argentumetaurum

marvel

tony stark

like a wrench in my plans, part two -> gn!reader

you're a business consultant for stark industries. tony's a little bit obsessed with you — but god forbid you ever find out. you'd never shut up, he knows.

mistaken identity (smau) -> gn!reader

your sister's asshole boyfriend snaps at her during a family dinner and storms off. angry, you text him to demand he come back — but you put his number into your phone wrong, and end up reaching, in a wild twist of fate, your longtime celebrity crush Tony Stark. funnily enough, you also happen to be his.

bucky barnes

hey there, hotshot, part two -> fem!reader

you work for the cia. when clint called you for your help on an operation in minsk, the absolute last person you thought you'd run into is bucky barnes, who you only recognize from old photos and history books. and you certainly didn't expect him to be a hydra agent, for god's sake. you really need to stop getting involved with SHIELD.

fourth wing

xaden riorson

just patrols -> gn!reader

a third-year student at basgiath, you've been messing around with xaden riorson for the past eight months, but something's been off lately. if only he'd talk to you about it, instead of sticking you on babysitting duty.

heated rivalry

sventlana vetrova

pretty russian dolls (one + two) (smau), part three -> fem!reader

you're shane's fraternal twin sister; six-minutes and thirty seconds older, to be exact. when you meet ilya's friend svetlana briefly at a hollander dinner party, you fall quick for the mysterious russian.

all the things she said (no one asked her) -> fem!reader

the club scene if the woman ilya was dancing with was a lesbian who was very concerned with the lethal levels of yearning happening around her and incapable of minding her own business. very short/silly one-shot.

shane hollander (m!reader only)

tugged around (smau), part two -> male!reader

you're a player for one of canada's premier soccer teams, the vancouver whitecaps. near the start of your career, rolex signed you as an ambassador, and have now asked you to guide a new player along in the brand sponsorship process: hockey phenom shane hollader. the problem — the more you talk to hollander, the deeper you fall for him.

license to kill, part two -> male!reader

you're in vancouver filming the new james bond movie when you secretly ditch the media ban to watch shane hollander and the metros play the vancouver canucks. when you're caught by the press, you need to come up with an excuse for your presence — one that shane is able to provide.

light a torch for me -> male!reader

every year, y/n l/n, center for the new york admirals, goes into the olympics looking to have fun. it's expected of him, too — everyone expects him to get papped at least once causing some sort of havoc in the olympic village, and sochi probably isn't going to be that different. except shane hollander's here, and y/n can't really keep himself away.

rent a boyfriend -> male!reader

shane hollander is worried that he’s homophobic. whenever his roommate’s boyfriend stays over in their dorm, shane can’t help but feel something rolling in his stomach — and, god, he doesn’t want to be a bigot, or anything. in a last minute attempt at exposure therapy, shane books himself a “rent-a-boyfriend” to try and train the homophobia out of him. said rent-a-boyfriend ends up being a little more appealing than shane thought initially possible. ilya rozanov is furious.

texting your boyfriend that you hit your attending's car -> male!reader

ilya rozanov

doctor, doctor!, part two, part three -> male!reader

you're a long suffering resident at boston general. one night, about twenty hours into your shift at the emergency room, you end up conducting a neuro check on concussed hockey player ilya rozanov. even high on pain killers, rozanov manages to both flirt with you and get on your nerves, and you find yourself strangely charmed by the russian.

hey, spiderman! -> male!reader

ilya rozanov didn’t grow up in boston, so he’s not familiar with the friendly neighborhood icon spiderman — at least until he runs into him in an alley and then proceeds to proposition the superhero on a rooftop. then he’s more familiar than most.

rent a boyfriend -> male!reader

shane hollander is worried that he’s homophobic. whenever his roommate’s boyfriend stays over in their dorm, shane can’t help but feel something rolling in his stomach — and, god, he doesn’t want to be a bigot, or anything. in a last minute attempt at exposure therapy, shane books himself a “rent-a-boyfriend” to try and train the homophobia out of him. said rent-a-boyfriend ends up being a little more appealing than shane thought initially possible. ilya rozanov is furious.

the bodyguard -> male!reader

ilya rozanov is being stalked. he's convinced he can handle it, but svetlana isn't so sure, so she calls in the old head of her protective detail to try and wrangle ilya in. both stubborn assholes convinced that they are infallibly incorrect, y/n and ilya clash immediately — but, below the fighting, there's something that neither one of them are quite willing to acknowledge.

definitions (smau), part two, part three, part four -> male!reader

cliff marleau's older brother, who majored in literature in college, is a self-proclaimed nerd. when cliff realizes that ilya's having trouble answering some interview questions in english, the solution is obvious: put him in contact with his older brother. what starts as the occasional request for help with a word tumbles into undefinable.

ratioed (affectionate), part two (smau) -> male!reader

childhood best friend reader and down bad ilya rozanov.

texting your boyfriend that you hit your attending's car -> male!reader

off campus

dean di laurentis

the helping hand, part two -> male!reader

you're dean di laurentis's best friend. the issue is that you're also a lot of people's best friends, and dean has spent the last three years at briar u fighting for your attention. so it's only natural that he feels jealous whenever you look at someone else, right? and it's only natural that he wants to be close to you — in more ways than one, these days.

THE DEEP END -> male!reader

you save dean from drowning in greece. three months later, he runs into you again... and fuck, he's never felt like this before. did he florence nightingale himself, or something? or is this what love feels like? oh, god; love? what is happening to him?

john logan

texting your boyfriend that you hit your attending's car -> male!reader

most recent updates/works:

THE DEEP END -> male!reader

texting your boyfriend that you hit your attending's car -> male!reader

Steph rolls over onto her stomach, propping her chin up on your chest and tilting her head forward, gesturing at something in the near distance. Your arm goes easily around her shoulders, playing idly with the strap of her bikini top.

“Those guys are gonna fucking kill themselves,” she murmurs, and you cut your gaze over to where a couple of college guys are fooling around on a jutting bluff.

The majority of the beach is raised above a small, sandy inlet; a sloping “c” of mostly flat cliffs of varying heights serve as a rocky border for a small beach. It’s windy today, and while most currents bounce off the cliffs, you can see how the air ripples in sweeping waves off of the surface of the water.

You slip your sunglasses back on and squint at the group. They’re fooling around on one of the higher bluffs, which juts roughly out of the cliff side to dangle above the water. It’s a pretty clean shot down: 35, 40 feet, maybe.

“Natural selection at work. Don’t worry about it,” You say, and she huffs and rolls over. You laugh, relaxing again, but keep a cursory eye on the group. You’d dragged Steph to Milos, a Greek island, to escape a constant life of babysitting college kids, but it seemed like your duty chased you even here. 

You were pretty sure being the captain of the Harvard swim team wasn’t supposed to feel like you were a young, single parent, but the swim team’s roster definitely appeared to be populated exclusively with the kids who used to stick butter knives in electrical outlets for kicks. Maybe the constant vigilance they’d instilled in you was a good thing, though, because it’s only due to the fact that you’re monitoring the group that you catch the exact moment one of them stumbles. 

He’s blond and built, decked out in a ridiculous tank top with the sleeves sheared off at the armpits and a pair of dark green trunks. His buddy, laughing uproariously, shoves him a little too hard on the shoulder, and his feet lose traction on the rocky slope. 

You watch, horrified, as he throws his arms out in front of him in panic and falls backwards off the cliff. His friends shout after him, but he’s too far gone to reach.

“Fuck!” You yelp, shaking Steph off your bicep and leaping up. Blondie falls for another slow few seconds, then collides back-first with the waves.

“What?” Steph shouts, jumping to her feet. She catches the tail end of the fall, and winces at the shattering sound of the collision. People dotted on the cliffs and sprawled across the beach perk up at the sound. You watch the churning ocean for a long beat. The guy doesn’t pop back up.

“Wait at the beach and call 112,” You say firmly to Steph, and she nods before turning to scramble down the rocks to reach the sand. You eyeball the distance from the cliff you’d been lounging on to the water; it’s not that high. You hesitate for a second, then kick off your flip flops, pull your shirt over your head, and take a running dive into the water.

The Milos ocean isn’t freezing, not like it is in the States, so the shock isn’t awful. You let your momentum propel you forward, cutting easily through the water. The beach is small enough that there isn’t much distance to cross; when you open your eyes, ignoring the stinging from the salt, you can spy a trail of bubbles. 

You break the surface, take a breath, then dive back. You can see the guy, about seven or eight feet below you, sinking fast. His hair’s floating around his head like a halo, arms still outstretched. He’s deep enough that the water’s darker, almost green on his skin, dancing in patterns. His eyes are closed. 

You have a spare second to pray the guy doesn’t have a spinal injury before you reach him, diving slightly below him to loop your arms under his armpits, tugging him back against your chest. You kick back up, legs beating in powerful strokes. 

It’s physically punishing. Your lungs are burning when you break the surface, gasping for air. The sea’s relatively calm, but you’re still fighting to keep both of you above water, your legs working furiously below the surface. You cut a look back at the beach, and Steph’s standing there, hand over her eyes to block out the sun. 

She’s far enough that you can’t quite make out her expression, but she raises her index and middle finger, making an exaggerated hooking motion in the air. 

Oh shit, right. 

You keep one arm under the guy’s armpit and bring the other to his jaw. It’s slack and heavy, and you guide his head back onto your chest, dragging both of you into a more horizontal position. It’s impossible to achieve a stable float with his weight, but you recline as far back as you can manage, then take a deep breath and slide your index and middle fingers into Blondie’s mouth. 

You go along the side of his cheek, then sweep the back of his throat. When Steph had first shown you how to do this, you’d gagged, but she’d insisted it would clear the airway. You’re still a bit shocked to see it work; when you drag your fingers out the other side of Blondie’s mouth, saltwater and white foam comes with it. You tilt his head to the side, letting the rest of the liquid drain.

Once it seems to slow down, you kick back to shore, swimming backwards, arms looped under Blondie’s armpits. Jesus Christ, your muscles are burning; this is worse than any form of conditioning Coach puts you through back at college, and the woman once had you tread water while holding a concrete block above your head.

It takes a good ten minutes to get back to shore, most of which is punctuated by shouting from the beach. Once you’re in shallower water, a couple of guys wade out to meet you, visibly panicked. You recognize them as the buddies from the cliff, and gladly hand over Blondie’s limp body, collapsing in the shallow water. 

“Thank you, thank you… holy fuck, thank you!” One of them yelps, and you wave a hand over your head, still out of breath.

“Keep his neck straight!” Steph yells from the beach. When they drag him up, laying him across the sand, she straddles him and immediately starts rescue breaths and chest compressions. 

Ambulances arrive shortly after, EMT’s vaulting down onto the beach before carting Blondie away on a stretcher. Steph watches them go, then drags herself over to where you’re still propped up in the shallow water, and drapes herself over your chest. 

“Christ,” she says. 

“Not my name,” You joke, legs aching. “Don’t know if I was that heroic. Maybe next I’ll pull off the water to wine. Bet you’d like that one.” 

You gasp when she slugs you hard in the shoulder. 

“Very funny, asshole,” She gripes, then shoves her face into your neck and breathes, laughing softly. You scratch her scalp. 

“You did good,” You say, and she bites hard at your collarbone, then pulls away. “Let’s figure out that wine thing, huh?”

THREE MONTHS LATER

“Welcome in!” Someone shouts from behind the counter when you step over Malone’s entryway. 

“Thanks!” You call back.

You don’t frequent the diner often. Steph loves it, but complains enough about prices that you usually just end up in a Taco Bell drivethrough. She must be really struggling with preparation for her Biology final to demand your company at Malone’s — pre-med at Briar U is no joke, and when she gets desperate enough she placates herself with a pancake special. You’d hemmed-and-hawed for about three minutes before she’d promised to buy you lunch, and had promptly abandoned your philosophy homework. 

Steph’s posted up near the back of the restaurant, and waves when she sees you. You slide past a couple of tables of shouting college kids to reach her, wondering if you should have left the Harvard hoodie in the car. The Briar U and Harvard rivalry was often on the wrong side of “a little too intense” and you winced as you flipped off some sophomore who jeered at you from across the room. 

When you reach Steph, you throw yourself down across from her, arm slinging around the back of the chair next to you.

“Hey, gorgeous,” You greet dryly. She scowls at you, greasy hair pushed back with her beat-up headphones, the majority of her face hidden with a ginormous pair of sunglasses. She’s wearing one of your old, stained swim t-shirts, but she’s scribbled over the Harvard logo with a crudely drawn dick. 

“Yeah, fuck you, Y/n,” She gripes. “Oh, wait, sorry — would I have to get in line to do that? Behind, uh, skank number two and three, right?”

“Don’t slut shame me!” You exclaim. Yeah, you’ve been having a busy couple of months, and so what? Steph sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose, pushing her glasses up to her forehead. 

“Sorry. Skank, singular. Wouldn’t want to overexaggerate your exploits.”

“Don’t worry about it,” You grin. “You can always fact check with your Dad.”

“Fuck you, Y/n!” Steph yelps, glasses sliding back down, but she’s laughing, now. You smile, glad to have broken her out of her studying induced stress haze. You lean across the table and she dips her head forward so you can kiss her perfunctorily on the forehead, a real greeting. Your lips barely leave her skin, though, when you’re yanked backwards with a heavy hand on your shoulder. 

“Mr. Ivy League bothering you, sweetheart?” A man’s voice asks. The hand squeezes hard when he says “Ivy League.” Perfect. You should’ve just taken off the sweatshirt.

You raise a disbelieving eyebrow as Steph barks a laugh, eyes darting up past your shoulder. 

“The only one bothering her is that tired fucking line, man,” You ground out, turning, and then you do a double-take. Is that… holy shit, it is. You trace his face, the easily handsome features, the tousled blond hair. It’s fucking Blondie, from Milos!

You leap out of the chair. The guy stumbles back, surprised, but you put your hands on his shoulders to steady him and look him up and down. 

“You look good!” You exclaim, genuinely relieved. You’d tried to find him after the incident, but the limited reports online hadn’t mentioned a name, and you weren’t about to drive from hospital to hospital like a lunatic.

“Uh—” the guy starts, clearly surprised with the turn of events. He’s still tense, like he’s expecting aggression. “What? I wasn’t hitting on you, dude.”

Steph cackles behind you. You shoot a dirty look over your shoulder at her, but the guy’s still going. 

“I’m not, uh, gay, or anything. Not that I’m not an ally! I ally the shit out of pride month, I just don’t… swing that way.”

You wave a dismissive hand, releasing him. “I didn’t think you were hitting on me.”

“Not dressed like that,” Steph adds in a wry tone, dragging her sunglasses below her nose to give Blondie an unimpressed once-over.

You scoff. “I’ve fucked enough repressed frat bros to know chinos and a surf t-shirt mean jack-shit, Steph. C’mon.” You wheel back to Blondie. “Not that your, uh, get-up makes you gay. I meant… you are the one who took the header off that cliff in Milos, right?”

Blondie blanches. “Aw, fuck. Did you see the TikTok?”

“The what?” You ask, shocked. 

“The TikTok!” Someone else shouts, coming up from behind Blondie and clapping him on the shoulder. “You wanna tell the crimson douche about your fall?”

The other guy is, admittedly, just as annoyingly attractive as Blondie is. His grin is wide, if a bit strained, and he’s decked out in a Carhartt jacket, brown hair swept back. 

“Wow,” you say. “Crimson douche. Love that one.”

The guy laughs, looking up at you. “Yeah, I bet — holy fuck. It’s you!”

You tilt your head to the side. “Have we met?”

“Dean,” Carhartt hisses to Blondie. You roll the name over in your mind. Dean. It's fitting. “It’s him. Ariel.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Like the Disney princess?” You glance down at yourself; you have a lithe, swimmer’s body, sure, but you’re also about 6’4. “Uh, I don’t think we really look alike.”

Dean, however, is still staring at you. He doesn’t appear to have caught anything you’ve said.

“Really?” He breathes. “You’re Ariel?”

“Well, that feels a bit emasculating,” You start. “But—”

“He fucking wishes he was Ariel,” Steph interrupts from behind you, coming up to slide under you arm. “She has fantastic tits.”

“Again, feels a bit emasculating,” You say, but you’re smiling now. Steph grins up at you, reaching up to grope your pec. 

“Don’t front,” She laughs. “You’d love being a mermaid.”

“Yeah, probably,” You reply, looking back at Dean. “I guess I’ll take it.”

Dean’s looking between the two of you, frowning slightly. “No, I, sorry—”

“Ariel’s the name we came up with for his savior,” Carhartt interrupts. “That was you, right? The guy who dove in after him?”

“In Milos, right?” You ask, as if you’ve dived in after multiple would-be drowning victims. Ariel was a pretty badass nickname; your little sister loved the movie, so you’re well acquainted with the mermaid scooping Prince Eric up during the storm. 

“Yes!” Dean exclaims, suddenly looking embarrassed. He steps forward and draws his arms around your waist in a hug. You startle, but awkwardly pat him on the back. After a couple of seconds, he retreats, Carhartt still hovering over his shoulder. “So sorry that I was a dick to you, man. I just saw the sweatshirt, and was worried you were harassing this girl…”

“I am not being harrassed,” Steph chirps.

“...Good,” Dean finishes, stilted. “Fuck, this wasn’t how I imagined us meeting.”

You feel a small grin spread across your face. “You’ve imagined us meeting?”

“Yeah, of course,” Dean admits immediately, almost painfully earnest. “You saved my life.”

He takes a closer look at Steph, realization sparking in his eyes. “You both saved my life. The hospital told me that if I hadn’t been hauled out of the water when I was, and given chest compressions, that I might’ve, uh, had some brain damage.” Dean raps a knuckle on his head. “More than usual, anyway.” 

He reaches out a hand to Steph, and she shakes it. 

“Really,” he says, stepping back. “Thank you, guys. Uh, can I do something to thank you? Fuck, I don’t even know your names.”

“He’s good with Ariel,” Steph responds, and you step on her foot. She yelps.

“My name’s actually Y/n,” You say, reaching out your hand. Dean clasps it with his palm, and you squeeze fondly. His throat works. “Nice to meet you, Dean.”

“I’m Cinderella,” Steph says, and you sigh. “I would also like a princess nickname, please.”

“Alright,” Dean laughs. “Y/n and, uh, Cinderella. Can I take you guys out to dinner? To say thank you? What a coincidence that we all go to college in Boston.”

“Yes,” Steph answers immediately. “How about tomorrow, at nine? Y/n’s done with swim by then.”

Dean lights up and turns to you. You had conditioning tomorrow; normally, you’d drag yourself back to your apartment with Steph and collapse, but Dean looks so happy you feel an irrational urge to indulge him. 

“Sure,” You say. “Nine it is.”

“Nine it is!” Carhartt chirps, and Dean throws him a dirty look over his shoulder. 

“Shut the fuck up, Logan.”

Follow Request Dean Di Laurentis (hockeydaddydean42069) requested to follow you.

“Dean just asked to follow you on Instagram!” Steph shouts, criss cross applesauce on one of the foam block jumps shoved in the back corner of the gym. You glance over from where you’re laying on the weight bench, grunting slightly as you push the bar up and rack it.

“Steph, get off my phone!” You shout, leveraging yourself off the bench and stripping the plates off the bar.

“Then change the password from Shane Hollander’s birthday, you parasocial pervert,” She retorts, still very much scrolling through your Instagram.

“It isn’t a sex thing! The man is a hockey legend!” You protest, moving across the gym to snag a yoga mat.

“Have you seen that guy’s ass? Of course it’s a sex thing,” Steph replies, and you roll your eyes, smoothing out the mat and folding gently down onto it.

“L/n! Head in the fucking game!” Carter, your swim teammate, calls. “Talk to gorgeous women on your own time!”

As soon as he’d met Steph, he’d been trying incredibly hard to get her to go out with him. Thank God they went to separate colleges, but Steph spent enough time on the Harvard campus that she still ran into him. 

“Shut the fuck up, Carter,” Steph calls back, flipping him off without looking up from your phone. 

“You wound me. Are you sure you don’t want to go to dinner?” Carter responds, panting slightly from the endurance bike he’s on. 

“Carter, I will drown you,” Steph grounds out.

“She’ll do it, man,” You call, stretching your legs out in front of you, bracing your hands on the bridge of your feet. Carter laughs and blows Steph a kiss. 

“Okay!” Steph says to you, clambering off the block to come sit next to you on the floor. “I’ve accepted it!”

“You’ve what?” You ground out, leaning over to try and catch a glimpse of the screen. Sure enough, she accepted the follow request from hockeydaddydean42069 and followed him back.

“He’s hot,” Steph replies. “I like him for you.”

“A couple of days ago, you were telling me I sleep around too much,” You point out, shifting into a seated forward fold. “Why’s he different?”

“Yeah, I didn’t mean to fuck him and dump him, asshole!” Steph shouts, then waves off Carter when he looks up. “I mean, you guys have a pretty awesome meet-cute. Why not date him?”

“Our meet-cute was him almost drowning, Steph.” You respond, rolling your eyes. “You had to resuscitate him. And he’s a straight man.”

“Eh,” Steph says, sprawling backwards. “I don’t think so.”

“You don’t think so? I don’t even like the guy like that,” You say. “Besides, that entire friend group is infamously non-monogamous, right? I think I’d catch an STD from sitting on their couch.” 

“Yeah, like you’re one to talk, you fucking manwhore.” Steph mutters, barely even looking at you. She pauses. “Oh, shit, he liked a shirtless photo! That slutty little gym one!”

“What?” You cry, scrambling out of the stretch to look.

Steph laughs and tilts the phone screen to show you she’s playing Subway Surfers. “Nah. Look at how fast you came over here, though. Don’t like him, my ass.”

You purposefully turn your back to her, rising into Cobra. “I fucking hate you.”

At 8:43 p.m. that night, Steph is still not dressed. You wander into the living room, pushing up the sleeves on your dark green henley. 

“Dean’s gonna be here soon,” You said, glancing at where she was folded under the expensive Pendleton blanket you’d splurged on for her birthday. “I DM’ed him our address.”

Steph glances up at you, not bothering to pause the Jason Statham movie she’s watching on the TV. 

“I’m sick.”

You laugh, wandering over to cup her perfectly cool forehead with your hand. “Uh huh.”

“No, really,” She says, batting your hand away. “I think it’s probably the plague.”

You collapse next to her on the couch, propping your legs up on the coffee table. “Gosh. Did you alert the CDC?”

“Just go have dinner with the man,” She whines, slumping over onto you. “Celebrate my legacy. Order a lava cake for dessert.”

You pet her hair, soft. “You really don’t want to come?”

“I want you to go have dinner with an attractive man. Alone,” she corrects. 

“Again, a totally straight man,” You reply, and you can tell she’s rolling her eyes even though you can’t see her face. 

“Whatever.”

You spend the next ten minutes like that, watching Jason Statham fuck people up on TV, until there’s a hard knock on the door. You leverage off the couch, ignore Steph’s excited squeal, and swing open the door. 

Dean’s leaning against the frame, decked out in a soft looking sweater and tight blue jeans. He looks good.

“Hey!” You greet, bending down to tug on your shoes. 

“Hey,” Dean grins back. “You ready?”

“Just a second,” You say, dropping to a knee to knot your laces. “I’ll be out of here just as fast as Briar was in the Frozen Four a couple of years ago.”

“I will kick you over,” Dean cries, and you stand back up and laugh. “Where’s, uh… Cinderella?”

You point a thumb back over your shoulder to the couch. “Steph has apparently come down with something. She’s not coming.”

“Oh,” Dean says. “If you want to, uh, stay and take care of your girlfriend, man, we can reschedule.”

You bark a laugh. “Nah, Steph’s fine to take care of herself. And she’s not my girlfriend.”

“Uh huh,” Dean replies, clearly skeptical, but he moves out of the door frame so you can slide past him and close up. “Yeah, you guys just live together and are attached at the hip.”

“It’s called high real estate prices and platonic friendship, dude,” You respond, leading him down the unit’s stairs and into the street. When you push past the main entrance, Dean jogs slightly past you to throw open the door of his blue jeep for you with a flourish.

“Ah. Chivalry is not dead,” Dean winks, and you roll your eyes before clambering into the car. He slides into the other side and guns the engine, peeling away from your apartment.

“Where are we going to dinner?” You ask, drumming your fingers on the dash. 

“It’s a surprise,” Dean calls back, smiling. “But definitely worthy of a Disney princess, so don’t worry your pretty little head.”

“Mm. Good,” You say, dry. “Had me concerned for a second.”

You fall into a slightly awkward silence. Dean interrupts it after a few beats.

“So, uh… how’s Harvard?”

You pull a face. “Do we have to talk about school?”

“I dunno,” Dean says, switching lanes. “What else would we talk about?”

“Tons,” You respond, leaning back in your seat. “Let’s do a hypothetical.”

“I’m down,” Dean shrugs.

“Alright, then. Uh, would you rather be a mango with human thoughts or a human with mango thoughts? I’d go mango with human thoughts.”

A laugh punches out of Dean. “What the fuck?”

“That’s the hypothetical!” You cry, sitting back up. Dean’s laugh peters off and he grins. 

“Well, this all hinges on whether or not mangos actually think,” Dean says, surprisingly serious. 

You raise an eyebrow. “What do you mean, whether or not mangos think? They’re mangos. Of course they don’t think.”

“So quick to presume!” Dean crows. “And how would you know that?”

“Well, for one, they don’t have a brain,” You laugh.  

“Yeah? So what?” Dean demands, coming to a rolling stop at a red light and pivoting in his seat to make eye contact with you. “What if they think using something else?

“That’s ridiculous!”

“Any more ridiculous than a human with mango thoughts?” Dean says, and you point at the light as it changes. He turns and pulls forward.

“Yeah, if we’re anthropomorphizing the fucking mango!” You shout back.

“Oh, sorry, was that any more unrealistic than the premise of the hypothetical?” Dean grins.

“Alright, alright,” You admit. “So, if mangos can think, you’d go human with mango thoughts? Seems like a cop out.”

“Well, who said that, now?” Dean says. “I’d be a mango with human thoughts. The juiciest, smartest mango out there.”

“Hm,” You muse. “I’d eat you.”

“Mango cruelty!” Dean explodes. You laugh, and then the car falls back into a silence; comfortable, this time.

“Hm, alright.” Dean says a few minutes later. “My turn. What’s your hot take?”

“Huh,” You say, thinking. “Uh, maybe that every man who posts a picture with feminist literature must take an immediate comprehension test.”

Dean barks a laugh. “I like it.”

You smile, watching his side profile as he drives. It’s dark outside, and the street lamps cast a soft yellow glow across his face. “Yours?”

“I was team Gale,” Dean admits.

“What the fuck?” You demand. “Turn this car around. I cannot get dinner with you.”

Dean grins, pulling off the street and into a parking lot. “Mm. Too bad, we’re here. I promise to buy you some bread I won’t throw into the mud.”

He’s ended up taking you to a charming Italian place about a thirty minute drive from your apartment. You’re seated easily, and he orders about half the appetizer menu and a very pointed bread basket. The entire time you pick through it, he cracks Peeta jokes until you threaten to leap across the table and strangle him.

When your mains arrive — short ribs for you and a hulking slice of lasagna for Dean — Dean’s mood fades from excited to serious. You raise an eyebrow at him as you watch him awkwardly poke at his lasagna, opening and then closing his mouth.

“You alright there, bud?” You ask, and he glances up at you.

“Uh, yeah,” He says. “Look, I just — I really just wanted to say thank you. I don’t know what I was doing fucking around up there in Milos… I do a lot of stupid shit, Y/n. I do a lot of stupid shit because I’m young, and I’m in college, and I guess I’m scared that life will be over when I’m not 24 anymore, you know? I have the rest of my life in front of me to get comfortable with a stick up my ass.” 

You set your cutlery down, making eye contact with him.

“But, for a good five seconds there, when I was falling, I was fucking terrified. I’ve never really learned to swim. I know I blacked out, but Logan and Beau and Garret tell me they thought that was it. And then… and then you. Thank you for giving me the rest of my life back, Y/n. There’s still so much I want to do, before I can’t anymore.”

You reach across the table and squeeze his hand. “There’s so much you’re going to do, Dean. I’m so glad that I was there. You’re welcome.”

He laughs, eyes slightly wet, like a glassy film has slid over them. “My Ariel.”

You smile, then lean slightly closer to him and hold your hand out for his car keys. “You know what? Let’s get dinner to go. I have something I want to show you.”

Dean raises a skeptical eyebrow. 

“Pinky promise I’ll only scrape your paint a bit.”

“Where are we going?”

“It’s a surprise,” You grin, mirroring your earlier interaction and glancing over at the very reluctant Dean in the passenger seat next to you. “Aw, come on, Di Laurentis. I’m not gonna crash your car.”

“Yeah, not if you keep your eyes on the road,” Dean says pointedly, and you laugh before turning back to the street.

“It’s just down the street,” You grin, taking a wide turn into the lot outside the Boston Community Center. Dean raises an eyebrow as you park, then grabs the takeout containers and hops out of the car. 

“C’mon,” You gesture, grabbing his wrist and pulling him in towards the building. The doors are thrown open, leaking light and chatter into the cold Boston night. Someone’s hung a giant sign on the front of the Center that reads COME ROLL THE BALLS OF FATE.

Dean laughs when he reads the sign, guiding your attention to it. 

“The joke’s too easy,” He grins, and you roll your eyes, ignoring him. 

“Hey, Maurice,” You greet the woman posted up inside the entrance, sitting in a padded chair behind a gray folding table. She lights up.

“Y/n! Back so soon, huh? Couldn’t stay away?” She says, smiling.

“How could I?” You respond, then shove Dean forward. “Brought some fresh meat, too.”

Dean sputters, looking around wildly in the center’s lobby. They always deck it out like crazy for Bingo night; streamers are hung from the rafters, balloons scattered across the ground, posters stapled up on the walls. 

“Fresh meat?” He demands as Maurice laughs. She climbs out from behind the table to come give you a hug, then slaps a nametag on your pec and gives it a barely disguised squeeze. You laugh and look down at it: it reads The Fumbler.

“Maurice!” You cry. She waves you off and goes back to fetch another name tag and a sharpie.

“I’ll let you put this one on your boyfriend,” She grins, handing it to you. You smile and scrawl Please Be Nice (Dean) on it before handing it to the man. 

“Not my boyfriend,” You correct her. Dean laughs and winks at you. 

“Nah? You not gonna grope me?” He says, and Maurice tips her head back and laughs. 

“Very funny, Di Laurentis,” You respond. Once he’s affixed the name tag to his chest, Maurice ushers you both behind her, pointing down the hall. 

“Straight down and right,” She instructs. “Have fun! Someone’s grandson donated a hoverboard for the prize pool.”

Dean turns to you, incredulous. “For a senior center?” He mouths.

And into the crucible you go.

Two and a half hours later, you are a changed man. Bingo at the senior center was always incredibly fun; they got into it like nothing else. You’ve been called more names in that room than you have over your entire college athletic career, and having Dean there only incited it more. 

At one point, he’d almost gotten in a physical altercation with an older gentleman who claimed Dean had “stealed” his Bingo, and you’d had to physically stop the hockey player from decking an 80-year-old.

“Pretty fun, huh?” You ask Dean, leaning up against the outside wall of the senior center to take a breath. Dean holds a nemo plushie and a bottle of laxatives — his Bingo prizes — to his chest and laughs. 

“Yeah, pretty fun.”

“So life doesn’t stop after 24?”

“I think maybe being an asshole doesn’t stop after 24,” Dean replies.

“Eh, close enough to the lesson. I’ll take it,” You say, moving toward the car. Dean stops you and holds out the nemo plushie.

“I’ll trade you for my car keys?” He asks, shaking the plushie for emphasis.

“Hard pass, dude. I say you getting into a drinking competition with those old ladies,” You say. “You’re gonna drive us into a fucking pole.”

“It was ginger ale!” Dean exclaims, indignant.

“Better be on the safe side,” You laugh, pressing the plushie back into his chest and flipping his car keys in the air. “Where to?”

“Uh, you want to come over to my place?”

“Tucker, let’s get married,” You groan, digging your spoon further into the small ceramic dish of apple crumble. “Fuck, this is good.”

“Better than sex,” Garret agrees, and you laugh. 

“I don’t know what sex you’re having, dude, but apple crumble should not be better,” You say, scooping the last bite out of your dessert.

Garret sputters, and Logan leans forward on his elbows, already done with his portion. “It’s this girl named Kendall. I have no idea why they keep hooking up. They’re terrible together.”

“At least I’m hooking up with someone,” Garret says pointedly, and Logan flips him off.

Tucker whacks Logan on the shoulder with a dish towel as he passes. “Thank you, Y/n. It’s nice to get some appreciation around here. I guess we could get married.”

You laugh and snag his hand, winding your fingers together. Across the counter, Dean’s scowling, and you raise your joined hands at him accusingly. “Why such the sour puss? You gonna finish yours? Give it to me.”

Dean rolls his eyes and holds the dish out for you, pulling it out of reach when you grab for it with your right hand. 

“Is this keep away, or something?” You ask, and Dean clicks his tongue.

“Two hands, please,” he says, and you groan before shaking Tucker off and grabbing the dish with two hands, digging into his half finished dessert. 

“Seriously, Tucker. Like, Steph and I have room in the flat. You could absolutely move in,” You say around a mouthful of apple.

“He’s good where he is,” Dean interrupts, voice gruff. “Stop trying to poach our baker.”

“Yeah, fair enough,” You laugh. 

Logan leans forward on his elbows. 

“It’s so surreal to have you in our kitchen, Y/n,” he says. “Like, should we put Dean in the bathtub and you can save him again? For old time’s sake?”

You snort at the same time Dean throws a wadded up paper towel at Logan’s face. Garret laughs.

“Alright, I’m taking Y/n to my room. Can’t be around any of you freaks anymore,” Dean grounds out, rounding the counter to grab your arm and drag you upstairs. Logan wolf-whistles and Dean’s grip tightens as he pivots, a look of genuine anger on his face. 

“C’mon, cowboy,” You say, slightly concerned, and redirect him with a gentle hand on his back. He softens and continues up the stairs, not looking back. You throw a questioning look over your shoulder at Logan, who just shrugs. 

“Uh, let me call Steph,” You say once you reach the landing, pulling your arm back. “Let her know I’ll be home late.”

“She’s not your mom,” Dean replies, flippant. “Or your girlfriend.”

“Yeah, but she’s my best friend. She’ll worry if I don’t come back.”

Dean’s large hand closes around your iPhone, and he eases it out of your hands and slides it back into his pocket. 

“She’ll be okay. Right now, you should be focusing on me.”

TO BE CONTINUED