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who’s that girl . . ?

⤷ in @ynism we trust

a look into the itgrlverse’s main character!

⤷ baddies only

meet the three girls that keep cortis’ only female member sane.

show me your world . . !

⤷ bieberchella?! ONE | TWO

when cortis happens to be in LA when justin bieber’s coachella headlining set is about to happen, there’s no way in the world you’d ever miss it.

⤷ skool luv affair

being the only non-high school dropout in cortis came with special occurrences that would only happen to you.

⤷ situationship! ONE | TWO | THREE

must boys really be this complicated when it comes to expressing their feelings?

— feel free to request what you’d like to see in this universe!

Slowly, he pushes himself up, crawling up the length of the mattress until he is hovering over you.

He looks completely wrecked in the best possible way. His lips are slick and slightly swollen, his green eyes dark and blown wide. He drops down onto the mattress beside you, flopping heavily onto his back and letting out a long, exhausted groan.

He doesn’t give you any space. He immediately rolls onto his side, throwing one heavy arm across your stomach and pulling you flush against his warm, sweat-slicked chest. He presses a soft, lingering kiss to your bare shoulder, tasting you on his own lips.

“Jesus,” Dean murmurs into the quiet room. “You taste so fucking good, Y/N.”

“You are …” you start, but your voice comes out as a weak, raspy croak. You clear your throat, trying to summon a shred of your usual dignity. “You are very enthusiastic.”

Dean chuckles, the sound vibrating against your ribcage. “Enthusiastic. That’s one word for it. I was going for ’life-changing,’ but I’ll take it.”

You let your eyes slip shut, resting your head against the pillow and enjoying the heavy, comforting weight of his body against yours. The room is quiet, the only sounds the faint hum of the heating vent and the synchronized rhythm of your breathing. It is peaceful. It is perfect.

Which is exactly why your instincts tell you to ruin it.

Ilya’s voice echoes in the back of your mind. Men like that, they get attached. They get possessive. You shift slightly, trying to put an inch of space between you so you can clear your head, but Dean’s arm immediately tightens like a vise around your waist, locking you in place.

“Don’t move,” Dean says quietly. The playful, post-coital banter is suddenly gone from his voice. It is replaced by a low, serious tone that makes your heart give a hard, erratic thump.

“I am sweating,” you complain, though you make no further effort to move. “Your body heat is excessive.”

“Tough. You’re staying right here.” Dean props himself up on one elbow, looking down at you. The dim light from the bedside lamp casts sharp shadows across his face, highlighting the firm, resolute set of his jaw. “We need to talk.”

Your stomach drops. You hate talking. Talking leads to feelings, and feelings lead to a loss of control.

“If this is about your performance on the ice yesterday,” you deflect smoothly, keeping your expression perfectly blank, “I already told you that your gap control was acceptable. Not great, but acceptable.”

“It’s not about hockey, Y/N,” Dean says, refusing to take the bait. He reaches up, brushing a damp strand of hair off your forehead. His touch is incredibly gentle, completely at odds with the intense, unwavering look in his eyes. “It’s about us.”

“There is no us, Di Laurentis,” you remind him, clinging to the rules you established on day one. “This is an arrangement. It is mutually beneficial. It is casual.”

“Right. Casual,” Dean repeats. He lets out a dry, humorless laugh. “I have a toothbrush in your bathroom. I know your coffee order by heart. You know my stats better than my head coach does. And I just spent the last twenty minutes making you scream my name in two different languages.”

He leans down, his face inches from yours. “Tell me again how casual this is.”

You swallow hard, your throat suddenly dry. “Those are just details.”

“Bullshit,” Dean fires back. He isn’t angry, but he is completely uncompromising. “It’s not casual for me. Not anymore. I’m not doing this halfway, Y/N. I want you.”

“You have me,” you point out, gesturing vaguely to your naked body trapped beneath his.

“You know what I mean,” Dean says, his voice dropping an octave, turning raw and gravelly. “I want all of you. I don’t want you going on dates with other guys. I don’t want you looking at anyone else. Hell, I barely want you looking at my teammates.”

“You are being ridiculous.” You push against his chest, finally managing to sit up slightly, though Dean simply shifts his weight to keep you pinned to the mattress. You pull the sheet up to cover your breasts, suddenly feeling incredibly exposed. “I do not go on dates with other men. I do not have the time or the patience.”

“But you could,” Dean presses, his green eyes locking onto yours. “You could walk out of here tomorrow and hook up with some finance bro from Harvard, and I wouldn’t have the right to say a damn thing about it.”

“And you could hook up with a sorority girl,” you counter, lifting your chin. “That is the point of being casual. We are both free to do as we please.”

“I haven’t even looked at another girl since the night you insulted my backhand,” Dean admits bluntly. The raw honesty in his voice actually makes you flinch. He doesn’t hide behind a smirk. He just lays his cards on the table, completely vulnerable. “I don’t want anyone else. I just want you. I want to be your boyfriend.”

The word hangs in the air between you, heavy and terrifying.

You stare at him, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. You came to America to escape the suffocating control of the men in your family. You promised yourself you wouldn’t get tied down. You promised yourself you would always hold all the cards.

“Dean,” you say, your voice tight, your Russian accent slipping out heavily. “You do not want this. I am difficult. I am demanding. My brother is a literal psychopath who will probably put you in the hospital when he finds out.”

“I don’t give a fuck about Ilya,” Dean says instantly. “Let him try. I’ll take a beating if it means I get to keep you.”

“It is not just him,” you argue, shaking your head. Your chest aches. You hate how much you want to say yes. “We are entirely different. You are … you are Dean Di Laurentis. You are the party guy. You do not do commitment.”

“I do now,” Dean says simply.

“People do not change that fast.”

“Watch me.”

“I cannot do this,” you say, a genuine edge of panic creeping into your voice. You try to scramble backward against the headboard, desperate to put physical distance between you so you can think straight.

But Dean is faster.

He shifts forward, following you up the bed. Before you can retreat, his hands come up, gripping your wrists firmly but gently, pulling them away from the sheet you are clutching like a shield. He pins your hands flat against the mattress on either side of your head.

“Don’t run away from me,” Dean murmurs, his face hovering just above yours.

“I am not running,” you lie, your breathing turning shallow. “I am simply concluding this conversation.”

“The conversation isn’t over.”

Dean leans down, and instead of kissing your lips, he presses his open mouth against the pulse point just below your jaw.

You let out a sharp, involuntary gasp.

“Dean,” you warn him, though your voice lacks any real authority.

He ignores you. He traces the line of your jaw with his tongue, his breath hot against your skin. “You talk too much when you’re scared, Y/N.”

“I am not scared.”

“Yes, you are,” he whispers against your skin. He trails a line of soft, open-mouthed kisses down your neck, lingering on the sensitive spot right at the base of your throat. “You’re terrified. You like being in control, and right now, you realize you don’t have it. Because you want me just as much as I want you.”

“Arrogant,” you breathe, your eyes fluttering shut as his teeth lightly scrape against your collarbone. A violent shudder rips through your body.

“Honest,” he corrects.

He shifts his weight, sliding his knee securely between your thighs, forcing your legs apart. You are completely pinned beneath him, completely at his mercy, and the terrifying truth is that you don’t want to be anywhere else.

Dean releases one of your wrists, using his newly freed hand to slowly, deliberately trace a path down your stomach. His rough calluses drag against your soft skin, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. He dips his fingers just below your navel, pressing lightly against your lower abdomen.

You arch your back instinctively, a soft moan escaping your lips. You are still so incredibly sensitive from your earlier climax, and his proximity is short-circuiting your brain.

“Tell me this is casual,” Dean challenges, his voice dark and raspy. He moves his mouth to the swell of your breast, his tongue swirling around the tight peak.

“Dean,” you gasp, your fingers curling into the sheets. “Stop playing fair.”

“I’m playing to win,” he mumbles against your skin, lightly sucking the sensitive flesh into his mouth.

You cry out, your hips bucking up against his thigh. Your defenses are crumbling. They are completely, utterly disintegrating under the sheer, focused intensity of his attention. He knows your body perfectly. He knows exactly how to dismantle you.

He slides his hand lower, his long fingers finding your wet, aching center. He doesn’t enter you. He just traces the slick folds, pressing firmly against your clit with his thumb.

“Look at me,” Dean commands softly.

You force your eyes open. The cocky, easygoing college boy is gone. The man hovering over you is lethal, focused, and entirely devoted to you. His green eyes are burning into yours, completely stripping away every wall you have ever built.

“Be mine,” Dean whispers, his thumb slowly, agonizingly circling your most sensitive spot. “Just mine, Y/N. Say yes.”

“If I say yes,” you grit out, your accent thick, your body trembling under his touch, “you are going to regret it. I will ruin your life.”

Dean smiles. It is a devastating, triumphant smile.

“Ruin it, then,” he says. “But you’re doing it as my girlfriend.”

He presses his thumb down harder, and you shatter.

“Fine!” You gasp out, the word tearing from your throat as pleasure spikes sharply in your core. “Fine, yes. I am yours. We are exclusive.”

Dean stops moving his hand. He freezes, staring down at you, his chest heaving. The triumph in his eyes is so bright it’s almost blinding.

“Say it again,” he breathes.

“Do not push your luck, Di Laurentis,” you groan, turning your head against the pillow to hide the flush creeping up your cheeks.

Dean laughs, a sound of pure joy. He releases your other wrist, using both hands to cup your face, forcing you to look at him. He kisses you — hard, deep, and impossibly sweet. It isn’t a demanding kiss. It is a promise. It tastes like victory and relief.

“My girl,” Dean murmurs against your lips. “God, I love the sound of that.”

“Do not get used to it,” you warn him weakly, though you kiss him back, your hands tangling in his thick blond hair. “If you do anything to annoy me, I am breaking up with you.”

“You can try,” Dean grins, pulling back slightly to look down at you. His eyes darken, the playful energy suddenly shifting back into something entirely carnal. He looks at your flushed skin, your bruised lips, your dark hair spread wildly across his pillows.

“And now,” Dean says, his voice dropping into a rough, gravelly purr that makes your stomach clench. “For being such a good girl and finally admitting the truth, I think you deserve a reward.”

You raise an eyebrow, trying to summon your haughty persona, but it’s completely ruined by the way your chest is heaving. “A reward? You think you are training a dog?”

“I think,” Dean says, sliding his hand down your stomach to grip your hip firmly, “I’m going to fuck you so hard you forget how to speak entirely.”

Your breath hitches.

Dean doesn’t hesitate. He reaches over to the nightstand, grabbing a foil packet. He rips it open with his teeth, his eyes never leaving yours, and rolls it on with quick, practiced efficiency.

When he settles back over you, the air in the room feels thick enough to cut with a knife. He hooks his hands under your knees, dragging your legs up high and hooking them over his broad shoulders. The position completely opens you up to him, leaving you entirely exposed and deeply vulnerable.

“Dean,” you whisper, your eyes widening slightly at the intense, predatory look on his face.

“I’ve got you,” he promises softly.

He aligns his hips with yours, the thick, blunt head of his length resting against your slick opening. He doesn’t thrust right away. He just lets you feel the size of him, the heavy, pulsing heat waiting at your entrance.

“Tell me who you belong to,” Dean demands, his voice a low, rough rumble.

“I belong to myself,” you fire back stubbornly, even as your hips instinctively tilt up, silently begging him to enter you.

Dean chuckles darkly. He pushes forward just an inch, stretching your tight entrance, and then pulls back.

You let out a frustrated whine, your hands gripping the sheets. “Dean. Please.”

“Say it,” he insists, repeating the agonizingly slow, teasing motion. “Who are you exclusive with, Y/N?”

“You,” you gasp, your resistance completely snapping. “You. Just you.”

“That’s right.”

Dean grips your hips tight enough to leave bruises and drives forward in one long, brutal thrust, burying himself inside you to the hilt.

You scream, your head throwing back against the mattress. The feeling of him filling you completely, stretching you so deeply, is overwhelming. It is painful and pleasurable and incredibly intense. You are so wet from his mouth earlier that he glides in smoothly, but the sheer size of him makes you completely breathless.

Dean groans, his jaw clenching as he forces himself to hold still for a second, letting your body adjust. His chest is heaving, a sheen of sweat coating his skin.

“Fuck,” he grates out, his eyes squeezed shut. “You are so perfect. So tight.”

“Do not stop,” you beg, your accent thick and heavy. You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling his chest down flush against yours. You need the friction. You need him.

Dean opens his eyes, looking down at you with a gaze that is pure, unfiltered fire. “I’m not stopping until the sun comes up.”

He starts to move.

The first few thrusts are slow and incredibly deep. He pulls almost all the way out, letting the sensitive head drag against your entrance, before slamming his hips forward and burying himself inside you again. The skin-on-skin slap of his body meeting yours echoes loudly in the quiet room.

You sob out a breath, your nails digging into his shoulders. “Dean … oh my god.”

“Look at me,” he commands, his voice tight with his own strain.

You open your eyes, meeting his intense green gaze. He wants you to see this. He wants you to see exactly what he is doing to you, exactly who is making you feel like this.

He speeds up, his thrusts becoming harder, faster, and more punishing. The angle is devastating. With your legs hooked over his shoulders, every single stroke hits deep, striking that bundle of nerves that sends blinding sparks behind your eyelids.

The room spins. The only things anchoring you to reality are the heavy weight of Dean’s body, the burning heat inside you, and the relentless, driving rhythm of his hips.

“Are you mine?” Dean asks, his voice harsh as he pounds into you.

“Yes,” you gasp, entirely broken down.

“Just mine?” He thrusts harder, the head of the bed frame banging rhythmically against the wall.

“Yes!” You cry out.

“Good.” Dean shifts his grip, sliding one hand under your lower back to angle your hips even higher. The penetration becomes impossibly deeper. “Because I am completely fucking obsessed with you.”

The dirty, possessive words act like a match to a powder keg.

Your entire body goes rigid. The pleasure spikes so sharply it steals your vision. You feel the climax building in the pit of your stomach, tightening like a coiled spring, hot and frantic.

“Dean,” you sob, the syllables fracturing. You try to push back against him, chasing the friction, completely desperate.

“I know,” he rasps, reading your body perfectly. He leans down, capturing your lips in a messy, bruising kiss, swallowing your moans as he increases his pace to a frantic, relentless sprint.

He is relentless. He doesn’t give you a single second to catch your breath. He just keeps driving into you, deep and hard, pushing you higher and higher until you are completely teetering on the edge.

“Pozhaluysta,” you beg wildly against his mouth.

“Come for me, Y/N,” Dean growls, tearing his mouth away to look at your face. “Let it go.”

You shatter.

Your climax rips through you with violent force, a massive, overwhelming wave of pure ecstasy. You scream his name into the quiet room, your inner walls clamping down hard and fast around his thick length.

Dean shouts, a raw, guttural sound of triumph. He drives his hips forward two more times, impossibly deep, and completely falls apart with you. He empties himself inside the condom with heavy, shuddering groans, his entire body trembling as he collapses against you.

He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his weight crushing you into the mattress. His chest heaves against yours, his heart hammering a frantic, terrifying rhythm directly over your own.

For a very long time, neither of you moves. The only sound in the room is the ragged, desperate panting of two people completely wrecked by each other.

Slowly, the adrenaline begins to fade, replaced by a heavy, bone-deep exhaustion.

Dean stirs first. He pulls out of you with a soft sound, disposing of the condom before crawling right back into bed beside you. He doesn’t give you a chance to retreat to your side of the mattress. He wraps his arms around you, pulling your back flush against his chest, and tangles his legs with yours.

He presses a soft, lingering kiss to the back of your neck.

“Mine,” Dean whispers into the dark room, his voice completely satisfied.

You let out a soft sigh, too tired to argue, too happy to care. You close your eyes, letting the warmth of his body envelop you. You know you are going to have to deal with Ilya eventually. You know your perfectly controlled life is completely off the rails.

But as Dean’s hand rests heavily over your heart, keeping you grounded, you smile into the darkness.

Let the game begin.

***

The arena is absolutely deafening on a Friday night in early December.

You are sitting in your usual spot in the lower bowl, your heavy winter coat unzipped, the collar of your dark sweater pulled up against the chill of the rink. The air smells exactly the same as it always does — cold ice, stale popcorn, and the sharp, metallic tang of sweat and adrenaline.

Down on the ice, game is tied 2-2 in the middle of the second period against a viciously aggressive opponent. The play is fast, sloppy, and heavily physical.

“I still don’t understand icing,” Morgan says loudly, leaning close to your ear to be heard over the roar of the student section behind you. She is clutching a massive pretzel and shivering, despite wearing three layers. “Like, why can’t they just hit it to the other side?”

“Because it slows down the pace of the game and rewards lazy defensive zone breakouts,” you explain automatically, your eyes tracking the puck as it cycles behind the Briar net. “It forces the team to skate the puck over the red line before dumping it.”

“Right. Obviously.” Morgan takes a bite of her pretzel. “Are you going to Dean’s house after this?”

You don’t look away from the ice. “Maybe.”

“That means yes,” Morgan singsongs. “You guys are, like, practically married now. It’s actually kind of gross how obsessed he is with you.”

You finally tear your gaze away from the game, shooting your roommate a flat, unimpressed look. “We are not married. We have been exclusive for exactly one month. And he is not obsessed.”

“He literally brought you a coffee in the middle of a blizzard on Wednesday just because you texted him that the dining hall espresso machine was broken,” Morgan points out dryly. “He treats you like a queen.”

“I am a queen,” you say smoothly, turning back to the game. “He is simply acting accordingly.”

Before Morgan can argue, a sudden, massive shadow falls over your row.

The overhead arena lights are blocked out. The people sitting in the row behind you suddenly go dead silent. You feel a distinct, heavy shift in the air, followed by the undeniable scent of expensive Tom Ford cologne and a hint of winter frost.

“Move over,” a deep, booming voice commands in heavily accented English.

Morgan jumps, her eyes going completely wide. She scrambles to the left, practically throwing herself into the empty seat beside her to clear the space.

You turn your head slowly.

Dropping down into the newly vacated plastic seat next to you, completely unannounced and looking like a mob boss, is your older brother.

Ilya stretches his long, powerful legs out, resting his forearms on his knees as he peers down at the ice. He is wearing a dark, tailored wool peacoat over a black turtleneck, a dark beanie pulled low over his forehead. He looks entirely out of place in the sea of drunk college students wearing cheap synthetic jerseys, and yet, he looks like he owns the entire building.

“Ilya?” You ask, your voice dropping perfectly into Russian. “What are you doing here?”

“The Bruins have a home stand,” Ilya replies in Russian, not taking his eyes off the ice. “We played last night. We play again on Sunday. I was bored. And you were not answering your texts.”

“I am watching a hockey game.”

“You are watching boys chase a piece of rubber like blind dogs,” Ilya corrects, gesturing vaguely toward the ice as the opposing team fumbles a pass. “Look at this. The neutral zone is completely wide open. It is a tragedy.”

You sigh, rubbing your temples. “You cannot just show up to my university unannounced, Ilya. You are going to cause a riot.”

It’s true. Whispers are already breaking out in the surrounding rows. People are pointing. The Briar student section is heavily populated by hockey fans, and the Boston Bruins’ star center sitting casually in Section 104 is not going unnoticed.

“Let them riot,” Ilya says dismissively, switching back to English for Morgan’s benefit, shooting her a devastating, perfectly charming smile that makes her blush furiously. “Hello, Morgan. Are you learning about hockey?”

“H-hi, Ilya,” Morgan stammers, completely starstruck. “Yes. I mean, Y/N is trying to teach me.”

“Good luck,” Ilya snorts. He leans forward, resting his chin on his fist. His eyes narrow as he begins to analyze the play with ruthless, surgical precision. “Look at this power play. It is pathetic. The umbrella formation is too flat. The center is not moving his feet.”

You cross your arms, sinking slightly lower in your seat. “They are college students, Ilya. Not professionals.”

“They are pretending to be hockey players,” Ilya grumbles. “Ah, look. Number … sixty-six.”

Your breath hitches slightly.

Down on the ice, Dean receives a pass at the point. He looks incredibly sharp tonight, his skating fluid and effortless. He drags the puck along the blue line, walking it away from a diving defender, and snaps a crisp, perfect pass right into the slot for a waiting forward.

“Number sixty-six,” Ilya repeats, his eyes tracking Dean’s movement. “He is fast. I will give him that. Good edge work. But he is arrogant.”

“You are calling someone arrogant?” You ask dryly. “That is rich.”

“I am arrogant because I am the best,” Ilya states, entirely serious. “This boy, he plays with a chip on his shoulder. Look at his gap control. It is … acceptable.”

Coming from Ilya, the word ‘acceptable’ is essentially a glowing endorsement. It takes everything in your power not to smile.

“He is the leading scoring defenseman in the conference,” you point out casually, playing devil’s advocate.

“Because he plays against children,” Ilya counters immediately. “But he has good hands. And he hits hard.”

As if on cue, an opposing forward tries to enter the Briar zone with his head down. Dean steps up, dropping his shoulder, and delivers a clean, crushing open-ice hit that sends the forward flying into the boards.

The crowd erupts into cheers. You offer a small, proud clap.

Ilya nods slowly, a grudging look of respect crossing his face. “Okay. That was not terrible. He has decent timing.”

You turn your head to hide your smirk. Ilya is literally analyzing your boyfriend, completely unaware that the “acceptable” defenseman currently dominating the ice is the exact same boy who has been leaving bruises on your hips for the last month.

For the rest of the game, Ilya provides a running, highly critical commentary. He complains about the coaching. He complains about the referees. He loudly predicts every single play before it happens, much to the awe of the frat boys sitting three rows back who are currently taking notes.

When the final buzzer sounds, securing a 4-2 victory for Briar, the arena explodes with noise.

“Finally,” Ilya sighs, standing up and stretching his massive frame. “I was beginning to lose brain cells.”

“You only have three left to lose,” you tease, grabbing your purse. You look up at him. “So, are you taking me to dinner? Or did you just come here to complain?”

“I am taking you to dinner,” Ilya confirms, wrapping a heavy arm around your shoulders and pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “But first, I want to see the locker room. I want to see where these boys pretend to be athletes.”

Your stomach drops. “You want to go to the locker room?”

“Why not?” Ilya smirks, his dark eyes gleaming with amusement. “I am Ilya Rozanov. I go where I want.”

You look at Morgan, who gives you a wide-eyed, terrified look. You promised to wait for Dean outside the locker room after the game. It’s part of your routine. Dean comes out, fresh from the shower, pulls you into a dark corner, kisses you senseless, and then drags you to his car.

Now, you are going to be waiting outside the locker room with the most overprotective, terrifying player in the NHL.

The game is officially up.

“Fine,” you say, your voice perfectly calm despite the frantic hammering of your heart. “Let us go.”

***

The hallway outside the locker room is usually heavily guarded, restricted to team personnel and family. But when a six-foot-four Russian tank with a multi-million dollar NHL contract walks down the corridor, the security guards practically stumble over themselves to hold the doors open.

You stand with your back against the cinderblock wall, arms crossed, trying to look completely unbothered. Ilya stands next to you, taking up half the hallway, looking around with a deeply unimpressed expression.

“It smells like wet dog,” Ilya observes loudly.

“It is a hockey locker room, Ilya,” you remind him.

The heavy double doors swing open.

The first person to walk out is Garrett. The Briar captain is dressed in a sharp suit, his gym bag slung over his shoulder, chatting over his shoulder to Logan.

Garrett steps out into the hallway, turns his head, and freezes.

He stops so abruptly that Logan literally crashes into his back.

“What the hell, G?” Logan complains, rubbing his shoulder. “Keep walking-”

Logan looks up. He sees you. Then, his eyes track to the right, and he sees the massive, brooding figure standing next to you.

Logan’s mouth drops open.

Garrett looks like he is going to faint. He is staring at Ilya with the wide, terrified, awestruck expression of a man who has just met God.

“Holy shit,” Garrett whispers.

Ilya raises an eyebrow. He looks Garrett up and down, his gaze heavily calculating. “You are the captain. Graham. Yes?”

“Y-yes,” Garrett stammers. His voice actually cracks. The captain of the Briar hockey team, the guy who fights defensemen twice his size on the ice without blinking, is currently sweating through his suit jacket. “Yes, sir. Garrett Graham.”

“I have seen your tapes,” Ilya says casually, though his tone is terrifyingly flat. “Your face-off percentage is acceptable. But you rely too much on your wingers to dig the puck out of the corners. You need to use your body more.”

“I will,” Garrett says immediately, nodding so fast he looks like a bobblehead. “I’ll do that. Thank you, Mr. Rozanov. Sir.”

“Do not call me sir,” Ilya grunts. “You make me sound old.”

Tucker walks out next, stops dead in his tracks, and slowly backs away until he is pressed against the opposite wall, trying to make himself entirely invisible.

And then, the doors swing open one last time.

Dean steps out into the hallway.

His blonde hair is damp from the shower, pushed back in a messy, effortless style. He is wearing a tailored grey suit jacket with the collar open, no tie, looking entirely too cocky for his own good. He is laughing at something one of the assistant coaches said inside.

He turns the corner, his green eyes scanning the hallway. They find you instantly.

A massive, devastatingly handsome smile breaks across his face. He takes a step toward you, his entire body language softening, lighting up with that intense, focused devotion he saves entirely for you.

“Hey, beautiful,” Dean says, closing the distance. “Sorry I took so long, I had to-”

Dean stops.

He is exactly three feet away from you. He finally realizes that the massive, dark-coated wall of muscle standing right next to you is not a security guard.

Dean’s eyes slowly travel up from the expensive black combat boots, over the tailored peacoat, and finally lock onto the dark, lethal face of Ilya Rozanov.

The silence in the hallway is absolute.

Garrett is holding his breath. Logan is slowly inching toward the exit, ready to call an ambulance. Tucker has closed his eyes, preparing for the gore.

You stand perfectly still. You look at Dean, and then you look at your brother.

“Ilya,” you say, your voice ringing clearly in the dead-silent corridor. “This is Dean Di Laurentis. Dean, this is my brother, Ilya.”

Ilya slowly turns his head to look at Dean. The casual, slightly bored older-brother aura completely vanishes. His posture straightens, his shoulders expanding, taking up every inch of available space. He looks down at Dean with eyes so dark and cold they could freeze the Charles River.

“Ah,” Ilya says softly. The Russian accent is suddenly much, much thicker. “Number sixty-six.”

Dean swallows. You can literally see the Adam’s apple bob in his throat. But to his absolute credit, he doesn’t take a step back.

He squares his own shoulders. He pulls himself up to his full height, refusing to cower. He meets Ilya’s terrifying gaze head-on, the cocky, playful college boy completely melting away, replaced by the stubborn, unyielding defenseman who refuses to give up his blue line.

“It’s an honor to meet you,” Dean says, his voice steady, offering his hand.

Ilya looks at Dean’s outstretched hand for a long, agonizing five seconds. He does not take it.

Dean slowly lowers his hand, entirely unbothered, tucking it into the pocket of his slacks. He holds Ilya’s stare.

“You are dating my sister,” Ilya states. It is not a question. It is an accusation, heavy with the promise of violence.

“Yes,” Dean says simply. “I am.”

“She is nineteen years old,” Ilya says, taking a single, slow step closer to Dean. He is invading his space, using his size to intimidate. “She is brilliant. She is perfect. And she is the only family I have that matters.”

“I know,” Dean replies, his jaw tightening slightly. “She talks about you all the time.”

“Then she has told you what I do to people who cross me,” Ilya murmurs, his voice dropping so low it’s almost a growl. “She has told you that I do not play games, Di Laurentis. I end them.”

“She mentioned it,” Dean agrees, his green eyes flashing with a sudden, dark challenge.

“Let me make this very clear,” Ilya says, leaning down slightly so he is perfectly eye-level with Dean. “If you make her cry, you will not have to worry about a career in the NHL. Because they will not find enough of you to bury in a matchbox. Do you understand me?”

Garrett actually whimpers.

You cross your arms tighter, watching Dean closely. Most men would apologize. Most men would stammer, back away, and promise to be perfect.

Dean just stares right back into the eyes of the most dangerous man in hockey.

“If I make her cry,” Dean says, his voice low, steady, and vibrating with absolute certainty, “you can have a free shot. You can break both my legs. But it won’t happen.”

Ilya’s eyes narrow to slits.

“Because I’m not going to hurt her,” Dean continues, leaning in a fraction of an inch himself, refusing to back down. “I’m keeping her.”

The tension is so thick you could carve it with a steak knife. The two men stare at each other, neither blinking, neither giving an inch. It is an absolute standoff of alpha male ego and fierce, unyielding protectiveness.

And then, suddenly, the ice breaks.

Ilya lets out a sharp, barking laugh.

He lifts his massive hand and claps Dean on the shoulder. The force of the hit is so hard it actually makes Dean stumble half a step, but Ilya grips his shoulder tightly, hauling him back up.

“I like this one!” Ilya booms, turning to look at you, his eyes sparkling with genuine amusement. “He has spine! He is stupid, but he has spine!”

The collective exhale from Garrett, Logan, and Tucker sounds like a punctured tire.

Dean blinks, totally caught off guard by the sudden shift in energy, but a slow, cocky smirk immediately begins to form on his lips. “I prefer the term confident, but I’ll take stupid if it means you aren’t going to murder me.”

“Oh, I might still murder you,” Ilya says cheerfully, releasing Dean’s shoulder. “We will see how the season goes. Your backhand is still weak.”

“It’s getting better,” Dean fires back effortlessly, leaning casually against the wall. The fear is completely gone, replaced by his usual, charming swagger. “Y/N runs drills with me. She’s a brutal coach.”

“She learned from me,” Ilya points out, puffing out his chest slightly. “The Russian system is superior.”

“I don’t know,” Dean argues playfully, crossing his arms. “The North American system focuses more on creativity. Let the players make plays.”

“Creativity is an excuse for a lack of discipline,” Ilya scoffs, waving a hand dismissively.

“Discipline doesn’t score the game-winner in overtime.”

“I scored the game-winner in overtime last night!”

As you watch them argue, a strange, creeping realization begins to settle over the hallway.

You watch Dean lean against the wall, one ankle crossed over the other, a completely arrogant, completely self-assured smirk on his face. He is talking with his hands, completely relaxed, verbally sparring just for the fun of it.

Then, you look at Ilya. He is leaning against the opposite wall, one ankle crossed over the other, wearing the exact same arrogant, self-assured smirk. He is talking with his hands, arguing just to hear his own voice, completely thriving on the friction.

They have the exact same posture.

They have the exact same cocky, infuriating grin.

They radiate the exact same possessive, fiercely loyal energy hidden beneath layers of playboy swagger and ego.

You look over at Garrett, Logan, and Tucker.

The three Briar players are staring at Dean and Ilya with wide, horrified eyes. Logan slowly turns his head, making eye contact with you.

“Do you see this?” Logan whispers, his voice trembling slightly. He points a shaking finger between the two men. “They are … they are the exact same person.”

“It’s like looking at a multiverse variant,” Tucker mutters, completely disturbed. “Same font, different languages.”

“She’s dating the American version of her brother,” Garrett says, looking like he might actually throw up. “This is a psychological nightmare. Freud would have a field day with this.”

“Shut up, Garrett,” you hiss, your cheeks flushing violently.

But as you look back at them, you can’t deny it. Dean laughs at something Ilya says, throwing his head back in that rich, booming way that echoes down the hall. Ilya claps him on the shoulder again, offering a sharp, sarcastic insult that Dean immediately deflects with a perfectly timed chirp.

They are getting along flawlessly. They are practically speaking their own language — a language built entirely on hockey stats, trash talk, and massive egos.

And the scariest part? Neither of them seems to realize it.

“So,” Ilya says, pulling a sleek black card case out of his coat pocket. “You boys are hungry? I am buying dinner. The steaks in this town are acceptable. Come, Di Laurentis. You will sit next to me and explain why your power play is so predictable.”

“It’s not predictable,” Dean argues, pushing off the wall and falling into step beside Ilya as they start walking down the hall. “We run a one-three-one. It’s designed to open up the half-wall.”

“It is designed for lazy wingers,” Ilya corrects loudly.

They walk down the corridor together, completely ignoring the rest of you, deeply engrossed in an argument about special teams tactics.

You stand in the hallway, watching them go.

“Well,” you sigh, rubbing your temples again. “That went better than expected.”

Garrett slowly walks up next to you, his eyes still glued to Ilya’s retreating back. “Y/N.”

“Yes, Garrett?”

“Can you ask your brother to sign my chest at dinner?”

You close your eyes. “I am going to pretend you did not just ask me that.”

“Please,” Garrett begs, sounding entirely pathetic. “I have a sharpie in my bag.”

“We are leaving,” you announce, grabbing Garrett by the sleeve of his expensive suit and dragging him down the hall after Dean and Ilya. Logan and Tucker follow silently behind, both looking like they are still trying to process the sheer psychological horror of what they just witnessed.

As you catch up to them, Dean glances over his shoulder. He spots you, stops walking for a second, and waits for you to reach his side.

When you do, he doesn’t say a word. He just reaches out, sliding his large, warm hand around your waist and pulling you flush against his side. He presses a soft kiss to your temple, right in front of your brother.

Ilya stops talking. He looks at Dean’s arm around your waist. He looks at the way you lean into Dean’s side, completely relaxed.

For a second, the dangerous, protective older brother flares up in Ilya’s eyes.

But then, he looks at Dean’s face. He sees the absolute devotion there. He sees the way Dean looks at you like you are the only thing in the entire arena that matters.

Ilya huffs a soft breath, shaking his head. He turns around, shoving his hands into the pockets of his peacoat.

“Come on, children,” Ilya calls out, a rare, genuine smile touching his lips. “Dinner is on me. And Di Laurentis?”

“Yeah?” Dean asks.

“If you order your steak well-done,” Ilya warns over his shoulder, “I will revoke my approval.”

Dean laughs, pulling you a little tighter against his side.

“Don’t worry, old man,” Dean calls back playfully. “I like it raw.”

You let out a long, exasperated sigh, hiding a smile against Dean’s shoulder as you all walk out into the freezing Boston night.

One arrogant, hockey-obsessed idiot was hard enough to manage. Now, you officially have two of them.

You really are going to need more deadbolts.

***

The Ottawa winter is absolutely brutal, the kind of biting, deep-freeze cold that makes your lungs ache the second you step outside.

“I don’t understand how people survive here,” Dean complains, his teeth actually chattering as he parks his sleek SUV in the sprawling, snow-covered driveway of the massive luxury estate. “It’s negative twelve degrees, Y/N. Negative twelve. The air hurts my face.”

“You play a sport that takes place entirely on a sheet of frozen water,” you point out dryly, unbuckling your seatbelt. “You should be used to the cold.”

“Arena cold is different from Canadian tundra cold,” Dean argues. He kills the engine and turns to look at you.

The dashboard lights cast a soft glow across his face. He is older now, his jawline sharper, his shoulders broader from years of NHL conditioning. He has a tiny, faded scar above his left eyebrow from a high stick three seasons ago, but he is still, undeniably, the most devastatingly handsome man you have ever seen. And the heavy platinum band resting on his left ring finger — matching the diamond currently sparkling on your own — is still the best decision you have ever made.

“Besides,” Dean says, reaching across the center console to cup your face, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone. “Your brother chose to sign with Ottawa just to punish me. I know it. He wants me to freeze to death during the holidays.”

“Ilya did not sign a massive, eight-year contract with the Senators to punish you,” you laugh, leaning into his touch. “He signed it to be closer to Shane.”

Dean smiles, a soft, incredibly fond expression that he saves entirely for you. “Yeah, yeah. The greatest love story in the NHL. Come on, Mrs. Di Laurentis. Let’s go freeze.”

You brave the frigid air together, jogging up the salted stone steps to the massive mahogany front door. Before Dean can even ring the bell, the door swings open.

Shane stands in the entryway, wearing a soft grey cashmere sweater and looking every bit the golden boy of the NHL. He holds a can of ginger ale in one hand, his wedding band flashing in the warm foyer light.

“Y/N! Dean! Get in here before you let all the heat out,” Shane laughs, stepping back to let you both inside.

“Shane,” you smile, stepping into the sprawling, gorgeously decorated house and pulling him into a warm hug. “It is good to see you. Smells incredible in here.”

“Ilya’s making my mother’s brisket,” Shane says, rolling his eyes fondly as he claps Dean on the shoulder. “Good to see you, man. Rough game against Tampa on Thursday.”

“Don’t remind me,” Dean groans, shrugging out of his heavy wool coat. “Our penalty kill is a disaster right now.”

“Whose penalty kill is a disaster?” A booming, heavy Russian accent echoes from down the hall.

A second later, Ilya rounds the corner. He is wearing a dark apron over a black t-shirt, a wooden spoon in one hand, and a massive grin on his face. Years of professional hockey have only made him wider and more intimidating, but the sheer joy on his face when he looks at Shane, and then at you, softens his entire demeanor.

“Little bird!” Ilya drops the wooden spoon on a side table and crosses the foyer in three massive strides, scooping you up into a bone-crushing hug. He spins you around once before setting you back on your feet, kissing the top of your head. “You look beautiful. Marriage is treating you well.”

“I am managing,” you reply in Russian, smiling up at him.

Ilya turns his attention to Dean. He looks his brother-in-law up and down, his eyes narrowing in that familiar, hyper-critical way.

“Di Laurentis,” Ilya greets, his voice dropping into a flat, unimpressed drawl. “Your plus-minus this month is embarrassing. You are pinching too high in the offensive zone. Have you forgotten everything I taught you?”

“I play top-pairing minutes for a Cup-contending team, old man,” Dean fires back without missing a beat, a cocky smirk instantly appearing on his face as he shakes Ilya’s hand. “I can afford to take risks. Some of us actually have a reliable defensive partner to cover for us. Not all of us are busy staring at our own husbands across the ice.”

Ilya lets out a sharp, barking laugh, pulling Dean into a rough, one-armed hug. “You are an idiot. Come into the kitchen. The team is here. They want to meet the American liability.”

You follow the boys down the wide hallway, the sound of loud, overlapping voices and clinking glasses growing louder. Ilya and Shane’s house is an architectural masterpiece, completely open-concept, and right now, the massive kitchen and attached living room are overflowing with professional hockey players.

Half the Ottawa Senators roster seems to be lounging around the kitchen island, drinking beers and eating appetizers. When you and Dean walk in, the conversation stutters to a halt.

“Boys,” Ilya announces loudly, gesturing with his wine glass. “This is my little sister, Y/N. And her husband, Dean Di Laurentis. If any of you hit him on the ice next month when we play them, I will buy you a Rolex.”

A chorus of laughter breaks out. You recognize a few of the younger players staring at Dean with wide eyes.

Dean isn’t just a college player anymore. He is a bona fide NHL star, known for his lethal backhand, his punishing hits, and his absolute refusal to back down from a fight. To the young Ottawa players, seeing Dean standing casually in their captain’s kitchen is a surreal experience.

“Nice to meet you guys,” Dean says, leaning against the marble counter and effortlessly sliding into his charismatic, playboy-turned-superstar persona. “Don’t listen to Ilya. If you hit me, he’ll actually cry. He loves me.”

“I tolerate you because my sister likes your face,” Ilya corrects loudly, handing you a glass of white wine.

“Sure you do,” Shane murmurs, stepping up behind Ilya and wrapping his arms casually around his husband’s waist. Ilya immediately leans back against Shane’s chest, the massive, terrifying Russian practically melting into the Canadian. It’s a sight that the hockey world is finally used to — the league’s first openly queer, married power couple — but it still warms your heart every time you see it.

“So, Di Laurentis,” LaPointe asks nervously, holding a beer. “Is it true you guys run a completely fluid neutral zone trap in Boston? Because our coach showed us tape of your game against Florida, and your transition speed is insane.”

Dean’s eyes light up. Hockey is his second favorite topic in the world, right after you.

“It’s not entirely fluid,” Dean says, gesturing with his hands as he launches into a highly technical breakdown of his team’s defensive systems.

You stand back, sipping your wine, and watch the room.

Ilya naturally jumps into the conversation, loudly arguing with Dean about the merits of aggressive forechecking versus positional defense. They are standing mirroring each other — both holding their drinks in their left hands, both gesturing wildly with their right, both wearing identical, arrogant, infuriatingly handsome smirks.

“They are exactly the same,” a voice whispers next to you.

You turn your head to see Haas, the young forward, watching Ilya and Dean with a look of absolute awe and mild terror. He doesn’t realize he spoke out loud until you raise an eyebrow at him.

“Sorry! I mean, ma’am—Y/N—sorry,” Haas stammers, his face flushing bright red. “It’s just they’re both so … intense.”

“You can say cocky, Luca,” Shane laughs, joining you on the outskirts of the hockey debate. “We all know they’re cocky.”

“They’re assholes,” Boodram chimes in from the other side of the counter, keeping his voice low so his captain doesn’t hear. “But, like, in a good way? Like, they know they’re the best players in the room, and they want everyone else to know it too. It’s crazy.”

“It is a carefully cultivated brand,” you say dryly, taking another sip of wine.

“You disagree?” Ilya suddenly calls out, spinning around to point an accusing finger at Dean. “You think a drop pass on the power play entry is a good idea? It is a coward’s move! It slows the momentum!”

“It creates space, Ilya!” Dean argues back, his competitive streak fully ignited. He starts pacing back and forth in front of the island. “If you drop the puck to the trailer, you force the defense to step up, which opens the wings! It’s basic geometry!”

“It is basic stupidity!” Ilya roars, throwing his hands in the air. He turns to the Ottawa rookies. “Do you hear this? This is why the American system is flawed. They rely on tricks instead of brute force.”

The Ottawa players look terrified to be brought into the crossfire.

Shane sighs, setting his empty wine glass on the counter. He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t yell. He simply looks at his massive, raging husband and says, very calmly, “Babe. Inside voice. And pass the salad.”

The transformation is instantaneous.

Ilya stops shouting mid-sentence. His chest heaves once, his eyes completely dial back from murderous enforcer to devoted husband.

“Yes, malysh,” Ilya murmurs softly. He picks up the salad bowl and hands it to Shane, the argument completely forgotten.

Across the kitchen, Dean is still pacing, completely fired up. “I’m telling you, the drop pass is statistically proven to increase zone entries by forty percent! It’s not a trick, it’s-”

“Dean,” you say.

Your voice isn’t loud, but it cuts through the noise of the kitchen with absolute, undeniable authority.

Dean stops pacing instantly. His head snaps toward you, his green eyes wide and completely focused on you.

“Yes, sweetheart?” He asks, his entire posture softening.

“Stop waving your hands around,” you tell him smoothly. “You are making me dizzy. Come here and eat your protein.”

You slide a small plate of sliced brisket across the marble island.

Dean doesn’t hesitate for a single second. The superstar defenseman, the cocky, arrogant NHL playboy, obediently walks over to you, wraps an arm around your waist, presses a kiss to your temple, and spears a piece of meat.

“Sorry, Y/N,” Dean murmurs against your hair. “Got carried away.”

“You always do,” you reply fondly, running a hand through his blond hair.

You look across the island.

LaPointe and Haas are staring at you, and then at Shane, and then back to the two massive, highly dangerous hockey players happily eating their respective bread and carrots.

LaPointe leans over to Haaa, his voice a barely audible whisper of pure disbelief.

“They walk them like dogs,” LaPointe breathes. “It’s insane.”

“Terrifying,” Haas agrees in a hushed, reverent tone. “I want a marriage exactly like that.”

You catch Shane’s eye across the kitchen. The Canadian raises his ginger ale toward you in a silent, perfectly synchronized toast. You raise your wine glass back. The rookies are right, of course, but neither you nor Shane would ever admit it out loud.

***

Dinner is a loud, chaotic, incredibly warm affair.

Ilya’s brisket is perfect, the wine flows freely, and the dining room echoes with laughter, old hockey stories, and ruthless chirping. Dean fits in flawlessly with the Ottawa players, trading insults with Ilya that sound vicious to an outsider but are actually layered with deep mutual respect.

It wasn’t always easy. Those first few years after college were a brutal adjustment. Dean getting signed, the long-distance strains, Ilya’s terrifying protective streak flaring up every time Dean’s name was in the tabloids. But Dean proved him wrong. Every single time, Dean proved that his devotion to you wasn’t just a college phase, it was the defining anchor of his life.

By the time the Ottawa players finally clear out around midnight, retreating into the freezing snow to head home, the massive house is finally quiet.

You, Dean, Ilya, and Shane migrate to the sprawling living room. A fire is cracking in the massive stone fireplace, casting a warm, flickering glow over the leather furniture.

Shane is curled up on the sofa, his head resting in Ilya’s lap. Ilya is absently running his large, calloused fingers through Shane’s hair, looking completely at peace.

You are sitting on the oversized loveseat, your legs draped across Dean’s lap. He is gently massaging your calves through the fabric of your jeans, his thumb pressing into the muscles with practiced ease.

“Good dinner, old man,” Dean says quietly, staring into the flames.

“Yuna’s recipe,” Ilya replies softly, his eyes closed. “It is foolproof. Even you could not ruin it.”

Dean chuckles. He leans his head back against the sofa, his green eyes catching the firelight. For a moment, he is quiet, a rare, reflective look crossing his face.

“You know,” Dean says, his voice losing all its usual sarcastic armor. “Dykstra was asking me earlier about how I got signed m. About how I climbed the undrafted free agent projections.”

Ilya opens one eye, looking at Dean across the room. “You fixed your gap control.”

“Yeah. I did.” Dean’s hand rests heavily on your knee, his thumb stroking your skin. He looks at Ilya, the tension between them completely replaced by a deep, unspoken brotherhood. “But that’s not what got me there. I told him the truth.”

“Which is?” Shane asks gently.

“I wouldn’t be playing in this league if it wasn’t for you guys,” Dean says. He looks down at you, his eyes incredibly soft, and then back to Ilya. “If Y/N hadn’t torn my game apart that night in the lobby … if Ilya hadn’t spent that entire summer in Boston physically beating my ass on the ice … I would have coasted. I would have been a good college player, and then maybe played beer league.”

You feel a tight, warm ache in your chest. You reach out, lacing your fingers through Dean’s.

“You did the work, Dean,” you tell him softly. “We just pointed out your flaws.”

“You pointed them out very aggressively,” Dean grins, though the emotion in his eyes is entirely genuine. He looks at Ilya. “Seriously. Thank you. Both of you. For not letting me settle.”

“You are a good man, Di Laurentis,” Ilya says, his voice thick and sincere. “You are arrogant, and you talk too much, but you take care of my sister. And you are a hell of a defenseman. You earned your spot.”

Dean swallows hard, his jaw tightening as he nods. Coming from Ilya Rozanov, there is no higher praise on earth.

“But don’t think this means I’m not going to put you in the boards next month,” Ilya adds quickly, the gruffness returning to his voice. “If you try that drop pass in my zone, I will end your career.”

“I look forward to seeing you try, grandpa,” Dean fires back instantly, the cocky grin returning in full force.

Shane laughs, sitting up and stretching. “Alright, that’s my cue. If you two start drawing up plays on napkins, I’m going to bed. Goodnight, kids.”

“Goodnight, Shane,” you smile as Ilya stands up, pulling his husband to his feet.

“Sleep well, little bird,” Ilya says, pressing a final kiss to your forehead. He points two fingers at Dean, pointing them back at his own eyes in an I’m watching you gesture, before following Shane down the hallway toward the master suite.

The living room falls quiet again, save for the crackle of the fire.

Dean turns his attention entirely to you. He slides his hands up your thighs, gripping your hips, and pulls you effortlessly across the sofa until you are straddling his lap.

“Hi,” Dean murmurs, his hands resting warmly on the small of your back.

“Hi,” you reply, resting your forearms on his broad shoulders. “You are feeling very sentimental tonight.”

“Can you blame me?” Dean asks, his eyes tracing the line of your jaw, down your neck, and back up to your eyes. “I’m sitting in a mansion in Ottawa, playing in the NHL, holding the most incredible, terrifying, beautiful woman in the world. I’m a lucky guy.”

“You are,” you agree, completely unabashed. “But you earned it.”

Dean smiles, that devastating, million-dollar smile that still makes your heart skip a beat all these years later. He leans in, capturing your lips in a slow, incredibly deep kiss. It tastes like expensive wine, woodsmoke, and years of absolute devotion.

You kiss him back just as fiercely, your fingers tangling in his thick blonde hair. The heat between you flares instantly, burning just as bright and desperate as it did in that tiny college bedroom years ago.

Dean breaks the kiss, pressing his forehead against yours, his breathing slightly elevated.

“You know,” Dean whispers, his hands sliding down to grip the back of your thighs. “The guest room is all the way on the other side of the house. Soundproof walls, too. I checked.”

You raise an eyebrow, your old, haughty confidence returning in full force. “You checked the acoustics of my brother’s guest room?”

“A good player always scouts the arena before the game,” Dean murmurs, his voice dropping into that rough, gravelly register that completely short-circuits your brain. He kisses the sensitive skin just below your ear. “What do you say, Mrs. Di Laurentis? Ready for puck drop?”

You let out a soft, helpless laugh, leaning your head back as his lips trail down your neck.

Some things never change. He is still arrogant, he is still incredibly demanding, and he is still, without a doubt, exactly the game you want to play for the rest of your life.

“Take me upstairs, Di Laurentis,” you whisper into the quiet room.

Dean doesn’t hesitate. He stands up effortlessly, carrying you in his arms as he walks toward the hallway, a triumphant, wicked smirk on his face.

You rest your head against his shoulder, entirely safe, entirely loved, and completely in control.

𝟎𝟏 . 𝐑𝐀𝐈𝐍 𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐂𝐊

release date : 5/06/2026 ; word count : 4,3 k

𝟎𝟐 . 𝐌𝐄𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐂 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐊𝐒

release date : 6/06/2026 ; word count : 11,6k

𝟎𝟑 . 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐂𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐆𝐎

release date : 7/06/2026 ; word count : 8,7k

𝟎𝟒 . 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐎𝐈𝐋

release date : 10/07/2026 ; word count : 7,9k

↳ cherry stem #1 !smut

↳ cherry stem #2 !smut

𝟎𝟓 . 𝐇𝐎𝐌𝐄 𝐈𝐂𝐄 𝐀𝐃𝐕𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐄

release date : 14/07/2026 ; word count : 14,8k

𝟎𝟔 . 𝐁𝐈𝐑𝐃𝐒, 𝐁𝐄𝐄𝐒 & 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐘 𝐁𝐎𝐎𝐏

release date : 16/07/2026 ; word count : 7,6k

↳ cherry stem #3

𝟎𝟕 . 𝐃𝐑𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐈𝐍, 𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆

release date : 17/07/2026 ; word count : 7,1k

↳ cherry stem #4 !smut

𝟎𝟖 . 𝐄𝐋𝐌𝐖𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐊

release date : 21/07/2026 ; word count : 10k

↳ cherry stem #5 !smut

↳ cherry stem #6 !smut

↳ cherry stem #7

𝐁𝐎𝐍𝐔𝐒 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓 :

↳ 𝐞𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞 : 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞

↳ 𝐜𝐨𝐰-𝐛𝐨𝐲 𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐤

You'd been fresh off a three-goal win for the Briar women's soccer team, still wearing your practice hoodie as you wandered into Malone's with half the squad behind you. The place was already buzzing, students packed, waiting for the band setting up on the stage.

Justin was crouched beside an amp, tightening cables when one of your teammates accidentally bumped into his guitar case "sorry!" she called out as she backed away.

Justin looked up with an easy smile “no damage done." He shook his head as his eyes landed on you.

You had been looking at him first.

His muscle tee that had practically been made for his arms. 

You didn’t know if you were meant to be jealous of the shirt or of the fact that he was clearly one of gods favourites.

Cute.

Very cute.

Justin licked his lips "you gonna keep staring?" he asked with a grin, "or help me pick this thing up?"

Your lips curved as you crossed your arms “what if I was just waiting for a show?” You shrugged as he laughed.

"Oh, you're one of those."

You furrowed your eyebrows “one of what?" Your teammates stood behind you enjoying watching the interaction unfold.

Justin put his guitar down "the girls who flirt before introducing themselves." He stood towering over you.

You held out your hand anyway and introduced yourself as he took it "Justin." You internally repeated his name letting it linger on your tongue.

The look he gave you made you smirk "you always this cocky, Justin?" You asked as you ran your tongue over your teeth.

Justin shook his head “only when pretty girls keep looking at me." You squeezed his hand once before letting go.

Your cheeks turned pink "confidence. I like it." As you walked back to the team who had found a booth, he called after you.

He fiddled with his guitar pick "what's your team?" You glanced back over your shoulder.

"Soccer."

He smirked as he looked you up and down “explains the ego." You laughed as you flipped him off earning a chuckle from him too.

From that night onward, flirting became your thing.

You'd arrive at Malone's every Friday and Justin would already be there, tuning his guitar.

Sometimes he'd save your usual table without saying a word.

Sometimes on the colder nights you’d steal his hoodie while he was distracted talking to the drummer.

Once you hid his guitar picks.

Another time he convinced the bartender to replace your usual drink with sparkling water just to watch your offended expression.

By the time you noticed it, Justin was already grinning as he watched you “you are the worst." You shook your head as he grinned. 

Justin let his hands rest on his hips “you still came over." He shot back as you rolled your eyes “to yell at you."

He waved you off “whatever helps you sleep." You stuck your tongue out at him before you made your way back to the booth.

Everyone noticed.

Your teammates.

His bandmates.

Dean even had it as a new thing to tease you about during your Wednesday morning lecture. 

One Friday, after Justin had spent nearly an entire set looking in your direction between songs. 

Allie leaned over the counter as you came up for another drink "you know he likes you.” She brushed your elbow with hers. 

You brought the straw to your lips "I know." You nodded as the girl scoffed.

"So why are you still flirting like neither of you knows?"

You shrugged, "it's fun,” she placed her hands on her hips as she shook her head.

She smiled knowingly, “you're scared,” she pointed her finger at you.

"I am not."

Justin caught your eye halfway through a song.

Without thinking, you smiled.

He smiled right back.

Allie couldn’t help it when she laughed “so what is holding you back from the boy that likes ya?”You looked away first as the question made you sigh. 

Because truthfully, you didn’t have an answer to her question.

It wasn't just at Malone's anymore.

Justin started showing up to your games.

At first, you assumed it was a coincidence.

Until after one particularly muddy win, you spotted him leaning against the fence with two coffees, "you stalking me?" You asked as you waved goodbye to your teammates that were going to head back the other way.

He handed a coffee over as he shook his head "I prefer supportive." Justin corrected you.

It made you laugh "do you know the rules?” You didn’t mean it to be mean, but you had so many different conversations with Justin. 

And he seemed to know enough to have found out that there are 11 players on a team on the pitch "I know enough." He nodded, clearly backing himself.

"Oh yeah?"

Justin thought back to some of his personal favourite highlights from the show “you yell at referees." You laughed, remembering how you mouthed off at the ref.

"They deserve it."

The image of how you scored lingered in his mind "you celebrated like you've won the World Cup." You shook your head ready to correct him.

"We're passionate."

Justin laughed as he looked at how your white socks were still stained by the muddy water “you shoved your teammate into a puddle." A giggle erupted from your stomach.

"She deserved that too."

Justin sipped at his coffee "I like watching you." The comment came out innocently.

Your eyebrows raised as you coked your head “you’ve been watching me?” You tried to mask your surprise.

Yet failed miserably when he nodded, “how many games?" You stepped closer to him as he avoided your gaze.

"Enough."

The boy mumbled as he looked up at the sky "Justin,” you placed your hand on his arm as his head snapped down making his eyes lock onto yours.

"Five."

You stared as your jaw dropped, “you've come to five games?" His ears turned pink as you laughed.

"They're fun."

You pointed your finger at him “you've sat through five full games of women's soccer-" he cut you off "twice it went into overtime."

You shook your head, “why didn’t you do her mention it to me?” He shrugged as he looked at the torn up pitch.

He didn’t expect to care you as deeply as he did as quickly as he did "I liked seeing you where you're happiest." For the first time in a long while, you didn't have a teasing response.

Because somehow, that was the sweetest thing anyone had ever said to you.

After that day you hadn’t seen Justin for a while.

But that wasn’t to say that he wasn’t consuming most of your thoughts. 

Like clockwork, it was Friday and you were back in Malones watching Justin’s set. 

Except this time he had offered a song up to his favourite athlete. 

He hadn’t even mentioned you by name. 

Not that it mattered, because everyone knew it was you. 

Even if they didn’t say it, their eyes still lingered on you throughout the song. 

By the time the band finished nearly an hour later, most of the crowd had started filtering outside.

You waited near the bar, pretending to scroll through your phone.

Justin appeared beside you a few minutes later, guitar case slung over one shoulder “so I’m guessing you’re into me?" You teased him as you laughed. 

The boy had dedicated his cover of ‘Into You’ to you “glad you were able to get the hint.” He shot back as he placed his hands on the table.

You nodded as you crossed your arms “I think everyone got that hint.” Your words made his cheeks turn red. 

He had to admit that he hadn’t thought out the possibility that you would have disliked it “you really hated it?" He frowned before he trailed off “was it the attention?"

You nodded as you sucked at your teeth “a little." You tucked your hair behind your ear “I like that your attention was on me.” Your words were honest as you put your hands into your pockets.

His expression softened, “it was always you." The words hung between you.

Neither of you joked.

Neither of you looked away.

And in that moment, you didn’t know if it was tonight that tipped you over the edge. But you knew that you wanted all of Justin in that moment and you weren’t going to wait any longer.

If the game the two of you played was one of cat and mouse, you knew you needed to pounce now.

You finally pulled him in close and you kissed him. It was aggressive, as if all the time flirting with him had built up to this. 

You let out a whimper when he bit your lower lip. He pulled away letting his forehead rest on yours “come back to mine?” You asked as he cleared his throat. 

“Lead the way pretty girl.”

Luckily, the walk was short back to your dorm hall. 

If the walk was any longer than the five minutes that it was, you genuinely swore that you might have acrtually burst on the walk.

You got to the front of your building as Justin kissed you against, letting his knee slot between your legs “fuck I need you J.” You begged feeling the tension pool in your core. 

Justin smirked “glad to see hear that you’re into me too.” The joke landed as he pecked your lips as you squeezed his hand, deciding that the little bit of patience that you had left you were going to use to get yourself to your room.

As he followed you up the steps, hand still wrapped securely around yours, you realised the tension that had been building for months had finally broken.

The two of you moved quickly through the hall. 

Your hand fiddled with the key as the boy nipped at your neck “if you don’t let me unlock this door we are not fucking in this hallway.” You grumbled as you made him laugh. 

Justin pulled away from you as he grinned letting his hands rest on your hips “didn’t take you for an exhibitionist.” His words vibrated in your ear as you unlocked your door “but tonight I’m glad we’re in here.” 

Within seconds of you two getting into your room he had you pressed up against your door “c’mere.” You murmured as you cupped his cheeks.  

His fingers tugged through your hair as his tongue swiped across your lower lip. The movements were messy, you were glad that your roommate was out of town. 

Justin felt a tent form in his pants making him groan “fuck you’re gonna be the death of me.” He dropped his head to the crook of your neck. 

His skin felt warm as you grinned letting your hand crawl up the inside of his shirt. 

Your nails pressed against his skin “I know.” It was enough to hooking his fingers under your thighs as he was desperate to have you. 

The soft hue from your LED lights made your skin glow as Justin set you on your bed “as hot as you look in this, I need to get you out of it.” His fingers tugged at your shirt as you nodded in agreement. 

The movements were messy as all of your clothes landed in a pile on your floor and before you knew it you were on top of the boy “shit this pussy was made for me.” Justin grunted as he drove his head into your pillow.

Your hands pressed into his chest as you drove your cunt into his cock “all yours.” You babbled in agreement letting your head drop.

Justin’s hands cupped your tits, letting his fingers roll your nipples between them “perfect perfect girl.” His voice was a low groan, the vibrations rattled through your bones. 

The singer brought his hips up to meet yours causing your core to burn “you feel so good.” You cried out as you let your teeth catch on your lip.

Justin was bigger than you were used to, he was in fact huge. It was clear that he was having the time of his life as he grinned, rubbing his thumb against your clit. 

The sensitive bud made your body shake “don’t stop,” you pleaded leaning back as you let your hands rest on his thighs to give him better access to fuck your cunt.

It made the boy sit up, wrapping his lips around your nipple before you had a chance to question him “jesus fuck oh-” Justin smirked against your skin as the string of expletives slipped from your lips. 

Justin shook his head as he looked up at you “what would your coaches think about your dirty mouth.” He had sat through one of your many rants about how the coaches wanted you to have a ‘cleaner’ mouth when you were on the pitch. 

It made you squirm as you didn’t respond. 

You needed the boy in such a carnal way that he probably could have said anything and gotten away with it. So you used your energy to grab a fistful of his hair as the sounds of skin slapping bounced off your walls. 

The boy let out a grunt enjoying how the two of you had this rhythm that was like clockwork. His mouth found your other nipple, his teeth grazed over the sensitive peak making your body shiver. 

His calloused finger against your clit made your body squirm as your eyes began to roll back “I’m close!” You blurted it out, the words coming out the strongest that your words had since Justin started fucking you.

The boy nodded in agreement “me too, baby.” His eyes focused on yours but your body seemed to be concerned about fucking yourself on his cock.

His free hand’s fingers caught your jaw, forcing you to look back at him “go ahead pretty girl.” His voice was sickly sweet as a cry broke through your voice.

You don’t need to be told twice and it felt like a floodgate had opened between your legs. Your back arched into him as your fingers gripped at the hair on the nape of his neck. As you came hard your eyes screwed shut with white specks casting across your vision while your thighs shook. 

Justin had to resort to wrapping his arm around your torso so you didn’t fall.  

Your body felt dizzy as pleasure coursed through your veins and as your hips began to slow down, Justin took over. 

His erratic thrusts tipped himself over the edge as your cunt clamped around his cock, your walls practically suffocating him.

You felt boneless in his hold as your chest heaved and your head rested against his shoulder “that was-” you cut yourself off with a huff.

does destiny exist?

it's hard to think so considering how your past relationships ended. honestly, you should get a participation award. you must've pissed somebody off in a past life to deserve this.

as an employee for a large international fashion brand that worked closely with sports, you've met many players throughout your time there. football players were your largest demographic.

you'd never been a huge football fan; you barely knew the game outside of "people kick balls and hands are a no no". but the players liked to talk, so you learned more about it through them. it was nice hearing about something people are so passionate about. football was life to these people. it was a refreshing change of pace. after all, your introduction to football wasn't the kindest.

it all started in japan when you were 11. your parents had booked a trip there and spent their time learning japanese and teaching you how to speak it as well. when you guys finally went, it was a lot of fun. your mom sucked at japanese, so your dad took over most of the talking while you got to stand there and look pretty (thank god, you didn't want to interact anyways).

at some point, you'd been given freedom to explore the nearby area. you were wandering around, forbidden from going too far, when you came across a boy your age practicing football. he had uniquely styled reddish brown hair with striking teal eyes, and a smaller and younger boy with the same eyes and dark green hair watched him with admiration.

you watched in fascination as well. his footwork was incredible. you'd never seen a football player up close, let alone one your age. so when you saw him, you were blown away. he noticed you quickly, and called you out for staring. that's where your relationship with sae itoshi began. he was your first love and your introduction to football. two years later, he moved to spain for a football academy.

neither of you ever said it out loud, but you both knew there was something there. he'd kissed you before he left for spain. you said you'd wait for him. you did, but you didn't realize a game could change someone so completely. sae unofficially broke up with you by 15 (unofficially, because you never dated). you should've expected that he'd do this eventually, he'd never asked you to be his, but it hurt so bad.

that same year, you had your internship with your current company. you'd been lucky to get it so early. you were immediately thrust into the life of interacting with foreign players, a job you loved. from there, you met bunny iglesias with his soft lavender hair with vibrant red eyes and a sideways cross shaped scar across his face. he was handsome, tall, and mysterious. so began your unraveling.

he'd spent all summer flirting with you. it was hard to resist a hot spainard being so openly interested in you, and it'd been forever since a guy showed interest in you. it was probably a bad idea to trip all over yourself after being so devastated by sae, but being a teenager was about dumb romantic decisions. bunny had the potential to be the one, right?

WRONG!!! LOUD INCORRECT BUZZER!!! BLARING SIREN WARNING!!!

not only did bunny iglesias lead you on, but after he got what he wanted from you, he GHOSTED you. what the fuck man? isn't spanish supposed to be the language of love??? bunny clearly did not get the memo, because a whore's love means nothing.

the worst part is that you should've seen it coming. bunny always hated happiness. he said it made him want to die. and despite your heartbreak with sae, you'd stayed full of joy and whimsy, something that bunny pointed out constantly. it should've been a compliment, but from a guy like bunny iglesias, your misery is what makes him smile.

but out of all of them, michael kaiser broke your heart the most. he was an upcoming star when you met him, someone who'd been scouted recently and was making a name for himself. you'd met him the same time you'd met bunny, but michael never made a move the way bunny did. and with bunny preoccuping your thoughts, michael didn't have much of a chance to start with.

you guys got closer as time went on. you texted frequently. you were friends before he confessed to liking you, and the two of you started dating. you supported his career the most, being genuinely happy and proud when he succeeded.

he was your first boyfriend. the first person to ever put a label on it and be serious about it. neither of you had experience, you were both awkward teens. your first date ended with you both being rained on, your first kiss was shy, your first time together was a massive trial and error. yet it never made your love falter. you fought everyday to make it work, and he learned to trust you with his feelings.

you guys worked until you didn't.

michael loved you dearly. you both knew that. but the issue was that he didn't think he deserved forever, and he knew you wanted forever. so he left before he promised you anything.

in a way it was mercy. he was letting you go, allowing you to move on and find somebody worthy. but it wasn't what either of you wanted. you cried, you argued, and you both said "i love you" before finally splitting up. his fear of messing it up made him dump you before he could make you hate him. nothing you said would've changed his mind.

michael moved on faster than you did. he started dating some model two years later, and that fact became public because she threw a fit when he dumped her. funny how none of the relationships after you lasted.

he'd become a player to the public, someone who couldn't make a relationship last a year, but you knew better. the michael in those relationships wasn't the michael you had, and for a while you'd haunt yourself with that knowledge, wondering if he'd ever come back.

would he realize he was wrong? was something you asked daily. at some point you gave up on that hope. he told you he was gone, and begged you to move on. he'd moved on, so it was time for you as well.

except you couldn't. after three failed romances, you'd convinced yourself you were unlovable. you kept their hearts warm until they discarded you for something they actually wanted. sae wanted his career, and he saw you as an obstacle in it. bunny wanted sex, and once he got it he left to go find another to seduce. michael wanted love, but didn't know how to receive everything that came with it and he ran away out of fear. every man that showed the slightest interest in you dipped.

you were soooo done with men. one more soul crushing breakup like michael and you'd never recover emotionally. the funny part about your exes is that all of them became part of new generation 11. ironic that you'd been involved with three of them. you met lorenzo and loki too, but they were just friends who treated you kindly and even suggested people you could date.

but one magical day, you met vivian hugo. someone who changed your life. it's an ordinary day that started with stress. some player was coming in for fitting adjustments because somebody in design fucked up his measurements, which meant more paperwork for you. you're annoyed since the week has already been rough with the english team complaining, the german team flying in (meaning you would have to avoid michael at all costs), the spanish team not liking their outfits, and now a french player having to be refitted by you because apparently no one else is competent.

you took a deep breath, resting your hand on the handle. you've got this. you're definitely not about to meet a scary player who will curse you out and maybe ruin your day. everything is fine. the french are friendly, right? with a dose of self-confidence, you pushed the door open.

football players are always so tall and muscular. yeah, that's the point of the sport, but it still freaks you out. especially since the man in front of you has burgundy hair with the most empty black eyes you've ever seen. he looked serious, but not unfriendly. he studied you carefully, eyes scanning you up and down. you couldn't tell if he was unimpressed, uninterested, or something else.

"um... hello." you said awkwardly.

"hello." he tilted his head. "are you here to fix my suit?"

"yes. we have to get the measurements done now so the tailor can fix it before your event tonight."

he paused, then nodded. "i apologize for the inconvenience."

"you're fine, its nothing to be sorry for. our design team messed up, so its our fault we have to rush." you held out a measuring tape. "extend your arm, please." he did as you asked. he was surprisingly obedient; most players argued or got impatient. he was silent the whole time, his abyss of eyes following you around as you moved.

"you're very beautiful." he blurted.

"oh." you paused, unsure of how to respond for a second. "thank you. i wasn't expecting that."

he hummed. another moment of silence before: "do you believe in destiny?"

you looked up from where you were measuring his legs. "what?"

"destiny. do you believe in it?"

"i'm... not sure i follow."

he pointed up at the ceiling, gazing up like he was looking at something beyond it. "every human is born with traits that make them suitable for something. that means they have a role to play and straying from this leads to unnecessary struggle."

"so we all have a path to follow?"

"precisely." he tilted his head again, "so do you believe in destiny? because i do. and i believe that destiny led us to meet today."

"...how?" you asked, nervously sorting a pile of books that didn't need to be sorting.

"isn't it obvious? we're fated to meet and fall in love."

you turned toward him slowly. "excuse me?"

"i'm in love with you."

"WHAT." you cleared your throat. "are you serious?"

"of course. why would i lie?"

"we don't even know each other."

"we can start. i'm vivian hugo. and you are?"

"i'm [full name]. nice to meet you as well. so like... why are you in love with me exactly?"

"you're pretty, kind, and competent. you are well-suited to the role you currently play and i admire that about humans. everybody should be more like that." vivian said it like it was the simplest thing in the world. "destiny has brought us together."

"right... well i'm all done now, and i will be off. cya, i guess?"

"can i have your number?" jesus, he was persistent.

"...fine. you may." full of suspicion and against your reasonable mind, you gave him your number. despite how cold he looked, he was surprisingly sweet. and determined. and also way more expressive and emotional than he seemed???

he had the most stoic face in the universe, but he beeped when he backed up like a car (who are you warning?? there is nobody behind you at the moment you're just walking backwards dude). once time he stuck his tongue out at you and said "bleh" so seriously you laughed. vivian had more of a personality than he seemed to. it showed with his passion for football, how frequently he talked about destiny, and his admiration for his teammates. he spoke about loki so highly you almost admired him too.

weirdly enough, vivian was content with being #2. instead of wanting to be the best in the world, he wanted to be #2 and control the whole playing field as a midfielder. it was a huge change of pace from the other players you'd met. it was like finding gold among pretty rocks.

he was still on with that "we're meant to be together, it came to me in a dream blah blah blah" stuff, but knowing more about him made you realize he was serious and not love-bombing. he genuinely believed you were somebody he was supposed to be with. you worried he might die if destiny failed him with how much pressure he puts on it.

vivian hugo was a passionate man. he slipped through your defenses when you least expected it and snuck his way over to your heart. still, the idea of falling for someone again was terrifying. what if he WAS love-bombing you? what if this was all a setup? you'd push him away sometimes just to see if he'd get tired and leave.

he didn't. he never did. which was annoying considering you wanted him to be evil so you had a reason to shut him out completely. his patience with you was infuriating as well. you'd snap at him, tell him to go away, say that you know he's faking it, and not speak to him for a bit. and he always came circling back like a damn boomerang. one time he mailed you flowers because you were mad at him for something stupid. another time he showed up at your door with chocolates and a teddy bear (which is insane considering he was supposed to be out of the country at the time).

"why do you do it?" you asked one day, curled up on the couch wrapped in warm blankets.

"do what?" vivian asked, stirring honey into freshly brewed tea because you were starting to get sick and he knew you liked your tea with honey.

"why do you stay?" it sounded silly but you had to get that weight off your chest. you had to know his motives.

he clinked the spoon against the cup to remove the extra liquid before placing it in the sink. he looked over at you. "because you're important to me."

"you didn't say i'm your destiny."

he frowned, "[name], i've said you're my destiny multiple times. it doesn't mean anything to you, so i opted for something different this time." he leaned forward, pulling up his sleeves to wash the dishes. "but look at us. i'm here, aren't i? i'm always here. i'm not leaving, not just because you are my destiny, but because i love you and i value you as a person."

tears welled up in your eyes. all you'd ever wanted was for someone to see and love you. "do you promise?"

"i do."

"do you pinky promise though?"

"of course."

you held up your pinky. "swear it."

a smile tugged at his lips as he mimicked your hand motion. "i swear."

"...can i have a kiss with that promise?"

"i thought you'd never ask." he came over, carefully bringing your tea with him. he set it down on the table carefully before leaning over and placing a soft kiss on your lips. it was warm and comforting, a silent vow of love and trust.

"thank you for choosing me." you murmured against his lips.

"i will choose you everyday for as long as you let me." you let yourself believe him. because vivian hugo was a man of his word, and he'd proven himself to you time and time again.

perhaps destiny was a real thing. either way, you're grateful that the universe brought him to you.

you in that shimmering dress that moved every time you laughed. you throwing your head back while your friends screamed around you. you dancing like you couldn’t feel anyone watching, like joy itself had grabbed your hands and spun you into the center of the room. 

your energy was… strange. strange in a statistically unusual way. 

people gravitated toward you naturally. every few seconds someone touched your arm, leaned toward you, smiled at you. your friends were hyping you up like you were the main performer of the night. 

“wow, you’re literally glowing!” 

“i can’t explain it, your aura is EVERYTHING tonight!” 

“i’m serious, i feel happier standing next to you!” 

you laughed so hard you nearly stumbled and sprained both ankles in heels. 

hugo watched all of it with the same neutral face. but internally? his brain was moving at terrifying speeds. 

subject causes emotional elevation in surrounding individuals. 

social influence level: abnormally high. 

smile frequency observed in nearby people increased by approximately thirty percent. 

why. 

loki glanced between you and hugo before a slow grin spread across his face. 

“ah,” he said. 

hugo blinked once. “what.” 

“you’re interested.” 

“no.” 

“you’ve analyzed her entire existence from across the room.” 

“i analyze everyone.” 

“not like this.” 

hugo finally looked at him. 

loki smiled like the devil himself. then shoved him. hard. 

hugo stared at him with actual betrayal for the first time all night as his body moved forward involuntarily, straight toward the dance floor. 

“julian.” 

“go socialize, robot.” 

hugo didn’t even have time to respond before the crowd swallowed him whole. 

the bass vibrated through the floor beneath his shoes. lights flashed across moving bodies. people danced around him without care while he stood there stiffly, shoulders squared like he was preparing for a tactical briefing instead of entering a party. 

then you noticed him. your dancing slowed. your eyes widened slightly. standing directly in front of you was the most intimidatingly gorgeous man you had ever seen in your life. and he was standing completely still. like someone had accidentally disconnected his charger. 

you leaned closer, trying not to laugh. “are you dancing or buffering?” 

hugo stared at you. you stared back. your friends immediately started losing their minds behind you. 

“HOLY HELL HE’S HOT.” 

“girl, he looks AI-generated.” 

“why’s he standing like an NPC???” 

hugo’s eyes shifted toward your friends briefly before returning to you. “… i do not dance.” 

his voice was low and smooth despite the loud music. 

you blinked. then grinned. “that’s okay. i’ll teach you.” 

“unnecessary.” 

“you came onto the dance floor voluntarily.” 

“… that was not voluntary.” 

“oh,” you laughed, “did your friends sacrifice you?” 

“… yes.” 

that got another bright laugh out of you. 

hugo felt something strange happen in his chest. uncomfortable. and… warm. 

you tilted your head, studying him curiously. up close, he was even prettier. sharp features. dark sleepy eyes. expression flatter than a hospital heart monitor. but not rude. more like… weirdly serious. like an exhausted genius forced into human interaction. 

“okay,” you said decisively, “first lesson.” 

before he could react, you grabbed his wrist. hugo froze fully. his brain stalled the moment your fingers wrapped around him. 

“you’re too stiff,” you told him over the music. “relax your shoulders.” 

“… what?” 

“because you dance like you’re waiting for a software update.” 

your friends burst into laughter. for the first time all night, hugo looked mildly offended. 

“i am capable of rhythm.” 

“prove it then.” 

there was challenge in your smile now – playful teasing underneath, to which hugo looked at you for a long second. then, surprisingly he obeyed. his shoulders loosened a fraction. 

you gasped dramatically. “WAIT. okay. yes. progress.” 

“your standards are low.” 

“i support small businesses.” 

your friends almost collapsed. even hugo paused at that one. 

he didn’t fully understand why his chest felt lighter around you. conversations usually exhausted him. parties exhausted him. people especially exhausted him. yet somehow, listening to you felt easy. 

you moved closer so he could hear you better. “what’s your name?” 

“vivian hugo.” 

your eyes widened immediately. “wait– THE vivian hugo?” 

“unfortunately.” 

“oh my gosh, you’re way funnier than the interviews make you seem.” 

“i have never intentionally told a joke.” 

“that’s the best kind of funny!” 

again. that warmth. that strange, dangerous warmth that he can’t put a name to yet. 

hugo watched you dance while talking to him at the same time, somehow doing both effortlessly. your happiness looked natural. unforced. real. 

he noticed how you included your quieter friends in conversations. how you complimented strangers’ outfits. how every person around you visibly brightened whenever you spoke to them. like sunlight taking a woman’s form. 

and for the first time in a very long while, his calculations stopped making sense. 

you grabbed both his hands suddenly. “okay, no more standing there looking mysterious. move.” 

“define move.” 

“oh brother.” 

you physically guided him to the beat. left. right. small movements at first. hugo followed mechanically, expression still unreadable while you laughed in front of him. 

“there you go!” 

“… this feels inefficient.” 

“dancing isn’t supposed to be efficient!” 

“then what is the objective?” 

“fun.” 

“… ah.” 

like the concept itself was foreign. 

you softened a little at that. “you don’t have fun often, huh?” 

hugo went quiet. then answered honestly. “not like this.” 

something in your expression gentled immediately. “then tonight can be your first time.” 

the way you smiled after saying that nearly killed him on the spot. 

because suddenly hugo understood something horrifying. all his life, he believed in suitable destiny theory. every outcome predetermined by compatibility, logic, and probability. every person measurable through patterns. 

yet standing here with your hands in his, his heartbeat uneven for the first time in years, he came to one impossible conclusion: statistics had failed him completely. no equation could explain why meeting you felt inevitable. 

why your laughter cut through every layer of noise in the room until you became the only thing he could focus on. why, despite knowing you for less than twenty minutes, his mind had already accepted one terrifying fact: this woman is my destiny. 

behind him, somewhere near the bar, loki nearly choked on his drink. because hugo – stone-faced, robot-nerd hugo – was dancing. badly. but dancing nonetheless. 

and worse? he was looking at you like he’d already decided the rest of his life belonged to you. 

end notes. ꨄ︎ guys i'm so sorry if this was ass, i didn't know what prompt to use initially and ended up developing the ragebait intentionally halfway thru (i love slandering my favs anyway). but i really enjoyed writing this esp bunny's (as a bunny opp...)

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tags. ꨄ︎ @idexmids @introspectiveintroverthere @rainychi2 @dazqa @scarlettstrawberrys @f1zzyecola @msfantasy-manga @asphodeloss @mimiluvzu2 @ratg4n