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abstract your teammate was good to you, but the girl from the bar was better. good thing you have two hands.
featuring dean di laurentis + male!reader + allie hayes
content eventual mfm throuple, initial jealousy, beau mention 😊 “kid” as a nickname (doesn’t indicate age difference), nsfw content, pain kink?, handjob, praise, m!reader is lowk such a dog (literally me if i was a man)
You were not the best friend of Dean Di Laurentis, but he was yours.
It was a strange coincidence; sometimes you felt like the other woman, and other times it was like Beau was you in a different form. You weren’t jealous. Dean was your d-man, and you were his goalie.
Beau Maxwell just happened to be his best friend.
Maybe you were jealous. What’s so wrong about that? You hated it when people ignored you, but admitting it meant growth, and you were going to grow. Reach as far as the stars formed, further than any man had been before. You just had to learn how to get there first.
“Hey, dude, did you hear about one of the forwards on the Harvard team? He broke his femur on a hike and is out for the rest of the season.” Dean mumbles through a handful of pretzels, crumbs track down the plains of his bare stomach and onto your bedsheets. You're on the floor surrounded by open textbooks and ink-smudged papers.
“Yeah,” you respond, fiddling around with the tiniest Lego piece of the set, “that’s not good.”
“What? What are you talking about? The forward’s been on your ass for months now.”
That’s true. Opposing players tend to target you, but you’ve never been that worried about it. After all, you have an entire team there to protect you. Especially Dean. He’s got into more fights on the ice for you than anyone can count.
“I don’t know, man, just not feeling it today.” Your voice trails off into a whisper; Dean rustles around on the bed behind you. You blink back tears, tears that really don’t mean anything but show up regardless. Things don’t need to have meaning to happen. He kicks the back of your head with his socked foot.
"Hey." You turn your head, and he’s right there, crawling halfway across the bed just to see you closer. "What's the matter with you?”
You… don’t know. You can’t pinpoint the exact problem; they all blend into one giant heap of confusion. Dean can see it in your clouded eyes, the sheer volume of nothing residing in your exhausted brain. He pities you in moments like these; the quiet times spent alone where everything loud turns quiet.
“Do you—do you want me to help?”
You pause, eyes flickering between his, searching for an ounce of reconsideration. There’s nothing there but trust. An unaltered acceptance of you and him, together quietly. You nod your head slowly, shuddering once his hand slips into your hair and tugs. He pulls you back until the edge of your skull presses into the mattress; your heart beats in your ears the moment he leans in. His lips were warm, soft to the touch and the gentlest feeling in your chest. You could taste your shared breath and hoped he could too.
He breaks the kiss and hovers an inch away from your heated face. “Oh, kid. I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
He doesn’t give you an answer, not a verbal one anyway. Instead he tugs on your hair harder, painful enough to cause a chain-link reaction. A sharp burst of pleasure shoots to your cock. The friction of your shorts and boxers is enough to turn you desperate and whiny. Your mouth falls open as a quiet moan escapes it; Dean swallows it up.
The smell of him is dizzying and does nothing for your growing bulge. The scents of cinnamon and tobacco, along with a faint lingering smell of sweat, fill the air. You let him lick all over you and bite your tongue and your lips until you taste metal.
“Fuck, Dean,” you whisper, subtly trying to grind the palm of your hand over your crotch. “Please, help me.”
He watches you with lidded eyes and stares expectantly as you clumsily climb up onto the bed and settle in against the headboard. Your eyes tear up again, wet and bleary as you try your best to remain relaxed as Dean perches himself up on his knees between your spread legs.
“Hmm, that’s what your big fucking problem was? You needed me to help you out?” His hand moves slowly down the apex of your thigh, tugging the edge of your shorts down to reveal the sensitive slither of skin. You writhe at the touch, and his smile only widens.
Every breath you take is shuddered painfully through your contorted chest. He’s got half of your clothes off now, cock sprung thick between the small amount of space between you. His hand wraps around the length of it, large fingers stretched far enough to circle around your dripping head. He slicks his hand down once, and you choke, the air now knocked out of you.
“Please, Dean, I want you.”
"Yeah, I know you do, baby.” He jerks you harder. "Can't give it to you just yet.”
You whine again, this time an attempt for him to change his mind. It won’t work. Not at this time of the day, not here in the house. It’s too risky; can’t have any of the other boys walk in as he’s pushed most of the way into your ass. The first time you tried it was months ago, inside the back of his Jeep, parked in a forest two hours away from campus. Nothing was out there except the trees, and maybe a handful of traumatised birds or squirrels. It was good; you’ve been trying to catch a similar high for ages. But Dean? He just won’t bite no matter how eager you get.
You cum in hot spurts down his wrist. Body shaking, the back of your headboard slams against the wall as you push your way through a cruel orgasm at the even crueller hands of Dean Di Laurentis.
You really don’t mind not being his best friend, because whatever this is happens to be much better.
abstract meet cute with dean! you're not a fan, he's a little confused <3
featuring dean di laurentis + fem!reader
content deaf reader written by a non deaf person, cocky hockey boys, one-sided enemies to lovers
“What the fuck even is this?”
You want to die. Literally. Figuratively. It doesn’t matter. All you know is that you're two seconds away from losing it, and a group of hockey dorks just sat down on a table not far from you.
“It’s a book, Tucker. Never seen one before?”
The implant in your ear is about to die; its ability to grant you hearing slowly fading. You forgot to charge it overnight; you were so tired yesterday after dinner that it completely slipped your mind. Your stupid mind, emptying every ounce of thought you previously had, is now gone, dispersed completely in the air. The words on the page in front of you blur into one heap of pen-smudged paper.
“I know it’s a book, genius. It’s so big though, longer than my dick.”
Laughter fills the silent void of the library. Someone hushes a few shelves down. How pointless on their part, you know it’s futile to mute an athlete.
You feel it before you look up. A glance, maybe two, maybe one that stretches on longer than it should. Fuck. You hoped to hide away in the corner, but life has a funny way of sneaking up on you and watching.
The group quietens down, much to your surprise. The suspense is killing you, so, stupidly, you sneak a look back.
His eyes burn into yours. You know who he is; everyone on this godforsaken campus does. He’s like a god. Apollo in a sleeveless shirt and sunglasses. His hair curls over his ears, wisps of dark blond tangled with soft brown roots. You look back down to the notepad in front of you and contemplate launching yourself out the window. A chair screeches over the floor like it’s being pushed out and—
Oh no.
The footsteps turn from a soft padding to a loud march over linoleum. Oh fuck no.
You stand before he can say a thing. A much louder sound takes root in the room, much like the bleach in his stupid hair. It’s a harsh, mechanical sound that makes your spine tingle.
“Hey.”
His voice is soft. Honeyed and gentle as if to not disturb the mutual understanding of library etiquette. You eye him up and down with your peripheral vision. He’s tall too, but not tall enough to settle a sense of dread in your stomach. A height perfect enough for you to see his whole self, his face and his body. You’re not scared, not anymore. Years of therapy helped with that. But your heart does skip a beat, for some random, incomprehensible reason.
"Hello," you respond flatly, already moving to pack up your belongings. A ratty backpack is strung over an empty chair; you pull at it, and the damned thing doesn’t budge.
“Hey—you don’t need to leave; I was just coming over to say hi…”
“And you did. Now what?” You slide uncapped pens, old pencils and your notepad into the main pocket, ignoring the way he just stares at you.
“What’s your name? I haven’t ever seen you before—”
“You come to the library very often, Di Laurentis?” Next, your computer slides into the bag, half-dead and almost older than you. Dean gapes, tilting his head over his shoulder to stare at his rowdy friends. They sit quietly; you didn’t even know that was possible.
“Excuse me," you mumble, shoulder-checking him as you walk past. He smells like bergamot and lemon. As you make your way past his friends, you feel like meat in a butcher shop. They don’t interact with you in any way, but they can’t help but gawk. It’s something you’ve become very used to over the years, but no matter how often it happens, it never gets easier.
Dean stands there stumped. Defiled a little, his arms stings where the two of you had contact. His heart burns too, beating louder in his chest. That's… not how it usually happens. He’s never been rejected that badly, other than that time he asked a girl out who turned out to be a lesbian. That hurt then, but he understood. This, though, he doesn’t get.
“What the fuck was that?” Beau croaks out, a smile inching up his face. He’s as confused as Dean is but amused regardless. So much for friendship.
“I don’t know…” the blond trails off, hand coming up to rest over his chest, heart pounding.
