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"They will speak German, ja?"

Gretchen has finished with her dough and is now watching you knead your own. You almost didn't expect to finish, she's seemingly been distracted all day.

You glance at her, brow raised "I plan on putting them in school, if that's what you mean?"

"I should hope so." She smiles and waves a hand dismissively. "I have some of my boy's old school books, you want them?" You perk up a bit, absentmindedly reaching for some flour. "That would be wonderful. I would really appreciate-"

The flour tips, and spills across the counter and your front. Gretchen hides a laugh behind her hand and shoos you away when you move for the broom.

"You go change. Could not reach if you wanted."

You watch for a moment, posture deflated and brows furrowed. For some reason, she's in a fantastic mood today. You shake your head from before moving to the door and stepping outside.

Your house is a short walk from Gretchen's, still technically the same property. It's a little smaller than her's, clearly meant to rented by just one person or a couple. The latter is what Gretchen is pushing for. You understand where she's coming from with her insistence on finding a man, she knows what it's like to be completely foreign and alone. The thought fills you with an appreciative warmth almost as much as it annoys you.

You reach your front door, setting a hand on your belly as you step through.

You're only two months in, but you could easily pass for three or four. A thought that doesn't help with your many worries.

You don't have much of a social circle here, not that is was particularly big where you lived before, but not your only friends are Gretchen and some coworkers from your new job. Help would be nice. You love Gretchen and her husband, Ralf, is nice enough, but they're old and won't be much help if you end up needing it.

The thoughts send an ache through your head and you shove them away to focus on your current task: finding a new shirt.

It doesn't take long, as only a small amount of your tops fit over your bump right now. You pull it on and brushing the remain powder from your lounge pants. It comes off easily enough and you're about to head back before you catch sight of yourself in the mirror. You decide to wash your face before you go, if only to pretend it'll help any in your state. You scrub your hands over your face, all but clawing at your skin.

You don't hear the crunch of tires on gravel over the running water.

You don't bother look at your reflection again, just drying your face and leaving again.

There's a truck in the driveway. Way more modern than the car your neighbors keep. You spot it through the window and beeline for the door. You can't tell the make or model from so far, can't make out if someone's in it.

You move as quickly as you can, rushing to check on your friend. Your mind races as you creep up the stairs of the back porch and you move to the door. You carefully pry the sliding door open and quietly step through. You relax a but when you hear Gretchen talking animatedly to someone. You pad through the kitchen, past where a timer ticks and your mess has been cleaned up, and towards the noise. Gretchen is cooing over a giant of man, his head nearly scraping the ceiling. He's angled away from you, so you can only see cropped strawberry blonde hair.

Then he speaks and you're suddenly bristling again. Colonel König.

How had he found you? KorTac had promised to keep your transfer confidential. You hadn't heard word of the Austrian in months, not since...

Gretchen's gaze falls on you and there's a scheming glint in her eye.

"Liebchen! There you are." She pats the brute's arm as she pass and he turns, eyes locking on you.

"You remember me speaking of my boy, ja? This is him." She smiles brightly and her giddy behavior suddenly makes all too much sense.

You don't focus much on her, your attention solely focused on the hulking man. He's wringing his mask in his hands and you debate barking out a laugh at his baby-face and the pathetic pout of his lips. He almost does look like a boy, even at his big age. His eyes are wide and wet, he looks like he may break down any moment. You puff up a bit, a cruel smile pulling at your lips.

Dinner is quiet, not entirely unusual. Usually the meals you share with Gretchen and Ralf are spent in comfortable silence. The large intruder has made your meal tonight awkward. He stares because he's a freak the moment he's removed from a position of power. You pointedly ignore him for the duration of dinner.

Your ignorance does not keep him from your dreams that night.

𝝑𝝔 ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ 𝝑𝝔

König is almost achingly hard in his pants by the time you leave. Pregnancy wasn't necessarily one of his kinks, but you carried it like a goddess and he had to force himself not to look any lower than your eyes.

He feels pathetic, like a dumbass boy again.

König prided himself on many things. How he felt about you was not one of them. How desperate he had felt before for an ounce of your attention, even in form of venom dripping for your beautiful lips.

Because even if you were snarling up at him, ready to take on a man that had a foot and a hundred pounds on, you were looking at him. So he must've been doing something right. You had let him take you to bed in that shitty hotel, hadn't you? Why else would you let him do that?

He was sure he'd figured it all out before. Figured you out.

And then you were gone.

And now that you're back in his life, all he can do is stare and then retreat back to his room to pretend that his hand is your's and that his name is on your lips and your eyes are on him.

garrett graham doesn't do girlfriends.

this is something he told you the moment that you fell into his bed. not that he needed to given that it was a well known fact around campus. he didn't have time for girlfriends. for him it was all hockey and hookups, and you knew that would be enough for you.

especially since you don't do boyfriends.

it was something you decided on after your last boyfriend broke you heart the summer after freshman year. if it had just been a simple, easy break up then it would have been fine. you would have cried into a tub of ice cream and moved on.

except it wasn't easy, not with cheating on you with your best friend.

you spent the summer a wreck, and swore of boyfriends. it was better this way, really. now you could focus on school, and it was working. you were the top of your class, and had your pick of internships and grad school once graduation came.

so garrett graham didn't do girlfriends, and you definitely didn't do boyfriends.

it was something that made it easy for the two of you to fall in to one another. it was only ever meant to be a on time thing, but then he called you again. and again. and again.

suddenly the two of you were spending the entire term in each other's beds. it was fun and easy, and there was no strings attached. even if the nights grew longer, talking after the hookup and laughing together. you could still convince yourself that it meant nothing, because it didn't.

he was hooking up with other girls, and you felt nothing about it. you would leave a party with another guy, and he would watch without ever claiming that you were his.

it was easy. it was fun.

it was everything you wanted from him, until it wasn't.

until things began to get twisted.

everything started to feel off pretty quickly. a sense of doom that seemed to overtake you in an instant, and you couldn't quite place it. couldn't explain why everything felt wrong.

then your period didn't come.

then you felt sick.

it took 8 tests to convince yourself that it was real. 8 positive tests that sat on your counter and glared back up at you. the panic consumed you quickly, you heart hammering against your chest as you stare down at them. suddenly you feel as if you are shaking, and the air in your lungs is heaved out in some chopped up attempt at breathing.

that was 3 days ago, and. now you have to tell him. you weren't going to, but after confiding in your roommate... well, she told you that it was only fair to tell him. that it took two to do this, and he needed to know. there was a guilt eating at your stomach telling you that she was right. that he did deserve to know.

that being said, you could have picked a better place. granted, you weren't expecting his house to be full of people. for there to be a maze of bodies that you had to weave through in order to find him. when you did, that panic began to swell in your chest again.

your body turns to walk away, but his voice saying your name carries through the kitchen. everything goes still and there is sweat beginning to form on the palms of your hands as you watch him approach you. "hey," you say to him then, smiling as he stops in front of you, "can we go to your room and talk?"

there is a knowing smile that overtakes his face then as he looks down on you, "yeah." you know that he thinks it's going to be something else. that it will end with your mouth on his, and both of you fumbling naked in his bed.

the two of you walk side by side up the stairs and down the hall to his room. once there, the door closes with a click and he steps towards you. immediately your hand flies up in between him and presses hard against his chest, "i have to tell you something."

then his eyebrows furrow as he looks down at you, eyes moving from the hand planted on his chest to yours eyes, "okay?"

a sharp exhale leaves your lips then, "i'm pregnant."

those two words fall hard between you, and you are convinced that you could hear the thud of when they hit the ground. garrett takes a step back, a flicker of confusion and anger crossing his face. there is a long, drawn out silence that settles between the two of you then. once that seems to stretch out longer and longer with each ticking moment.

"and it's--," he starts.

"yeah, most definitely," you cut him off in an instant, a hand then pulling up to run through your hair. "i haven't really slept with anyone other than you the past couple of months?," you go on to explain, "and i have heard tons of stories about people being super careful and these things just happening sometimes."

there is an edge to his voice then, "i've seen you go home with other guys." the accusation seems to wedge a sharp knife in between your ribs where it presses hard against your lungs. you can't place why the accusation seems to hurt so much, but it does. it lashes against you and you can feel the sting resonating throughout your entire body.

a crease forms in your eyebrows as you stare up at him, "i wouldn't lie to you, garrett," you state bluntly, the hurt seeping into your tone, "i never slept with any of those guys."

another silence stretches out between you as he processes the information. this time the silence settles uneasy in your chest, and it causes your stomach to turn.

"well," you start then, causing his eyes to snap up towards you, "i don't expect anything from you. i know you have your whole life planned out, and i don't want to ruin your nhl plans," there is bitterness in your tone then. especially given that your life was also planned out. though, you know that his plans will always outweigh your own. "i just thought you should know," you finally snap.

then, before he can speak at all, you exhale sharply before pushing past him and to his bedroom door. garrett doesn't turn to face you nor does he say anything to you as you. all he does is let you go out the door, down the stairs, and out onto the cold street.

Dean di Laurentis—who thinks he knows every woman in Briar, considering he had… made an acquaintance with about half of them—is first made aware of your existence at a block party. After three years in Briar University, he only knows about you—at a stupid block party, no less.

He approaches you with his usual charming smile that disarms women—and men—and tears even the highest walls down. You see, the key word this time is usually. Really, he should have known that there is a reason why he is only finding out about you now instead of three years ago during freshman orientation where about a third of the freshman class had thrown themselves at his feet, eager to get to know him.

“Hey.” He grins easily, holding a hand out for you to shake. “Dean di Laurentis, but I’m sure you know about me.”

Real smooth, di Laurentis, real fucking smooth. Holy shit, did he suddenly forget how to talk to women that he fumbles that badly? Oh, this is bad, he thinks, he can’t have himself failing when he has just found who he (very irrationally) thinks is the love of his life.

And while Dean is too busy having an internal conflict, you give him a once over before walking away with a snicker, leaving him standing there alone, with his hand still outstretched.

Only when his friends clap his back does he realize that you are no longer in front of him and are nowhere to be found. Great. He meets the love of his life and loses her in under ten minutes.

He leaves the party grounds later that night with you still in his head. His heart skips a beat every time he remembers the color of your eyes, the slope of your nose, and the curve of your lips—which is silly because he had literally *just met you, and he does not even feel this way about sorority girls he has known for years, or ex-hookups he sees around the campus. Hell, he does not even know your name. All he knows is that you are gorgeous and breathtaking and stunning and beautiful and captivating and mesmerizing and—

Oh.

He had just described you in more than two words that did not include hot and sexy.

Dean di Laurentis is completely, utterly, totally, absolutely fucked.

—

Dean, to his utmost delight *and horror, sees you again after a week—at another fucking party. Why is this a recurring theme in his life right now?

You step into the off-campus hockey house wearing an outfit that is so simple yet so elegant, especially on you. As soon as you step in, everyone else looks underdressed in his eyes, including himself.

He forces himself out of his thoughts with a vigorous shake of his head. He starts building his confidence and charm—which is ridiculous because he is Dean fucking di Laurentis, one of Briar U’s most sought-after bachelors. Why the fuck does he need to build his confidence any more? He is confident, he is charming, he is attractive, he is calm, he is cool, he is not fucking this up for the second time.

At one point during his self-affirmation, you walk past him. He catches a whiff of your perfume—faint, fleeting, but *there—and freezes up like an idiot. Of fucking course.

It is only when you are far enough for you not to hear him does he snap out of his trance, feeling like an absolute wreck. Instead of walking over to you and striking a conversation like a normal human being, he watches you from across the room, his heart beating like crazy even though you had done nothing but exist.

He watches as you chat with your friends and laugh freely, fetch yourself some drinks, and rock slightly to the beat of the music. He wants so badly to talk to you, make you laugh, refill your drinks for you, dance with you like there is no one else in the room, but every time he even *thinks of standing within three feet away from you, he chickens out—something he never thought was possible. Dean di Laurentis, the very epitome of a ladies’ man, chickening out? That will sound impossible, no matter who you ask, so why is it happening now?

He barely knows you, so why does he feel so strongly for you? It’s not love (yet), but maybe it’s something dangerously close—no, he barely knows you. It should not be possible to like you like that.

—

The next time Dean sees you is in an academic setting—a symposium on international relations and global politics. Thank fuck because he can surely strike up an intelligent conversation with you, unlike in parties, where he comes across as nothing but a dumb jock or a dumb blond—or even worse, a dumb blond jock.

He grins to himself, and walks over to where you and your friend (presumably) are sitting—the seat beside you is conveniently empty. He does not immediately take a seat; instead, he stands in front of the empty spot, perched adjacent to you with a hand outstretched.

“Hi,” he says in a slightly pitched voice, and immediately cringes inwardly, because Dean fucking di Laurentis does not say hi like that. “Sorry, *hey.” Even worse—why did he have to deepen his voice like that? It sounded more like a kid imitating his father’s voice more than anything.

He wants the ground to open up and swallow him whole—with not a single strand of hair left anywhere—when you pause your conversation with your friend—who he now recognizes as a campus journalist named Charlotte—to turn and look at him. Although there is amusement dancing in your eyes when your eyes trail down to his outstretched hand, you don’t keep him waiting for long.

You shake his hand briefly, and he thinks he can die happily now that he’s held your hand—even if it was just a short moment. Your hand is smoother than his hand that’s calloused from gripping hockey sticks for practically his whole life. He does not really know what you do with your hands, but he wants to find out, just like how he wants to know everything about you.

Then you state your name, your tone casual—nothing special, but he feels like dying then coming back to life from just a literal second of you saying your name.

“Hi, Dean,” he says with a dopey, not-very-him smile on his face. He quickly realizes that he had just said that in a completely wrong way. “I mean, hi. Dean—like hi, I'm Dean. Not like hi, you're Dean. I'm Dean di Laurentis, and I should probably stop talking now,” he says, all in one breath, his brain spiraling with every word that comes out of his mouth. He feels like a 12-year-old boy who runs away at the sight of women, which he's not, obviously. He's a 21-year-old man—a six-foot-something hockey defenseman, a very loud and proud supporter of women’s rights and wrongs who's got himself acquainted with quite a number of women, but here he is: blushing and stuttering like a complete idiot.

“I know who you are, Dean di Laurentis.” You look absolutely, drop dead gorgeous, even with an amused smirk—especially with an amused smirk.

“You do?” He can’t help the hopeful look and tone, but he quickly catches himself. He clears his throat and straightens his face as nonchalantly as possible. “I mean, yeah, a lot of people do—know me, I mean.”

“We know that too, Dean di Laurentis.” You chuckle softly, and he feels like he is in heaven.

“You don’t have to call me by my whole name, you know? You can just call me Dean,” he says, “Or anything you’d like, really.”

“That is duly noted, Dean.”

“Say, Dean, what are you doing here?” Charlotte interrupts as gently as she can possibly do, “I mean, no offense, but considering you’re a PolSci student, and this is a symposium on child psychology…”

“Oh shit, for real?” He looks around, and sees the LED wall on the platform displaying an entirely different topic than what he originally signed up for. “Fuck, sorry, I, uh, I got lost. I mean, I got the rooms mixed up, obviously. I’ll… see you around?”

“I’ll see you around, Dean.” You smile, and he feels like he has just died, gone to heaven, and then gone back to life.

He is absolutely, completely, entirely disarmed by just your smile, but he at least knows your name now.

—

The fourth time Dean sees you is during lunch at Malone’s. Puck bunnies surround them and their table, flirting and giggling and twirling strands of their hair around their fingers. Normally, Dean would have flirted back—maybe he would have invited them over to the hockey house after lunch, or invited them into the restroom for a quick one.

But Dean is not himself—he hasn’t been for a week now—not since the *accidental encounter with you in the lecture hall. He does not believe in fate, but he thinks he might after that run-in with you.

After those few, special minutes in the hall, Dean found himself walking towards the *actual venue of the symposium he had signed up for extra credit. He hadn’t listened—he immediately pulled up Charlotte’s profile on Instagram, and went through all of her 1,978 followers to look for you. He hadn’t been successful in the first hour of the symposium, and so he goes through your other friends’ (again, presumably) profiles: Emmett and Ivy from the block party, Megan and Bridget from the house party.

He had somehow found you after about two hours, and debated whether or not to send you a follow request after another hour.

You had accepted his request just a few hours prior.

So here he is, going through your Instagram profile. He probably has all 9 of your posts memorized by heart, and he is scrolling through them for what feels like the first time for him, but it has been at least three hours for the rest of the world.

“Dean,” a puck bunny—Ashley, if he remembers correctly—purrs beside him, running her perfectly manicured nail down his arm slowly. “What’s got you so distracted, gorgeous? Are you not enjoying this?”

He reluctantly looks up from the screen of his phone—he does not even bother to turn it off as he forces his gaze towards Ashley. He is about to respond when the bell above the door jingles. He does not know what compelled him to look over, but he’s glad he did, because walking into the diner is you.

You are wearing a simple shirt with a pair of washed jeans, as well as a pair of obviously well-loved sneakers. Your outfit is nothing out of the ordinary—something you’d see on more than half the population of Briar U—but it looks different on you. You look absolutely stunning in simple clothes.

His tense body sags with relief, and without thinking, he finds himself weaving through the small crowd consisting of his friends and women he barely knows. He passes through with a brief, quiet, ‘excuse me’, and walks towards you with an easy smile on his face.

“Huh,” Ashley hums in thought as she watches Dean part from the group. His friends all watch him, incredibly weirded out by his undeniably weird behavior.

“Hi, Hannah,” he hears you greeting as you lean against the bar. “I sent in an order about forty-five minutes ago, and I was hoping that it’s ready.”

“Oh, absolutely!” Hannah smiles at you, wide and bright as she hands you a paper bag. “Here you go—extra everything for Malone’s favorite regular.”

“Thanks a lot, gorgeous!” You beam, taking the bag, and looking through it briefly to make sure everything is in order.

Before you push away from the bar, Dean calls out your name. “Hey.” He smiles at you—a wide smile that deepens his dimples. “It’s great seeing you again.”

“Hi, Dean.” Your grin widens as you turn to him. “It’s great to see you too. How have you been?”

“Good, really good.” He nods, and he suddenly does not seem to know what to do with his hands. “You look great.”

“Thanks,” she says, her grin softens into a little smile now. “You don’t look too bad yourself.”

“Thanks.” His smile, in turn, widens.

There are a few moments of slightly awkward silence—just a few beats of you two looking at each other—before you break it.

“I have to get going.” You point to the door behind you. “I’m kind of on the way to class. I just picked up lunch real quick.”

“Yeah, no, for sure.” He watches you take a few steps back, just as stiffly. “I’ll see you around?”

“Of course.” You nod, taking another step back.

Before you can turn away from him, he says, “I’ll, uh, keep in touch.”

He sees surprise flashing across your face, but you quickly recover, and you grin. “It’s up to you,” is all you say before walking out the door.

His eyes follow your moving form until you disappear from his sight, and only then does he release a breath he doesn’t realize he was holding. He runs a hand over his face and lets out another sigh. “Holy fuck,” he whispers, mostly to himself.

“You’re down bad,” he hears Hannah say from behind the bar as she wipes the countertop.

“Yeah, whatever, Wellsy.” He ignores Hannah’s words, finally turns to her, and sits on the stool directly in front of her. “May I ask how long you’ve known her for?”

“Since we were freshmen. She was one of the first people I knew, along with Allie,” she says, looking up at him.

“And may I ask how I’ve never met her before?”

“Dean, why are you asking me?” Hannah raises her eyebrows, both in surprise and in exasperation. “But if I’m going to answer your question, I’d say it’s because you were too busy being, well, you.”

“Okay, fair.” He raises his arms in surrender. “But I want to know her. Tell me what she likes, what she doesn’t, what she loves—please tell me everything.”

“Dude, you can literally ask her yourself.”

“I am so intimidated by her!” He almost begs. “Wellsy, help me out here. I am literally dying.”

“No, you’re not. Don’t be dramatic,” she says easily. “You just find her hot.”

“No, she’s not just hot. She’s absolutely drop dead gorgeous, and she’s objectively the most beautiful person in every single room she walks into, and—”

“Okay, point taken!” Hannah interrupts. “If it helps, she does literally nothing else during her free time but study and doomscroll through Instagram.”

Dean’s eyes literally light up at Hannah’s response. “Wellsy, you are an absolute lifesaver.”

“Holy shit, di Laurentis, you are more than down bad. You are abysmally, horrendously down.”

“Now, Wellsy, that’s an exaggeration.”

It’s really not that bad, really. He just wants to get to know you because he’s interested in you. Sure, they can all say he’s down bad, but you’re you. You’re beautiful and intelligent and overall an extremely interesting person. His infatuation is really not that bad.

Right?

—

*Wrong.

“Okay, who else thinks this is weird?” Logan says from the tall stool by the kitchen counter.

“What is?” Garrett asks from the couch, his eyes still glued to his phone screen.

“Dean.”

“He’s always weird. What’s new?” Tucker does not even pause from throwing a ball in the air.

“No, dude, he hasn’t brought anyone home in weeks, and he’s always on his damn phone.”

Tucker catches the ball, and turns to Logan. “So maybe he’s sexting? Or in a long distance situationship? Who even knows at this point, man? That’s Dean, and Dean’s not Dean if he’s not weird in his own, Dean way.”

“Yeah, but not this weird,” Logan argues. “Look, do you remember the girl from two weeks ago? Hannah’s friend?”

Realization dawns upon Garrett, and he finally peels his eyes off his phone. “You’re right.” He nods. “Hannah talked about how Dean had been asking about that friend for a week straight before he suddenly stopped.”

“Fucking finally!” Logan cheers. “You guys are slow as fuck.”

Just then, the front door opens, and in comes the man himself, carrying a large paper bag in his hand and his phone in the other.

“No way, an impromptu house meeting?” He speaks as soon as he steps into view. “What’s this one about?”

“You,” Tucker deadpans.

“Me?”

“Specifically,” Logan says loudly, “You and Hannah’s friend.”

“She has a name, thank you very much.” He says your name, his voice unconsciously turning softer. “What about her?”

“See, that’s fucking weird!”

“Man, what is?” Dean rolls his eyes. “Stop talking in codes, dude, just say it.”

“It’s weird that you’re in love because Dean ‘Six Flags’ di Laurentis does not fall in love,” Tucker finally says, and the rest of his friends nod along with him.

“You froze the first time you saw her at that block party. It’s like the world disappeared around you, man. You did not hear us calling you for at least five minutes. You made a complete fool of yourself the first two times you met her,” Garrett says with an amused smirk on his lips. “And you were pretty inconsolable for the first half of the day before Malone’s, and it’s like your entire being lit on fire the moment she walked through the door. You chased after her like a lovesick puppy, man, it’s honestly sickening to see.”

“And now, you barely hang with us because you’re either too busy on your phone with her or with her, like in person,” Logan adds.

Meanwhile, Dean rolls over all the information.

“And where’d you get those goods?” Tucker adds, eyeing the paper bag in his hand.

“From the café near campus,” he mumbles. Your favorite café.

Oh.

Oh.

Johnny joins him. “Mom didn’t teach you anything about respect?” The table goes quiet. Despite it being awkward now, you feel relieved. Looks like your teammates still have your back.

But, unfortunately the silence doesn't last long as the inferior sergeant snorts out a laugh. "Oh please, that ain't no woman!" Your throat tightens at that.

His lieutenant busts out laughing at the outburst. "Jesus, Lietenant, I know you like men but I thought you'd still recognize a broad from a beast." Your entire body burns. You really thought you did it. You made yourself smaller, dumber, weaker. Isn't that what they want? Isn't that what you need to be to be loved? Maybe not loved but just enough to be desired… to be wanted. What else do you have to do in order to be picked? What if there's nothing you can do to be loved?

Your thoughts of self-wallow come to a screeching halt when Ghost's fist connects to the other lieutenant's face. There's no doubt he broke some bones there. The sad-excuse of a sergeant freaks out, surprised with the sudden show of strength. He screeches at Ghost and ask what's his problem as he picks up the bleeding man.

"Men like you!" Ghost hisses. He grabs the two men and swiftly drags them out the bar, leaving behind a proud Soap and stunned you at the table.

What just happened?

— — —

Two thoughts immediately run through Johnny's head: that's my man and are you okay? He looks over at you and takes note of the lost look in your eyes.

"Hey bonnie," he coos. He scoots closer to you but stops as soon as he sees your body flinch. Baby steps. "I'm sorry about that."

You keep your gaze towards door. "Not the first time I've seen the Lieutenant punch a man. I'll live."

"Not talking about Ghost. If anything, he should have punched the both of them," Johnny quickly corrects. You turn to look at him, completely taken aback by what he's said. "Those guys. They shouldn't have spoken to you like that. You didn't deserve that."

You gulp hard and just nod your head. You keep your gaze on the door while Johnny keeps his eyes on you. He takes a good look at your figure. Despite thinking you look good, he can practically feel your discomfort. So without a second thought, Johnny takes off his long sleeve, leaving himself in a white tank-top, and nudges it towards you. You do a double take and pause as he pushes his shirt towards you.

Johnny waits with bated breath for your response but you say nothing and just alternate between looking at him and his shirt. Shit. Did he do too much again? Can he really not do anything right? Will he be the reason why him and Simon are going to lose out on—

"Thank you, Johnny."

As his shirt slowly wraps around your body, Johnny can't help but get slightly aroused by the fact that you're wearing his shirt. Fuck. He really hopes this isn't the last time.

"Good?" he asks.

Tears brim your eyes as you nod. Fighting against the urge to hold you, Johnny does the next best thing. He lays his hand over yours on the table and after a few squeezes, he lets you go. You thank him again and throw him a small smile.

Baby steps.

— — —

It's not long until Simon returns. He doesn't think he's ever felt this good after beating two guys to a pulp. The icing on the cake was watching you perk up when he came back to the table. For the first time in awhile, he feels hopeful. Maybe him and Johnny can do this. Maybe they can woo you and make you the happiest woman in the world.

All he needs to do now is clear up one little misconceptiom.

"I like women."

Perfect. He's done it. Now there should be no doubt in your mind that Simon is into yo—

Why are you looking at him like that? Maybe you didn't hear him. No worries. He can clarify.

"I like women too. They said I like men which I do but I also like women." You still look confused which only confuses Simon more. What's not to understand? He likes women, specifically you at the moment, but that is a conversation for another day.

Needing back-up from Johnny, Simon looks over to his lover but instead of support, the British man recieves a pointed glare.

...

…

Oooh.

Johnny is for sure going to smack him later.

"Okay… that's nice," you slowly say.

The three of you go silent which makes Simon nervous. Did he over-do it? Do you think he's weird now? Is this the end?

Fortunately, before he can spiral further, you speak up. "Still, thanks for that, Lieutenant. I really appreciate it."

Maybe he's not a total lost cause.

— — —

After thanking Ghost one last time, you make the effort to leave the table but are quickly stopped.

"Where do you think you're going?"

"Stay."

You try to reason with them. You already messed up the first half of their night. Why not leave now and let them enjoy what's left of it. That's the least your lonely self can do for the happy couple. Despite this making perfect sense for you, Ghost and Soap are not easily swayed.

"You didn't ruin our night. Those wankers did," Soap passionately defends.

You let out a deep breath and look over at Ghost, hoping he'll see reason. He pauses for a bit to take a good look at you and for a minute you think you're in the clear. He's for sure going to see how pathetic you are and let you go. You're nothing compared to the Lieutenant and his sergeant. The best thing you can do now is get out of their sight (and these clothes).

You wait with bated breath as Ghost leans real close to your face. He pauses. His breath hits your face. It takes everything in you to not take in a deep breath. Jesus, you're pathetic.

"You staying would make this night a whole lot better," he admits. Soap enthustiastically shakes his head.

"Please, bonnie, stay with us." You hesistate for bit. There's no way they want you to stay. You take a good look at both and try to catch a trace of pity in their eyes. But instead of pity, you find deep and honest admiration.

"I guess a few more drinks won't hurt."

Maybe this is enough.

Word Count: 1203

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the moment john sees her, he abandons his reading and swings off the bench, opening his arms to her.

she puts one wobbling foot after another, babbling as she slowly crosses the floor. neither of you breathe. her tiny arms windmill as she closes the distance to her father, at last pitching forward into his waiting arms with a squeal. john laughs, delightedly hauling her up against his chest while she giggles and takes big handfuls of his beard. she swivels toward you with a big smile, and john catches your eye over the crown of her head.

here it is. the future john dreamed of and whispered to you night after night for years.

you both spend the day coaxing her to wander around the cabin. he takes her outside to walk the garden and along the fence at the property line.

later, after supper and a bath, you lay her down in her crib and soon enough, she's fast asleep. she sprawls, mouth stuck open, one tiny fist curled under her chin. you watch her for a long while, still in a daze of how your life has changed yet again in the span of a single day. tomorrow, john'll have to check every room with fresh eyes, reassessing all his baby-proofing so far. he'll think about what she can reach now, what she'll pull herself up on, and any escape route she might discover.

he's leaning in the door frame when you turn to leave, backlit with the hallway light. you go to his side and tuck into it like he likes, and together you stand in silence for a few minutes more. eventually, he presses a kiss to your head and takes you to bed.

it's better because he's happy. slower and gentler.

"remember when you used to cry an' cry about this? used to beg me to not come in you," he grunts as he bottoms out. "hard to believe, isn't it."

he slows to slip his hand beneath your chin, tilting your face up just enough for his thumb to rub along the collar locked around your neck. it's long since softened from years of wear, so soft that you often forget you're wearing it.

You’re lounging on the couch, flipping through a magazine, when Satoru dramatically flops onto the floor in front of you, his tail flicking impatiently. His ears are perked up, his big blue eyes wide and pitiful. Like a kicked puppy.

*"Y/nnn,” he whines, dragging out your name like it’s a tragedy. “Just think about it! Tiny, adorable little cubs! With my eyes! And your fluff! They’d be perfect!"

You don’t even glance up from your magazine. “Mhm."

He huffs, rolling onto his back and stretching out like a spoiled housecat. “I’ll do all the work! You just have to sit there and look cute—which you already do!”

“Still no."*

Satoru gasps, clutching his chest like you’ve wounded him. “You’re killing me. Slowly. Painfully." He rolls over again, pressing his face against your leg. *"What if I promise to be extra nice? I’ll hunt for you! I’ll groom you! I’ll—"

You finally lower the magazine, raising an eyebrow. “You already do all that."

Satoru curses under his breath. He can’t keep living like this. He’s not above using dirty tactics.

…Like trying to kick-start your Heat early.

On Monday, Satoru wakes up extra early, stretching his long limbs in bed beside you, his tail lazily curling around your waist. “Morning, sweetheart~" he purrs, voice still rough with sleep. His fingers trail along your side, way too casual. “You smell extra nice today… like, really nice. Like, heat nice."

You blink at him, deadpan. “It’s Monday."*

He pouts. *"So?"*

“So, my body doesn’t run on your delusions."*

On Tuesday, Satoru spends the entire afternoon ‘educating’ you on ‘natural hybrid biology’. Which is just him making up facts while lounging shirtless on the couch.

“See, scientifically speaking, sheep hybrids go into heat when their mate really wants them to." He nods sagely, tail flicking. “It’s basic instinct."

You toss a pillow at his face. “That’s not a thing."

“It is now!"

On Wednesday, Satoru leans against the doorway, muscles flexing, his fluffy ears perked up. “You know what’s really hot? Responsible parenting."

You don’t even look up from your book. “Gojo, I swear to god—"

“Just picture it! Tiny little paws! My eyes but your nose! They’d be so spoiled—"

You throw a sock at him.

On Thursday, it’s bribery.

“I’ll buy you that expensive wool conditioner you like."*

"No."

“I’ll hunt a whole deer for you."

“Still no."

“I’ll let you win at wrestling."*

“...Tempting. But no."

He collapses onto the floor in defeat.

The final straw, more like Satoru’s last choice, is inviting Nanami over with his new little lioness. The lion Hybrid cub is all round eyes and wild blonde hair. Blinking up at you both like she’s just discovering the world for the first time.

The second Satoru laid eyes on that tiny, perfect hybrid cub something in his brain snapped.

His cerulean eyes were locked onto the little bundle in Nanami’s arms.

“That’s… a baby.” Satoru whispered, as if he’d never seen one before.

You sighed. “Yes, Gojo. You asked me to bring Hikari.”

Satoru’s pupils dilated. His claws flexed. His tail lashed.

“WHY DOES NANAMI GET TO HAVE A BABY BEFORE ME?!" he wailed, throwing himself onto the couch like a spoiled child. “I’M BETTER LOOKING! STRONGER! MY GENES ARE SUPERIOR!”

Nanami pinched the bridge of his nose. “This is why you don’t have one."

The moment Nanami handed his tiny lion hybrid cub to you, just for a quick cuddle, Satoru’s entire existence imploded

Satoru dropped to his knees in front of you, his tail flicking as he cooed at the baby in a voice so high-pitched it could shatter glass.

“Ohhhh, look at you! So smol! So precious!" He poked the cub’s tiny paw, his ears twitching violently. "You’re just a wittle girl, aren’t you? A wittle Nanami girl!"*

Nanami sighed. “Gojo, stop."

Satoru’s eyes flicked up to you, his pupils blown wide with desperation.

"Y/n," he whispered, voice cracking. “Look at how tiny her paws are. Ours would be tinier.”

You snorted. “That’s not how genetics work—"

“THEY’D BE SOFT,” he insisted, pressing his forehead against your knee like a dramatic Victorian widow.

All of this did nothing to trigger your Heat. But Satoru Gojo is a lucky bastard.

It happened in the stupidest way possible.

Nanami had finally had enough of Satoru’s theatrics and reached to take his cub back. Satoru, being the overgrown kitten he is, instinctively dodged, twisting away with a playful growl.

And then it happened.

In his dramatic evasion, Satoru’s tail, thick, fluffy, and ridiculously strong, swiped right across your scent glands. The sensitive spot just below your horns where sheep hybrids release pheromones.

A direct hit.

Your breath hitched. Your skin prickled. A jolt of electricity shot down your spine.

HEAT.

Full. Blown. Instinct-driven heat.

Your pupils dilated. Your body burned. Your scent exploded into the room. Sweet, thick, and undeniably fertile.

Satoru’s nose twitched. His ears shot straight up. His tail puffed to twice its size.

“Oh," he whispered, voice suddenly rough with realization.

Nanami, still holding his cub, took one look at your face, then Satoru’s, and immediately turned on his heel.

“I’m leaving. Good luck." The cub hybrid made a sticky grabby hand as if she were waving as Nanami bundled her up.

The door slammed shut.

Satoru’s grin was feral.

“So," he purred, stalking toward you, his claws flexing. “About those cubs—"

You didn’t let him finish.

The second your heat hit, Satoru moved, inhuman speed carrying him across the room before you could even blink. His body pressed flush against yours, his muscles coiled tight, his breath hot against your ear as he growled.

“Knew you’d finally break.”

Then his hands locked onto your horns, fingers curling tight around the smooth, sturdy curves. Just rough enough to make you gasp. He used them like handles, tilting your head back, exposing your throat as he yanked you against him.

“Finally," he panted, his voice dripping with filthy satisfaction. His hips rolled against yours, the thick, hot length of him already rutting impatiently against your thigh. “Gonna fill you up so good, Y/n, gonna breed you right this time.”

You whimpered, legs shaking, but Satoru didn’t give you a chance to collapse. In one fluid motion, he hauled you up by your horns, he lifted your hips with brute strength, lining himself up—

You didn’t feel the poky barbs when he fills up your guts in the first thrust. But oh, do you feel each and every one on the pull-out.

You screamed.

Satoru groaned, his forehead dropping to the back of your head, his fangs bared in a wild grin. “Fuck—knew you’d take me perfect,” he rasped, already pulling out just to slam back in, his grip on your horns unrelenting. “Gonna put so many cubs in this sweet pussy. Gonna ruin her for anyone else.”

His pace was merciless, every snap of his hips driving you higher. His claws pricked at your scalp as he used your horns to fuck you deeper.

Your orgasm barrels through you right on the living room floor. You feel the ache in your tummy building far too fast but you can’t slow it down. “Satu!” Is the only warning you can give last second.

Your slutty walls clamp on his pulsating length, and Satoru sinks his long fangs into the healed over mating mark on your throat.

The second Satoru’s fangs sink into your body, your entire body locks up. Your instincts SCREAMING.

Your pupils go wide, black swallowing your vision as adrenaline floods your veins. Every muscle tightens, your sheep hybrid instincts howling at you.

PREDATOR. PREDATOR. PREDATOR.

A whine claws from your throat, high and desperate, as you thrash wildly beneath him, hooves scrambling against the floor. Your horns jerk violently in his grip, trying to buck him off, to escape.Satoru just purrs down at his flailing mate.

“Shhh, shhh—" His voice is nearly a chuckle, hot against your ear as his hips snap forward, burying himself deeper. “I know, sweetheart. I know it’s scary.”

You bleat, a panicked, trembling sound. Your tail wiggles, your legs kicking out, but he catches your thigh. He’s yanking you back against him. His knot pops in with the new leverage.

“C’mon, Baby," he soothes, licking a line up your throat. His fangs graze your mating mark again. "You want this. You need this."*

And then he bites down again.

You cry out. Your back arching, your body betraying you as pleasure crashes through the fear.

Satoru laughs as he fucks you through it.

“Poor little prey. Can’t take it anymore? Where is that smart mouth now?”

The deeper Satoru pounds into you, the more your mind unravels. You are heat-drunk, drooling, and babbling nonsense between broken moans.

Your mouth goes slack. A thin trail of drool spilling down your chin as your tongue lolls uselessly. Your eyes are rolling back with every deep thrust.

“S’toruuu—nngh—t-too biiiig!” you slur, your words mushy and half-formed, your hooves twitching uselessly against the floor.

Satoru grins. His fangs glinting as he watches you melt.

“Oh? What was that?" he taunts, slowing his hips just to drag his cock out. The barbs along his cock stimulate your weeping walls. He thrust back in unexpectedly. Strings of drool sputter from your mouth.

You whimper. Your thoughts are soupy. Your voice a wreck as you try to form a coherent thought.

“M-make—nnn—make stooop!” You don’t mean it.

“P-please—hah—p-please more—" You definitely mean that one.

Satoru laughs. His thumb swiping through the drool on your chin. He pushes it back into your lips, spreading it over blunt teeth where his is violently sharp.

“God, you’re pathetic,” he coos, his tail flicking in delight. “Dripping everywhere. Can’t even speak right."

You bleat weakly, your body convulsing as he fucks the last dregs of coherence out of you. It leaves you a shaking, slobbering mess. You are mumbling half-formed pleas into the carpet.

Satoru kisses your temple.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll fix you."

He does not fix you. He makes it worse.

“Sooo," he purrs, voice dripping with obscene satisfaction. “After all that fighting me…after all that ‘no, Satoru, not now’-“ He nips your horn. "You really want my cubs now, don’t you?"

You whimper and still try to shake your head. Your body is clenching around him on instinct, betraying you immediately.

"Oh? That’s your answer?" He pulls out of the three knot-messes he’s already left in his wake, making you squeak. “Because your pretty little cunt is screaming yes."

After 5 rounds, he takes a water break. He leaves you in the nest of the bedroom he had someone dragged you too mid-fuck. You try to army crawls to the bathroom, Hell bent on not feeling sticky anymore.

"Goin' somewhere?"

His voice is a mocking purr, his tail lazily flicking.

You shoot him a glare, still struggling to get your legs underneath you. "Bathroom."

His eyes gleam with amusement as he watches you try and fail to stand up. He hums in fake thought, rubbing his jaw. "Hmm. I don't know. You seem a little... wobbly. You sure you don't need some help?”

He absolutely does not help. He’s on you in seconds. He’s pinning you face down into the carpet. His hips rut against yourself. His still-soaked cock bumps your stretched hole, missing by mere centimeters before slipping up through your ass cheeks like a horny stray.

"Oops~"

His voice drips with fake innocence as his cockhead catches on your rim, smearing slick messily between your cheeks before grinding up your spine. Like he just can’t help himself.

His fangs dig into your shoulder as he laughs. "Fuck, look at you. You are still dripping with my cum. Can’t even walk but your greedy little hole’s twitching for more, huh?"*

You whimper, face pressed into the carpet, your legs trembling as he ruts against you.

“S’not—nngh—fair!” you slur, voice wrecked.

You lose count of how long he keeps you on that ridiculously fat knot.

The second his rut-brain haze finally clears, Satoru freezes. His eyes are widening as he takes in the absolute wreck he’s made of you.

Your hair is matted with sweat, your legs still twitching, your throat littered with bite marks. And worst of all?

You’re crying.

Not loud, not dramatic. Just quiet, exhausted little sniffles, your cheeks damp.

Satoru’s ears flatten. His tail droops.

"Oh. Oh, my pretty girl.”

And then he panics.

He scoops you up like you’re made of glass, his claws retracted as he cradles you against his chest. His tongue is already lapping at your tears.

“Shit—shit, Baby, I’m—fuck.”

He licks your forehead.

“I’m sorry."

He licks your horns.

“I’m so sorry."

He licks your cheeks, your chin, even your elbow. As if he grooms you enough, he can literally lick away his sins.

You whimper. You are too drained to protest as he drenches you in snow leopard spit.

"I’ll—fuck! I’ll get you water. And food. And—shit. A heating pad? Do you need a heating pad?”

You blink up at him, your voice a hoarse whisper. “…Shower."

Satoru nods frantically, his ears pinned back.

You try not to slap him when for the entire shower, he’s picking out baby name.