… She’s— She’s no one,” Carmy stammers.

“Oh, please,” Richie scoffs, dark blue eyes flitting in your direction. “She’s his girlfriend.”

Your stomach sinks, even despite Carmy’s arguing.

“For the last time, she’s not my fucking girlfriend. Richie—”

“Well, not for lack of tryin’, cousin—”

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Carmy repeats, this time only to you. There’s a solemn look in his light eyes, like he’s trying to make sure you really hear him. “She’s, you know, an old friend. A family friend. That’s all.”

“Oh,” Richie laughs. “I bet Claire-Bear would love to hear that.”

“Fuck off, Richie,” Carmy spits.

“Oh, there you are.” A softer, deeper, more foreign voice breaks through the boyish bickering in an instant. Luca appears in the doorway behind Richie — golden locks pushed over his forehead, physically built beneath his white undershirt, looking a lot less plagued by the chaos of the kitchen than the rest of them. His pink lips quirk into a smile at the sight of you. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you— I need an expert opinion on this lemon-blueberry trifle I’m trying out.”

“Yeah, put this girl out of her misery. Please,” Richie scoffs drily, then turns back to you with a warm, sympathetic hand on your shoulder. “I apologize for my cousin, Sunshine. I did warn you he could be a bit of an asshole—”

“Richie.”

“It’s… okay,” you murmur with a sheepish laugh, before glancing over at Carmy beneath your lashes in a sheepish look. “Are you… okay in here?”

Carmy’s expression shifts slightly, like he’s about to say the exact opposite of what he really means. He feels his chest stinging with a pinch of misplaced jealousy — because he knows you spent time in Copenhagen with Luca some years back, and the idea of someone knowing parts of you that he doesn’t feels a little like a punch to the stomach.

“Yeah,” he nods anyway, slightly strangled, like his body’s trying to keep him from saying the words. “Yeah, I got the rest of it. Go ahead.”

You flash the boy a smile that doesn’t quite meet your eyes as you go. Carmy watches you trail behind Luca out of the office and back towards the dessert station. Richie watches Carmy watch you.

“So about the tables—”

“Enough about the fucking tables, Richie!”

II. ORANGE BLOSSOM HONEY.

There were only two times in your entire life that you swore you’d never bake again: first, when you got your first scathing review that sent you on a downward spiral for longer than you’d like to admit, and second, when Ever closed down for good.

There was still joy in it, somewhere deep down, you just couldn’t find it anymore. Honestly, you had trouble finding it most days in most anything. Which is probably why Luca told you to give The Bear a shot in the first place.

“I’ll tell him you’re stopping by, alright?” he’d told you over the phone that evening. “Just talk to Carmy. See the place out. And if you hate it, I will personally fly myself across the Atlantic so you can say ‘I told you so’ to my face.”

“That sounds very expensive, Lu.”

“Well, it’d be worth every penny.”

So there you were, weaving through a restaurant that seemed more abandoned than not — as though someone had taken a perfectly good kitchen and detonated a small explosive in the center of it. Walls had been torn down. Floors were covered in sawdust. Extension cords snaked across the room like vines. The smell of drywall and fresh paint grew stronger the further you went.

For a moment, you worried that no one was inside waiting for you, and that you had accidentally committed a breaking and entering — until you spotted a curly-haired stranger hunched over a metal counter in the not-quite kitchen, scribbling at a notepad with his pen.

He glanced up at the sound of your footsteps, dark curls hanging over his eyes. A mixture of surprise and confusion flashed in his gaze, brows raising and lowering again.

You lifted a hand in an awkward wave. “Hi…”

“Hey…”

“I’m sorry. I let myself in— I… I tried to knock, but I guess you couldn’t… hear me…” You trailed off with a wavering smile, scratching anxiously at the back of your neck. “Uh, Luca was supposed to call you, I think...”

Realization flooded the sharp edges of Carmy’s face.

“Oh. Right,” he nodded. “Yeah, for the, uh...”

“Yeah…”

Carmy swallowed hard, tapping his pen along his palm, no more anxious than you are now. “Well, uh, I— I hope he warned you that we don’t have much of a kitchen yet...”

“Yeah…” you answered with a breathless laugh, eyes wandering across the spray-painted tarps hanging as makeshift walls as you strolled further inside. “I just… I thought he was exaggerating a little bit.”

A short laugh escaped him then as he rounded the counter in front of him. “Yeah, this is— basically a construction zone more than a kitchen at this point, so… Sorry in advance.”

“Well, if we’re sharing apologies, I’m sorry for not bringing a résumé,” you confessed sheepishly, struggling to meet the man’s gaze when he stood before you. The scent of paint and sawdust clung heavily to his navy sweatshirt. “I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t want me working here.”

“C’mon. I know your résumé,” Carmy scoffed. “I’ve actually eaten your food before, remember?”

“The desert I was crying over at Ever, you mean?”

His lip twitched into a soft smile before he turned away, too shy to say this to your face:“Well, in my opinion, something that perfect is worth crying over.”

You grinned at the back of him, wider than you realized. “You’re still sparing my feelings after all this time…”

Carmy planted himself on the right wing end of the soon-to-be kitchen and turned to face you again. “I know it doesn’t look like much, but… This is gonna be our dessert station. Hopefully. If this entire place doesn’t cave in—”

‘Ours,’ he said, as if it were already yours in some way, too.

“—That’s a joke. Sorta,” he said, scratching at the back of his wild curls. He glanced up at you once more. “Have you tried making it again since we met?” he wondered suddenly. “You know that… pear… mill-fill thing?”

A giggle sputtered from your lips before you could stop it. Your hand flew to your mouth, as if you were trying to put it inside.

Carmy grinned shyly at having earned the pretty sound, despite his mild embarrassment. He fidgeted with the pen in his tattooed hands and gave you a sheepish look in response. “Help me out here…”

“It’s French,” you told him. “It’s mee-fwee.”

His brows lowered with a visible hesitation. “Mee… foy…”

“Close enough,” you laughed with a shake of your head. “And, to answer your question, no. I haven’t made it again. And I probably never will— I’m too fragile for another defeat.”

The grin that tugged at the corner of Carmy’s mouth then was brief, but no less genuine. “You will,” he said, like some kind of an oath, with so much conviction you couldn’t help but believe him.

—

“You seem happier here.”

Luca’s observation comes suddenly. His English-deep voice cuts through the soft quiet of the empty restaurant, renovated to near completion now. The two of you lie supine on the cool hardwood, the tops of your heads nearly brushing, as you put together Carmy’s newest splurge — which his uncle called “expensive, ergonomic, fuckin’ hippie tables.” You screw each bolt in by hand. You can feel your fingers threatening to cramp around the screwdriver clutched between them.

“Happier than Copenhagen, I mean,” he continues.

You scoff. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure any version of me is happier than I was in Copenhagen…”

“Oh, c’mon…” Luca lilts lowly. “I wasn’t that bad company, was I?”

“You know it wasn’t about you…” you mumble.

“Yeah,” he sighs. “I know…”

It was the fault of that goddamn critic, and the devastating review he left that seemed to compliment everything but your work alone.“The pear mille-feuille reads less like a dessert and more like a young chef begging for validation,” the publication read. “For all its technical accomplishment, the pastry never once feels human. It is difficult to imagine, dear reader, a pastry with so much insecurity baked into each of its layers.”

Your world seemed to shrink after that. The singular paragraph of disapproval lodged itself somewhere deep within your psyche, along with all the cynicism and sorrow that built a home inside you, too. Every other failed recipe somehow led back to it, and every success thereafter felt purely accidental — until, eventually, baking stopped being fun and started being the one thing most capable of hurting you.

It hollowed you from the inside out. You worked the kitchen like a ghost returning to its haunt. You wanted to quit, in virtually every sense of the word, and it was Chef Andrea who convinced you to stay — by sending you four thousand miles away to Copenhagen, that is, to remember a world without critics and service and non-stop perfection; to remember what it felt like to exist without constantly needing to prove yourself.

It was there that you met Luca, who taught you what it meant to approach food with curiosity again. And it was here now, in the bones of The Bear, that reminded you how to love the work again — the simple joy of making something with your bare hands and sharing it with the people who mattered most.

“I’m just glad you didn’t stop cooking…” Luca continues with a quiet grunt in the back of his throat as he slides out from under the table. “And I’m glad Chef Andrea sent you over to my neck of the woods.”

“Let me?” you scoff, tilting your head back against the floor to look at the boy upside down. “She practically forced me on that plane.”

“Best thing she ever did,” the boy croons with an air of sarcasm to mask his sincerity. He rises to full height and dusts his palms off on his slacks. “I’m headed out for the night… Need a ride?”

“I think I’m gonna stay here for a while…” you sigh.

“Suit yourself,” he huffs and walks away. “Just don’t overdo it.”

“Or what?”

“Or I will be very upset with you,” he deadpans with faux-solemnity.

“Oh, the horror!” you call to his disappearing figure, right before the door shuts behind him.

Silence returns when he’s gone. Your chest deflates with a heavy sigh, a held breath you didn’t know you were keeping, as you return to your work — twisting the screwdriver in your fist and reveling in the burn in your wrist, the only thing keeping you from thinking.

About that critic. About Copenhagen. About Carmy’s sketchbook, about Carmy and the girl called Claire-Bear.

You rise onto your elbows with a huff when you’re done, stretching out the aching tendons in your neck. You vaguely hear the kitchen door swishing open and shut again before a sudden voice calls out. “Oh, hey—”

The sound of Carmy’s voice startles you for a reason you can’t name. You sit further up on instinct and slam your head against the table with a whack that jostles one of the screws.

“Ow...” you whimper.

“Shit—” Carmy rushes to your side, catching the wooden top when it wavers. His long, tattooed fingers curl around the edge of it to keep its weight from falling back on you. He ducks his head to look at you, features twisting with a sympathetic grimace as you rub at your aching forehead. “Sorry… Didn’t mean to scare you…”

“You didn’t scare me…” you assure him weakly.

His mouth lifts into an amused half-smile. “No?”

You shrug, lips jutted in feigned apathy despite the newfound pounding in your skull. “Not even a little bit...”

Carmy’s grin widens, but he makes no further argument. He just crouches down in front of you and keeps the tabletop steady while you lie back to realign its leg. You spend the next minute or so screwing the loose bolts back into the blanched oak, hands going clammy around the screwdriver at the proximity between you now. The air grows considerably warmer accordingly, filled with the familiar scent of him — of cologne, garlic, and cigarette smoke. You have to keep reminding yourself to breathe.

“You, uh— You never told me,” Carmy starts suddenly, as if he’d been sitting on the words for some time and only now got the courage to say them. He swipes at his nose with the back of his free hand and mumbles shyly behind his fingers.“About, you know, why you almost didn’t come here… Why you went to Copenhagen...”

Your breath hitches faintly in throat. You hope he doesn’t notice. The screw twisting itself back into the pale wood above you becomes the most interesting thing in the room. “It never came up…” you answer quietly. “It was stupid anyway…”

“No, what the asshole critic said was stupid.”

You turn your head against the floor to flash him a playful look, hiding behind the veil of your sarcasm. “There you go again…”

“There I go again?” he echoes.

“Sparing my feelings.”

“No, I— I’m serious.” Carmy stammers with a breathless laugh. “And I know I’m right because I’ve had your stuff before.”

“Yeah,” you scoff and turn away again. “That stupid fucking pear dish that I still can’t get right.”

“No, it was, uh…” Carmy trails off and shakes his head, going distant with recollection. He rests the elbow of his free arm on his bent knee and drops his wild head into his palm. He digs his thumb and forefinger into his eyes as he struggles to recall the name. “It was, uh… It was the— the Bordeaux, I think?”

He lifts his head to glance down at you once more. Your arms fall to your lap, eyes narrowing in confusion as your lip twitches into a shock half-smile. “The Canalé de Bordeaux?” you repeat with much more ease.

“Yeah,” Carmy nods, brown curls swaying. “It was right before I took over here— when I was, you know, eating everywhere I could, trying to learn as much as I could, and I…” His mouth lifts into a distant smile; his eyes glaze over at the memory. “I didn’t even place it until you made it for the kitchen the other day… Don’t think I would’ve noticed otherwise…”

“That was… God, that was forever ago,” you say with a laugh of disbelief, rising back up onto your eblows. “I’m surprised you remember it now.”

“I remember everything,” Carmy shrugs.

“That sounds… terrifying,” you scoff.

“It is. Sometimes,” he jokes with a breathy chuckle. “But, I don’t know… Now I’m starting to think it’s not so bad…”

His light eyes lock with yours. You lose your breath almost instantly, chest aching as your lungs struggle to find it again. You feel like the distance between you has vanished in a blink; each of your breaths feels like inhaling him in some way. You feel like you can taste him, almost, and your mouth waters at the thought alone, parting for his on instinct.

With your heavy eyes settled on his glassy ones, you catch the soft blue of his irises flick down to your lips. You think he might kiss you. You want so desperately for him to kiss you. And you hate how badly you need it.

“I-I don’t think this is a good idea,” you hear yourself blurt.

Carmy’s brows lower in confusion as you scramble suddenly out from under the table. You rise to full height on shaky legs and place several feet of distance between the two of you, crossing your arms over your chest in a feeble attempt to soothe your racing heart.

Carmy rises slowly from his crouched position, blinking the lingering haze from his eyes. “Wha… What are you talking about?” he stammers with his hands splayed in front of him, approaching you again the way someone would a stray puppy.

“Because of, you know… Because of… Claire.” You whisper the name like it’s a curse of some kind.

The confusion etched on his features only deepens further. “Claire?” he echoes, face screwed. “Wh—What does Claire have to do with this? Claire is— Claire is nobody—”

“Does she know that?” you press, brows raised.

“Yes!” he answers without missing a beat. “Because nothing ever happened between us! Because nothing will ever happen between us! Because I— I’m not into her that way!”

“That… way?”

“Yeah,” he shrugs, tattooed biceps straining against the sleeves of his undershirt as he rests his hands on his hips. “You know, the— The way I’m into…”

He trails off when he catches himself. His adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he swallows. His unwavering stare bores into yours as he weighs the words in his head, wondering briefly if he should say them aloud. His wild curls sway as he shakes his head to himself. “You know what. Fuck it. The way I’m— The way I’m into you.”

Your chest warms at his words. So furiously, it feels someone has taken a white-hot blade and pierced your sternum with it. You can feel the heart flaring in your face, too, as your mouth curls into a wide, slightly apprehensive smile.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Carmy nods firmly, though something in his gaze seems distantly surprised by his own forwardness. He scratches at the back of his curls and looks down at the table just beside you. “Are you, uh— Are we you good here?”

You nod rapidly until the words to speak catch up to you. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, I think so.”

“Good,” he hums. “Do you… Do you need a ride, or…?”

You hesitate on instinct, nose scrunching sheepishly. “If it’s not too far out of your way…”

Carmy scoffs like it’s funny. “You’re never too far out of my way,” he says and turns on the heel of his sneaker to walk away, as if he hadn’t just taken all the breath from your lungs right with him.

III. ALMOND PRALINE.

Your hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

You pressed your back hard into the rough brick behind you, letting it snag against your chef whites in a feeble attempt to ground yourself. You tipped your head back for further assistance, and fought every instinct that told you to beat your skull against the concrete as your heart thrummed wildly in your throat — as though it were trying to burst through the delicate tendon there altogether.

Adrenaline soared through your veins. The starry night air refused to pierce through your burning skin, face burning red-hot while your fingers turned to ice.

You had survived a million dinner services much harder than this one, The Bear’s very first. You had survived Carmy’s anger, Richie’s shouting, and the entire kitchen learning how to operate itself. But it was the food critic that nearly killed you — the man who came in older than you remembered, greyer, and a little skinnier than you recall.

It took you a long moment to remember to breathe as you watched Fak seat him through the kitchen window. “I need you back at your station, Chef,” you heard Carmy telling you from the expo, though his voice sounded like it was coming from underwater. “Back at your station, Chef! Now!”

You listened, but your body seemed to work on autopilot. You broke out the baking sheet, the jelly roll pan, and the perforated pastry tray without thinking. You patted out the puff pastry and fired the pears like it was muscle memory to you. You had Richie deliver it to the man, on the house, and tried to expel the rest of it from your mind.

You forgot how to be human thereafter, hardly more useful than a fumbling ball of panic. Carmy told you to get out of the kitchen when you dropped a bowl of sourdough starter you’d been tending to for nearly two months. And now there you were, post-shift, with all the anxiety of a prey animal being hunted for sport.

And the worst part was, you couldn’t tell if you were terrified or exhilarated. Or both.

The heavy metal door beside you squeaked slowly open. A familiar voice broke through the memory. “There you are…” Carmy hummed as he walked out, chef coat hanging open, with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows to reveal the expanse of his tattooed arms.

His wild curls were still damp from sweat and steam, glowing a more golden shade beneath the amber streetlights. The exhaustion of the shift seemed to carve into all the chiseled edges of his face. But his eyes were heavy with relief at finally being alone with you all the same.

You grew sheepish as he stood before you, struggling to meet his gaze like a scolded child. “I’m sorry, by the way. For… all that.”

Carmy shrugged and cupped his palm around the cigarette he pinched into his mouth. His lighter clicked a few times before it lit, basking his features in a flicker orange hue. “It happens,” he mumbled before inhaling the nicotine into his lungs. The grey smoke left through his nostrils a few seconds later as he flashed you a sterner look. “Just don’t let it happen again, Chef.”

You nodded once. “Heard, Chef…”

Carmy flicked the orange filter with his thumb. His eyes fell to your lap, where you wrung your hands together in a feeble attempt to keep them from trembling. Concern surged through his chest instantly.

“Jeez,” he mumbled.

Your eyes followed his form as he crouched to set the newly-lit cig to the sidewalk, leaving it burning there as he rose to full height again.

“What?”

“Your hands… You’re shaking…” He closed the brief distance between you and took your hands in his warmer, larger ones. The contact stole the breath from your lungs. You’re still getting used to touching him so freely. “God, you’re ice cold.”

You laughed breathlessly. “Because my nervous system is shot.”

Carmy began to rub the warmth back into your fingertips. His palms felt like velvet, calloused from years of burns and knives and hard labor. The gesture was so gentle that it made you feel the crying. Again.

“He liked it, you know,” he told you. “The critic, I mean.”

Your stomach fell as anxiety flooded your veins once more. “I appreciate the sentiment, Carm, but… You can’t know that…”

“No, he said it. Cousin cornered him on the way out— asked him about it,” Carmy confessed. “And after he answered, Richie defended you. Said the guy was an asshole, and that he was a pretty shit critic if he didn’t know what good food tasted like.”

Another startled laugh sputtered from your lips. “That means we’re definitely getting a bad review outta him, you know that, right?”

“Yeah,” he shrugged. “But it’ll be worth it.”

Quiet settled between you. The city grew louder on either side of you in its wake — wind whipping warmly down the alley, cars passing distantly, a train rattling against the tracks somewhere further away. Carmy still hadn’t let go of your hands; he just kept holding you there as his eyes flicked down to your mouth.

He spent a long moment just staring, as if silently trying to will some courage into his body.

Your lips curled slowly into a sheepish smile. “You gonna kiss me, Bear?” you wondered lowly, almost inaudibly.

He nodded for a moment, then pinched his brows to ask. “Do you want me to kiss you?”

“I always want you to kiss me,” you laughed.

His mouth twitched shyly. “Then get over here then.”

Your chest swelled when he urged you forward with a gentle tug at your hands. You pressed yourself to his chest as his mouth ducked down to yours, tasting of nicotine and garlic and boy. You moaned at the feeling of him against you, fingers twisting in his silky brown curls. His larger, tattooed hands splayed along your waist, a little less confident in comparison.

The metal door shrieked open once more with little warning. The droning of ten different conversations filled the air as the rest of the kitchen staff spilled out all at once. You and Carmy sprang apart quickly, losing any and all ability to play it off.

The conversation quietened in an instant. You turned away, wiping at your mouth with the back of your hand and refusing to meet their eyes. The three or more seconds of silence that went by felt like a lifetime, until—

“Pay up, assholes!” Richie shouted, fist pumping triumphantly in the air. He continued gloating through the chorus of laughter and groans of failure. “I knew you idiots were dating, and everyone acted like I was losing my mind! But the house always wins, baby!”

—

Carmy sat along the top of the booth with a plate of Canalé de Bordeaux in his lap. Family was your turn tonight, and you’d opted to make the first dish of yours that Carmy had ever tried for the rest of the kitchen. No one knows just how much tenderness is cooked into the caramelized crust and soft custard. No one, perhaps, other than Carmy.

His sneakers dig into the smooth pleather booth below as he props his back against the wall behind him. The rum-vanilla dish melts in his mouth as he surveys the bustling dining area, filled with his family and friends, some of whom were halfway strangers to him a few years ago. His eyes fall to you without trying as you deliver an alcohol-free dessert to a heavily pregnant Sugar. A distant smile tugs at his mouth as he watches your lips move with a conversation he can’t hear from here.

The soul music playing on the radio drowns out your conversation, but not the sound of Richie’s voice as he slides into the booth next to Carmy. His long, graceless limbs bump against the table as he goes, trying to cut a bite of dessert to shovel into his mouth at the same time.

Annoyance twists in the younger boy’s features on instinct. “I’m not cleaning that up if you spill it—”

“I’m not gonna spill it!” Richie argues boyishly, with his mouth full of food, as he settles into the booth a few inches from Carmy’s sneakers. He nudges the boy’s leg with his elbow. “And get your feet off my booth, you fuckin’ animal... Jeez, I don’t know what that girl sees in you…”

“You’re a fuckin’ asshole…”

“No, I’m serious!” the older man laughs with amusement glittering in his dark blue eyes. He shovels another too-big bite into his cheek and talks through the yellow custard clinging to the sides of his mouth. “I don’t know how you managed to pull that off, cousin— There’s no way you even know what to do with all that.”

Richie turns away, still laughing through his nose at his own stupid joke. He cuts himself another bite, already calculating a retort to Carmy’s inevitable argument on the matter — only one never comes.

The younger boy just stabs absentmindedly at his plate, distracting himself from the topic under the guise of forming the perfect bite.

Richie pauses with his own fork to his mouth. He turns slowly over his shoulder, brows raising to his hairline until four wrinkles line his forehead. “Oh, shit,” he scoffs after a few moments. “You don’t know what you’re doing, do you?”

“Shut up…” Carmy murmurs under his breath, taking another aggressive bite.

“Oh, c’mon! Don’t tell me you’re not gettin’ your dick wet, Carm—”

“Keep your voice down, fuck-o!” he spits through his mouthful, eyes darting anxiously to make sure no one else had heard him — that you hadn’t somehow heard him, from your spot all the way across the room, laughing with Sugar and Tina. Carmy turns away with a lazy shrug. “We’re just… We’re taking things slow. Not that it concerns you, FYI.”

“Well, FYI, you guys have been dating for months—”

“Oh, thanks for keeping track. I had no idea.”

“—And if she isn’t getting it with you, she’s gotta be getting it from someone else,” Richie rambles absentmindedly as he turns back to his plate. “I mean, I don’t even swing this way, obviously, but if I were a chick, I’d be all over that Luca guy—”

Carmy’s chest stings with a misplaced jealousy. He shouldn’t listen to Richie; he trusts you far too much for any of that. But maybe it’s his own lingering insecurity coming through — the cynicism that always lingers in the back of his head like a shadow, telling him that he’s unworthy of touching you, and then berating him for not being man enough to try.

He huffs. “Well, this is making me feel a whole lot better, cousin. Thank you.”

“I’m just sayin’!” Richie says, muffled through the dessert wadded in his cheek. “She’s obviously crazy about you, man— She looks at you like you hung the fuckin’ moon! I’m just sayin’, you know, trust your instincts. That’s all.”

“…Trust my instincts?” Carmy monotones.

“Yeah,” the older man shrugs. “You’re a chef. Isn’t that supposed to be, like, your whole thing?”

Carmy just blinks at him. “Your point?”

“My point is… She likes you. And you like her— I’m pretty sure half of Chicago knows that by now. So just… Stop getting in your own damn way before you ruin somethin’ good, alright? She picked you, cousin—”

Carmy leans back when Richie gestures too closely with his fork.

“So if you can’t trust your own judgment, at least trust hers.”

Richie’s words pierce him almost physically, giving him that surge of courage he’d been lacking these past few months with you. It makes him want to stop dissecting each of his feelings, for once, until they’re just lying there ahead of him, dead and useless.

Carmy’s light eyes narrow suspiciously. “You know… You’ve gotten, like, really good at giving advice since becoming house manager. You know that?”

“Yeah, I know, it’s freaking me out, too,” Richie deadpans, stabbing at his plate. “Sometimes I hear myself talk and I’m like, who the fuck said that?”

IV. PUFF PASTRY.

The first time you spent the night at his place, Carmy had a panic attack.

It started as a dream, or a nightmare, or maybe a memory. It played through static like an old film — Christmas Eve at the Berzatto house, beneath glowing Christmas lights and smoke from his mother’s cigarettes and something she burnt on the stove. He could smell the nicotine hanging in the hair, and the thick smell of tomato sauce, and Cicero’s expensive nose-stinging cologne.

Carmy was sitting at the head of the table, unable to move from his chair. The rest around him were empty, save for the one at the opposite end. Mikey’s seat. The ghost of his brother was laughing one moment, then screaming at him, then crying the next. Carmy was terrified — the kind of terrified he got as a kid when his mother got in another one of her moods — but he was comforted, at the very least, that his brother was here.

Alive.

Then the lights went out, for only a fraction of a second. And the Christmas lights were glowing again, but his brother’s seat was empty. And the silence was worse than the screaming.

Carmy woke with a sharp breath to a bedroom filled with a navy blue darkness. He rose to his elbows, chest aching as he waited, for a fleeting moment, for the Christmas lights to come back on. Then he realized that he was back in his bedroom, and his brother’s still dead; but you were beside him now, and that was enough.

As his eyes adjusted, he found you lying beside him, bathed in the dim glow of the muted streetlamp outside his window. You’d kicked off the sheets, revealing the expanse of your bare legs and the softness of your stomach from where your shirt had ridden up — one of his, which you wore with a plain pair of cotton underwear. Your mouth was softly parted; your breathing was even and slow.

He tried to match each of your exhales, but the panic dug deeper into his chest. His lungs refused to fill properly. His skin felt too tight. The air was too hot, but his teeth were still chattering. He couldn’t ask you for help if he tried.

The walls spun around him as he rushed immediately to the kitchen. He bent over the sink, gripping the counter hard enough to blanch his knuckles with one hand, while his other scooped handfuls of freezing water into his mouth. He was not sure how much it was helping.

The muscles in his back tensed when a warm hand settled suddenly between his shoulder blades. Carmy didn’t realize you’d followed him out until then; until he heard your voice in his ear, cutting through the wild pounding of his heartbeat.

“It’s okay,” you told him. “Just keep breathing. You’re okay. It’ll pass.”

His breath came easier to him after that. The kitchen soon filled with the sound of his trembling pants and the loud hissing of the kitchen sink. Carmy’s shoulders loosened slowly under your hand.

“Do you need me to do something?” you wondered quietly.

He shook his head, curls hanging over his eyes from where he was still hunched over. “No, I— I got it— I’m… I’m good now.”

He waved you off with a trembling hand. You couldn’t help but notice the way he avoided your gaze; the way he fought every instinct to tense again when you rubbed along his spine. You wondered if you were only making it worse.

“Do you want me to go—?”

“No,” Carmy blurted instantly. His head snapped in your direction. He blinked back at you with wet ocean eyes. “Please. D-Don’t go. I just— I had a bad dream. I’m okay, I swear.”

You didn’t look convinced, and, honestly, neither did he.

“No, you’re not, Bear…” you murmured gently, with a sleepy smile that bordered on sympathetic. But you didn’t ask him to explain the feelings he didn’t have the words for. You just stood beside him and asked if he wanted breakfast.

—

Carmy’s apartment always smelled different when you were in it. Less like an ashtray and more like warm sugar, and your fruit-sweet perfume, and whatever sweet treat you’d spent the service dreaming about. Tonight, it was homemade churros.

Carmy can smell it down the hall when he exits the bathroom. The shower steam mixes with that sweet cinnamon wafting from the kitchen — where he finds you standing at the stove, tapping a socked foot to the synth pop on the radio, and stirring a pot of glossy chocolate syrup with a wooden spoon.

“Only a psychopath spends all night cooking just to come home and cook some more,” he says to announce his presence as he leans against the doorway, replacing his uniform with a sweatshirt and a pair of plaid boxers. “You know that, right?”

“What can I say?” you grin as you glance over your shoulder at him. “You’re rubbing off on me, Bear.”

Carmy exhales a quiet laugh and spends a long moment just watching you, with all the attentiveness of someone who watched sunsets come or go or mapped constellations in the starry sky. You occupied his kitchen as if you’d been there this whole time, in a sweatshirt with the sleeves pushed to your elbows, big enough to hide the less-than-flattering underwear you’re wearing beneath it. You look like home, in every sense of the word.

“You know…” Carmy starts lowly, swiping at the tip of his nose with his thumb. “For a while there… I kinda thought I was done with all this…”

Your spoon slows as it slides along the bottom of the pan. “…What do you mean?”

“Cooking,” he answers. “There was a stretch where I couldn’t even look at a stove without… hoping it would blow up.”

He laughs at himself, though, admittedly, the words sound slightly more concerning leaving his lips than they did in his head. He swallows hard, grateful when you don’t press him on the matter. You just eye him with a carefulness that makes him shift his weight on his bare feet — uncomfortable at being so foreignly vulnerable.

He crosses his arms over his chest in a childlike attempt to hide, scratching along the expanse of his bicep. “Yeah, I, uh… I just— didn’t enjoy it anymore. I didn’t enjoy anything anymore.”

“What changed?” you press gently.

“You came around,” he confesses. “And I watched you learn to love it again— have fun again, and it made… realize why I loved doing what I do.”

Your mouth lifts in a sheepish half-smile. You turn away, grinning wide at the pot of dark chocolate below as it ripples beneath the spoon.

“Well, I probably wouldn’t have learned to have fun again if I didn’t start working at The Bear…” you tell him. “It’s very likely I would’ve stopped baking altogether. I mean, Copenhagen was great and all, but… you, and Syd, and Richie— watching all of you work… I feel like I could do this forever…”

Carmy’s eyes soften as he watches you. A strange emotion surges warmly through his chest and up into his throat. He feels like he could cry.

“Yeah,” he hums, half-strangled. “Me too…”

Your smile turns shy when you look back at him, nodding your head to beckon him over. “C’mere. Come try this.”

Carmy obeys instantly, as if every muscle and bone in his body was made to be under your command. You twist the spoon to gather the liquid chocolate and hold it out toward him, cupping your free hand beneath it to catch any rogue drizzles. Carmy’s pink mouth parts for a taste — the syrup is warm on his tongue, silky and rich as it coats his mouth.

A low sound of approval sounds in the back of his throat. His damp curls sway as he nods.

Your smile widens instantly, eyes crinkling at the edges. “Yeah?”

“Mm,” he hums. “Hell yeah.”

His smile falters slightly when your free hand reaches suddenly towards him. Your thumb brushes the corner of his mouth, gathering the bit of chocolate lingering on the corner there. You press the pad of it to his lips without thinking, and Carmy drags his tongue against it just the same.

The motion was more instinctive than not. He didn’t realize how charged the moment was until your eyes flickered with it — going glassy and heavy in an instant. Even still, you don’t part from his stare as you bring your hand to your mouth, licking the remnants of chocolate on your thumb that was more of Carmy’s spit than anything.

Carmy’s ocean eyes darken in a flash. The cynical, uncertain thing that lingered in him like a shadow seemed to vanish, as his racing heart lurched with an emotion that bordered on primitive. He decides not to think — to follow his instinct, as it were.

He ducks down to kiss you, hard, with the bridge of his nose smushing against the side of yours and his tongue licking into your mouth.The spoon in your hand clatters hopelessly to the tile floor when he urges you back against the counter with a pair of wide hands splayed along your waist.

Behind you, the chocolate continues to simmer.

V. SPICED PEARS.

The first time Carmy had tasted any part of you was at Ever.

It wasn’t long after Mikey died, and he was making his tour around the city to try new food — seeing what changed and what hadn’t — and trying to take his mind off all the rest. He sat alone at a small square table, finishing up his lemon chicken piccata, when another plate was slid suddenly in front of him.

“Oh, I— I didn’t order this,” he stammered.

Then his eyes lifted to find Chef Terry standing before him, with a smile much gentler than he remembered.

“This one’s on the house,” she’d told him. She did not mention the death of his brother, but Carmy knew that was likely why she came over. “Figured you might appreciate something with a wee bit of alcohol in it. I had our pastry chef whip it up for you—” Her eyes flickered with warmth at the mention of you, who Carmy had not yet met. “I’m quite proud of that one.”

She left him with a pat on the back and nothing more. Carmy eyed the dessert before him, studying it.

The burnished bronze pastry sat on the small plate ahead of him like a tiny piece of architecture. The caramel on the ridged exterior gleamed in the candlelight. The shell cracked audibly beneath his fork, a delicate snap that most chefs spend weeks trying to perfect. The inside yielded immediately — golden custard oozing from its center.

Carmy scooped a bite into his mouth, and his world stopped for a fraction of a moment.

The deeply caramelized sugar hit his palate like a memory; a taste of nostalgia accompanied by a satisfying crunch. The silken custard melted on his tongue, rich with vanilla and warm with dark rum. A brittle shell followed by an impossibly soft heart.

Carmy thought, at the time, that it was the sweetest thing he’d ever tasted.

But it wasn’t.

—

You were.

His face burns hot between your thighs, which tremble on either side of his flushed cheeks from your previous orgasm (that he gave you with two of his fingers, a lot quicker than you’re willing to admit to.)

“Can you take another?” he’d asked, right after pulling his hand out of your underwear and licking your cum off his fingers, which glistened down the knuckle. You whined at the sight of it, half-scared at the warmth still lingering in the pit of your stomach. “C’mon. Let me taste it, yeah?”

You lift your head from the pillows to watch the boy slink down your body, still wearing all of his clothes despite you lying half-naked in the center of his unmade bed. He slides your panties to the side with a pair of tattooed fingers and licks a fat stripe up your pussy, from your pulsing hole to your already sensitive clit.

Your whine fills the lamplit bedroom as your hips buck to follow him.

Carmy pulls off wearing a barely-there half-smile. “Good?” he asks, for the hundredth time or so since you started.

“Yes…” you moan, head tipped back.

And then he starts eating you. Like eats you, eats you — with his mouth wide and his broad nose smushed into your clit. He’s led by nothing more than primal emotion and pure instinct as he laps all the honey you leak for him. The lewd wet noises of his mouth are only slightly muffled by your contented sighs and his own moans, as he rocks his hips against the mattress in a feeble attempt to relieve the ache in his boxers.

Your fingers tighten in his wild curls, as though you mean to pull him off of you, though your hips chase his tongue all the same. His lips latch on your clit, sucking the delicate button, and you cum with a drawn-out sound you didn’t know you were capable of making. He pushes your knees to your chest with a pair of wide hands to milk the orgasm from your pulsing confines.

“No— No more,” you whine feebly, watching with a pained sort of look as he continues licking at you. “It’s too much, Carm—”

“Just let me taste it, baby,” he says, half-muffled against you.

He’s wearing your glittering cum down to his chin when he crawls back up your body. It’s a mess of awkward, tangled limbs as you drag his sweatshirt up his torso from the hem while he reaches into his nightstand for a condom (a feat made more difficult by the fact that the box is still wrapped in its plastic). He kneels between your thighs, open and wet, and tucks his heavy balls under the hem of his plaid boxers.

You watch him as he rips the foil open with his teeth and rolls the latex on. Your eyes trail down his tattooed torso — over the sparse brown hair along his sternum and down to where it trails along his stomach in a thin line. His cock is heavy in his fist, glowing crimson with desire at the tip and leaking drops of pearly-white.

You should tell him that it’s been a while for you — long enough that you’re not sure if you can take something so thick — but you don’t want to stop the momentum you have going, not even for a second. You just curl your arms down and over his shoulders, palms splayed along his sweat-slick back, and fall back with him when he leans down over you.

His gold chain brushes your chest as he ducks down to open his mouth against yours. He rolls his hips forward and back, gliding his cock through your velvety folds, before piercing you fully.

There’s a fleeting, burning sensation as your cunt stretches around him — which quickly floods into a warmer, fuller feeling when he’s seated fully inside you, with his tuft of coarse hair pressed mercilessly against your throbbing clit.

“Oh, fuck—”

Carmy’s words sound less pleasured and more terrified.

Your eyes snap open. You catch a mere glimpse of his profile as his lips smudge along your burning cheek. “You okay?” you ask through panted breaths.

“Y-Yeah. I just—” The words come out strangled and half-muffled against your neck. “It’s just… been a while for me. I can’t— I can’t move.”

A delirious grin tugs at your mouth. You rake your nails gently along the expanse of his spine, until he shivers on top of you. “You can move, Carm,” you tell him.

He laughs breathlessly, though it comes out more like a punched-out breath. “I can’t, babe. I— I really can’t.”

“It’s okay if you’re close,” you murmur gently, smearing your lips along his flushed cheek. “You already made me cum— twice. This is about you feeling good, too, you know?”

Carmy makes a strangled noise, as if your words had hit him physically somehow. He lets himself go at your permission to feel good and rolls his hips against you. There is little rhythm or precision to his thrusts. They’re shallow and quick and a little sloppy, never pulling all the way out, as he buries his moans into your neck. The bed creaks below you like it might break.

“Fuck,” he groans like it hurts him, like he’s half-scared of his own orgasm.

“That’s it...” you coo in his ear. “I know you’re close, Carm. It’s okay. Just cum for me—”

“Fuck!” It comes out like more of a whimper this time, because he’s trying to calculate how long it’s been — two minutes, if that — but his brain’s too fogged and his stomach is starting to cramp from how hard he’s tensing to keep the feeling going a little longer.

Carmy doesn’t warn you when he cums. Not that you need him to. His heavy body just tenses on top of you, forearms shaking beside your head. You exhale a contented sigh when you feel him pulsing inside of you. “There it is…” you whisper in his ear. “Give me all of it, bear. C’mon. Doing so good for me…”

As your hands rub soothingly along his spine, you feel his bare shoulders shaking a little harder than before. It’s like he’s laughing to himself, or crying maybe. Then you feel something warm and wet drip along your neck.

“Bear?”

“Fuck—” He clears his throat when his voice breaks, lifting one hand to wipe at the tear running down the bridge of his nose. He laughs wetly at himself. “Fuck, I’m so lame. I’m sorry.”

“Are you okay?” you whisper, as if anything too loud might break him.

“Yeah, I’m good,” he assures you, sniffling as he pulls slightly off of you. “It was just— a lot, you know?”

“Yeah,” you nod.

“I wasn’t lying when I said it’s been a while for me.”

“Wow,” you hum sarcastically. “You’re telling me the anxious-avoidant chef who keeps his jeans in his oven isn’t absolutely drowning in ass? In this… very illustrious bachelor pad?”

His laugh is more humorous this time. “Fuck you.”

“You already did,” you remind him with a cheeky grin. “Unless you’re askin’ for round two— which I’m not opposed to.”

His mouth twitches into a more sincere grin. His glassy eyes soften further as they dart across your features, memorizing the wrinkles beside your squinted eyes and how your smile sits a little crooked to the left.

He shakes his head, ocean eyes still a little wet, as he smooths his fingers over your temple to brush away an invisible strand of hair there. “You’re gonna kill me, you know that?”

“Oh, but what a sweet, sweet way to go,” you croon as he ducks down over you again.

But if loving you is a slow death, why does kissing you taste like salvation?

if you made it this far, thank u so much! pls let me know what you think and reblogs are always appreciated! here's a virtual forehead kiss for me to you *mwah*!!!

[gxbbywrites]

without saying anything, you are the only one who knows me | john tucker

“Here, why don’t you eat some breakfast, darling?” He presents you the plate of the sandwich Logan had tried so hard to fight for. “Here is a sandwich for you, milady, no pickles, no onions, no mayo, no mustard, the crusts are cut off, and most importantly, the egg yolk is perfectly cooked.”

contents — picky eating tendencies, fluff | word count — 448 | title — to you by seventeen

gabby says — this is a repost from my old blog, @fictionallygabby. i have decided to start my blog all over, so please feel free to read here for the explanation.

The house is bustling with people even though it’s not even nine in the morning. The party that raged on the night before is replaced by a tranquil space—well, almost tranquil.

Tucker had made all of them clean up after the mess they all made the night before. There are complaints here and there, but they all clean up anyway—all thanks to Tucker holding their breakfast hostage.

Sweet Tuck, who is cooking up a feast for a bunch of ravenous hockey players, including himself, is now wrestling Logan for a fucking sandwich.

“Man, it’s just a sandwich,” Logan grumbles, pointing at the lone sandwich on a plate, set aside and waiting for someone—hopefully him—to devour it. “Can’t you just make another?”

“Exactly, it’s just a sandwich!” Tucker responds, slapping Logan’s hand away as it tries to reach for the unsuspecting sandwich yet again. “I cooked a shit ton of food for you ungrateful assholes—go eat them!”

“But that looks so good!” Logan tries to grab the sandwich again, but Tucker just slaps his hand away—harder this time that Logan actually winces. “Fuck, alright, fine! I’ll leave you and your precious sandwich alone.”

“Thank you!” Tucker bows dramatically. “Fucking finally, man. Just go eat whatever’s on the table.”

Logan continually steals glances back at the sandwich as he eats, this time looking over to Tucker as well, watching as he seemingly waits for something—or probably someone—to arrive.

He gets the answer he is looking for when the front door of the house opens, and he hears the sound of your voice greeting the people by the door. He watches as Tucker’s shoulders sag in relief, as if a massive weight has just lifted and he can finally breathe.

“Hi, Logan, how are you?” You ask as soon as you step into the kitchen.

“Hey, you. I’m good, but your boyfriend doesn’t look too good.” He grins when Tucker flips him off.

You then walk over to Tucker, walking straight into his waiting arms. You kiss him softly and quickly. “Hi.” You smile. “What’s got you in a bad mood this early in the morning, baby?”

“It’s nothing, don’t worry about it.” He smiles back at you, like everything in the world is right once again. “Here, why don’t you eat some breakfast, darling?” He presents you the plate of sandwich Logan had tried so hard to fight for. “Here is a sandwich for you, milady, no pickles, no onions, no mayo, no mustard, the crusts are cut off, and most importantly, the egg yolk is perfectly cooked.”

That’s when it dawns on Logan, and now he wants to gag because, damn, he has never seen John Tucker this sweet.

[camellinia]

KISS ME AND I MIGHT DROP DEAD

fluff / bf!bu boys | off campus boys' playlist | camellinia's pin

with bf!dean i can imagine… you and dean have a VERY sarcastic and witty relationship. constantly teasing, joking and making fun of each other all the time. everyone around you guys cannot stand you, garrett is whining about you guys needing a room, tucker is working like a single mum with 2 jobs, logan just wants grace and beau is simply just standing in the corner…

liked by garrettsgspot, wellsyswall and 47 others…

magicdickdean: i loooooove my life, pissing and my gf (obviously) 😛

click to view more comments…

yourusername: i beg you delete the first photo😔

magicdickdean replied: baby, i gotta show my dominance 🙂‍↔️

garrettsgspot: is this what happens when we leave him unattended?????

tuckerisoverwhelmed replied: don’t even… i can’t with him. WHATS YOUR USERNAME, CAP????😳

yours and dean’s song: on the floor by jennifer lopez

—

with bf!garrett i can imagine… you guys having a very sweet n’ simple relationship. a lot of physical touch and a fuck ton of acts of service… from fucking to kissing n’ snuggling to cleaning up his frat house or his room together, studying together, bed in breakfast or garrett going out of this way to help alleviate your stressful school days!!!

liked by wellsyswall, yourusername and 89 others…

garrettsgspot: hockey, hockey, hockeyyyyy games!! 🏒

click to view more comments…

yourusername: who’s that unbelievable handsome man in the second photo???😝

garrettsgspot replied: uhhh, your hot ass bf 🫡

johnlogang: oh brother we’re definitely going to be drafted to the bruins 🙏

garrettsgspot replied: manifesting it brother 😮‍💨

yours and garrett’s song: stupid song by olivia rodrigo

—

with bf!logan i can imagine… him being the biggest sweetheart everrr!! from literally buying you flower everyday, walking to you class, fixing ANYTHING you own to the tiniest loose screw to your car and showering you with endless lover letters from your backpack, bedside table or dotted around your messy bedroom when he stays the night.

liked by beaudriving, alliecat and 36 others…

johnlogang: 🧰🌲

click to view more comments…

tuckerisoverwhelmed: pls come home 😔

yourusername replied: no❤️

yourusername: can i bounce on it real quick???? i beg 😋

magicdickdean replied: where’s your dignity girl, smh 🤦‍♂️

yourusername replied back: god forbid a woman has megan’s knees, BUT SAYS YOU… SIX FLAGS?????

yours and logan’s song: cologne by beabadoobee

—

with bf!tucker i can imagine… that he’s always seen in the kitchen and no where else! that man is constantly cooking for youuuu 😋. oh, you sent a tiktok to him AGESSS ago, of a meal you wanted to try??? oh honey, it’s cooking on the stove! random add-on but, he’s always waking you up to bed in breakfast!!! whenever it’s thanksgiving or christmas, now you’re trapped in the kitchen with him, protesting to the household that you’re being held against your will… garrett, logan and dean aren’t doing anything to help free you, they’re definitely just taking this piss out the entire situation, won’t stop milking the shit out of this later on!

liked by magicdickdean, alliecat and 34 others…

tuckerisoverwhelmed: well-deserved oven mitt tbh…

click to view more comments…

alliecat: fed me, i’m starving 😮‍💨

wellsywall replied: me too !!!!

yourusername replied too: me three !!!!!!!

tuckerisoverwhelmed replied back: ladies, ladies, i’m tryna do my work today… leave me alone type shift ✋🙂‍↕️

magicdickdean: why don’t you teach me how to cook anymore???? i’m feeling: betrayed 😔

tuckerisoverwhelmed replied: HA, real funny that.. get the fuck outta my face 🤨

yours and tucker’s song: kiss me by sixpence none the richer

[kenforty]

𓍼. Heart rate

Firefighter!Sukuna who bust down your bathroom door when there was a fire in your building (one that you weren't aware of), clad in thick and hefty bunker gear, eyes scanning the brightly lit bathroom only to spot you in the middle of shower, completely bare, soap bubbles still coating your skin.

Firefighter!Sukuna who clears his throat, looking over his shoulder before turning back to you, cheeks dusted with a rather adorable shade of red.

"Th—there's apartment in next door fire." He stepped closer, hand gesturing for the bathrobe hanging beside the mirror.

"Huh?" Your brows are furrowed, trying to decipher who between you both was having a stroke, maybe the abrupt slam of the door did mess with you head.

The absurdity of the situation startles you enough that the thought of being completely naked before doesn't even cross your mind, at least not until he reached for the bathrobe himself, stepping closer to hand it to you.

Firefighter!Sukuna who acts instinctively, once you are modestly covered, yanks you over his shoulder to quickly move out into the smoke filled hallway, steps heavy against the wooden floor as he made his way out, making sure you didn't get knocked into the wall or door frames.

Firefighter!Sukuna who instantly jumps back into the building after making sure you are steady on your feets, looking over his shoulder once before continuing back inside, hoping he'd find you after the rescue is completed.

Firefighter!Sukuna who frowned when the medic informed that the people had scattered around some to the hospital for minor injuries other taking refuge with friends and family till the apartment complex was fixed.

Firefighter!Sukuna who mulls over the awkward interaction for days, rest of the team teasing him over his jumbled words, hoping to find a reason to go back to your apartment without seeming like a pervert or a creep.

Firefighter!Sukuna who groans loud when he is informed about the routine check up he must have to ensure health, begrudgingly walks into the hospital with rest of the team, brows furrowed as he waited for his name to be called.

"Ryomen Sukuna."

The lady at the desk announced his turn, gesturing towards the door with light glowing above the 'general physician's.

Sukuna sighed, stepping into the office only to be stopped in his tracks, before him stood you, much more clothed, stethoscope hung around your neck as you wrote on charts, eyes widening in recognition when thet met his.

Firefighter!Sukuna who awkwardly stepped into your office, almost tripping over nothing, nearly turning a routine check up into a life threatening emergency.

"You work here?" He asked, nearly slapping his own forehead, of course you do.

You nodded your head, lips pursed together as you placed the clipboard on the desk, patting the stretcher, "I'd hope so."

Firefighter!Sukuna who snorts at your sass, ugly little sound escaping the back of his throat, warmth blooming on his cheeks as you grinned back at him.

Firefighter!Sukuna who sits still while you noted his vitals, metal of the stethoscope cold against his warm skin, eyes following your movement, at one point he caught himself admiring your penmanship.

"You've got good handwriting." He mumbled, pointing to where you noted his pulse rate and blood pressure, "usually doc's have chicken scribble writing."

Firefighter!Sukuna who swears to keep his mouth shut when you continue to look at him in bewilderment, more than once did he catch you suppressing the urge to grin.

Firefighter!Sukuna who waits outside your office to get clearance, only to be handed a doctor's note instead.

"Come back for check up later, your heart rate was abnormally high."

Highly awaited: Part II Part III

[dolcemisu]

frat!kuna is a reward based learner (shy tutor!reader)

this was not how you normally held tutoring sessions: legs tangled in the sheets, sweat slick between your bodies, and not a single piece of clothing on. yeah, this had to be a first.

sukuna’s face was covered in your slick, and by the looks of it, he wanted even more. he buried his face between your thighs for the nth time, and you tugged at his hair in protest.

“no! you need to answer another question first!” you said sternly. or at least, you tried to. you felt the gentle kitten licks he was leaving on your cunt and you folded at his touch. within seconds, you forgot what you were scolding him about, and he forced your thighs apart once more. he mumbled something against your skin, before kissing your thigh.

“hit me.” he said with a smirk. he was doing this on purpose. ignoring your urges to get back on track, only entertaining them when he had you like this—melting like putty in his hands, completely out of it and with only him on your mind.

“t-the probably of the…” your mind went blank on the problem as he pressed a kiss to your pussy before diving in again. you cried his name out as he lapped at your wet folds, thighs trembling as another orgasm threatened to crash over you. he bullied your poor cunt with his tongue, grunting and groaning as if he was in your place. just as you were about to reach the edge, he pulled away and laid on his stomach before you.

“sorry you know me, i tend to get distracted easily… you were saying?” sukuna took in your current state: pupils blown wide, chest heaving, and a look of hurt and confusion crossing your cute face. he immediately felt guilty and apologized.

“i’m sorry, that was fucked up of me. do you want me to keep going?” his eyes searched yours frantically, like he was panicking.

you averted your eyes. you were torn. you needed to actually make use of this session so it wouldn’t be all for nothing…but the way he went down on you felt heavenly. he was scarily good at it, making you feel so good, reaching places you didn’t even know existed, all with just his tongue.

“no pressure, we can go back to studying too. i’m fine with whatever.” he reassured you.

maybe it was the denial of orgasm. maybe you just weren’t in the best position to be responsible right now. whatever it was, you leaned forward and pulled him closer with smile.

“one more. just one ‘kuna.” you cupped his cheek, narrowing your eyes at him. he grinned and raised an eyebrow at you.

“you wanna ask me a question first, don’t you…” he asked reluctantly, leaning into your touch. you giggled and nodded.

“mhm!” he was catching on quite fast. at this rate, he could be the tutor next…

he groaned, but the smile never left face. “alright, ask me it.”

“is weight qualitative or quantitative data?”

“obviously it’s quantitative,” it was his turn to narrow his eyes at you, “did you seriously ask me an easy one on purpose?”

“err… maybe?” you replied all innocently, already spreading your legs wider for him.

“that’s cheating.” he scoffed, but inched forward anyway.

“nuh uh! it’s not cheating if i make the rules!”

series m.list

© DOLCEMISU

[lacyydollette]

TEXTS BETWEEN BF!GARRETT GRAHAM X READER

ANGEL (💭) : some inspo for the texts were taken from pinterest. suggestive language & swearing ahead.

𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐘𝐘𝐃𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄 — est. 2026 © do not copy, claim or take inspo of my work anywhere.

masterlist

[filmjules]

⋆˙⟡ DEAN LOVES YOUR NEW NIPPLE PIERCINGS ꣑ৎ

Getting your nipples pierced was a last minute decision.

Earlier that day, you went with Allie to get her navel pierced. She was so excited, talking about all the piercings she would love to have but isn’t sure about. Which led to her saying, “You would look absolutely fucking amazing with your nipples pierced. I bet Dean would have a field day with it, too.”

She kept babbling, saying stuff like, “Not that I’m suggesting it for him. Only for yourself, obvi. And me and Han, I know she would agree.”

You laughed it off, saying it was cool but not your thing.

Until you were inside the piercing shop.

The girl at the counter asked what the two of you needed, saying for a piercing it would be around a ten minute wait. Allie told the girl what she wanted, but before she wrote it down you butted in.

“Um, actually—I wanted to get my nipples pierced, can we do that today too?”

The worker responded politely, “of course!” before writing your information down.

Allie whipped her head around to face you as you walked away from the counter, her curls swaying. “Really? I thought you weren’t into the idea…” She squealed, excitement clearly coursing through her body.

You shook your head, hoping she didn’t see through your false confidence when you replied, “I mean, why not? It’s cute.”

When you got home later that day, Dean was already cozying up in your bed. He knew you’d be out with Allie for a while but you’d told him he could be there if he wanted to. You didn’t really think he’d take the offer.

“Oh! Hi,” you mumbled as you walked in the door, your brain hyperaware of your new piercings. You’d been so consumed by the thought of the piercings themselves that you’d forgotten that Dean was going to see them, probably very soon.

You’d also forgotten how sensitive they’d be.

“Hey, baby,” his voice was muffled from being beneath a big pile of your blankets and stuffed animals, “Have fun with Allie?”

The way you paused mindlessly before answering with a soft, “Yeah,” was Dean’s first red flag. The second was how stiff you were standing as you walked around the room, putting your purse away and taking off your shoes.

He sat up, moving the little bunny stuffy he got you for Valentine’s day.

When you finally met his eyes, your guard was up immediately. His bright blue eyes were narrowed and his lips were pressed in a pout. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay. Tell me what happened.”

Laughing, you sat on the empty side of the bed. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Dean rolled onto his stomach, taking up the empty space and revealing his shirtless torso. “You’re acting weird. I want my girlfriend back, please.”

You rolled your eyes, running your hand over his hair soothingly.

“Okay,” you cleared your throat, trying to push down your racing thoughts. What if he hates it? What if he has to pretend to like it? What if—“I have something to tell you.”

His playful smile dropped, worry taking over his features. “Yeah?”

Dragging a hand over your face, you let out a heavy breath. “I got my nipples pierced,” you mumbled against your palm.

There was a beat of silence before Dean said, “What was that?”

“Dean.”

“I really couldn’t hear you, baby,” He laughed, his hands coming up to wrap around your wrists and pull your hands away from your face. “Can you repeat it? Please?”

Groaning, you repeated louder, “I got my nipples pierced.”

There was another silent beat, but Dean’s eyes had an unmistakable fire in them. The corner of his lips quirked up, his eyes dropping to your chest and back up.

“What?”

“I am not repeating myself again, Di Laurentis.”

“No, no. I just—Wow,” he blew out a breath, his chest rising and falling more dramatically than before. “Can I see?”

That’s how you ended up here, with Dean’s hands resting on your hips and his legs open wide for you to stand between. Your shirt was in a pile on the floor, the cool air making your nipples hard and even more of a view for Dean.

“Wow. You look…” he trailed off, his gaze never straying from your tits. His hand reached up, aiming for your new piercings, until you stopped his hand.

“Can’t touch. Y’gotta be careful with ‘em.”

Your boyfriend dragged out a low groan, dropping his head to your stomach—making sure to avoid hitting your sensitive piercings. “You’re already killing me, and now I can’t even touch you? What am I being punished for?”

You scoffed, “You’re not being punished, you big baby. And if you’re expecting me to wait until my piercings are fully healed for you to touch me at all, I’m offended.”

His head snapped up at that, his eyes telling you everything you need to know. That and the very clear boner he’s sporting through his sweats. “I just gotta avoid the tits for a little? That’s all? No surprise piercing down there that I need to know about?”

You shook your head, recognizing the undeniable heat in his voice, “Everything else is still on the table.”

The entire night felt like it was just Dean complimenting you. He said something at every point.

Took your pants off? “Gorgeous.” Came on his fingers? “So fucking hot.” Finished on his face? “Delicious.”

He would not stop.

Even when he was buried to the hilt inside you, while you were squirming from the pleasure and milking his cock dry, he felt like he had to keep praising you. “You’re so pretty, baby. I fucking love—Holy shit—I love your nipples. I love your nipple piercings. So fucking sexy, baby.”

The man literally begged you to go on top. He said he “wanted to have your pretty tits up close and bouncing in his face if he couldn’t even touch them.”

You agreed, expecting to have to take control. Not expecting to have him fucking up into you, hitting you at a new angle that made your back arch and your entire body shake. Your eyes were teary and clamped shut, moans spilling out of your mouth faster than you could feel them coming.

“That feel good, sweetheart?” The cocky bastard asked you with a devilish grin on his face. “Looks like it from down here.”

Your hand cupped over his mouth, your way of telling him to shut up without having to speak. He kissed your palm and grabbed your hand, lacing his fingers through yours.

The new angle you took to reach his mouth made your clit rub against his solid body, adding extra pleasure that made you squeeze around him. “Oh my god. Dean.”

Dean groaned at the sound of your shaky voice gasping his name, the feeling of your tight pussy around him and your nails digging into his biceps bringing him closer to his release.

“I’m close,” his deep voice rasped in your ear, his hands gripping your hips as he continued plowing into you. You threw your head back with your body, Dean’s fingers promptly coming to toy with your clit, working you over the edge.

“Dean—”

“I know, baby. Ride it out f’me,” he cooed, continuing his thrusts until you pushed on his chest to stop him.

You slowly pulled off, careful not to overstimulate your very sensitive cunt. Flopping over on your back, Dean was quick to roll on his side to look at you. He didn’t say anything more, just stared until you turned away in embarrassment.

masterlist

[jung-koook]

260720 - ishowspeed on instagram (2)

[wiishies]

Omgg

[violained]

⤷ ゛sugar paramour ˎˊ˗

summary you unknowingly cling to dean in your sleep!

content gn!reader, unestablished relationship, only one bed! dean is very in love and would like to share a bed with you every night forever. heaps of soft cuddling and sleepiness! use of sweetheart and angel.

masterlist ; requested

Dean is hot under the covers, because he had the decency to sleep in sweats instead of just boxers, and your fingertips are soft where they graze his bicep. The touch sends his arm thrumming. He's only sharing this knotted mattress since you'd been so insistent about him not taking the couch.

"Don't be ridiculous, sweetheart. C'mon. We can share."

And he loves you. Moderately or too much, he isn't sure, but enough to unfurl a sweet, figgy maroon over his cheeks when you look at him and smile pearled. He simply wasn't going to let you shift all night on those old, stained cushions while he took the bed.

You've been snoring. His lashes are mussed and the motel is dark, but with a faint sliver of gaudy streetlight from the window he can make out the curve of your cheek and parted lips. Another gentle purr falls from them. He finds himself wanting to press deep into the sound.

It's endearing and lovely and you'd be embarrassed.

He's staring. Is he a creep? So much drowsy, besotted fuzz has roiled his mind, he can't consider it for very long, but decides that he isn't. How could this one and only pure, tender thing he feels make him creepy? Doesn't seem right at all.

Your knee bumps his upper thigh and lazily cascades down to his knee until they both meet. Dean can't breathe; doesn't let himself, has to remain very still, though resisting to indulge is asking a lot from somebody this fond of you.

He whispers your name, and everything is quiet besides your unconscious rustling of sheets.

You're gravitating to his body. Delicate fingers mold the slope of his shoulder and trail lazily up until they reach the honeyed hair at the back of his neck, his skin pricks tiny bumps. Green eyes wide and wider when your face comes to his, nose so close.

He'd like to peck a kiss there. You're sleep-soft and pretty.

"Angel," he murmurs, knowing you aren't listening, and settles his hand onto the plush of your waist with such bravery. Your breath fans the subtle dip of his cupid's bow.

If given the chance to slow this forever, Dean would. Doesn't protest when your arms cling and cross over his back, squeezing tight. You pull him towards the crook of your neck and he follows obediently, allowing himself to meld and sniff and sink.

In the morning, he stirs more refreshed than he's ever been, needles in his heart as he sits and slides from the blankets, and doesn't mention anything when you blink awake.

wrote this at two in the morning i offer a big apology if that is obvious <3

[zyafics]

PAPA, UP! | Sukuna Ryomen

MASTERLIST / When your daughter wants to be carried, you delegate that task to your husband.

“Mama, up!”

You stopped in the middle of your walk to stare at your four-year-old daughter. Crimson eyes blinked up at you with expectations while her outstretched hands open and close into tiny, impatient fists.

You were exhausted. Having spent the entire evening walking around the pier, your feet were sore, and your arms felt like they weighted a ton. All you wanted was to go home.

But your daughter had other plans—asking you to carry her for the rest of the walk back to the car.

Her mouth slanted into a pout, her continuous grappling with her tiny fingers, while she tilted her head to the side.

You turned to your husband. Sukuna watched the interaction with a detached expression on his face, and offering no assistance. Eyes on his daughter—salmon-colored hair pulled into pigtails, crimson eyes identical to him—with cool exterior.

“This is for you,” you said solemnly.

His eyes snapped to your face. “She called for you.”

“You were made for this,” you encouraged, ignoring his observation with a pat on his arm. Sukuna rolled his eyes, but responded with nothing as he stepped toward his daughter.

Her outstretched arms pivoted to him. “Papa, up.” She murmured, rosy cheeks from the seaside breeze, her lips pulled into a pout that remarkably looked so much like you.

“You’re grown enough to walk.”

“Papa,” She pouted again, her bottom lip wobbly as her fingers closed and opened into her small palms. Sukuna sighed in concession, lowering himself to scoop his daughter into his arms.

She went lax under her father’s touch—proving your theory that it wasn’t just you she wanted, she just wanted to stop walking—and dug her pudgy cheek onto his shoulder. Crimson eyes fluttered as she fell into the safety spell of her father’s embrace.

Warmth spread to your chest as you watched the entire interaction. Contrasting with such a small, fragile thing, Sukuna carried your daughter with such firm gentleness, it made your heart fluttered in many ways, your mind swimming with all the reasons why you got pregnant in the first place.

Sukuna resumed the trek back to the car. You followed closely behind, still observing how your daughter felt so cozy in her father’s arms, she even had a little bit of drool from the carry. You made it a few steps until you suddenly lagged behind, and immediately, without fail, Sukuna picked up on it.

Skirting to a stop, with his child tucked under one arm, he turned around with narrowed eyes.

“What is it now, wife?”

Heat rose to your cheeks. You shyly stretched your arms out, just like your daughter did, pouting in the same way as her, closing and opening your fists in mirror image.

And that was how Sukuna ended up carrying his wife and child in his arm, each falling asleep on each shoulder, each felt safe enough with the King of Curses.

[aliasnnmknt]

Summer days 🌞

[backgroundagent3]

Everytime Shakira does the official World Cup song we win, everyone say thank you Shakira!!

[p1stach-io]

the three of us.

summary: when your fierce independence collides with hockey’s favorite playboy, a hidden reality forces you both to rewrite the rules of your future. (7.2k)

pairing: dean di laurentis x reader.

content: accidental pregnancy, pregnancy, generational trauma, feelings of loneliness, childbirth (implied), angst, language, initial lack of communication, domestic fluff, hurt/comfort.

author’s note: this is based on a request by @maellatargaryen (this request is from a long time ago i do apologise i didn’t forget). this is the first time i’ve wrote a fic that is heavily related to pregnancy i think so first time for everything i guess (hehehe).

you kept your eyes glued to the frayed cuff of your  knitted sweater, deliberately avoiding the couple sitting three chairs down.

you had been staring at that loose thread for at least ten minutes, tracing the weave of the yarn just to keep your gaze from wandering.

but you could still see them in your periphery.

the man was gently rubbing the woman's lower back, his thumb making small, reassuring circles through the fabric of her shirt.

every few seconds, he would lean in, whispering something in her ear that made her laugh—a soft, tired sound. she looked exhausted, but she looked completely safe.

a heavy, suffocating lump formed in your throat, and you looked down, your fingers instinctively pressing lightly against the flat expanse of your stomach.

there was nothing there yet, not to the casual observer. just a secret wrapped in layers of wool and denim.

it was your choice, you reminded yourself, repeating the mantra that had kept you upright for the last twelve weeks. you chose to walk out of his room. you chose not to call.

"he's not your father," your roommate and best friend, trinity, had argued just the night before.

she had been pacing the worn linoleum floor of your shared campus apartment, her eyes tracking you with a mix of fierce worry and frustration while you sat on the bathroom floor, throwing up into a plastic trash can.

"dean is a lot of things. he's a flirt, he's loud, he's a massive distraction, and he lives in a house that smells like stale beer and hockey sweat. but he isn't a monster. you have to tell him, or i swear to god i'm going to find tucker at the rink and have him do it for you." she sighed as you shook your head.

you knew trinity meant well.

you really, truly did.

she was the one who bought you saltine crackers at two in the morning, the one who held your hair back, and the one who looked up single-mother grant programs on her laptop when you were too exhausted to think.

she wasn't trying to force your hand out of malice; she just hated seeing you carry an entire universe on your shoulders when there was a perfectly capable guy who helped put it there.

but trinity didn't have your history.

she hadn't grown up listening to the bitter, cautionary tales of a mother who got pregnant at a college party by a boy (your father) who vanished into thin air the second the test turned pink.

she hadn't seen the quiet, exhausting toll of a woman working two jobs just to buy school supplies, always reminding her daughter that boys with bright smiles and big reputations were nothing but a beautiful trap.

to you, dean di laurentis was the ultimate manifestation of that danger.

he was briar university's golden boy, a hockey legacy with a jawline carved by the gods and an easy, effortless charm that made everyone in his orbit feel like the center of the universe.

he possessed a reputation for a rotating door of admirers that preceded him everywhere he went, from the campus coffee shops to the crowded lecture halls.

you had been one of those quiet admirers for semesters, harboring a private, desperate crush from the safety of the upper student section at the arena.

you were a psychology major, someone who spent her days analyzing behavior and defense mechanisms, yet you couldn't analyze yourself out of the way your chest tightened every time he took the ice.

then came a party in early november.

emboldened by a little too much vodka and the sheer, infectious electricity of the team's victory, you had actually pursued him.

you hadn't just watched from the corner this time; you had walked right up to him at the kitchen island, matched his easy, arrogant banter with a sharp wit he hadn't expected, and when the chance arose to leave the noise behind and go up to his room, you took it.

and god, he had been wonderful.

that was the part that terrified you the most.

he wasn't the careless, selfish playboy you had braced yourself for; he was attentive and entirely intoxicating.

he had asked you questions, looked at you like he actually wanted to hear the answers, and held you like you were something fragile and precious.

but when you woke up the next morning wrapped in his sheets, the freezing weight of reality had set in.

the morning sun filtered through his blinds, illuminating the hockey medals on his dresser and the stray red plastic cups on the floor.

you were just a tuesday night after a massive win.

to save yourself the humiliation of a polite, dismissive text three days later, you had gathered your clothes from the floor, slipped your shoes on, and walked out of his life before he even stirred.

three weeks later, the morning sickness had started.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

"patient 114?" a nurse called out, holding an electronic chart and looking around the waiting room with an expressionless, practiced gaze.

you swallowed the lump in your throat, stood up completely alone, and smoothed down the front of your sweater.

you walked past the couple, feeling the immense, crushing gravity of a secret that was growing bigger by the second.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

the briar u campus was experiencing an unseasonably warm spring afternoon two months later.

winter had finally cracked, leaving the quad packed with students lounging on blankets, tossing frisbees, and desperately trying to absorb enough vitamin d to survive the final stretch of the semester.

you sat under the deep, cool shade of a massive oak tree near the psychology building. you were wearing a loose dress—a highly tactical choice. at five months, you couldn't hide the changes with just oversized hoodies and clever posture anymore. the dress camouflaged the distinct, rounded curve of your belly perfectly, as long as you remained sitting down with your knees pulled slightly toward your chest.

you opened your heavy developmental psychology textbook, trying to focus on a chapter about early childhood attachment styles, but the heat and the persistent, dull ache in your lower back were making your eyes heavy.

your mind kept wondering how you were going to afford a crib and how you were going to explain to a child one day why their father was just a face on a hockey trading card.

more than anything, you were determined to continue your studies.

you hadn't spent years maintaining a high gpa just to drop out.

you were going to graduate from briar, baby or no baby.

your due date was calculated for mid-august, right before the fall semester began.

it was going to be a logistical nightmare, juggling a newborn and upper-level psychology seminars, but you were already mapping out a rigid study schedule in your planner.

you would survive it.

you had to.

a loud, booming laugh echoed across the lawn, instantly making your chest tighten so fast you lost your breath.

you looked up from the pages.

a dozen yards away, the hockey team was walking back from an afternoon workout at the campus gym.

they were a loud, boisterous pack, trailing duffel bags over their shoulders and laughing at some inside joke.

at the very center of the group was dean.

his damp hair was pushed back from his forehead, his gray briar athletics t-shirt clinging to his chest, and that trademark, effortless smile was polished across his face as he joked with garrett graham.

your hand moved automatically to your stomach, protectively covering the life growing inside you.

you pulled your massive textbook higher up against your chest, freezing like a deer caught in the high beams of a semi-truck.

please don't look over here. please just keep walking to the dining hall.

dean was laughing, his shoulders shaking as garrett gestured wildly, but as his eyes scanned the quad, his gaze inadvertently drifted toward the shade of your tree.

you looked down instantly, staring so hard at a paragraph on cognitive dissonance that the black ink blurred into meaningless lines.

dean paused mid-stride.

his brow furrowed, his sneakers digging into the soft grass.

the easy, permanent smile faltered as a sharp, incredibly vivid memory flashed through his mind.

the specific, soft scent of your skin, the quiet, grounding confidence you had shown when you walked up to him at the party, and the sudden, confusing sting of disappointment he had

felt when he woke up to a cold, empty bed.

he had looked for you for weeks after that night.

he had asked around, looked through social media, but briar was a massive university, and you had intentionally made yourself a ghost.

"hey, dean, you coming or what? the burrito place fills up fast on thursdays," tucker called out, noticing his friend had suddenly dropped back from the group.

"yeah. go ahead, man. i'll catch up with you guys in a minute," dean muttered, his eyes locked entirely on the girl under the oak tree.

he started walking across the grass.

every step he took felt like a countdown to an explosion you couldn't prevent.

you saw his shadow fall over your open textbook, blocking out the filtered sunlight, before you finally forced yourself to look up.

"hey," dean said. his voice was softer than it usually was, completely stripped of the loud, easy bravado he carried around his teammates.

he rubbed the back of his neck, looking uncharacteristically nervous, his fingers twitching against his duffel bag strap. "it's... you. right? from my place, a few months ago? you kind of vanished into thin air."

"dean. hi," you managed to choke out. your heart was hammering against your ribs so violently you were certain he could see it through your clothes.

your palms were slick with sweat against the cardboard cover of your book. "yeah. i—i have a class to get to, actually—"

terrified of what he might see if he looked too closely at your posture, you scrambled to gather your things.

but your balance was off, your center of gravity completely shifted by the pregnancy.

your coordination failed, and the heavy psychology textbook slipped from your fingers, hitting the grass with a dull thud.

papers and highlighters tumbled out.

you instinctively reached down to grab it, but the physical restriction of your five-month belly made the movement clumsy.

as you bent over, the fabric of your dress pulled tight across your torso, outlining the unmistakable and beautifully rounded curve of your stomach.

dean bent down at the exact same time to grab the book for you, his large hand reaching for the cover, but his movements froze entirely.

from his angle, right at eye level with your lap, there was no hiding it.

the truth was standing between you, loud and undeniable.

dean's eyes widened, the blue of his irises bright with absolute shock.

his mind, usually so quick with a joke or a strategic play on the ice, ground to a screeching, chaotic halt.

he looked from your stomach, up to your terrified face, and back down again.

the timeline crashed into his head like a brutal body check against the boards. late fall. the championship party. five months ago. the night she left.

"is that..." dean's voice cracked, losing all of its usual suave composure. he dropped the textbook entirely back into the grass, his hands hovering in the air between you as if he were afraid to touch reality, his fingers trembling slightly. "wait. hold on. is that mine?"

panic, cold and sharp as ice water, flooded your veins.

the judgment of the campus, the ghost of your mother's past, the terrifying fear of him laughing or calling you a liar—it all hit you at once, blinding your senses.

you grabbed your tote bag, shoving the loose highlighters inside with trembling hands, and pushed past him, your boots skidding on the dirt.

"i have to go, dean. just leave it alone."

"hey, wait. please. stop." dean scrambled after you, his long, athletic strides easily catching up before you could even reach the paved pathway.

he didn't grab you roughly, but he placed a gentle, pleading hand on your forearm, just enough to anchor you, his grip warm and remarkably steady despite his shock.

when you spun around to face him, you had tears blurring your vision, the quad spinning around you.

dean looked entirely breathless, his chest heaving under his t-shirt as he stared at you. there was immense shock in his eyes, yes, but beneath it, moving in like a tidal wave, was an intense, unexpected expression of sheer protectiveness.

"please don't run away again," dean whispered, his gaze dropping down to the curve of your dress, then right back up into your tear-filled eyes. "just... talk to me. please. you don't have to run."

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

an hour later, you were sitting in the farthest corner booth of a quiet, dim, off-campus diner that was usually empty between the lunch and dinner rushes.

the jukebox in the corner was dark, and the only sound was the low sizzle of the kitchen grill behind the counter.

dean had bought you a grilled cheese sandwich and a massive, condensation-covered glass of milk.

he hadn't forced you to say a word since he had guided you into his car. he just sat across from you, his large frame filling the vinyl booth, watching you with an intensity that made your skin prickle, his hands clasped tightly on the table.

"why didn't you tell me?" he asked quietly, breaking the long silence.

his fingers traced the ring of water left by his glass on the tabletop. "i've been racking my brain for the last hour trying to figure out if i did something wrong that night. what did i do? did i hurt you? did i make you feel like i wouldn't care? did i say something stupid?"

"no," you said, your voice cracking as you looked out the window at the passing traffic.

your fingers tore off a tiny piece of the sandwich crust, though your stomach was too twisted to eat. "you were great, dean. it wasn't you. it was... everything else. it was me."

"it's obviously not just you," he said gently, leaning forward, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that demanded honesty. "help me understand. please. because waking up to an empty room was bad enough, but finding out you've been carrying this around for five months by yourself? that hurts."

and then, because the weight of the last twenty weeks was simply too heavy for your shoulders to bear anymore, the dam broke.

the psychological walls you had meticulously built up over years crumbled into dust.

you told him everything.

you told him about your mother.

you told him about growing up in a tiny house where every bill was a crisis, listening to the story of a popular college athlete who had promised your mother the world under the red solo cup lights of a fraternity house, only to pack his bags and transfer schools the second the word baby was spoken.

you told him about the terrifying statistics of single-parent households you read in your text books, the deep-seated fear of being a burden, and the agonizing weight of those clinic appointments where you sat alone in a sea of happy, supportive couples.

"i looked at them, dean," you whispered, a tear finally escaping and slipping down your nose. "i sat there every month, watching these guys hold their wives' hands, carrying their bags, looking at the sonogram photos like they'd just won the lottery. and i was just... patient 114. i didn't want to see the look on your face if you thought i was trying to trap you. i didn't want to see you walk away like he did."

dean listened to every single word, his body perfectly still.

his jaw clenched tighter and tighter with every sentence that left your mouth, not with anger directed at you, but with a profound, simmering fury at the ghost of the man who had raised you to believe that all men were cowards.

his chest rose and fell heavily.

when you finished, wiping your cheek with the back of your hand, dean didn't hesitate.

he reached across the table, his arm bridging the distance between your separate worlds, and took your hand in his.

his palm was rough from hockey sticks, warm, and incredibly solid.

"i am not him," dean said, his voice dropping an octave, completely fierce and steady. there was no hesitation in his eyes, no panic, no calculation. "i don't care about my reputation. i don't care that we're still in college. this is my kid, too. and more importantly, it's you. i'm not going anywhere. do you hear me? i am right here."

you looked down at his large hand covering yours, desperately wanting to believe the warmth of it, but the old survival instincts were hard to kill.

"dean, you don't have to pretend for my sake. you have a life. you have scouts coming to games, you have a professional career ahead of you, you have your friends—"

"hey," he interrupted gently, his thumb rubbing circles against the back of your hand, mimicking the gesture you had envied in the waiting room months ago. "let's make a deal. no pressure. i know i have a lot to prove to you. just let me be your friend. let me carry your bags. let me take you to the doctor. let me show you that you don't have to do this alone anymore."

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

true to his word, dean shifted his entire universe within forty-eight hours.

the transformation was nothing short of a statistical anomaly to anyone who knew him.

the guy who used to sleep until noon on days off and survive on cold pizza and protein shakes was suddenly standing outside your dorm building at 9:00 am.

he would be waiting in his idling car, the passenger seat already stocked with saltine crackers and pre-packaged ginger ale because he had spent the previous night reading medical forums about morning sickness trends in the second and third trimesters.

at first, it was kind of awkward.

you were protective of your routine, used to relying only on yourself and trinity but dean was persistent in the most gentle way possible.

he became your shadow on campus.

he would meet you outside your difficult seminars, completely unbothered by the lingering stares and whispers of his teammates or the girls who used to follow him around the quad.

he would silently take your heavy canvas backpack from your shoulders, slinging it over his own massive arm alongside his hockey gear, and walk at your slower, deliberate pace without a single complaint.

"you know people are talking, right?" you asked him one afternoon as you walked toward the library, your hand resting on the small of your aching back.

"let them talk," dean said, shrug of his shoulders easy and unbothered. "they're just jealous i get to hang out with the smartest girl on campus. besides, tucker tried to ask me about it yesterday, and i told him if he didn't shut his mouth i would chuck him into the net during practice. he hasn't brought it up since."

you couldn't help the small laugh that escaped you, the sound surprising even yourself.

dean looked down at you, his eyes softening at the sound, a faint spark in his gaze that made your stomach do a completely different kind of flip.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

by the sixth month, your apartment had become a secondary storage unit. dean had told his parents. you had been terrified of that phone call, expecting high-society rejection, but his mother had apparently gone into full grandmother mode within thirty seconds.

huge boxes began arriving weekly—baby blankets, organic cotton onesies, a high-tech stroller, and specialized maternity pillows.

but the most significant change was inside dean's shared house. he had cleaned out the small spare room on the first floor, moving out old fitness equipment and broken hockey sticks.

in its place, he had moved in a massive, incredibly plush velvet rocking chair.

"what is this?" you asked, standing in the doorway of the room during a saturday visit where he had insisted on making you lunch.

"it's a glider," dean said proudly, wiping his hands on a kitchen towel as he stood behind you. "i read that the movement helps with lower back pain during the third trimester.

and, you know... just in case you ever want to visit and your back hurts, you have a place that's yours."

you looked at the chair, then at the hockey star who had bought it, feeling the cold, icy edges of your old trauma melting away a little bit more every day.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

the true turning point came during the eighth-month ultrasound appointment.

the clinic waiting room looked exactly the same as it had during your first trimester—same low hum, same couples holding hands.

but this time, the space felt completely different. you weren't hiding under an oversized sweater, and you weren't staring at a frayed thread.

you were sitting next to dean. his large frame was crammed into the small plastic waiting room chair, his knees nearly touching his chin, but he didn't look impatient at all.

he was reading a pamphlet on newborn sleep cycles with a level of concentration usually reserved for analyzing a rival team's defensive plays.

"patient 114—sorry, i mean, by your last name?" the nurse called out, correcting herself with a warm smile as she recognized you.

you stood up, and before you could even reach for your purse, dean was already on his feet, grabbing your coat and slinging your tote bag over his shoulder.

he extended his free hand to you, his fingers open, waiting.

you hesitated for a fraction of a second before sliding your hand into his, letting his warmth steady you as you walked down the narrow hallway.

the ultrasound room was dim, the monitor glowing with a soft blue light.

you laid back on the paper-covered table, pulling up your shirt to expose the massive, high, tight curve of your eight-month belly.

dean sat in the chair right next to your head, his eyes wide as the technician squeezed the cold, clear gel onto your skin.

he didn't look away for a second, his grip on your hand tightening as the technician pressed the transducer against your stomach.

at first, there was only static—a rushing, hollow sound of fluids and movement. then, with a slight adjustment of the plastic wand, the audio cleared, and a loud, rhythmic sound filled the small room.

thump-thump, thump-thump.

"there we go," the technician said gently, pointing a finger at the grainy, gray-and-white screen. "there's a strong heartbeat. looks like baby is growing right on schedule."

you looked over at dean, expecting him to look overwhelmed by the sheer finality of the sound.

instead, you found him staring at the monitor with thick, silent tears streaming straight down his cheeks.

his jaw was slightly slack, a soft, breathless laugh escaping his lips as he stared at the little flickering shape on the screen.

"that's... that's our baby," he whispered, his voice thick and raspy with an emotion so raw it made your own eyes well up with tears.

he leaned over the edge of the table, completely unbothered by the technician's presence, and pressed a gentle, lingering kiss to the back of your knuckles, his forehead resting against your hand for a long moment. "look at that, sweetheart. we made a little athlete. listen to that pace."

in that exact moment, the final, stubborn, defensive walls around your heart—the ones built by your mother's warnings, the ones built by years of watching men walk away from hard things—completely crumbled into nothing.

you realized that trinity had been right from the very start. dean wasn't your father.

he was entirely, undeniably his own man.

and he was already a father.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

by the time your ninth month arrived, the unseasonably warm spring had turned into the suffocating heat of late summer.

walking across the campus pavement felt like trekking through a desert, and your ankles had reached a level of swelling that made shoes feel like instruments of torture.

the platonic friendship dean had insisted on maintaining had grown desperately fragile over the last few weeks—not because it was failing, but because the sheer, undeniable gravity of the romantic tension between you had become too loud to ignore.

every touch lingered a second too long; every look held a weight that had nothing to do with doctor's appointments or crib instructions.

one evening, a thunderstorm was rolling in over the campus, the sky a bruised purple color that brought a temporary coolness to the air.

you were sitting on the plush sofa in dean's living room, surrounded by a mountain of freshly washed baby clothes that needed to be sorted into bins.

dean's teammates were away for the weekend, leaving the house uncharacteristically quiet, save for the low rumble of thunder outside.

dean was sitting on the hardwood floor right by your feet, a bottle of lavender lotion in his hand.

he had your bare, swollen left foot resting on his knee, his large, calloused thumbs working in slow, rhythmic circles across your arch with a level of focus that made your heart ache.

"dean?" you said softly, breaking the steady sound of the rain against the windowpane.

"yeah, sweetheart?" he murmured, his gaze remaining down on his hands, his thumbs never stopping their steady, soothing pressure.

"why are you doing all of this?" you asked. the question had been sitting on your tongue for weeks, a final, lingering piece of uncertainty that needed to be aired out. "the baby isn't even here yet. you've spent every weekend for months building furniture, reading parenting manuals, handling my moods, and taking care of me. you didn't have to go this far just to prove you're a good guy. you proved that a long time ago."

dean stopped his movements.

his hands remained cupped around your foot for a long, silent moment while the thunder rolled outside the house.

slowly, deliberately, he let go of your foot and shifted his weight, rising until he was kneeling on the floor right in front of you, his face level with yours.

he reached up, his hands large and incredibly warm as he placed them gently on either side of your face, his thumbs wiping away the sudden, familiar spike of anxiety in your eyes.

"you really are a psychology student, aren't you? always trying to find the hidden motive," he said, a soft, incredibly tender smile breaking across his lips—a smile that was completely devoid of his usual arrogance, leaving only the raw truth underneath. "i stopped doing this just for the baby a long time ago."

your breath hitched in your throat, your fingers tightening against the fabric of the baby blanket in your lap. "dean..."

"i love this kid, yeah. i would do anything for them," he confessed, his blue eyes burning into yours with absolute, unshakable certainty. "but i fell completely, totally in love with you. i love how fierce you are. i love how hard you tried to protect this baby from the world, even when you were terrified. i love the way you laugh when you think i'm being an idiot. i don't want to just be a great co-parent, and i don't want to just be the guy who carries your backpack. i want the whole thing. i want you."

your tears, warm and entirely relieving, spilled over your eyelashes, wetting his thumbs.

for the first time in your entire life, the ghost of your mother's past was entirely gone, vanished into the air like smoke.

there was no trap here.

there was only the beautiful, terrifying, certain reality of the man kneeling in front of you.

"took you long enough to finally say it," you whispered, a watery, breathless smile breaking through your tears.

dean let out a low, rough laugh as he leaned up the remaining few inches to press his lips against yours.

the kiss was sweet, slow, and full of a million quiet promises he had already spent the last four months keeping.

it tasted like rain and lavender lotion and home.

his fingers slid through your hair, holding you close, while his other hand moved down, flattening completely against the large, warm curve of your belly, feeling the faint, rhythmic kick of the life you had created together.

when he finally pulled away, just enough to breathe, he rested his forehead against yours, his thumbs tracing your cheekbones.

"we're going to be completely fine," dean whispered against your skin, his voice a fierce, unbreakable vow meant for both you and the little heartbeat inside you. "the three of us. i promise you. i'm right here."

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

the rhythmic click of a ballpoint pen was the loudest sound in the massive, tiered lecture hall.

you sat in the middle row of your advanced cognitive psychology seminar, your notebook laid out flat on the folding desk, your hand flying across the page to copy down the professor's slides on memory retrieval mechanisms.

beside your desk, tucked safely into the wide aisle, sat a heavy car seat wrapped in a soft navy blanket.

inside, just thirteen weeks old, rowan di laurentis was dead to the world.

his tiny fists were curled up next to his cheeks, a soft, rhythmic whistle puffing past his parted lips with every breath.

when the professor paused to switch slides, you glanced down, your heart swelling with a fierce, possessive warmth.

rowan had been born right on schedule in mid-august, and while the rest of your class spent the last week of summer partying, you and dean had been operating on two-hour sleep cycles, mastering the art of the swaddle, and staring at this tiny boy like he held the secrets to the universe.

some of your classmates had looked surprised to see you walk in three months after college had began with a stroller, but you had just offered them a polite, unbothered smile.

you were going to be a psychologist and rowan wasn't a reason to stop—he was the reason to run faster.

you dipped your hand down, gently brushing your index finger against rowan's minuscule knuckles.

his tiny hand instinctively locked around your finger, holding on tight even in his sleep.

you smiled, unhooked your finger, and went right back to typing your notes.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

across campus, the atmosphere was entirely different.

coach jensen's whistle blew, a sharp, piercing sound that sent the players scattering toward the benches for a two-minute hydration break.

dean skated hard over to the boards, his chest heaving under his heavy briar jersey, his face flushed red from the intense cardio drill. but he didn't reach for his water bottle first.

instead, he skated right toward the end of the team bench where a familiar, high-tech stroller was parked just behind the safety plexiglass, safely out of the way of any stray pucks.

trinity was sitting on the bench next to it, typing on her phone, fulfilling her promised shift of baby duty while she studied for her own classes.

dean ripped his heavy padded gloves off with his teeth, dropping them onto the ice, and leaned over the boards.

rowan was awake now, wearing a miniature, custom-made briar hockey jersey over his onesie, his massive brown eyes staring up at the bright stadium lights.

"how's my little winger doing?" dean breathed, his voice dripping with an absurd, high-pitched softness that made garrett graham laugh from three feet away.

dean reached over the plexiglass, his hand gently resting against rowan's tiny chest, his thumb stroking the soft cotton of the jersey. "you being good for auntie trinity? you watching daddy's skating form?"

rowan let out a tiny, erratic gurgle, kicking one foot up.

"he's been perfect," trinity said, looking up from her phone with a smirk. "a lot better behaved than you usually are during practice, di laurentis. now drink some water before jensen screams at you."

"yeah, yeah," dean grinned, finally grabbing his water bottle and taking a long swig. he looked back down at his son, a fierce, determined spark in his blue eyes.

balancing division one hockey and fatherhood was the hardest thing he'd ever done, but he had never felt more alive.

he was going to give his kid the world, and he was going to do it right alongside you.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

later that evening, the winter heat finally broke as dusk settled over the town.

dean's black suv pulled into the gravel driveway of a small, neat house on the edge of the university district.

the porch light was already on, casting a warm, golden glow over the front steps.

dean hopped out of the driver's seat, walking around to your side to open the door before you could even reach for the handle.

he offered you his hand, pulling you up gently, his fingers lingering against your palm before he turned to unbuckle rowan's car seat from the back.

you walked up the steps together, the familiar scent of garlic and homemade pasta sauce drifting through the screen door long before you even knocked.

before your knuckles could even touch the wood, the door swung open.

your mother stood there, her apron tied around her waist, her eyes instantly bypassing the two of you to lock onto the plastic car seat in dean's hand.

a massive, radiant smile broke across her face, smoothing away the lines of a lifetime of hard work.

"there's my grandson," she beamed, her arms already reaching out as she stepped onto the porch.

dean smiled, handing the car seat over with a practiced ease that showed just how natural this had become for him.

"hi, mom. he slept the whole ride over." you smiled as your mother carried the seat inside, cooing at the sleeping baby.

you and dean stood on the porch for a quiet second.

dean looped his arm around your waist, pulling your back flush against his chest, his chin resting comfortably on the top of your head as you both watched your mother unbuckle her grandson through the front window.

there was no ghost of the past in this house anymore.

there was no fear of a running man or a broken promise.

there was only the smell of a warm dinner, a grandmother's laughter, and the solid, heavy weight of the man who had promised to stay—and meant every single word.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

the dining room of your childhood home was small, but tonight it felt entirely full. the air was thick with the rich, comforting scent of your mother's signature marinara sauce, a recipe that had historically been reserved only for birthdays or the rare moments when a budget stretch allowed for a celebration.

dean was sitting at the worn wooden table, a space that had only ever known the quiet presence of two women.

his massive, athletic frame practically engulfed the modest chair, his broad shoulders casting a long shadow against the floral wallpaper.

yet, he looked completely at ease.

he had rolled up the sleeves of his cotton blue shirt, exposing his forearms as he expertly navigated a massive bowl of spaghetti, passing it to your mother with a respectful, easy smile.

"seriously, alisha, this is incredible," dean said, calling your mother by her first name just as she had insisted he do three visits ago. "if you ever want to open a restaurant near campus, the entire hockey team would probably fund it. tucker survives entirely on frozen burritos and sheer willpower. he would cry if he tasted this."

a sound of genuine, lighthearted laughter escaping her lips as she leaned over to scoop another portion onto his plate. "don't flatter a woman, dean. but please, eat up. god knows you burn enough calories on that ice rink."

you watched them from across the table, your fork twirling slowly in your pasta.

a strange, dizzying wave of emotion hit your chest.

for twenty-one years, this room had been a fortress of caution.

it was the place where you sat while your mother meticulously balanced checkbooks, reminding you that reliance on anyone else was a vulnerability.

it was where you learned to be fiercely independent, wrapped in the protective armor of her warnings.

and now, briar university's golden boy was sitting in the center of it, arguing playfully with her about whether garlic bread should be baked or broiled.

from the corner of the room, a soft, low grunt came from the portable bassinet.

rowan was waking up, his tiny limbs stretching beneath his blanket.

before you could even set your fork down, dean's hand was already moving.

he caught your eye across the table, offering a reassuring nod.

"i got him, sweetheart. finish your dinner," he murmured, his voice dropping into that quiet, intimate tone he reserved just for you.

you watched as he stood up, his tall frame moving with a practiced, gentle fluidity as he navigated the tight space between the table and the bassinet.

he reached down, his hands completely cradling rowan's tiny torso as he lifted him out.

rowan let out a tiny, soft squeak, his little face puckering before he settled instantly against dean's chest, his small head tucking perfectly into the crook of his father's neck.

dean walked back to the table, shifting rowan effortlessly to one arm while he picked up his fork with the other, completely unfazed by the logistics of eating one-handed.

your mother stopped eating.

she watched dean—watched the way his thumb absentmindedly traced small circles on the back of rowan's custom jersey, the way his eyes constantly flicked down to check on the baby's breathing, the way he didn't even hesitate to put his own comfort second.

when she looked back at you, her eyes were bright with a quiet, profound sheen of tears.

she didn't say anything out loud but she didn't need to.

the unspoken apology and the sheer validation of your choices was entirely written in the soft smile she gave you across the table.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

by eleven o'clock, the drive back to the campus apartment was quiet, save for the hum of the car tires against the asphalt and the steady, rhythmic breathing of a fast-asleep baby in the backseat.

the apartment was dark when you unlocked the door.

trinity was out for the weekend, leaving the small living space peaceful.

dean carried rowan inside, the car seat clicking quietly as he set it on the floor, while you carried the diaper bag and the heavy tote containing your psychology textbooks.

you dropped the bags by the kitchen counter, a heavy, bone-deep exhaustion finally settling into your limbs.

finals week was creeping up, the stack of case studies you needed to analyze was growing, and your body was still recovering from the monumental task of bringing a human into the world.

you leaned against the counter, closing your eyes for just a second.

two warm hands slipped around your waist from behind, a familiar, solid chest pressing into your back.

dean buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath warm against your skin.

"hey," he whispered, his lips brushing against your jawline. "go take a hot shower. i'll handle the nighttime bath and get him down in his crib."

"dean, you have a 6:00 am video review session" you protested softly, turning around in his embrace to look up into his tired, beautiful blue eyes. "you spent three hours on the ice today. let me do it."

"absolutely not," dean smiled, a faint, stubborn dimple appearing in his cheek.

"we're a team, remember? you aced your seminar quiz today, you took ten pages of notes, and you didn't complain once when rowan spit up on your favorite sweater earlier. let me take the night shift, sweetheart. go relax."

you stared at him, the old, defensive instinct to say 'i can do it myself' rising to your throat out of sheer habit. but looking at the absolute, unwavering certainty in his gaze, you let it go.

you let the breath out of your lungs, your forehead coming to rest against his chest, right over the steady, pounding rhythm of his heart.

"thank you," you breathed into his shirt.

"anytime," he murmured, pressing a lingering, sweet kiss to the crown of your head before stepping back and picking up the sleeping bundle from the floor.

half an hour later, you stepped out of the bathroom, wrapped in a plush robe, your skin warm and smelling of vanilla soap.

the apartment was silent.

you padded softly down the short hallway toward rowan's small nursery.

the dim, amber light of the moon-shaped nightlight illuminated the room.

dean was sitting in the massive velvet glider he had proudly bought months ago.

rowan was freshly changed, wrapped tightly in a swaddle blanket, fast asleep against his father's bare chest.

dean was rocking back and forth in a slow, hypnotic rhythm, his hand completely cupping the back of rowan's head.

he wasn't asleep.

he was staring down at his son, his expression so fierce, so intensely protective, it took your breath away.

in his lap, balanced precariously on the armrest of the chair, was his hockey playbook, his eyes flicking between the diagrams of defensive strategies and the tiny, perfect face of the boy in his arms.

he was balancing it all. the pressure of the scouts, the demanding expectations of his legacy, the exhaustion of college life—he was holding it all in his hands, and he wasn't letting a single piece drop.

you leaned your shoulder against the doorframe, a soft smile tugging at your lips.

dean looked up at the sound of your breathing, his eyes softening instantly as he caught sight of you. he didn't speak, not wanting to break the fragile silence of the nursery, but he extended his free hand toward you, his fingers open.

you walked across the small room, sliding your hand into his warm palm.

dean pulled you down gently until you were sitting on the wide armrest of the glider beside him.

he leaned his head against your hip, his grip on your hand tightening into a silent, unbreakable vow.

you looked down at the two of them.

the future was going to be chaotic.

there would be exams to study for while rocking a crying infant; there would be away games where you would have to manage the nighttime routine alone and there would be endless loops of exhaustion.

but as the glider rocked gently in the quiet apartment, the absolute certainty of his warmth against your skin told you everything you needed to know.

the pattern was broken.

you were exactly where you belonged.

[camellinia]

MORNING DEW (DONK)

smutty / bf!dean | off campus boys' playlist | camellinia's pin

꣑ৎ you, effortlessly sucking him off while you’re typing out your sociology essays across his exposed, sensitive, soaked lap.

꣑ৎ dean treating you with eating you out for a looooong time, when you get an answer correct when he’s using your flash cards.

꣑ৎ dean bending you over the back of the sofa in his penthouse, with the blinds wide open in the mornings.

꣑ৎ dean fingering you while you're all fours, sucking him off in the shower.

꣑ৎ dean eating you out in the bath, both of you guys trying not to get caught by anyone in the frat house... (this is before you guys called it official...)

꣑ৎ you and dean definitely having sex with his bedroom door open, he doesn’t give a fuuuuuck 😵‍💫

꣑ৎ dean fingering you while he’s driving, because you couldn’t wait any longer.

꣑ৎ dean sultry saying “smile at the camera, baby” while he lightly holds your chin, before your face is smothered with his cum.

꣑ৎ dry humping him while you’re beside the fire pit, sharing a joint together.

꣑ৎ dean becoming insanely submissive when your walking him like a dog… telling him to be harder, softer, rougher or gentle when you’re telling him how to fuck you right.

꣑ৎ dean being insanely obsessive with making you squirt or cream for the time, wether that’s literally at a party or in his messy bed after having sex for the 15th time that week…

꣑ৎ you and dean sleeping in each other’s wet spots because why not, also he’s gonna want to fuck even more the next day.

꣑ৎ dean clearly has a size kink, comparing his dick against your stomach, throat and hands!!!!

꣑ৎ dean is for sure fucking you until his bed breaks, since then he doesn’t bother buying another bed frame…

꣑ৎ dean is definitely into creampie, he’s making sure that you’re full of him.

꣑ৎ and lastly… dean can definitely last for hours. you better pick up with what he’s putting dooooown ma’am!!!! 🫡

[wiishies]

Oh wow

[locsandletters]

ᯓ leak it; j.bellingham

──smau/fic

pairing ➜ dad!jude x mom!reader

warnings/notes ➜ none

summary ➜ your instagram account is private, until it suddenly isn't.

ynusername

liked by trentarnold66, jobebellingham and 98 others.

ynusername from mykonos, with love.💌

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denisebellingham: give my angel baby a kiss from grandma!🩷 - liked by author

yourbestfriend: tell that man to put a shirt on, nobody's tryna see his ribs💀

↳ judebellingham: you could never just let me live in peace😒

yourcousin: looking that good is illegal in at least seven countries

↳ ynusername: ik, they almost wouldn't let us through customs🫣

aurelientchm: my goddaughter is growing up too fast!!😤

↳ camavinga: there's only one godfather. stop this.

↳ vinijr: yeah and we all know it's me. y/n's just taking too long to announce it officially

↳ rodrygogoes: 🤨

ynusername

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ynusername find us in a flower field💐🌻🌷🌼🌺

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yourbestfriend: your life is quite literally a pinterest board - liked by author

yourcousin: y/n girl your man's fine af😢

↳ yourcousin2: fr. like, my mouth is watering all of a sudden

↳ ynusername: watch me block both of you😭

tolami_benson: my favourite little family😫💞 - liked by author

yoursister: post some cute shit like this again and i'm reporting your account

↳ ynusername: hating from outside the club is crazy

ynusername

liked by trentarnold66, bukayosaka and 89 others.

ynusername la vie est belle. a week in the south of france🌊☀️🐚🌴🫧

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judebellingham: best week with my best girls❤️ - liked by author

jobebellingham: i see a suspicious lack of my niece's face in these photos

↳ ynusername: she's camera shy (like someone i know👀)

yourbrother: pls keep the pda for private viewing only🤢

nonzinoo10: when's the wedding?

↳ ynusername: let's slow down.

yoursister: okay, we get it. y’all have a cute baby. y’all are in love, and y’all went to france. pls give us a break

↳ camavinga: you wish that was you huh?💀

↳ yoursister: more than u know sksjsj😭😭😭

it wasn't like you meant for any of it to happen.

you'd been careful, fiercely careful even, to keep your life tucked away from all that came with dating jude. he'd made his decision to protect his private life, especially when you two found out you were having a baby, and you were more than fine with that. he always said he didn't want to be one of those guys who treated his family like a public exhibit, and you had always appreciated that about him.

you'd watched enough of his life get dissected online—his every game, every interview, every faint slip of emotion. the press and fans, some more intense than others, had opinions on everything about him. and when your daughter was born, the stakes got higher. both of you were clear about it: no one was going to make your baby girl feel like she owed the world anything.

so your instagram account stayed small and anonymous. a little private bubble where you shared pieces of your life that no one outside your tight-knit circle got to see. soft images of her little fingers wrapped around jude's thumb, her cheeks flushed as she ran around in your back yard, her face lighting up at the museum, where every artefact seemed like the most exciting discovery of her three-year-old life. and your people—your families, jude's teammates, your own friends—would find their way into the comments, joking, saying how she looked more and more like her dad every day.

on other platforms, you never hinted at anything. especially not on twitter. no full names, no tags—just the subtle pictures of toys spread across the floor, or a pair of tiny sneakers next to his, just a few sizes too small. to the rest of the world, you were just a proud mom with a little girl who, based on your twitter captions, had an amazing dad who somehow never made it into your feed.

and it had worked.

for three years, you and jude had managed to stay under the radar. no pap shots, no tabloids digging into your lives, just peace. the kind of peace you never realised you'd treasure this much. until it slipped through your fingers.

it was a friday night. jude had a game the next day, so he'd fallen asleep early, his body draped protectively around you, one arm resting over the spot where your daughter would normally wiggle in between you both sometime in the middle of the night. it was your nightly routine to scroll through instagram before bed, replying to the handful of comments on your posts, maybe resharing an old memory for your close friends.

tonight, you were posting a small video you'd taken at the park that day. it was nothing special, just jude holding your daughter's hand as she walked across the grass, her tiny steps wobbly. you didn't write much for the caption, just something simple like, "my favourite view."

then, you logged off, tossed your phone to the side, and nestled into bed.

but by morning, you could tell something was wrong.

your phone was buzzing nonstop, lighting up in rapid flashes that instantly made your stomach drop. instinctively, you reached for it, feeling jude shift beside you as you did. unlocking it, you were met with an avalanche of notifications: messages, follows, likes—all from accounts you didn't recognise. your private account, the one with less than a hundred followers last night, had thousands of notifications.

you sat up, eyes wide as you scrolled through. every photo was filled with comments from strangers, fans, people you'd never seen before.

ynusername

liked by fedevalverde, gioreyna and 336 842 others.

ynusername two sides of the same coin.🤍

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username: ??

username: i need answers. immediately.

username: a BABY? i'm speechless.

username: who are you and why are there so many photos of jude on your page???

username: i thought i knew everything about him... who is she?? is she HIS??😭

username: this is how i find out he has a family???

username: this feels like a fever dream, no way jude’s been a dad this whole time

it felt like the ground dropped out beneath you.

your fingers shook as you clicked through your account settings, scrambling to make it private again, but it felt pointless—like shutting the door on an already broken window. by the time jude woke up, stretching in that lazy way he did, he glanced over at you with his usual sleepy smile, but the sight of you half in tears froze it on his face.

"hey, what's wrong?" he asked, his voice still thick with sleep, but you could see him snap to attention as you tried to explain what happened, words tumbling out so fast you barely made sense.

he listened, brow creased as his hand found yours, steadying it between his palms. "it's okay, baby," he said softly, his voice calm, but you could see the way he swallowed, how he looked down and let out a long breath, processing.

he knew exactly what this meant; you both did. the privacy you'd guarded so fiercely for three years was suddenly slipping away, and it was only a matter of time before the chaos started—the endless questions, the ruthless assumptions.

and sure enough, it began.

you'd gone private again, but it didn't matter; people had reposted screenshots, scrutinising every photo you'd shared. the internet was relentless, obsessed with details you'd never imagined anyone would care about. the comments spilled over with speculation, twitter threads popping up with people wondering who you were, when you and jude had gotten together, if the little girl in your photos was his.

the weight of it was wearing you down, and jude could see it. it was easier for him; he'd grown up under the public eye, knew the feeling of being watched, scrutinised. but for you, it was different—suffocating, heartbreaking, to watch the life you'd built be picked apart and exposed. you felt like you were losing something sacred.

one night, he found you curled up on the couch, scrolling mindlessly through your notifications, eyes distant and tired. he settled beside you, quiet at first, just holding you. then, in a soft voice, he broke the silence. "maybe it's time we tell them. officially."

you stared at him, surprised, a bit wary. "are you sure?" you asked, searching his face, because you certainly were not. "i mean, we don't have to, do we? we could just... maybe let it blow over?"

he shook his head slowly, a hint of a sad smile tugging at his lips. "they're already guessing, making up their own stories. and i don't want them turning you or our daughter into some mystery they feel entitled to solve." he paused, his hand gently brushing your cheek before resting on the back of your neck. "they already know pieces, love. if we do it our way, maybe we can control the narrative."

you nodded, because, yeah, he made sense. still, it did little to calm the anxiety swirling in your stomach. the idea of letting the world into this small, perfect life you'd built felt overwhelming. but jude had always been protective, and if he genuinely believed this was the right move, that it was time, maybe he was right.

the next morning, he posted on his own account. just a few pictures of the three of you. he didn't write much, just a simple, "my favourite girls.❤️” and that was it.

it didn't take long for his fans to fill up the comments, reactions as chaotic and intense as you'd expected. but in the middle of it all, there was kindness, too. supportive messages, people cheering on your little family, voices of love rising above the judgment—the love overshadowed the hate.

later that night, jude found you on the couch, your daughter dozing against your shoulder. he sat beside you, his arm curling around you both as he pressed a kiss to the top of your head. the world might have been watching now, but here, together, none of that mattered.

all that mattered was the three of you.

──────────────────

judebellingham

liked by virgilvandijk, erling, and 4 275 936 others.

judebellingham my favourite girls.❤️

tagged: ynusername

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username: it should have been me is all i'm saying

username: not the little belligol arms, i CANNOT😭💗

davidbeckham: proper family man now.🤍

username: is anyone else irrationally mad right now or am i just too invested??

↳ username: yeah you definitely need to touch grass

aurelientchm: big love, bro.🤝🏽❤️

username: @ynusername can u fight?

username: everyone is putting in their opinions as if we know this man personally. at the end of the day, we're just fans. he doesn't owe us every detail of his life.🤷🏽‍♀️

username: do we get to know her name at least??

username: i can't even hate on it. she seems like a good mom, and their kid is adorable

camavinga: my people❤️ ──────────────────