buffy

I finally found you | @mutantvampireearthquake

Dean Di Laurentis study sesh

Jealous, D? | @bitchinbarzal

it’s casual, dean is a little less than casual when he sees someone elses hands on you.

Babe, part 2 | @/bitchinbarzal

dean has his sights set on punching hunter in the face, you, his ex girlfriend won’t let him.

Blurb | @residentheartache

That dress | @/residentheartache

Dean swears your dress will kill him

Casual is never Casual | @g0ldendesiree

dean was the one who asked for things to be casual, so why does it feel like torture watching you be okay with that?

The Offer | @/g0ldendesiree

when dean gives you an offer you can’t refuse, you end up on the one place you never thought you’d be. the ice.

DEAN HEYWARD-DI LAURENTIS | @edawgz

Dean was the boy no one could get enough of. The thing was, you just didn’t get it… until you did.

That’s how they roll. | @balletteens

the dates that made us | @buckpunny1

You’re close friends with none other than Dean Di Laurentis, oftentimes bordering on the edge of something more. What happens when he makes a mistake at a party and has to win you back?

in sickness and in health | @/buckpunny1

You manage to get sick right before one of Briar U’s biggest hockey games of the season. You try to hide it, but Dean always notices. Good thing he loves taking care of his best girl.

series masterlist | @girlontheruin

In which Garrett Graham’s older sister (22) comes back into his life, in hopes of mending their broken relationship. A little help from Dean Di Laurentis has you lowering your highly built walls of defence. Brick by brick he shows you exactly how you can depend on someone.

Off Limits | @pennylanefics

dean is captivated by the girl he's been told to stay away from

Overheard | @/pennylanefics

you overhear a conversation from dean's friend's that you weren't exactly meant to hear

Baby Doll, part 2, part 3 | @dilaurentispuckbunny

You were walking into the hockey house with your friends, Hannah and Allie. Your brother, Garrett Graham, lived here with his teammates and friends. John Tucker, John Logan and Dean Di Laurentis. You all attend Briar University (Briar U). The guys had won a game tonight, which meant that it was party time at the house, the house was packed with people. More specifically, Puck Bunnies.

Blurry Lines | @gwellsy

the line you drew on the beginning of the original agreement with dean becomes blurry

Sneak Peak | @/gwellsy

you accidentally hear strange sounds from dean's room

the world won’t end. | @stellasfictionalworld

in which dean takes care of his close friend as she lets loose, including bringing her home and suddenly everything clicks for him.

best friend’s sister | @sourcherryandsprinkles

Pushups | @/sourcherryandsprinkles

the scientific method, part 2 | @pucksandpower

when the pre-med girl with the perfect GPA meets the hockey player with the far from perfect reputation, neither of you expects to become each other’s biggest distraction. You’ve got your whole life planned out. He’s never planned anything past Friday night. But somewhere between study sessions and split lips, you discover that the scariest thing isn’t falling, it’s admitting you want to

Losing game | @lynabys

Dean Di Laurentis knows Y/N is bad for him. The problem is that every time she pulls away, he follows anyway.

Losing Game - Playing for approval | @/lynabys

She pushes him harder, he plays better. Somewhere between obsession, performance, and desire, dean starts confusing her approval with love - and neither of them realizes how dangerous that becomes until it’s far too late.

dean di laurentis x reader | @lizard-on-a-window-pane

sfw alphabet | @alliehyes

Shower Time | @rgntthragg

Walk Him Like a Dog | @/rgntthragg

Imagine | @briarpilled

you and dean have been best friends since forever,  there was hardly anything you could ever keep from each other, so it's not surprising all it takes for you to confess your feelings is a very short-tempered dean and his excessive urge to defend your honor.

His Favorite Distraction | @desoiry

Dean interrupts your gaming moment to steal all your attention.

The Ring | @andy-15-07

I Don’t Know How To Do This | @/andy-15-07

Confessions | @writingsforfandoms-multi

what happens when reader is encouraged by the guys to confess her feelings to Dean

Unimpressed, part 2 | @kuebandungs

Dean Di Laurentis is loud, arrogant, and has a smirk with dimple that makes you want to throw something at his face. You called him a playboy to his face. Now he won't leave you alone. You tell yourself he's just annoying you for fun and you have nothing to do with him. Until one day, you realize you're looking for him in every crowd. And that's when you know you're in trouble.

when did you get hot?, part 2 | @incase0femergency

as garrett graham’s little sister you’ve known the hockey boys since you were in high school and now that youre in sophomore year of college you’ve decided to transfer to briar u. what the boys didn’t know about you was that you had definitely grown up.

“DO I MAKE YOU NERVOUS?” | @thevoicefromanotherworld

Something to take the edge off | @sc3ptre

You were always off-limits. The coach’s goddaughter, the team’s PR girl and the one woman Dean couldn’t have…but the thing about limits was that it was still a line to skate over.

THE TEACHING, | @fleurcient

Where the school playboy and your brother's best friend asks you for advice on how to be good "boyfriend material" to win over your best friend Allie

More than one night | @eu-nicola

A night with Dean was a mistake and you knew it the next day when you found out that he was messing with your sister but things didn't end there

One — your ass

This was his go-to when he wanted to assert total control, usually happening late at night when the rest of the off-campus house was dead quiet. He’d have you on your hands and knees in the center of the mattress, completely exposed to him.

Dean never rushed this. He would stand over you for a moment, his eyes tracking the line of your spine, his fingers tracing the curve of your hips just to watch you shiver. Then, his large, heavy hand would anchor firmly on your waist, keeping you perfectly in place so you couldn't shrink away. When the first slap landed, it was a deep, heavy, echoing thud that seemed to vibrate through the entire room.

The shock of it would make you arch your back, a sharp gasp ripping from your throat as your skin instantly blooming into a deep, burning crimson. Dean loved the rhythm of it. He would use the slaps to drive the pace of the sex—worshiping the way the heavy impact made your ass cheeks roll and jiggle violently with every hit. He’d bring his palm down hard just to watch your flesh shake against his thighs, the visual driving him absolutely crazy as you trembled beneath him. By the time he was done, his wide handprints would be burned into your skin, a visual map of exactly where he’d taken you.

Two — your tits

This was a purely visual, frantic kind of worship that usually happened when the tension between you two had been building all day. He would be sitting up against the headboard, and you would be straddling his lap, taking him in slowly while your hands rested on his broad shoulders for balance.

Even though you technically had control over the depth and the speed, Dean’s hands were never lazy. He would watch you intently, his gaze heavy and darkened as he tracked the flush rising from your throat down to your chest. Suddenly, his right hand would leave your waist, his palm flattening out as he brought it down in a swinging slap right across the plush fullness of your breast.

The sound was entirely different from the ones before—it was wet, heavy, and loud. The sudden, biting sting would make your hips stutter, your spine locking up as you cried out, your chest immediately blooming a vibrant, angry pink under his touch. Dean would smirk, a low, pleased rumble vibrating in his chest as his other hand came around to strike the opposite side. He would alternate his palms, striking the soft skin of your breasts in perfect time with the frantic rhythm of your hips, driving you into a breathless, desperate haze where the burning heat on your chest mixed with the friction between your thighs until you were completely unhinged. Only when he was satisfied with the deep blush did his harsh strokes melt into a heavy, thorough massage, his large hands kneading the flesh to soften the sting while his lips followed behind, soothing the fire with hot, bruising kisses.

Three — your pretty face

This was reserved for the most intense, emotionally raw moments in the bedroom—the times when he needed you completely bare, with nowhere left to hide. It usually happened while you were kneeling between his thighs giving him head, or right in the middle of sex when the pleasure became so overwhelming you tried to close your eyes and turn away.

Dean wouldn’t let you. His large hand would slide up your throat, his fingers framing your jaw and tilting your head up, forcing absolute, unbroken eye contact. He would look down at you, his expression dead serious, completely stripped of his usual cocky playfulness.

Then, his palm would snap against your cheek. It wasn't a heavy, brutal blow meant to cause real harm, but a sharp, delicious slap that sounded like a quick clap echoing in the quiet room. The sudden shock of it would make your ears ring a little, a breathy sob catching in your throat. Before you could even blink, Dean’s thumb would gently, almost clinically, swipe over the hot, flushed mark on your skin. "Look at me," he’d rasp, his voice thick and demanding. "Keep those pretty eyes right on mine." Another slap would follow on the opposite cheek, shattering any lingering thoughts, leaving you utterly helpless and entirely focused on the weight of his gaze.

Four — your pussy

This was an exercise in pure vulnerability and exhibitionism. Dean would drag you off the bed entirely, pulling your shaking body down onto the hardwood floor. He would sit with his back pressed firmly against the wooden frame of the bed, pulling you back between his thighs so your spine was flush against his broad chest. Your legs would be forced wide apart, spreading you completely open in front of the full-length mirror leaning against the opposite wall.

"Look," Dean would whisper against your ear, his hot, uneven breath making you shiver as his heavy arm wrapped securely around your waist, trapping you against him. "Watch what I'm about to do to you."

You would be forced to watch in the reflection as his free hand slid down between your thighs, his fingers damp as they parted your sensitive skin. He would draw his hand back, and instead of one heavy strike, his fingers began to rain down on you in a flurry of small slaps—very, very fast, small taps that peppered your swollen, wet pussy. The sound was a rapid, obscene, pattering rhythm that echoed off the glass. The sheer speed of the tiny taps sent a jolt of pure, blinding electricity straight up your spine. You would try to twist away from the ticklish, hyper-sensitive ache of it, but his grip around your middle would only tighten, holding you perfectly still as his fingers continued their relentless, rapid pacing, reducing you to sobbing his name into the empty room.

Five — his personal favorite (both at the same time)

This was the absolute finale—the position Dean turned to when he wanted to completely break you down and rebuild you. He would lean comfortably against the headboard and drape your body completely over his lap. You would be lying flat on your belly across his thick thighs, your head hanging uselessly off one side, your legs slightly parted over the other.

Dean loved the absolute helplessness of this position. You couldn't see him, you couldn't move away, and you were completely at the mercy of his hands.

He would start slowly, building a relentless, punishing rhythm that you had consented to, but that still made your mind go entirely blank. His heavy palm would come down on your ass first—a deep, thudding strike that left a wide, pale imprint that slowly turned a throbbing crimson. But before the heat could even begin to fade, he would slide his hand lower, his fingers catching your highly sensitive pussy. He would alternate between the two: a heavy, resonant thud on your ass cheek, followed instantly by those rapid, stinging slaps directly to your slit.

The contrast was maddening. The heavy, aching bruise of the spanking on your ass cheeks followed instantly by the blurring, rapid-fire electricity of his fingers stinging your front. Your hands would grip the bedsheets so tightly your knuckles turned white, your hips twitching helplessly against his thighs with every single variation. Dean would take his time, listening to the shift in your cries, building the heat higher and higher until the sting transformed into a heavy, uniform, throbbing ache that colored your entire lower half red. He wouldn't stop until you were weeping openly, completely undone by the overwhelming intensity, right before he finally pulled you up into his arms to hold you close against his chest in the quiet afterglow.

You'd been pretending to watch the movie for at least fifteen minutes.

Dean had been doing a terrible job of pretending he wasn't staring at you for just as long.

It was a terrible performance on both sides, especially considering the laptop was still playing some action movie at the end of his bed, and neither of you could've named one thing that'd happened in the last ten minutes. You were tucked under his sheets in one of his old Briar shirts, the hem brushing soft against your thighs because your underwear was the only thing you'd bothered putting on after your shower, and Dean was lying beside you with one hand behind his head and the other low on your hip like he was trying very hard to act like a gentleman.

He was trying to behave, which was sweet, really, but not exactly successful.

"You're staring again," you murmured, not even bothering to look away from the screen.

Dean's thumb moved in a slow circle over your hip. "You're in my bed wearing my shirt. You can't really blame me."

"You gave it to me," you pointed out, like that was supposed to make him less smug about it.

"I know." Dean's mouth curved like he'd been waiting for you to say exactly that. "Great decision, honestly."

You rolled your eyes, but the smile breaking through kind of ruined the effect. "You're impossible."

"Yeah." Dean leaned in, his lips brushing your shoulder through the fabric of his shirt. "But you like me anyway."

"Sometimes," you said, though your smile made it sound a lot less convincing.

"Right now?" he asked, his voice dropping just enough to make your stomach flip.

You turned your head to answer, which was apparently all the invitation Dean needed, because then he was kissing you, slow and warm, one hand sliding up your side beneath the fabric like he'd planned the whole thing. It was easy to melt into Dean like that, a lot easier than you'd ever admit out loud. Dean kissed you like he knew exactly how much time he had, which apparently meant he had no problem spending it dragging every little sound out of you to see how much trouble it got him into.

His fingers slipped beneath the hem of the shirt, warm against your waist in a way that shouldn't have made you gasp as quickly as it did.

Dean smiled against your mouth, entirely too pleased with himself. "There she is."

"Don't start."

"I didn't even say anything."

"You were about to, and we both know it."

He laughed, low and entirely too pleased with himself, before rolling onto his back and tugging you over him like he already knew you'd follow. And you did, because apparently thinking was no longer part of the plan, one knee sliding across his hips until you were straddling his lap.

Then you froze beneath his hands, and Dean felt the change in you immediately.

His hands settled on your waist, thumbs brushing over your sides in a way that was soft enough to make your chest ache a little. "Hey."

You swallowed, suddenly very aware of the fact that you were in his lap with your thighs spread around his hips, his hard length pressing up beneath his sweatpants, and somehow his shirt still covering you didn't make you feel any less exposed.

"This feels like a lot of responsibility," you said, aiming for a joke and landing somewhere embarrassingly close to panic.

Dean's brow lifted like he wasn't sure whether to laugh or be concerned. "Responsibility?"

"I just..." You looked down, your fingers curling into the front of his shirt like that'd somehow make the words easier to get out. "I've never really done this before."

His expression softened, though that amused little spark in his eyes didn't go anywhere. "Been on top?"

Your cheeks warmed, which was annoying because Dean absolutely noticed. "Not really."

"Not really?" Dean repeated, thumbs still brushing over your waist like he was trying very hard not to look too pleased about that.

"Dean," you said, dragging his name out like a warning, even though the warmth in your cheeks made it pretty hard to sound threatening.

He smiled a little, his hands giving your hips a gentle squeeze like he'd decided to behave for once. "Okay. Not really."

"It's not a big deal," you said quickly, which was unfortunate because saying it that fast made it sound like it was definitely a big deal. "I just feel like I'd look stupid, or I wouldn't know what I was doing, and then you'd have to pretend it was hot, which is a very nice boyfriend thing to do, but also something I'd never emotionally recover from."

Dean stared at you for a beat, then laughed in this soft, disbelieving way that only made your face feel warmer. "Baby, I'm hard because you're sitting on my lap in my shirt. You could sneeze right now, and I'd find a way to be into it."

You blinked because, annoyingly enough, it had worked. "That was weirdly comforting."

"I'm great at comfort."

"You're absolutely not."

"I am when you're half-naked on top of me."

You tried to bite back a laugh, but it came out as this breathy little sound instead when Dean's hands guided your hips down, showing you exactly how slowly he wanted you to move over him. The pressure caught against your clit through your underwear, warm and steady enough to make your thighs tense before you could stop them.

Dean's eyes darkened like he'd felt the way your body reacted. "Does that feel good?"

You nodded, your thighs still tense beneath his hands.

His mouth curved. "Words, sweetheart."

"Yes," you breathed, because apparently that was the only word your brain had left to offer.

"There you go," Dean murmured, his voice soft enough to make your stomach flip.

The next kiss was messier, mostly because Dean kept guiding your hips over him like he had all the patience in the world, dragging it out until your underwear was damp, clinging to you, and making it pretty impossible to pretend you weren't affected. At first, the sounds you made were small and half-swallowed against his mouth, but Dean noticed every single one like he'd been waiting for them.

"Don't do that," he murmured.

You blinked at him. "Do what?"

"Hold back." His fingers tightened on your hips like he was making sure you couldn't pretend you didn't know what he meant. "I like hearing you."

Your stomach flipped, which was annoying because Dean absolutely felt it, and then he kissed you again until the friction dragged a moan out of you that you finally let him hear.

Dean groaned, as if he'd heard you'd done something terrible to his self-control.

That helped more than anything else could have.

By the time Dean had pushed his sweatpants down and rolled on a condom, your underwear was shoved to the side, your hands were planted on his chest, and the shirt was still hanging over you like a very pathetic attempt at feeling covered. Dean didn't try to take it off, which somehow made your chest feel tighter. He just held your hips, eyes fixed on your face as he guided himself through your wetness.

"Slow," he murmured. "Take your time."

You lowered yourself carefully, trying to take your time like he'd told you to, but your mouth still fell open the second the head of his cock pressed inside you. The stretch was familiar and different all at once, deeper like this, more intense because you were the one in control, which sounded nice in theory and felt a lot more terrifying with Dean watching your face like that. You sank inch by inch, trying very hard to look like you had any control over yourself, but the second he filled you, your fingers curled against his chest, and a shaky whimper slipped out before you could stop it.

Dean's jaw tightened. "Fuck."

You froze immediately. "Bad?"

His eyes snapped to yours as you'd just said something insane. "Are you joking?"

"You made a face."

"Yeah, baby, because you feel so good, I'm trying not to embarrass myself."

Your cheeks warmed, which was embarrassing enough on its own, but the praise still settled low in your stomach like your body had decided to enjoy it before you could overthink it.

"You're not just saying that?"

Dean's hands slid up your thighs, grounding you in a way that made it annoyingly hard to spiral. "Move once, sweetheart, and see if I sound like I'm lying."

So you did, moving slowly at first.

Your hips lifted, then sank back down, and Dean's head tipped against the pillow with this rough, helpless groan that made it pretty hard to believe he'd been lying about any of it.

"Oh," you breathed, and the second you moved again, it turned into something closer to a moan.

Dean's eyes opened, heavy and dark, like he'd been waiting for exactly that. "Yeah?"

"Feels good," you said, already sounding a little wrecked.

His hands squeezed your thighs. "Then keep going, sweetheart."

Your movements were awkward at first, mostly because your brain wouldn't shut up long enough to let your body figure it out, too busy worrying about the rhythm, whether you were doing enough, and whether you looked ridiculous hovering over him in his shirt with your thighs trembling.

Then Dean's hands tightened on your hips like he could feel you spiraling. "Stop thinking."

"I'm trying."

"No." His voice dropped, rough around the edges but still gentle. "You're trying to look good, which is insane, because you already do. Just move how you want."

The words hit harder than you'd expected, mostly because Dean sounded like he meant them, so you tried to believe him.

You rolled your hips instead of lifting so high, chasing the angle that made your clit catch against him every time you sank back down, and the moan that left you was loud enough to make Dean's cock twitch inside you like he was having a very hard time staying calm about it.

Your eyes flicked to his face, and Dean looked so wrecked that it made it pretty hard to keep worrying about whether you were doing it right.

His lips parted, jaw tense, and his hands kept flexing on your hips like Dean was having the world's hardest time remembering he'd told you to move how you wanted.

"You like this?" you asked, and even though your voice shook, it still came out bolder than before.

Dean laughed once, rough and breathless, as the question had actually offended him. "Like it?" His hips jerked up into you, dragging a gasp out of your mouth. "Baby, I'm trying not to lose my fucking mind."

That did something to you, mostly because Dean sounded like he meant it, and apparently, your body liked knowing you could mess him up that badly.

Your next movement was smoother, more confident, and the moan that came out of you wasn't even close to quiet, which Dean clearly noticed because his hands tightened on your hips immediately.

"Dean—fuck," you moaned, and the way his eyes darkened made it pretty clear he'd liked hearing his name like that.

"That's it," he murmured. "Let me hear you."

You rode him slowly at first, then a little faster once you realized your body had apparently figured out what your brain kept trying to overthink, your hands sliding up his chest as his shirt rode higher over your thighs. Your cunt was soaked around him, every movement making it easier, wetter, and a lot harder to feel shy about, especially when Dean looked down to watch where you were taking him and groaned as he'd just lost whatever was left of his self-control.

"God," he muttered, hands tightening on your hips. "You were worried about this?"

You tried to laugh, but it came out closer to a whimper when he helped you grind down harder. "Maybe."

Dean looked like that answer personally offended him. "You're killing me."

His fingers tugged at the hem of the shirt, and you slowed immediately, like your body had decided to panic before your brain could tell it not to.

Dean noticed immediately, because, of course, he did, his eyes lifting back to yours, as if taking the shirt off suddenly mattered a whole lot less than making sure you were okay. "Can I see you?"

Your stomach fluttered.

His hands rubbed up your thighs, warm and steady. "You can keep it on if you want."

You hesitated for only a second before lifting your arms, which felt a lot braver than it probably looked.

Dean pulled the shirt over your head and tossed it aside, leaving you in your bra and still moving over him like your body hadn't quite figured out whether to be nervous or proud. His eyes dragged over you slowly, and for once, Dean Di Laurentis had absolutely nothing to say.

That made your chest tighten, mostly because Dean looking at you like that was a lot harder to handle than any stupid comment he could've made. "What?"

His hands slid up your waist, warm and certain. "You're so fucking pretty."

Your breath caught the second his palms covered your breasts through your bra, thumbs brushing over your nipples beneath the thin fabric, and your rhythm faltered immediately, because apparently, Dean touching you there made moving and thinking at the same time impossible.

"Oh—Dean."

His mouth curved, entirely too pleased with himself. "No, don't stop."

"You're distracting me."

"Good." His thumbs circled again, making you clench around him like your body had decided to prove his point. "Keep riding me anyway."

You moaned louder this time, hips rolling as his hands played with your tits through your bra, and every touch made you stutter in a way Dean very clearly noticed. Every bit of praise made you wetter, every look on his face made you a little bolder, until the embarrassment started slipping away as your body had finally decided to stop fighting him.

"Tell me," he said, voice rough. "Tell me what feels good."

You swallowed, still moving over him because apparently stopping would've been the worst idea. "Your hands."

"Yeah?"

"And your cock." Your voice was breathless enough to be embarrassing, but you said it anyway, and Dean's eyes went so dark that it made the embarrassment feel worth it. "Feels good when I move like this."

You rolled your hips harder to show him, and Dean's head dropped back as you'd just ruined him on purpose.

"Fuck," he groaned. "Don't stop doing that."

Hearing Dean sound like that ruined something dangerous to your confidence, mostly because it was a lot harder to feel embarrassed when he sounded like he was the one barely holding it together.

Your hands moved behind your back, unclasping your bra before your brain could show up and ruin the moment. It slipped down your arms and fell somewhere between you, and Dean stared as you'd just done something genuinely unfair to his ability to breathe.

"Look at you," he breathed, and the way he said it made your whole body feel warm.

The words made your chest warm in a way you weren't sure what to do with.

Then his mouth was on you, lips closing around one nipple while his hand covered your other breast, and you cried out so quickly it would've been embarrassing if Dean hadn't groaned like it'd done something to him. Your fingers slid into his hair, hips moving faster now as pleasure started building low in your stomach.

"Dean, I'm—" Your voice fell apart into a whimper when his thumb found your clit, because apparently your body had no interest in letting you finish a sentence. "Oh my god, right there."

"There?" he asked, smug in a way that would've been annoying if he didn't sound so wrecked.

"Yes. Fuck, yes."

He rubbed slow circles over your clit while you rode him, his other hand on your hip and his mouth moving from your breast to your throat like he wasn't already making it impossible to focus. You were close, so close your thighs had started shaking, but the rhythm was getting harder to keep, your moans turning messier and needier as frustration tangled with the pleasure your body kept trying to chase.

Dean caught it instantly, like every little shift in your body was something he'd been waiting for.

"Come here," he murmured.

Before you could even think about arguing, Dean rolled you beneath him and pulled the sheets over both of you, settling between your thighs without slipping out like he'd decided you'd done enough thinking for one night. The new angle made you gasp, your legs wrapping around his waist as he pressed deeper.

Then Dean caught both your hands and laced your fingers together, pinning them above your head so gently it made your chest ache a little.

Dean kissed you, slow and messy, like he had every intention of making good on that promise. "Let me finish what you started."

"Please," you whispered, and it came out a lot needier than planned, which Dean absolutely noticed.

Dean's expression flickered. Then his hips started moving. Slow, deep, steady thrusts that had you moaning into the space between you, thighs locked around his waist, your hands crossed with his over your head. The sheets tangled around your legs, heat building under the blanket, his body heavy and warm over yours.

"You did so well," he murmured, his mouth brushing your jaw like he knew exactly how badly the praise was getting to you. "Looked so fucking good on top of me."

"Dean," you whimpered.

"I know." His hips rolled deeper, pulling your back into an arch. "I've got you."

His hand slipped between your bodies again, thumb finding your clit like he already knew exactly what you needed, and your whole body tightened around him.

"Oh—fuck, don't stop," you gasped, which was probably unnecessary considering Dean looked like stopping would've killed him.

He groaned anyway. "Wasn't planning on it."

The pleasure snapped through you suddenly, hot and sharp, and your moan broke against Dean's mouth as you came around him. Your thighs locked around his waist, fingers tightening in his above your head like you needed something to hold onto while your body shook beneath him.

Dean followed right after, his thrusts going uneven as he'd finally lost the last of his control, face buried in your neck as a rough groan broke out of him while he held you close and came.

For a while, neither of you moved, both of you too warm and tangled beneath the sheets to do anything other than breathe.

"You okay?" he asked softly.

You nodded, still trying to catch your breath. "Yeah."

His grin appeared slowly, which was never a good sign. "So."

"No."

"I didn't say anything."

"You were about to."

"I was just gonna say you're definitely not bad at being on top."

Your face warmed, and you turned it into the pillow like that might somehow save you. "You're so annoying."

"And you were so loud."

"Dean."

"I liked it," he said, kissing your cheek like he hadn't just made you want to disappear into the mattress. "A lot."

You tried to glare, but it came out pretty weak, especially when he slipped out carefully and disappeared to clean up like he hadn't just ruined your ability to function. When he came back, he helped clean you with a warm towel, gentle when your thighs twitched, before pulling his shirt back over your head as it belonged there.

"Putting me back in this?" you asked, glancing down at the shirt.

"Obviously." Dean climbed into bed beside you and pulled you into his chest, looking far too pleased with himself. "It's my new favorite thing now."

You laughed softly, settling against him while his arm wrapped around you like he had no plans of letting you go anytime soon.

For a minute, Dean only rubbed slow circles over your back like he was trying to make sure you'd fully melted into him. Then his voice came again, softer this time, though obviously still teasing because it was Dean.

"So..." His mouth brushed your hair, and you could hear the grin in his voice before he even finished. "You wanna do that again sometime?"

You pinched his side, which only made him laugh because apparently even that wasn't enough to make him less pleased with himself.

Dean laughed and pulled you closer, sounding far too pleased with himself for someone who'd just been pinched. "I'll take that as a yes."

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

💌lmk if you want to be added to my taglist

You didn’t do “regret.”

Regret implied failure somewhere along the carefully constructed architecture of your life, it implied you had made a wrong turn and now sat mourning an alternate version of events where you had somehow known better and you hated that mentality. Things happened, people changed, choices got made and you dealt with them. End of story.

Dean Di Laurentis was not one of your regrets.

He wasn’t just some ex-boyfriend reduced to funny anecdotes over cocktails and late-night gossip with friends. Dean had been your first love in every embarrassingly real sense of the word, the one that settled deep inside your bones and permanently rearranged them afterward and you had been his right back. Every awkward discovery, every fumbling touch, every late night conversation about sex, fear and the future had happened side by side, learning each other carefully until it became impossible to tell where one of you ended and the other began.

People always assumed you’d dated longer than you actually had whenever his name slipped into conversation, maybe because of the weight attached to it. The relationship itself had lasted barely over a year but it had consumed enough emotional space to feel infinite.

That single year had carved through your life with enough intensity to feel longer than most marriages.

Before that, there had been years of orbiting each other helplessly and cautiously, dancing around feelings both of you recognized long before either admitted until eventually neither of you remembered who had caved first.

Even now, you would both choose the word “sacred” because you had been each other’s “one and only”.

Even years later, the relationship remained untouched territory between you both, so sacred that your names still occasionally stuck in each other’s throats like some forbidden incantation. Friends joked about exes casually while you and Dean handled each other like loaded weapons.

You had been the one to end it before he left for Briar and it wasn’t because you stopped loving him. That would've made things easier.

Dean had his future lined up with terrifying precision back then, hockey, school, structure and goals stacked neatly one after another while you still felt haunted by pieces of your past you couldn’t quite outrun yet. You loved him enough to know he deserved freedom, deserved college without having to constantly worry about the girl still trying to keep herself afloat hundreds of miles away carrying baggage heavy enough for two people.

Dean had disagreed immediately, actually, “disagreed” was putting it lightly. He had outright said ‘no’ like a breakup required mutual consent.

For six straight weeks afterward, he ignored the fact you’d ended things entirely. He kept showing up after your classes, kept texting you good morning and kept trying to take you to dinner as if stubborn consistency alone could undo heartbreak if he refused to acknowledge it properly. Eventually, you had to stop answering altogether because every time you saw him, you almost folded.

The breakup itself stayed strangely gentle despite that. There had been no screaming, betrayal or dramatic ending, only two people loving each other badly timed.

Years later, you still existed in each other’s peripheral vision through social media and mutual friends. You knew about his hockey career because his face appeared online often enough for avoidance to become impossible. Sometimes you allowed yourself a few extra seconds reading comments underneath interviews or game clips before forcing yourself to scroll away without interacting while Dean did the same.

He knew about your travelling, your art and the gallery work, as well as the occasional blurry appearances of people beside you in pictures. He never believed any of the men lasted very long, not because he was arrogant enough to think nobody else could have you but because somewhere deep down he couldn’t picture anyone understanding you correctly.

When nights got too quiet, he reread old messages he absolutely should’ve deleted years ago but tonight had been particularly bad.

The Briar Hawks had lost earlier that week and apparently half the team decided the healthiest way to cope with that was snapping at each other until morale hit rock bottom. Practices had turned tense, locker room conversations shorter and sharper, everyone carrying irritation under their skin like bruises they kept pressing on purpose. Dean usually handled losses well, but after days of teammates barking at each other and coaches running everyone into the ground, something inside him started feeling worn thin in a way hockey normally never managed, so he escaped. 

By the time he got back to his family’s New York penthouse, he’d convinced himself silence would fix whatever had been clawing at him lately. Instead, the place just felt empty in expensive ways. Too much glass, too much space and too many rooms carrying memories of you around like ghosts that paid rent there.

Especially once he found that old video in his phone. He recognized the exact window immediately because he stood in front of it now, the city spread before him in dark glittering lights while your younger voice filled the room through his phone speakers.

The video shook slightly as you filmed the skyline from his bedroom years ago, your laughter airy and careless while midnight painted the windows black.

“That’s so beautiful,” you’d murmured softly. “I don’t think I’ll ever get enough of it.”

“Of me?” younger Dean joked instantly, voice muffled into the mattress somewhere next to you. He could practically remember himself face-down and exhausted after sex. “I hope not.”

Your laughter burst out louder then, making the camera jerk slightly.

“And I hope this is one of those things where you’re filming the view but actually calling me beautiful…That’d be romantic.”

“I bet you’d love that,” you cackled.

“Not more than I do you.”

Dean closed his eyes briefly. He remembered exactly how that video ended, the laughter dissolving slowly into kissing, into tangled sheets, whispered conversations and love making that lasted until dawn turned the skyline pale blue and gold.

He had never revisited those videos before tonight but something about hearing your younger laugh again cracked open a weak spot he’d spent years trying to reinforce.

Meanwhile, you sat tucked inside a crowded New York bar with old friends, laughing hard enough your stomach hurt while someone retold a story you’d already heard three separate times over the years. Your trip was short, barely a few days for work but it justified reconnecting with people you missed whenever life slowed down long enough to let nostalgia sneak in.

Dean knew exactly where you were because of one Instagram story, one tagged location…and one bad idea.

Your phone buzzed against the sticky wooden table just as you lifted your drink toward your mouth.

The second you saw his name, everything inside you stalled. 

Your laughter cut off so abruptly one of your friends frowned instantly. “Y/n? You okay?”

“What?” You blinked hard, lifting your brows too quickly as you straightened. “Yeah. Yes. I just– excuse me one second.”

You grabbed your phone before you could think better of it and slipped outside into the cool night air of the city, the muffled bass from the bar fading behind you as you pressed answer and raised the phone to your ear.

Ten full seconds of silence followed. There was no greeting or breathing, so naturally you started thinking that maybe he called accidentally or lost his nerve halfway through because surely…this was a bad idea, right?

“How’s New York?” he asked suddenly, voice finally cutting through the silence.

You smiled despite yourself. You had heard his voice plenty over the years through interviews, videos teammates posted and clips floating around online after games but none of those had been meant for you. This was. 

You could hear the exhaustion underneath it now that it wasn’t filtered through screens and public smiles.

“I have a feeling you already know,” you replied calmly, leaning your shoulder against the brick wall outside the bar.

Silence stretched again as you weighed your next words carefully, debating whether to let him hide behind casual conversation or acknowledge that you knew him too well for that. In the end, the defeated undertone in his voice made the decision for you. The Hawks had lost, sure, but Dean didn’t call only because of hockey.

“That bad, huh?” you asked softly.

You heard him exhale quietly on the other end. “It might get worse if I don’t do this.”

Your brows furrowed slightly. “Do what?”

“Fail at being a proper ex.” The soft laugh escaping him pulled one from you too before you could stop it.

“We’re awful at it,” you admitted.

Dean laughed properly then, low and warm through the speaker. “It’s pathetic,” he said. “On my part, at least…Seems like you’re doing alright.”

You looked down at the pavement, smiling faintly to yourself. “I still picked up on the first ring.”

“It rang three times on my end,” he argued. He tried sounding teasing about it but you caught the truth underneath. For a second there, he’d genuinely thought maybe you finally wouldn’t answer anymore.

You laughed softly. “Once on mine. And I’m pretty sure I was the one who called last time…or the one before that.”

Dean leaned his head back against the penthouse window behind him, smiling helplessly to himself. God, you still sounded exactly the same…same voice and cadence, same way of speaking that made him feel seventeen and stupidly in love all over again.

“I’ll always pick up,” you reminded him quietly, turning your head to glance through the bar windows at your friends inside. “You know that.”

“And I’ll always call,” he admitted. “Hoping you’ll come.”

The honesty in it hit you straight in the chest. You heard him clear his throat awkwardly afterward, probably rubbing at the back of his neck the way he always did when he felt too exposed.

“I’m at The Heyward…if you–”

Your thoughts disappeared entirely. One second you had common sense and self-preservation and the next your brain had turned into static. Seeing him tonight became the only coherent thing left glowing obnoxiously bright in the middle of it all.

“I can…” you interrupted softly before you could stop yourself. You almost heard your own better judgment trying to physically drag the words back down your throat.

Fuck it, it’s fine.

“I can be there in maybe…thirty minutes.”

The relief on the other end was immediate even if Dean tried hiding it. He let out a breath you were pretty sure he’d been holding since you answered.

“I can text you the address.”

You chuckled quietly, your hand already resting on the handle of the bar door. “I’ve never had trouble finding my way back.”

Both of you fell silent for half a second after. There it was…the truth neither of you had ever really escaped. You thought you were over it and done, you thought you were through. Thought maybe distance, years and other people would've eventually worn the feelings down into something manageable but there was no denying perfection once you’d already had it.

“No,” Dean murmured under his breath. “That you haven’t.”

You were grateful the night had already started winding down by the time he called.

Back inside, you announced vaguely that you were exhausted, that work had drained you and you needed sleep before your meetings tomorrow. Conveniently, your departure encouraged a few other people to call it a night too, which kept anyone from paying too much attention to your sudden need to leave.

You paid your tab, hugged your friends goodbye and stepped into a car fully aware you were actively driving toward the destruction of every sensible decision you’d made over the past few years…and worse? You didn’t even feel guilty about it.

The route to Dean’s place came back to you embarrassingly easily, every turn felt familiar enough to make your chest tighten. Somewhere during the drive, you realized there had been dozens of opportunities to stop this before it happened, yet you ignored every single one.

By the time you walked into the building lobby, your mind had gone almost completely blank again.

The elevator ride to the top floor felt endless, your pulse hammering harder with every passing second which was enough time to turn around, to remember all the reasons this was a terrible idea but when the doors slid open… there he was.

Standing barefoot in the doorway already waiting for you, completely unaware of the plans he was wrecking and probably even less aware of how deeply fucked up this whole thing was.

Dean smiled the second he saw you and you were sure you’d seen much hotter men…you just really couldn’t remember when!

He carried you into the bedroom, bodies fused together as you kissed with a desperation that bordered on starvation. It was as if the air in the room had vanished, leaving only the scent of him and the heat of your skin as the only things keeping you alive. The room was slick and modern, all clean lines and muted tones but the atmosphere between you was chaotic and primal. Your tongues clashed and danced, a familiar rhythm that felt like coming home after a lifetime in exile.

Clothes were stripped away in a frantic blur of grasping hands and impatient tugs, discarded carelessly on the polished floors. The moment your skin was bare, he didn't waste a second. He pressed you back onto the bed, mouth immediately finding your breasts. He sucked your nipples into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the peaking tips with a hunger that made your toes curl. You arched your back, breath hitching in jagged gasps as he alternated between biting and sucking, marking you as his own again.

He moved then, sliding down the length of your body and knelt at the foot of the bed, his presence commanding and focused. He reached down, large hands gripping your thighs, massaging the soft flesh with a firm pressure that forced your legs wide open, exposing you completely to his gaze.

As he leaned in, his eyes locked onto yours with a deep, piercing stare that communicated everything the silence couldn't. There was an intense, wordless understanding in his expression, a recognition of every curve and every hidden need of your body. He knew exactly where to touch, how much pressure to apply and exactly how to break you.

When his tongue first made contact with your clit, a violent shiver racked your entire frame. He licked you with long, slow strokes, savoring the taste of your arousal. He began to suck the small, sensitive nub into his mouth, creating a vacuum that sent electric shocks straight to your core. You let out a loud moan, fingers diving into his hair, gripping the strands tightly and pushing his face harder against your pussy.

He responded by sliding two fingers deep inside you. The intrusion was sudden and perfect, filling you up while his tongue continued its relentless assault on your clit. He began to pump his fingers in a rhythmic, curling motion, hitting your G-spot with a precision that made your hips jerk uncontrollably to meet him halfway.

The world outside the bedroom ceased to exist. There was no past or future, only the friction of his fingers and the wet, sliding warmth of his tongue. You watched him through hooded eyes, seeing the way he focused on your pleasure, the way his jaw tightened as he worked to bring you to the edge.

Your moans became a constant, melodic soundtrack to the act, filling the modern silence of the room. You couldn't hear your own thoughts anymore, the mental noise had been drowned out by the sheer intensity of the physical sensation. Your mind stopped processing language, stopped questioning and fearing. Even your internal monologue dissolved into a single, echoing "ah" that vibrated through your soul.

He increased the pace, fingers fluttering inside you while his tongue flicked faster and harder against your clit. He was driving you toward a cliff and you were leaning into the fall. You gripped his hair tighter, pulling him in, legs shaking as the tension built into an unbearable coil in your lower belly.

The orgasm hit you hard. Your internal muscles clamped down hard on his fingers, pulsing in rhythmic waves of ecstasy. You screamed into the quiet room, your back arching off the mattress as your vision blurred. Every nerve ending fired at once, a blinding explosion of white light and heat that left you breathless and trembling. You collapsed back into the sheets, your chest heaving, staring down at him with wide, glazed eyes as the aftershocks continued to ripple through your body.

He didn't let you linger in the afterglow for long. He began to crawl back up the bed, lips trailing a path of fire across your inner thighs, your stomach and your breasts, kissing every inch of skin as if he were reclaiming territory. When his lips finally crashed against yours, the kiss was different, no longer just desperate but possessive and deep. You wrapped your arms around his neck, your tongue tangling with his, while your hand slid down between your bodies to find him.

The moment your fingers closed around his cock, a jolt of need shot through you. It was thick, pulsing and scorching hot. You gripped him firmly, jerking him with a rhythm that spoke of a hunger you had suppressed for far too long. During the months you had spent with other men, you had tried to bury the memory of this specific weight, this specific hardness but the second you touched him, the comparisons were devastating. No one else compared to this.

He let out a low groan right into your mouth, the sound vibrating through your chest. With a sudden, powerful movement, he manhandled you, flipping you over onto your stomach. You gasped as your chest hit the mattress, your face now aligned with the floor-to-ceiling windows. You looked out at the view you loved so much, to the city lights shimmering like fallen stars but the scenery was secondary to the weight of him pressing you down.

Dean moved to your ear, licking the lobe before sucking it deeply, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin. He trailed kisses behind your ears and down the nape of your neck, his hot breath sending fresh shivers racing down your spine. You were both breathing heavily, the air in the room thick with the scent of sex and arousal.

He reached for a pillow, shoving it swiftly under your hips. The movement propped your ass up, arching your back and tilting your pelvis perfectly toward him. In one fluid, decisive motion, he aligned his head against your still pulsing, dripping wet cunt and thrusted home.

The impact was seismic. You both groaned in unison, a raw, primal sound of relief. Your head fell onto the mattress and he collapsed his forehead against your shoulder blades, both of you frozen for a moment as you breathed through the sheer intensity of the fullness. He was bare, sliding deep into your heat without any barrier and the feeling of skin-on-skin friction was overwhelming. Any thought of consequences or logic was incinerated, the only thing that mattered was the way he filled every single void inside you.

As he began to move, the friction was exquisite. He started with slow, heavy thrusts that seemed to reach your very soul, pulling back until he was almost out before slamming back in. You let out throaty whines as your fingers clawed at the sheets and your vision began to blur, making the city lights outside merge into a haze of color that mirrored the fog settling over your mind.

He reached down, hand searching for yours. Instead of letting you grip the linens, he interlocked his fingers with yours, pinning your hand against the bed. The intimacy of the gesture, combined with the rhythmic pounding of his cock in your pussy, was too much.

"Holy...angh, fuck!" you breathed shakily, squeezing his fingers as his large hand completely encompassed yours.

"I know you’ve missed this," he rasped, his voice a low, gravelly vibration against your skin.

"How...?" you managed to gasp out between broken moans, hips instinctively bucking back against him, begging for more.

"Because I have..." he groaned, pace quickening as the sound of your wet bodies slapping together filled the room. "And fuck...you're so tight. Reminds me exactly whose cock you were molded for first."

The words fueled the fire. He began to fuck you with a relentless, driving force, each thrust hitting your G-spot with bruising precision. The feeling of being claimed after so long was intoxicating, this wasn't just sex, it was an erasure of everyone else who had touched you in his absence. You felt stretched, filled and completely dominated.

As the tension began to coil again, tighter and more violent than before, he leaned down, his lips brushing your ear. "Enjoying the view?" he whispered, feeling the internal muscles of your pussy begin to squeeze and ripple around him in desperate spasms.

You let out a breathless, broken laugh that dissolved into a loud moan. "Can't...can't really focus on liking anything but you right now."

That confession broke his last shred of restraint. He abandoned the slow rhythm for a frantic, punishing pace, his fingers squeezing yours so hard it almost hurt but you welcomed the pain. 

You were spiraling, the pleasure building into a towering wall of heat.

The climax hit you both simultaneously. You screamed into the mattress as your walls clamped down on him in violent, rhythmic contractions. He let out a loud grunt, thrusting one last time as deep as he could go, filling you with his hot, thick cum. You both shook violently, locked together in a crushing embrace, the world outside the window disappearing entirely as you drowned in the sensation of finally being whole again.

For a few long, heavy seconds, neither of you moved. You remained as you were, the only sound in the room was the ragged, synchronized gasping of your breath. He stayed buried deep inside you, his weight pressing you firmly into the mattress, chest heaving against your back. You could feel him still pulsing, the aftershocks of his orgasm sending waves of heat through your core as he continued to leak his thick, hot cum deep into your womb.

Slowly, he began to move, his muscles tensing as he tried to pull out. The sensation of his thick cock sliding against your sensitized walls was almost too much to bear yet the friction was delicious, dragging against every nerve ending that was still screaming from the climax. But as he withdrew, he found he couldn't fully let go. The tight, wet grip of your pussy was clinging to him, refusing to let him leave.

He let out a low, shaky breath and instead of pulling away completely, he began to slowly fuck the remaining cum back into you. “Don’t you spill a single drop.”

He pushed in, a slow and agonizingly deep slide that filled you to the absolute brim.

"Ugh fuck…" you moaned, the sound raw, vibrating through the mattress. The feeling of being stretched wide again, combined with the slickness of his seed acting as a lubricant, made the sensation incredibly intense.

He paused for a heartbeat, letting you feel the sheer girth of him, before he slid back out almost entirely, until only the head remained teasing your entrance and then slammed back in with a heavy, wet thud.

"Mmmh…" you whined, voice breaking.

The sounds were obscene, the loud, squelching slap-squish of your wet bodies colliding echoing through the quiet room. Every thrust sounded like a splash, the excess cum and your own juices bubbling around the point of impact. It was a primal, messy sound that only served to heighten the eroticism of the moment.

You couldn't find words anymore. Instead, you began to hum, a low, vibrating sound in the back of your throat that mirrored the pleasure radiating through your lower body. Your entire frame began to quake, a fine tremor that started in your thighs and traveled up your spine.

Inside, your pussy was in chaos. The walls were spasming, clamping down on his cock in involuntary, rhythmic pulses. Each time he pushed in, your muscles gripped him with a desperate, milking intensity, squeezing him tight as if trying to draw every last drop of pleasure from his body. You were a trembling mess beneath him, completely undone, shivering through the exquisite torture of those slow, wet and deep thrusts.

In between slow kisses and another round of loving, unhurried sex beneath the steaming spray of the shower, you somehow found your way back to his bed again, skin damp, limbs heavy and loose from exhaustion and familiarity. The city lights spilled through the massive windows in streaks of gold and white, cutting across the sheets and over Dean’s bare chest as he laid facing you, one arm tucked beneath his pillow while the other traced lazy paths up and down your naked arm, fingertips catching on goosebumps every now and then. 

Your own hand moved over his face just as slowly, mapping features you already knew by heart but still wanted to relearn anyway, the sharper line of his jaw, the faint crease between his brows, the mouth that always looked seconds away from either a grin or trouble. Time had matured him in unfair ways. He looked older now, rougher around the edges, broader everywhere and yet the expression in his eyes while looking at you still carried traces of the boy who once refused to let you break up with him for six straight weeks.

“What were you thinking?” you asked softly, voice barely louder than the hum of the city beneath you both.

Dean’s eyes stayed on yours while his thumb dragged slowly over your shoulder. “That I needed to get you,” he admitted quietly. “The screen wasn’t cutting it anymore.”

Your thumb lowered to his lips, tracing the soft fullness of them while silence settled comfortably around you again. The truth was neither of you had been thinking much at all tonight. You had simply tripped into each other all over again, like muscle memory, like every version of yourselves somehow still led back here no matter how much distance or time you forced in between. Every conversation with Dean eventually became this strange gravity neither of you ever fully escaped.

His hand slid from your shoulder higher, warm palm settling around your neck as he tugged you closer across the pillows. “What’s so bad about a little lovin’?” he murmured with a crooked grin, the words brushing teasingly against your lips before he kissed you again, slow at first and then deep enough to make your chest ache.

Your heart practically sighed at the feeling while your brain cursed it immediately after. 

“I only see him as a friend” it told you, which was the biggest lie it ever said.

His body was hard against yours, your clothed chest pressing against his in a way that made you wish you weren’t wearing anything. Yet, it was best to be clothed in a house full of guys because you never know when they might walk—

“Hello lovers!” Dean announced as he entered the front door, Allie in tow.

Garrett groaned with annoyance as he stopped kissing you and resorted to burrowing his way back into the crook of your neck.

“Hi Dean.” You answered for both you and Garrett.

“Looking very cosy.” Dean said, hopping over the couch and landing his ass on top of Garrett’s - causing you both to wince at the added pressure.

“Dean!” Allie tutted.

“Fucking prick.” Garrett mumbled, holding you tighter to protect you from his wild best friend.

The comfort of Garrett’s arms around you was second to none. You loved feeling coddled and safe, like the world was not as scary when you were wrapped up in him.

“Dean you’re too heavy. Get off.” You whined.

“I literally weight less than Garrett.”

“And yet I have you both on top of me.”

“Well tell Garrett to get off instead.”

“No fucking way.” Garrett’s head revealed itself from your neck, showing Dean the annoyance he was feeling. “Get off.” He swatted Dean.

“Boys will be boys.” Allie laughed, sitting on the other side of the couch.

Dean shortly left you two alone and over to his girlfriend.

You and Garrett remained laid down, even though you were aware you took up an entire length of the L-shaped sofa. Your boyfriend was too happy cuddled up against you and you didn’t really have any reason to move.

Garrett’s head remained on your chest this time, giving up on trying to kiss you or bury himself deep into your neck - his safe space.

One of your hands run through his curls - something you knew he loved the feeling of. He couldn’t help the fact he was a man whose love language was physical touch.

“Did you use my shampoo this morning?” You asked quietly, as Dean was preoccupied bickering with Allie.

“Mm.”

“I can smell it.”

“At least it smells good.” He gave a slight chuckle.

“It does.”

“Reminds me of you.”

You kissed the top of his head, inhaling the smell of almond butter and something fruity.

The front door opened again and Hannah, Logan, Grace and Tucker came in. Everyone greeted each other, and fortunately no one was rude enough to jump on top of you this time.

“So what time is everyone getting ready?” Tucker asked, sitting down on the edge of the couch next to Allie with a bowl of crisps.

“Ready for what?” Grace asked, curled up besides Logan.

“Party tonight. Here.” Dean answered for her.

“Another one?” Allie threw her head back with a sigh.

“It’s fun, Allie Cat.”

“Bite me.”

You could feel the sexual tension dripping off them both from a mile away, let alone sat just across the room from them.

Instead of giving Dean the opportunity to make some gross joke, Logan chimed in. “I’m only going to take a quick shower. So… In, like, an hour Tuck?”

“Quick shower that turns into an hour long makeout session with your girlfriend.” Dean rolled his eyes and laughed when Logan threw a pillow at him.

“He does have a point.” Garrett’s voice vibrated against your chest as he spoke.

“Says you, G.” Logan scoffed.

You chuckled through a blush, noting Garrett’s own smug smirk.

“Well us girls are getting ready together. You guys are on your own.” Allie announced, making Logan pout and Dean dramatically cry out.

Garrett protests by tightening his hold on you, keeping you in his strong hold beneath him.

“Coming, Y/N?” Hannah asked.

She held her hand out to you, ready to help you escape your boyfriend.

You gripped her hand and she tugged with as much force as she could, but it barely made you move an inch. No thanks to your - as established by Dean - boyfriends heavy weight.

“Save me!” You joked.

“Noooo.” Garrett grumbled.

“I’ll get him, you get Y/N.” Dean walked along the sofa and hovered over Garrett’s body, ready to physically remove him from you.

The rest of the room were either laughing-on or filming. Allie came to stand beside Hannah, holding out her other hand for you to take.

“Ready?” Hannah laughed, “3, 2, 1…”

“Heave!” Dean shouted.

Your body moved from underneath Garrett’s more easily as Dean lifted him up. Garrett was trying to bite back a smile, but ultimately he was pissed that you were being dragged away from him - literally.

Your body slid over the side of the sofa. Your top half was on the floor, whilst your top half was still on the sofa.

“Piss off.” Garrett said, trying to struggle against Dean.

“Boys?”

Dean called the other guys over and the helped raise Garrett off you completely.

After you were cleared of Garrett - feeling surprisingly cold without him near - you hugged your girls hello. It had been a long week and you were happy to get to hang with them now. Even if your boyfriend hated the distance.

Garrett (8:08PM): I miss you.

Garrett (8:08PM): Like a lot.

“God, you two are so disgusting.” Hannah laughed as she read the notifications on your phone. She was helping you with your makeup as the messages from Garrett came through.

“Hey… rude.”

“I mean, you’re also stupidly cute together.” She shrugged her shoulders, applying more highlighter to your cheekbones.

“How are things going with Justin?” You asked her, leaving Garrett on delivered (so needy).

“Okay, yeah. We’re taking it slow.” She smiled.

“Slow’s okay.”

“Yeah. I’m not sure he agrees though.”

“Well that’s shitty of him. You deserve happiness on your own timeline.”

Hannah smiled at you with her kind eyes. She gave you a hug at that comment and you squeezed her tight.

“Love you.” She said.

“Love you too.”

Allie and Grace walked into Garrett’s room then, which you had all taken over to get ready together. Garrett had been allowed to grab some clothes and cologne, but after that he had been banished.

They walked in with two drinks each.

“What are we cuddling for?” Allie asked, placing one drink on Garrett’s desk for you - Grace doing the same for Hannah.

“Love.” Hannah smiled.

“Oh I can get in on that.” Grace laughed, pulling herself around you and Hannah. Allie joined next.

“Ugh okay. Let’s get drunk!” Hannah escaped the hug, forcing you all to disperse.

“Hell yeah!”

“Aye!”

The next half an hour was spent doing finishing touches on makeup, hair and outfits.

Allie had borrowed clothes from Hannah’s closet. Grace had borrowed Allie’s makeup. You stole some of Hannah’s jewellery.

This was what girlhood was about.

You were wearing your own high waisted, black, pin-stripe trousers along with a ridiculously flattering burgundy corset top from Hannah’s wardrobe. Your shoes were your platform Doc Martens.

After you’d taken a fair amount of pictures with each other, as well as some solo-shots, you decided that you were finally ready to join the party.

Technically the party had started at 7PM and it was now almost 9PM, but no one ever turned up this early.

The girls left Garrett’s room and you told them you’d be there in one moment, because you almost forgot to put back on the necklace that your boyfriend had bought for you. You’d had to take it off whilst getting ready, at risk of it getting damaged.

You were stood by your overnight bag, watching out of Garrett’s window as party-comers arrived, and fiddled with the clasp of your necklace to secure it.

When Garrett’s arms melted around your waist you didn’t panic, because you knew it was him.

His lips kissed your neck, causing you to automatically lean away for him to have better access.

“Stop.” You laughed.

“Stop?”

“Yes, I’m trying to put my necklace back on.”

“But,” He kissed your neck again, “You’re,” Kiss, “So,” Kiss, “Beautiful.” Kiss.

“You’re intolerable.”

“Maybe.” He kissed you one last time, before taking his arms from around your waist and bringing them up to help you clasp your necklace together. “Or maybe I just love you.”

With your necklace secured, you turned around to face him.

His eyes were darkened as he looked down at you - genuinely, probably, undressing you with his eyes.

From this distance you could smell his cologne and it was so delectable. You subtly breathed him in and tried to keep calm over how feral it made you.

He was wearing a forest green sweater, with a white t-shirt peeking from underneath and his classic gold chain on show.

“What?” You smiled, blushing.

Garrett didn’t say anything, but he didn’t need to.

His hands came to cup your cheeks and tilt your face to an angle where he could kiss you better.

You melted like butter as he kissed you.

It was only a safe peck, but one that you could get lost in for a moment. You could tell he knew that you’d be mad if he messed up your makeup at this point in the night.

He pulled back an inch, with a smirk, only to lean back in and kiss you again because he really couldn’t get enough of you.

“You taste like cherry liqueur.” He said.

“Allie made us do shots.”

“Sounds about right.”

Garrett’s hands dropped from your cheeks down to the waistband of your trousers, looping his finger into the belt holds.

Your own hands slid up his chest, scrunching the material there.

Both of you stared at each other for a few moments. A silent conversation passing between you both with nothing but sparkling eyes and breathing tempos to go off.

“Ready to go downstairs?” You asked.

“I mean… We could just stay in here..”

“That’s not an option.”

“So there is an alternative to going downstairs?” He raised an eyebrow.

You shook your head, “I promise I’ll be in your bed at the end of the night, Graham. Just not yet.”

You leaned up to kiss him one more time, but before he could get too into it and completely make you ignore what you’d just promised you broke away from him and walked over to his open bedroom door.

“C’mon.” You held out your hand for him.

He made a sound somewhere between a scoff and a laugh, before pretending to be reluctant in joining his hand with yours and head downstairs.

There are surprisingly more people downstairs than you thought there would be.

Dean and Allie are already on the makeshift dance floor. Tucker and Logan are doing shots. Hannah and Grace are chatting to some new people.

Garrett holds your hand as he leads you down the stairs, looking back every so often to get a glimpse of you. He's always had a hard time keeping his eyes off you for more than five minutes at a time.

"Want a drink?" He asked.

You both walked into the kitchen area. "Not yet." The drinks you'd had upstairs with the girls kind of felt like your limit already.

"Okay." He kissed your forehead and let you go so he could grab himself a beer from the fridge.

You looked around the room as Garrett took a long drink.

There were some people here that you knew, through friends, hockey or another reason, but there were also so many people that you didn't know. Like the crowd of girls that were sat on the sofa and shamelessly ogling your boyfriend.

“Garrett Graham, holy shit.” You could hear them from over here.

You looked down at yourself then, tugging at the bottom of your top to cover the slither of skin that had started to appear on your waistline.

Garrett's hand slunk around your waist moments later, pulling you close to his side.

Your gaze lifted to his, smiling when you realised he was already smiling down at you.

"G! What's up?" A guy shouted as he entered the kitchen area.

Garrett smiled, his hand leaving the comfort of your body to give the guy a bro-hug. "Hey, man. You know Y/N, right?”

"Yeah of course." The guy nodded at you, before moving onto the next guy to greet.

Garrett's hand came back home to land on the small of your back, watching carefully to make sure no one bumped into you whilst they were greeting one another.

You watched on as Garrett keep greeting new people, but always keeping you close.

He would kindly introduce you to everyone you didn't know, even if most of them never stuck around long enough to actually learn anything about you. There were only a few things guys at parties ever really wanted to talk about; hockey, sex, and girls. Since Garrett no longer participated in conversations about two of those things, people tended to drift away pretty quickly - especially when they realised his girlfriend was standing right beside him.

As Dean came over and started talking about some inside joke, you noticed that Garrett was hanging on to every word his best friend was saying.

This was a good moment for you to let him have his fun with the guys.

“I’m gonna go find the girls for a bit.” You said.

"Okay baby.” He smiled and kissed your forehead.

You walked out of the kitchen area feeling weird.

Like the second you stepped downstairs, the party had stopped feeling like Garrett’s home and started feeling like everyone else’s territory instead.

You smiled politely at someone who walked past you, rubbing your arm subconsciously as you weaved through the growing crowds of people to your girls.

As you spotted the girls jumping up and down, whilst simultaneously grinding on each other, you overheard a couple of girls voices on the sofa in front of you - the same ones that had been ogling Garrett before.

"Wait, that's his girlfriend?"

One girl had her phone open on Garrett's Instagram, looking at a photo from a charity hockey ball of the two of you. She clicked on the photo, bringing up your tag and clicked on it to bring her to your page.

"Y/N." The other girl said, "Doesn't she work at Malone's?"

"Yeah."

"Got Garrett Graham as a boyfriend and yet still has to work a side-job? Yikes."

Your gaze focused back on your friends having a great time with each other, but you couldn't find it in your heart to go and join them now.

You were becoming so aware of yourself in that moment. Your clothes suddenly feeling wrong and you don't know where to stand.

Before you could overthink it, your feet were already carrying you back toward the stairs.

Back to Garrett’s room.

Back to somewhere that felt familiar.

"Ready for another round of shots?" Dean asked, causing a chorus of cheers from the surrounding guys in the kitchen area.

Garrett laughed to himself, sipping on his first and last beer.

He looked towards the makeshift dance floor, looking for you but his eyes could only pick out Allie, Hannah and Grace from the crowd.

Garrett's eyebrows furrowed as he pushed off the counter he was leaning on to get a better view. His hand reached for the phone in his trouser pocket, checking to see if you had messaged but there was nothing.

Perhaps you had gone to the toilet.

“I’ll be back,” he muttered to Dean before moving through the crowd toward the girls.

A hand on his sweater tugged him away from the direction he was going and he turned around instantly, thinking it would be you, but his gaze only darkened when he realised it was a random girl he had hooked up with years ago.

"Hey Garrett."

“Hey,” he answered politely, already trying to step around her.

"Do you want to, maybe..."

"No." Garrett interrupted before she could even finish asking. Garrett sighed, not unkindly, just distracted.

"But..."

"I have a girlfriend."

"What she doesn't know won't hurt her."

Garrett stared at her for a second like she’d said something genuinely confusing. “Yeah, not really how this works.” He walked away from her before she could even reply.

The girls cheered when they spotted him approaching, but Garrett barely reacted.

He felt as though he wasn't completely right without you standing next to him.

His hand felt lost without having a place to hold against you. He shoved his beer-less hand into his trouser pocket for something to replace the feeling of yours.

“Where’s Y/N?” he asked immediately.

"I... don't know." Allie's expression visibly softened when she realised that Garrett was concerned.

"I haven't seen her since she came downstairs." Hannah said. "Why?"

"Doesn't matter. I'll catch you in a bit." He nodded at them in thanks.

As Garrett migrated his way through the house, he tried checking every corner of the room. People were constantly greeting him, but he was only focused on finding you.

After he had done a couple laps of downstairs and outside and still hadn't found you, his eyes drifted towards the stairs.

Garrett handed his half-finished beer to some random person before ascending the stairs.

You were laying on Garrett's bed when he came in.

"There you are."

You watched Garrett's eyes soften when he saw you. He closed his door behind him, locking it too, but not once taking his gaze off you - at risk of you disappearing again.

"Hey." You smiled.

"Hey."

He climbed on his bed, laying down next to you but slightly angling his body towards yours. One of his hands picked up one of yours to hold, his other softly brushing some hair off your forehead.

“Been looking for you.”

To anyone else, having Garrett Graham hovering just above you and focusing on nothing but you might be really intimidating, but to you there was no place you felt safer... or seen.

"Sorry. Just needed a minute."

You can tell your struggling to convince Garrett that you're okay, no thanks to the avoidance of eye contact and the fact you'd started rubbing your thumb against Garrett's hand anxiously. He didn't make any move to stop you though.

There was no way that you could hide how you were feeling for too long.

Garrett knew you too well.

There was no doubt that he could see the tension in your body and the way your smile hadn't fully reached your eyes.

"Talk to me, baby."

Garrett waited patiently beside you, thumb still brushing slowly over your knuckles. You focused on the movement, otherwise you were going to fall apart sooner than you wanted to.

“I don’t know.” You admitted quietly.

“You don’t know?”

“I just…” You huffed softly through your nose, staring somewhere near his shoulder instead of at him. “I suddenly felt weird downstairs. Like everybody else just… fit there better than I did.”

Garrett moved a little, rolling his neck slight, "“Did somebody say something to you?”

“Not really.”

"Baby... Help me understand." You focused on him then, and you could see his heart break when he noticed the pools of tears in your eyes. "Hey..."

"I'm sorry." Your lower lip wobbled. “It’s so stupid.”

"No, no. Don't do that. If you're upset, it's not stupid." He furrowed his eyebrows, desperately trying to understand you.

"I'm sorry I'm ruining your night."

"You're not, baby. At some point Dean is going to do a shot out of Beau's belly button and that will ruin the night."

You laughed at that, your chest raising up and down that let Garrett know it was a real life. He smiled at the sight, relieved to see the sparkle in your eyes come back to light.

“There she is.”

Once you stopped giggling over his Dean comment you felt ready and comfortable to let him in.

"I just didn't feel like I fit in down there. And it’s nothing you did. Or the girls. Or the guys. I don’t know. I sound insane trying to explain it."

Garrett shook his head softly.

"Sounds pretty human to me." He said.

"Garrett..." You scoffed.

"Y/N..." He returned the sentiment.

"I just zoomed out and felt uncomfortable being there. Just wanted to be somewhere else. Somewhere safe."

"And you chose my room?" Garrett made the moment sound so sweet.

"Of course." You nodded and Garrett’s expression softened so completely it almost made your chest ache.

“Baby…” he murmured. He stopped holding your hand, so he could cup your cheek gently, thumb brushing beneath your eye. Your throat tightened immediately. “I don’t want you feeling alone in a room I’m standing in."

"And I don’t… I didn’t feel alone. I think I just got in my head. It's probably that time of the month." You brushed it all off, feeling silly now.

"Not for another 13 days."

You gave Garrett the side eye with a knowing smirk, "13 days huh?"

"Precisely." He smiled, "So whatever you felt tonight was still okay to feel."

Garrett leaned down to press a kiss to your forehead before pulling you against his chest. You melted into him easily this time, the tight feeling in your chest finally beginning to loosen.

Downstairs, the bass still rattled through the floorboards and Dean’s voice echoed loudly through the house - no doubt doing that belly shot.

♡⠀ 𓈒۫ i. midoriya

➜ midoriya's great with kids! defo cried when he held his daughter for the first time, like full-on ugly sobbing.

➜ since the day you told him you were pregnant he kept a notebook for everything relating to kids, now that she's born, keeps a collection for her through the years noting her interests, preferences, so on.

➜ will profusely apologize if he raises his voice even slightly.

➜ the PTA's favorite parent because he is on top of everything, has arranged multiple school events on top of his grueling schedule.

➜ practices his 'serious dad' voice in the mirror. does not use it.

➜ keeps every single drawing she's ever made, even the ones where he isn't exactly sure how the orange triangle is a giraffe?

➜ is actually excited to attend all of her events, marks them on every calendar he has access to, sits through all of it without any complaints.

➜ writes her little notes for the day and slips them into her lunchbox

♡⠀ 𓈒۫ k. bakugo

➜ swears he'd never be one of those soft parents, folds as soon as she cries in his arms.

➜ is extremely good at styling her hair for some reason, she refuses to let anyone else do it because they don't 'do it right'.

➜ she will climb him like her own personal jungle gym, and he will pretend to hate it.

➜ calls her a little 'gremlin' and is one of those parents who jokes she isnt actually his kid and you two got her from the dumpster.

➜ threatens the 'monsters' under her bed extremely seriously, will discuss war tactics with her if the 'monster' doesn't go away.

➜ i just know that kid is a little shit like him, his mom loves taunting him with it. ("now you know what you put me through.")

➜ doesn't believe in babysitters, takes time off for her majority of the time, the most he'll be convinced to do is maybe let her stay with his parents or his friends and even that he hesitates to do.

➜ lets her help out in the kitchen, or well mostly just be there for moral support while he tells her to not shove her head in the oven or something.

♡⠀ 𓈒۫ s. todoroki

➜ shoto was honestly scared to become a father in the first place, and i don't think he'd have a gender preference or anything because he never wants to be like his father was when he was growing up. very gentle with her.

➜ offers her his pinky to hold wherever they're going even if it's just going to the kitchen from the bedroom, he never lets go first either.

➜ uses his quirk to warm her up or cool her down depending on the weather, for the first few years of her life she genuinely does not know about temperature variation because he makes sure she's always comfortable.

➜ very seriously attempts 'dad jokes', because he doesn't exactly understand what they're meant to be. she laughs anyway.

➜ you know this man spoils her, anything she looks at? give him one in every single color.

➜ he isn't very good at emotional talks or feelings but he'll always listen to whatever she has to say, and most of the time thats enough.

➜ takes a lot of candid pictures of her to keep as memories.

➜ very keenly interested in her drawings, thinks she's some sort of abstract mastermind.

♡⠀ 𓈒۫ t. iida

➜ his ass is PREPARED. color-coded calendars? done. schedules to optimize every single day? done.

➜ parenting manual truther i fear. reads them religiously and thinks that he's gonna follow them perfectly. until he realizes that a child is.. spontaneous.

➜ always cheers the loudest at school events, even if it's a bit stoic.

➜ neither of them can dance for shit. he teaches her his robot moves and she can replicate them perfectly somehow??

➜ can be a bit strict in terms of discipline and teaching but melts almost immediately if she looks at him with those eyes.

➜ panics if she scrapes her knee or even gets a paper cut, she's the one comforting him sometimes.

➜ watches kids tv shows with her to 'monitor what content she's consuming', but is just really into watching bluey.

➜ doesn't spoil her in the same way as shoto would per say, but will buy anything if she asks nicely enough.

♡⠀ 𓈒۫ e. kirishima

➜ #1 GIRL DAD. HAS A T-SHIRT THAT SAYS SO WITH HER FACE ON IT.

➜ you know he hypes her up for whatever she's doing, and she energetically babbles in response.

➜ carries her on his shoulders literally everywhere. she's his little princess afterall.

➜ cries at her events, literally as soon as she's up on stage, here come the waterworks.

➜ encourages her to be open about her emotions and express how she feels however she's comfortable. feelings are manly!

➜ he likes doing drawing and doing coloring books with her, calls them a great bonding activity.

➜ both him and that kid have some hyperfixation on squishmellows, the nursery is practically overflowing with them at one point.

➜ he shows her off like crazy. "oh this? it's just a world's best dad mug my daughter bought as a gift for me because my daughter is just so amazing."

♡⠀ 𓈒۫ d. kaminari

➜ oh he's a disaster, he does not know how to do this, literal trainwreck but it's kind of endearing?

➜ he lets her win at whatever they're playing, because he's just so cool. honestly most of the time she just wins on her own but he gets to play it off as him being humble.

➜ menace duo, constantly trying one prank or another. god forbid they get their hands on water balloons. all hell breaks loose.

➜ tries to help with her homework to appear smart and manages to fail miserably, she ends up teaching him.

➜ embarrasses her constantly, he thinks it's funny.

➜ buys her a minifridge for some reason?? thinks it's the best gift known to mankind.

➜ midnight snack hoarders the both of them. literally it'll be like two in the morning and they're both eating cheese puffs or something.

➜ she thinks he's the funniest, coolest guy in the world.

♡⠀ 𓈒۫ h. shinso

➜ pretty relaxed and laidback, he's quite observant though.

➜ will instantly figure out when something's wrong, what it is and how to make her feel better about it. most of the time it involves harassing the family cat, or food, or both.

➜ uses his voice changer to replicate the voices from whatever cartoon character she likes, even without it he can do a mean squidward.

➜ the two can sit in silence very comfortably.

➜ teaches her emotional intelligence and boundaries very early on so that she doesn't take anyone's shit like he used to in junior high.

➜ lets her paint his nails whatever color she wants, so yes, pro hero nighthide does have sparkly pink nails and he owns them.

➜ both of them have like creepily similar food preferences, and both of them for some reason hate peas with a burning passion.

➜ she sleeps best when she's laying on his chest.

♡⠀ 𓈒۫ n. monoma

➜ one word. dramatic. very dramatic.

➜ brags about her so hard, to like literally anyone, man, woman, tree. ("my daughter is far superior, naturally.")

➜ absolutely insufferable to other parents, the PTA has considered banning him on multiple occasions.

➜ will verbally berate literally anyone who even looks at her the wrong way, and yes will completely freak out when she brings anybody home.

➜ literally has speeches prepared for her birthday parties, and they aren't short either, one of them went on for a good hour and a half.

➜ almost like over-praises the smallest accomplishments but never in a demeaning way and they sound so genuine it's actually kind of funny.

➜ they have matching tuxedos.

➜ that child is just like him and can actually eviscerate anybody verbally because she's been learning sarcasm since the ripe age of three.

♡⠀ 𓈒۫ t. shigaraki

➜ shigaraki isn't great with kids. honestly he lowkey doesn't like them, but he cares a lot for his own.

➜ terrified of hurting her, will always be extra careful around her while keeping his hands gloved just in case.

➜ overprotective to the point where it's sometimes paranoia.

➜ physically flinches when he hears her crying. he doesn't know what to do.

➜ he definitely struggles a lot with patience but has never once taken anything out on her because at the end of the day, he loves that kid more than anything.

➜ he's a little freak who actually enjoys baby food and snacks for some reason, like literally has favorite flavors of baby food that he'll buy extra of so that both of them can eat it together. it's actually disgusting but it's a hill he'll die on.

➜ she watches him play games like it's the most interesting thing in the world, he'll give her a disconnected controller sometimes so that she thinks she's playing.

➜ not the best with affection but he does try, he even read up on it on some shitty parenting site because he wanted to but in the effort.

♡⠀ 𓈒۫ k. takami

➜ 'cool dad' and self-proclaimed dilf.

➜ takes her flying so much that the girl actually flew before she learned how to walk properly.

➜ his own childhood was terrible and will do anything in his power to make sure that she doesn't for a second feel the way he felt for all those years.

➜ cries on her first day of school harder than she does and always picks her up from the sky.

➜ she puts him in time out when he's made one bad joke too many.

➜ gives her one of his feathers whenever she's away from him so that he always knows she's safe and also because who wouldn't want to show off that their dad is the pro-hero hawks.

➜ brings her little trinkets from all his missions, and she keeps them all safe in a special little box.

➜ she's his little baby bird and he keeps her wrapped in his wings whenever she's cold or can't sleep.

♡⠀ 𓈒۫ s. aizawa

➜ THE GIRL DAD EVER in a nonchalant way.

➜ practically raised eri for a while and his class of problem children so he is experienced and ready for anything she can throw at him.

➜ they have matching sleeping bags.

➜ is really blunt with his advice and doesn't sugarcoat things in the slightest but cares deeply.

➜ will bring her to class sometimes and all of his students fawn over her. she's like a class pet.

➜ carries around snacks god knows where and just always has them on him?? its kinda creepy.

➜ stays up all night if she's sick.

➜ the two have a designated nap time where they just like go to bed?? in sync?? how is this possible??

♡⠀ 𓈒۫ m. togata

➜ THE BEST DAD EVER REGARDLESS OF THE GENDER OF THE CHILD BECAUSE MIRIO TOGATA THE MAN YOU ARE.

➜ encourages her constantly, is her number one hype man, and like kirishima, also has a shirt with her face on it. in fact he has MULTIPLES.

➜ does her hair, dresses her up, takes her shopping, you name it, he's already doing it.

➜ makes her breakfast, lunch and dinner in with those silly shapes and yes her rice has to be shaped like hello kitty and her sausages have to be cut into little octopus or else she wont eat it.

➜ bedtime stories with sound effects and different voices. it's a wholeass theatrical production.

➜ helps her with her homework, teaches her how to be kind and express herself, honestly what can't this man do?

➜ carries her around everywhere because she's always going to be his princess and no one will ever take that away from him.

➜ makes the best silly faces and is a pro at peek-a-boo.

You lean your head back, looking up to your boyfriend. Sometimes you could not believe this was your life, how you managed to find not only the perfect guy, but a family that accepts you for you. Even though you’re a year older than Jack, you were adopted as Jack and Luke’s ‘little sister’.

As you stare up at your boyfriend, you couldn’t help but smile.

“Wanna hit the lake one more time?” Jack asks you.

“Oh yes, because I’ll take care of it all while you go out on the boat.” Quinn says to his brother while he looks back down at you.

“What are big brothers for?” Jack questions, his smile blooming as his older brother scoffs.

“You guys go, I’ve got dinner tonight.” Quinn states, moving his thumb under your jaw as his lips lock onto yours.

“Well now I’m not hungry anymore.” Luke states, making you chuckle into the kiss. Pulling away to death glare at the youngest Hughes. Jack turns his face away, but the heavy shaking of his shoulders wasn’t missed by you or Quinn.

“Just wait until you’re in love Lu.” You coo, standing up, the comfort of Quinn’s chest leaving you. Luke only sticks his tongue out at you in response.

“I’ll start the boat up!” Jack says, running down to the dock before Quinn can change his mind about not needing any help.

“You sure you don’t need any help?” You ask, turning around to face him. “I can stay behind and help you, turns out I’m pretty good at handling some meat.” You bite your lip, looking up to your boyfriend, who’s smirk is the biggest you’ve seen it all day.

“Oh my fucking god you guys are disgusting.” Luke says. “We’ll be on the boat, Y/N. For… whenever you’re done with whatever this is.” He says, pointing at the two of you then going to follow Jack. You swear you heard slight mumblings of ‘god’ and ‘disgusting’.

“Go have fun love, but you’ll be owning up to your words later.” He says, pointing at you. You kiss him again, moving your fingers to grab at his slightly damp hair. A groan slipping from him, causing your ego to go through the roof. There’s no denying the effect you have on him, but seeing it and hearing it are two completely different things.

“I’ve got to go,” you say pulling back as Quinn groans into your neck. “before your brothers decide to leave me behind.”

“They’d never. I think they love you more than they love me.” He jokes, pulling his head away from your neck.

—

You pull the wrap around your body tighter as you finally make it down to the boat. Jack sitting in the drivers seat, while him and Luke bicker over music. The sun was closer to the water, the laughter of the three of you carrying across the lake.

“How was that one?” Jack asks, wading in the water. You look to Luke, who shakes his head.

“A six.” Luke states.

“A six?” Jack exclaims, climbing back onto the boat, flipping his wet hair out of his eyes. “That flip was at least an eight!”

“Mmm, complaining? Now you’ve bumped it down to a five.” You say, making Luke throw his head back in laughter.

“Five?” Jack echos, “that’s cold hearted, sis.”

“Yep, a five. Can you even count that high?” You question, making Luke lose his mind.

“Oh it’s fucking on.” Jack says, before dragging you up by your arm.

“Don’t you fucking dare!” You yell before Jack shoves you off the boat, but not before you grab his hand pulling him in with you.

The cold hits you immediately but as you surface you feel it, a strange and painful throb on your thigh, it worsens as Luke cannonballs over your head. You start to grab onto the boat, not looking back at the brothers in the water.

“Oh come on sis, I’m sorry!” Jack exclaims, thinking you were upset about him pushing you. But, as you pull yourself up and your leg rests on the back of the boat you freeze.

“Holy fuck.” Luke says, wiping his eyes and swimming over to you.

That’s when the burning starts, a thick flash that seizes up your entire leg. What the hell had even happened? You didn’t feel the initial cut, but you fell way too close to the boat for comfort.

“Oh my god Y/N, I’m so sorry.” Jack starts, and you knew it was serious as soon as he started using your name. Jack had started calling you Sis as soon as you and Quinn had started dating. Not that anyone ever questioned it anyways, it made you feel apart of the family, and it made Quinn’s heart soar knowing that his brothers, who are equally his best friends, love his girlfriend.

“No, no. It’s not your fault.” You say looking down to your thigh, you didn’t normally get queasy around blood. It’s a very normal thing to see with a boyfriend and his two brothers in hockey. But something about the way the cut heavily drips down your thigh and lands on the boat makes you want to throw up.

Jack launches himself onto the boat, Luke directly behind him. But you remain, staring at the blood still running, the pain intensifying by the second. Luke grabs a towel, moving back to you and laying it over the cut.

“I have to press down on it okay?” He says softly, as if he spoke normally it would startle you.

You only nod, blinded by the pain it’s causing.

“You’ve got to get in a seat, we have to get back.” He continues with a soft tone, something you don’t normally hear from the youngest Hughes brother. You nod, not feeling fully in control of your body.

Both brothers move to your sides, gripping under your arms and as gently as they could sitting you down on one of the seats of the boat. Your leg resting straight out in front of you, as Luke moves your hand to press down on your leg. You pretend not to notice the deep red staining the light blue towel. You can’t ignore however, the red that’s staining Luke’s hand. Blood. Your blood.

Jack starts the boat up, apologizing profusely and asking if you’re okay. You did hear everything he was saying, but you couldn’t manage to make a response. The stains and rich colors surrounding you making your head feel fuzzy.

“He’s not answering.” Luke says to Jack, putting his phone back into one of the cup holders. You could see the tightness in his shoulders, another out of character trait for him. It takes a lot to raddle the brothers, but seeing both of them sharp spined and wide eyed didn’t help your growing anxiety.

“It’s okay, we’ll be back in five minutes.” Jack says, his eyes continuing to glance from you to the open water in front of him.

“Hey,” Luke says to you, trying to get your attention. Your eyes flick up to his, seeing the worry planted in them. “You’re going to be okay, we’re almost home. You can’t die because of a cut, imagine how embarrassing that would be. I’d never let you live it down”

A small chuckle leaves your lips at that, but the movement caused searing pain to run through your entire leg. Your hand is warm, the blood thick in the towel that you’re pressing down on. You were trying to stay strong, trying not to cry over a little cut. It’s just a scratch, just a scratch. And you’ll be with Quinn soon, and he’ll fix it.

It’s just a scratch

It’s just a scratch

It’s just a scratch

But the scratch has now fully coated the beach towel, and the smell of blood was shoving its way into your nose making you want to gag. You didn’t know how much longer you could take this.

“Quinn.” you say, voice cracking a little bit. You just wanted your boyfriend. Your boyfriend who made everything better, who always knew exactly what to do and how to fix everything.

“We’re getting you to him, we promise.” Jack says, maxing out the speed on the boat.

You could see the dock, see the stairs that led up to the house. The house that you loved, and the house that Quinn was currently in, not having any clue his girlfriend was currently gushing blood in his boat. As soon as Jack got to the dock Luke made a jump for it, running up the steps to get your boyfriend.

“Come on Y/N, we’ve got to get you to the house.” Jack says, moving so you can throw your arm around his shoulder. You stifle a little cry as you stand, the cut a continuous painful pulse. You lean your weight into him as he gets you both off the boat and onto the dock.

“I know, I know. I’m so sorry.” Jack says, helping you slowly but still with a sense of urgency.

“Y/N? Holy shit.” You hear, and you know that voice. You could pick it out in a crowd of thousands of people. Quinn moves fast, bolting down the steps to where you and Jack are trying to hobble your way up. “Jesus sweetheart.” He says, his eyes sizing up your thigh. The bloody towel was left behind in the boat, so now it was back to trickling down your leg, your breath starts to shake a bit. “Hey, look at me. You’re going to be okay. We just have to get you stitched up, and you’ll be good as new. Okay?” Quinn says, being careful not to scare you. He looks in your eyes, and a part of his heart cracks as he sees them filling with pain and fear. “Everything’s okay sweetheart, just breathe for me.”

“It hurts, Quinny.” You say, your body getting transferred from Jack to Quinn. He picks you up bridal style, rushing you to the car.

“Just focus on me, yeah? We’re going to get you all fixed, don’t worry I’ve got you now.” He comforts you, trying not to shake you in his arms as you get to the driveway.

“Can you guys please turn off the grill and get dinner put away?” Quinn asks as Luke opens the car door for Quinn to set you down.

“We can come-“ Luke starts, but Quinn cuts him off.

“Please.” Quinn says, looking at them.

“Y/N I’m so sorry.” Jack says, his face pale and eyes wide. You could see the regret covering all his features, and the normally outgoing and courageous man you know looked small.

“It’s okay Jacky.” You say, giving him a small smile, the only thing you could muster. You didn’t want him to feel bad, it truly wasn’t his fault. But you know him better than most, and he’ll blame himself for this. Quinn closes the car door, saying something to his brothers as he runs around to the drivers seat before hauling ass out of the driveway.

“You can cry now, they can’t see you.” He says, gripping my hand in his.

“How did you know?”

“Because I know you, love. They wouldn’t have judged you for crying in front of them. Especially given the circumstance. Hell, they wouldn’t judge you for crying about anything.” He reasons, his hand tightening ever so slightly on your own.

“It hurts like a bitch.” You whisper, eyes lining with tears. “I didn’t want him to blame himself. I thought it would be worse if I broke out in tears.”

“It’s going to be okay. I’ll get you all fixed up, and we can do whatever you want. It’s all you for the night.” He says, and the tears finally hit your cheek. “It’s all you every night, for the rest of my life.”

—

With 17 new stitches, you were finally back in Quinn’s car heading back to the lake house. You cringed getting back in the front seat, seeing the red that was soaking into the fabric.

“I don’t give a shit about the car, love.” Was his only response, shutting the guilt down in you before it could fully bloom.

Backing out of the parking spot, he hands you his phone, letting you turn on your playlist. Quinn’s phone was ringing off the hook, but he continued to ignore them all. Singing along to your favorite songs with you was more important than whoever was calling. With one hand on the wheel and the other holding your hand, he drove you both back to the lake house.

The entire hospital process Quinn didn’t leave your side, he talked to you about what’s been going on in the team group chat, this movie he heard of that he thought you’d like, keeping you updated on his book, promising to take you to all your favorite places each day for the rest of the summer. Anything he could think of to distract you, and it was the promise of taking you book shopping that you were going to hold him too. Not that he minded of course, he loved reading with you, both of you laying together in your own worlds but just doing it together was what mattered.

You have never been more thankful for him than you are now. And as you pull in the driveway, and you shift to start to get out, he gives you one look that silences that idea.

“I can get out of the car on my own.” You say, tiredly smiling at him knowing you’re battling for something you’ll never win.

“I know you can, but you’re not.” He says, coming around to the passenger door and lifting you up to carry you in the house.

“Is this what it’s going to be like until I get the stitches out?” You ask him, resting your head in between his neck and shoulder as he walked. “You carrying me around for everything?”

“I’d carry you around like this for the rest of your life if that’s what you wanted.”

“Oh my, I think somebody likes me.” You joke.

“Like you? No.” He scoffs, shaking his head as he makes it through the front door. “I’m a little far past like. In fact, I’m so in love with you that you might have to beg me not to carry you around like this for the rest of my life.”

Before you could respond, you were interrupted by two voices yelling, “Welcome back!”

Quinn chuckles, walking towards his two brothers. As you take in your surroundings, you smile brightly at the pair. The couch had been covered with blankets, and pillows lined the corner of the couch making a comfy looking spot. One of Quinn’s sweatshirts laid over the back of the cushion, luckily you had spare clothes you changed into at the hospital from Quinn’s car, but the promise of his favorite sweatshirt was too good to pass up. The tv was on, your favorite movie paused at the beginning. Pizza boxes laid out on the coffee table, plates and napkins accompanying them.

“You’ve been busy.” You say at the brothers, as Quinn sets you down in the corner of the couch, slipping the sweatshirt on over your head.

“We got all your favorites, except the ice cream situation. We couldn’t remember which flavor was your favorite, so we got five just to be safe.” Jack says, twiddling his thumbs.

“You bought FIVE?” You exclaim. “Wow Jack, I didn’t even know you could count that high.” You say, laughing at the insult that started this whole debacle.

Quinn laughs, covering you with a blanket, kissing you softly on the lips.

“Come on you rookies, you know it’s caramel cold brew.” Quinn states, sitting down next to you and putting his arm up so you could lean in.

“I fucking told you.” Luke says to Jack.

“No you didn’t. If I remember correctly you said, ‘why not just buy them all’.” Jack exclaims, turning towards the younger brother.

“Are you saying I don’t deserve them all?” You tease, the three looking at you.

“We would have bought out the whole damn store for you Sis.” Jack says, plopping down on the couch and grabbing himself a slice of pizza. Luke grabs a plate and places a few slices on it before handing it to you.

“Thanks Lu.” You say softly, sitting up just enough to be able to eat. Your thigh was numb, but pains every once in a while shot through.

You listen to all three of them talk, enjoying the comfort and food. Before you know it the house is back to being filled with laughter and bickering from all sides.

As Luke and Jack go head to head about who’s a better player, Quinn takes your empty plate from you and rests it back on the coffee table. He tucks you into his side, brushing your hair behind your ear and kissing your forehead.

“PLEASE YOU FELL OVER!” Jack yells, standing up with arms waving all around.

“Oh yeah says Mr. Can’t Stay on his Feet.” Quinn says, adding to the fray.

“Sis come on, back me up.” Jack says, looking defeated.

“I’ve seen some wipeouts in my time, but that Jacky was the worst.” You say, shrugging lightly.

“HA!” Luke yells, pointing his finger at Jack. Before the middle brother scoffs, saying he’s going to grab everyone ice cream.

“How long do you think I can milk this injury?” You ask your boyfriend.

“Probably until the day we all die.” He says, kicking his feet up on the coffee table.

“Good.” You say, watching Jack set bowls out in the kitchen. “Because my car needs to go in for an oil change, think I can guilt Jack into it?” You joke.

Quinn laughs, his chest rumbling. “If he tries to get out of it, just start reaching for your thigh. He’ll do whatever you want then.”

“You’re evil Quinn Hughes.” You say, tilting your chin to fully look up at him.

“No, I’m just an older brother.”

“Not just an older brother.” You state.

“No? What else am I?” He asks you, and you smile lightly before looking at the man who you love as you say,

“Those cinnamon rolls are mine,” Quinn corrects, but there’s no heat in it. He’s too busy being disgustingly happy, as usual.

Garland snorts. “Dude, you guys are like something out of a Hallmark movie. High school sweethearts, she bakes, you do the whole hockey thing. It’s almost gross how wholesome you are.”

“Remember when she brought those cookies shaped like little hockey sticks for the charity event?” Myers adds, shaking his head. “My wife still talks about how cute that was.”

“She spent three days on those,” Quinn says, and there’s so much pride in his voice that Brock actually clutches his chest like he’s been wounded.

“Make it stop,” Brock wheezes dramatically. “The wholesomeness is killing me.”

Quinn just rolls his eyes, setting his coffee down on the bench. He reaches for the hem of his shirt, tugging it up and over his head in one smooth motion.

The locker room goes silent.

Like, completely silent.

Quinn tosses his shirt into his stall, reaching for his practice gear, and that’s when he seems to notice the sudden lack of noise. He turns around, eyebrows raised. “What?”

“Holy shit,” Brock breathes.

“What the fuck happened to you?” Demko asks, his eyes wide as dinner plates.

Quinn’s back is a canvas of red scratches — long, deliberate lines that rake from his shoulders down to his lower back, disappearing beneath the waistband of his pants. Some are fading to pink, others are still angry red. When he turns fully, his chest isn’t much better. There are marks at his collarbone, distinctive bruises that can only be one thing, and more scratches across his ribs.

“What are you talking about?” Quinn asks, genuine confusion on his face.

Petey points, his mouth hanging open. “Did you … did you get attacked by a bear?”

“Or fall into a thorn bush?” Garland suggests weakly.

“Multiple thorn bushes,” Hoglander corrects.

Quinn looks down at himself, and for a moment there’s a flicker of something in his expression. Then it smooths out into an unreadable mask. “Oh. That.”

“‘Oh, that?’” Brock repeats, his voice climbing an octave. “THAT? Dude, you look like you went ten rounds with a mountain lion!”

“And lost,” Demko adds.

Quinn shrugs, and even that movement makes some of the marks on his shoulders more visible. “Didn’t lose.” There’s something in his voice — something almost smug — that makes everyone lean in.

“Hold on,” Garland says slowly. “Those are-”

“Yep.”

“From-”

“Yep.”

The locker room erupts.

“NO WAY!”

“Sweet little Y/N did THAT?”

“The girl who brings us cookies?”

“The one who blushes when we swear around her?”

Quinn is pulling on his practice jersey now, and there’s this tiny smile playing at his lips. Not the soft, private one from earlier. This one is different. Satisfied. Maybe a little bit proud.

“I don’t believe it,” Brock announces, but he’s grinning like the Cheshire cat. “Show me your back again.”

“No.”

“Come on!”

“No,” Quinn repeats, but he’s fighting a laugh now.

Petey is shaking his head slowly, like his entire worldview has just been shattered. “She made hockey stick cookies.”

“She did,” Quinn confirms.

“She always asks about our families.”

“She does.”

“She literally said ‘oh fudge’ when someone dropped a puck at the charity gala.”

“That sounds like her.”

“And she-” Petey gestures helplessly at Quinn’s torso, now mostly covered by his practice jersey. “She did that to you?”

Quinn’s smile widens just a fraction. “We’ve been together since we were sixteen. You think we held hands for ten years?”

“I mean, kind of, yeah!” Demko exclaims. “You guys are like the poster children for wholesome relationships! You literally walked her to class! Every. Single. Day.”

“Still do,” Quinn says. “Well, to the bakery now.”

“This is breaking my brain,” Garland mutters, sitting down heavily on the bench. “This is like finding out Santa Claus is a cage fighter.”

“Or that Bambi has a criminal record,” Hoglander adds.

“You guys are being dramatic,” Quinn says, but there’s laughter in his voice now. Real laughter.

Brock points at him accusingly. “You like that we’re freaking out.”

“Maybe a little.”

“Oh my god, you’re smug about this!” Brock’s grin is enormous. “Quinn Hughes is smug! Someone get this on video!”

“Don’t you dare,” Quinn warns, but he’s still smiling.

“I’m never going to be able to look at her the same way again,” Petey announces. “She brought us homemade granola bars last week. GRANOLA BARS. With little notes that said ‘good luck tonight’ with a smiley face!”

“She’s thoughtful,” Quinn says simply.

“She’s a menace,” Demko corrects. “A sweet, cookie-baking menace.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Garland interrupts, holding up his hands. “How does this even work? Like, she seems so …”

“Gentle?” Hoglander offers.

“Innocent!”

“Soft!”

Quinn just looks at them, and something in his expression makes everyone shut up. It’s not angry, it’s just knowing. “You guys don’t know her like I do.”

“Clearly!” Brock yelps.

“She’s still all those things,” Quinn continues, his voice dropping a little. Getting more serious. “She’s the sweetest person I’ve ever met. She cries at those videos of soldiers coming home to their dogs. She saves spiders instead of killing them. She writes thank-you notes for everything.”

“But?” Petey prompts.

Quinn’s smile returns, softer this time. More private. “But she’s also mine. And what happens between us is between us.”

“Except we can literally see the evidence!” Demko points out.

“Not my fault you guys all change in here.”

“IT’S A LOCKER ROOM!”

“Should I start changing in the bathroom?” Quinn asks innocently, and the smug look is back.

“Oh, he’s enjoying this,” Brock says to the room at large. “Our quiet, responsible captain is loving this.”

“Maybe,” Quinn admits.

Garland is still shaking his head. “I can’t believe this. She brings us baked goods.”

“She does.”

“She asks about our kids.”

“She likes kids.”

“She volunteers at the children’s hospital!”

“Every other Saturday.”

“And she’s secretly a-” Garland waves his hands around, trying to find the words.

“A wildcat?” Hoglander suggests.

“A tigress?”

“A very enthusiastic lover?” Quinn offers, and now he’s definitely trying not to laugh.

Petey drops his head into his hands. “This is too much information.”

“You literally asked!”

“I asked what happened to your back! I didn’t ask for an existential crisis about the nature of innocence and wholesome relationships!”

“That seems like a you problem,” Quinn says, and there’s something almost younger in his voice now. Like he’s finally letting them see a side of him that’s been there all along, just hidden under the captain’s responsibility and the careful public image.

Brock leans back against his stall, studying Quinn with new eyes. “How long has this been going on?”

“What do you mean?”

“The whole … this,” Brock gestures vaguely. “The not-so-innocent thing.”

Quinn raises an eyebrow. “Like I said. We’ve been together since we were sixteen.”

“SIXTEEN?”

“We waited a bit,” Quinn says mildly. “We’re not that young and dumb.”

“But-”

“But we’ve been together for ten years,” Quinn finishes. “That’s a long time. We grew up together. Figured things out together.”

There’s something in the way he says it that makes the teasing die down a little. Because yeah, Quinn and his girlfriend are that couple that everyone points to as relationship goals. High school sweethearts who actually made it. Who supported each other through college and draft days and building a bakery from scratch and the pressures of the NHL.

“She really loves you, huh?” Demko says, and it’s not teasing anymore. It’s genuine.

Quinn’s entire face softens. “Yeah. She really does.”

“And you’re clearly obsessed with her,” Petey adds.

“Have been since I was sixteen,” Quinn agrees easily. “Probably before that, actually. I just didn’t have the guts to do anything about it until junior year.”

“What made you finally ask her out?” Hoglander asks.

Quinn laughs, a real one that lights up his whole face. “She did. She asked me.”

“No way!”

“I was being too slow about it,” Quinn explains. “She brought me cookies after a game and just … asked if I wanted to go to homecoming. Said she was tired of waiting for me to figure out that she liked me.”

Brock clutches his chest again. “That’s actually adorable.”

“It was,” Quinn admits. “I think I said yes before she even finished the question.”

“And now she’s leaving scratch marks that would make a UFC fighter proud,” Garland marvels. “Character development.”

“Relationship development,” Quinn corrects. “There’s a difference.”

“Clearly.”

Quinn starts lacing up his skates, and for a moment, the locker room is quieter. Not silent — there’s still the usual sounds of guys getting ready, tape being ripped, skates being sharpened — but the frenetic energy has mellowed into something more thoughtful.

“You know what the weirdest part is?” Brock says finally.

“What?”

“This somehow makes you guys cuter.”

Quinn looks up, surprised. “What?”

“Like, before you were wholesome and sweet and we all kind of assumed you were boring,” Brock explains, ignoring Quinn’s offended “Hey!” “But now we know that you’re wholesome and sweet and also clearly very happy and honestly? Good for you, man.”

“Yeah,” Demko agrees. “I mean, I’m never going to be able to look at Y/N without blushing now, but good for you.”

“She’s going to be mortified if she finds out you guys saw,” Quinn says, and there’s real concern in his voice now.

“We won’t say anything,” Petey promises immediately. “That’s … that’s private. We’re just giving you shit because we’re your teammates and it’s our job.”

“But we won’t make her uncomfortable,” Brock adds. “She’s too nice. And those cinnamon rolls are too good.”

Quinn nods, visibly relieved. “Thanks. She’d die if she knew.”

“Our lips are sealed,” Garland promises. “Though I might need therapy to process this information.”

“Dramatic,” Quinn mutters, but he’s smiling again.

“One question,” Hoglander says.

Quinn sighs. “What?”

“Does she know? That she’s … that you have visible marks?”

And there Quinn’s smile turns into something else entirely. Something knowing and warm and so clearly in love that it makes everyone a little uncomfortable in a different way.

“Oh, she knows,” he says simply.

The locker room erupts again.

“NO!”

“Sweet Y/N knows?”

“And she let you come here like that?”

Quinn just shrugs, standing up and adjusting his practice jersey. “I told her I was going to be careful with my undershirt. She said, and I quote, ‘That’s your problem, not mine.’”

Brock actually has to sit down. “I can’t. I cannot process this.”

“She’s got a mouth on her when it’s just us,” Quinn says, and there’s so much fondness in his voice it’s almost embarrassing to hear. “Always has. She just … doesn’t let most people see that side of her.”

“Why not?” Petey asks, genuinely curious now.

Quinn thinks about that for a moment, his expression turning more serious. “Because people make assumptions. Sweet girl, baker, volunteers at hospitals — they think they know who she is. And she lets them think that because it’s easier than explaining that you can be kind and also have depth. That you can be soft and also be strong. That you can make cookies and also be complicated.”

“But you know all of her,” Demko says quietly.

“Yeah,” Quinn agrees, and his voice is soft now. Private. “I know all of her. And she knows all of me. That’s the point, isn’t it? Finding someone who sees everything and stays anyway?”

The locker room has gone quiet again, but this time it’s different. It’s the kind of quiet that comes when something real has been said. Something that matters.

“Okay, that’s actually really beautiful and I hate you for it,” Brock announces, breaking the moment. “Can we go back to making fun of the scratch marks?”

“Please don’t,” Quinn says, but he’s laughing.

“Too late! Hey, Huggy Bear, did you try fighting back? Or did you just surrender immediately?”

“I’m not answering that.”

“That means he surrendered,” Garland stage-whispers.

“Probably said ‘thank you’ too,” Hoglander adds with a grin.

Quinn’s cheeks actually turn a little pink at that, which makes everyone lose it completely.

“HE’S BLUSHING!”

“QUINN HUGHES IS BLUSHING!”

“Oh my god, you DID say thank you!”

“I’m leaving,” Quinn announces, standing up and heading toward the tunnel to the ice. “You’re all children.”

“Says the guy who looks like he lost a fight with a rose bush!” Brock calls after him.

“A sexy rose bush!” Garland adds.

Quinn flips them off over his shoulder without turning around, and the laughter follows him all the way to the ice.

Behind him, the team is still processing, still joking, still marveling at the fact that their quiet, responsible captain has a whole entire life that they knew nothing about. A life with the sweet baker who brings them treats and asks about their families and apparently has a wild side that nobody saw coming.

“I’m definitely going to need therapy,” Petey mutters.

“I’m going to need to find my own Y/N,” Hoglander sighs.

“Good luck,” Brock says, clapping him on the shoulder. “Girls like that are rare. Girls like that who also look like innocence personified while secretly being a tiger? Unicorns, man. Actual unicorns.”

“Quinn’s a lucky guy,” Garland agrees.

And out on the ice, warming up with that same small smile on his face, Quinn would absolutely agree. He’s been lucky since he was sixteen years old and a girl with flour in her hair asked him to homecoming. He’s been lucky every day since.

Even if his teammates will never look at either of them the same way again.

Especially if his teammates will never look at either of them the same way again.

He skates a little faster, already thinking about tonight. About going home to the apartment that smells like vanilla and cinnamon. About you waiting with that smile that’s just for him. About all the parts of your life together that no one else sees. The private jokes, the late-night conversations, the way you fit against him like you were made for it.

His back stings a little as he takes a sharp turn, and he can’t help but smile wider.

Yeah. He’s a lucky guy.

***

The Canucks win 4-2 against the Oilers, and the locker room is electric. Music blares from someone’s speaker, guys are chirping each other about goals and assists, and the social media team is making their rounds with cameras, capturing the post-game energy.

Quinn is sitting in his stall, still riding the high of a two-assist night. His hair is sweat-damp, cheeks flushed from exertion, and he’s mid-conversation with Petey about a play in the second period when he reaches up to pull off his jersey and pads.

The camera catches him at exactly the wrong — or right, depending on perspective — moment.

Jersey off. Pads off. Shoulder pads hitting the floor. And then there’s Quinn Hughes, captain of the Vancouver Canucks, shirtless in his stall with his head tilted back mid-laugh at something Petey said, looking loose and happy and completely unaware that his entire torso is visible.

Including the very obvious scratch marks that rake down his back and chest.

“Huggy, great game tonight!” The media coordinator says from behind the camera.

Quinn looks over, grinning. “Thanks! Team played well, just gotta keep this momentum going.”

“Two assists, could’ve had three if Brock had buried that pass in the third.”

“Hey!” Brock yells from somewhere off-camera. “That was a bad bounce!”

Quinn laughs, that genuine laugh that makes him look younger. “Sure, Boes. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

The camera lingers for maybe ten more seconds — Quinn reaching for a towel, still smiling, still completely at ease — before moving on to Demko’s stall.

The video gets posted to the Canucks’ official Twitter, Instagram, and TikTok at 10:42 PM with the caption That winning feeling 💙💚 #Canucks

By eleven PM, it has five thousand likes.

By midnight, fifty thousand.

By the time Quinn is home and asleep with you curled against his side, completely oblivious to the chaos unfolding online, the video has been viewed over two million times.

***

You wake up to your phone absolutely losing its mind.

It’s 6:00 AM. You have to be at the bakery by 6:30 to start the morning prep, and your phone is vibrating so aggressively on the nightstand that you think there’s an emergency.

Instagram notifications. Twitter notifications. Text messages. Missed calls.

“What the hell?” You mumble, reaching for it blindly.

Quinn stirs beside you, his arm tightening around your waist. “S’okay?” He slurs, still half-asleep.

“I don’t know, my phone is-” You unlock it and your eyes go wide. “Oh my god.”

“What?” Quinn props himself up on one elbow, blinking sleep from his eyes. His hair is sticking up in every direction and there’s a crease on his cheek from the pillow. He looks adorable and confused and you’re about to ruin his morning.

“Quinn.” Your voice comes out strange. High-pitched. “Quinn, you need to see this.”

“See what?” He takes the phone you thrust at him, squinting at the screen. You watch his face go from sleepy to confused to horrified in about three seconds flat.

“Oh. Oh no.”

“‘Oh no’ is right!” You’re scrolling through your own notifications now, and they just keep coming. Your bakery’s Instagram account — Sweet As Can Be, with its modest twelve thousand followers — has gained three thousand overnight. Your mentions are flooded. “Quinn, everyone can see your back!”

“And chest,” he adds weakly, still staring at your phone. “And … yeah. Everything.”

The video is everywhere. Twitter, TikTok, Instagram Reels. But it’s the comments that are truly something else.

Um is no one going to talk about Quinn Hughes’ back???

HELLO???? THOSE ARE SCRATCH MARKS

okay but WHO is doing that to quinn hughes and how do i apply for the position

Y’ALL I CANNOT BREATHE

this is the most action i’ve seen in a hockey locker room since … wait no this is THE MOST action i’ve seen in a hockey locker room

someone’s girl was feeling FERAL and honestly good for her

THE WAY HE’S JUST CASUALLY LAUGHING LIKE HIS BACK DOESN’T LOOK LIKE A SCRATCH POST

Quinn drops his head into his hands. “The team is never going to let me live this down.”

“The team already knows,” you remind him, trying very hard not to laugh. “Remember? This morning? When you flashed them all?”

“That was private locker room humiliation,” he groans. “This is public.”

“Very public,” you agree, scrolling through more comments. “Quinn, there are Reddit threads. Multiple Reddit threads.”

“No.”

“Yes. ‘Let’s discuss Quinn Hughes’ back’ has four thousand upvotes and counting.”

“I’m retiring.”

“You’re twenty-six.”

“I’m retiring,” he repeats, flopping back onto the bed dramatically. “This is it. My career is over. I’ll be known as the guy with the scratched back forever.”

You can’t help it anymore — you start laughing. Real, genuine, can’t-catch-your-breath laughing.

Quinn lifts his head to glare at you. “This is your fault.”

“My fault?”

“You’re the one who-” He gestures vaguely at his torso. “You did this!”

“You didn’t seem to mind at the time,” you point out, still giggling.

“I’m never taking my shirt off again.”

“That seems impractical for a professional athlete.”

“I’ll wear a wetsuit under my gear.”

“Now you’re being ridiculous.” You lean down to kiss his forehead, then his nose, then his lips. “It’s fine. It’ll blow over.”

“Will it, though?” Quinn asks, but he’s softening under your kisses, his hands coming up to rest on your hips. “This is the internet we’re talking about.”

“Okay, it probably won’t blow over completely,” you admit. “But maybe we just … lean into it?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Lean into it how?”

You bite your lip, an idea forming. A completely ridiculous, probably stupid idea that would definitely make this whole situation worse before it gets better. But also … kind of funny?

“Let me think about it,” you say finally. “I need to get to the bakery.”

“You’re not going to do anything crazy, right?” Quinn asks, suspicious now.

“Define crazy.”

“Babe.”

“I’m not promising anything,” you say, kissing him once more before rolling out of bed. “But I’m also not going to make it worse.”

“That’s not reassuring!”

But you’re already heading for the shower, your mind spinning with possibilities.

***

By the time you get to the bakery, the video has hit mainstream sports news. ESPN has posted about it. Barstool Sports has made a graphic. Someone on TikTok has set the video to “Closer” by Nine Inch Nails and it has a million likes.

Your assistant, Jamie, is already there when you arrive, and she takes one look at your face and bursts out laughing.

“Don’t,” you warn.

“I haven’t said anything!”

“You’re thinking it very loudly.”

“Can you blame me?” Jamie pulls out her phone, showing you yet another tweet. “Twitter is having a collective meltdown. They’re calling you a cryptid. An enigma. A legend.”

“They don’t know it’s me.”

“Everyone knows it’s you,” Jamie corrects. “You’ve been together for eight years. You’re not exactly a secret.”

She’s right, of course. You and Quinn aren’t private, exactly — you just don’t post much on social media beyond the occasional game day photo or sweet caption. Your bakery account is professional, focused on pastries and business hours and the occasional behind-the-scenes content. Your personal account is locked, friends and family only.

But people know you exist. Hockey fans have seen you at games, at charity events, in the background of other players’ posts. There are entire Reddit threads dedicated to WAGs, and you show up in them occasionally, usually described as “sweet” or “wholesome” or “the cute baker.”

You have a feeling those descriptions are about to change.

“Okay,” you say, tying on your apron with perhaps more force than necessary. “Let’s just focus on work. We have three wedding cake consultations today and-”

Your phone buzzes. It’s a text from Brock.

BROCK: Tell me you’ve seen the video

BROCK: Twitter is LOSING IT

BROCK: Quinn won’t answer his phone

BROCK: He’s probably hiding under the bed

BROCK: This is the funniest thing that’s ever happened

You snort, typing back quickly.

YOU: He’s not hiding, he’s just in denial

BROCK: Can you blame him???

BROCK: His back looks like a topographical map

YOU: I’m aware

BROCK: I have so many questions

YOU: And I’m answering exactly zero of them

BROCK: Fair

BROCK: For what it’s worth? You guys are trending

YOU: That’s not comforting

BROCK: #ScratchGate is the number one trend in Canada

YOU: WHAT

But you’re already opening Twitter, and sure enough, #ScratchGate is right there at the top of the trending topics. You click on it against your better judgment.

The tweets are … something.

I need whoever is responsible for Quinn Hughes’ back to drop their workout routine

NO BECAUSE THE WAY HE’S JUST SITTING THERE SMILING??? sir are you not in PAIN???

quinn hughes really said ‘yeah i’m getting the best head of my life and what about it’

I’M SORRY BUT THE CONFIDENCE??? just sitting there shirtless with visible evidence of extracurricular activities??? KING BEHAVIOR

someone check on sweet wholesome Y/N she must be so embarrassed—wait

That last one has a thread attached. You click on it, curiosity winning out over self-preservation.

okay so i’ve been following Y/N’s bakery account for a while and she’s always posting these cute cookies and sweet captions and asking about people’s days

she literally made HOCKEY STICK SHAPED COOKIES

she volunteers at children’s hospitals!

she posted a photo of a stray cat last week asking if anyone knew who it belonged to!

AND SHE’S OUT HERE DOING THAT TO QUINN HUGHES???

the duality of woman

character development

plot twist of the century

You’re biting your lip so hard you might draw blood, trying not to laugh. Jamie has abandoned all pretense of working and is reading over your shoulder.

“Oh, you have to respond,” Jamie says.

“What? No.”

“Yes! This is perfect! You’re viral anyway, you might as well own it.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Come on,” Jamie wheedles. “What’s the worst that could happen? You’re already the talk of the internet.”

She has a point. You’re already in this mess. What’s a little more chaos?

You open the Twitter app and switch to Sweet As Can Be’s account. Find one of the most viral tweets — the one with 150k likes that says I need to know who’s responsible for Quinn Hughes looking like he fought a tiger and LOST — and hit reply.

Your fingers hover over the keyboard. This is stupid. This is so stupid. Quinn is going to kill you.

But also … it’s kind of funny.

You type The tiger won, but Quinn didn’t seem to mind 

You stare at it for a solid thirty seconds. Delete it. Retype it. Delete it again.

Jamie snatches the phone from your hand and hits send before you can stop her.

“JAMIE!”

“You were overthinking it!”

“I was having second thoughts!”

“Too late!” She’s grinning like a maniac, refreshing the page. “Oh my god, it’s already getting likes.”

You grab the phone back, watching in horror as the notifications start rolling in.

Ten likes.

Fifty.

Two hundred.

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes,” Jamie corrects. “This is amazing. You’re a legend.”

By the time you’ve finished mixing the dough for the morning’s cinnamon rolls, your tweet has fifteen thousand likes and has been screenshotted and reposted across every social media platform imaginable.

Your phone starts ringing. It’s Quinn.

“Hi, honey,” you answer sweetly.

“BABE.”

“Yes?”

“DID YOU JUST-” He’s clearly trying not to laugh, which makes his outrage significantly less effective. “Did you just tweet about being a tiger?”

“I implied I was a tiger,” you correct. “There’s a difference.”

“There’s really not!”

“Are you mad?”

There’s a pause. You can hear voices in the background — he must be at the rink for morning skate. “I’m … processing,” he says finally. “Everyone here is losing their minds. Tatcher just fell off the bench laughing. Petey dropped his stick.”

“I can delete it,” you offer, even though the thought makes you a little sad now. Because the responses are kind of incredible.

EXCUSE ME MA’AM

SHE SAID WHAT SHE SAID

NOT THE BAKERY ACCOUNT

THE HEART EMOJI IS SENDING ME

Quinn Hughes is the luckiest man alive confirmed

everyone shut up the tiger has entered the chat

“No,” Quinn says, and you can hear the smile in his voice now. “Don’t delete it. I just … I’m going to get chirped about this for the rest of my life, aren’t I?”

“Probably,” you admit. “But hey, at least they’ll remember you had a good time?”

He laughs, real and loud. “You’re unbelievable.”

“You love me.”

“I really do,” he agrees, softer now. “Even when you’re causing chaos on social media.”

“Especially then,” you correct.

“Especially then,” he concedes. “I have to go, Coach is giving me a look. But we’re talking about this when I get home.”

“Talking?” You ask innocently.

“Among other things,” he says, voice dropping lower, and oh. Oh.

“Quinn Hughes, are you flirting with me?”

“Is it working?”

“Maybe.”

“Then yes.” He pauses. “I love you. Even though you just made us the most talked-about couple in hockey.”

“I love you too. Try not to get checked into the boards because you’re distracted by your viral fame.”

“No promises,” he says, and hangs up.

You stare at your phone, watching the notifications continue to explode, and can’t help but smile.

***

By lunch, your tweet has 200k likes. By dinner, it’s been featured on Barstool Sports, hockey Twitter has created an entire lore around you being a secret badass, and someone has made fan art of you as an actual tiger.

Quinn sends you the fan art with the caption Hanging this in our living room

You reply: Absolutely not

QUINN: Too late already ordered a print

QUINN: It’s going right above the couch

YOU: I’m dating a child

QUINN: You’re dating a viral sensation

QUINN: Get it right

The bakery has its busiest day in months. People keep coming in, some genuinely wanting pastries, others clearly just trying to catch a glimpse of the girl who broke hockey Twitter. You’re polite to everyone, deflecting personal questions with practiced ease while still being friendly enough that they leave happy.

One girl, maybe nineteen or twenty, works up the courage to ask, “Are you really Quinn Hughes’ girlfriend?”

You smile, sliding her order across the counter. “I am.”

“And you really-” She gestures vaguely, blushing furiously. “The tweet?”

“The tweet was accurate,” you confirm, and she practically runs out of the store, already pulling out her phone.

Jamie is having the time of her life. “This is the best day ever,” she announces during a rare lull. “We’ve sold out of cinnamon rolls, we have three new catering orders, and someone asked if we do tiger-striped cookies for bachelorette parties.”

“Please tell me you said no.”

“I said I’d ask the owner,” Jamie grins. “So? Do we?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Your loss. That would’ve been hilarious.”

By the time you close up at six, you’re exhausted but also kind of exhilarated. The whole day has been surreal — the notifications, the customers, the way something so private became so incredibly public and somehow turned into this weird, wonderful thing.

Quinn is already home when you get there, sprawled on the couch in sweats and a t-shirt, scrolling through his phone. He looks up when you walk in, and his entire face softens.

“Hey, tiger,” he says.

You throw a pillow at him. “Don’t start.”

“Too late. It’s your name in my phone now.”

“Quinn!”

“What? It’s accurate!” He’s laughing, pulling you down onto the couch beside him. “Besides, you’re the one who tweeted about it.”

“I’m aware.” You curl into his side, letting out a long breath. “Today was insane.”

“Tell me about it. I got stopped by three different reporters asking about my ‘personal life’ and ‘relationship dynamics.’” He makes air quotes with his free hand. “I told them all to mind their business.”

“Very diplomatic of you, Captain.”

“I try.” He tilts your chin up, kissing you slowly. When he pulls back, he’s smiling. “For what it’s worth? I thought your tweet was perfect.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I mean, I’m never going to hear the end of it from the guys. Brock has already made me a playlist called ‘Tiger Vibes’ and Petey changed my contact name to ‘Scratching Post.’ But …” He shrugs. “I don’t know. I kind of love that everyone knows.”

“Knows what?”

“That we’re not just the wholesome high school sweethearts everyone thinks we are. That there’s more to us than what people see.” He runs his fingers through your hair, gentle and familiar. “That you’re not just sweet, you’re everything. And I’m lucky enough to know all of it.”

Your throat feels tight. “You can’t just say things like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because it makes me want to kiss you until neither of us can breathe.”

His smile turns wicked. “I fail to see the problem.”

So you kiss him. Long and deep and with eight years of history behind it. When you finally break apart, you’re both breathing hard, and Quinn’s hands have migrated to your hips, fingers slipping under the hem of your shirt.

“You know,” he murmurs against your lips, “we’re trending again.”

“Are we?”

“Someone made a compilation of every time I smiled today with the caption ‘This man is living his best life.’” He kisses your jaw, your neck. “They’re not wrong.”

You laugh, breathless. “We broke the internet.”

“We really did.” He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes dark and warm and so full of love it makes your chest ache. “No regrets?”

You think about it. About the video and the tweets and the chaos. About the way your private life became public in the most spectacular way possible. About tomorrow, when you’ll both have to face the continuing aftermath of going viral.

But then you think about Quinn’s laugh this morning, sleepy and surprised. About the way he defended you to reporters without hesitation. About eight years of loving each other, of learning each other, of building this life together.

About the fact that everyone now knows that the quiet captain and the sweet baker are just as complicated and passionate and real as anyone else.

“No regrets,” you say firmly. “Except maybe that I didn’t make the tweet from my personal account.”

Quinn laughs so hard he nearly falls off the couch, and you catch him, both of you tangled together and happy and viral and so incredibly in love.

And somewhere on the internet, #ScratchGate continues to trend, people continue to marvel at the duality of the wholesome baker and her scratched-up captain, and a new generation of hockey fans learns that sometimes the sweetest love stories are also the wildest ones.

But in your apartment, curled up on the couch with Quinn’s arms around you and his laugh in your ears, none of that matters quite as much as this: the two of you, together, exactly as you’ve always been.