Emily

[suga-kookiemonster]

ctrl alt del | jjk

summary⇢ you graduated bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, but, to your extreme disappointment, your big girl job isn't turning out to be nearly as exciting as you thought it would be. still, you're holding out hope that your talents will soon be recognized and your coworkers will stop trying to include you in their gossip sessions. enter jungkook, the quiet IT guy who's gradually making your days more bearable. (and if you find him easy on the eyes, that's nobody's business but yours.) pairing⇢ jungkook/reader word count⇢ 19.8k 🤭 genre⇢ smut | humor | office!au warnings⇢ sexual content, unprotected sex, oral (f receiving), fingering, corporate nonsense, jk is a nerd but he's also really hot 😩 a/n⇢ omg, she's finally here 😭 this fic has been sitting in my drafts partially finished for literal YEARS lmfaoo. as in, jungkook didn't even have tattoos yet years ☠️ in fact, the whole plot for this was spawned from that time namjoon was on a live in his studio and jk visited in this yellow buttonup looking like a hot nerd and namjoon said he looked like he had an interview. it had to be 2018ish...i know my OGs know exactly what i'm talking about, but i'll put it below the cut for reference. ANYWAYS this was fun to imagine, but it's also entirely fiction so please don't attempt anything that happens in this fic lmao. mood for this fic is this. hope you enjoy~ 💜

When you graduated top of your class with a marketing degree and a job already lined up, you weren’t big-headed to assume you would be given a lot in the beginning. No, you knew that you were the new kid on the block and needed to prove yourself first, needed to work your way up from the bottom. But what you definitely didn’t anticipate was working up from thefigurative trenches, almost exclusively doing busywork—constantly making coffee runs, catering business lunches, printing out endless spreadsheets.

Eighty-thousand dollars in debt, and you are a glorified intern.

While you’re positively itching to hit the ground running and get your hands dirty, your job isn’t too bad. The people there are all nice and welcoming, the complimentary coffee in the break room is decent enough for your dwindling bank account, and every quarter the company sponsors an employee barbecue where everyone can fraternize and enjoy free food.

“Apparently it fosters unity and teamwork,” your coworker Joy informs you as you both stand in the food line. “Seokjin—that’s our CEO—is really big on unity and teamwork.”

Joy is also a member of your marketing team. Though friendly, she has zero filter and thus always has a lot to say about everything—which has helped you when it comes to learning the ropes about the company, but has also had you clutching your imaginary pearls in certain situations where you found her topic of choice inappropriate. 

Despite only being a year older than you, her title of Marketing Associate instead of your measly Assistant means that she technically outranks you, though she doesn’t usually enforce that fact (unless there was something that needed to be copied or filed, of course). Still, she immediately took you under her wing when you first started and is the closest person to a friend you have at work (even though her daily coffee order is always so ridiculous, you are convinced that she has to be fucking with you—or at least engaging in some form of mild hazing).

“I think it’s nice,” you reply truthfully. “I’ll never say no to free food, and they let us out early and everything.”

“I mean, pretty sure you can get the hotdogs twelve in a pack at the dollar store,” Joy quips, raising her eyebrows at you pointedly. “But sometimes the boys from Sales take their shirts off and play soccer, so there’s that.”

Your eyes dart to said Sales Boys against your will, gaze drawn to Jung Hoseok as he chats animatedly with his teammates by the tables. You’ve only spoken to him once or twice, but his fiery red hair and even brighter smile caught your attention immediately, your heart rate accelerating at the sight of him in hallways mere days into starting your new position. Who better to have a mild work crush on than a sweet-talking salesman who winks at you sometimes in passing?

An appreciative noise has you turning back around, embarrassed at being caught ogling how shapely Hoseok’s butt looks in his dress pants today, but it’s just Wendy from Accounting, Joy’s best friend and thus a harmless, familiar face. Wendy has cut in front of a few editors to join you and Joy, and the way that she smiles at you lets you know she’s up to no good. “He’s cute, huh?” she asks, leaning towards you conspiratorially. “I would definitely give him the good ol’ suck behind the dumpsters over there, if you catch my drift.”

“Err…yeah, I do,” you reply awkwardly. She had been explicitly clear—keyword explicit—so there definitely isn’t any room for misunderstandings. Is this truly appropriate work function conversation? From the way the editors behind you are politely clearing their throats, you think not.

“Behind the dumpster?” Joy asks curiously. “That sounds unnecessarily smelly. He’s standing right next to some sturdy tables that I, for one, would take great advantage of—”

“I’m gonna go get us some drinks,” you announce loudly, your neck heating up. “Can you grab me a hot dog, Joy?”

“Sure,” she says dismissively, already distracted by her sudden debate with Wendy about the most convenient place to suck off salesman Jung.

The whole conversation is making you uncomfortable. You are not a prude—far from it—but there is a time and place for everything, and your coworkers’ blasé attitude towards inappropriate topics at company functions on company time rattles you a bit. So instead of engaging in the risqué discussion further, you make your way to the cluster of brightly-colored coolers that presumably hold beverages, sidling up to the only other person lingering the area.

“Anything good?” you ask cordially, making your coworker, who had apparently been deep in thought while considering his beverage options, startle a bit.

He’s tall, his large frame covered in the appropriate business casual attire of nice jeans and a powder-blue button-up. When he turns his head to look at you, you’re met with large, dark eyes blinking in surprise from behind wire-rimmed glasses. Said eyes dart around for a moment before determining that you were, in fact, speaking to him.

The man clears his throat. “Just the usual,” he says, voice soft. Timid.

“The usual?” you repeat. There are little hoops dangling from his earlobes, and you brush off your surprise at seeing them, returning your gaze to the coolers. Water, a clear soda, a cola. “The basics, you mean. Well, can’t really complain, right? Seeing as it’s all free. I think it’s really nice of them.”

Your companion seems surprised at your words. “It is,” he agrees softly, eyes meeting yours for a second before dropping back down to the cooler. “Um, are you...are you new?”

“Damn, I guess my cover’s blown.” You shoot him a wry smile. “Yeah, I just started a couple of weeks ago. What gave it away?”

“It’s just—no one else here really cares about these barbecues anymore,” he admits, looking at you, but not quite. More like, in your direction. “Everyone has forgotten to appreciate the little things.”

“Nothing is a given,” you shrug. “So you need to appreciate things when you can. And besides, those lots of little things can really add up without you realizing it.”

He finally seems to look at you properly, and the weight of his large, gentle brown eyes throws you off for a second. “They can,” he agrees, lips slowly drifting up. 

“What do we have over here?” a loud voice interrupts, a hand falling to your shoulder. You look up, and are met with the brightness of salesman Jung.

“Ah,” Hoseok says with a wink, reaching into the cooler. “I love Sprite.”

“Me too,” you reply automatically, and then immediately want to smack yourself. Because you don’t—carbonated beverages make you break out. But your mouth had formed the lie without your permission.

Embarrassed, you reach into the cooler, grabbing three water bottles. “See you later,” you squeak, avoiding eye contact as you make your escape.

Joy and Wendy are already watching you when you return to where they have procured a table, and when you hand them their waters, Joy raises an eyebrow. “I was wondering how long you were going to talk to that IT guy.”

“Yeah, and why did you leave when Hoseok showed up?” Wendy pouted. “_____, the universe is only going to give you so many opportunities. If you don’t want the ball, then pass it to me! Goddamn.”

“IT guy?” you prompt, hoping to slide past that last remark.

“Yeah. His name is Jungkook, I think? Mostly works with the printers, started a couple months ago.” Joy shrugs, obviously disinterested by the topic. She reaches for the ketchup bottle in the center of the table and squirts some on her hot dog. “This is the first time I’ve seen him at a barbecue, though. Honestly, I’m surprised he even came out, because the IT dudes generally keep to themselves. They rarely leave their little tower,” she adds with a dismissive wave.

Wendy scoffs in disinterest. “Who cares about Jeremy! Hurry up and eat, I’m sure Sales is gonna start their soccer game soon.”

“Soccer game?” you ask distractedly. A glance back to the coolers shows Jungkook is gone, and you don’t see him in the immediate vicinity.

“The sales department likes to play soccer during these things,” Joy reminds you. Her expression brightens. “Hey, maybe Hoseok will take his shirt off again! Let us pray.”

To your coworkers’ disappointment, Hoseok did not take his shirt off. But they certainly had a good time watching his athletic display across the grass anyway.

Monday morning—the start of the workweek, but also, rather depressingly, the end of the weekend. Everyone tends to be more tired and grumpy on Mondays (yourself included), and this is why your team considers it essential that you always stop by their preferred coffeeshop and bring in their drinks for a morning pick-me-up. You’re the lowest on the ladder, so you weren’t exactly sure how to refuse when you were asked one day if you would mind picking up some drinks for everyone, and then, after that, people kept sending you their orders like it was expected of you. The café is technically on your way to work and everyone always pays you back, but it’s still pretty irritating to have to forgo those extra precious minutes of sleep just so you can beat the long lines and get to work on time.

Today, you’re lucky enough to get ahead of the morning rush, but that means that you end up trudging into the building much earlier than you anticipated. You hope the coffee’s insulated cups do their job properly, because you really don’t have the energy to listen to Joy huff and puff about having to reheat hers.

Your trek to your cubicle slows when you realize that someone is already there, sitting in your chair and typing away on your keyboard. Their back is to you, swathed in an olive button-up, and it’s not until you get close enough to curiously crane your head to see their face that you recognize him. The guy from the barbecue last week—the one by the coolers.

He startles a bit when he sees you approach in his peripheral vision, eyes darting up at you in surprise.

“Hi.” You raise the tray you’re holding in an awkward greeting. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to creep up on you.”

“That’s okay, _____,” he replies softly, wide eyes blinking a little from behind his round glasses. “I can get kind of spacey when I’m focused on something. I was just doing some updates on your machine and didn’t see you.”

“You…” Your head tilts curiously. “You know my name?” 

A small smile touches his lips as he points to your computer. “I’m updating your machine,” he reminds you.

Not to mention the fact that he’s literally sitting in your cubicle, you name tag clearly posted on the frosted glass that separates your space from Joy’s. An embarrassed chuckle leaves you when you realize your dumbass mistake. “Oh. Duh. Wow, that was a stupid question. Let me just get out of your way.”

“No, no, I’m clearly the one in the way!” His head shakes apologetically. “I couldn’t do this update remotely and I thought you didn’t clock in for another half hour—sorry about that.”

“I don’t,” you confirm. “But I tend to get here a little early so I can sort out everyone’s coffee order.”

A brow raises in surprise. “Do they really have you making coffee runs?” he asks incredulously.

You hmm in confirmation, moving to set the coffee on everyone’s desks. “Rite of passage, I guess,” you call over the divider as you work. Joy’s order today isn’t as over the top as you know she can be, but you were still rather embarrassed to order it (vanilla latte with oatmilk—one and a half pumps cinnamon, one pump hazelnut, an extra espresso shot and extra foam with honey drizzle). The barista had looked at you tiredly but hadn’t voiced her obvious judgement when she rung you up. 

“I guess,” you hear him say, but he doesn’t sound too convinced. 

Coffee distributed and hands finally free, you return to lean against your cubicle, hovering as he continues to quickly type and click. You look at him pointedly, a small smile creeping across your face. “Speaking of grunt work, I hear you’re the printer guy.”

His lips quirk. “I’m also the expert at updating Microsoft Word, just so you know.”

You laugh, and his eyes crinkle in amused response. “Oh, well excuse me, sir.”

“I’ll let it slide this once. Since you’re new.”

“And so are you. That’s why you’re the printer guy.”

He just lets out a puff of air that sounds suspiciously like a laugh. This close, you can now see the tiny holes that are trailing up his earlobe—he clearly has multiple ear piercings, not just the ones you saw at the barbecue. There is no jewelry in them now, though. 

“Jungkook, right?”

It’s his turn to look surprised, and you find yourself satisfied by the flush creeping up the back of his neck when he ducks his head in confirmation. 

“Us newbies gotta stick together,” you stage whisper behind a conspiratorial hand before leaning decidedly away. “Anyway, let me stop bothering you and go make some coffee.”

His eyebrows scrunch in clear confusion. “Didn’t you just bring some?”

“…Yeah, I am only just now recognizing just how bizarre this must seem,” you say sheepishly. “But none of those were for me—fancy specialty drinks aren’t really in my budget, so I tend to just brew a cup here.” 

“Did you say drinks?” a voice croaks, and when you turn your head, there’s Joy, walking towards the two of you. If her body’s sluggish movements weren’t enough to clue you in to the fact that she’s exhausted and possibly hungover, the designer sunglasses she’s wearing to tactfully hide half her face certainly do.

“On your desk,” you chirp as she walks past you without another glance. “Good morning!”

There is no response from the other side of the cubicle wall, and Jungkook frowns a bit, but you just give him a small shrug that translates to what can you do? before pushing off the wall to continue your trek to the kitchen. “You want one?” you offer. “I make a mean cafeteria coffee. Trial and error has taught me the exact temperature of tap water to use to make it taste less like sludge.”

His mouth smoothes back out at your joke, and though you wait for him to call you out on your ridiculous declaration, his gaze is already back on your computer. “No thank you,” comes his soft reply.

With a nod to yourself, you move to complete your task and leave Jungkook to work on his. When you return minutes later, newly-filled mug in hand, he’s already gone.

Today starts out pretty typically. After bringing everyone’s coffee, you settle into monitoring the company’s social media accounts. (When Joy first delegated this task to you, you were a bit confused, as social media is so vital to brands nowadays that handling it is technically a whole other full-time job. But it turns out you don’t have to do much above the intern level anyway—just answer customer questions and escalate issues if need be.)

Your manager has been out traveling for a week, but today she finally comes back to the office, and it makes for a nice change of pace when she hands you all of her scattered, hurriedly-scribbled notes and asks you to please transcribe them into something more cohesive and legible. Well, not nice, exactly (because at the end of the day, this is still busywork), but if you have to reply to one more Facebook comment with instructions that are clearly already on the product packaging, there is a pretty likely possibility you will scream. 

This is at least slightly less mind-numbing. Instead of copy-pasting things from a prewritten script, you get to try to make sense of what your boss had been trying to say when she wrote turkey club in the corner of a page filled with random numbers and dates. Was this important? Was it simply her plans for lunch that day? You and your fancy college degree have the pleasure of trying to figure that out while Joy and Alan, the web manager, get to actually do important things that are in their job descriptions.

Still, like every day, you try to dampen your frustration, try to keep a positive attitude. Because ultimately, this is an opportunity to grow your boss’s confidence in you, and that’s exactly what you want. Though you’re a little disheartened by all the busywork, you remind yourself it will all be worth it in the end. Your hope is that if you put in the time, you’ll eventually be trusted with more of the nitty gritty stuff. 

(You know…the stuff you actually got your degree for.)

But no matter how positive you are, things of course don’t go as smoothly as they should. After you’ve done a pretty fantastic job (if you say so yourself) of organizing and typing everything up, you send your manager the digital version. And, because you know the email may accidentally get buried in her inbox, you decide to print a physical copy for good measure.

You give the printer pretty simple, straightforward directions. One copy, double-sided (to do your part to save Mother Earth), the whole document typed in plain old black and white. But when you walk over, there’s nothing waiting for you in the printing tray. No humming to clue you in to the fact that the printer was working on your job. Nope. Instead, the admittedly ancient machine is quiet and still, and it stays that way for long enough for you to walk back to your computer to press the print button again, just in case you forgot to do so the first time. Still no dice. You frown, opening the paper tray to make sure it was full, then opening every other compartment that can possibly be opened to make sure there isn’t a paper jam somewhere.

Nothing.

Irritated, you stalk back to your desk, your first inclination to check with Joy and see if she has been having any of the same issues, but you find her chair empty. Probably got pulled into a meeting that they don’t find it necessary to loop you in on, even though it will ultimately be you who does all the grunt work for any action items the meeting produces.

Positive, you remind yourself, falling back into your chair and drumming your fingertips against your desk in thought. Maybe it’s not the printer at all. Maybe it’s your computer. You search your desk drawer for the introductory employee contact sheet HR had given you when you first started, and there he is—Jeon, Jungkook.

For a second, you consider sending him an email, but the green dot that displays he’s online has you shooting him a message instead. Much less formal, but likely quicker for the both of you.

You Hey Jungkook! Sorry to bother you, but I can’t print for some reason You The printer over here is ignoring me, and I don’t think I’m set up to print by the art directors

Despite what you originally assumed, he doesn’t answer immediately, obviously focused on something else. Still, you only have to wait a few minutes before you hear the soft ding you were waiting for. 

Jungkook Jeon Hi, _____. You mean the large printer by the marketing department, correct?   You Yes! I tried a couple times, but I don’t think the job even went through You Thought it best to just ask the printer guy 🙂

There’s a pause, one long enough that you worry that he’s forgotten about your lighthearted exchange from this morning. Shit. That was stupid of you. You’ve probably offended him. Fuck.

But if Jungkook is upset with you, he’s professional enough that it doesn’t come across at all in his next message. If anything, he just seems a little preoccupied. 

Jungkook Jeon Hmmm, let me check it out for you. Mabel can be a little uncooperative. You Mabel? 

Silence again, this time for a good five minutes. You answer some emails so you’re not just sitting there twiddling your thumbs. 

Jungkook Jeon Sorry, was running some diagnostics in the background to see if I could find the problem  IT kinda calls that printer Mabel because we’re pretty sure she’s worked for the company for longer than all of us combined. Seems fitting

You can’t help but snort at that. Cute, and likely not inaccurate. Mabel, it is.   

Jungkook Jeon One of these days Mabel’ll finally retire, but it won’t be today—looks like she’s running fine. Do you mind checking for me and seeing if you can access the marketing server? 

A few clicks, and when double clicking on the server icon doesn’t bring up the same list of folders it usually does, it confirms the conclusion the both of you have already come to—your computer is the problem, not Mabel.

You No dice 😕 Jungkook Jeon Got it. I think something went weird with your network connection after I updated your machine this morning. I can fix that for you! You Awesome! I appreciate it! Jungkook Jeon Of course! Can’t have my sparkling reputation as the Printer Guy tarnished so easily 😉 You LOL

You allow him remote access to your computer when a pop-up prompts you to, and he gets you up and running before your manager’s meeting is even over.

Lunch has always been an interesting—albeit potentially exhausting—part of your day. You learned early on that attempting to take the break you were legally entitled to at your desk did not stop anyone from continuing to ask you for things. Unfortunately, there weren’t many solutions to this problem—you didn’t get paid enough to be able to consistently eat your lunches out, and you lived too far away from the office to go home for lunch instead. So, you started taking your lunch break a little earlier than most of your other coworkers did, ensuring that the cafeteria was pretty empty and allowing you the space to decompress and eat your bagged lunch in peace. 

And as things usually went with this company, it didn’t take long for that peace to be interrupted. Once she noticed you disappearing from your desk, curiosity had Joy tagging along one day, and after that, it only took a couple weeks before both she and Wendy joined you. 

(Later, you would have the great idea to simply enjoy your bagged lunch in the park a few blocks away, but the weather wasn’t always great and at that point, the other two started to expect you to eat with them.)

So that’s exactly how you’re spending your lunch now—scarfing down the soup you made a few days ago that you’ll eat until it’s completely gone, while Joy and Wendy giggle and gossip to each other. As much as they apparently want to eat lunch with you, they tend to be pretty nonplussed by how you never contribute much to their inane conversations. 

And you’re fine with that. In the time it’s taken them to get comfortable invading your zen time, you’ve learned how to properly tune their tittering out. You’re good at nodding at the right times, at throwing in perfectly placed hums that indicate you’re listening, even when you’re not.

Today, it’s a sudden, uncharacteristic pause in their chatter that prickles against your diverted attention.   “That’s weird,” you hear Wendy mutter, and that officially throws you out of you mentally making your grocery list. The intrigued way she’s looking behind you makes you reflexively turn, and that’s when your eyes set on Jungkook.

He hadn’t been there when you first sat down for lunch, but he is now, sitting alone a couple tables away. He’s the only other person in the cafeteria, but from the AirPods in his ears and the way his eyes are focused on his phone screen, you doubt he’s even noticed this fact.  

Joy’s lips downturn slightly into a puzzled frown. “Hmm. IT guys never come down voluntarily from their tower.” 

Your head tilts as you mull over that. That isn’t exactly true. You have only seen Jungkook in passing a few times over the last couple weeks, but those few times prove IT aren’t exactly the antisocial specters the two women in front of you keep painting them as. You have even exchanged the short pleasantries with him that are socially expected when crossing paths at the coffeepot.  

“Wonder what he’s doing here?” Wendy says, not nearly quietly enough in your opinion. Embarrassment  flashes hot through you, inwardly chastising yourself for continuing to associate with such casually judgmental people. You’re already mentally preparing to apologize for your lunch mates when a covert glance out of the corner of your eye shows that Jungkook’s still paying your group no attention, taking distracted bites from his sandwich as his head bobs slightly to whatever is playing through his headphones.

“Whatever,” Joy says with a dismissive shrug, and then just that easily, the two are back gossiping about Cindy in HR.

From then on, you notice that Jungkook continues to eat lunch in the cafeteria at the same time as you. Sometimes, he beats you there, already at his designated table and munching on whatever he brought that day. If your eyes meet, he’ll send you a small smile in greeting before immediately dropping his focus back to his phone. If you’re there first and throw him a wave of acknowledgment, he always returns it, as is polite and expected of two coworkers who don’t know each other beyond their forced proximity.

And you think nothing of it, too busy being your department’s errand girl, the person who gets assigned all the tasks no one else wants to do. The amount of interaction you and Jungkook have is only marginally higher than what you have with Namjoon in Finance, who periodically reaches out to you for any missing receipts for charges on the Marketing department’s credit card.

This slowly starts changing as you begin to have more and more technical problems. You being assigned to put together multiple PowerPoints and research whatever market trends tickles your boss’s fancy means you constantly have an ungodly amount of tabs and applications open. This means you’re not really surprised when your computer—an older model that is definitely on its last leg—starts freezing and giving you pop up errors. A force restart seems to fix the problem, but a new one emerges—now, no matter how many times you hit the print button and walk over to your designated printer, nothing awaits for you to pick up. Even scrolling through the printer’s print history shows no record of your jobs being in the queue. It’s bizarre—you even make sure to confirm you’re connected to the servers, and that doesn’t seem to be the issue this time.

Frowning, you make your way back to your desk and scroll down your chat messages until a familiar face appears.

You  Hey Jungkook! I can’t seem to print—think something weird is going on with my computer today

A soft sigh of frustration escapes your lips, fingers drumming irritably against your desk. It isn’t even noon, but the day is already looking to be a long one.

Resigned, you settle in to wait for him to answer you in the chat, but the little bubbles that indicate he’s typing never pop up. Instead, you’re surprised when movement in your peripheral produces Jungkook himself, slowing in approach of your desk, though his focus is still on his phone screen. He must have gotten your message in the midst of doing something else. 

“Oh! Hi,” you greet him eagerly. “Just the person I was looking to see.”

He looks up at you from beneath the curtain of his bangs, a small smile touching his lips as he stuffs his phone back into the pocket of his slacks. “Just the person I was looking for,” he returns. “What seems to be the problem?” 

“Mabel is being a bitch again,” you say with an irritated sigh. “Every time I try to print, nothing is happening.” 

Jungkook snorts, amused, and it’s only then that your brain registers exactly what you just said. Swearing at work is unprofessional so you make it a point not do it, but that one slipped out so casually. “Oh—sorry.”

But if Jungkook is offended, it certainly doesn’t show in the responding chuckle he lets out. “That’s definitely on brand. I can fix that—let me take a look.”

You move to relinquish your seat, but he’s already leaning over you before you can do more than shift your weight. So you just let go of your mouse so he can control it instead, scooting to the side a bit and trying your best not to think too hard about how he’s close enough for your clothes to brush. Christ does he smell good.

Jungkook clicks around a bit, no doubt checking to make sure your computer is up to date and connected to everything it’s supposed to. “Is this what you’ve been trying to print?” he finally asks, brows furrowed in concentration.

You blink at the question, realizing with dawning horror that you were accidentally distracted by his proximity. You clear your throat, shaking your head a little at yourself in an attempt to clear it of all thoughts that aren’t solidly on the task at hand. “Yeah.” 

He clicks the print button, just as you have done for the past ten minutes, then straightens with a shrug. “Let’s give our old girl a visit and see what her deal is.”

You stand, following him around the corner to the copy room, where Mabel has proudly taken residence for who knows how many years. The fact that you can already see she’s humming with activity as the two of you approach has your eyebrows knitting in confusion.

Jungkook seems equally confused, reaching in the tray for the stack of paper that was just spit out and turning it over to confirm both of your suspicions. The report you’ve been trying to print for the last twenty minutes sits in his hand, likely still warm from how quickly and easily Mabel completed Jungkook’s request. He holds it up for you to see, his big doe eyes peering at you quizzically through his glasses. “This printer was the one that wouldn’t work for you?” he asks.

“Yeah, I definitely sent it to this one. Repeatedly,” you insist. Embarrassment prickles across your skin. “I swear it wasn’t working two seconds ago!”

Jungkook smiles when he hands you the papers, and it somehow softens his naturally cherubic face even more. “You just wanted to say hi to me, huh?” 

“Clearly Mabel likes you more than me,” you sniff at his teasing. “Sorry for wasting your time.”

“You didn’t,” he says simply. He hovers for a few more moments as you check to make sure all the pages are there. “Let me know if you have any more issues, okay?”

“Will do,” you agree, mind already back on your work as you both turn to part ways. “Thank you so much for your help!”

“Anytime.”

“Didn’t you have a date last night?” Joy asks. 

It’s lunchtime again, early enough that the three of you are still the only ones in the cafeteria. While both Joy and Wendy are munching on some overpriced salads they had delivered from a restaurant a couple blocks away, you’re eating a boring ham and cheese sandwich that you haphazardly slapped together in your rush to get out the door this morning. Vaguely, you do remember Wendy mentioning something about an upcoming hot date, but she was always rambling about a hot date, and frankly, you don’t care enough to keep up with any details. Everything you know about her love life—and her, in all honesty—has been dumped onto you without you having any say in the matter. 

“I did,” Wendy squeals, excited as always to have the opportunity to talk about herself. “His name was Miles. We’ve been talking on Tinder for the past week—he was really sweet and seemed to want to get to know me. Last night he took me to a nice restaurant, really wined and dined me.”

“Wow,” Joy says, eyebrows raised. “That sounds promising. When are you gonna see him again?”

“I’m not,” Wendy scoffed. “He was nice and all, but he’s only 5’7. It’ll never work out.”

“True.”

You’ve been trying your hardest to zone them out, but the longer Wendy prattles on, each sentence more baffling than the last, you can’t help but interject, “Doesn’t the app let you filter out height preferences?”

Wendy pauses, a raise of an eyebrow betraying her surprise at you finally participating in her lunchtime shenanigans. “Not on the free version.”

“So why did you even entertain him if you knew you would never consider him seriously?” 

“..because I wanted to go to dinner?” Wendy replies flatly, the look on her face doing nothing to hide how stupid she thinks your question is. “Besides, he got what he wanted out of the deal. After dinner I took him home and let him fuck.” 

The flippantly casual way she throws out the vulgar word feels like a record scratch, especially since the three of you are, in fact, still very much on company premises. Wendy doesn’t seem to notice just how much she’s scandalized you, continuing to prattle on at full volume about how the sex was pretty good for a Tinder date, even though he refused to eat her out. 

At this point, you’ve long slowed in your chewing, now entirely too incredulous by the absurdity of the situation you’ve found yourself in to eat. 

“You didn’t suck him, did you?” Joy asks.

Wendy scoffs. “Of course not! I’m not giving head to some random anyway, especially if he’s not gonna give me mine first.”

“Can we not talk about this?” you mumble.

They both turn to stare at you, judgement plain on their faces. Wendy snorts. “Wow, _____. I never took you to be a prude.”

“I did,” Joy slides in under her breath.

You let out an agitated huff. This is ridiculous. “I’m not a prude.”

The two of them share a look. After a pause, Wendy finally asks in a way that indicates that it doesn’t really matter what you say because her mind is already made up, “Then what’s the problem?”  

Aside from this conversation being a massive HR violation?

Wendy continues smugly, as if she’s figured you out, “Talking about oral hit a nerve…interesting.”

Yes, Wendy! you think sarcastically, fighting the intense urge to roll your eyes. The whole rest of the convo was good and dandy—oral was definitely the line, though! 

Joy just looks at you, her eyes narrowing the longer she does. Her scrutiny makes your skin prickle in irritation. “You have gotten head before, right?”

“Okay!” you say sharply, stuffing the uneaten half of your sandwich back into the bag. “One, that’s neither of your business, and two, this conversation is completely inappropriate. Let’s change the subject, please.” 

It’s quiet for a moment, both of them visibly surprised by your response. Joy actually looks a tiny bit proud that you stood up for yourself, but Wendy just sniffs and mutters, “That obviously means no.” Ultimately, they both back off, choosing instead to chatter about the newest design of Joy’s nails.

You exhale a tiny sigh of relief. Wendy was hitting the nail too close to the head and you truly didn’t feel like explaining your life story to a nosy coworker who was nothing more than your acquaintance, at best. Now that they’ve finally let you out of the hot seat, you’re fully planning to spend the rest of your lunch hour zoning out in relative peace. 

But before you can properly dissociate, you hear someone cough behind you. 

Your blood runs cold. You already know who it is—no one else tends to eat lunch this early.

“How long has he been sitting there?” you whisper, already dreading the answer.

Joy waves an unbothered hand. “I don’t know, like five minutes?”

Five minutes. Long enough to have heard… 

You’re immediately mortified, and it must show on your face, because Wendy just snorts and says way too loudly for your comfort, “Oh, relax, this is probably the most action he’s gotten in months. I’m doing him a favor.”

What the fuck. WHAT THE FUCK. “Are you serious right now?”

“Calm down,” Joy says, rolling her eyes. “Look, he’s not even listening to us.”

And a slow, discrete turn of your head confirms what she says—Jungkook, in an ugly salmon button-up today, has his earbuds in, eyes downcast to his phone screen, lips soundlessly forming the words to whatever song he’s listening to. You feel a tiny bit of relief, but embarrassment still roils deep in your belly, suddenly making your half-eaten sandwich completely unappetizing.

You stand, grabbing the brown paper bag that contains the remnants of your lunch and hoping against hope that you’ll be able to bolt without him noticing.

“Oh come on, don’t be like that,” Wendy sighs, annoyance bleeding into her tone. “I told you I didn’t realize you were a prude. We can talk about something else.”

You bristle, but tamp down the urge to defend yourself and point out again that you aren’t a prude, you just don’t want to be the office harlot either. “It’s not that,” you lie. The judgmental look in Joy’s eye only softens when you say, “I just remembered I forgot to print the printouts for the meeting this afternoon. I’ll see you guys later?”

“Sure,” Joy says dismissively, and Wendy says nothing at all. They’ve already moved on, no longer interested in your swift escape, attention eagerly back on the details of Wendy’s weekend. That’s works perfectly fine for you—you’ve had enough of being the center of attention for the day.

Blessedly, Jungkook doesn’t even look up when slink past him and out the door.

 It’s hot.

Third quarter is well underway, which means that it’s time again for the quarterly company barbecue. That also means it’s hot as balls. 

You suffer quietly, trying not to add to the stank atmosphere Joy and Wendy are already creating due to the heat. It’s an ambitious goal, especially since you’re already sweltering beneath your blouse—which was reasonable to wear within the chilled walls of the office, but feels rather ridiculous now, under the relentless beat of the sun. Despite being grateful for the free food and break from your maddeningly boring work, you can’t help but mentally yearn for the indoors, where there’s proper shade and air conditioning and decidedly less bitching. 

“I don’t know why they don’t just cater something for us to eat inside,” Joy mopes, dabbing at her brow with what you already know from experience to be a cheap, scratchy napkin. “How is anyone supposed to enjoy themselves if we’re melting?”

“It’s probably a ploy,” Wendy quips. “The more uncomfortable we are, the more likely we are to get back to work.”

“The date’s been on the calendar for months,” you point out wearily. “They had no way of knowing there’d be a heat wave today. Besides, the company’s already paid for the food. I doubt they intended to purposely waste that money.”

Joy scoffs in retort. “The company also knows throwing an outdoor event in July is the same as throwing one in Satan’s asshole.”

Wendy sniggers, but you don’t answer, biting back your response that outdoor barbecues are common during summer, and at least they don’t have you out here in the snow. Because honestly? This is only your second quarter with the company, and who knows what the fourth quarter barbecue looks like. 

All you can do is free some of the buttons on your blouse, undoing as many as you can while still being office-appropriate. As it is, you now have a little cleavage peeking out, but with how hot it is, you figure no one will say anything.

“Look,” Wendy says with an unsubtle tip of her head. “Looks like the soccer game is still on, at least.”

Fluttering the hem of your blouse in an attempt to get some circulation, you reflexively respond to her prompting, eyes following her line of sight. A few tables down, the Sales team has finished their meal and appears to be actively gauging coworker interest in joining their game. From the decently-sized group that’s starting to form by the open field, you think they’re pretty successful, despite the heat. 

Joy groans, lifting her long hair with a hand in an effort to cool off the back of her neck. “I don’t know how they’re doing all that when it feels too hot to breathe.”

Inwardly, you agree with her, but Wendy just gives a lazy shrug and says, “Hey, if we’re gonna roast to death, at least we’ll be properly entertained.”

“True,” Joy muses. “And they’re gonna be sweatier than usual.”

Wendy’s eyes glaze over a bit at the thought. You grimace, amazed that these two always seem to have their heads in the gutter. That’s my cue. “I’ll be right back,” you say, brushing off the back of your slacks as you stand, but they pay you no mind when you walk away.

You’ve already finished your meal, but it can’t hurt to take another look at the coolers. It’s so hot that you’ve already downed your first beverage, so a new one is in order. When you arrive to the area, two people from Customer Service pass, nodding at you in acknowledgment as they make their way back to their table. You’ve only just started to reach for a cooler lid when you hear someone address you again. 

“Hey,” a familiar voice says timidly behind you. “How’s it going?”

You reflexively turn your head, simultaneously surprised and not at all to find Jungkook standing there. He’s got on a long-sleeved button-up despite the heat—grey, checkered with a red and navy plaid—and you can’t help but wonder how he’s not sweltering. Though, the noticeable sheen on his face and the way his damp bangs are starting clump together tells you he just might be. 

“I’ve had better days,” you answer honestly, swiping the back of your hand across your forehead. Before you can catch yourself, that same hand is vaguely gesturing at him, head to toe. “How are you not melting?”

His lips twitch, amused. “I definitely am,” he admits. “I actually hoped no one was over here so I could stuff some of the ice from these coolers down my shirt without being judged.”

You snort. “Hey, who’s judging? Certainly not me. Knock yourself out; just make sure you leave me some.” 

He taps his chin, jokingly in thought, but to be honest, he does mildly look as if he’s actually considering it. “Well, we wouldn’t want the beverages to get cold…”

“Eh, there’s probably not that many in here anyway. They could probably consolidate coolers.” To prove your point, you bend over, cracking open one of the red ones next to you and peering inside. The expected assortment of generic sodas greets you, looking admittedly very refreshing floating in their ice bath. “See, this one isn’t even full.”

You angle your torso a bit so you can meet his eye properly over your shoulder, but as soon as you look up at him, his gaze hurriedly skirts away, color crawling up the back of his neck. You stand with a frown, confused by this, but ultimately brush off his weird behavior when you notice Namjoon from Accounting sidling up to the two of you. 

"Hey guys,"  he greets you, a friendly smile dimpling his cheeks. "We're getting some people together for a soccer game. I know it's really hot, but would either of you want to join?"

You’ve often seen Namjoon chatting with Hoseok in passing, and twice have even seen them leave the building for lunch together, so it doesn’t surprise you that the accountant is helping recruit for the Sales team's traditional barbecue pastime. What does surprise you, however, is that when he casually claps a hand on Jungkook’s shoulder, the younger man first responds by blinking owlishly at him behind his glasses, and then, a few seconds later, giving him a nod of assent. 

Obviously you don't know Jungkook very well—not at all, really, outside of your ongoing feud with Mabel. But you didn't take him to be the type to be into playing outdoor sports, particularly in this weather, and you certainly didn't expect him to agree so easily. A smile from Namjoon and suddenly all thoughts of stealing cooler ice are gone. 

Namjoon turns back to you, but you're already shaking your head. "Nope, no thank you! Y'all have fun. I'll just supervise from over there in the shade."

"Fair enough," he chuckles, and then he's leading Jungkook across the open field to meet up with the others.

Mildly more interested in the game now, you take this as your cue to grab the beverage you came for—a can of a Lipton knockoff and a bottle of water for good measure—and return to your table.

Joy and Wendy are still yapping when you approach, though in your absence, Joy has apparently decided to move to Wendy’s side of the table. It only takes you following their line of sight to quickly recognize why—that side of the table has an unobstructed view of the upcoming soccer game. Well, unobstructed, so long as you change your seat too. Awkward about intentionally getting in the way, you pause for only a moment before ultimately reaching for the end seat perpendicular to them instead. 

When you lean over a little to pull your chair out from under the table, Joy finally deigns to acknowledge you, ticking an eyebrow. “I can see down your shirt,” she tells you offhandedly. 

Your head snaps down, and you realize she’s right—undoing those few extra buttons has made the billowy fabric more susceptible to gravity, particularly when you leaned over. You yourself could see your whole chest and the basic bra that supported it, and at this angle, you doubt your blouse covered much of that from Joy’s gaze. A hand immediately snaps up to press the material back in place, but before you can even get properly embarrassed, her attention is ripped from you, eyes wide at something behind you.

“Holy—”

Wendy's jaw drops. Your head reflexively turns in the direction they're gawking at.

And before you can stop it, your jaw drops too.

Your tablemates have been known to be dramatic, and are certainly the type to stretch a fact or two. But it’s only now that you fully understand their fixation on these Sales soccer games, because yes, sometimes they do indeed take their shirts off. Like now.

Other than one girl from Compliance, all of the game’s recruits appear to be men, and as such, the group has chosen to distinguish teams by shirts vs. skins. And while the sudden appearance of skin naturally draws most people’s attention, your attention only gravitates towards one person. Cause what the fuck.

You almost don't recognize him, your brain rapidly shuffling through the information it's collected about him over the past few months and struggling to reconcile with what your eyes are actually seeing. Because the Jungkook you know wears glasses and long sleeves and has an unassuming hairstyle that looks suspiciously like a bowl may have been involved at some point. 

But the person you're looking at now? Glasses have been discarded, apparently no longer needing optical assistance, and he’s ditched the button-up, sweat making the white sleeveless tank he has on underneath spottily transparent and divulging the dusk of his nipples. Now that you can properly see the taper of his slim waist, his shoulders are proportionally more broad than you realized. And, since he clearly has no regard for your rapidly rising blood pressure, Jungkook decides now is the perfect time to reach over said shoulders, grab fistfuls of damp fabric, and pull. The sight of him slipping the shirt over his head—the ink of his hair sinfully mussed, the muscles of his back rippling with the movement—has you reflexively swallowing, mouth dry.

He's absolutely ripped. 

There's no other way to say it. A superior specimen, built and honed in a way that's only possible through years of hard work and discipline. He's still lean enough that you can rationalize how you’ve never picked up on that amount of muscle hiding beneath his unassuming dress shirts, but you're still gobsmacked. 

Your mind spins, struggling to come to terms with the near impossible fact Jungkook actually pulled a Clark Kent on you. Well, pulled a Clark Kent if Clark Kent was also covered in gorgeous ink, pigment swirling up his right arm from wrist to shoulder. From this distance you can’t see the exact designs that make up his intricate sleeve, but you can tell it was composed with a purposeful eye. 

Jungkook is absolutely ripped and tattooed. Jungkook. Printer guy Jungkook.

Flustered and trying not to be, you quickly look away, clanking your jaw shut and trying to focus on the plastic tabletop instead. Dear god, this is embarrassing. You really just gawked at your coworker! He was minding his own business and your jaw just reflexively unhinged like a degenerate. God, you hoped he didn't see that.

But any mortification you have is apparently not shared by the other two at your table.

“Is that Justin?!” Wendy demands rather shrilly, eyes wide, and the volume of her question would embarrass you even more if your brain could process any other reaction right now other than straight static. “Justin from IT?!”

You swallow thickly, your responding correction weak and delayed. “Jungkook.” 

“Finally,” Joy groans, pushing her plate away dramatically. “Some good fucking food!”           

You can’t help it then—your eyes drift back up, lured to the soccer players once more and zeroing in on him immediately. Seemingly unable to stray from his form, the heat already producing a sheen over his golden skin even though the game hasn’t started yet.

Surrounded by a few surprised male coworkers, Jungkook’s slightly hunched into himself, shy at the sudden attention. Even with the distance, you can see how Hoseok claps Jungkook on the back, just as animated over his newly revealed physique as the members of your table. But while everyone else is excited by this revelation…

Across the field, Jungkook innocuously turns his head in your direction. Like magnets, his eyes hone in on yours, your gaze locked for a few seconds until another loud What the fuck?! from Wendy frees you from the spell and you hurriedly look away again, a completely different kind of heat washing over you.

Jesus, you need to get ahold of yourself. There’s no way he was actually looking at you—it’s too sunny, and he’s not even wearing his glasses! He probably can’t even see that far.

But when you brave another peek in that direction and realize you can literally count his abs from here—

What the fuck, indeed.

Mutely, you watch the game unfold, not as self-conscious when it becomes clear that the whole office is doing the same. Though Joy and Wendy have been very salacious in their excitement for it, the soccer game is evidently a company barbecue highlight for others as well. And you’re sure Jungkook joining the fray has only added to the interest, as he’s a completely new addition to the equation.

And to your continued astonishment, Jungkook is good. He’s fast and lithe and brazen. He proves to you, again and again, that he can kick the ball with such ferocious accuracy that the other team’s goalie eventually stops trying to get in his way and simply resorts to trying to protect their vulnerable body parts instead. His intensity only entices reciprocal energy from everyone else, and what has traditionally been a lighthearted game between coworkers has now transformed into a group of competitive men who feel they now have something to prove. 

Joy and Wendy are delighted by this development, squealing and cheering and tittering amongst themselves. You sit quietly, still trying to mentally process this new development, but when you start to feel embarrassed by just how much you’re staring, you decide to call it a day. No one really notices when you stand and gather your trash, and luckily the distraction of the game means you’re able to slip out without any fanfare.

This quarter’s barbecue being on a Friday means you’re blessed with a weekend to decompress and regroup. Unfortunately for you, the office doesn’t just…move on from the event like it has in the past. Instead, this particular barbecue was apparently such a success that you continue to hear chatter about it for the next week, mostly in passing. But while everyone else makes small talk about how much fun they had, Joy and Wendy choose to hone in on the only thing they truly consider worthy of discussion—Jungkook. 

Today, just as they have every day for the past few months, they join your table when you take your early lunch. However, to their increasing irritation, the object of their current fixation isn’t here. In fact, Jungkook hasn’t showed up to the cafeteria during your lunch time since before the barbecue, and you inwardly have to admit it’s a little strange without him. You sat at different tables and the two of you never really said much to each other beyond the expected niceties, but you’ve gotten used to his presence all the same. 

You actually have barely seen him at all, with Mabel on her best behavior this week and Jungkook seemingly busy with something that has kept him mostly out of common areas. Still, with your embarrassingly strong reaction to him at the barbecue, it’s probably for the best. You’re a little wary of what your first proper interaction is going to be like, and you’ve been mentally preparing yourself to be as normal as possible. 

Your female lunchmates don’t seem to have that same mindset.

“Does he just not eat anymore?” Joy huffs. “I literally haven’t seen him all week!”

Wendy picks at her salad, lips twisted in a displeased grimace. “I actually saw him yesterday.”

Joy’s head snaps to her. “What?! You didn’t tell me that. What happened?”

“Since casually running into him doesn’t seem to be working, I figured I’d try getting him to come to me. So I unplugged my keyboard and messaged him, but he didn’t show up for like 40 minutes,” Wendy sighs irritably. “And when he did, he looked at me like I was a moron.”

Your lips twitch in amusement before you can stop them. Joy immediately says exactly what you’re thinking. “Well, you are a moron. You sat there for 40 minutes with your keyboard unplugged!”

Wendy soldiers on like she didn't hear her, undeterred from her gossiping. “So he came over in his ugly button-up and judged me! Plugged the keyboard back in and walked away without even saying anything.”

Despite not properly running into him all week, you actually did see Jungkook’s shirt in passing yesterday as he was turning down a hallway at the far end of the office. Wendy’s right—it had been an ugly puce. You found it endearing.

“He didn’t even roll up his sleeves,” Wendy mourned. “The least Jamal could have done was give me that.”

You pause in the chewing of the tuna sandwich you brought from home, exasperated. “Jamal,” you repeat flatly. “Really?”

Wendy waves her hand at you dismissively. “You know who I mean!”

“I mean, he’ll probably be more willing to talk to you if you treat him like an actual person.” Your quip is reflexive and indignant, and it kind of throws all three of you off guard. Joy raises an eyebrow at you and your sudden vexation, but you still add, though more subdued, “You know. Making an effort to remember his name is a good start.”

“Damn, who pissed in your Cheerios?” Wendy sniffs, though she doesn’t seem very offended by your callout. Over the months you’ve superficially gotten to know her, you’ve come to notice that she doesn’t really take much seriously—a simultaneously admirable and frustrating trait. “If you wanted dibs, you could have just said that.”

You feel heat flush up your neck, denial attempting to sputter from your lips, but true to form, Wendy has already moved on, tittering about how it’s about time the office had some proper excitement that wasn’t just meetings and spreadsheets.

“And speaking of meetings,” Joy pipes up, passing you a nonchalant look, “don’t forget to order those sandwiches for the client meeting tomorrow.”

“Sandwiches?” Your mind blanks. You knew your boss was hosting some clients in the office—had even been working on a lot of grunt work to prepare for it—but no one had mentioned anything to you about any sandwiches. “I thought she was wining and dining them?”

Joy let out a mildly irritated huff. “No, they have to catch an early flight home, so the plan has changed to a working lunch. Weren’t you listening in Monday’s meeting?”

No, you hadn’t been listening, because you weren’t invited to the Monday’s meeting. So it looks like a plan had been made and tasks assigned to you…without anyone bothering to communicate that. Typical.

You close your eyes for a second, jaw working as you attempt to tamp down your ever-brewing frustration. If they intend on you ordering from the usual place, it may be too late to cater for delivery, which means you’ll probably be stuck figuring out how to transport multiple giant platters from a restaurant five blocks away. 

“Do you mind forwarding me the request you sent? I must have missed it,” you respond neutrally, knowing full well the original email had never been sent to you. You stand to leave, the rest of your lunch break instantly soured by the revelation that you apparently have time-sensitive action items that are encroaching dangerous territory. “Just want to make sure I get the order correct.”

Joy nods, attention already back on Wendy and only half-listening. In the meantime, you’ll have to research alternatives, just in case.

While you’re lucky enough to find an acceptable last-minute catering option that will also, blessedly, deliver, that doesn’t mean you’re free to take a breather. 

It’s now the end of the day, and one by one, you see everyone around you log out and head for the elevator. Even Joy, who leaves right on time, despite knowing just how many tasks your small team still needs to complete for the big meeting tomorrow. What’s left is mostly grunt work, and while you are undoubtedly a grunt, it’s been clear for a while now that Joy no longer sees herself to be included in that category. So even though having more hands on deck would speed things along considerably, she still gathers her purse and gives you a cheeky finger wave on her way out.

At some point, the cleaning lady makes her rounds, scooting past you with a murmured apology to empty your trash can, but eventually even she disappears. Hell, even the sun abandons you, the soft glow fading from all the windows and stranding you with the cold fluorescent lighting that only remains on in your part of the office, because the lights have motion detectors. 

And so it’s just you, kneeling on the carpet and surrounded by a gazillion binders. Ensuring relevant reports and Powerpoint presentations are accurate and sending digital copies to your boss for her to have on-hand. Attempting to print physical copies and assemble them into binder portfolios your clients will be able to follow along with during the meeting. 

Attempting, because Mabel is, of course, choosing now to live up to her bitchy reputation. She won’t print on the right-sized paper. She won’t collate. She won’t be cooperative at all, and you’re too exhausted for this shit. Physically and mentally exhausted, trying your hardest to rein in the frustration that’s slowly expanding in your chest, crawling up your throat and triggering a familiar burning behind your eyes. It’s not fair. 

An exasperated noise escapes you without thinking, a loud, guttural thing. None of this is fair.

“_____?”

Your head snaps over your shoulder in surprise, not at all expecting anyone else to still be in the building. It’s Jungkook, because of course it is. Brows knitted in confusion, a black leather jacket thrown over his marigold button-up for some reason. He’s standing near the doors that exit into the lobby, evidently about to begin his trek home before you unwittingly paused his endeavor.

“What are you still doing here?” he asks, but before you can even deign to answer, he’s already taken a few steps towards you and followed up with a clearly concerned, “Are you okay?”

You take a breath, struggling to calm the storm within you. None of this is his fault, nor his problem, and you should just force a smile on your face so he can be on his way and leave you to your self-pity. But you’re tired, so tired, and simply don’t have the capacity to pretend anymore. You swallow around the lump in your throat, and when you do speak, the thickness of your voice betrays the tears that you’re fighting to keep at bay. “No.”

This only seems to alarm him more. He’s standing next to you now, as close as he can get with the array of binders and papers you have scattered on the floor around you like a fortress not meant to keep anyone out, but rather, to keep you inside.

“What’s the matter?” he asks gently.

“Oh, nothing,” you snort derisively, blinking rapidly at the ceiling in an effort to try to stop the inevitable. “Nothing. It’s just well past 7pm and I’m still here in this godforsaken building attempting to print out and hole punch and assemble twenty copies of this presentation. I can’t even get the printer to do what I’m asking it to! And there’s no fucking reason I should still be here because the could have been done last week if my boss didn’t keep making nonsensical changes based solely on vibes. And tell me why there are six people on my team but no one thought to help me or take any sort of ownership of this at all—as per usual—or even buy me a fucking coffee for once! I haven’t eaten a proper meal all day but everybody just assumes they can go home because things will magically get done like they always do because they will! I will always make sure that they will! Every day it becomes increasingly clear that nobody in this fucking company gives a flying FUCK about me or my free time or my sanity—”

If he’s put off by your potty mouth, Jungkook certainly doesn’t show it. He just manages to catch your gaze from behind his glasses and simply replies, “I do.” 

Your never-ending rant rapidly dissipates on your tongue, brain struggling to comprehend what he just said. “…What?”

“I care,” he repeats softly. “How can I help?”

The sincerity in his tone renders you mute, too stunned to do anything more than watch as Jungkook drops the backpack he’s had slung over a shoulder onto the floor, tossing his newly removed jacket on top of it without much thought. He’s unbuttoning his cuffs and rolling up his sleeves, the reemergence of an ink-covered forearm making your brain stutter even more. Now that there’s much less distance between you, you can more accurately make out the shape of a delicate tiger lily, the languid form of a snake.

Jungkook clears his throat, the noise snapping you out of your stupor and making you realize you were just staring at him in silence, for who knows how long. Dammit. “What do you need?” he tries again. 

“Um, first we can start with Mabel,” you croak, mouth now embarrassingly dry. “No matter what I do, she refuses to collate.”

Jungkook shoots you a smile that softens his whole face. “Lucky for you, I’m the printer expert, remember? Don’t worry. We’ll get this fixed and be out of here in no time.”

He holds out a hand and you reflexively grab it, allowing him to guide you to your feet. Together, you make your way to the copy room, where Mabel has stubbornly been giving you hell all night. Jungkook gets right to work pushing buttons while you stand to the side, awkwardly shifting your weight a little from foot to foot.

“So why are you still here?” you ask, curiosity finally forcing you to voice the question that’s been looping in your mind since he first appeared. “It’s late.”

“It is,” he agrees, focus still on the printer. He kneels down, opening the paper tray. “There’s this huge system update that’s set to roll out next week. My whole team has been hunkering down and pulling late nights.”

Oh. That explains why you haven’t seen him around much since the barbecue. “That’s tough.”

“We’re finally almost done,” he shrugs. “And I’m clearly not the only one working overtime.”

You don’t say anything when he looks up at you pointedly, so he turns back to the printer, pulling a stack of paper out of one of the trays.

“I think this may be part of the problem. Someone put the wrong-sized paper in here. Or, at least, Mabel thinks it’s wrong. She’s confused.”

“Well, she can join the club,” you mutter, and he puffs out a laugh, shutting the drawer and pressing some more buttons.

“Come on, let’s try again.”

Something touches your elbow, and though it shocks through you like he electrocuted you, you have the good sense suppress any embarrassing reaction to what you quickly realize is just his hand. Instead, you let him guide you back to your desk, trying not to focus too intently on the heat of his skin on yours. 

Jungkook waits for you to login to your computer, clicking around and changing some settings once you step back and allow him free rein. Then, you can hear a distant hum coming from the copier room, and you know immediately that he’s succeeded. Dutifully, he goes to check anyway, returning to you with a stack of perfectly collated paper.

“Thank god,” you groan. “Now let me just print fifty more of those so I can start organizing these binders.”

With the crisis averted and his job done, you fully expect him to gather his pile of stuff and hustle to the elevator before you can trap him into doing anything else. Instead, Jungkook goes to pick up the additional copies from the printer for you, and he actually gets down on the floor next to you to start putting everything together. He watches you assemble one binder for reference, but then he’s easily doing the same and doubling your completion speed. 

And slowly, gradually, your nervous system calms. The two of you work like a well-oiled machine in what would be comfortable silence, if your brain wasn’t so loud. Now that you’re not actively panicking, a completely different feeling starts to seep into you—embarrassment.  You can’t believe that Jungkook actually caught you on the cusp of a breakdown, during which you looked so pitiful, he felt morally obligated to stop what he was doing and help you.

“I’m sure you have somewhere to be,” you say after a while with a grimace. He’s way too nice and you’re way too pathetic. “I didn’t mean to ruin your night—I promise you don’t have to stay with me. Now that everything’s printed and organized, most of the work’s done. I should be out of here in no time.”

“Well, I promise you didn’t ruin anything. And with two of us, you can be out of here in less time than that.” He looks up with a soft smile from where he’s hole punching a stack of paper, the muffled ka-chunk of the device punctuating his point. “I don’t mind, _____. Really.”

“But I do,” you murmur, looking away. Unable to meet his eyes. “I really appreciate your help, but I feel bad taking up so much of your time.”

“Well, don’t. I didn’t really have plans tonight anyway, and I’ve been working so much that it’s probably better that I get in some socializing time.”

“Not that I’m very good company,” you snort derisively.

There’s a pause, one long enough that you wonder if he heard you. But then he’s moving a little closer to you, tipping slightly sideways to tap his shoulder against yours. Reflexively, you turn back to him, finding his eyes kind.  

“We all have our off days, and that’s okay. But they’ll dull your shine if you let them. Don’t.” He bumps your shoulder again. “Besides, you and I have to stick together, remember? Or did you not really mean it when you told me that?”

You did tell him that, didn’t you? Months and months ago. You're surprised that he even remembers that.

There's an amused quirk to his lip, one that you can't help but feel yourself soften to, even as his focus turns back to the task at hand. And all at once, you feel yourself flooded with gratitude. You've been thankful for his help this whole time, of course, but now you almost sag with it, the relief at knowing someone is finally in your corner, the sudden sense of security and support visceral and a little overwhelming.

Before you fully realize what you're doing, it's you who leans closer, aiming to give a him a grateful kiss on the cheek. But your lips don't quite land on their intended target, because just before you succeed, Jungkook unconsciously senses your increasing proximity and reflexively turns his head back to you.

It's his lips yours coincidentally brush against, the accidental kiss timid due to his surprise and your chaste intentions. But the kiss is also soft, his lips plush and rather easily yielding to yours. 

Quickly realizing your mistake, you pull back, eyes as big as saucers. You stare at him in stunned silence and he stares back, eyes all pupil.

A horrified apology is immediately crowding the back of your throat, but right before you set it free, Jungkook's Adam's apple bobs, an errant tongue absently swiping across his lips. 

Huh. This isn’t exactly the reaction of someone repulsed by an unwanted kiss. He still hasn't said anything, but he hasn't moved away from you either. He's just watching you. Waiting. 

...Waiting?

With caution but with clear intent, you lean back in, and to your surprise, he meets you halfway, noses bumping a little before he tilts his head and your lips slot perfectly together. 

This kiss is immediately different from the last. Jungkook mindlessly drops he binder he's holding, body angling more solidly towards you so he can properly meet the rapidly rising intensity. Well, meet may be the wrong word, because he's the one whose hand quickly reaches up to cradle your chin, gentle pressure a silent request to  for you to tilt your head a bit more. And when you comply with the change in angle, it's him who deepens the kiss, the slow lave of his tongue coaxing your lips to part, open and wet.

You pant hot into his mouth and he breathes you in, offering no resistance when you push even closer, hands wandering across his shoulders, fingers ghosting up the back of his neck before drifting to idly toy with the hair at his nape. He hums contentedly, not unlike a purring cat, and does it again when your tongue joins his in a slow glide. 

You lose yourself in the sensation of it all, unable to notice anything beyond the heat that is rapidly building between you like fireworks ready to explode. Your head spins, swimming with endorphins and high off the smell of him. The taste.

A playful nibble of your lip unexpectedly has a rather desperate keen escaping your throat. You pause, making to pull back in your embarrassment, but the sound only seems to activate Jungkook, who follows you in your attempted retreat, mouth chasing yours in its reluctance to part. It's only when your back finally touches the floor that you realize he's slowly guided you there. You've been in a haze, too swept into the plot of the movie you've somehow found yourself in to do anything but be pulled along.  

As naturally as breathing, your find your knees have parted, and Jungkook easily slips into the space you've created for him, almost trancelike. As if he doesn't even realize he's doing it, too focused on exploring the fever of your mouth. He's leaning most of his weight on the hands he has posted on either side of your head; even still, every single millimeter of you that does touch him is sparking like live wires, euphoric goosebumps rippling across your skin. You let out a shaky breath that fogs his glasses, but even that doesn't stop him, just makes him pull back from you just enough to be able to whip them off and toss them somewhere, wholly unconcerned.

Emboldened by this, you sling a leg over his hip, and he eagerly accepts your invitation, settling on you properly. You're covered in him now, pelvises properly flush, and now that he's caged you in, Jungkook takes the opportunity to glide his lips away from yours and trail across your jawline instead. You shiver, every atom of you buzzing at his touch, and his mouth continues its trek, sucking hot down the column of your throat with just enough pressure that you know color will bloom there later. 

Your hips reflexively jump at his ministrations, your skirt riding further up your thighs, and the hard press of him against your panties has you swallowing down a moan. He freezes for a fraction of a second, but then his hips respond to the lure of yours with a more intentional roll. A contented sound rumbles in the back of his throat, tongue dipping to meander across your collarbone.

This is crazy. This is crazy. But you can't quite find it in yourself to care much as the two of you rut against each other on the office floor, your hand gliding up his back to root in the hair at his nape. 

Your hips undulate restlessly, eager to meet the crest of his wave, and Jungkook matches your intensity, catching your earlobe between his teeth. Your shared grind is measured but deliberate, and even through his pants you can feel the hard shape of him pressing right against your aching core. A particularly pointed roll has Jungkook shuddering hot into the shell of your ear, and that is what finally tamps down the last of your restraint and triggers something much more primal.

Dizzy with want, your hands scrabble between you and aim for the button of his slacks, eager to be properly introduced to what’s underneath. But to your slow horror, Jungkook freezes at the touch, motionless for a few breathless seconds before he actually starts lifting off of you and pulling back. It’s only when he’s completely sat up and is staring at you that the full weight of what you’ve just done hits you like a freight train.

Holy shit. Holy shit. 

You really were just dry humping. A coworker. And you were doing it on the premises of the place that pays your fucking bills! Making out, dry humping, and you were actively aiming to do much more if he hadn't stopped you. 

What the fuck has gotten into you? 

You scrabble upright, dizzy with the mortification rapidly seeping deep into your bones. Stupidly, you blink at him, paralyzed with embarrassment but unable to look away. A deer in headlights.

Jungkook stares right back, eyes dark and all pupil. Dazedly, you wonder if you look as fucked out as he does—there’s a smattering of red across his cheeks, and his hair has been thoroughly mussed by your own hands. A tongue dips out to swipe over kiss-swollen lips, stealing your attention away from the rapid rise and fall of his chest.

And suddenly, you’re able to kickstart into gear.

“I am so sorry,” you burst out, panic nearly choking you. “That was highly inappropriate and I seriously don’t know what came over me—”

It takes you a few moments to register that he’s moved back in, and that it’s the returned press of his lips that interrupts your babbling apology before it can properly catch its stride. You’re almost too afraid to respond in kind, as if you’ll somehow scare him away again, but the insistence in his kiss practically knocks the breath from your lungs. Patiently, he coaxes your rigid lips back pliant. And only when it’s clear you won’t try to run away does he lean back a second time, but only enough to see your eyes properly.

“No,” he murmurs, breath fanning hot over you. “That was very much appropriate.” 

You’re not quite sure how to respond to that, too shell-shocked by this turn of events and actively battling your triggered fight or flight response. “Um. Then…then why did you…”

Jungkook’s eyes flutter closed, as if he’s gathering himself. “I want to,” he mumbles, seemingly to himself, but then he’s looking right at you again, gaze heavy with resolve. “It’s just…do you mind if I try something first?”

That throws you for a loop. Your jaw opens then shuts again while you contemplate his question, as well as your answer. “I mean, I guess? It depends on what it is.”

That you don't instantly reject him visibly unwinds a tension in his body that you only now realize was there. A rather feral look crosses his face, immediately inciting goosebumps to ripple across your skin in anticipation. But then the intensity of his expression dims, edged with something more contemplative. Jungkook gives you a pensive nod then stands, looking around curiously. “Hey, where does that viper sit?”

You blink, bewildered. “…The who?”

“The one who’s always with you at lunch.” He locks eyes with you, tongue poking through his cheek. “You know. The one who’s on your team but still had no second thoughts about leaving you here tonight by yourself.”

Joy. He’s talking about Joy. 

The question makes you pause in suspicion, but you still hook a thumb towards the cubicle next to yours, on the other side of your shared wall. “There. Why?”

“No reason,” he says with a sly grin, holding out a hand to you. You take it without question and he easily helps you to your feet. But then before you can process it, he’s slid both hands around your waist and easily lifted you off the ground, already in route to the exact cubicle you called out. You yelp in surprise, your arms reflexively circling his neck—your legs, his middle—in your body’s scramble for balance. But Jungkook’s hold on you is secure, grip moving down to the back of your thighs instead, and now that your chests are once again flush, you can actually feel his chuckle. His amusement provokes yours, and you can’t help but giggle as he carries you over to Joy’s cube as easily as if you weigh nothing.

Clearly, his exercise routine is working out for him.

After using a hand to sweep some objects out of the way, Jungkook carefully sets you down on Joy’s desk, right next to her monitor. Your mirth only grows at the feeling of whatever printouts she left for later review crinkling under your weight, at the sight of displaced pens rolling off the edge and disappearing to the ether that is the floor.

Jungkook has set you down, but he doesn’t pull away, just leans down and recaptures your eager lips. He’s tall enough that he’s kind of hunching over to kiss you, neck really craned, but he doesn’t seem to care much about that, kissing you with the same ferocity as moments before, when the two of you were entangled on the carpet. And you can’t help but match his fervor, hands reaching to guide his slim hips even closer, into the widening gap you naturally create for him between your legs. 

Time constricts and expands, an endless and meaningless concept. Because all that matters now is the tongue he slips past your lips to slide against yours, slowly, like he’s savoring the taste of you. All that matters is how fucking great he smells—like clean laundry and smoke and warm skin speckled with sweat—something you’ve always caught whiffs of, but now completely surrounds you, invading all your senses and sending your lust into overdrive. 

“Is this what you wanted to try?” you pant hotly when your lips finally separate for a moment in your quest for air. “Defiling Joy’s desk?”

He’s leaning his forehead against yours while he also attempts to catch his breath, and he’s so close that it would be hard for you to miss his amused flash of teeth. “Sort of. I’d like to defile it more thoroughly, though. Starting with this.” 

Jungkook leans in for one last kiss, one that starts at your mouth, moves to your neck, and to your surprise, continues down the line of your body. Over your collarbone, careful hands popping open a few buttons of your blouse so he can nestle more surely into the curve of your breasts, warm lips skating across eager skin. For a few moments, he actually nuzzles his face into your middle, a gesture you find rather sweet before he incites a shiver through your body by licking against your clothed navel. And before you can fully realize what’s happening, he’s slipped to his knees.

You look down at him in surprise, body still slotted between your legs, but this time more eye-level with the secret, needy part of you that has been thrumming excitedly with every beat of your heart. “What are you…”

“You’re always doing everything for everyone else,” comes his murmured reply. “Will you allow me to do something for you?”

Your brain is still so hazy from the spell of his mouth that it takes you a moment to recognize what’s happening. What he’s asking for. But when his large palms are hot against the naked skin of your thighs, gentle pressure urging them to part even more, it all hits you like a truck. Your eyes dart around, paranoid. “Jungkook,” you hiss. “…Here?”

“They’re too cheap to put cameras anywhere other than the lobby.” He turns his head, lips pressing reassurance into the side of your knee. “And no one’s here.” His reminder as gentle as the kisses he continues to adorn you with. “Just you.” Kiss. “And me.”

He’s right, you know. No one else is here to witness the series of bad decisions you’ve just made—to witness the ones you’re still seriously considering. 

Still, you hesitate.

Jungkook’s staring intently at you, doe-eyed and cherry-lipped and deceptively innocent despite what he’s requesting of you. “Please?” he asks again, oh-so-sweetly. Reverently prostrating before your altar, praying for the blessing of an ambivalent goddess. You. “I just…I really want to. Ever since that day, I can’t stop thinking about it and I—please?”

Your brows furrow as you try to make sense of what he’s saying, still scrambling to keep up with this current turn of events. What day? Your mind whirrs, jumping around before finally settling on an embarrassing memory you’ve willed yourself to forget. 

Lunch, where Wendy somehow got you to admit you’ve never gotten head, and Jungkook, purportedly oblivious, too busy on his phone to ever pay your table any attention. 

…Except from what he’s saying right now, he had heard every word. Heard, and filed it away for safekeeping, only revealing to you now, when he can possibly do something about it.

Absently, your tongue dips out to swipe across your lips, and Jungkook’s attention visibly strays towards the action, thumbs rubbing slow circles into your thighs and sending electricity straight to your core. God, do you want to say yes. Even though you’ve never done this before, your inexperience is not at all the reason for your reluctance. It’s the optics. You’re at work.

Your head tilts as you try to accurately take stock of the situation. You’re at work. But technically, you should have clocked out hours ago. Technically, this job has been stealing a lot of time that should have been yours to choose what to do with. Case in point—you’re the only person on your team still within a five-mile radius of this godforsaken building. Because everyone else deserted you without a second thought, designating you to be the one who struggles to print presentations for a meeting that has been on the calendar for literal months.

But. 

While it’s easy to assume they forced this fate upon you, Fate is not one easily compelled to do another’s bidding. And, trapped in the gaze of the sweet man still patiently awaiting permission to ruin you, you can’t help but wonder if this has been Her plan all along. 

For months you’ve been doing everything for everyone else, so unhappy and stressed that each day in this place only wound you tighter and tighter. So…what if you finally just let yourself snap? Did what you wanted for once? Stopped following the rules that nobody else ever seemed to and just let go? 

You exhale. Fuck it.

“Okay.”

Jungkook grins, boyishly innocuous at first, but rapidly morphing into something much more devilish as you watch. He turns to kiss your knee again, and you startle a little at the action, newly on edge. “Don’t be nervous,” he says, still holding your gaze. Making sure you can see his resolve. “I got you.” 

“Okay,” you say again, but that’s easier said than done, especially when he takes the opportunity to gently push your knees even further apart. Naturally, your skirt rides further up, and you can’t help the apprehension that washes over you at your increasing lack of modesty. Still, you hold true to your word, aggressively tamping down the urge to scramble off the desk and pretend this all never happened. But though you brace yourself for what comes next…

Jungkook doesn’t move.

Long moments pass before you can’t help but say something. “Are you just gonna look?” Because that’s all he seems to be doing, laser-focused on the juncture of your thighs.

He visibly stirs at the sound of your voice, but still doesn’t do much more than tsk at you. “Don’t rush me,” comes his light reprimand, eyes still locked on what you’re sure at this point is a growing dark spot on your panties. “I don’t half-ass things and I definitely won’t rush this. No one’s here, so just relax and enjoy the ride.”

Your jittery nerves have you reflexively mouthy, but your retort swiftly dies on your tongue when his hand finally moves further up your skirt—further inward—and two fingers pointedly press right against that dark spot and glide over your clothed lips. You gasp, fighting against the urge to snap your legs shut when he slowly circles your clit and sends sparks dancing down your legs. 

“Better?” he murmurs.

“Much,” you squeak.

“Good,” he says, eyebrows knitted in thought as he circles and circles. Your thighs twitch, and he leans forward like he can’t help himself, nose pressing solidly against you with a long, audible inhale.

A fascinated oh falls from your lips, heartbeat accelerating excitedly in your ears, but Jungkook only responds by nestling further against your pussy, tracing the length of your lips with a slow, wet swipe of his tongue through the fabric. He breathes hot against your clit and you inadvertently buck at the stimulation, only inciting the wicked curl of his lips. He looks up at you darkly through the curtain of his bangs, and something unexpected and primal simmers beneath your skin.

“Can I have these?” he asks huskily, lightly snapping the elastic of your panties against your skin. 

You clear your throat, suddenly wishing you had the foresight to put on something more interesting today than your unassuming cotton undies. “Have as in you won’t give them back?”

He lets out an amused puff of air, tilts his head. “I haven’t decided yet.”

You nod your assent. You’re now impossibly invested in where he plans to take this, and it’s not like you don’t have more pairs at home. “Knock yourself out.”

Immediately, his hands are up your skirt. They’re big, but they’re also gentle, caressing your thighs and even taking a slight detour to the meat of your ass before continuing their mission to the band of your underwear. When he starts to pull, you help him, shifting your weight so he can slip the fabric over your hips and down your legs.

Jungkook’s Adam’s apple dips when his eyes are finally able to feast on you without a barrier. “So fucking hot,” he mutters, almost to himself, and then without further warning, his mouth seals around your sex.

You whimper in surprise, not at all used to the sensation of someone kissing you there. And kiss you he does, carefully at first, judging your reaction. But when you do nothing but grip the edge of the desk, biting your lip in an attempt to stifle the rather desperate sounds crawling up your throat, he swiftly devolves into kissing you with the same passion as he had the lips on your face. His tongue laps at you with sure, even strokes, dragging across the seam of you and then through it, making sure to slide along your clit on every upstroke. 

Your breath quickens, jaw falling slack. You weren’t sure what you imagined oral sex to be like before this, but you never expected how easily your body submits to his ministrations. Almost without you realizing it, your thighs part even more, hips automatically canting down to meet his eager mouth. A hand reaches for him, fingers winding through his hair and rooting there, and Jungkook hums in approval, his own hands wrapping securely around your thighs, your ass. His fingers sinking into the yielding softness of you, gently holding you steady against his face while you start to gyrate and moan.

God, does he look good down there. He’s always looked good, even before you knew what he was hiding behind those shy smiles and nerdy glasses, but something about the sight of him, jaw working as he sucks on you, lashes fluttering in pleasure in his quest to please you—

Without warning, he detaches with an audible pop, and a disgruntled sound reflexively leaves you. Breathless, you start to ask him why he stopped, but the words die on your tongue when you realize he’s staring at you again. That he pulled back for a moment just so he can get a good look at the mess he’s making of you. So he can properly see how your pussy aches and drools for him.

“Good?” he asks, voice deep and thick.

“So fucking good,” you sigh. What you know he wants to hear, but also 1000% the truth. You’re starting to understand what Wendy has been blathering about, but is it always like this? Or is it Jungkook in particular who is making you so unbelievably aroused? Is your rapidly snowballing crush on him that strong, or does pussy eating simply rank high on his skillset?

As if he can hear your thoughts, Jungkook moves to slip a finger into you, and you can’t help but moan when he breaches you, the digit sliding in so easily that he quickly adds another, thumb pressing surely into your clit as he starts a slow drag in and out. 

“Shit,” you shudder, eyes rolling back into your head. Hips sliding further off the desk, reflexively seeking the delicious stimulation. One of your hands scrabbles across the desk, unconsciously trying to root you, and you’re much too preoccupied with how good he’s making you feel to notice when you accidentally knock over a mug full of pens. A stapler clanks to the ground. “Fuck.” 

“Look, baby,” he breathes, moaning along with you when the pet name immediately makes your pussy flutter. “Look.”

At his encouragement, you do. You watch the flex of his tattooed arm as his fingers continue to disappear within you, a lewd squelch coinciding with his movements. You watch as he adds another finger, the additional stretch immediately noticeable but even more delicious. You watch him watch you, eyes all pupil, lips swollen and slick with your desire.

“More,” you whine, frenzied and greedy. And Jungkook immediately heeds your call, leaning back in. He sucks on your clit with three fingers sunk in you, expertly crooked towards your pelvic bone, and you jolt, accidentally knocking something else off the desk. Neither of you pays the resulting clattering any attention, too wrapped up in the way you writhe at his ministrations. He hums in approval, the vibrations only intensifying your ecstasy. He flattens his tongue as your hips desperately circle, letting you control the stimulation. And when it’s clear you still need more, he changes tactics and rapidly laps at you instead, as if you’re a melting ice cream cone, while he beckons, beckons. 

Your blood is volcanic, hot pressure bubbling beneath the prison of your skin, building and building within your core. The higher he takes you, the more the grip you have on his hair unintentionally tightens, but that only seems to urge him on, locking eyes with you as the thrust of his fingers turns harder and more calculated. Giving you no other choice but to finally erupt.    

You cum with a loud groan, gasping through it while your cunt rhythmically clamps down on his digits, hard. Jungkook talks you through it, murmuring encouraging words your buzzing brain has trouble deciphering because his hand still doesn’t stop, pounding right into your g-spot and making your eyes cross and toes curl with the force of it. And when you finally can’t take anymore, jerking with oversensitivity, you grab him by the wrist in a wordless plea for mercy.

And Jungkook grants it. You can tell that he wants to play with you more—wants to guide you over and over to the precipice just see the look on your face when he shoves you off—but ever the gentleman, he reins in his enthusiasm and obediently slips his fingers out of you. He takes a few seconds to admire his handiwork, eyes shining with in reverence as he marvels in the dripping, throbbing, panting aftermath that is you.

“Wow,” you say, still dizzy with endorphins. Never in a million years did you think it would feel like that.

“Yeah,” he agrees, voice thick. “Wow.” He lifts his hand, remnants of you visibly slicking his fingers and webbing between the digits, and without a second thought, sticks them in his mouth and sucks. The resulting slurping of his errant tongue is nothing short of obscene, but your cunt flutters again anyway, interest clear despite being thoroughly satisfied only moments before. And when line of your essence starts to drip down your thigh, Jungkook makes sure to lean in and catch it with his tongue.

You shiver with the feeling of him on you again, mouth hot and wet, thighs still trembling. He’s taking his time, tongue dragging a slow path back up to the source, determined to feast upon the rewards of his efforts. But you can’t take it anymore. God, he’s so hot. He’s so fucking hot and you want him so fucking bad.

You need him. Biblically. 

Near delirious, you reach for him, hands scrabbling across his shoulders, fingers trailing the back of his neck and guiding him to stand. Arms circling his waist and pulling him closer to you—close, close—Jungkook easily slotting into spread of your thighs.

He follows your unspoken commands easily and without question, looking down at you with a rather pleased smile that crinkles his eyes in the corners. Determined to steal the breath from his lungs, just as he just did to you, you lean in to lick that smile pliant and open. There’s a curious taste on his tongue that it doesn’t take long to deduce is you, and that’s only even more of an aphrodisiac, revving you up further. 

Your hands continue to roam, sliding down a little to grope his backside, startling a laugh out of him. But when your fingers tease the waistband of his slacks, his delight visibly shutters away into something else entirely.

“You don’t have to do that,” he breathes, even as he reflexively bucks into the hand you’re using to palm him over his pants. “This was about you.”

“Then let it be about me,” you counter, a mischievous smile curling your lips. Even through his pants you can tell he's hard. That he wants this just as badly as you do.  Still, when he gasps out a wait, you obediently stop your ministrations and move to take your hand back. 

He doesn't let you get far, lacing his fingers through yours and visibly considering his next words for a few moments before settling on, “What do you need?” 

It’s a simple enough question, but you can't help but be immediately reminded of him saying these exact words to you, a little over an hour ago. Now, however, they sit heavy on his tongue, heady and syrupy in hushed invitations. 

The revelation hits you all at once, heart pounding excitedly in your ears.

You need only ask. You’ve only ever needed to ask.

And since all caution was thrown to the wind the moment you agreed to let him suck your soul out through your pussy...

“You said you’ve been thinking about me? Well, I’ve been thinking about you too. For a while, even though I’ve been trying not to.” 

You’ve had his attention this whole time, but the way Jungkook's regarding you now, now that you’ve said that? He's hanging onto every word, so hyper-focused that it would unnerve you if this wasn’t exactly what you were looking for. 

“So…” Adrenaline has your fingers restless against his, but you still dive headfirst. “What I need is for you to fuck me and finish what you started.”

A beat. One where he holds your gaze, the space between you so electrified that you’re surprised you don’t see sparks. But then he’s on you again, mouth meeting yours in a frenzied clash of lips and teeth, and this time he doesn’t stop you when your hands scrabble for his fly.

Jungkook wastes no time, smoothing his hands up your legs and pushing your skirt out of the way. He lets out a shuddered breath when you stroke him through his underwear, when you reach down the waistband and grip him properly.

He’s warm and thick in your hand, and the thought of him finally in your guts damn near has you vibrating. Just like you thought before, he’s already nice and hard, but you still pump him a few times just to revel in the proof of what you’ve done to him. Velvet over stone.

And despite having all the time in the world when the foreplay is for you, Jungkook doesn’t seem to have any patience for himself. You’re only able to enjoy the weight of him in your grip for a few passes before he’s surging into action. Strategically, he grabs you by the knees and lifts, maneuvering your legs into the crooks of his elbows. The move opens you up to him further and forces you more horizontal, leaning back on your forearms, nearly pressed against the cubicle wall.  

The way he ate you out moments before ensured you’d be primed for him, your pussy soft and slick and just begging to be filled. When he finally lines himself up and begins the slow press in, your jaw immediately falls open, tongue going lax at the intense pleasure. “Oh my god,” you manage to whine, eyes threatening to roll shut.

The unhurried way he’s sinking into you is likely in effort not to unintentionally hurt you. Because after everything else, why not add another thing to the ever growing list of surprises you’re learning about your unassuming coworker—not only has he been tatted and muscular this whole time, but his dick is also fucking huge. Without even realizing it, you’ve stopped breathing, the pressure of him nudging your walls apart too much stimulation for your body to continue even subconscious functioning. 

As if he can tell your brain is actively short-circuiting, Jungkook’s hands circle your thighs, thumbs kneading the flesh in mild distraction for when he finally bottoms out. It’s only now that you can properly notice the effect you’re having on him—hair starting to stick to his forehead from perspiration, teeth grit as he struggles to stay still for you.  But you don’t want him to be still.

“Fuck me,” you whimper, wiggling in your impatience and making him suck in a breath. “Please. Give it to me.”

The resulting roll of his hips has him swearing and you seeing stars. “Fuck. You can have whatever you want,” he says, already making good on his promise with a slow grid. “Don’t worry, baby. I’ll give you whatever you want.”

It’s good, so good, especially because Jungkook uses his grip on your thighs as leverage to ramp up his thrusts, easily maneuvering you over his cock in a way that has your toes curling. By the time he’s really fucking you—jaw set, brows furrowed in concentration—you’re crosseyed and mewling incoherently. You should be embarrassed by the sounds he’s pounding out of you, but you’re so focused on the overwhelming pleasure that you can’t find it in yourself to care very much. 

Chasing the high you already feel him leading you towards, you lift one of your legs to change the angle, and he catches on immediately, helping guide your ankle to hook over his shoulder with a distracted kiss against the bone. And it’s deeper this way, the angle ensuring he brushes against your spongy nerves with every stroke, only making you spiral faster. 

He notices, of course. Notices how quickly he’s taking you to your end and revels in it, sliding a hand inward and he thumbing your clit, fast and hard.

You jolt at the extra stimulation, gasping and overwhelmed. “Oh my goddd…”  

“Come on,” he croons, his dulcet tone at odds with the wickedness of his hand. His dick. “Don’t you want to cum for me?”

“I…” you choke out, struggling to form any sort of coherent thought as you feel everything get tighter. “I…”

You see his lips moving as he presumably says something else. But you can’t understand anything other than your own moaning when your pussy finally locks down. This orgasm is somehow more intense than the last one, your thighs rippling with the force of it, your hands desperately scrabbling over the desk in an effort to find something to ground you. 

And Jungkook fucks you through it, still talking, and it’s only when the whooshing in your ears starts to subside that you can finally decipher what he’s saying in between his own moaning. “There you go. Being so good for me. So good.”

Your only reply is your gasping breath as your orgasm slowly fades, replaced with oversensitivity. But you don’t want him to stop. You don’t want this to stop, reveling in the feel of him on you, in you. And Jungkook doesn’t, instead sliding your leg off his shoulder so he can grab you by the waist with both hands and properly yank you forward, moving you over his cock to his liking. 

The desk creaks with your effort, a rhythmic cacophony with the harsh smacking of his balls against your ass. You mewl, needing him closer still, and curl your legs around his hips, locking your ankles. He’s now trapped against you, but he groans like that’s exactly what he wanted, both hands gliding up the length of your body to grasp the back of your neck instead, giving him even better leverage to plunge into you, deep, deep. He leans down and rests his forehead against yours, licks into your panting mouth. 

At this point, his thrusts are turning manic, but you’re meeting every one of them, deliriously following him in his descent into madness. But when he catches your lower lip with his teeth, your breath hollows, and then, quicker than you can register it’s happening, you cum again, spasming around him with a long, high-pitched whine.

Jungkook lets you ride it out, but this time, his thrusts slow while you thrash. And it’s not until your soul finally floats back into your body that you realize he’s already pulled out of you and is bucking into his own fist instead.  

You almost took him over the edge with you, you realize. Though he clearly has incredible stamina, you have finally brought him to his limit, and everything inside you glows at the knowledge that he’s here, roughly pumping himself, moans falling freely from his lips because of you. 

Entranced, you reach for him, delighting in the whimper he lets out when your fingers wrap around his base. His own hand immediately falls to grip the edge of the desk instead, and you glide your fist up, finding his cock sticky with your juices. Jungkook just rests his head in the crook of your neck and lets you jack him off, whining through it when you match his previously punishing pace. And it doesn’t take long before he finally, finally splashes hot over your hand. Against your thigh. 

Your hand slows, twisting your wrist and milking him for every drop. Intent on extending his pleasure, just like he made sure to do for you. And you only stop when he flinches away from your touch, twitchy and shivering as he leans against you. 

Reluctantly, you let go. The two of you share the same balmy breath, struggling to calm your racing hearts. And when Jungkook finally backs away from you, unhurried in the way he gathers himself back into his slacks, there is a wildly satisfied grin on his face.

You’re satisfied too, though you try to have some sense of propriety and use a tissue from the box next to Joy’s monitor to wipe off the sticky evidence of his pleasure. Throwing away the evidence, you hop off the desk, locating your long-discarded panties and slipping them back on, smoothing down your skirt.

“So,” you tease lightly. Your head swims a little with the knowledge of what you just did, but you’re surprised to realize you feel zero guilt about it. “Is your plan to stick it to everyone who’s wronged me? If so, we should do it on Mabel next. That’ll show her.”

Jungkook laughs, a giddy, giggly thing. He’s now doing his best to pick up and replace everything that fell from Joy’s desk during your romp. “Nah, I could never disrespect her like that. That ol’ girl’s been such a great wingman these past few months.”

That’s a rather curious statement to make. You frown a little, shoot him an inquisitive sound.

“You always call me when Mabel’s not working,” he shrugs. “So when I wanted to see you, she was nice enough help.” 

You can’t help it—a smile creeps across your face, equally bashful and flattered. He wanted to see you! For months, by his open admission. “And the printer knew exactly when you wanted to see me?" you joke. “Sounds like dark magic to me.”

Jungkook’s valiantly trying to straighten and smooth out some of the papers the two of you disturbed. “Deleted some print jobs,” he replies offhandedly, clearly distracted by the task at hand. 

Record scratch. 

There’s an extended silence as your brain shuffles through different iterations of his sentence, trying to decipher exactly he meant by that. Because there's no way he just admitted to what you think he just did. “Did…did you just say you've been deleting my print jobs?” you ask incredulously. Because there’s no way.

There’s no way, yet at your words, Jungkook immediately stiffens. His lips part, but he doesn't defend himself. Doesn't say anything at all—just drops the pen he’s holding and stares at you with wide eyes.

Holy shit. Holy shit. He really has been doing it! He obviously hadn't meant to tell you that, but the relaxation of afterglow has clearly removed the filter between his brain and his mouth. 

The weight of his revelation hits you, seemingly happenstance events connecting in your mind and starting to fall into place. All the hassle and irritation that stupid printer has been giving you, and it turns out Mabel has been working just fine?! 

“Please don't be mad,” he pleads, finally finding his voice.  

“Are you seriously saying that all this time—”   

“No! No, I only did it a few times,” he sheepishly rushes to correct you. “And I promise, I haven’t done it in weeks.”

“Seriously?” 

“I just...wanted an excuse to talk to you!”

“Jungkook, you literally talk to me all the time!”

“About work! Not—” he averts his eyes, lets out an irritated breath. “It’s just. I’ve been trying to work up the nerve to ask you out.”

You blink, gaping slightly as your whirring mind tries to process what he’s just told you. “Ask me…out?” 

“I didn’t mean to do…all this.” He waves a hand over the mess the two of you are still cleaning up, clearly embarrassed. “I mean, at least not before buying you dinner first.”

Moments pass as you stare at him in stunned, disbelieving silence. Then, like a volcano erupting, laughter bursts from you, loud and sudden. Because what the fuck? You can’t believe all of this is actually happening to you. In real life. “You jackass,” you cackle. “Do you have any idea how much grief that printer has been giving me? I’m over here stressed and you’ve been gaslighting me and doing it on purpose?”

“Just a few times,” he repeats, visibly confused by the juxtaposition of the mirth in your voice and the actual words you’re saying. 

“And that doesn’t change the fact that you’re still a jackass,” you laugh. “But…” You clear your throat, suddenly somehow shy, despite everything that has occurred and been said. “…I suppose you can still take me out to dinner.”  

“Yeah?” His lips stretch into a slow, hopeful smile.

“Yeah. Now, if you want. I think we’re pretty much done here.” You smile back, quickly taking stock of the binders still scattered across the floor. Most of them are completed, but whatever else you need to do can be done tomorrow morning. “Besides, I seem to have worked up an appetite.” 

Jungkook looks nothing short of smug, but you suppose you can’t fault him that. “Well then,” he practically purrs, “Let’s hurry up and feed you.” 

Moving in comfortable silence, the two of you finish putting everything you’ve disturbed back in their original spots, gathering the last of the binders and stacking them neatly on your desk. You reach for your purse while Jungkook goes to collect his hastily discarded belongings.

“So,” you start. “Where are you taking me? It’s kind of late.” This late on a weeknight, kitchens would be shutting down soon.

He pauses in sliding his leather jacket back on, frowning a little as he realizes you’re right. “Shit,” he mutters. “I wanted to take you somewhere nice.”

“You can,” you say with an unbothered wave of your hand. “That can be next time. Let’s just find something quick now.”

“So you’re saying I get a second date?” he grins.

Oh. That is what you just implied, isn’t it? You would be embarrassed by how forward you were being if Jungkook wasn’t visibly delighted by it. Wow, he really does like you. And since the feeling is mutual, you just look away coyly and say, “If you play your cards right.”

Jungkook hoists his backpack over a shoulder, and it’s only then that you see what else he happened to be carrying in his hands when he dropped everything for you. A helmet.

You gesture towards the object with a curious incline of your head. “What’s that for?”

“My bike,” comes his easy answer, but that’s not the kind of helmet that one wears for bicycle rides. No, this one is made for something much faster. 

Now that you think about it, you’ve seen the motorcycle in the parking lot before—you’ve just never really given it a second thought. And now you can’t stop thinking about it, because the unassuming vehicle you’ve often passed on your way into the building has been Jungkook’s the whole time. Your mind is blown. How many more times is he going to surprise you tonight?  

“…Do you always drive a motorcycle?” you ask incredulously.

“Depends on the day,” he shrugs with grin. “Sometimes I take the bus, but I like to ride my bike when the weather’s nice.” His eyes are bright with pride, visibly happy to have impressed you. 

Your mouth opens and closes, thoughts racing so fast your tongue struggles to hold onto any of them. Before you realize you’re doing it, you blurt, “Alright. Are you even real?”

Jungkook blinks owlishly at you, clearly not expecting that question. “What?” 

“I thought I’ve known you for months. But was any of that real?” you repeat. “Hell, do you even need glasses?”

“Of course,” he rushes to say. “It’s all me. I can just be a little shy, is all.” Wow, he actually said shy with a straight face, as if he didn’t just finish ravaging you over multiple surfaces. “And I like to be professional, so this place doesn’t get to have all facets of me. I know you can relate.”

You can. Your constant struggle to not complain? To be professional and work hard and hope you’ll be rewarded for your efforts? Obviously that’s a reason why the two of you ended up in this situation in the first place.

He ducks his head a little, tapping the glasses he picked up off the floor in petition for their validity. “And these really are prescription. I mean, I can mostly see without them, but since I stare at computer screens all day, it’s less strain on my eyes.”

“Oh,” you say quietly, feeling silly to have even asked. But who knew the quiet IT guy who kept mostly to himself was also this? Buff and tatted with a wicked tongue that you’re now intimately acquainted with. 

Shyly, he holds his helmet out to you. He hesitates before speaking again, almost like he’s afraid of spooking you. “Wanna go for a ride?” And from the way color lightly blooms across his cheeks, you get the sense that he’s offering you more than just protective gear.

You take it without second thought.

The next day you and Jungkook get off the elevator together, a respectable distance between you, but arms still brushing too often to be casual. When you come to the hallway that will force you in separate directions, you pause.

“Have a good day,” you say. Jungkook grins, the delighted brightness of it baring too much teeth and crinkling his eyes in the corners.

“You too,” he winks. “Let me know if Mabel gives you any more issues.”

You snort at his brazenness, biting down a smile as you head to your cubicle. Your whole body buzzes, glowing from inside out.

You’re technically right on time, but you’ve definitely arrived later than usual, and that’s obvious when you head over to your department and find Joy already there waiting for you. She frowns as you approach, no doubt clocking your empty hands and wondering how she’s going to make it through the morning without her expected syrupy caffeine fix. 

To her credit, she doesn’t call you out on it, but you don’t really care if she does. You’re done playing errand boy. From now on, everyone else will have to stop before work and get their own shit, if they want it so bad.

Because it’s all so clear to you now. You’re here, and you’re going to do your best, but you’re not going to let this place wear you down to jaded slivers. You’re going to work hard and learn all that you can, but you refuse to be anyone’s lapdog. 

They will respect you. And your value will be recognized and rewarded—or you’ll simply find somewhere else where it will. 

Joy must sense your new resolve, because she simply hovers by your desk and chirps, “Good morning.”

“Morning.” 

“Did you have a good night?”

Your lips quirk. “You could say that. What about you?”

“Eh, it was okay,” she sighs. “Met a guy for dinner, but I don’t think that’s going anywhere.” 

So while you were stuck here last night, having a grade-A meltdown, she was on a date. That tracks.

Joy chatters on while you put your things away, not seeming to notice or care that you’re not particularly interested in what she’s saying. And while this would normally irritate the living shit out of you, today, it doesn’t. 

Today, your eyes can’t help but glaze over as your mind drifts back to how your night went. Today, you just hum agreeably until she gets bored with you and decides to go back to her own cubicle.

And when you hear her ask over the wall if you’ve seen her stapler, you just smile and smile.   

⇢ my masterlist

[accio-lo-ki]

thumbs - garrett graham

pairing: garrett graham x reader

tags: tattoo artist reader, first time tattoos, meet cute, POV third person, no use of y/n for reader-insert, fluff, mention of domestic abuse and past trauma

word count: 3.6k

summary: Garrett’s just been made captain, and he wants to celebrate by getting something a little permanent. He’s unprepared by how beautiful his tattoo artist is. (or the story behind garrett's iconic tattoo)

notes: cross-posted on ao3 ; title from lucy dacus’ “thumbs,” which is very garrett coded if anyone wants to listen; tysm for the love on habit lines ! i’m currently working on part two of it, but it’s been evading me a little. this one came to me and i just couldn’t not write it. already have ideas for other parts. let me know if you guys are interested !! i'm also open for requests!! ; banner by @pixopix

p.s i don’t go into too much details of how the reader looks, but i definitely have simone ashley specifically in this picture in mind when i wrote this (just bc i have a huge crush on her lmao)

Garrett gets the tattoo the summer after his sophomore year at Briar. 

They had just dominated the frozen four and he just became the highest scorer of the season. He’s been made captain. The name stretched on the back of his jersey felt as insignificant as the DNA running through his veins. For the first time in a long time, he felt like he had accomplished something that his father couldn’t touch. Because Phil Graham might be this hockey legend everyone keeps comparing him with. He might pretend to be a father. He might be the man haunting his worst memories. But he wasn’t the one skating suicides every single day. He wasn’t the one training until he bled. He wasn’t the one who won Briar their last game of the season. He’s just a name. Garrett worked hard for what he’d done and not even Phil can take that away from him. 

So he decides to commemorate the occasion. Something permanent, because he needs a little permanence in his life. Something to ground him whenever his dad’s voice gets too loud in his head. To remind him that he earned his place. 

He sees the phrase randomly while looking up designs on his phone during his Lit lecture, thumb bitten raw and foot tapping on the floor. 

Nullum Gratuitum Prandium.

He pauses in his seat, foot hovering the air mid-tap. 

There is no free lunch. 

Fighting back a grin, Garrett saves the phrase on his notes app and switches his phone off, finally paying attention to his professor drone on about Hamlet.

The tattoo shop is just a ten-minute drive from campus. It’s owned by three Briar U Fine Arts alumni, and the artists are mostly students from the same department looking for extra cash. Garrett spends a whole week stalking their Instagram, repeatedly going to the story highlights they have on their page dedicated to each of their artists. He fixates on one in particular; the tattoo artist’s designs are mostly florals and classical figures, intricate fine lines, shadings, and delicate designs that make his eyebrows raise, impressed at the skill level evident through the pieces. 

But there’s one highlight that catches his eye: it’s a back piece with a handwritten script covering the client’s entire back. Underneath the tattoo are scars; some light and faded, some ugly and dark and raised on the skin. The text is a diary entry complete with the date on the upper right portion, a confession of being a victim of domestic abuse and a promise to oneself that they’re going to make it out. 

Reading it makes a lump appear in Garrett’s throat. 

His dad never left scars. Not physical ones, anyways. They’re harder to explain than the bruises, because those can be excused away by hockey. 

His thumb presses on his phone screen, holding down so the image of the tattoo doesn’t go away. He’d never be as brave as the guy who got the back piece. But Garrett books an appointment with that artist, anyway, because sometimes pretending is enough. 

He goes to the shop on a weeknight after practice, freshly showered and wearing his Briar U Hockey hoodie and sweats. The place is so small upon entrance, he could probably spread his arms and touch both ends of the walls. There’s the counter facing the glass door, walls littered with drawings, neon light-up signs, other artworks, and stairs leading to the second floor. 

He gives his name and tries not to show his nerves too much, but the lady at the counter sees right through him. “First time?”

He considers lying for a second, but that would make him feel more pathetic, so instead he mumbles out a “yes,” with the tips of his ears burning.

The lady chuckles. Tattoos cover both her arm sleeves, multicolored and intentional. She’s probably in her late 30s, but the bleached hair and eyebrow piercings make her more youthful. She double checks his booking and hums at what she sees on the computer. “Well, you’re in good hands. You picked one of our best artists.”

“Really?” Garrett asks, trying not to feel too proud of himself yet. 

“Yup,” she confirms, handing him a slip of paper. “You can go on up. She’s ready for you.”

The stairs are concrete and steep, covered in graffiti and stickers. Garrett rarely finds himself in situations where he feels uncool, but inside the shop with all the art and the cool music playing on the speakers, clad in his Briar U get up, he’s aware of how out of place he looks. 

The second floor is more spacious. It’s open-plan, with tattoo beds spread out across the floor organically. Only two clients occupy the space, one getting a piece on his thigh and the other getting one on her rib. They chat among themselves, quiet and familiar, giving him the impression that they’re regulars.

“Garrett?” A voice calls his name, causing him to turn around. What he sees makes his throat dry up. 

She’s tall. Probably only a couple inches shorter than his 6’2 frame. Long black hair, strong jaw, dark glowing skin. She’s wearing a black tank top that shows off an intricate dragon tattoo running from the top of her shoulder down to the back of her upper arm. She’s the most beautiful woman Garrett has ever seen. 

“Uh–what?” He says unintelligently. 

Her lips twitch like she’s trying to hold back a smile. “You’re Garrett, right?”

He has enough sense to nod, swallowing thickly. “Yes.”

“Cool,” she says, lips still doing that twitchy thing that makes it a hundred times difficult for him not to look down at it. “I’m the artist you booked. You wanna pick a bed?”

The words almost short-circuit his brain, but he manages to maintain his cool with a clear of his throat. He points to the one nearest to the both of them. “Here’s fine.” 

She gestures for him to sit down, which he does diligently. She goes over to one side of the room to get a metal cart of what he assumes are her tattoo stuff, pushing it until it’s right in front of the leather stool beside the tattoo bed. “So what do you have in mind for tonight?”

He clears his throat again, only because it still feels dry enough that if he tries to speak, he’s afraid his voice will crack. He takes out his phone from his pocket and opens up his notes app. “I don’t have, like, a final design yet but I have the phrase I want.”

Garrett tilts the phone towards her to let her look. She walks closer until she’s slightly behind him, then crouches over his shoulder to take a look at his phone. In the back of his mind, he registers her scent; something woodsy and floral that sends heat down his stomach. 

“Is that Latin?” She asks, voice quiet now with their proximity. Garrett makes the mistake of looking up at her. Her eyes are slightly narrowed, lips pursed as if she’s already picturing a design in her head that she can’t wait to put on his skin. Her eyes dart towards him. “What does it mean?”

He gulps. “Well, the direct translation is ‘there is no free lunch,’ which to me basically means—you know. Everything in life is earned.” 

Her eyebrows shoot up at that. He doesn’t miss the way she looks down at his hockey shirt, the car keys peeking out from the pocket of his sweats. He’s used to that; the quick write off as a rich, entitled, nepo baby. It’s a look he’s been getting his entire life. So he’s not sure why getting the same perusal from her, a random tattoo artist he didn’t know, bothers him enough that he feels untethered in his skin. 

“I like it,” she finally says, shooting him a small, knowing smile. She straightens up, dusting her hands on her jeans. “So what are we thinking? Bicep? Chest?”

Garrett scratches the back of his neck. “I was thinking my back, actually.”

“Oh?” Her tone is enough to get the tips of his ears red again. “Is this not your first time?”

He rolls his eyes at that, finally feeling somewhat back in his body. “Why does everyone keep asking that?”

She smiles bigger, which does nothing to tame the zoo forming inside his stomach. “Nothing, just—bold choice. I’m liking it even more now.” She pulls up her ipad from the cart and starts messing around with it. “I already have a few ideas if you’re willing to hear me out. Nothing too artsy. Something a little utilitarian, yeah? Since the phrase is essentially a sports mantra. Are you thinking lower back or upper?”

Garrett thinks about it for a second. “I don’t really know. Depends on the design, maybe.”

“Got you,” she tells him with a nod, still busy with her ipad. “So why get a tattoo now, if you don’t mind me being nosy?”

He leans back against the leather tattoo bed, eyes drifting towards the ceiling. Even the light fixtures are funky and ununiform, adding to the overall chaotic yet artistic vibe of the shop. Something about the low buzzing of the tattoo guns, the artwork, and how removed from his normal life the place is makes it easy for the truth to slide from his lips. “As a reward, mostly. I’ve busted my ass off the past two years training and winning games and for the first time, I finally feel like I’m worth more than the name on the back of my jersey.”

The words feel too honest and raw, especially spoken to a stranger. But there’s that feeling of weight being lifted from his chest, too, for being able to say them out loud without being scathed. 

“You just gave me an idea,” she tells him, voice going up in barely contained excitement. She takes a few minutes, and then she’s tapping his shoulder and handing the ipad over to him. 

He sits up straight and takes it from her hands. The design is simple—utilitarian lettering, like she said, curved in a semi arch. 

“I was thinking if we put it right here—“ her fingers reach out to trace over his upper back, making Garrett jolt in place. “—and curved like that, it could be placed right underneath where your name on your jersey usually is. That way, you’d know that behind the name, your mantra’s always going to be there, reminding you that you’ve earned your keep.”

Garrett sits there in silence for a few seconds, lips slightly parted and staring up at her in surprise. This beautiful stranger who weirdly understood him completely. 

“So?” She asks, waiting for him to speak.

He feels another tug at his stomach. “Let’s do it.”

“Cool,” she grins down at him. Her eyes flicker to his shirt again. “You can fold your shirt and place it on the bottom tray of the cart while I get the stencil ready. Surface is clean, I promise.”

Right. A back tattoo meant he had to be shirtless. Which is fine. He’s shirtless more hours of the day than he’s not. Garrett’s never been self-conscious about his body–growing up being forced to work out and go to practice and chug down protein shakes does that to a person. He knows he looks good; better than the average college student who goes to the gym occasionally, anyway. His abs are well-defined, his chest and shoulders broad, his arms even bigger. Muscular in a meaty way, because lean gets you thrown easily to the boards of the rink. Still, when he hoists his shirt up and over his head and hears his tattoo artist suck in a breath at the sight of him, a warm feeling begins to bloom in his chest. Warmth and proud and smug and a little shy, too. 

He looks at her with his eyebrows slightly raised, a smile threatening to tug his lips up. She meets his eyes defiantly, like she doesn’t care that he caught her looking. The stubbornness makes another animal kick inside his belly. 

“On your stomach, please,” she gestures at him with a finger. “I’m going to wash the area with green soap first just to make sure your skin’s clean. I might have to shave it, too, but from the looks of it your hairs are thin on your back, anyway, so it shouldn’t be a problem.”

Garrett stays quiet, his cheek resting on his folded arms. The second her gloved hands touch the skin of his back, his fists clench tightly. He’s only grateful he had enough self-control not to jump this time. They spend a few minutes like that, her cleaning and shaving his back with careful hands while he tries to pull himself together. 

He’s been around plenty of beautiful women in his twenty years of existence, but something about her gets to him. Maybe it’s the way she holds herself with such sureness; the stubborn tilt to her chin, the dragon tattoo, the casual display of talent. Maybe it’s the way she reads him like a book. Either way, Garrett has to fight to keep his breathing normal around her. 

She applies the stencil thoroughly, eyebrows slightly furrowed in concentration. After she’s done, she gives his back a tap. “Go ahead and look at it in the mirror for me. See if you like it. We can adjust the font size or the placement, but in my opinion it looks pretty sick already.”

Garrett does as he’s told. The mirror on the wall is huge and slightly rusted at the edges with lots of stickers littered around the surface. He turns to look at his back and feels his throat tighten up. 

She must see something in his face, because she smiles at him softly and says, “Good?”

Garrett looks at the stencil for a second. Not permanent yet, but it’s getting there. 

“Yeah,” he coughs, clenching his jaw. “I love it.”

The first press of the inked needle on his skin makes him jump embarrassingly. She laughs at that, muttering “you good?” but otherwise continuing with her job. Because she’s a professional. This is her job. Garrett repeats the words in his head enough times for them to stick. 

“You have a lot of bruises,” she says after a few silent minutes of just the tattoo gun buzzing in the air. 

The sentence makes him smother a smile. “Yeah. Hockey.”

“I figured,” she counters with a short chuckle. “I heard you guys won your last game. Congratulations.”

Somehow, the fact that he or even just his team had been on her radar enough for her to know that sends a thrill down his spine, something more pressing than the needles. “You like hockey?”

“No,” she says immediately, unashamedly. “But everyone on campus seemingly does. I just hear things.”

So she’s a student. Garrett carefully files this information in his brain, because he’s being totally normal. “What year are you in?”

“About to be a junior,” she hums. The tattoo gun goes over a sensitive spot that has him hissing, and one of her hands squeeze at his shoulder to soothe him. “Shit. Sorry. You okay?”

“Fine,” he manages to grit out, skin stinging more from the squeeze than the needles. “And same. So are you in Fine Arts?”

“Technically,” she answers, wiping at something on his back. “My major’s Art History, but we don’t really get to whip out our sketchbooks that often as much as we do thick dusty books, so.”

Art History. There’s an overlap there that Garrett has to warn his mind not to fixate on. They may very well be in the same classes. Maybe they already were at one point and he just didn’t notice. But that scenario felt unrealistic; he’s sure that if he’d seen her in one of his classes, he would have noticed her. It would be impossible not to. 

“You’re really good,” he finds himself saying instead, voice low and steady. “I saw your designs on Instagram. That’s what made me choose this shop, actually.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Garrett answers honestly. The repeated poking on the skin of his back is more tolerable now; she’s settled on a rhythm that almost lulls him to a state of vulnerability. Like they’ve entered an alternate reality where anything he says won’t have consequences in the real world. “I saw that piece you did. The diary entry.”

He feels her falter for a few seconds. Just a blip, but he senses it all the same. When she speaks, her voice is more careful, a little guarded, and Garrett finds himself hating it. “Did you?”

“It was so vulnerable,” Garrett scrunches his eyebrows together, trying to find the right words. “So–I don’t know. Raw. Brave. I want to be like that.”

He doesn’t say anything compromising, even with the loaded words. He doesn’t reveal anything about himself or his trauma that will come back to get him in trouble. But one of her hands travel to his shoulder again. Not quite squeezing. Just hovering there. The almost-contact brings him a relief he’s not sure he’s ready to decipher yet. “I think this is a great start.”

“Yeah?” It’s his turn to ask, moving his head slightly to try and take a look at her. 

“Don’t move,” she scolds instantly, making a grin form on his face. “But yes. No lunch is free, right? You earned this.”

Garrett feels a pang in his chest. “That’s right. I did.”

It’s over before he can even begin to comprehend whatever it is he’s feeling. One minute he’s lying there on his chest, eyes halfway closed and heart beating stupidly fast, and the next she’s wiping his back with an antiseptic wipe and saying, “all done.”

“Already?” He can’t help but ask, bracing his arms to the tattoo bed to pull himself up. “Can I see?”

She stands from the stool, an almost fond smile on her face. She’s so beautiful Garrett has to pinch himself to stop staring at her. “Go ahead. Hope you don’t hate it.”

The first thing he notices is how red his skin is. Slightly swollen, the tattoo visibly raised from the surface. And then it finally sinks in: he did it. The words are dark in contrast with his tanned complexion, curved neatly and filled with meaning. “Holy shit.”

“That a good holy shit or a bad one?” She teases from behind him, her arms crossed in front of her chest and her hip popped to one side. She’s removed her gloves, long fingers waving on the skin of her arm. She’s still smiling at him like she’s proud of him, and it makes something stupid settle in Garrett’s chest. 

“It’s perfect,” his voice comes out gruff and a little too emotional to not be embarrassing, but that only serves to make her grin wider. 

She goes over all the cleaning and healing process, having him repeat after her just to be sure, which makes him feel a little bit like a kid in class who has a big fat crush on his teacher. She gives him a couple pamphlets, a business card, and a sachet of complimentary aftercare ointment, all of which he takes with careful, ready hands. 

“That’s basically it,” she finishes with a clap of her hands. “Come back or call us if something goes wrong, though hopefully that doesn’t happen.”

Finally seeing an in, he flashes a small grin at her. “And if I just want to come back anyway?”

“For another tattoo?” She asks, though her eyes are shining like she sees exactly where he’s going with this.

Garrett shrugs, all faux innocence. “Maybe.”

She scoffs and rolls her eyes. Garrett’s a little too proud at getting any reaction from her at all. “Goodbye, Garrett Graham.”

“Wait, you know who I am?” He suddenly asks, taken aback at the mention of his full name which he didn’t remember giving when he booked the appointment. 

She shrugs. “Like I said. A lot of people around here love hockey and I hear things. Captain.”

“You know who I am,” he repeats, a slow smile beginning to form on his face, smug and confident and more reminiscent of the Garrett that he usually is. 

“Oh my god,” she laughs, pointing down the stairs. “Goodbye.”

He’s still chuckling when he goes down, bidding a goodbye to the lady at the counter and ignoring the knowing look she gives him. His smile feels like a permanent fixture on his face, though he doesn’t realize it until he’s arrived at home and met the curious looks of his friends.

“The hell’s got you so happy?” Dean asks, giving him a weird look. 

Garrett pauses by the door in surprise. “Huh?”

“You’re smiling, like, creepily widely, G,” Logan adds before turning back to the TV to the game they’re playing. 

Garrett scoffs. “No, I’m not.”

But even as he says it, he feels his lips split his face open, the traitor. 

He doesn’t tell them about the tattoo. Not yet. Something about it feels intimate, somehow, the idea that only he and the gorgeous tattoo artist know about the piece branded on his back. It makes him want to keep it to himself for a little while. Get used to the permanence first before letting other people take a peek at it. 

He shoves a hand to his pocket and pulls out the aftercare ointment she gave him for free and feels his smile get even bigger. 

Yep. He’s going to need to book that appointment soon. 

[sourcherryandsprinkles]

figure skater x dean where she goes on a date and realize she still loves dean

I have a LONG list of fics to write and I'm so excited about it! Tucker and Garrett are on that list if you were wondering

Summary: You and Dean broke up. You get in another relationship in the hope of getting over him, but when The Fifth Line announce that Dean gets injured at a game, you run to him

Warnings: mention of naked men, implied cheating

You thought you were doing the right thing. You thought seeing other guys would help you get over him. But as you sat at a fancy restaurant with one of Briar’s most promising football athletes, you had never been as uninterested as you were right now. He was good looking, sweet and attentive, but he didn’t make you want to stop time. 

You actually wanted the night to end. 

The waiter set down your plates, wishing you a nice evening before leaving. 

‘’Are you coming to the game on Friday? My dad is gonna be here, so I was thinking we could go eat somewhere after. You, me…and him.’’ 

Your fork stopped halfway to your plate. ‘’You want me to meet your dad?!’’ 

‘’Yeah,’’ Miles replied simply. ‘’Do you not want to? Is it too soon? I would understand if—’’ 

You shook your head. ‘’No! I want to,’’ you said, forcing a smile. 

Miles smiled back at you. ‘’Then it’s settled.’’ 

Fuck. What did you get yourself into? 

You leaned back slightly in your chair, suddenly very aware of how tight the restaurant felt around you. The soft piano music, the clinking glasses, the warm lighting — it all felt too much for a night you didn’t even want to be in anymore.

Miles was still smiling, eager that you were going to meet his dad. He had been thinking about showing you off to his family for weeks. A talented, beautiful girl like you. It was a massive upgrade from the last girl he brought home in high school. 

‘’Friday’s gonna be big,’’ he added, cutting into his food. ‘’Coach is already talking about the playoffs. If we win, we pretty much lock in our ranking.’’ 

‘’Right,’’ you said automatically, picking at your food.

Miles noticed the shift in your attention.

‘’You okay?’’ he asked, reaching over the table and stroking your hand. ‘’You’ve been kind of…far away tonight.’’ 

You blinked, removing your hand and hiding it under the table. ‘’Yeah. I’m fine.’’

He didn’t look convinced. ‘’You sure? Because it kinda feels like I’m talking to you, but you’re somewhere else.’’

You gave a small laugh that didn’t land right. ‘’I’m just tired, Miles. I’ve been at the rink all afternoon.’’ 

‘’Sorry. I forgot. How is the new program going?’’ 

Back when you were with Dean, you loved talking about your program and all the different figures you had to learn or perfect for the next showcase. He surprisingly knew the difference between a lutz and a flip. Sometimes, you would skate together after everyone left the arena, showing off figures and having races around the rink. It often ended with heavy kissing against the boards…with a little groping or shower sex, but that was a secret. 

‘’Good.’’ 

The answer came out flat.

Miles waited, like he expected more. 

When nothing followed, he smiled awkwardly and took another bite of his dinner.

You hated yourself a little for it. He was trying. He was always trying. He remembered your competitions. Asked about your classes. Showed up with coffee when you had early practices. Any girl would be lucky to have someone like him.

When you began seeing each other, conversations were easy and you were genuinely looking forward to spending time with him. You weren’t thinking about Dean anymore. Only Miles. 

But that changed when you saw him at the arena a few days ago. He was laughing with Tucker as they headed to the locker room to change into their practice gear. His blue eyes crossed yours and you almost walked into a glass door… You even had a dream about him last night. 

An uncomfortable silence settled between you as you continued to eat quietly. Miles was trying to find something to talk about, but he could feel that you weren’t entirely with him. 

Your phone buzzed against your thigh.

The sound nearly made you jump.

Without thinking, you pulled it out, seeing a notification from The Fifth Line’s Instagram.

The Fifth Line: #66 Di Laurentis taken off ice by medics 🚨🩺 Doubt he’ll be back for the rest of the game!

Your heart sank to your stomach. Medics. That meant Dean was hurt. Small injuries were common in hockey — a nosebleed, a fall that turned into a bruise, etc. —, but if Jules wrote that he won’t be back to finish the game, it must be serious. 

You went to text Hannah about the game, trying to know more, but remembered she was working tonight and not attending. 

Still, your thumb was already opening Instagram. The post had only been up for three minutes. A blurry photo showed Dean being escorted down the tunnel by the team's trainer. Even from a distance, you could see blood smeared along the side of his face.

Your chest tightened.

‘’Everything okay?’’ Miles asked, raising an eyebrow.

You looked up so quickly that you nearly dropped your phone. ‘’Yeah.’’

The lie came automatically.

His eyes narrowed slightly. ‘’Are you sure?’’ 

No. You weren't alright.

Because the possibility of Dean being hurt had completely derailed your evening. Because you had spent the last hour pretending you wanted to be here. Because Miles was talking about introducing you to his father while all you could think about was another guy bleeding in a medic room.

‘’I have to go. I’m sorry,’’ you declared, standing from your chair and grabbing your jacket. 

Miles blinked, clearly caught off guard. ‘’Wait, what?’’

You were being unfair. Horribly unfair. But staying here felt impossible.

‘’I'm sorry,’’ you repeated, already slinging your purse over your shoulder.

His chair scraped against the floor as he stood too, about to follow you, but you ran out of the restaurant before he could, the image of Dean being led off the ice burned into your brain.

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

When you made it to the arena, the game was over and people were leaving. Your concern for Dean clouded your judgement as you headed to the locker room. 

Please be okay. Please be okay.

You pulled the door open and slipped in, laughter, music and the smell of sweat and equipment hitting you immediately.

You opened your mouth to call Dean’s name, but stopped in your tracks. The room was full of naked hockey players. Some had a towel wrapped around them, but some had their dick on full display. 

‘’Oh my god.’’ 

A few of them turned, but not many bothered hiding their nudity. 

‘’Bunnies are not allowed in the locker room,’’ one of them said. 

‘’She’s not a bunny, she’s Di Laurentis’s ice princess,’’ another one corrected, recognizing you.

‘’Garrett!’’ you called, catching him come out of the shower with, thankfully, a towel around him. 

His head snapped to you and he walked over. Judging by your dress and heels, you hadn’t been in the stands cheering for the team. He ran a hand through his shower-damp hair. ‘’Hey, what are you doing here?’’  

Before you could say anything, a  voice came from the showers. 

‘’Hey, G, did you steal Birdie’s shampoo? He’s moaning about it.’’ 

And there was the man you were looking for, half-dripping wet with a towel slung low on his hips. Upon seeing you, a cocky smirk curled on his face. 

‘’Well, this is a surprise,’’ Dean pointed out, standing before you with his glistening wet chest. ‘’I haven’t seen you here in a while.’’ 

Your eyes stopped at his face where a steri-strips bandaid was taped on his right cheekbone. The skin around it was red and irritated, a faint trace of dried blood visible along the edges of the cut. Was this what had caused all that blood on the ice? Had you rushed to the arena over a cut that barely seemed serious?

‘’I know. I saw what happened on the ice. I just…wanted to check in on you,’’ you replied, suddenly feeling foolish. 

Dean raised an eyebrow. ‘’You were at the game? In that dress? I don’t think so.’’ 

He caught you there. 

You sighed. ‘’Okay, fine. I wasn’t at the game.’’ 

‘’Where’s Mike?’’ 

‘’Miles,’’ you corrected. ‘’And that’s none of your business.’’ 

‘’I take it Mr. Football doesn’t know you’re here.’’ 

‘’Can we not talk about Miles—’’ 

‘’What are you doing here, princess?’’ Dean asked, stepping closer and lifting your chin. ‘’Because no one runs off from their boyfriend to see their ex without a reason.’’

Fuck. 

How did he even know you ran here? 

‘’Look, I’m not going to call Giles and snitch on you. I just want you to tell me why you’re here —  no bullshit —, because I think we both know what you’re avoiding to say.’’

‘’His name is Miles—’’ 

‘’It doesn’t change anything.’’ 

You held his gaze for a moment, refusing to look away first. The stubborn certainty in his eyes only fueled your frustration, until the words you'd spent months swallowing rose to the surface.

‘’You’re right,’’ you snapped, the confession tearing out of you before you could stop it. ‘’Because no matter what I do or who I see, it always comes back to you. I can’t get you out of my head. Is that what you want to hear, Dean? That I never stopped loving you?’’ 

The locker room fell silent.

Even the guys still half-naked and toweling off froze, eyes darting between you and Dean like they had just walked into a dramatic movie scene.

The corner of Dean's lips twitched, looking pleased like the cat that caught the bird. Then, barefoot on the wet tile and blond hair dripping from the shower, he leaned down and kissed you.

Behind you, the team was forgotten. Miles? Erased from existence right then and there. All noise in the world was drowned out by Dean’s mouth on yours and the familiar scent of his expensive shampoo. You pulled him closer by his shoulders, his chest flush against you as waterdrops were falling on your jacket and dress.

══════════════════

Off Campus taglist: @f1rewhiskey @formula1-motogpfan @schinug @skyesthebomb @mads-writes-vibes @harls-sturn @fangirl93 @parker-barnes-af @thedarkqueenofavalon @kootiestillidie @taliescapes @kmc1989 @glndacore @aestramjackson @ilocuras24

[iceyngi]

Go Figure

☄︎ Warnings: None! ☄︎ Pairing: Figure Skater!Reader x Dean Di Laurentis ☄︎ Rating/Genre: PG (mentions of smut) ☄︎ Words: 1791 ☄︎ Summary: Dean does his best to flirt with you while you act as uninteresed as possible.

💭: this was super fun tho i’m not sure if my knowledge of the ice holds up as i can barely ice skate myself lmao. i do have a man hater!reader x dean request in my inbox that i’m thinking could be a good way to continue this… if that’s what people want! if you enjoyed, please consider leaving a comment, ask, reblog etc, it means a lot xx

Read the original request here. 〣 Find my Off Campus Masterlist here.

Dean almost never looked twice at somebody who wasn’t looking at him. Not that he didn’t enjoy a chase every now and then, but he really had no need. He liked how convenient his life was. He liked things that were fun, a little bit chaotic, and on the mutual agreement that this would be a good time, not a long time. Usually, if someone didn’t bite, he was able to move on to the next beautiful thing without a second thought.

Yet, as he leant against the boards, he realised he had been staring at you for a solid five minutes and you had not even so much as blinked in his direction.

When he had first hit the ice, he expected to be hit with the familiar arena air, smelling more like fresh ice and leftover Zamboni fumes. What he hadn’t expected was for the air to be thick with the heavenly scent of your vanilla body spray and the undercurrent of impending irritation.     

The Hawks had a big game coming up, coach had ordered extra practice, and the Briar Athletic Department, in an attempt to keep everyone happy, hastily agreed to give them the extra slot. That slot, just so happened to be your usual slot.

Dean grinned as he remembered the way your eyes had blazed. You had stood with your blades dug firmly into the ice, arms crossed over your chest as you watched Coach Jensen, quite pathetically, plead with your coach to let the boys have the ice. The answer had been a resounding no.

When the athletic department’s admin assistant hurried out to offer a panicked apology, your face had completely transformed.

“It’s okay, mistakes happen we’ll sort it out,” you had said, your voice gentle as your expression softened.

But then, you had spun slowly to face the waiting Hawks team. Your eyes blazed again as you offered a plastered-on smile. “I’m sure these gentlemen can patiently wait their turn over there.” You pointed over to the player’s benches. “Especially as we were here first.”

You and your coach didn’t wait for the response, you turned to skate to the centre of the ice. To be fair to you, this was your usual training slot.

Dean had been completely captivated.

Which is why, when most of the hockey team immediately turned on their heels and headed to the strength and conditioning room to lift weights instead of waiting around, Dean was one of the few that stayed.

He leant back against the barrier, grateful that this fuck up had meant he got to meet you and that irritated scowl of yours. Your irritation wasn’t even directed it at him, but he knew he wanted to find a way it could be.

He watched you gracefully carve through the ice in a way that contradicted the focused scowl on your face. You were wearing sleek black leggings that made your legs look longer and a fitted Briar U skating jacket that hugged every curve of your torso as you moved.

For 30 minutes, you warmed up and then went straight into an intense skills session, completely unbothered by the handful of hockey players that were watching you in awe from the sidelines.

You took it as a cue to have a, much-needed, break when your coach stepped away from the ice to take a call. Gliding over to the boards, you reached for your water bottle with one hand and propped your tablet on the ledge with the other. You quickly pulled up the clip your coach had taken of your routine, brows furrowing in concentration as you analysed your movements.

Dean took your cue for a break as a cue to disturb you. Pushing off of the barrier, he closed the distance and slid to a loud stop right beside you.

“Hey,” he said, his voice dropping into the register that he reserved for when he wanted girls to forget their own names. “I know you told us to stay out of your way, but I just had to come over and tell you how incredible you look out there.”

You paused, your fingers tightening around your water bottle as you reluctantly looked up from the tablet screen. Dean smiled down at you; you didn’t smile back. Your eyes tracked down from his flawlessly styled hair to the stupidly smug smile resting on his lips.

“Gee, thanks. Your praise means the world to me, Di Laurentis,” you said, voice dripping heavily with sarcasm. You did your best to sound disgusted as you said his name.

Dean’s smug smirk only widened, his blue eyes swimming with amusement. “Oh, so you know who I am? I’m flattered, I didn’t know I had fans in the figure skating world.”

Rolling your eyes as dramatically as possible, you stood up a little taller. Even on your blades, he had to lean down slightly to hold your gaze. “Your name is on the back of your jersey, genius. I do know how to read.”

“So, what you’re saying is, you were checking me out, you saw my back, and you memorised my name? Hot.”

“Literally none of the words I said matched what you just said.”

Dean ignored your protest, his smile turning cheeky as he held out a hand to you. “I’m Dean, by the way.”

“I don’t remember asking.”

“Usually, people respond with ‘Hi, nice to meet you, I’m...’”

“But it’s not nice to meet you.”

You turned your back on him to grab your towel. Dean didn’t hesitate, going around you in a semi-circle until he was standing directly in your line of sight again.

“So,” he continued, “while you were busy checking me out, memorising my name and all that... did you also check out my ass?”

“I’ve seen better,” you said flatly, looking him dead in the eye as a smirk of your own played on your lips. “And, usually, asses don’t talk this much.”

Snapping your water bottle shut with an unnecessarily loud crack, you slammed it down on the ledge and pushed off on the ice with speed.

Dean chuckled, immediately moving to skate backwards, tracking you as you circled the massive rink. “Ouch. You’re mean. I kind of love it.”

You kept your chin up, trying to ignore him as the cold wind hit your face. “Go away, Di Laurentis. You’re ruining my focus.”

“I respect that. Total dedication to your craft. I get it.”

You threw a sceptical glance his way as you came to a stop in the centre of the ice. “What exactly do you get about having total dedication.”

“I’m a deeply passionate guy, what can I say? Maybe one day I’ll get to show you.” Dean winked, the dimple in his left cheek popping into view.

“Well, if you understand then why are you trying to interrupt my focus.”

“You’re on a break.”

“My break’s over now, you can go.”

“You were at the boards for like 60 seconds,” Dean pointed out. “Surely you need more rest than that.”

“I’m good. I have great stamina.”  

“Oh?” Dean’s eyebrows shot up, a wicked grin breaking across his face.

“No! That was not me flirting,” you clarified instantly.

“Maybe not intentionally, but I like where your head’s at,” Dean teased, tilting his upper body just a fraction closer into your personal space. “And, for the record? I also have great stamina. We could test it out sometime. Compare notes over drinks.”

You sighed, heavily. “Di Laurentis–.”

“Dean.”

“Di Laurentis,” you repeated, your tone hardening as you started moving again, going into a series of rapid backwards crossovers. “I’m busy. Go sit on the bench over there and practice looking pretty.”

“So, you do think I’m pretty,” he laughed, the sound echoing.

“Once again, I did not say that.”

“It was heavily implied.”

“I’m starting to think you don’t understand the meaning of words very well,” you said.

“Oh, I understand them perfectly,” Dean shot back. “I just prefer the ones that get me what I want. Like the words you’ll say when you inevitably agree to go out for drinks with me.”

“Isn’t there anybody else around that you can go bother?” You signed, desperately looking around the empty ice.

“Depends. Do you know any other figure skaters that look this beautiful when they’re irritated?”

You opened your mouth, a sharp retort at the tip of your tongue when he suddenly held up a finger, cutting you off.

“Fair warning,” Dean said. “You have to stop being so mean to me otherwise I’ll fall in love with you.”

Your mouth snapped shut. You stared at him. He stared back.

“So, you’re saying I have to be nice to you? That sounds... difficult,” you countered slowly, finding your voice as you glided backwards together.

“No, I’m telling you the consequences if you’re not,” Dean replied smoothly.

“Mhm.”

“I mean, we already make a great team. Fire-.” He gestured proudly to his own chest. “And ice.” He pointed a finger at you. “It’s a classic trope, you know.”

“What makes you think I’m interested in your stupid dimples, your swoopy hair, or your little fire-and-ice routine that I’m sure you’ve used on the hundreds of women you’ve likely slept with?”

Right then, the doors swung open as your coach walked back into the arena. The sound of her whistle echoing through the air.

“Look,” you said quickly. “I have exactly 30 minutes left of ice time before my regional qualifiers. I do not have the time or, quite frankly, the energy to be a conquest you can tick off your checklist. My coach can be a very mean lady, so I highly suggest you stop distracting me, otherwise it might be her you fall for.”

Dean grinned at you, not at all deterred but he did stop following you around the rink. “Okay, fine. I’ll leave you to your routine now. But, what about later? Can I come and find you after you’re done?”

You didn’t answer him; you just threw a parting scowl over your shoulder as you drifted away. But, as you turned your back, you could feel the corners of your mouth lifting. Your own body betraying you.

“Noted,” Dean called out across the empty rink. “I’ll see you later.”

He spun around and skated back to the bench, a thoroughly pleased smile on his face.

Tucker looked up from the bench where he was re-tying his laces, raising an eyebrow at Dean. “Don’t tell me the great Dean Di Laurentis stuck out?”

Dean didn’t even look at him, his eyes glued on your silhouette as you leaped into the air, spinning a few times under the bright stadium lights.

“Not even close,” Dean murmured.

[asoiafraven]

Split Coffee

Dean Di Laurentis x fem reader

Summary: The one where famous womanizer and hockey player Dean Di Laurentis forgets how to flirt when confronted by a cute shy girl.

fluff [2.3k words]

Your life at Briar U had been a game of survival so far. You had three main goals:

1. maintain good enough grades to keep your mother off your back

2. keep your head down

3. stay out of drama

And, though that first one was almost impossible you had grown content with your quiet life at Briar, until he came charging into it.

He could not be less like you. Dean Di Laurentis was the popular, charming, wealthy hockey player. A player on and off the ice. Di Laurentis is the womanizer of Briar U, known to have a new woman on his arm at every party, using his position as defenseman on the hockey team and his movie-star looks he has successfully seduced almost every woman that has caught his eye since stepping foot on campus.

Your mother’s words on the phone last night, during your weekly check ins, were still ringing in your ears. Well good just isn’t good enough. You had been ranting to your roommate Maya for most of the morning, so much so you were now running late for class. Though despite your time constraints you had made the decision that coffee was still a requirement, and that decision left you racing across campus, juggling your books and your coffee.

Dean was running across the campus, his hockey bag hitting against his upper thigh as he jogged to catch up to his friends.

“Hey, Cassanova” Dean sniggers, throwing his arm over Tucker’s shoulders. His sports bag slammed into his upper thigh from its place slung over his left shoulder, as he slowed to match pace with the other boys, his cheeks slightly flushed from his short run and the chill of the autumn air.

“Please don’t,” Tucker rolls his eyes, “it was not that bad” he whines.

“It was quite bad” Garrett says quietly, suppressing a chuckle.

Logan lightly elbowed Tuckers ribs, grinning “you crumbled”.

“I did not crumble” Tucker whines, though the corners of his mouth turned up in a half smile.

Dean scoffs, his lips curling into a deeply amused grin, “no you were just stuttering for the fun of it” he says, moving forward and turning around to face his friends, keeping pace them while walking in reverse as he mimics the way that Tucker stumbled over a pick-up line the night before at Malone’s.

“She was pretty” Tucker admitted, a flush creeping up his neck.

Dean scoffs playfully.

“Oh like you’ve never fumbled a girl before.” Tucker says incredulously.

Dean shrugs that annoying arrogant smirk plastered across his face still, “what can I say the ladies find me irresistible.”

Dean was soaking in the faux annoyed looks his friends were throwing him when a high-pitched squeak broke him from his thoughts, someone crashing into him from behind and spilling hot coffee across his back. He spun around ready to scold his attacker when he sees a girl splayed out on the floor holding the back of her head as she stared at the coffee thrown everywhere, soaking through him, her and the plethora of papers strewn across the floor.

The girl only buffered for a moment before jumping into action, picking up her papers and hastily attempting to clear the coffee of them and roughly stack them. Dean crouched down muttering apologies as he grabbed the last of her papers, handing them to her and picking up the now empty to go cup. “It’s okay” she murmured shyly as shed glanced up, her eyes meeting his for the first time. Damn she’s cute.

“Hey” Dean drawls, a seductive glint in his eye as he turns on the charm, a lazy grin stretching across his face.

“Hello” she says softly, averting her gaze and rushing to stand up, gripping her now coffee stained papers in her arms. Dean slowly rises trying to meet her eye again but failing as she shied away from his gaze. His mind started flipping through a mental rolodex of pick-up lines, trying to decipher the right combination of charming and flirtatious while not overdoing it and risking scaring the shy beauty off. However, before he can drop the perfect line she sped away from him, fleeing the scene without so much as a second look in his direction.

Dean stares for a moment at her back for a moment dumbfounded.

“You were saying…” Tucker drawls cockily.

“Who-who is that?” Dean asks, pointlessly pointing in the direction she fled, his eyes still on her retreating figure.

“I think Hannah might know her,” Garett shrugs as he moves to walk around him.

Logan clapped his hand on Dean’s shoulder as he and Tucker move to walk past him, “happens to the best of us” he says amused by the lovesick look on Dean’s face. They would stay and see the embarrassing aftereffects of Cupid’s arrow, but they didn’t wish to face the consequences of being late to hockey practice… again, instead they left Dean to pine.

She was gone out of sight now, obscured by the drama building, leaving Dean standing in the quad still holding your empty coffee cup. He looked down at the disposable cup to see her name and coffee order written on the side of it and, as he began following the boys he decided that this was just attempt the first attempt.

The next day Dean strides into room 204, armed with a flat white, confidence emanating off of him, determined to get the girl. He had been rehearsing what he was going to say, running through his lines on the walk over here. But he falters at the front of the lecture hall, as he scans over the rows of unfamiliar faces, not seeing the cute coffee girl he had been thinking about. Maybe Hannah was mistaken? Maybe this was the wrong room? Or the wrong class?

“Um..” Dean clears his throat, causing several confused faces to look at him, “this is American Lit 2 right?” Dean asks hesitantly, only to be met with confused silence and a few small nods. Several girls near the front were obviously eyeing him and he catches them whispering, likely wondering what Dean Di Laurentis was doing standing in their lecture hall.

“Yeah it is” guy with round wire framed glasses says catching Dean’s attention.

Dean moved towards him saying, “I’m looking for someone…” his voice trailing off as he said her name, slowly losing confidence in his mission.

“Oh um… I think she is running late…” the guy offers hesitantly, clearly confused by how you and Dean Di Laurentis are linked. He eyes Dean silently for a moment, seeing how he sighs a little defeated, looking at the coffee cup in his hand before he says, “she usually sits there…” while pointing at a seat just in front of him on the third row, near to a girl with colourful stationary neatly laid out on the desk in front of her.

Dean’s face lights up slightly as he moves over to place the coffee cup on the desk in front of the seat the guy pointed at, Dean turns to the girl sat nearby “hey, excuse me…” Dean says hesitantly hyper aware of the stare he was receiving, “could I borrow a post-it?” he asks pointing softly at one of her stacks of brightly coloured post-it notes. The girl nods enthusiastically, smiling at him mildly amused, handing him a bright pink post-it note and a pen. Dean thanks her relieved before scribbling a message on it and adding his phone number to the end, before sticking the post-it to the coffee cup and thanking the girl again as he hands her pen back and rushes out of the lecture hall, already late to his own class across campus.

It had been two days with not text or call from the coffee girl and it had been weighing on him, he had never found himself this eager to talk to a girl, so when Dean next saw her, across the quad from him, sat under a tree reading he couldn’t help himself.

She looked so peaceful, the sun shining on her hair, she was biting her lip in thought as he approached her, jogging over, ignoring his friends hollering as they tried to pull him into some drinking game they wanted to play in Malones that night.

The thought did briefly occur to him that you may not wish to be bothered by him but, before he could stop and turn around, she looked up and he met your eyes again. Suddenly feeling very flustered by her piercing gaze he stumbles over his words as he asks, “Hey, um did you get the coffee I left for you?” he was certain a deep red blush was creeping up his neck from the way you were looking at him from beneath your eyelashes.

“oh… um yeah I did, thank you, you didn’t need to do that for me” you say awkwardly, flustered by his attention and the way that people were staring at the two of you likely looking for new gossip.

“I owed you” he says quickly, nervously scratching his neck.

“Thanks” you say quietly, looking down, not being able to meet his eye, too intimidated by his Hollywood gaze.

Dean nervously shuffles his feet for a moment before stumbling to say “so … um I was wondering if you would maybe like to get coffee with me or-” he was interrupted by a booming laugh across the quad. He turned around to see his friends, Tucker and Garrett were play wrestling, with Logan and Beau standing on the side trying to control their laughter. Beau turned to see Dean staring at them and called out to him “Dean” Come on man! You’ve got a bet to win.”

But Dean ignored them, brushing them off to turn his attention back to his coffee girl but, when he turned you were gone and he was left standing there in the quad alone again.

The library was quiet, you had gone with Gigi and Hugh to cram in some more studying before your final, having only just shut them up from gossiping about you and Dean Di Laurentis. It had taken the better part of an hour to pull them and Maya away from the note that Dean had left you and they had still not stopped their attempts to get you to call him. But you refused, too embarrassed by the way you ran away after your last conversation.

Initially you saw him out of the corner of your eye, catching a glimpse of his golden blonde hair beneath the fluorescent lights. You look up at him shocked, as he leans awkwardly against one of the bookshelves pretending to read an upside-down book. You looked over at your friends to find Gigi’s jaw hanging loose and Hugh’s eyes twinkling with amusement behind his wire framed glasses.

You look back at the hockey player in time to meet his eyes as he glances over to you. Upon meeting your eye he smiles, “hey” he says quietly.

“Hello” you reply confused, “are you stalking me?”

“What no, no… no” he panics, “I just came to … to study” he says awkwardly, trying to maintain his charming façade.

You look up to the sign above his head trying to supress your laugh, “…in the erotica section?”

“What?” he looks up to the sign above his head reading erotica and a deep red blush starts creeping up his neck. He looks back at you bashfully, laughing awkwardly, all of that playboy charm falling away. “No” he says again softly under his breathe laughing bashfully.

“I just wanted an excuse to talk to you,” he admits shyly, reaching his hand up to rub the back of his neck.

“To talk to me?” you ask taken aback.

“Yeah”

“Why?”

“I just couldn't…” he says getting interrupted by the librarian Mrs. Bryn aggressively shushing him from her place at her desk a couple metres away. “Sorry, sorry” Dean whispers, ducking his head as though that will make him quieter. He takes a seat at your desk opposite you across the table, “I just couldn’t stop thinking about you” he whispers.

Your brow pulled together in confusion, you did not expect this sincerity from him, he seemed so genuine and shy.

“Well… what do we do now?” you chuckle shyly.

He goes back to rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly, as he quietly suggested, “well, I don’t want to get in the way of your studying but, …. maybe I could get your number?” he asks hopefully before rushing to add, “for better book recommendations, of course”

“Of course” you reply slyly before pulling his phone towards you.

“Wait really” Dean says too loudly, prompting another round of aggressive shushing while you enter your number in his phone. He sends you a quick message saying hi so you could save his number

“Thank you, …um I’ll leave you to your studying, now” he says quietly, standing up from the table.

“Yeah, you gotta get back to your reading” you smirk, gesturing with your head towards the erotica section, making him laugh and earning him a stern glare from Mrs. Bryn.

“Sorry” Dean whispers while awkwardly dismissing himself and nearly running into a bookshelf as he leaves.

When he is gone you can hear Maya and Hugh struggling to supress their laughter, “what the hell” Maya mouths to you as you turn to her, you don’t even know what just happened really so you just shrug smirking and go back to studying.

That evening when you returned to your dorm and turned your phone back on you were met with a new text from Dean.

Stalker: So um, about that coffee date?

Coffee Girl: Hmmm, depends do you promise not to throw it on me this time?

Stalker: That was one time 😒

Stalker: But I’m not complaining about it because I got to meet you

i think i might make a part two? maybe idk?

masterlist

tags: @ilocuras24 @jvlka18 @hagarsays @totallynotkaibiased

[ilyahugs]

knowing

word count: 3,525 ship: Garrett Graham x reader rating: PG-13 summary: The guy you're dating is a dick and Garrett is done keeping his commentary to himself. notes: this is a picture of me because who thought i could ever just write one (1) reader insert: 🤡 notes2: gifs are from this gifpack :) notes3: my other GG x reader insert is here, and if you like reader inserts, I also wrote a bunch of nick leister (my fault london) ones

You’re pretty sure you’ve never felt heat crawl up your neck like this before, animosity licking at your nerve endings as you direct your gaze to someone you’ve always considered your best friend. Look, you’re not someone who gets pissed off easily. Not really. You’ll feel other emotions deeply—happiness, hurt, jealousy, but anger? It’s a wasted sensation. It burns too hot and takes too much out of you. 

Yet here you are, willing Garrett Graham to ashes at your feet because how does he have the audacity? 

“Who I date is not your business.” You snap. 

Garrett scoffs, his hands falling to his hips as he tears his gaze away from you. He’s smiling, but not in a way that’s amused. Good, he’s pissed too. Glad you’re not alone in this. 

You’ve been best friends with Garrett for years, he’s one of the first people you met when you were a freshman at Briar U. You clicked, connected, had a lot of the same classes and circles of friends. It’s always been something easy—like wearing your favorite sweater, or falling asleep. Something expected and automatic. Garrett is someone who’s been warm, dependable, loyal and there. He’s the person you turn to when you need advice or a shoulder to cry on, there’s no one better to dance with, to jump around and sing too loud, to join a drinking game with because you know you’re going to win with him by your side. You’d choose him time and time again; a whispered promise, a hand in the dark. 

Every single time. 

And yet—

“Not my business?” He asks, raising his eyebrows, “It became my business when we sat in there with that dumbfuck,” He points to the large windows of Malone’s, “and he didn’t know when your birthday was.” 

You swallow, wrapping your arms around yourself. You try to convince yourself that it’s cold, that there’s a breeze scraping by and getting through the thin layer of the puffy sweater you have on, but you know better. Unease skitters through your bloodstream like spiders. You hate that Garrett is bringing this up again. 

And you hate that he’s right. 

Tonight was supposed to be a chill night, hanging out with some of Garrett’s teammates who are your friends too, their girlfriends, your other friends and the guy you’ve been seeing for a month, Mark. Mark, who Garrett can’t stand and has been very clear on this fact ever since he met him. Which you just…you don’t understand. Yeah, Mark has his moments, but he’s…he’s a decent guy? 

One of the topics that had been brought up at dinner was your birthday. You had a huge party last year and Dean was wondering if it was business as usual for the weekend. Mark had asked if it was this upcoming weekend and Garrett had looked like he was ready to throw a napkin dispenser at his head. 

“Okay so—what, you’re the only person who hasn’t forgotten anything?” 

Garrett sighs impatiently from his nose, “Don’t,” He says after a moment, “C’mon, sunshine, Mark didn’t forget, he never knew when your birthday was. I bet you he still doesn’t know.” 

Sunshine. A nickname you’re so used to hearing coming from Garrett’s mouth. Something he’s called you for years now, ever since he teased you about always having a sunny disposition—it, for whatever reason, is making the bridge of your nose sting. 

“What are you doing?” Garrett asks, taking a step forward. His voice is strained; a frustrated hand winding through his curls, “Why are you wasting your time with this guy?” 

That same heat you felt before prickles underneath your skin. You know that Garrett is asking from a place of concern, even though his stance is unyielding and his voice is sharp. He cares about you and he’s frustrated because of it. But you hate the feeling of existing underneath a microscope, like you’re the only person in the history of ever to be in a relationship with someone where there was a hint of imbalance. As if everyone Garrett’s ever been with, which aren’t many if we’re being honest, were somehow perfect. 

“Okay,” You shake your head, a wet laugh falling from your lips. You can’t look at him, a thin vibration of an emotion you can’t name causing a slight tremble in your voice, “Just because Mark isn’t some sort of Briar U hockey legend doesn’t mean I’m wasting my time.” 

The argument lacks evidence and purpose and you know it. Garrett knows it. You know that Garrett knows it. You can feel him walk closer to you even though you’re not looking at him. Your bodies are like magnets, you can sense him even when far away. 

He reaches out and touches the pink fluffiness of your sweater, playing with the fabric between his fingers. You close your eyes when his fingers brush along your chin, knowing he wants you to look at him. You steel yourself, biting down so hard you swear you hear your molars crack. 

But your eyes find his hazel ones. A port in the storm, even now. 

“You know I don’t give a shit if he plays hockey,” Garrett replies quietly, voice and gaze softer than before. “I give a shit about you.” 

A breath skitters out of your lungs, your heartbeat hammering against your ribcage. And despite the fact that you know this, that it’s no different than things he’s said to you before, it feels too real, too sharp against your body. His words are like a knife sliding into all of your soft parts. 

“Well don’t,” You snap, pulling back from him. You wrap your sweater further around your body, turning on your heel, “I can take care of myself.” You walk away, keeping your gaze forward and your feet moving so that you don’t do something stupid—like allowing Garrett to hug you, like changing your mind. 

—

There’s radio silence from Garrett for the next two days. Which is…which is fine. That’s what you wanted, right? That’s what you asked for? When you put your phone down for the third time, it lands with a noisy clatter. You’re annoyed with yourself that you can’t just be the bigger person and reach out to him. Soft shame licks against your nerve endings —I can take care of myself. 

Fuck. 

“Where’s your head at?” Mark asks, turning your attention towards him. 

You’re at a bar, supposed to be on a date, but you’re definitely not the best company right now. And he can sense it. You swallow and turn your body to face him on the stool, a tight smile spreading across your face. 

“Sorry I’m here. Just some stuff on my mind.” 

“For your birthday?” He has another onion ring, wiping his mouth with a napkin. For some reason the act of him eating food, his attention wholeheartedly on the appetizer instead of you digs under your skin. You clear your throat, tapping your fingers against the bar. 

“Yeah, sort of.” 

He smiles, his hand coming down on your thigh. You try not to flinch. “I was thinking babe, forget some sort of big thing. You know? We could have a romantic getaway. Just the two of us.” 

You blink at him, your mouth opening but no words spilling out. Then, “I can’t do that to my friends.” 

He has another onion ring, raising his eyebrows, “I mean, it’s your birthday. It’s your decision—you don’t have to throw a ridiculous party just for them.” 

A pain pings in your chest at the word ridiculous. The thing is, it’s not like your friends just want another excuse to party (though you’re not going to pretend that some of them definitely enjoy the prospect), at the end of the day, they want to celebrate you. 

Emotion clogs the back of your throat and you struggle to speak for a moment, licking your lips. Your thoughts wander back to last year, the party you had, the cake Garrett went out of his way to make sure he got for you from that bakery a town over. 

You can’t imagine having your birthday without him. 

The audacity of Mark who— “Mhm,” You hum, pausing, then— “And when’s my birthday?” 

Mark crumples the napkin in his hand, “What do you mean?” You stare at him. Oh my god. “It’s this weekend.” 

No, it’s not. It’s Friday. As in tomorrow. You’re just planning the bulk of the celebration for the weekend. 

Something akin to disappointment swirls in your chest, though you’re not sure why. Why would Mark remember your birthday when you just brought it up at Malone’s? The thought that all of this caused a stupid fight between you and Garrett swirls like acid behind your chest, dipping into your stomach, making you nauseous. 

You shake your head, pulling back from the bar, “I have to go.” You slide off the stool. 

Mark frowns, “Wait, what?” 

You draw in a breath, trying to keep yourself from shaking, “I’m breaking up with you. I should have done it sooner.” 

Before you can slip away from the bar, Mark’s hand comes down on your forearm, yanking you back into place. You wince, trying to pull your arm out of his grasp. You open your mouth to say something but he talks over you, gaze suddenly blazing—apparently he did not see this coming, “Don’t be a fucking brat.” 

“Don’t be a fucking asshole,” You snap. 

“Let her go.” The bartender’s voice sounds, causing Mark to immediately drop your arm. He continues to ask if you need a ride called but you don’t stick around long enough to reply. 

Mark can pick up the tab; it’ll keep him inside a little longer as you begin walking down the street, just wanting to put distance in-between you and your ex. You debate calling a ride to head back to your place but…distantly, you know there’s only one place you want to be. Only one person you want to see. 

Tugging out your phone, you tap on Garrett’s message thread, 

y/n: are you home? 

—

It’s late by the time you’re walking up the steps of the off-campus house that Garrett and a few other of his teammates live in, but he’s already opening the door. In a pair of black sweatpants and t-shirt to match, he doesn’t ask questions as you walk over the threshold. The fact that he doesn’t say a word, that he just guides you into the kitchen with a gentle hand on your back, has to be chipping away at his well-practiced control. 

Garrett sits you at the island counter, moving towards the fridge. There’s a pint of ice cream in his hands a second later and two spoons, setting them down in front of you. His movements are calm and gentle, the only thing giving away the storm brewing inside is the occasional flexing of the muscle in his jaw and the flaring of his nostrils. 

But still he doesn’t ask. He just pulls a stool up beside you. And waits. 

You don’t deserve this. You don’t deserve him up at a ridiculous hour when he was probably sleeping, giving you ice cream and caring about you after the last thing you said to him. Tears sting the back of your eyelids and with trembling fingers, you reach for the ice cream container. 

“Just have this on hand, do you?” You ask, voice cracking. 

Garrett lets out a slow breath, peeling it open when your hands keep fumbling. “I think we both know emergency ice cream is a must.” He picks up a spoon, scraping it over the chocolate to spoonful a bite into his mouth, “Pretty sure it was in the bylaws of the friendship contract we signed.” 

Your lips twitch, “I must have missed that page.” 

He scoffs, “It was on the same page that mentioned you being unable to sleep without an extra pillow against your back and that you consider chocolate ice cream to be the only acceptable dessert…otherwise you’d rather have mozz sticks from Malone’s. You didn’t miss it.” 

A sudden swell of emotion crashes into you like a physical wave, your hand coming up to cover your face. Fuck. Fuck. Garrett knows you well, he knows you so well and—and the fact that you’d been so angry at him for calling out something you should have been brave enough to say to Mark yourself…

You hate that your anger was so misplaced. You lashed out at Garrett not because he knew you, but because he knew you better than someone you were dating. 

How fucking embarrasing. 

“Hey no,” Garrett says gently, putting the spoon down, “Don’t do that.” His stool skids along the floor as he stands, moving to shift right beside you. When he pulls your hand away from your face, a shuddered sob slips out of your mouth. 

“Come here.” He whispers, tugging you against his chest. Because of the height difference, your head tucks itself underneath his collarbone, his firm arms wrapping around your back. He keeps you close, an open palm up and down your spine while the other tucks itself against your hair. 

You can feel his nose and lips press into your temple, his breath hot as he lets out a long sigh from his nose. Your fingers dig into his t-shirt, grounding yourself in his presence, the familiar scent of his cologne mixing with laundry detergent and something purely Garrett reaching into the branches of your lungs. 

This is not the first time you’ve cried so openly in front of Garrett and you know it won’t be the last, either, but some part of you hates knowing that this never would have happened in the first place if you just would have listened to what your friend was trying to tell you. 

Garrett only pulls back when he senses you’re ready, tipping his chin down to try and catch your gaze. 

You shake your head, his thumb dragging across your cheek to catch a tear track, “I’m sorry.” 

His eyebrows draw together and he reaches for a napkin on the counter to hand you, “You have nothing to be sorry for.” 

A small laugh escapes, the back of your neck heating along with your cheeks because really? “I kinda do.” 

His voice is firm, fingers on your chin again so your gaze meets his, “You really don’t.” 

Garrett pulls your stool closer to his own with his foot before he sits down again, handing you the extra spoon on the counter. His body is angled to face yours, his knee bumping into your leg. He does a playful cheers motion by tapping his spoon into the one you have, making a small smile pull into your face. 

“You gonna tell me what happened? Cause using my imagination isn’t helping.” 

You use the napkin on your face, tucking it into one of your pockets before spooning some chocolate ice cream into your mouth. Part of you really doesn’t want to tell him. You know that in all aspects of things that could have happened, it could have been worse. But…that same sort of sensation of shame wraps around you like barbed wire as you recall the interaction between you and Mark. Garrett is not the type of person to say I told you so; at least not about this. But you can still feel that ugly sentiment pressing against your throat at having to tell him what happened. 

“You don’t have to,” Garrett adds when you remain silent, “If it’s—” 

“No,” You interrupt, shaking your head. “I’m just…” You let out a long sigh, curling your hair around your ear, “I’m just embarrassed, that’s all. I should have listened to you.” 

“And if this were any other situation, I would ask you to repeat that sentence.” 

You roll your eyes, encouraging a soft laugh to leave his chest. The sound warms you from the inside out. 

“But,” He continues, “That’s not what this is.” He bumps you with his knee, drawing your attention to his face. When your gaze meets his, he offers you a small smile, “You can talk to me, sunshine. You know that.” 

You do know that. So you tell him about being at the bar. About Mark wanting the birthday celebration to just be you and him, how he was insistent on leaving your friends out. And then about how it got worse—about how, even after all of this, he still didn’t know what day your birthday was, and how when you tried to break up with him—

“He was just being a dick, almost wouldn’t let me leave the bar.” Your fingers rub absently at your wrist. 

Garrett clocks the movement, slowly setting his spoon down near the carton, “Do we think he’s still there? At the bar?” 

Your hand comes down on Garrett’s arm before he can stand up, “It doesn’t matter if he is, don’t even think about it.” 

He purses his lips, standing as if his intention was always to put his spoon in the sink, “No idea what you’re talking about.” 

You have one more scoop of ice cream before putting the lid on it, carrying it over to the freezer to put away, “Mark isn’t worth it.” 

Garrett catches your hand, gently smoothing his fingers over the red marks on your forearm. His nostrils flare again as he draws in a breath but his eyes are calm and warm. “No,” He agrees, “He’s not.” 

The air feels filled with static electricity connecting both of your bodies and for a second you…your gaze finds Garrett’s mouth. There’s this moment where you think about how Garrett never liked Mark, about that argument outside of Malone’s, how maybe it had nothing to do with your ex not remembering your birthday and everything to do with something else. Something that’s clearly simmering for you both directly under the surface, that’s been there the whole time and you didn’t see it until now. 

Your stomach flips. It’d be so easy to close the distance, to lean and kiss him.

“Sunshine,” Garrett says gently, his hand falling onto your shoulder to stop you from—

“Oh my god,” You take a step back, your hand covering your mouth, “I’m sorry, I don’t know…” 

“No,” Garrett says quickly, reaching for you before you can do something drastic like…rush out of the house. Heat gathers along the back of your neck and flutters your pulse as Garrett hooks his hand behind your elbow. “We’re very much on the same page,” He promises, “I just don’t want to kiss you while you’re upset over another guy.” 

It’s not the worst let-down you’ve ever heard and besides…Garrett’s right. Tonight might have unlocked something in you but it wouldn’t be fair to take time to decompress, to push everything into these wee hours of the morning.

Garrett leans down and plants a kiss to your cheekbone, “C’mon, I’ll get you settled upstairs.” 

He offers you a hand that you take; one of the easiest things you’ve ever done. 

—

You sleep in Garrett’s bed, which isn’t completely out of the ordinary. What is different, however, is how you’re woken up. 

Sunlight streams in through the curtains and there’s quiet shuffling before a weight sinks in beside your knee. It takes you a moment to fully wake up, to realize what’s going on. You drag a hand over your face, squinting before Garrett slowly comes into focus. 

He’s dressed comfortably, a t-shirt and sweatpants, his hair slightly damp like he recently showered. Drowsiness lingers before you realize he’s holding a chocolate cupcake in his hand, a skinny green candle sticking out of it. 

He smiles, “Morning sunshine.” 

Shifting in bed, you lean back against a small stack of pillows. “What’s this?” You raise your eyebrows. 

“This?” He asks, pursing his lips, “Birthday cupcake.” 

Your teeth sink into your bottom lip and you touch the tip of the unlit candle, “Tucker?” 

Garrett’s mouth opens in mock offense before he laughs, the sound making your stomach flutter, “Okay, contrary to having a chef in the house, I can make things without burning the kitchen down.” 

A breath catches in your throat, your eyes falling to the chocolate cupcake with white icing and tiny pink sprinkles, “You got up and made these?” There’s a sensation building in your chest like a rolling wave, utterly touched that Garrett would do something like this. Especially when you showed up last night out of the blue, freshly broken up with fucking Mark. 

Garrett remembers things easily—things that matter to you. Things that remind you that you’re not difficult to love. 

“Well…” He trails off, “If you don’t want it…” He pretends he’s going to get up. 

You quickly gather his shirt in your hands, pulling him close. His smile is wide again, eyes warm, “I want it.” You insist, then, “Guess what my wish is.” 

Garrett holds your gaze for a long moment before it dips to your mouth, “I don’t think I have to guess.” And draws you into a slow kiss. The cupcake will just have to wait. 

[sc3ptre]

Would consider writing for Garrett graham??

Garrett Graham's NSFW Alphabet

Pairing: Garrett Graham x girlfriend!reader

⟡ Main Index | ⟡ Archive for Earth-66

a/n: I still don't know if I'll be writing for the other boys but since you guys really liked Dean's NSFW Alphabet and have requested it for the other guys, I thought I'd write them too since I really like character studies. Just remember I haven't and won't be reading the books!

Classification: Smut +18 | Explicit sexual content with consensual kink/BDSM, cum play, semi-public risk and toy use. It also includes references to past family abuse/trauma.

Word count: 3,6k

Divider by me ;) (Dean's will be updated soon!)

A - Aftercare: Garrett takes aftercare as seriously as his role as hockey captain. It’s never an afterthought but a non-negotiable extension of his dominance and care. After an intense session where he’s had you bent over the edge of his bed in the off-campus hockey house, your thighs still trembling from the rhythmic snap of his hips, he gathers you close against his warm, hard chest. His skin remains slick with sweat as he strokes your back with those big calloused hands. His eyes lose their predatory intensity and soften into something tender and watchful. He often stays buried inside you for long moments, simply breathing together, pressing soft kisses to your temple, your eyelids and the corner of your mouth. Then he fetches a warm cloth he keeps ready, gently cleaning between your thighs while murmuring how perfect you were and how proud he is of you for taking him so well. He wraps you in his oversized Briar hoodie that carries his scent of ice-rink chill mixed with cologne, massages any spots where he gripped your hips and holds you through any emotional drop. 

Open communication flows naturally here as he asks how you feel, what you need and reassures you with a mix of sarcastic affection and genuine vulnerability. He fetches water or a snack he stashed earlier and refuses to let you move until he knows you are fully okay. For Garrett this proves he can be strong yet gentle, the opposite of the violence he grew up with, turning raw physical intensity into profound safety and devotion.

B - Bondage: Light bondage can suit Garrett well because he sometimes craves control without ever letting it feel coercive. He uses silk ties, softened hockey skate laces or even his hockey tape in ways that stay safe and reversible. Post-game adrenaline still surges through his muscular frame when he presses you against the wall of the house and binds your hands behind your back with tape. He drops to his knees, teasing you with his mouth until you beg, his dark hair falling into his intense eyes as he looks up with that cocky smirk. He checks circulation constantly, turning the process into extended foreplay with dirty talk about how gorgeous you look while remaining fully in control like he checks an opponent on the ice. 

The moment you say his name in that needy tone or use your safe word he releases you immediately so you can touch him. Every step involves communication beforehand about limits and during the act with frequent check-ins. The restraint sharpens focus and trust rather than causing pain, aligning with his stubborn protectiveness and desire to be a safe partner.

C - Cum: Garrett has a deep possessive streak that shows in the raw, primal way he finishes. As the virile hockey player with that big-dick reputation energy, he loves coming deep inside you and then watching it slowly drip out so he can push it back in with his fingers while growling that you are his. In an empty locker room after practice he might pull out at the last second to paint your stomach or breasts, then rub it into your skin like a claim while using his sarcastic humor to say something like "Look at you, all messy for your captain." He always ensures you come first, often multiple times, before he lets go. Afterward in the shower, he loves watching the water rinse it away. 

Open communication also surrounds these moments as he asks what feels good for you and reads your reactions closely. The act blends filth with care, turning into tender afterglow cuddles where he holds you close and reaffirms how much you mean to him.

D - Discipline: His stubborn and sarcastic personality lends itself to playful yet firm discipline that stays far away from anything physical or punitive. It’s rooted entirely in obedience, teasing control and light denial rather than pain. After you tease him too much at a team party, he waits until you are back at the house before he takes charge. “Strip for me, slowly and keep your hands off until I say otherwise.”

He makes you hold the position while he watches, occasionally reaching out to trace a finger along your skin or tell you exactly how gorgeous you look obeying your captain. If you squirm or break position he adds delicious “punishment” in the form of extended edging, bringing you close with his fingers or mouth only to pull back and remind you, “This is what happens when you tease me in public, baby. You wait until I decide you’ve earned it.” He constantly checks in with soft questions like “Still good? Color?” and mixes in heavy praise when you follow orders well. The scene always ends with him pulling you into his lap, kissing you deeply and giving you the release you both crave.

There’s always communication and debriefs afterward to keep everything safe and connective. This form of discipline lets Garrett channel his dominant side while reinforcing his role as protector. It never echoes his father’s violence, only trust, control and mutual pleasure.

E - Experience: Garrett had casual hookups before you but nothing emotionally deep or kinky. With you he explores new territory through patient experimentation and constant communication. His discipline makes him an excellent student of your body, he quickly learns the exact pressure of his tongue on your clit that makes your back arch and the rhythm that has you gripping the sheets. He remembers every detail like memorizing a playbook and uses that knowledge to drive you wild. He remains open to trying new things but always discusses boundaries first and checks in during scenes. This shared learning process strengthens your bond and lets him grow into the attentive partner who prioritizes your pleasure and safety above everything else.

F - Foreplay: He never rushes. Extended foreplay is one of his greatest strengths and a way he shows devotion. He kisses down your body with his warm mouth and explores every curve with those skilled hands as if memorizing you. In lazy morning light filtering across his bed he settles between your thighs for what feels like hours, using his tongue and fingers in tandem while humming praises against your skin about how sweet you taste. He builds you up slowly with dirty whispers promising exactly how he will fuck you senseless afterward. His passionate and kind nature makes the foreplay deeply connective, turning it into an act of worship that leaves you dripping and desperate before he finally sinks inside you. Check-ins during these moments keep everything attuned to your responses.

G - Gagging: With his size and natural dominance Garrett enjoys light gagging during oral if you are enthusiastic about it. He guides your head gently but firmly with one hand in your hair during deepthroat sessions, groaning "That's it, take it all" in that rough voice. After a big win a celebratory blowjob in his fogged-up truck has his powerful thighs tensing as he hits the back of your throat. He watches your reactions closely the entire time, pulling back immediately if it becomes too much and praises you constantly for how prettily you take him. Midway kink keeps it worshipful rather than forceful. Communication before and during ensures it stays pleasurable, with frequent eye contact if possible and check-ins reinforcing trust.

H - Hands: Garrett’s hands are a centerpiece of his midway-kinky dynamic and he knows exactly the effect those big, calloused hockey-player palms have on you. Years of gripping sticks, fighting for pucks along the board and training have left them large, strong and slightly rough in all the right ways. He is deeply aware of his own strength and terrified of ever using it like his father did, so every touch comes wrapped in constant communication and care.

Picture a slow, heated evening in his bedroom at the house. The lights are dim and he has you laid out on his bed completely naked while he remains in just his sweatpants. He starts by kneeling between your spread thighs, eyes locked on yours as he asks softly, “Tell me what you need tonight, baby. Hard or soft?” Once he knows your mood, those hands take over. He runs them slowly up your legs, the faint scrape of calluses making you shiver, then presses one large palm flat against your stomach to hold you down with gentle but undeniable weight while his other hand slides between your legs. Two thick fingers ease inside you, curling just right as his thumb circles your clit with precision.

He talks you through it the whole time in that low voice: “Feel that? That’s me taking care of you. Breathe with me…Let me feel how wet you get for these hands.” He watches your face obsessively, adjusting pressure the second he senses anything less than pure pleasure, never pinning you harshly but using his size and strength to make you feel securely held in the safest way possible. When you start to squirm he might drape his upper body over yours, one hand gently but firmly pressing your wrists above your head while the other keeps working between your legs, building you higher and higher.

He loves making you come on his fingers first, drawing it out until your thighs shake around his wrist, then brings those same slick fingers to his mouth so he can taste you before he kisses you deeply. Later he guides your hand to his cock, showing you exactly how he likes to be stroked with long, firm pulls, his own hand covering yours to control the rhythm at first before letting you take over. The contrast between his powerful grip and the tender way he cups your face or strokes your hair afterward is everything.

Because of who he is, there is never any bruising force or sudden movements. Every hold, every press of his palm, every curl of his fingers is discussed beforehand and checked during. 

“Too much?” he’ll murmur against your neck, voice thick with lust but still clear and attentive. “Good? Tell me exactly how it feels.” 

Those hands become instruments of both filthy pleasure and profound reassurance, proving again and again that his strength exists to protect and worship you, never to harm. By the end you are boneless, marked only by the faint redness of thorough attention that fades quickly and he is already reaching for the warm cloth and water, pulling you into his chest so you can feel those same hands now gentle and soothing against your back.

I - Intimacy: Every kinky element Garrett engages in stays soaked in deep intimacy. He needs eye contact, his name on your lips and the feeling of true connection. He fucks you slow and deep with foreheads pressed together, breathing the same air while the bondage, edging or possessiveness heightens the closeness. Intimacy includes conversations about feelings and desires before and after these encounters make the physical acts emotionally fulfilling. For him the kink serves to draw you closer rather than create distance.

J - Jack off: Mutual masturbation ranks high for Garrett. He spreads you out in front of him and strokes his cock while giving you precise instructions on how to touch yourself. He edges himself while watching you come undone, then finally lets go while groaning your name. On road trips the phone sex turns extremely descriptive as he tells you exactly what he wants to do when he gets home. These sessions involve plenty of praise and real-time communication about what feels best.

K - Kink level: He operates at a midway kinky level. He is confidently dominant and possessive with a strong praise kink, light bondage, edging, sensory play and discipline. He avoids anything resembling violence, pain, humiliation, CNC or degradation because of his father's legacy. Everything revolves around enthusiastic consent, frequent check-ins, safewords and a lot of aftercare. Your pleasure, trust and emotional safety turn him on more than any single act.

L - Location: Garrett favors the hockey house when teammates are out, his truck with tinted windows after practice, careful locker-room fantasies and hotel rooms during away games. He also loves lazy mornings in his own bed where time stretches and he can focus entirely on you. 

Each location comes with awareness of privacy and a discussion about comfort levels.

M - Mirror sex: Mirror sex perfectly combines Garrett's need for connection and visual confirmation. Late at night in his bedroom he positions you on all fours facing the large mirror. His muscular body cages you from behind, abdomen flexing as he enters you slowly with that hockey-honed control. One hand rests on your hip while you both watch every expression. He murmurs in that low sarcastic-yet-tender voice, "Look at us. Look how perfectly you take me and how beautiful you are when you fall apart on my cock." He narrates the expressions on your face and the way your body moves while adjusting his pace based on your reactions. No bruising force exists here, only deep rolling thrusts and constant praise. 

He pulls you upright against his chest near the end so you come together while watching in the mirror, his arms wrapped protectively around you. 

N - No and Nipple play: Garrett draws hard lines against anything violent such as slapping, choking, degradation, CNC, blood or heavy pain. On the positive side, nipple play showcases his attentive passion. In a steamy shower after practice he pins you gently to the tiles and latches onto one nipple with his mouth while his calloused fingers work the other or lower. He alternates gentle sucking, light grazing with teeth that never truly hurts and precise pinching while his free hand circles your clit. His endurance lets him spend long minutes building sensation until you tremble. He constantly checks in with kisses and questions about pressure. The play often leads to him dropping to his knees in the cascading water or fucking you slowly against the wall while still teasing your nipples, turning it into pure sensual devotion.

O - Oral: Garrett is an enthusiastic giver. He holds your thighs apart with strong hands and devours you with his talented tongue for ages until you shake and try to close your legs around his head. He loves your taste and gets off on making you come on his face and when you go down on him he offers constant praise and heated eye contact. 

P - Pace: He masters both urgent hard and fast fucking after big wins and deep controlled strokes that let you feel every inch. He prefers grinding against your clit with each thrust to draw out pleasure. He communicates throughout about what pace feels best in the moment and switches seamlessly based on your responses.

Q - Quickie: He EXCELS at quickies. Between classes or before a game he pulls you into a storage closet or his truck, yanks your panties aside and fucks you with deep grinding thrusts while his fingers work your clit. His own mouth muffles your moans as he promises to make you come even in the short time available, the urgency adds excitement while his stamina ensures satisfaction. 

R - Risk: If risk is something you like, it definitely makes Garrett hard and he makes a real effort to make it happen for you. The controlled thrill of semi-public places like an empty locker room after everyone has left or the back of his truck in a dark parking lot heightens his arousal and his body responds instantly to the idea of taking you somewhere he could technically get caught, that adrenaline mixing with lust as his eyes darken and his cock thickens in his pants. 

He stays careful because of his future in hockey and his protective nature, always discussing boundaries and details with you beforehand in honest conversations. “You sure about this spot, baby? Tell me exactly what feels hot and what crosses the line,” he’d say, voice already rough with want. Once you confirm, he puts in the work to set it up safely by scouting the timing, parking in the darkest corner or waiting until the arena is quiet.

Picture this…after a late practice, the locker room echoes with silence except for the two of you. He has you bent over the bench, your hands braced on the cool wood while he stands behind you, thick cock driving into you with deep, controlled strokes. One big hand covers your mouth to muffle your moans, the other gripping your hip as he growls low against your ear, “Quiet for me, baby. Don’t want anyone hearing how well you take your captain’s cock.” The risk makes every thrust feel sharper and every wet sound louder. He checks in constantly with whispered questions and reads your body language, ready to stop and leave at any hint of discomfort. The danger turns him on fiercely because it’s something you want, when you come hard around him, clenching and shaking, he follows right after, burying himself deep while kissing your neck. Afterward he helps you dress, holds you close and does thorough aftercare once you’re in the clear, proving again that his strength and desire exist only to make you feel good and protected.

S - Sensory play: He uses his precision and discipline for sensory play that heightens pleasure without any punitive edge. He blindfolds you, then teases you with ice cubes from his water bottle followed immediately by his warm mouth. He drips heated massage oil over your skin and kneads it in with strong hands before ghosting feathers or fingertips everywhere. Filthy sarcastic commentary accompanies every sensation, once you become a needy mess he removes the blindfold and sinks into you, the heightened sensitivity making everything electric. 

T - Toys: He stays open to toys and likes using them on you. A vibrator against your clit while he fucks you or a plug in your ass while he takes your pussy intensifies everything. He buys high-quality items and makes the experience entirely about your pleasure. He discusses each toy beforehand, checks in during use and incorporates them into longer encounters with plenty of praise.

U - Undress: Garrett savors undressing you slowly, kissing and touching every revealed inch like a gift. He also enjoys the opposite frenzied ripping of clothes when tension breaks. He especially loves fucking you while you wear nothing but his hockey jersey, the fabric bunched around your waist as he drives into you.

V - Volume: Garrett is vocal with deep groans, filthy praise and your name spoken like a prayer. He wants you loud too and loves when you cannot hold back moans. In the hockey house he kisses you through orgasms to muffle the sound while smirking against your lips. He encourages you to tell him exactly how he feels and responds with more dirty talk.

W - Wild card: Edging is Garrett's standout wild card. He brings you right to the edge repeatedly with his mouth, fingers and cock, then backs off until you beg and whine for release. When he finally allows it, the orgasm shatters you. He watches your face the entire time like it’s the best view in the world and communicates constantly about when you are close. The buildup and release become intensely intimate.

X - X-Rated: Everything between you stays explicitly raw. Garrett describes in detail how tight and wet you feel around him and how perfect your pussy looks stretched on his cock. He wants the same descriptive feedback from you. No vagueness exists, dirty talk and narration keep the encounters immersive and connected through an open exchange.

Y - Yearning: Garrett yearns deeply when apart on road games. Texts and calls grow increasingly filthy and needy as he counts down the hours until he can touch you again. When he finally returns the reunion becomes intensely emotional and physical, full of pent-up passion balanced by tender check-ins and reaffirmations of love.

Z - Zzz (Sleep):  After the intensity of a scene, the raw sex, the thorough aftercare and the whispered conversations, Garrett pulls you onto his broad, warm chest and settles into sleep with you wrapped securely in his arms. This is the moment where his protective dominance shifts fully into peaceful devotion. His muscular hockey-player body, still slightly damp from the shower you shared, becomes the safest place in the world as he tucks you against him, one large hand stroking slowly up and down your back while the other rests on your hip. He keeps the oversized Briar hoodie nearby so he can pull it over you if you get cold, the fabric carrying his comforting scent of cologne, ice and home.

In the quiet darkness of his bedroom at the hockey house, with the distant sounds of teammates occasionally filtering through the walls, he talks softly until you both drift off. “You were incredible tonight,” he murmurs, lips brushing your forehead. “Tell me how you’re feeling right now. Any sore spots? Anything you want me to do different next time?” These late-night check-ins are sacred to him, they let him make sure the kinky elements never leave emotional residue that could hurt you. Because of his past with his father, falling asleep with you like this brings him a profound sense of peace and redemption. You are the proof that he can be strong, dominant and passionate without ever becoming violent or cruel.

He sleeps deeply and better with you there, your head on his chest rising and falling with his steady breathing. If you wake up in the middle of the night from subspace drop or a random emotion, he’s instantly alert, big arms tightening around you, voice sleepy but caring as he fetches water, offers more cuddles or talks you through it until you feel safe again. 

a/n: Comments, likes and reblogs really do mean the world and help more than you know! More stories will be added to the archive soon, so stay tuned for new content. Thank you so much for reading! 🤍

[energizerbunnyy]

Girls night

a/n: first time ever writing fanfic, im literally the youngest person ever here. this is just for fun

synopsis: In which your boyfriend gets clingy while youre getting ready ready for your girls night out.

wc: 800

cw: pictured black fem!reader while writing, suggestive language and action, sexual innuendos , pda??, not proof read

You were getting ready for your monthly girls night out, a tradition that you and your other three best friends from college started after entering the cruel corporate world, in hopes to maintain the friendship dynamic, luckily is still working even after four years post grad.

While you were sitting on your vanity getting your makeup done, listening to music and checking your phone every other second to see if your girlfriends were sending anything jungkook was admiring you with loving and slightly lustful eyes from the bed. 

As much as he loved when you had fun with your girls, part of him wanted you to stay home while he worshiped your body all night. He never shared these thoughts out loud out of respect and the importance he placed on you having your personal space but today he was abnormally needy, you noticed.

««««««««««««««««««««««««««««««««««««««««««««««««««««««««««««

 Once you got up to check your outfit in the mirror, mini bandage dress paired with black high heels with a slick ponytail and bronzy makeup, you felt his large veiny hands on your hips and running them up and down your waist, while doing this he rested his shin on your shoulder looking to your face through the mirror with his puppy eyes and to that you smiled saying

- ´´stop looking at me with those eyes, what do you want?´´ 

jungkook's answer was clear when he nuzzled his nose on your neck, breathing your scent a little bit nonetheless he added with a small frown to his lips

 ´´cant you cancel with your friends today, i dont wanna let you go´´ 

you turned around to face him with his hands still on your waist,  giving his lips a little peck transferring some of your fav lip combo  while saying ´´No´´ with a teasing smile on your face and walking away to grab your purse.

He followed you like a puppy through the penthouse stopping where you did in front of the living room table, when you were almost bending to grab your car keys he predicted your action and said almost begging

 ´´let me at least drive you there love´´

 you opened your mouth to say something but stopped knowing the boyfriend you have he wouldn't give up on it so you replied 

´´okay but don't act weird in front of the girls´´

 you point at him warningly that he just said putting his arms up

 ´´promise´´.

««««««««««««««««««««««««««««««««««««««««««««

The car ride was charged with want from both parts, once jungkook started the engine he placed his hand on your bare thighs with a low grunt because of how soft your skin feels, you were also very affected by his appearance , simple black jeans a black shirt and leather jacket he looked like a dream but you didn't want to act on it on knowing how it would end  so you ignored the heat between your legs. 

He made the arrival to the destination known once he parked the car in front of the location where you were having dinner and drinks with your friends saying

 ´´delivered´´ to that you smiled and said ´´thank you babe´´. Jungkook got out of the car to open your door, habit of his, handing his hand for you to hold because of your high hells, once you got comfortable on your feet you hugged him brushing your chest seductively on his with a quick peck on his lips. 

You started walking toward the restaurant entrance where your girlfriends were and unexpectedly your boyfriend slapped your butt playfully but loud enough to make you look around to see if anybody saw i, mouthing to him "you're stupid´´ to that jungkook mouthed back ´´i love you too´´. Blushing you walked into the restaurant where you found your friends laughing, trying to hop in on the conversation you asked "what's soo funny?´´ to the question one of your friends answered while pointing outside ´´he's obsessed with you´´ pointing to jungkook still outside checking on you, blushing you say ´´he´s crazy´´ trying to sound annoyed but it came out with a soft tone and that your friends immediately noticed screaming ´´awwww´´. Embarrassed you state ´´ enough of him, we're getting drunk or not?´´

After a few minutes talking with your friends  and taking shots your phone vibrates, you check and it's a notification from Jungkook ´´you should have fun at home too today, right?´´

««««««««««««««««««««««««««««««««««««««««««««

[minalous]

pout for the picture | jjk 💋📸

Jungkook first sees you at a party, all neon light, pretty lips, and eyes that know exactly where the camera is. He thinks he is the one watching you from the edges of crowded rooms, catching pieces of you through his lens like secrets nobody else deserves to keep. He thinks the obsession is his. It is not.

pairining: Photographer!Jungkook x Model!Reader

genre: dark romance, psychological thriller, mutual obsession, glossy pretty-girl horror

word count: 11k

warnings: 18+, mdni, dark romance themes, stalking, obsessive behaviour, mutual manipulation, jealousy, possessive behaviour, toxic attraction, mind games, alcohol mentions, sexual tension, dry humping, masturbation, psychological thriller themes.

a/n: kookie was the best fit for this chapter. I loved writing him like that. he is too cute for his own good. I have two more for him.. I cannot stop myself.

⤷﹒Love You to Death: The Obsession Files: OT7 knj, ksj, myg, jhs, pjm, kth, jjk - obsession thriller anthology

Jungkook noticed light before he noticed people.

It was the first thing he trusted in any room. Light told the truth before a mouth had the chance to lie. It gave away arrogance in the hard shine of a cheekbone, nerves in the flash of a throat, vanity in the way someone turned toward it too quickly. It ruined people who did not know how to stand inside it. It worshipped people who did.

That night, the light loved you.

It found you between a wall of red glass and a black velvet rope, slipping over your shoulders as though someone had designed the whole venue around the slope of your neck. The brand had dressed the club like a confession. Red lettering burned across the walls, broken by camera flashes, low music, lacquered laughter, champagne stems held between manicured fingers.

I’m your art. Adore me.

The words glowed behind a group of models posing beneath them, but Jungkook barely photographed the sign before his eyes moved past it and found you.

You were not the most exposed person in the room. That was what made it worse.

Nothing about your dress begged. It did not have to. The velvet held to you with quiet certainty, revealing only what it wanted to reveal: the clean line of your arms, the softness at your collarbone, the slight opening at your chest where the light touched skin and made it look almost unreal. Your hair fell down your back like rain, dark and smooth against the deep colour of the fabric, and when you turned your head to listen to someone beside you, Jungkook lowered his camera without meaning to.

For one second, he simply looked.

He had photographed beautiful people before. Beauty was not rare in his world. It arrived dressed in couture and desperation, in practiced angles and expensive skin, in eyes trained to seduce the lens before the photographer even asked. He knew how to handle beauty. He knew how to frame it, flatten it, sell it, make it useful.

You did not feel useful.

You felt inevitable.

Someone laughed beside him, and the sound snapped him back into the room. He lifted the camera again, annoyed with himself, and found you through the viewfinder. That was safer. The camera made everything honest. It put glass between wanting and doing. It turned people into shape, colour, shadow, composition.

Then you looked straight into his lens.

Not around him. Not past him. Not toward the crowd.

At him.

Your eyes held his through the camera for a second too long, soft and bright with something that looked almost amused. Then one side of your mouth lifted, barely enough to be called a smile, and Jungkook’s finger pressed the shutter before his thoughts caught up.

Click.

The flash did not disturb you. If anything, it made you look more awake.

By the time he lowered the camera to check the photo, you were gone.

For a moment, he thought he had imagined it. The room shifted around him, bodies moving through red light, assistants whispering into headsets, models turning their faces toward branded walls, and you were nowhere in the frame of reality anymore. He looked down at the screen.

There you were.

Eyes on him. Smile almost there. The entire room blurred into something less important around you.

Jungkook stared until the screen dimmed.

A quiet laugh left him before he could stop it. It was too low to be heard under the music, too private to be polite. Not quite innocent. Not quite sane.

Was that a game?

He looked up again.

You were across the room now, smiling into your drink as if nothing in the world had happened. A man leaned close to say something to you. Too close. Close enough that the side of his jacket brushed your arm, close enough that your head tilted toward him in a way that made Jungkook’s jaw tighten before he knew he was reacting.

He lifted his camera again, but he did not photograph you immediately.

He photographed the room. The signage. A model laughing under the red lights. A table of champagne. A hand adjusting a diamond earring. A stylist fixing the sleeve of a man who looked too pleased with himself. He did the work. He moved professionally. He looked like someone hired to document a luxury event, not someone slowly reorganising the room around the location of one woman.

But his eyes kept finding you.

When you turned your back to him, he took the shot before he could talk himself out of it.

Your neck. Your shoulders. Your posture. The fall of your hair against the velvet. The line of your spine suggested rather than shown. The way the dress seemed to know your body and still feel grateful for being allowed to touch it.

Perfect, he thought.

Then hated himself slightly for the word.

A few minutes later, you moved through the crowd toward him.

His heart did something foolish.

You did not stop. You did not smile. You did not even look directly at him. You passed close enough that your arm brushed his, your wrist catching lightly against the exposed skin beneath his sleeve as if the crowded room had simply pushed you into him.

“Sorry,” you murmured, already moving past.

Your perfume stayed.

It clung to his skin through the next ten minutes, through twelve more photographs, through an entire conversation with a brand assistant whose name he forgot as soon as you said it. Something warm, expensive, soft beneath the sweetness. It made the brush of your wrist feel less accidental in memory than it had been in the moment.

Jungkook checked the photo again. Your eyes were still looking at him. He told himself he was only checking focus. He followed you anyway.

The room beside the main hall had been designed for celebrities and models to take private editorial shots away from the crowd. It was all mirrors and neon, red and violet light bending through narrow spaces, reflections breaking and repeating until it felt less like a room and more like a dream someone rich had paid to make disorienting. Jungkook stepped inside because he had seen the edge of your dress disappear through the doorway, or thought he had. In that room, thought and sight became unreliable.

His reflection met him from three different angles. Camera strap over his shoulder. Black shirt. Dark hair falling slightly over his brow. The face of a man who was supposed to know what he was doing.

Then he saw the writing.

On one mirror, in lipstick, careful and red beneath the neon:

Miss me yet?

A lipstick mark sat beneath the words. Jungkook stood still.

Before he could lift his camera, something moved in the reflection behind the writing. Not enough to hold. Not enough to prove. A flash of crimson. The shape of your eyes. Someone looking through the mirror, not at it. Then gone.

His hand tightened around the camera.

Was it you?

Had you written it?

Was it for him?

No. It could not be. It could have been for anyone. The club was full of people who thought every message belonged to them. The man from earlier, maybe. The one who had leaned too close. The one you had let linger near your shoulder for too long.

Jungkook photographed the mirror.

Click.

The words on the screen looked even more deliberate.

He should have walked away after that. He knew that. A normal man would have laughed at himself, taken the shot for the event folder, and returned to work. A normal man would not have stepped closer. A normal man would not have lifted two fingers toward the lipstick mark as if touching it could answer a question his mind had no right to ask.

The lipstick was dry enough not to smear easily, but a little colour still came away against his fingertips.

Jungkook stared at it.

Then, slowly, with a shameful kind of fascination, he brought his fingers to his mouth.

For one second, he pretended.

Not fully. Not enough to name. Just enough for the thought to land, hot and unreasonable, somewhere under his skin.

Your mouth.

Behind him, in another mirror, you watched.

He did not see you clearly. That was the pleasure of it. You were tucked between angles, half-hidden by the architecture of reflection, your own mouth curved into something wicked before you smoothed it away. A devious smile, small and private, pulled at your lips.

It was working.

Better than you thought.

This was what he got for ignoring you once. For standing across from you at that earlier shoot with his polite voice and his professional eyes and his irritating refusal to stare the way other men did. This was what he got for making you curious. For taking photographs that made you look like a softer version of yourself than you knew how to be.

No.

That was not the whole truth.

You loved this.

The chase had barely started, and he was already under your spell. He had touched the lipstick. He had brought it to his mouth. He had made the first clue physical, intimate, real. You should have found it strange. Maybe any reasonable person would have.

You did not.

You found it thrilling.

You turned away before he could catch your reflection and walked back into the main hall as if you had won something.

Because you had.

When Jungkook returned to the party, he found you easily. He hated that. He hated how quickly his eyes knew where to go. You were near the bar, laughing softly with a few colleagues, your drink held delicately between your fingers, your lipstick still perfect. The man from earlier stood nearby, body too close to yours, face too angled toward you.

Jungkook looked at your mouth.

The same shade.

His fingers curled once around his camera.

A brand assistant touched his arm lightly. “Jungkook? Thank you so much. We have everything we need from you for the public portion.”

He turned to her.

“The rest of the evening is private for the host brand and models,” she continued, smiling the efficient smile of someone who had dismissed many people beautifully. “You are free to leave whenever you are ready.”

Free to leave.

He nodded. Professional. Easy. Untouched.

“Of course,” he said. “Thank you for having me.”

He wanted to look back once more.

He told himself not to.

He looked anyway.

You were already looking at him.

For a second, neither of you moved.

The camera came up because his hands needed somewhere to put the want. He took one last photo of you across the room: red light on your skin, glass at your mouth, eyes on him like you had known exactly when he would turn.

Then he lowered the camera, and the man beside you leaned closer.

Jungkook left with jealousy under his skin and your message saved in his camera.

Before he went, he found your manager.

“If anyone needs portfolio images from tonight,” he said, voice calm, polite, perfectly reasonable, “they can message me directly.”

Your manager smiled, pleased by professionalism.

Jungkook handed over his details. You heard about it fifteen minutes later.

By then, Jungkook had gone. The room still glittered. The music still pressed through the floor. People still complimented your dress, your campaign, your face, your work, your future. You smiled exactly as brightly as you were supposed to.

But the party had emptied itself of purpose.

The person you had wanted to watch you was gone.

So you left too.

For the next few weeks, your life moved in time zones.

Europe first. Then Asia. Then the United States. Hotels with flowers too perfect to be real. Cars waiting outside private entrances. Runways with cold backstage mirrors. Photoshoots in studios where assistants adjusted the hem of your coat and directors told you to look softer, sharper, more expensive, less human. Promotions, festivals, interviews, airport lounges, silk sleep masks, black coffee, late-night fittings, early call times.

You were busy.

You still checked his page every day.

Public posts first. Then tagged photos. Stories. Industry updates. Work he had done for other brands. A coffee cup on a table. A street through a window. A restaurant plate. A black jacket thrown over a chair. You learned his habits the same way he learned light: quietly, carefully, with attention disguised as instinct.

When you posted his photograph from the event, you waited until it would hurt properly.

It was the final shot he had taken of you before leaving. The one across the room. The one where you had been looking at him already.

Your caption was simple.

i knew you would miss me xoxo

Jungkook saw it late.

He had told himself he was not waiting for you to post.

He had been lying.

The photo appeared on his screen, and for a second, something proud and ugly unfolded in his chest. Of all the images taken that night, all the hired photographers, all the guests with phones and filters and desperate little flashes, you had chosen his.

His version of you.

He saved it immediately.

For work, he told himself.

Then he looked at the comments.

Men wrote beneath it like fools. Pretty things, thirsty things, things that made his expression go flat. They thought the caption belonged to them. They thought the miss me was public, available, scattered like perfume across the internet for anyone to breathe in.

They were wrong.

He had found the mirror.

He had touched the lipstick.

He had kissed you through glass.

He had seen you through a sea of people.

Him.

Only him.

He went back to the picture and studied it until the details stopped being details and became a kind of sickness. Your mouth. Your posture. Your neck. The light. Your eyes.

Damn, your eyes.

Soft. Delicate. Pretty. Angelic. Tempting. Sensual. Perfect.

The words came one after another, piling in his mind until he felt almost embarrassed by them. He was not a boy. He was not easily undone. He had made a career of looking at beautiful people and not confusing beauty for intimacy.

But you had chosen his photo.

You had written that caption beneath his work.

His thoughts shifted without permission.

He wanted to photograph you again.

Not in a crowded room. Not through people. Not with strangers leaning near you and assistants interrupting and time running out. He wanted a room. Light he could control. A lens between you until there was not. He wanted to tell you where to sit, how to turn your face, how to follow the camera with those impossible eyes. He wanted to guide your chin with two fingers and watch you listen.

He wanted you to follow him.

That thought made him put the phone down.

Then pick it back up.

He liked the post hours later, late enough to look casual if anyone cared, early enough that you would know he had not been able to ignore it.

Then he sent the message.

Clean. Professional. Safe.

He placed the phone face down on the table afterwards, as if distance from the device meant distance from the desire. It did not. He lasted seven minutes before checking.

Nothing.

He lasted eleven more.

Still nothing.

You had known what you would say before his message ever came through.

Waiting was part of the reply.

When you finally answered, you were in a hotel room in another country, one leg folded beneath you, robe slipping off your shoulder, your face bare except for lip balm and satisfaction.

I was wondering when you would ask. I liked the way you saw me.

Jungkook stared at the message for so long the screen dimmed in his hand.

Then he typed.

Deleted.

Typed again.

Deleted again.

What response would stand out? What response would sound calm? What response would not reveal that having your full attention made him feel like someone had placed a hand around his throat and called it affection?

He waited because he refused to look eager.

He rewrote the message because he was.

Finally, he sent:

I only photographed what was already there. You made it easy. But if you need a better excuse to work together again, I can offer one.

You smiled when you read it.

There he was.

The little mouse, clever enough to think he had chosen the path, already walking toward the trap.

The penthouse was arranged through the brand.

Officially, it was for portfolio content and campaign-adjacent images. A clean professional excuse. A controlled private environment. No crowd, no club, no man leaning too close to you while Jungkook pretended not to care.

Unofficially, it was built for him.

The light was perfect because you had made sure of it. Morning sun poured through wide windows, soft enough to flatter skin, bright enough to make every shadow useful. The clothing rack was not accidental either: black, white, red, denim, cotton. His colours. His fabrics. Pieces that looked casual until they touched a body correctly.

You opened the door yourself.

Barefoot.

Loose hair.

Oversized cotton shirt slipping over you like something borrowed, barely covering enough to be decent, underwear beneath, no bra, your favourite perfume on your skin. The same perfume from the club. The same scent that had lingered on him after your wrist touched his arm.

Your smile was soft enough to pass for innocent.

“You came,” you said.

Jungkook forgot, briefly, that he was holding a camera bag.

His first thought was not professional.

You would look good in one of mine.

Then your perfume reached him, and the club returned: red light, velvet, your wrist, the mirror, the lipstick, your mouth in his imagination. He had to gather himself from the inside out.

“I did,” he said.

You stepped aside. “Coffee? Water?”

The question was harmless. The room was harmless. You were harmless in bare feet and cotton and loose hair, if he ignored the fact that everything about you looked like his private idea of softness arranged by someone who knew exactly where he would be weakest.

He stepped inside.

The room understood him too well.

He noticed the light first because he was a photographer. Then the clothes. Then the atmosphere. Warm, private, domestic in a way that did not belong to a professional shoot. It felt less like entering a job and more like being invited into a version of your life nobody else had access to.

That was the danger.

You did not seduce him loudly that morning.

You obeyed.

That was worse.

Under the natural light, in a white shirt that looked as if it had been tailored for you by God or strategy, you became something almost unbearable. The collar slipped slightly at your shoulder. Your hair caught the sun. The fabric fell against your skin in ways he could not stop correcting in his mind. Every time he gave you direction, you followed it naturally, beautifully, like you had been made to be seen through his eye.

“Move your shoulder slightly,” he said.

You did.

“Chin down.”

You obeyed.

“Hold that.”

You held.

Damn, your eyes.

He told himself not to surrender to you. Not as a photographer. Not as a man. But each small detail became another hook. The collar. The light. Your hands resting softly in your lap. Your mouth relaxed. Your gaze waiting for his next instruction as if his voice had the right to shape you.

He stepped closer before he could overthink it.

“Can I?” he asked, fingers hovering near the fall of your shirt.

You nodded.

He adjusted the collar. Smoothed a strand of hair. Shifted your shoulder by the smallest degree. His hand came beneath your chin, careful, professional, controlled.

Perfect.

The thought left no room for shame.

He lifted the camera.

“Look at me.”

You did not look at the lens.

You looked at Jungkook.

Your eyes lifted to his with such soft, deliberate emotion that he forgot the camera between you. Wonder. Warmth. Something almost like love, though it was too soon and too dangerous and too beautiful to trust. His breath caught, and for one second he answered the call without meaning to.

You looked like breathing art.

Was it so wrong to give in when someone like that looked at him?

You broke eye contact first.

Victory warmed under your ribs.

There was guilt there too, a small sting at the edge of the pleasure, because you knew what you were doing to him. You were playing him like an instrument you had studied in secret. But he looked so handsome standing there, so sharp and controlled and heartbreakingly delicate beneath all that restraint. He looked like a man who wanted badly and was ashamed of how carefully he wanted.

That was your poison.

Men you could bring close, ruin sweetly, and leave thinking only of you.

You softened your voice until it sounded innocent.

“Like this?”

When you moved, the fabric shifted with you.

Jungkook had done revealing shoots before. Nude studies. Editorial work with bodies treated as art, line, shadow, form. He knew how to be professional. He knew how to keep his mind clean when the work required closeness.

But this was you.

His voice came out lower when he finally spoke. Rougher.

“Turn a little toward the light.”

You did.

He lifted the camera again, hiding behind it like glass could save him. The light moved over your face, your throat, the edge of the shirt, your bare legs folded beneath you. Something low and approving left his throat before he could bury it.

Your eyes flicked up to the lens.

You had heard.

“Was that good?” you asked softly.

He nearly closed his eyes.

“Yes,” he said, fighting for his life behind the camera. “Hold it there.”

A pause.

Then, quieter, almost unwillingly, “Too good.”

You held still for him first.

A reward.

Then you shifted just enough for the light to change.

A punishment.

He took the shot.

Click.

The image appeared on his screen, and he went silent.

There were moments in his work when a photograph arrived whole. No correction could improve it. No template, no grade, no adjustment could teach the image how to be better because the truth of it was already there. This was one of those moments.

You looked soft enough to break and dangerous enough to know it.

He turned the camera toward you. “This one.”

You rose to see it more clearly.

You came too close.

Your arm rested over his shoulder as you leaned in, your warmth at his back, your perfume surrounding him with the cruelty of memory. Your body brushed him lightly, enough for every muscle in him to lock. You hummed in approval near his ear, pleased by the image, pleased by him, pleased by how still he had gone.

“They are beautiful,” you said. “Are you happy to wrap for today?”

Yes, he thought.

For the best.

Another ten minutes and his eyes would betray him. Another twenty and his body might.

“We have enough,” he said, voice controlled by force. “More than enough.”

He packed carefully. Too carefully. Like a man trying not to touch anything wrong because everything already felt wrong in the right ways.

You thanked him by the door.

He thought he had survived.

Then you said his name.

Jungkook stopped.

He looked back.

You walked toward him with the same calm softness as before, though your eyes had changed. You looked ready for another photograph. No, not ready. Composed. Like he was the image now.

Your hand rose to his collar.

He went very still.

You fixed it with delicate concentration, then smoothed his hair where he had pushed it back too many times.

“There,” you said.

Your mouth curved.

“Perfect.”

Then you winked.

Jungkook smiled because he had to do something human with his face.

“Thank you,” he said. “Would not want to leave looking messy.”

The words sounded normal enough.

Inside, something had shifted.

Was this what he had been doing to you? Adjusting. Framing. Perfecting. Making you feel like a subject inside his gaze? Had you turned his own language back on him just to see if he would understand it?

In the elevator down, he caught himself looking at his reflection.

His collar. His hair. The places your hands had been.

What had you seen when you looked at him?

By the time he got home, he was ashamed of how badly he wanted to know.

He threw his clothes aside, but too neatly. Not discarded. Preserved. The fabric still held faint traces of your perfume, and he hated himself a little for noticing.

Then he opened the files.

One photo became twenty. Twenty became all of them. He looked at every shot from the penthouse, edited, compared, adjusted, undid the adjustment, started over. Nothing did you justice. No correction gave you what the room had given you. No colour grade captured the way your eyes had looked at him instead of the camera.

He replayed everything like a film he could not stop watching.

The club.

The mirror.

The lipstick.

Your wrist.

Your post.

The penthouse.

Your voice asking, Like this?

Your hand fixing his collar.

There. Perfect.

What was this obsession?

It was not healthy. He knew that. It could not be. Not even for someone he liked. Not even for someone beautiful. Not even for someone whose face seemed made to be held by light.

Was it your beauty?

Your eyes?

The fact that you had every detail he liked before he knew he had told you?

Was it because you were the perfect person to model for him?

Or was it worse than that?

Before he allowed himself to message you again, he started looking for where he might see you next.

Several days passed.

He watched your public schedule first. Campaign appearances. Brand events. Shows. Model announcements. Industry posts dressed up as news. He told himself it was professional awareness. It was useful to know who was working where. It was normal to pay attention when your circles overlapped.

Then he checked mutuals.

Photographers. Stylists. Models. Brands. People who had worked with him for years and people who liked your posts too quickly. He found overlap after overlap until it stopped feeling like coincidence and started feeling like the world had been arranged to keep you one degree away from him.

You had followed him back by then.

That made him worse.

He started posting stories only close friends could see, images lit and composed with suspicious care. A sleeve, a glass, red light on a wall, black fabric over a chair, his hand adjusting a camera strap. When you liked one specific photo, he stared at the notification.

Why that one?

The light? The colours? The angle? The glimpse of his watch? His shirt? His hand?

He posted similar things after that. Same mood. Same red and black. Same controlled little offerings.

You noticed.

Of course you noticed.

The next event came with both your names attached to it in different ways. You as one of the main faces. Jungkook as one of the photographers through an industry contact, a stylist who liked him well enough to make the booking feel easy.

He dressed for you.

He did not admit it, but he did.

Black, fitted, clean lines, watch at his wrist, belt sharp at his waist, jacket carried like an afterthought. Professional enough to work. Beautiful enough to be seen.

You had been looking for him since guests began arriving.

Every opening door pulled at your attention. Every flash of black made your eyes lift. You wondered how good he would look, then hated yourself for the eagerness, then looked again anyway.

When you finally saw him, it was almost irritating how right you had been.

He looked like something forbidden. The kind of candy a mother warned you not to eat before dinner. The kind of man who would ruin your appetite and then become the meal himself.

A five-course meal, actually.

You wanted to laugh into your glass.

You wanted to chew him and leave no crumbs.

Your thoughts were shameless enough to make you smile politely at someone who was talking to you about campaign reach while your mind placed Jungkook against the bar and removed every reason not to touch him. If everyone disappeared, you would let him have his way with you right there. If they did not, your thoughts were worse.

Let them watch.

They should feel welcome.

The whole party would be lucky.

Across the room, Jungkook found you through the camera.

He froze for half a second.

Then lifted it like a shield.

You were dressed darker this time. Not the soft white shirt from the penthouse. Not bare feet and cotton and domestic warmth. Black lace, velvet shadow, red details, elegant danger. Expensive and deliberate. Angelic and tempting at once, a contradiction designed to kill him where he stood.

He knew you had dressed for his eye.

The worst part was that he had dressed for yours too.

You gave him one perfect shot.

One.

You turned slightly, let the light catch your face, let the darkness of the outfit frame you like a sin someone had paid couture prices for. Jungkook took the photo because he had no choice.

Then you became indifferent.

You looked away.

You gave your smile to someone else.

You moved through the room like the moment had meant nothing.

That was worse than rejection. Rejection would have acknowledged him. This was dismissal after reward. A sweet thrown to an animal and then the door closed before it could get a hand through.

He kept working.

He kept watching you.

Why were you standing there when you should have been standing next to him? Why would you dress like that for him and then not let him enjoy it? He wanted you too close. Wanted your perfume back. Wanted you to make him sweat under the black shirt he had chosen because he had wondered if you would like it.

You teased him all night.

A photo.

A glance.

A moment at the bar where your shoulder almost touched his.

A brush of scent as you passed.

A smile that looked like it might become conversation, then became nothing.

You gave him pieces of your attention and took them away before he could close his hand around them. Never too close. Never long enough.

Then you left without saying goodnight.

Jungkook did not message you.

You started posting instead.

One photo. Then another. Then another.

He watched every upload immediately and hated that he did. He saved the ones he had taken and told himself it was because they were his work. He read the captions like scripture written by someone cruel enough to know he would kneel.

Then an image was uploaded. The one you liked a few days ago.

A red-lit image, close and intimate, almost too soft for the darkness around it. Two figures stood wrapped around each other in the middle of a shadowed room, their faces hidden enough to make the photograph feel anonymous, but their bodies close enough to make it feel private. One hand rested at a waist. Another curled into fabric near a collar. Their foreheads nearly touched, mouths held apart by the thinnest space, as if the camera had caught the moment right before a kiss or right after one had ended.

There was nothing explicit in it. That made it worse. It was all suggestion. Red light. Almost-touch. Almost-kiss. Almost-confession. When Jungkook had posted it, it had no caption.

Yours did.

Us…?

Jungkook stared at it until his thumb went numb.

Was that for him?

Were you imagining it?

Were you asking him?

Or had he become so deranged by wanting you that punctuation looked like intimacy?

He opened your chat.

Typed.

Deleted.

Closed it.

Opened his own story instead.

He could answer in images. That still felt safe. Red light. Shadow. A composition close enough to speak without words.

Before he posted, your next story appeared.

You stood in a hotel doorway, dressed in dark burgundy and black, stockings, heels, a heavy coat around you like luxury had teeth. A bag sat by the door. Your lipstick was deep, your gaze turned slightly away from the camera, your body framed as if you had either just arrived or were waiting to be followed.

Jungkook knew the hotel.

Because of the event. Because of the brand. Because the industry was small enough to make certain things visible if a man was already looking too closely.

He went still. Should he go? Was this an invitation? What if it was not for him? What if it was?

And then the message came.

You know where to find me.

He did not go to your room.

He would not do that. Not unless you wanted him there. Not unless you said so clearly enough that the gentleman in him could survive the man wanting to break his own patience.

He went to the hotel bar.

Public. Deniable. Respectful.

A drink sat in front of him. He barely touched it.

Every time the elevator opened, he looked.

You let him wait long enough to suffer.

Then his phone lit up.

You came.

Jungkook exhaled once, almost a laugh, almost a curse.

When you appeared, you wore the same outfit from the story.

You did not rush to him. That would have been too kind. You walked in calmly, though excitement lived beneath your skin like electricity. You could not fully calm down. Not when he was there. Not when he had come exactly where you had dangled the possibility of yourself.

You sat near him.

Not too near at first.

Predators had patience when prey came willingly.

“You knew I would come,” he said quietly.

You smiled into your drink.

“But you did not come upstairs.”

His eyes moved over you before returning to your face. The outfit was too short, too elegant, too perfect in its cruelty. He could not stop thinking about how you would look without it, and the thought only made his voice lower.

“You did not invite me.”

A pause.

“But I thought about it.”

You looked at him over the rim of your glass, letting silence stretch.

“Maybe I wanted you to ask.”

Then you moved closer.

Your leg touched his. The warmth of you pressed through fabric, casual enough to deny, deliberate enough to undo him. From this close, he could see the line of your thighs, the stockings making texture into temptation. His mind supplied the thought of how they would feel beneath his hand, and he swallowed it down with the drink he had barely wanted.

You knew what you were doing.

“Another?” you asked.

He looked at your glass, then at you.

He almost said yes.

Then he smiled a little.

“Only if you have one with me.”

Clever boy.

You smiled because he had surprised you. Because he was not simply obeying anymore. Because he understood that if you wanted him to loosen, you would have to loosen for him too.

“Already giving me conditions?” you asked.

“You offered the drink.”

“And you bargained.”

“I adapted.”

You laughed softly, and the sound did something terrible to him. Your cheeks were rosy from warmth and alcohol and him, the black dress making your skin look almost fevered beneath the bar lights. You were so pretty he felt irritated by it.

You ordered for both of you.

You did not want him drunk. That was not the game. You wanted him aware. Present. Wanting you because of you and nothing else.

When the glasses came, you touched yours lightly to his.

“Do you want to play a game?”

Jungkook looked at you.

By now, he knew better than to trust that question.

“What kind of game?”

“A dare.”

His mouth curved, but his eyes darkened.

“And what are you daring me to do?”

You leaned in.

“Come upstairs.”

There it was.

The invitation.

The line, finally clear.

Jungkook did not move immediately. He looked at you carefully, searching your face for hesitation, performance, second thoughts. His restraint mattered more now because he wanted you too badly.

“Are you sure?”

Your gaze did not move from his.

“I speak of nothing I do not desire.”

Something in him went very quiet.

“Then ask me properly,” he said.

Your hand lifted to his tie.

You drew him closer, soft enough to make it worse, your lips brushing near his ear as you spoke.

“Let me give you an angle you have never seen of mine before.”

Jungkook caught your wrist before you could pull away.

Not hard.

Enough.

“Do you know what you are doing to me?”

You smiled.

He stood slowly, still holding your gaze.

“If I come upstairs,” he said, voice low enough that it belonged only to you, “I am not coming up there to behave.”

You looked pleased.

He was not a deer in headlights anymore.

He was a man playing with fire.

You led him from the bar by the tie, just long enough to make your victory clear. Then he caught up and walked beside you instead of behind you.

The little mouse was entering the trap.

Eyes open.

In the elevator, silence pressed between you like another body.

Your fingers still held his tie loosely, not pulling now, only reminding him how this had started. The floor numbers rose slowly. Too slowly. Jungkook’s hand found the small of your back with careful intention, asking without words if he could step closer.

He stopped just before your mouth.

You looked at him.

“Don’t act shy now,” you whispered. “You started this.”

The elevator doors opened before either of you could ruin the hallway.

You took his hand and rushed him out.

No words. None needed.

He knew what was coming.

Your key card nearly slipped from your fingers at the door. For all your control, all your planning, all your sharp little traps, you were not calm now. Not fully. Your hand stayed in his as you opened the room, pulled him inside, and shut the door behind you.

Then you pushed him back against it.

For one breath, he let you.

Then your mouth reached for his, and he answered.

You kissed him harder than he would have dared to kiss you first.

That was what undid him.

A stunned second passed where he let you lead because he had waited too long for the fact of you to be real. Then his restraint caught fire. His hand moved to your waist, his body leaning into the kiss, hunger finally escaping the cage he had built around it.

You made a soft sound into his mouth.

He broke away just enough to look at your face.

Still checking.

Still him.

You answered by kissing him again.

After that, there was no good place to put all the wanting. The door at his back. Your hands in his hair. His camera strap caught between you before he dragged it off his shoulder. Your lipstick smearing at the corner of your mouth. His breath uneven against your jaw. The expensive dark of the room folding around you both.

For once, neither of you cared about the perfect frame.

Not until kisses stopped being enough.

Not until the hunger became too much to call a game and too much to pretend it was not.

You drew back first, breathless, mouth ruined, eyes bright with victory and something that frightened you because it felt too close to need.

“Do you want to play a game of patience?”

Jungkook’s laugh was quiet and broken.

Then the room took the answer.

Rain shimmered down the glass. Lights bled through the windows in gold and white, softening the room into something expensive and half-dreamed. Your heels were now somewhere near the door. His jacket had been thrown over the back of a chair.  

The sofa was too small for what you were doing. 

That made it better. 

Jungkook was stretched beneath you with his shirt open at the throat and his tie loose around his neck, one arm along the back of the sofa, the other hand gripping your waist like restraint had become physical. You were in his lap, knees pressed into the cushions on either side of him, dress riding up your thighs, mouth wet from wine and his kisses. 

You had started the game downstairs. 

You leaning close enough for your perfume to touch him first. 

His hand at the small of your back in the lift. 

Only your mouth near his ear, telling him not to act shy now, that he has started this, and Jungkook smiling like he was willing to be punished for it. 

Now you were making good on the promise. 

Your hips moved over his slowly, clothed and cruel, dragging heat through layers of fabric until his head tipped back against the sofa. The first sound he made was low enough to be swallowed. The second was not. 

You reached for his tie. 

Jungkook went still. 

Your fingers wrapped in the silk and tugged once, bringing his gaze back to yours. You looked flushed from wine, but steady. Soft at the edges, but certain. The kind of certain that made him let go of control before you had to ask for it. 

You drew the tie free from his collar. 

Silk whispered through the room. 

His throat moved. 

You smiled. 

Then you pressed the middle of it to his mouth. 

Not hard. 

Not forced. 

A question in the shape of a command. 

Jungkook opened for it. 

The silk slipped between his teeth, and his eyes darkened at the way your expression changed. Approval. Want. Victory. 

You kissed him over the tie, mouth pressing warm through the fabric, and rocked down against him at the same time. 

His groan caught in the silk. Your body answered it. One sharp little breath. One tremble in your thigh. Then you moved again. Slower. Meaner. 

Jungkook’s hands flexed on your waist. He did not drag you down. Did not take the rhythm from you. He only held on while you used his cock beneath his trousers to ruin them both through clothing. 

The game made it worse. 

You were not his lover yet. Not fully. You were the familiar stranger from the photoshoots. The pretty, cruel thing he had been foolish enough to want too openly when taking photos of you.

Your hand slid into his hair. 

You pulled his head back. 

His breath went rough through his nose. 

Your hips rolled again. 

Harder. 

The sofa creaked beneath you. 

“Fuck.” 

The word was ruined by the tie, barely there, but you heard enough. 

Your mouth curved. 

You leaned closer, your lips brushing the side of his jaw, then the place beneath his ear, then the bare stretch of throat his open collar gave you. Your teeth grazed him once. 

His hips lifted. 

You made a soft sound and pressed down to meet him. 

For a few seconds, the game cracked. 

There was only heat. Rain. Fabric. Breath. The obscene rhythm of your bodies chasing relief without allowing yourselves the mercy of skin. Jungkook’s abdomen tightened beneath his shirt. Your hands gripped his shoulders. His fingers dug into your hips, then softened, then dug in again when you found an angle that made his eyes shut. 

You felt it. 

Of course you felt it, he was too hard not to feel. 

You stayed there. 

His head turned against the sofa, teeth clenched around silk. 

“Right there.” 

It came out broken. 

Your confidence flickered. 

Only for a second. 

Then you did it again. 

Again. 

Again. 

The pleasure was cruel because it was incomplete. Every roll of your hips promised what it refused to give. Every brush of heat through fabric made his body think of what it would be like without it. Your dress rode higher. His tie hung from his mouth. Your hair fell around them, turning the hotel suite into a private little punishment neither of you wanted to end cleanly. 

Jungkook’s hand slid down to your thigh. 

You caught his wrist and pushed it back to the sofa. 

He let you. 

The obedience made your breath catch. 

He noticed. 

A smile threatened at the corner of his mouth, almost hidden by the silk. 

You narrowed your eyes and moved faster. 

The smile disappeared. 

His head fell back. 

“Fuck.” 

Better. 

You rocked against him with less grace now, less performance. Jungkook was coming apart. The punishment was turning on you. Your breath grew uneven. Your thighs tightened around him. You pressed one hand to his chest, fingers twisting in his shirt, using him for balance while you ground down harder. 

Jungkook stared up at you like he wanted to eat the expression off your face. 

Sweat shone faintly at his throat. 

His mouth was still full of silk. 

His eyes were all hunger. 

You loved him like this. 

Too beautiful to be harmless. Too cruel to be innocent. Still beneath you because he wanted to be. Still letting you decide because the trust between you made the game filthy instead of dangerous. 

Your rhythm faltered again. 

His hands found your waist. 

This time, you let him help. 

One careful lift. One controlled pull down. 

Your lips parted. 

“Please.” 

The word was so soft it barely existed. 

Jungkook froze beneath you. 

Then something in his face changed. 

Not triumph. 

Devotion. 

He guided you again, pressing you down against him with just enough pressure to give you what you were asking for while still leaving the pace yours. Your forehead dropped to his. The tie brushed your mouth. You kissed him through it, messy and desperate, hips moving faster now. 

The sofa shifted under you. 

The city kept glowing beyond the rain. 

“Faster,” you breathed. 

He heard that. 

Even through the silk, even through the heat, even through the last shredded pieces of his self-control. 

His hands tightened at your hips. 

He gave you faster. 

Still clothed. Still restrained. Still not enough. 

That made it obscene. 

Your body rocked over his in quick, shallow rolls, chasing friction with a kind of breathless determination that made his chest ache. You were supposed to be punishing him. You were supposed to be the cruel girl from the bar making him suffer for a dare. But now you were the one trembling. You were the one biting back sounds. You were the one pressing closer like you hated every layer between you. 

Jungkook groaned against the tie. 

Your hand flew to his mouth, pressing the silk more firmly there, muffling him with your palm and his own ruined tie. 

The sight nearly undid you. 

His eyes on yours. 

His mouth covered. 

His body hard beneath yours. 

His hands helping you move. 

The filthy, beautiful obedience of it. 

You leaned close, breathing against his cheek, and kept grinding until the pleasure went too sharp for both of you. Jungkook’s hips lifted once, hard enough to make you gasp. His eyes shut. His fingers spread over your back, holding you to him like he was seconds away from forgetting the rules. 

You stopped. 

Abruptly. 

Everything stopped. 

The rhythm. The sofa. The soft, desperate sounds. The almost. 

Jungkook opened his eyes. 

For a moment, neither of you moved. 

You were still in his lap, chest rising quickly, lips swollen, hair falling around your face. His tie was still between his teeth, your palm still resting over his mouth. His hands remained at your waist, gripping but not pulling. 

The room breathed around you. 

Rain against glass. 

The city below. 

Your bodies too close and not close enough. 

Slowly, you removed your hand. 

Then you drew the silk from his mouth. 

His lips were parted. His breathing was wrecked. His eyes stayed on yours with the kind of dark patience that promised this was not over, only delayed. 

You climbed off him before you could change your mind. 

His hands twitched. 

He let you go. 

You stood in front of him on unsteady legs and smoothed your dress back into place with trembling fingers, trying to become elegant again. Trying to become the model he knows. Trying not to look like a woman who had almost lost her own game. 

Jungkook sat there with his shirt open, his tie wet in your hand, his hair ruined, his mouth red from the pressure of silk and kisses. 

You folded the tie once. 

Twice. 

Then placed it neatly on the sofa beside his thigh. 

A perfect little insult. 

A perfect little promise. 

He looked at it. 

Then at you. 

Your smile came slowly, tired and wicked and soft enough to hurt. 

You walked away without a word. 

At the bathroom door, you paused only long enough to glance back at him. 

Then you disappeared inside. 

Jungkook remained on the sofa, half-hard, half-mad, with rain on the windows and your tie-warm cruelty lying beside him. 

He did not sleep for a very long time. 

Jungkook did not let himself remember the night in detail afterwards.

Not properly.

That would have been dangerous.

He remembered pieces instead. Your voice. Your mouth. The red darkness. The tie. The way patience became another word for punishment. The way you had made desire feel like a dare he kept choosing.

When he got home, he threw his clothes aside.

Too neatly.

He told himself it meant nothing that they still smelled faintly like you. He told himself it meant nothing that he left them there instead of washing them. He told himself many things over the next few days, most of them useless.

Then, a few days before he was due to leave for a major brand trip, he found the note inside his apartment.

Not on the doorstep.

Inside.

For a second, a reasonable man would have been alarmed.

Jungkook smiled.

Because he knew then.

The night had affected you too.

The note was simple.

Did patience suit you? I’m your art. Adore me.

He read it once.

Twice.

Then his phone lit up.

Your message appeared on Instagram, polished enough to be professional, intimate enough to make his pulse change.

Congratulations on the booking. They chose well. I told them no one sees beauty the way you do.

Jungkook stared at the message.

You had done it.

You had helped put him there. Not only because you wanted him tangled around you, not only because you craved him, not only because some part of you wanted him to become yours in ways you were not ready to name. You had done it because you respected him. Because you saw the artist before the industry fully did and decided the world should catch up.

That should have softened something.

It made everything worse.

By the time he left for the trip, he was carrying you with him in more ways than one.

His camera.

His files.

Your note.

The memory of red light.

In the hotel room, alone after a long day of work, he received your second message.

I want to know what you would do to me when the room goes red and the camera clicks. Show me who you are.

Jungkook sat on the edge of the bed and read it again.

Then again.

He saved it like evidence.

Typed a reply.

Deleted it.

Typed another.

Deleted that too.

No answer felt safe because nothing in him felt safe.

Finally, he sent:

You should be careful what you ask me to show you.

For one second, he thought he had won.

Then your reply came.

Check your pocket.

The room went silent.

Jungkook stood slowly.

His hand went to his jacket, then stopped. He looked at the pocket as if it might move by itself. As if the trap was a bomb about to go off. Then he reached inside.

No note.

No lipstick on paper.

No command.

Just a photo.

You, in lace underwear and burgundy lipstick.

Private. Unposted. Meant for no one else. The image itself was the message, and somehow the absence of words made it crueler. You had planted it on him before he left. You had known he would be alone when he found it. You had known he would try to sound dangerous, try to answer like a man in control, and you had already placed the next frame in his pocket.

Jungkook stared.

Then that quiet, not-quite-innocent laugh returned.

The room changed. 

Black lace. 

Messy sheets. 

Your hair spilled dark against the pillow. 

Your mouth painted burgundy, soft and knowing, like you had taken the photograph with the exact expression of a woman who understood she was about to ruin a man from miles away. 

Just your body in his hand and the sudden, violent knowledge that you had put it in his coat before he left. 

Jungkook did not breathe for several seconds. 

Then his jaw tightened. 

Of course. 

Of course you had let him walk out of his house with this tucked against his chest like contraband. Of course you had watched him leave knowing that eventually, in some sterile hotel room, he would find you waiting there in black lace and remember everything you had done to him that night in the hotel. 

The tie. 

Your weight in his lap. 

The silk between his teeth. 

Your hips rolling over him slowly enough to be cruel and confidently enough to make him let you. The warmth of your through clothes. The way your breathing had broken when you forgot to be smug. The kiss through the tie. The wet silk. The folded confession you had left in his lap before walking away. 

Jungkook looked at the photograph. 

His thumb touched the edge, careful not to crease it. 

“You planned this,” he said softly. 

His voice sounded too calm. 

He hated how quickly his body answered you. 

Hated how heat went through him before he had even moved. Hated how his trousers became uncomfortable, how his mouth dried, how his pulse began to beat low and hard as if you had touched him yourself. Hated, most of all, that he adored you for it. 

He set the photograph on the bed. 

Face up. 

Then he stood over it for a moment, staring like a man deciding whether to forgive or retaliate. 

Neither felt strong enough. 

He loosened his tie. 

Not the same one. Different silk. Different colour. Useless substitute. 

The memory still hit. 

Your fingers pulling the tie free. Your eyes asking without speaking. His mouth opening for it. The pressure of fabric between his teeth while you rode the last of his restraint into the ground and left him there. 

Jungkook dragged the tie from his neck and threw it aside. 

His shirt came next, but not all the way off. He only shoved it open, impatient with buttons, then pushed the hem up his stomach when he sat against the pillows. He did not bother undressing properly. There was nothing proper about what you had done to him. 

The photograph waited beside his thigh. 

Black lace. 

Burgundy mouth. 

That look. 

His hand moved to his cock, and the first touch made his head fall back. 

“Fuck.” 

The word came out sharp. 

Angry. 

Grateful. 

He closed his fist and stroked slowly, the pressure almost painful because he had been hard from the second he saw you. His eyes returned to the photograph. They had to. Looking away felt impossible, like some part of him believed you would disappear if he stopped watching. 

You looked obscene because you looked private. 

Not posed for the world. Not polished for strangers. Not anyone’s fantasy but his. That was what made it unbearable. You had taken it for one person. Hidden it for one person. Timed the cruelty for one person. 

Him. 

He spat into his palm. 

The slick sound was too loud in the clean room. 

His hand wrapped around his cock again, rougher this time, and pleasure rolled through him so hard his abdomen tensed under the shoved-up shirt. 

“Fuck, sweetheart.” 

The pet name broke out of him before he could stop it. 

He imagined your hand first. 

That was the obvious punishment. 

Your fingers instead of his, warm and deliberate. You would watch his face while you touched him. You would love that. You would love seeing his control become something physical and breakable. You would love knowing exactly when his breathing changed, exactly when his jaw locked, exactly when he stopped being Jungkook to the rest of the world and became only yours. 

His fist moved faster. 

“Is this what you wanted?” he muttered, staring at the photograph. “You wanted me like this in some hotel bed, fucking my hand because you left me a picture?” 

The silence did not answer. 

It did not need to. 

He knew the answer. 

Yes. 

Yes, you had wanted this. 

You had wanted him to find it when he was alone. Wanted him to remember how you felt grinding down on him, how you had held his head back, how you had muffled him with his own tie and smiled when he let you. Wanted him hard and angry and far away, with nothing but glossy paper and a memory so vivid it bordered on cruelty. 

Jungkook laughed once under his breath. 

It was not amusement. 

It was surrender. 

His hand slid harder over his cock, slick and tight. His hips lifted into his fist before he could stop them. The photograph blurred at the edges, then sharpened again when he forced his eyes open. 

He imagined you on top of him. 

Not like that night. 

Worse. 

No clothes between them. No silk muffling his mouth. No stopping at the edge of mercy. 

Your thighs bracketing his hips. Your palms flat on his chest. Your hair falling around your face while you looked down at him with that same quiet certainty, taking his hard cock because you wanted to, because you could, because he would let you ruin him and thank you afterward with his mouth pressed to your neck. 

A rough sound left him. 

He bit it back too late. 

The suite swallowed it. 

The idea of you riding him was bad enough, but the memory of almost made it vicious. He knew how your body moved now. Knew the rhythm you chose when you wanted to hurt him beautifully. Knew the small hitch in your breathing when you accidentally gave yourself too much pleasure. Knew the way your thighs tightened when you lost the first thread of control. 

His hand moved with that rhythm. 

Slow. Deep. Cruel. 

He cursed again, lower this time, hips rolling up into his own grip as if his body had decided imagination was close enough to obedience. 

It was not. It was nowhere near enough. He wanted your mouth. 

The thought came so suddenly his eyes closed. 

That burgundy mouth from the photograph. Soft, dark, dangerous. He imagined it against his stomach first, then lower. Imagined you looking up at him from beneath your lashes, smug because you knew he would lose his mind before you even touched him properly. Imagined those lips parting around his hard cock, that painted mouth ruined on him, your hands on his thighs keeping him still because you would like him best when restraint was something you could feel shaking. 

“Fuck,” he groaned. “Fuck, you would look so good.” 

The words came out to no one. That made them filthier. He did not stop. Could not stop now. 

Sweat gathered along his abdomen. His open shirt clung to his skin. His hand was slick, rough, relentless, chasing the fantasy you had planted so precisely he wondered whether you had known the exact order his thoughts would fall apart. 

Your hand. Your hips. Your mouth. Then under him. That was the one that nearly broke him. 

You beneath him in the same black lace from the photograph, spread across your bed instead of captured on paper. His hands on your thighs, his cock buried deep inside you. His mouth at your throat. Your nails in his back. Your voice, finally loose, finally ruined, finally saying his name without teasing tucked into it. 

He wanted to make you forget how pleased you were with yourself. 

He wanted to make you remember why you should be. 

He wanted to take every second you had made him wait and press it into your skin as kisses, as bites, as praise. Wanted to hear your laugh at him for being desperate and then hear that laugh break when desperation became mutual. Wanted you smug and breathless and overwhelmed, wearing the same lace you had used like a weapon. 

His grip tightened. 

His head tipped back against the pillows. 

“God, darling.” 

Too tender. 

Too soft for how hard his hand was moving. 

His body tightened. 

Pleasure gathered hot and low. 

Too fast. 

Not fast enough. 

He stared at the photograph like you might look back if he wanted hard enough. 

“You knew I would do this,” he said, voice wrecked. 

The glossy paper said nothing. 

Your mouth looked like it was keeping a secret. 

His hand moved harder. 

The bed shifted under him. His thighs tensed. His abdomen flexed beneath the rumpled shirt, sweat catching in the low light. He could hear his own breathing now, harsh and uneven, nothing like the controlled man who had walked into that suite twenty minutes ago. 

He imagined walking into your bedroom. 

Imagined finding you in the same lace. 

Imagined the look on your face when you saw the photograph in his hand and understood he had come because of it. Because of you. Because patience was something he could perform for everyone else, but not forever. Not after the tie. Not after the photo. Not after you had put yourself in his coat and sent him away with a private piece of you like a dare. 

His hand dragged over his cock once more. 

The fantasy sharpened. 

You on the bed. 

Your mouth. 

Your hands. 

Your body opening under his. 

Your voice in his ear, breathless and proud. 

The thought of you saying his name ended him. 

Jungkook came with a curse bitten raw between his teeth, hips jerking into his fist, his free hand gripping the sheets hard enough to twist them. Pleasure tore through him hot and filthy, emptying the room of everything but your name and the obscene glow of your photograph beside him. 

For a while, he did not move. 

He lay there with his shirt pushed up, chest rising hard, sweat cooling over his stomach, one arm thrown over his eyes as if darkness could give him back any dignity. 

It did not. 

He laughed after a minute. 

Softly. 

Helplessly. 

Completely ruined. 

Then he turned his head and looked at the photograph again. 

Still there. 

Still smug. 

Still wearing black lace like you had won. 

Jungkook reached for his phone. 

His hand was not entirely steady when he opened your name. For a moment, he only stared at the blank message bar. There were a hundred things he could have said. A hundred threats, compliments, accusations, promises. He could have told you were cruel. He could have told you that hiding that photo in his coat had been the most wicked thing you had ever done. 

Instead, just breathed.

Jungkook stood, still warm, still half-dressed, still breathing like a man who had been dragged through his own desire and left there with no choice but to follow it home. 

The photograph went back into his coat. 

You imagined him standing there with the photo between his fingers, still in his work clothes, the city outside his window glittering without knowing it had become irrelevant. You imagined the pause. The silence. The way his expression would change before his discipline could stop it. The way his eyes would darken once he realised you had planted the image on him before he ever boarded that flight.

You had known exactly when he would find it.

You had known he would be alone.

You had known he would try to answer you like a man in control.

You should be careful what you ask me to show you.

You read his warning again, smiling to yourself in the dimness of your bedroom.

He was cute when he thought he was dangerous.

No. That was unfair. He was dangerous.

That was why you had not been able to leave him alone.

Another minute passed.

Then another.

Still no reply.

Your smile widened.

The silence told you everything.

You opened the chat and typed slowly, taking pleasure in every word before sending it.

No words this time.

You waited just long enough for him to read it.

Then sent the second line.

I wanted to see what your imagination would do with me.

The reply came faster than you expected.

Not immediate. Jungkook was still too proud for that. Too careful. He still wanted the illusion that he had thought about it, that his fingers had not moved the second your message appeared.

But it came.

Wear this tonight. I am coming over.

Your breath caught.

For one sharp, humiliating second, all your smugness slipped.

You stared at the screen.

The message sat there, clean and brutal. No question mark. No softening. No nervous little attempt to pretend he meant it professionally. No camera excuse. No event. No brand. No manager between you.

Nothing he could hide behind.

Wear this tonight.

I am coming over.

Your thumb hovered over the keyboard while your pulse beat too quickly in your throat.

So that was what he sounded like when he stopped pretending he was only reacting.

For weeks, you had set the room, adjusted the light, left the clue, made him follow, made him wonder, made him ache. You had watched him walk himself into every trap with his eyes open and his hands trying to look clean. You had expected hunger from him. Curiosity. Restraint. Maybe even a little surrender.

You had not expected him to give you an order from another city and make your knees feel weak.

You swallowed, then smiled again because you refused to let him have that much victory without earning it.

You finally learned how to ask.

His answer came after only a few seconds.

That was not me asking.

Heat moved through you so quickly you had to put the phone down.

You laughed once, breathless and quiet, pressing your fingers against your mouth as if that could hide the effect from an empty room. It was ridiculous. You were alone. No one could see your face. No one could know how badly those five words had struck.

Except him.

Maybe that was the point.

Your phone buzzed again.

Do you still want me to show you who I am?

You picked it up slowly.

The room around you felt different now. Too still. Too aware. The mirror across from your bed reflected you sitting there in silk and bare skin, your hair loose around your face, your mouth still stained from the lipstick you had reapplied for no reason except memory. Outside, the city moved in little squares of light, all those strangers living lives that had nothing to do with the fact that Jungkook was about to cross a line you had painted in red and dared him to notice.

You typed:

I wanted that before you found the photo.

A moment.

Then:

And now?

You looked toward the chair near your wardrobe, where the lace set waited like a secret with teeth.

Your smile returned.

Now I want to know if you photograph better when you are jealous.

He read it immediately. This time, he did not make you wait.

Open the door wearing it.

You should have been offended. Instead, you stood.

The lace felt different when you put it on the second time.

The first time had been for the photograph, for the trap, for the private satisfaction of knowing he would carry a piece of you through airport security, hotel corridors, brand meetings, city lights. You had chosen it because the lines were beautiful and the colour of your lipstick made the whole image look like temptation pretending to be art. Tonight, it felt less like strategy. That irritated you.

Desire was still the first thing. The cleanest thing. The easiest thing to name. You wanted him. You wanted his attention, his mouth, the weight of his gaze, the dark focus of him when the camera lowered and the man behind it stepped forward. You wanted to know what he would do with the part of himself he kept polite and leashed.

But something else had begun to lace itself around the desire.

Something sweeter.

Something poisonous.

Something that made you think about the way he had checked your face before kissing you in the hotel room. The way he had paused even while wanting you. The way he had looked at you like a photograph and a person at the same time, never fully forgetting either.

Love was not the leading emotion. Not yet. But it had touched the cup. And you were drinking anyway. You slipped a silk robe over the lace, loose enough to reveal what you wanted him to remember, soft enough to pretend you were still in control.

Then you waited.

Jungkook did not tell you when his plane landed.

He did not send a photo from the airport. He did not send a clever little warning from the car. He let the silence stretch until it became its own kind of knock, until every sound from the hallway made your body turn toward the door before your pride could stop it.

When the real knock came, it was soft. Once. Twice. Controlled. That annoyed you too. You wanted him impatient.

You wanted him ruined. You wanted him exactly as careful as he was, because the care made the hunger underneath feel worse. You opened the door.

Jungkook stood on the other side in black, travel still clinging to him in the faint tiredness beneath his eyes, his hair slightly disordered, camera bag over one shoulder like a habit he had forgotten to set down. He looked too handsome like that. Sharp and worn at the edges. Controlled badly enough for you to see the effort.

His eyes moved over you.

Slowly.

Not like the men who took without earning.

Like an artist committing the crime of wanting to memory. You wore the lace. You wore the lipstick. You wore the robe like an excuse. For a second, he said nothing. You tilted your head.

“You told me to wear it.”

His gaze lifted to your face.

“I did.”

“You came all this way to look?”

His mouth curved slightly, but the expression did not soften him.

“I came all this way to see if the picture lied.”

“And?”

His eyes dropped again, just once, then returned to yours with a heat that made the doorway feel too narrow.

“It was shy.”

Your lips parted before you could stop them.

His other side showed.

Not the quiet photographer at the edge of the event. Not the polite man adjusting your collar with careful hands. Not the one who kept asking with his eyes before letting himself touch.

This was the other one. The one you had asked to see. You stepped back. He entered.

The door clicked shut behind him, and the sound moved through the apartment like the start of a song neither of you had admitted you knew. Jungkook did not touch you immediately. That was worse.

He set his bag down carefully. Too carefully. As if every movement was being chosen. As if he wanted you to feel the discipline before he broke it. His camera remained in his hand. Your gaze fell to it.

“Is that for work?”

“No.”

“Then why bring it?”

His eyes stayed on you.

“You asked what I would do when the room goes red and the camera clicks.”

A slow thrill moved through your stomach.

Behind you, the room glowed in the low red light you had left on without admitting it was for him. The shade painted the walls, the mirror, the edge of your bed, your skin. It turned the apartment into a darkroom. Into a confession. Into the inside of a secret.

You smiled because if you did not, your nerves would show.

“You remembered.”

“I remember everything.”

The way he said it made your smile falter.

There was no brag in it. No attempt to sound smooth. Just fact. He remembered. The club. The mirror. Your wrist. The lipstick. The hotel bar. The elevator. The door. The sofa. The photo in his pocket. The note in his apartment.

Every frame you had built around him.

Maybe every frame he had built around you too.

You folded your arms, though the gesture did nothing to protect you in lace and silk.

“So,” you said, forcing the smugness back into your voice. “Show me who you are.”

Jungkook lifted the camera.

Click.

The flash did not come. He did not need it. The red light was enough.

You felt the sound in your throat.

He looked at the screen, then back at you.

“Again.”

You almost laughed.

“Already giving directions?”

“You asked.”

The heat in your chest sharpened.

You shifted slightly, angling yourself the way you knew would catch the red light best. He took the picture, then stepped closer.

“Not like that.”

You stilled.

His voice lowered.

“Do not pose for everyone else.”

Your breath changed.

“Who should I pose for?”

Jungkook came close enough that you could see how dark his eyes were, close enough that the camera hung between you like the last fragile rule.

“For me.”

It should not have worked.

It worked terribly.

Your chin lifted by instinct, defiant even as your pulse gave you away. “And how do you want me?”

The question was a weapon. His answer was a hand beneath your chin. Not forceful. Not rough. Certain. He tilted your face toward the red light with the same precision he used in shoots, but there was nothing professional in the way his thumb paused near your lower lip.

“Honest,” he said. Your eyes searched his.

“You think I have not been?”

“I think you have been performing so long you forgot what it looks like when you stop.”

The words landed too close to the thing love had poisoned. So you smiled.

Cruel. Pretty. Automatic.

“And you?” you asked. “Are you going to perform for me?”

His thumb moved, barely brushing the edge of your lipstick.

“No.”

The answer was simple enough to feel dangerous.

He raised the camera again, but this time he did not step away. The lens caught you close, too close, the red light crossing your face, his hand still near your mouth. You heard the shutter.

Click.

Your body reacted to the sound. His eyes noticed. Of course they did. Jungkook lowered the camera slowly.

“Perfect” he said, almost to himself.

Your pride should have hated that.

Instead, your stomach tightened.

You reached for his tie because habit was easier than honesty. Your fingers curled around it and pulled him closer, but he came willingly, like he had decided obedience could be its own kind of control.

“You were very brave over text,” you whispered.

His mouth hovered near yours.

“You were very smug for someone who wanted me at her door.”

“I wanted to see if you would come.”

“I told you I was.”

“You also told me to be careful what I asked you to show me.”

His lips almost touched yours.

“And you asked anyway.”

You did not answer.

You pulled him in.

The kiss was not like the hotel room.

That first night had been hunger finally breaking through weeks of glass. This was different. Slower for only a second, then worse because neither of you had the excuse of surprise. He knew the taste of you now. You knew the sound he made when restraint slipped. The memory of that knowledge sat between you and caught fire the moment his mouth opened over yours.

His hand found your waist.

Yours found his hair.

The camera pressed carefully against your side before he shifted it away, like even now he would not let the tools of his obsession bruise you by accident. The thought made something softer twist beneath the heat, and you hated it enough to deepen the kiss.

He smiled against your mouth.

“There,” you breathed. “Is that who you are?”

“No.”

His hand tightened slightly at your waist.

“That is who you keep asking for.”

You pulled back enough to look at him.

“And who are you, then?”

Jungkook’s gaze moved over your face, the ruined edge of your lipstick, the lace beneath your robe, the red light, the mirror behind you capturing both of you in pieces.

Then he turned you slowly toward it. Not harshly. Carefully enough that you could stop him if you wanted. You did not.

Your reflection appeared in fragments: your body in red light, his black-clad figure behind you, his hand at your waist, his mouth near your ear, the camera in his other hand.

He looked at you through the mirror.

“I am the one who saw you first,” he said.

Your breath caught. The lie would have been easier. You had noticed him first. Wanted him first. Requested him. Studied him. Built the rooms, the angles, the messages, the little traps. But this was not what he meant. He meant he had seen something you had not intended to give him.

He meant the photograph from the first night, the soft shine in your eyes, the image that had made you choose his work because he had found a version of you that felt almost impossible to fake.

He meant the artist in him had touched the woman beneath the performance before the man in him ever touched your mouth. That was what made him dangerous. You swallowed. Jungkook saw that too.

His voice softened, but the softness did nothing to ease the heat.

“Do you still want me to show you?”

You looked at his reflection. Then at the camera. Then at his mouth.

The smug answer returned to you, but this time it shook slightly around the edges.

“Click,” you whispered.

His eyes darkened. The camera lifted. Your reflection held his. The shutter sounded once more. Click.

And this time, when he lowered the camera, neither of you pretended the photograph was the only thing he had come for.

[apfelkernchen]

Thinking about Jack. You're lying in bed together long after the lights have gone out.

He's already drifting toward sleep, curled around you with one arm draped across your waist. His body is warm against your back, holding you close without even thinking about it. His face is tucked against the curve of your neck, his breathing slow and steady.

Most people would probably be satisfied. You, unfortunately, are not most people.

Maybe if you just scooted back a little. Pressed yourself a little closer. Maybe a subtle wiggle would get his attention.

A quiet chuckle rumbled against your shoulder. His arm tightened around your waist.

"Sweetheart" he murmured, voice rough with exhaustion. "I'm pushing fifty. There's no way that's happening again tonight."

You let out a dramatic sigh. "Mhm."

Jack laughed softly. Then he lifted his head just enough for his lips to brush the shell of your ear.

"But-" he whispered, amusement threading through his voice. "-just because the main attraction is closed for maintenance doesn't mean the carnival can't offer a few other rides."

As if to underline his point his hand slipped from your waist, fingers tracing a slow path along your side before disappearing beneath the blankets.

The grin in his voice was impossible to miss.

[kooksandpearls]

garrett graham ❄︎ questionable choices.

pairing – garrett graham x nursing student!reader summary – garrett doesn’t want a girlfriend. nursing school doesn’t leave room for a boyfriend. upstairs sounds like the perfect compromise. warnings – 18+, smut, first hook-up, casual sex, alcohol mention, protected sex, praise, dirty talk, hair pulling, mild ex-related emotional baggage notes from me – last post for today 🫣 but thought it was about time i posted this pairings first time!! enjoy!! <3 word count – 10.8k

navigation – masterlist | taglist

The first thing Garrett Graham does when he gets home is ruin the music. The shift is immediate enough to feel like a crime in at least three rooms at once.

One second the hockey house is pulsing with some glossy, bass-heavy club song that has half the girls in the living room shouting along to words they only know in pieces, and the next there’s a rough scrape of guitar rolling through the speakers, heavy and familiar, Metallica cutting through cheap vodka, sweat, perfume, beer foam, and the damp winter cold still clinging to the boys as they push through the front door after the game.

A cheer goes up anyway, because the boys won and because Garrett Graham's just walked in with a split in his grin, damp curls pushed back from his forehead, and the kind of post-game energy that makes the whole house turn toward him like he’s brought the win in with him physically. Which, in a way, he has. 

The Briar hoodie is half-zipped over his chest, his hair still shower-wet at the ends, his cheek faintly red where someone’s glove or shoulder had caught him in the third period.

He has one beer in his hand within twelve seconds of entering the room and Dean yelling something obscene into his ear within fifteen.

She watches all of this from the couch with Monique’s thigh pressed warm against hers and Lucy leaning forward to shout over the music about some guy from their psych elective.

She should probably be listening better. She had been, before Garrett came in and changed everything about the room by existing in the doorway with that stupid easy grin.

She knows who he is, obviously. Everyone knows who Garrett Graham is. Briar hockey captain, star forward, walking campus landmark. She’d known he was hot before tonight in the same abstract way a person knows water is wet and clinical paperwork is designed by sadists, but there’s a difference between seeing someone across campus in athletic gear with three teammates around him and seeing him walk into his own party already smiling, already loose, already being wanted by half the room and not looking especially pressed by it.

She’s not blind. She’s also not a nun, despite the fact that clinical rotations have recently made celibacy feel less like a choice and more like an accidental lifestyle outcome.

Garrett Graham is hot. Objectively. Annoyingly. In that golden-boy hockey-player way that should be too obvious to work but does anyway because he carries it like he’s in on the joke.

Broad shoulders, sharp grin, dark curls, the kind of body built by early mornings and ice and being slammed into boards often enough to develop either resilience or brain damage. Probably both. 

He looks like someone who knows exactly how many girls at this party have already thought about his mouth tonight, and the worst part is that he doesn’t even seem smug in a lazy way. He seems amused. Like everyone else is playing a game he learned years ago and can still win drunk, tired, and half-distracted.

She would fuck him. This isn’t a moral failing. This is simply data.

She’s heard enough girls talk about Garrett to know he’s not one of those men whose reputation has been inflated by proximity to a jersey.

Girls talk, and they talk worse in bathrooms when they think no one useful is listening. She’s heard things. Good things. Very specific things, actually, some of which had made her stare very hard at her own reflection while washing her hands because there’s a difference between knowing a man is attractive and finding out from a girl in a tiny red top that he knows what to do with his mouth and doesn’t need to be coached into caring whether you come.

Useful information, frankly. And he doesn’t want a girlfriend, which is also useful.

That part matters more than it probably should. Garrett Graham not doing girlfriends is practically printed on the campus map at this point, tucked somewhere between the rink and the library. 

It makes other girls roll their eyes or take it as a challenge, like every charming emotionally unavailable athlete is secretly a lock waiting for the right girl to break the mechanism. She doesn’t have that kind of schedule.

She has labs and placement and a care plan due Monday and a pharmacology quiz she’s pretending not to think about while sitting on this couch in a top that shows more cleavage than her anatomy professor would probably consider academically relevant.

She doesn’t want a boyfriend. She had one. Recently enough that her body still occasionally goes tight around old memories it refuses to finish processing at convenient times. Shitty is one word for him. Incredibly shitty is closer.

The kind of ex who leaves behind little dents in the way a person reacts to praise, touch, questions, silence. The kind she has no interest in unpacking at a hockey house party while Metallica plays and some guy in the kitchen attempts to open a beer bottle with the edge of the counter.

So, no. She doesn’t want anything complicated. She wants a good time. She wants stress relief. She wants to remember that her body can be a place something nice happens, instead of just the thing she drags between lectures, placement, the grocery store, and bed. 

She wants to kiss someone who won’t ask about her five-year plan. She wants to be touched without being studied for damage. She wants, in the blunt private part of herself she’s not interested in dressing up, to get fucked properly and go home with a story she doesn’t have to turn into anything.

Then Garrett changes the music to Metallica, and she mouths along to the first verse without meaning to. That’s, apparently, where the trouble starts.

He notices from across the room. He’s standing near the speaker with Dean and Logan, taking a pull from his beer, and his eyes cut across the couch almost casually, like he’s just sweeping the room. They land on her mouth. She knows they land there because she feels it. A tiny hot flick of awareness across the skin, ridiculous and immediate. She stops mouthing the words half a second too late.

Garrett’s grin changes.

“Oh, God,” Monique says beside her, not subtle at all. “Captain America has spotted you.”

“He’s not blond,” Lucy mutters.

She should look away. She doesn’t. Garrett lifts his beer toward her in what could technically pass as a toast if everyone involved were committed to pretending subtlety still exists, and she raises her own cup back before taking a sip that tastes like cranberry vodka and bad decisions.

Five minutes later, he’s in front of the couch.

“Didn’t peg you for Metallica,” he says, because apparently Garrett Graham opens conversations like he’s already halfway through them.

She tilts her head back to look up at him, which is unfair because he’s even better from this angle. Taller than expected, warm from the room and the game, cheeks still a little flushed, curls drying messy over his forehead. “You didn’t peg me as anything. You don’t know me.”

His grin widens, delighted by the correction. “That’s true.”

“Strong start, though.”

“I’m usually better.”

“Are you?”

“Yeah.” He drops onto the couch arm beside her like he’s been invited, one knee bent, beer balanced loosely in his hand, his body angled toward her in a way that feels casual until it doesn’t. “Give me a minute.”

She should be annoyed by the confidence. She is, a little. Unfortunately, it’s working on several very humiliating levels.

Monique and Lucy, traitors with excellent survival instincts, last another thirty seconds before manufacturing a reason to leave. Something about drinks. Something about the bathroom. Something about how they’ll be right back, delivered in voices that mean the opposite so loudly that even Garrett looks amused as they disappear into the crowd.

“Subtle friends,” he says.

“Deeply. They’ve been trained in espionage.”

“Good girls.”

“Mm. Not always.”

His eyes flick to her mouth again. It’s not long. Barely a second. Just enough to tell on him before he brings them back to her eyes with that smooth athlete recovery, like a player who knows exactly how close he came to losing the puck and still wants credit for keeping it. She feels the look sit low in her stomach, warm and spreading, and tries very hard not to smile like an idiot.

They talk for twenty minutes. It should be less easy than it is. Garrett’s exactly as cocky as expected, but not in the dull way. Not in the way men get when they think confidence can substitute for listening. He actually listens. He asks what she’s studying and then makes a face when she says nursing, like the word has exhausted him.

“Brutal,” he says, leaning back into the couch, one arm stretched along the back behind her without touching yet. “You guys are always carrying, like, seven textbooks and a haunted look.”

“That’s pretty accurate.”

“Clinical rotations?”

“Yeah. Labs too. Exams. Placement. Occasional will to live, but it’s inconsistent.”

He laughs into his beer. “So this is your night off?”

“This is me making questionable choices for balance.”

“That what I am?” His mouth curves. “A questionable choice?”

She looks at him for a beat too long, because his mouth is right there and because his gaze has dipped again, this time lower, to the neckline of her top where the fabric is doing exactly what she hoped it would do when she put it on. He catches himself, eyes bouncing back up, but she saw it. 

“Maybe,” she says.

Garrett’s grin goes slower. “Maybe’s not bad.”

“Maybe’s generous.”

“Wow. Mean.”

“You look like you can handle it.”

“Usually.”

There’s a little heat under the word, tucked neatly enough that anyone else might miss it. She doesn’t. Her fingers tighten around her cup. Somewhere across the room, Dean’s shouting about something. The music hits a heavier part of the song, guitar thick and grinding through the floorboards. 

Garrett’s knee is close to hers now. Close enough that if she shifted by an inch, denim would touch bare skin. She wonders, briefly and terribly, if he kisses the way people say he does. If he’s all that controlled heat up close. If the girls in the bathroom were exaggerating or simply too stunned to provide complete peer-reviewed data.

Garrett’s eyes move over her face again, slower now, his grin fading into something more focused. “You always stare like that?”

She lifts her brows. “Like what?”

“Like you’re deciding something.”

“I’m a student nurse. I’m assessing risk.”

His mouth twitches. “And?”

“High.”

“Yeah?”

“Probably worth monitoring.”

He laughs, and that stupid pleased warmth moves over his face when she gives him something back. Like he likes the push. Like girls probably giggle and touch his arm all night, but he likes when she makes him work half an inch for it.

He takes another sip of beer, but his eyes stay on her. “Did you wanna go upstairs?” he asks, so casually that it almost loops around into politeness. “It’s quieter.”

It’s not subtle. It doesn’t need to be. Her body answers before her brain finishes enjoying the question. A small, sharp tightening low in her stomach. Her pulse suddenly obvious in her throat, wrists, mouth. 

She glances toward the kitchen as if Monique or Lucy might materialise with moral guidance, then remembers both of them would probably give her a thumbs-up and ask for details later with the focused attention of scientists documenting a rare event.

Garrett waits. He doesn’t lean closer. He doesn’t put a hand on her thigh. He just watches her with that half-smile softened at the edges, giving her just enough room to say no that the yes in her body feels like hers.

She nods. “Yeah.”

His grin flashes. “Yeah?”

“Don’t make me say it twice.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He stands, then holds a hand out to her.

It’s such a small thing and so annoying that it works. His palm is warm when she takes it. Big, callused in places, rough along the fingers in a way she doesn’t need to notice as much as she immediately does. He helps her up like he has no doubt she can stand on her own and also no intention of missing an excuse to touch her.

Garrett leads her through the party without rushing. Past the kitchen, where Logan’s leaning over the counter laughing at something Tucker says. Past two girls in Briar shirts who watch Garrett’s hand around hers with expressions that make her feel, briefly and shamefully, like she’s won something. Which is ridiculous. He’s not a raffle prize. He’s a man with commitment issues and a very nice mouth.

Still.

The stairs are narrow and crowded, bodies shifting around them, someone sitting halfway up with a cup balanced on one knee and the glazed expression of a person who has either made peace with gravity or lost to it. 

Garrett looks back once as he starts up, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. “You good?”

The question lands warmer than it needs to. She nods. “Yeah.”

“Cool.”

Cool. As if his hand isn’t wrapped around hers. As if she’s not staring at the back of his neck, because the skin there disappears under messy curls and she’s just enough imagination to picture putting her mouth there. As if her heart isn’t doing something deeply stupid for a woman who had, thirty minutes ago, been very clear with herself about wanting uncomplicated stress relief.

The hallway upstairs is dimmer and hotter, muffled by shut doors and bodies and the thump of music through the floor. Garrett guides her past a bathroom with light spilling under the door, past a half-open bedroom where someone’s sitting on the floor scrolling through a phone, then stops at the end of the hall.

“Just in here,” he says, pushing open a door.

His room is more Garrett than she expects, which is an insane thought because she doesn’t know him well enough to know what more Garrett means. Still, it fits. Clean enough in the places that matter, messy in the places that don’t. 

Textbooks on the desk. Hockey tape on the dresser. A hoodie thrown over the chair. A laundry basket in the corner with one sleeve hanging over the side. The bed’s unmade, navy sheets twisted toward the wall, pillow dented. It smells like detergent, cold air from the cracked window, and him under it, soap and deodorant and boy.

Garrett closes the door behind her.

The party drops to a dull animal pulse beyond the walls. The air in the room shifts around the two of them. She’s standing just inside his door, Garrett’s hand still warm around hers, and he turns toward her with that easy, almost careful look again, like he’s about to say something. Maybe ask if she wants a drink. Maybe make another joke. Maybe do the polite ramp-up that men do when they think women need a few more seconds to pretend they’re less eager than they are.

She doesn’t have the patience for it. She steps into him and kisses him first. It’s immediate and a little hungry and probably reveals far too much about the state of her semester, her dry spell, and her ability to make impulsive decisions while wearing a low-cut top at a hockey party.

Garrett makes a small sound against her mouth, surprised enough that his hand tightens once around hers before he lets go and catches her waist instead. Then he gives it back.

Oh.

That’s the first clear thought she has, and it’s barely a thought at all. Just oh, because Garrett kisses like he doesn’t need to prove he knows how and somehow proves it anyway. 

His mouth opens over hers, hot and confident, one hand sliding to the small of her back while the other cups her jaw, fingers gentle but sure as he angles her face up to him. He tastes like beer and mint gum and the night air still caught somewhere in him from coming home after the game. His lips are softer than they have any right to be. His body is not.

She fists both hands in the front of his hoodie and pulls him closer, and Garrett laughs once into her mouth, low and pleased, before the sound turns into something rougher when her teeth catch his bottom lip.

“Fuck,” he mutters.

It goes straight through her. Then his hands are on her ass, full and shameless, pulling her tight against him as he walks her backward. She bumps into something hard at hip height – his desk, she realises distantly – and Garrett keeps her there, pressing in, enough to make the edge of it bite lightly into the backs of her thighs.

“Jesus,” he says against her mouth, breathless enough to sound almost impressed. “You always do that?”

“Kiss people?”

“Attack people.”

She laughs, and it comes out unsteady because his hands are still on her and his hips are right there and the front of his body is warm and solid between her thighs. “You invited me upstairs.”

“I did.”

“So.”

“So,” he repeats, and kisses her again like that has settled the matter.

The kiss goes messier fast. There’s no delicate way around it. Garrett’s hand slips from her jaw to her throat, resting there with his thumb along the line beneath her chin so he can guide her where he wants her. 

The touch should probably make her think of her ex. The fact that it doesn’t, not really, not in any way that sticks, feels so good it almost scares her. Garrett’s hand is warm and confident and easy to move away from if she wants, but she doesn’t want. She tips her head back into it, letting him tilt her face up, and his mouth gets deeper, slower, his tongue sliding over hers until her knees go embarrassingly soft.

“That okay?” he asks, barely pulling back, his thumb still at her throat.

She nods too fast. “Yeah.”

His eyes flick over her face. He looks a little darker like this. Less golden-boy from across the room, more flushed and close and focused, mouth wet from hers, curls falling forward. “Yeah?”

“Garrett,” she says, because if he makes her explain how okay it is while he’s standing between her legs looking like that, she’s going to lose whatever remains of her dignity.

His grin comes back, but there’s heat under it now. “Right.”

He kisses down her jaw before she can say anything else, and her head tips sideways on instinct. His mouth is warm against her skin, open and unhurried at first, then less so when she makes a small sound. His lips find the tender spot beneath her ear, then the line of her throat, then lower, over the place where her pulse is doing something embarrassing.

One of her hands slides into his hair. It’s a mistake. His curls are soft, still damp at the ends, and when she tugs lightly Garrett’s hips press into hers on reflex. The pressure of him between her thighs makes her breath leave in a short, broken little exhale.

“Careful,” he murmurs.

She wants to laugh at him. She really does. Instead she pulls his hair again, a little harder.

Garrett’s hand tightens at her waist. “Okay,” he says, voice dropping. “So not careful.”

“Not really my brand.”

“Good to know.”

Then he lifts her onto the desk. It happens so smoothly that she doesn’t even have time to make a sound until she’s already seated on the cool wood, thighs spread around his hips, her hands flying to his shoulders. 

A pen clatters off the edge and hits the floor. Something else – a notebook, maybe – slides sideways under her palm. Garrett doesn’t look away from her face. He steps in close, hands bracketing her hips, and tugs her forward until the edge of the desk meets the backs of her thighs and his body fits between them.

“Is this your study desk?” she asks, breathless, because her mouth has decided humour is the only thing standing between her and complete personal collapse.

“Sometimes.”

“That feels unsanitary.”

His grin flashes. “You wanna stop?”

She looks down between them, at his hands on her thighs, the press of him against her, the way her own knees have already hooked loosely around his hips. Then she looks back at his face. “No.”

“Great,” Garrett says, and kisses her again.

The desk is a terrible place to make good decisions. It puts her at the perfect height for him to get too much of what he wants too easily. His mouth on hers, his hand at her jaw, then her throat again, tilting her back enough that she has to trust the desk and his arm around her waist. His thumb strokes once along the side of her neck, and the touch sends a slow heat down her spine, pooling low and insistent.

He kisses like he’s paying attention, not just kissing because a girl is in front of him and willing, but noticing what makes her breath catch, what makes her nails press into his shoulder, what makes her knees tighten around his hips.

He kisses her mouth until she’s soft and open, then drags his lips back to her throat when she starts getting too loud, like he enjoys the cause and also the management of the effect.

She had thought, coming upstairs, that it would be fun. Hot. Simple. Garrett Graham’s room, his hands, his reputation tested for accuracy. She hadn’t accounted for him being this present. This annoyingly good at making her feel like the only thing in the room even while a party shakes the floorboards below them.

She rolls her hips once, mostly because the need to relieve the pressure has become unbearable. Garrett’s breath breaks against her neck. His hands flex on her thighs.

“Fuck,” he says again, softer this time. “You’re gonna be a problem.”

She smiles, half-drunk on the compliment, half too turned on to pretend she doesn’t love it. “You brought me up here.”

“Yeah, well.” He lifts his head and looks at her mouth like he’s considering biting it. “I make bad calls sometimes.”

“On the ice too?”

His eyes flick up. “You watch hockey?”

“I like hockey.”

The interest on his face is immediate and deeply male. “Yeah?”

“Don’t look so touched.”

“I’m not touched.”

“You are. You look very moved.”

“I’m just glad you have taste.”

She laughs, and he kisses the sound out of her, smiling into it for half a second before the heat takes over again. His hand slides under the hem of her top, palm finding bare skin at her waist, and she sucks in a breath at how warm he is. 

His fingers spread over her like he’s been waiting to get under fabric since the couch. Maybe he has. Maybe every glance at her mouth and cleavage, every casual sip of beer, every easy line had been leading here, to his desk and his hand on her skin and his hips pressing forward just enough to make her forget which sentence she had been about to use.

Then his mouth is at her throat again, moving lower, lips dragging over the hollow above her collarbone, and the whole thing starts to tilt too fast toward something that needs saying before their clothes are all over his floor.

“Just so we’re clear,” she says, breath coming unevenly, one hand still in his hair. “I don’t want a boyfriend.”

His mouth pauses against her neck, warm and damp, and then he lifts his head just enough to look at her. His pupils are blown wide, his lips swollen, his breathing not quite steady. The sight of him like that almost makes her forget what point she’s making, which is probably dangerous and exactly why the point needed making.

He blinks once, then nods. “Great.”

She nods too. “Great?”

“Yeah.” His hand is still under her top, thumb resting at her ribs. “I don’t want a girlfriend.”

“Good.”

“Perfect, actually.”

“Perfect.”

They nod at each other like two extremely reasonable adults who are definitely not flushed and panting on a desk while Metallica plays downstairs. Garrett’s mouth twitches first. She bites her lip, which is a mistake because his gaze drops there immediately.

“Glad we cleared that up,” he says.

“Me too.”

“Very mature of us.”

“Incredibly.”

His hand moves higher by an inch. Her breath catches. Garrett’s grin fades again, attention narrowing in that way that makes the air feel warmer.

“Take off your clothes,” he says, low and direct, and somehow not crude because he’s looking at her like he wants to watch every second of it.

Her body answers before modesty can even pretend to be useful. She reaches for the hem of her top and pulls it over her head. 

Garrett’s eyes drop. There’s no smooth recovery this time. No quick bounce back to her face. He looks. Properly. At the dark lace of her bra, at the curve of her breasts above it, at the way her breathing is making the cups shift slightly because she cannot seem to get enough air into her lungs. 

His jaw goes a little slack for half a second before he catches himself, but not fast enough. The attention hits her like touch. Hot, visible, almost embarrassing in how much she likes it.

“Well,” he says, voice rougher. “Fuck.”

She laughs, but it gets caught halfway when his hands slide up her sides, thumbs tracing the line beneath her bra. “That’s your review?”

“I’m still drafting.”

“You’re usually better?”

“Give me a minute,” he says, echoing himself from downstairs, but his mouth is already on her before she can answer.

He kisses her over the lace first, which is unfair. Completely unfair. His lips press to the top of one breast, then the other, warm and open-mouthed, his hands steady at her back while she grabs at the edge of the desk and tries very hard not to make a noise loud enough for the hallway. 

He looks up at her once from under his lashes, and the expression on his face is so smugly pleased that she would call him annoying if his tongue had not just dragged over the skin above her bra and wiped her brain clean of language.

“Garrett,” she manages.

“Yeah?”

“That door locks, right?”

He pauses. His eyes lift toward the door, then back to her, and for one terrible second she thinks he’s going to say no. “It does,” he says, and steps back only long enough to turn the lock.

The click lands in the room like permission. He pulls his hoodie off on the way back to her, and then his shirt underneath, and she has a brief, stupid moment of gratitude that she’s sitting down already. Because the rumours, as it turns out, didn’t fully prepare her for the reality of Garrett Graham shirtless. 

The broad shoulders. The cut of his chest. The flat, hard plane of his stomach. The light bruising near one rib from the game, purple at the edge, proof of something brutal and physical that only makes him look more like himself. She must stare too long, because Garrett lifts his brows.

“Assessing?” he asks.

She swallows. “Risk is increasing.”

His grin is immediate. “Worth monitoring?”

“Extremely.”

He steps back between her thighs, and this time when he kisses her, there’s skin everywhere. Her palms spread over his chest, warm and hard under her hands, and Garrett makes a low sound when her nails drag lightly down his stomach. It’s small, almost bitten back, but she hears it. Feels it. Files it away with an internal satisfaction so bright it borders on unprofessional.

He reaches behind her for the clasp of her bra, then pauses. “Okay?” he asks.

The word is simple. A check, low and rough, his hands warm at her back. Something in her chest goes tight and then loosens.

“Yeah,” she says. “Okay.”

The clasp gives under his fingers. The straps slide down her arms, and then her bra is somewhere on his floor, and Garrett’s looking at her again like he’s briefly forgotten every line he has ever used on another girl.

“Still drafting?” she asks, because the silence is making her feel too naked in a way that has very little to do with clothing.

His eyes come back to hers. Darker now. Warmer. “I think the review’s gonna be positive.”

She laughs, breathless, and his mouth finds hers at the same time his hands cup her breasts.

The sound she makes is small and immediate, caught half in her throat, half in his mouth. Garrett groans like that did something to him. Like her not being composed is its own reward. His thumbs move slowly, then with a little more pressure when her back arches, and he breaks the kiss only to lower his mouth to her chest.

It’s too much in the best way. His mouth hot over her nipple, his tongue, the graze of teeth careful enough to make her gasp and grab his hair. His hands hold her steady when her hips roll forward again, searching for friction, and this time he gives it to her, pressing himself between her thighs until the seam of her shorts and the hard line of him make her head tip back.

“There?” he murmurs against her skin.

She nods, but that’s not enough for him because he lifts his head, one hand coming back to her jaw.

“Words,” he says, not stern, but sure. Captain voice, some tiny traitorous part of her brain supplies, and that absolutely doesn’t help.

“Yes,” she says, a little too quickly. “There.”

His smile is slow enough to be mean. “Good.”

“Don’t say it like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re proud of yourself.”

“I am proud of myself.”

“You’ve done very little.”

That’s a lie. They both know it. Garrett’s eyebrows jump anyway, delighted, and then his hand slides from her jaw to the back of her neck, pulling her in until his mouth brushes hers.

“Yeah?” he murmurs. “That a complaint?”

“No.”

“No?”

She shakes her head, their lips almost touching. “More of an observation.”

“Smart girl.”

The phrase shouldn’t hit like it does. It’s probably the nursing student in her, exhausted and overpraised only by rubrics and under-caffeinated professors, or it’s the fact that his hand is at her neck and his body is between her legs and he’s just called her smart like it belongs in the same room as wanting her. 

Whatever the reason, it goes through her hard and warm. Garrett notices. His eyes sharpen slightly, like he’s just watched a puck change direction.

“Oh,” he says softly, and that is dangerous.

“Don’t.”

He grins. “Didn’t say anything.”

He kisses her again before she can answer, and it’s rougher now, heat biting through the teasing. His hands go to the button of her shorts, then pause again with his fingers tucked at the waistband. She nods against his mouth before he can ask. Garrett exhales like he felt the answer in his own body.

They come off awkwardly because shorts are not romantic and his desk is not, in fact, designed for efficient undressing. She nearly kicks him in the thigh. He laughs. She tells him to shut up. He catches her ankle and kisses the inside of it, which is so unexpected and stupidly hot that the next insult evaporates right off her tongue.

Garrett drags her closer by the backs of her thighs, and the laugh disappears from both of them at the same time. Because now she’s in just her underwear on his desk, and he’s shirtless between her legs, and the party downstairs may as well be happening on another campus. 

His thumb traces the edge of the lace at her hip, slow enough that her stomach trembles. His gaze follows the movement. She watches his throat work once.

He hooks one finger beneath the elastic. “These?”

She looks at him. The room is warm. Her skin feels too awake. There’s a tiny voice in the back of her head that sounds unfortunately like caution, but it’s not saying no. It’s just noting the size of the moment because it’s been a while, because the last person who touched her left behind shadows she does not feel like introducing to Garrett Graham on a desk. Because wanting this and being ready for it are not always the same thing, except right now, in this room, they seem close enough to touch.

She reaches for his belt instead of answering directly. Garrett’s breath catches. That feels good. Better than good. It puts something back in her hands.

“Yeah,” she says. “Those.”

His eyes hold hers for one more second, checking for something beyond the word. Whatever he sees must satisfy him, because his mouth comes down on hers again and the rest of their clothes become a problem they solve badly and with a lot of breathing. 

His belt. His jeans. His boxers. Her panties. His laugh when her fingers fumble once. Her muttered, “Don’t be smug,” followed by his immediate, deeply smug, “Never.” The condom from his drawer, because at least one man in this house has prepared for something besides protein intake and chaos. His hands on her hips. Her legs around his waist.

He carries her from the desk to the bed like she weighs nothing. Hockey player, she thinks dizzily, arms locked around his neck, mouth pressed to the side of his jaw because she cannot stop kissing whatever part of him is closest. He drops her onto the mattress with more care than the gesture suggests, following her down before the bounce has settled.

For a second, with him above her and the room dim and the house still loud beneath them, the pace breaks. Garrett’s forearm braces beside her head. His other hand slides over her waist, then her thigh, then back up again like he’s mapping what he has been trying not to stare at since the couch. 

She looks up at him and catches a strange little flicker in his expression. Something aware, like he’s realised she’s not just some girl in his bed, even if that’s technically and conveniently what both of them are agreeing to make this.

She doesn’t know what to do with that. So she hooks her leg higher over his hip and says, “You always this slow?”

Garrett’s face clears into a grin so bright and wicked that relief moves through her right alongside the heat.

“Baby,” he says, dipping his head until his mouth is at her ear, “you have no idea how nice I’m being.”

Her breath catches. “Then stop.”

He goes still enough that she feels it. His mouth grazes her cheek when he pulls back, eyes searching hers. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she says, softer this time. “I mean, don’t be a dick about it. But yeah.”

His laugh is a low breath against her mouth. “Got it. Very clear instructions.”

“I’m good at instructions.”

“Good.” He kisses her once, slower than before, then again, deeper, and when he shifts against her, the joke leaves her body in one clean sweep, because there’s the heat of him against her, and then there’s the sight of him reaching for the condom.

Garrett sits back on his heels for half a second, tearing the foil open with his teeth because he’s decided to be exactly the kind of cliché that works because he looks like that while doing it, bare chest flushed, curls falling into his eyes, mouth still red from hers. 

His shoulders move under the warm bedroom light as he rolls it on, one hand braced briefly at the base of himself, jaw tightening around a breath he doesn’t quite let out.

She watches like an idiot, like a woman who’s forgotten she has eyelids. like the last several months of not being touched have gathered into one tight, humiliating knot under her ribs and are now watching Garrett Graham’s hand move with the focused awe of a medical student witnessing a miracle and a crime at the same time.

He glances up and catches her. His mouth curves slowly. “You good over there?”

She has enough dignity left to close her mouth. Barely. “Don’t start.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You looked like you were about to.”

“I was just checking on you.” His grin widens, far too pleased with himself, and he crawls back over her with the easy, controlled strength of someone who’s spent most of his life learning exactly what his body can do. His hands slide along the outside of her thighs, over the backs of her knees, spreading her wider as he settles between them. “Very caring of me, actually.”

“You’re a humanitarian.”

“I’ve been told.”

“By who?”

“Many women.”

She groans, rolling her eyes toward the ceiling, but it comes out thin and breathless because he’s right there, all heat and weight and hard muscle, his hips nudging hers, his mouth finding the corner of her jaw like he can feel the exact moment she needs him close enough to stop thinking. “God, you’re annoying.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, and kisses the spot beneath her ear. “You keep saying that.”

“You keep being annoying.”

“You’re still naked in my bed.”

She would argue harder if he weren’t sliding one hand under her thigh, lifting her leg a little higher against his waist. The movement opens her more, changes the angle before he’s even inside her, and her breath catches so sharply that Garrett’s teasing drops out of his face. 

His forearm braces beside her head. The other hand stays at her hip, thumb moving once over the skin there, a small grounding stroke that lands in a place embarrassingly deeper than skin. “Hey,” he says, lower now. “Still good?”

She nods, too quickly, then remembers his thing about words and tries not to hate how much she likes that he’s already made it a thing. “Yeah. I’m good.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes, Garrett.”

His grin flickers at that, warm and wicked. “Bossy.”

“Please don’t make me regret having standards.”

“Oh, I love standards.” He dips his head and kisses her, softer than the words, mouth warm and slow until her fingers loosen from their death grip in the sheet and climb back to his shoulders. “Big fan.”

Then he shifts, and the first press of him makes the whole room narrow to the exact place where their bodies meet. Her hands clamp down on him immediately. Nails catching at his shoulders, then sliding over his back, trying to find somewhere to put the sudden overwhelming fact of him. Because she had known. She had seen. She had made reasonable visual estimates. She had spent the last five minutes pretending not to be deeply affected by the evidence.

Knowing is different from this.

Garrett pushes in slowly, so slowly it feels almost mean, his jaw locked and his eyes fixed on her face like he’s studying every flicker, every caught breath, every tiny shift of her mouth. It stretches her open in increments, heat and fullness and pressure blooming through her so intensely that her head tips back into the pillow and the sound she makes is barely a sound at all, more like her body dropping something fragile.

“Oh my God,” she breathes, and her hands move on him again, one to his bicep, one dragging down his back, not sure whether she wants to pull him closer or push him away or just leave marks somewhere to prove she survived this.

Garrett stills instantly. “Too much?”

“No.” The word comes out fast, almost offended, because even overwhelmed she has priorities. She opens her eyes and finds him above her, brows drawn, mouth parted, the cocky set of him interrupted by genuine restraint. “No. Just– fuck. You’re…”

His mouth twitches despite the tension in his jaw. “I’m what?”

“Do not make me compliment your dick right now.”

A laugh breaks out of him, rough and startled, and the movement shifts him a fraction deeper. Her whole body tightens around him in response, a gasp punching out of her as her fingers dig into his shoulder.

Garrett’s laugh dies in his throat. “Jesus Christ.”

“Don’t laugh,” she gets out, though she’s not sure if she’s scolding him or begging him.

“I’m not. I’m really fucking not.” His forehead drops close to hers, breath warm against her mouth. He slides his hand from her hip to the side of her face, thumb brushing her cheekbone with a steadiness that makes her body, traitorous and desperate, loosen by half a degree. “Relax. You got it.”

She makes a sound that’s probably meant to be sarcastic and ends up nowhere near language.

His mouth grazes hers. “Atta girl. Just breathe for me.”

The praise goes through her so hard she clenches again before she can help it, and Garrett’s eyes almost roll shut. His hand tightens briefly at her jaw.

“Oh, you like that,” he murmurs, voice gone darker, rougher around the edges.

“Shut up.”

He hums, pecking her lips once. “Yeah, you do.”

“Garrett.”

“I know. I know.” He kisses her before the argument can build properly, mouth soft and deep, and keeps pressing in by slow degrees, stopping whenever her breath catches too sharp, moving again when her hips shift up like some impatient, greedy part of her has decided the stretch is worth the ache. “So good. You’re doing so good.”

Her brain doesn’t survive that intact. It simply doesn’t. The words, his weight, the steady patience of him, the heat between her thighs, the fact that he’s watching her like this is not just sex but some very important game he has every intention of winning by learning her properly. 

All of it gathers and gathers until he finally bottoms out and her body takes him all at once, full enough that her mouth opens around a gasp she can’t swallow. For a second, neither of them moves.

Garrett’s face is close above hers, flushed and tense, his eyes darker than they were downstairs by the couch, his breathing held too carefully in his chest. She can feel the restraint in him. Feel the way his hips want to move and don’t. Feel the tiny tremor in the arm braced beside her head.

It does something horrible and hot to her. Something almost worse than if he’d just been cocky through all of it.

She kisses him. It’s clumsy at first because she’s still adjusting, still catching up to her own body, but Garrett kisses her back immediately, like the waiting has cost him something and her mouth is the first permission he can take.

His hand slides to the back of her neck, fingers spreading there as he deepens it, and then he shifts her leg a little higher against his waist.

The angle changes. She moans straight into his mouth.

Garrett freezes, then exhales a sound that’s almost a laugh and almost a groan. “There?”

She nods, breathless against his lips.

His nose brushes hers. “Can I move?”

The fact that he asks it like that, low and rough and barely holding together, with his body already buried in hers and his thumb stroking once at the side of her neck like he’s giving her every chance to stay in control, makes some foolish, tender, inconvenient thing move under all the heat.

“Yeah,” she whispers. “Move.”

Garrett nods once, like the word has landed somewhere physical in him.

The first few strokes are slow. Almost careful. Deep enough to make her breath hitch each time, steady enough to let her body catch up around him. He watches her face at first, eyes flicking between her mouth and her eyes and the little furrow that keeps appearing between her brows when the pleasure goes sharp. 

He kisses her there once, right between them, which should be too sweet for the fact that he’s currently inside her, except somehow it only makes the whole thing feel hotter. More specific. More dangerous.

She can feel him everywhere. The stretch, the drag, the warm weight of him above her. His chest sliding against hers, the muscles in his back moving under her palms, the faint bite of his breath near her jaw. 

The bed creaks under them, not loudly enough to compete with the party downstairs, but enough that the sound keeps catching in the corner of her awareness and making her body tighten around him with the absurd knowledge of where they are. 

Garrett Graham’s room. His bed. Music beneath the floorboards. People laughing downstairs. His door locked.

He presses his mouth to her neck when her breathing gets uneven, and she turns into it, one hand in his hair, the other clawing lightly down his back when he hits that same place again.

“Fuck,” she gasps, not meaning to be so loud.

Garrett’s hips stutter. “Careful.”

She would very much like to care. Unfortunately, he does it again. Her head tips back. “Oh–!”

His hand comes up, covering her mouth for half a second, more instinct than command, and the gesture sends such a vicious little spark through her that her body tightens around him before either of them can process it.

Garrett groans, low and wrecked. “Holy shit.”

Her eyes go wide over his hand. His grin appears slowly, and it’s filthy. Delighted. Almost boyish, if boyish can include the kind of look that makes her entire nervous system offer its resignation. 

He takes his hand away and replaces it with his mouth, kissing her hard enough to swallow the next sound. “Didn’t peg you for loud,” he murmurs against her lips.

“I’m trying to be quiet.”

“You’re doing a terrible job.”

“It’s been a while,” she snaps, or tries to, except it comes out too breathy to have any real bite.

His eyes flick over her face again, sharper now, catching the edge of what she’s said and whatever sits underneath it. Not pity, not that, if anything, it’s satisfaction braided with focus, like he’s just been handed another piece of the puzzle and intends to treat it with the seriousness it deserves.

“Yeah?” he says, voice lower. “That why you’re so worked up?”

She glares at him, but it’s less effective when her legs are wrapped around his waist and she can barely breathe. “Don’t sound so pleased.”

“Baby, you pounced on me.” His hips roll again, slower this time, deeper, and her nails scrape down his back. “I’ve been pleased.”

“Asshole.”

“Yeah.” He kisses the corner of her mouth. “You want it harder?”

The question is so blunt it punches the air out of her. She stares at him for a second, cheeks hot, body hotter, and for reasons she’s absolutely going to blame on the dry spell, the music downstairs, and Garrett’s stupid mouth, she cannot quite make herself answer.

His grin softens into something more controlled. “Use your words.”

She huffs a laugh, embarrassed and turned on and annoyed by the exact ratio of both. “Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Garrett.”

“What?” He kisses under her jaw, smugness warm against her skin. “I’m being thorough.”

“Yes,” she says, louder, fingers tightening in his hair. “Harder.”

“There we go.”

He builds into it, like he’s testing how much she actually wants, how much her body can take before the noises change shape. But Garrett is big, and strong, and horribly aware of both facts, and once he understands that she likes the weight of him, likes the pressure, likes the way he can pin her open without making her feel trapped, he stops treating her like something breakable and starts treating her like something he wants to make a mess of.

Her body loves it. The harder rhythm. The way his hips snap into hers with enough force to push her up the bed until he has to hook an arm under her and drag her back down. The way he catches her knee and pushes it higher, opening her up until every thrust hits deep enough to make the room flash at the edges. The way he murmurs little things against her mouth, against her throat, half praise and half self-control unraveling.

“Fuck, that’s it.” His voice is rough, breathing uneven now. “That’s what you needed, huh?”

She cannot answer. Truly, it’s not her fault. The words are somewhere, presumably, but Garrett keeps hitting that place inside her with such awful precision that all she can do is cling to him and gasp like language is a skill she once had in high school and then abandoned.

He seems to take that personally, in the best and worst way. “Yeah,” he says, almost to himself, mouth at her jaw. “Thought so.”

It feels too good. It’s been long enough that she had forgotten sex could be this much body. This much sound. This much heat spreading under her skin until she feels flushed everywhere, sensitive everywhere, the old tightness in her chest and shoulders dissolving into the messy slap of skin and the creak of the mattress and Garrett’s breath catching every time she drags her nails down his back. 

He keeps finding it. That spot that makes her toes curl and her stomach pull tight and her voice come out higher than she means it to. Again. Again. Again, like he has a map and a grudge.

“Garrett,” she gasps, louder than she intends.

His mouth crashes over hers immediately, but he is smiling into it. “You trying to let the whole house know?”

“I’m trying to survive.”

He groans, forehead dropping to hers for half a second. “Jesus, don’t say shit like that.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m trying to last longer than six minutes.”

The laugh that breaks out of her is so startled and breathless that it turns into a moan halfway through when he thrusts again. Garrett laughs too, low and rough and proud of himself, then kisses her until the humour melts back into heat.

And it’s fun. Even like this, even with her body slick and strung tight and his jaw clenched from holding back, there’s laughter under it. There’s Garrett being smug and her telling him to shut up and both of them failing to pretend they don’t like the other one’s mouth. 

There’s nothing heavy in the room, nothing sharp-edged enough to draw blood. Just want, and sweat, and stupid little jokes bitten into kisses, and Garrett Graham proving several pieces of bathroom gossip correct in a way she may have to send a formal thank-you note for later.

Then he changes the game entirely. One second he’s above her, solid and hot and driving into her until her thoughts are slippery, and the next his arm locks around her waist and he rolls them. 

She gasps, clutching at his shoulders as the room flips, and then she’s on top of him, knees braced on either side of his hips, hands planted against his chest.

“Oh my God,” she breathes, because the angle is different, the fullness shifting deeper, heavier, making her thighs tremble before she has even moved properly.

Garrett lands beneath her with a grin that should be illegal. His curls are spread over the pillow. His chest is rising hard, skin flushed, mouth swollen, eyes taking her in like the view has improved his quality of life.

“Hi,” he says.

She stares down at him, panting. “Hi?”

“Still with me?”

“Barely.”

His grin widens. “Good.”

He sits up enough to get his mouth on her chest, one arm looping around her back to hold her to him, and the movement forces her down around him in a slow, helpless grind that makes both of them swear at the same time. 

His hands find her waist, then her hips, guiding her into a rhythm before she can overthink the mechanics of it. Which is good, actually, because her thighs are already shaking and her brain has moved most of its remaining resources to the single overwhelming fact of him inside her from this angle.

She wraps her arms around his shoulders and moves. It’s messy at first. Too eager, not smooth enough, her knees sliding on the sheet, her breath catching every time she sinks down too fast and takes him deeper than she’s prepared for. 

Garrett doesn’t seem to mind. Garrett seems, if anything, violently invested. His hands flex at her hips, helping without taking over, his mouth moving over her breasts, tongue hot and deliberate until her back arches and her rhythm falters.

“Fuck,” she pants, fingers tangling in his hair. “Feels so good.”

He lifts his head, eyes dark, mouth wet. “I know,” he says. His hands tighten at her waist, guiding her down harder. “Fuck, you feel incredible.”

It’s breathless and blunt and dragged out of him by the look on his face, by his hands pulling her closer, by the way his hips keep lifting to meet hers when his restraint slips. It makes something bright and hot flare under her ribs. 

She drops her forehead to his, riding him with her arms locked around his neck, panting into the small space between their mouths while he kisses her in pieces whenever either of them gets close enough.

The party downstairs disappears. The whole world goes down to the slide of him in her, the ache in her thighs, his hands dragging over her back, her body moving because stopping feels impossible now. 

Garrett’s teeth graze her jaw. His mouth finds her throat. He says something that might be her name or might just be a curse and it makes her clench around him so hard his fingers dig into her hips.

“Shit,” he groans. “Okay. Okay, hold on.”

She blinks at him, dazed. “What?”

His grin comes back, strained at the edges. “Trust me?”

That’s a stupid question to ask a girl he met properly forty minutes ago. Worse, her body answers yes before her brain can come online.

Garrett rolls them again. This time there’s no mistaking the strength in it. He shifts her under him like it’s nothing, like she weighs nothing, like the bed and her body and the entire hot mess of the room are things he can arrange exactly how he wants. Firm and sure and so fucking hot that the sound she makes when her back hits the mattress is almost embarrassing.

“Yeah?” he asks, already reading her face.

She nods quickly, breath wrecked. “Yeah.”

“Good.”

Then he hooks her legs over his shoulders. Her eyes almost roll back before he even moves. The stretch, the angle, the sudden deep press of him when he leans forward – it’s obscene. Actually obscene. 

Her hands fly to his forearms, then the sheets, then back to his arms, needing something to hold while he looks down at her with a grin spreading slow across his face like he knows exactly what he’s done.

“There?” Garrett asks.

She makes a sound that’s not a word.

His grin gets worse. “That a yes?”

“Right there,” she gasps, finally, because pride has lost all funding and vacated the building. “Don’t stop.”

Garrett’s expression flashes with satisfaction so intense it should annoy her. It does annoy her. It also makes her clench around him again, so her body has betrayed the cause.

He doesn’t stop. He fucks her like that, deep and hard and focused enough that the air keeps leaving her in broken little sounds she cannot control. The angle is devastating. Every thrust hits the same place, the one that makes her vision go soft and her fingers claw at his forearms, the one that pulls heat tight and fast through the low centre of her body until she can barely keep her eyes open. 

Garrett watches her through all of it, flushed and breathing hard, curls falling over his forehead, mouth open around rough little curses every time she tightens around him.

“That’s it,” he says, voice thick. “Fuck, that’s it. Right there, huh?”

She nods, frantic now, legs shaking against his shoulders. “Don’t stop. Garrett, don’t–”

“I’ve got you.” His hand slides between them again, thumb finding her clit with the kind of precision that makes her sob, actually sob, one sharp little sound punched out of her before she can catch it. “Come on, baby. Let me have it.”

The words hit at the exact wrong time, or the exact right one. There’s no way to tell. Her body pulls tight, tighter, every nerve narrowing to him, his voice, his thumb, the brutal perfect drag of him inside her, and then it breaks open.

She comes hard enough that the room blanks at the edges. Her back arches. Her hands scramble for him, one locking around his wrist, the other twisting in the sheet. Garrett groans above her, hips losing rhythm for the first time as she clenches around him, and the sound of him nearly tips her into another wave before the first has finished. 

He keeps moving through it, not as controlled now, more desperate, his face dropping toward her thigh where it rests near his shoulder, mouth pressing there in a hot, messy kiss like he needs somewhere to put the feeling.

“Fuck,” he grits out. “Fuck, you’re–”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. He follows her with a broken groan, hips driving in deep once, twice, then stilling as he comes, shoulders tense and shaking slightly under her hands. His head dips, breath hot against her skin, and for a second all she can hear is the rush in her own ears, the muffled thud of music downstairs, the violent uneven breathing of both of them trying to become people again.

Garrett eases her legs down carefully. That’s the first thing she notices when thought starts returning in pieces. The care of it. His hands sliding her calves from his shoulders, lowering them to the mattress, his palms moving over her thighs like he’s checking she is still attached to herself. 

Her legs feel boneless. Her whole body does, really. Warm and damp and used in the best possible way, heart still pounding hard enough that she can feel it in her fingertips.

He leans down and kisses her. It’s slow. Almost ridiculous after everything. His mouth presses to hers with a softness that makes her chest do something inconvenient, and she kisses him back because she has no energy left to pretend anything. His lips move over hers once, twice, then he pulls back just enough to breathe against her mouth.

“Oh my God,” she says, because that’s the official post-Garrett Graham vocabulary.

He laughs, low and pleased and exhausted. “Yeah?”

She turns her head slightly into the pillow, smiling despite herself. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You said yeah like you were fishing.”

“I was absolutely fishing.”

“At least you’re honest.”

“Only after sex.”

She laughs again, breathless and hoarse, and Garrett’s grin softens as he looks down at her. For a second it’s quiet. Too quiet, maybe. The kind of quiet that could become something if either of them were stupid enough to let it.

He pulls out carefully, and even that makes her inhale, sharp and oversensitive. Garrett’s hand comes to her hip at once, thumb brushing there. “Sorry.”

She shakes her head. “It’s fine.”

He gives her a look.

She huffs. “Good fine. Not bad fine.”

“Important distinction.”

“Very.”

He deals with the condom, tying it off and disappearing just long enough to toss it in the bin by his desk with impressive aim, which he absolutely notices himself doing. When he comes back to the bed, still naked and smug and far too pleased with his own athleticism, she lifts a weak hand.

“Do not brag about that.”

He points at the bin. “That was clean.”

“Garrett.”

“What? You like hockey. You should respect accuracy.”

“I respect silence.”

“Liar.”

He climbs back onto the bed, and she expects him to flop down beside her, maybe make some obnoxious comment, maybe reach for his jeans. Instead he pulls the sheet up first, dragging it over her hips, then higher until it covers her stomach and chest. The gesture lands somewhere soft and private, made worse by the fact that Garrett seems to do it without thinking.

She watches him through the loose fall of hair over her face. He notices that too, because Garrett Graham’s most irritating quality isn’t the mouth or the abs or the competence with which he has just rearranged her understanding of casual sex, but the noticing.

“What?” he asks.

“Nothing.”

“Bad nothing or good nothing?”

She gives him a look. “You’re very invested in categories.”

“I like knowing where I stand.”

“On top of your own bed, mostly naked.”

His grin flashes. “Good place to stand.”

Then he kneels beside her and pushes her hair off her forehead, fingers brushing damp strands back with a gentleness that feels wildly out of proportion to what they’ve just done. His thumb traces once near her temple. Her eyes close before she can stop them, her body willing to embarrass her in every available genre tonight.

“You good?” he asks, quieter now.

She nods, eyes opening again. A smile pulls at her mouth, lazy and stupid and completely beyond her control. “So good.”

Garrett’s face changes. The grin goes less showy, more pleased in a way that looks almost boyish. Like he’s been praised for something that mattered. Which is absurd, because they’re adults and this isn’t a skills assessment, except part of him still looks like he’s put that answer somewhere important.

“Yeah?” he says.

She groans. “You’re fishing again.”

He catches the back of her neck and pulls her up just enough to kiss her. It’s not like the kiss by the door. Not like the desk or the one right before he moved inside her. This one is slower, warm and indulgent, his mouth smiling faintly against hers until she gives in and smiles back. 

His fingers stay at her nape, holding her there with easy pressure, and when he pulls away, he doesn’t go far.

“That was so fuckin’ good,” he murmurs.

The words move through her in a slow, heated wave, different from before now that her body is loose and satisfied and embarrassingly receptive to praise. She looks up at him, still close enough that their noses nearly brush. “Yeah?”

Garrett nods, eyes flicking over her face, down to her mouth, back up again. “Yeah.”

There’s something too bare in that little pause after. A room after thunder. A body after adrenaline. The seconds after a joke has been made and neither person has found another one fast enough. 

She can feel the shape of the thing they agreed this wouldn’t become sitting somewhere near the foot of the bed, patient and smug and wearing his hockey number.

So she does the sensible thing and pokes his chest with two fingers. “Good review?”

Garrett’s grin comes back so fast it almost looks like relief. “Five stars.”

“Oh, gross.”

“Would recommend.”

“You’re never speaking to another woman again if that’s your line.”

“Probably for the best.” His hand slides under the sheet to rest on her waist, warm and heavy, casual like he has every right to be there. “I’m retired now.”

She snorts. “After one round?”

His eyebrows lift. The room changes again. Instantly. She feels it in the hand at her waist. In the way his gaze drops to her mouth and lingers. In the fact that her own body, traitorous little thing, gives a faint, interested pulse despite being wrecked and oversensitive and probably in need of water.

Garrett’s thumb moves once over her skin. “One round?” he repeats, voice dropping into that dangerous, amused register.

She realises too late what she has done. “Oh no.”

“Oh yes.”

“I meant… eventually.”

“Sure you did.”

She blinks. “I have friends downstairs.”

“They abandoned you twenty minutes ago.”

“I have dignity.”

“That one’s debatable.”

She laughs, and Garrett kisses her again, quick and warm and infuriatingly pleased, before drawing back with that bright golden-boy grin doing entirely too much damage in the low light of his room.

“Relax,” he says. “I’ll get you water first.”

She stares at him. Garrett’s grin widens. And watching him climb off the bed with all the unbearable confidence of a man who knows exactly what he just did and fully intends to do better next time, questionable might have been underselling it.

❄︎ ❄︎ ❄︎

taglist ⋆⁺₊ ₄₄❅. @xlinxdax0704  |  @snowtargaryen  |  @goodbyetuesday  |  @staystrongsoa  |  @dadshirrt  |  @miya-111  |  @softburrow  |  @darlinglux  |  @waitingforsmartpeople  |  @seon9yeonie  |  @laceyvt3  |  @sunny747  |  @cosmoh0lic  |  @blackgurlieee  |  @matchieee  |  @loomiz  |  @corvusmorte  |  @erin-alice  |  @cloudsxcherriesx  |  @lolskunk  |  @elizabeth123456767  |  @purplerainx1  |  @pinkgiraffebeach  |  @lucyysthings  |  @outpostsworld  |  @s0ftdr1nks  |  @maybankslover  |  @instantplaiddream  |  @droppedyourhnd  |  @bsenpai  |  @urfavadi  |  @em1ly57  |  @parker-barnes-af  |  @violyn20  |  @bootyliciousbutterfly  |  @bloomingflower13  |  @rexit-mo  |  @tpwkmera  |  @cherryrry581  |  @stevesxwhore  |  @solapeachtea  |  @giuliaasstuff  |  @pamacs-macs  |  @loonylosworld  |  @alice07ea  |  @hitting-euphoria4  |  @tessf13  |  @canupourme14theroad  |  @jayda12  |  @kmc1989  |  click here to be added to the taglist!

[magslikesdaisies]

Betty - ❤️ Garrett Graham ❤️

Credit© - @editfandom

Part 1 Part 3

Word Count - 4447

Warning - Hurt/Slight comfort? Jealousy!!

Hannah Wells is the kindest person on this planet is the conclusion you reached after having coffee with her. You searched for anything to dislike during the first 30 minutes. You looked for a sharp edge, a fake smile, a subtle hint of condescension, or even just an annoying habit that you could cling to in the dark. You wanted her to be superficial. You wanted her to be the kind of girl who only cared about the status of dating the hockey captain, someone you could easily categorize and dismiss so you could justify the bitter ache in your ribs. But after that thirty-minute mark, you completely forgot to search because, unfortunately for you, Hannah and you just seemed to click. 

She was deeply intelligent, effortlessly funny, and she spoke about Garrett with a quiet, grounded respect that made it painfully obvious why he had chosen her. She didn't flaunt him in your face. She didn't treat you like a threat or a lingering ex; she treated you like someone important because you were important to the person she loved. By the time the ice had melted in your cup, you were caught in a brutal, suffocating paradox. You swear in another life you two are best friends and not well complicated. As you pushed out of the coffee shop, the cold autumn air hitting your face, you reached one definitive conclusion: you most definitely needed to move on. You couldn't keep living in the margins of Garrett’s new life, hoping for a sudden shift that was never going to happen, especially not when the girl by his side was entirely undeserving of your silent malice. To actually move on, you needed two distinct things: immediate space from Garrett Graham and dates with other guys.

The pulling back was a slow, agonizing process of rewiring your entire daily routine, an exercise in emotional architecture where you had to dismantle a three-year-old foundation brick by agonizing brick. For the longest time, Garrett had been the baseline of your existence, the fixed point of gravity around which your entire campus life orbited. You were used to the effortless influx of casual text messages that required zero mental energy, the random 11:00 PM knocks on your dorm door when his overactive brain wouldn't shut down after a grueling game, and the unspoken, ironclad agreement that you would be sitting exactly three rows up from the glass at every single home game. Breaking those deeply ingrained habits felt like trying to unlearn how to breathe, a constant, physical ache that settled deep behind your ribs every time you had to consciously choose to turn away from him.

But the trick to your survival was that you didn't cut off the rest of the boys. You loved the rest of the team too much to vanish from the face of the earth entirely, and you fiercely refused to let Garrett's new relationship dictate or destroy your bond with the people who had become your chosen family. So, you still showed up when Logan texted the group chat to invite everyone over for a chaotic, loud late-night Mario Kart tournament, and you absolutely never turned down an invitation when Tucker announced he was spending his afternoon off making his legendary braised short ribs. Tucker was, without a single shred of a doubt, the undisputed culinary savior of the hockey house, a man whose talent in the kitchen was spoken of with a kind of reverent awe across the entire athletic department. Sitting around their massive, battered, scratch-laden dining table eating food that actually tasted like it belonged in a five-star Michelin restaurant was a sacred ritual you simply weren't willing to sacrifice just because your heart was bruised.

Instead, the boundary you drew was hyper-specific, surgical, and aimed with absolute, devastating precision directly at Garrett. You became an undisputed expert in the art of the subtle room shift, a phantom in the house he thought he controlled. If Tucker’s spectacular dinner was winding down and Garrett tried to slide into the empty chair next to you, you would wait exactly two minutes, just long enough not to look completely unhinged, before standing up to help stack the dirty plates and disappear into the kitchen. If the boys were crowded around the television yelling at a football game and Garrett tried to catch your eye across the room to share an unspoken, familiar inside joke, you intentionally kept your gaze fixed firmly on your phone or focused every ounce of your attention on whatever animated story Logan was telling. When Garrett texted you a picture of a ridiculous, neon-green vintage shirt he saw at the campus store, the exact kind of niche, hyper-specific humor that used to launch a three-hour banter session between the two of you, you waited four full hours to reply, finally sending a single, dry sentence: Haha, cool.

The shift was quiet, executed with a terrifyingly polite distance, but to someone like Garrett Graham, it was absolutely deafening. Garrett was a natural leader, entirely used to reading the ice, commanding the room, and predicting the micro-movements of everyone around him. He was far too observant, far too deeply attuned to the atmospheric pressure of your presence to miss the sudden, invisible wall you had constructed between your lives. At first, his confusion manifested as a sort of heavy, lingering puzzlement that turned into a persistent shadow. He began to stalk after you in the quad, stopping you between your morning lectures with his massive hockey duffel slung over his broad shoulder, his brow furrowing in that overthinking, deeply protective way that always made your chest feel like it was being squeezed by a vise. He would look at you with those wide, searching blue eyes, entirely unaccustomed to being locked out of the one room he had always taken for granted.

He started pushing for answers in the small gaps between your classes, cornering you near the library or by the campus coffee cart, his voice laced with a strange, defensive edge that he couldn't quite mask. He would ask why you didn't stay for movie nights anymore, why you left before he could even ask how his week was going, or why you suddenly seemed to have an endless mountain of schoolwork that kept you confined to your room. You maintained your composure with a terrifying, icy grace, offering him nothing but polite, empty platitudes about senior year being incredibly demanding and midterms taking up every spare second of your sanity. You smiled tightly, kept your hands buried deep in your coat pockets so he couldn't see them shaking, and excused yourself before he could reach out and touch your shoulder to ground you, knowing that if his fingers brushed against you, the entire facade would crumble into dust.

When the polite avoidance wasn't enough to fully cauterize the wound, you initiated the second, much more public phase of your plan: you started dating. If avoiding Garrett was the shield designed to protect your peace, throwing yourself into the Briar dating pool was the sword meant to cut the final tether. You needed to force your brain to realize that Garrett Graham wasn't the sole center of the universe, and more importantly, you needed Garrett to see that you weren't a permanent, stationary safety net he could just leave on the sidelines while he played the game of his life with someone else. You accepted every single introduction your communications seminar classmates offered, you said yes to a coffee date with an incredibly polite guy from your study group, and you agreed to drinks with a handsome track athlete who had been casting lingering glances your way at the campus gym for months.

Crucially, you made a conscious decision that these dates wouldn't be hidden away in dark, forgotten corners of the city where no one could see you. You went to the most popular, high-profile spots on campus: the crowded, bustling coffee shops during peak morning hours, the local diner where the athletes always hung out after morning workouts, and the main campus bar downtown on a Friday night. You let these men hold the door open for you, you sat across from them in full view of the world, and you dressed up, wearing the clothes that made you feel powerful and the specific shade of lipstick you usually saved for massive events.

The reaction from Garrett was instantaneous, developing from a low, rumbling grouchiness into a dark, suffocating petulance that completely infected the atmosphere of the hockey house. He didn't understand what he was feeling, which only made his volatile mood significantly worse. To Garrett, his bubbling frustration felt entirely platonic, rooted in a fierce, older brother-style protective instinct for his best friend. He constantly told himself he was just looking out for your well-being, that the guys you were choosing were entirely wrong for you, and that it was his solemn duty as your closest confidant to heavily vet the people allowed into your orbit. He convinced himself that he was just being rational, that a track athlete was too vain or a communications major was too superficial to deserve your time.

But beneath that comfortable, self-righteous lie was a much darker, sharper reality that he completely and utterly refused to admit to himself: a deeply romantic, fiercely territorial jealousy. He had spent three years enjoying the exclusive, unchallenged privilege of your undivided attention, your softest smiles, and your unwavering loyalty. The sudden, violent realization that another man could touch the small of your back to guide you through a room, make you laugh until your eyes crinkled, or hold your gaze across a candlelit table was driving him absolutely, completely insane. He became impossible to live with, snapping at his teammates during film review, throwing his gear around the locker room, and pacing the floors of the house like a caged animal whenever he knew you were out.

The boys in the house watched this slow-motion trainwreck happen with a mix of exhaustion and severe irritation. One Friday evening, the tension in the kitchen was thick enough to cut with a knife while Tucker was busy prep-cooking a massive batch of fresh pasta from scratch. Garrett was leaning against the counter, aggressively tearing the label off a sports drink bottle with his thumb, his face dark and thunderous as he stared at his phone, waiting for a text from you that was never going to arrive. He was grumbling about a guy you had been seen with at the campus diner earlier that morning, tearing the man's appearance and posture apart with a petty, vicious critique that was entirely uncalled for.

Tucker just shook his head, refusing to engage with the captain's ridiculous tantrum, while Logan openly laughed at him from the kitchen island, pointing out that Garrett was acting like a total psycho over a girl he wasn't even dating. Logan told him flat out that he had a gorgeous, perfect girlfriend sitting right in the next room and that he needed to stop staring out the window like a jealous dog waiting for his owner to come home. The comment sent Garrett into a defensive rage, his voice dropping into a harsh, dangerous register as he claimed he was just looking out for your standards before he stormed out of the kitchen entirely. He went into the living room and sat down next to Hannah, pulling her against his side and letting her rest her head on his chest, but even as his fingers mechanically stroked her hair, his blue eyes remained fixed on the front door, his mind entirely consumed by the torturous thought of you sitting in a restaurant somewhere with a stranger.

The true turning point arrived a week later when you started seeing someone new, a guy who didn't fit into the usual rotation of shallow campus distractions. He was a first-year law student, incredibly smart, quick-witted, and possessed a calm, grounded confidence that didn't rely on athletic bravado or loud, locker-room arrogance. Your first date with him hadn't felt like a performance or a calculated move in a game of emotional chess; it had been an actual, genuine conversation. For the first time in months, you found yourself laughing without having to force the sound past the lump in your throat. The heavy, suffocating weight of your unrequited feelings for Garrett lifted, if only for a few hours, allowing you to actually taste your food and enjoy the warmth of the room.

The absolute best part about this new guy was that he existed entirely outside the insular, toxic bubble of the Briar sports ecosystem. He didn't know who Garrett Graham was, he didn't care about the hockey team's standings, and he had no interest in the petty drama of the athletic department. When you talked to him, the conversation was entirely, beautifully about you. He wanted to know about your plans for after graduation, your favorite books, the specific things that made you passionate, and the weird childhood memories that shaped who you were. You didn't feel like a supporting character in Garrett's grand story anymore; you felt like the main event.

On a rainy Thursday night, he took you to a small, semi-crowded Italian restaurant tucked away just a few blocks from the edge of campus. The atmosphere inside was incredibly warm and intimate, the air rich with the scent of garlic, rosemary, and expensive red wine. You were sitting in a plush booth near the front window, the single candle between you casting a soft, dancing glow over his face as he leaned in, his dark eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that made your stomach do a pleasant, unfamiliar flip. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, the phantom image of Garrett didn't flash across your mind when a man smiled at you. You weren't constantly measuring this guy's words against Garrett's; you were just entirely present, letting yourself be coveted by someone who actually had the right to do so.

Then, the heavy wooden door of the restaurant swung open with a violent gust of wind, letting in a spray of cold, rainy air and the one person who had the terrifying power to ruin everything.

Garrett stepped into the entryway, shaking the water out of his dark, wet curls. He was wearing his heavy team jacket, his broad, athletic frame easily dominating the small, intimate space of the restaurant. He was holding a plastic takeout bag from the front counter, clearly having been sent by Hannah to pick up dinner for their quiet night in, but the exact second his eyes scanned the dining room and landed squarely on your booth, his entire body went completely rigid. You saw the shift in his face in terrifying real-time through the flickering candlelight. The exhaustion from a long, grueling practice vanished instantly, replaced by a sudden, sharp spike of that familiar, toxic, unhinged jealousy. His eyes dropped to the way you were leaning toward your date, the genuine, unforced smile on your lips, and the complete, devastating absence of the detached, polite mask you had been wearing around him for weeks.

He didn't hesitate. Garrett didn't stop at the edge of the entryway, nor did he consider the sheer insanity of what he was about to do. He marched straight through the dining room, his heavy boots squeaking against the hardwood floor, entirely ignoring the takeout bag in his hand as he made a definitive, aggressive bee-line straight toward your table. He stepped right up to the edge of the booth, towering over the space and casting a long, suffocating shadow over the candlelit table. He didn't even glance at the man sitting across from you; his burning blue eyes were fixed entirely, obsessively on your face.

"What are you doing here?" Garrett asked, his voice low, rough, and completely devoid of any basic manners or civility.

Your date's brow furrowed, his calm demeanor instantly shifting into something much sharper and defensive as he looked up at the massive intruder. He asked Garrett who he was and if there was a problem, his tone steady but carrying a clear warning. You felt a wave of absolute, burning humiliation wash over your skin, your hands tightening around your wine glass so hard the stem creaked. You told Garrett to go away, your voice cutting through the space like ice, reminding him that he was being incredibly rude and that he needed to leave immediately.

But Garrett was completely past the point of reason. He gripped the wooden edge of your booth, his knuckles turning white as he leaned down, claiming that the two of you needed to talk right now because you hadn't answered his text messages earlier in the day. He tried to use a campus charity event as an excuse, a pathetic shield to justify why he was invading your private life, his breathing shallow and angry. Your date stood up from his side of the booth, his tall frame squaring off against Garrett's in the narrow aisle, telling him flat out that the lady had asked him to leave and that he needed to walk away. Garrett finally snapped his gaze to the man, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle ticked violently in his cheek, his voice dropping into a dangerous, territorial growl as he told the man to back off because he was your best friend and he had known you for three years.

"Garrett, stop it right now!" you yelled, sliding out of the booth and stepping directly between the two men before a physical altercation could break out in the middle of the restaurant. The quiet murmur of the dining room had completely died, replaced by a tense, uncomfortable silence as every single patron stared at the scene. You looked at your date, your eyes full of deep, sincere apology, begging him to just give you five minutes to deal with this outside. Giving Garrett a look of absolute, unadulterated fury, you turned on your heel and marched straight out the front door, slamming it behind you as you stepped into the dark, rain-slicked alleyway beside the building.

The heavy door clicked shut a second later as Garrett followed you out into the cold, misty drizzle. The cool night air hit your flushed skin, but it did absolutely nothing to cool the raging fire vibrating through your veins. You turned around to face him, your hands clenched into tight fists at your sides, the rain instantly dampening your hair.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" you screamed, your voice echoing sharply off the wet brick walls of the alley. "Are you completely out of your mind, Garrett? You just humiliated me in front of a guy I actually like! A guy who was actually treating me like a human being!"

"He's not right for you!" Garrett yelled back, stepping closer into your space, his chest heaving under his damp jacket. He looked frantic, his usual cool, calculated captain's persona completely shattered into a million jagged pieces. "I saw the way you were looking at him! You don't even know him! You’re just throwing yourself at these random guys because you're mad at me, and it's driving me crazy!"

"This isn't about you! Not everything in my life revolves around you, Garrett Graham!" you lied, the defensive wall slamming up instantly to protect the rawest part of your soul. "I am a grown woman, and I am allowed to go out and have a life and have a conversation with a man who actually wants to know about me, without my so-called best friend acting like a psycho, possessive stalker!"

"I am not acting like a psycho!" he defended fiercely, his voice rising to match yours as he threw his hands up in absolute frustration. "I am trying to protect you! You've been ghosting me for weeks! You treat me like I'm a complete stranger when I walk into a house that we used to share. You don't answer my calls, you don't look at me, and then I find out you're running around campus with a different guy every single weekend? It’s driving me out of my mind! I feel like I'm suffocating because I don't know where my person went!"

"You didn't lose me, Garrett! You gave me away!" The words finally ripped past your throat, raw, unpolished, and dripping with the agonizing truth you had kept buried in the dark for three long years. The dam had completely broken under the pressure of the rain, and there was absolutely no stopping the flood of your heartbreak.

Garrett froze instantly, his hands dropping slowly to his sides, his blue eyes wide and completely struck as the rain dripped down his nose. The accusation seemed to physically wind him, leaving him standing there looking smaller than he ever had. "What?" he whispered, his voice cracking on the single syllable, the sound completely bare.

"You can't have both," you said, a single, hot tear finally cutting through the rain on your cheek, though your voice remained fiercely steady, powered by a lifetime of quiet suffering. "You don't get to have a beautiful, amazing, perfect girlfriend like Hannah, a girl who I went to coffee with, Garrett, a girl who I actually like because she is so kind and still keeps me on a short leash because your immense, selfish ego can't handle losing my attention. You don't get to have both of us. You just can't."

"I don't- I don't want to keep you on a leash," he stammered, looking genuinely horrified by the reality of what you were saying, his mind clearly racing as he tried to reconcile his actions with the comfortable, platonic lies he had been telling himself for months. "I swear to God, I'm just trying to look out for you. We're partners, you and me. We do everything together. I need you."

"No, we don't do everything together, Garrett! Not anymore!" you yelled back, stepping right into his personal space, forcing him to look down into the absolute wreckage his selfishness had caused. "Partners don't do what you do. You don't get to hold my hand under the kitchen table when you think the boys aren't looking, and you don't get to look at me with those heavy, lingering eyes whenever I wear a nice dress, and you definitely don't get to crash my dates because you're jealous, but then turn around and go home to her bed every single night! You are splitting yourself in half, and you are using me to fill the gaps, and it is destroying me!"

Garrett went entirely pale, the stark, ugly reality of his own behavior hitting him like a physical blow to the solar plexus. The convenient, safe excuse of “platonic best friends” completely evaporated into the damp night air, leaving his truest, most hidden feelings entirely exposed to the elements. He hadn't been acting like a worried friend; he had been acting like a selfish, territorial man who wanted to keep all his favorite things in the exact same room, completely blind to the fact that his comfort was costing you your sanity. He had been half-heartedly convincing himself it was platonic, but standing here in the rain, looking at the tears on your face, he couldn't deny the romantic, desperate terror gripping his chest anymore. He was in love with you, and he had realized it far too late.

"I didn't... I didn't realize I was doing that to you," he whispered, his voice incredibly rough, all the defensive anger completely draining out of him, leaving nothing but a profound, crushing guilt that bowed his shoulders. He looked down at his own trembling hands, the water dripping from his fingers onto the gravel. "I swear to God, I didn't mean to drag you along. I just... I can't imagine my life here without you in it. The thought of you looking at another man the way you used to look at me... it makes me feel like I'm drowning."

"That is a selfish reason to keep me broken, Garrett," you said softly, the burning rage suddenly dying out, leaving behind a deep, hollow tiredness that felt entirely terminal. You looked at him, really looked at him, and saw the boy you had loved for years, but for the first time, the love didn't feel like a sanctuary. It felt like a prison sentence you were finally serving out. "Hannah is wonderful. She is kind, she is smart, and she loves you completely. You chose her. You standing here right now is a betrayal to her, and it's a cruelty to me. So let her love you. But you have to let me go. You don't get to be possessive over my life when you're the one who put me on the sidelines in the first place."

Garrett stared at you, his lips parted as if he wanted to speak, as if he wanted to find the courage to tell you that he was sorry, or that he would change, or that he was ready to throw away the perfect, uncomplicated life he had built with Hannah just to keep you. He reached out a hand, his fingers hovering just inches from your wet jacket, his eyes begging you not to close the door on him forever.

But he didn't say the words. Because saying the words meant facing the chaos of his own mistakes, and Garrett Graham was many things, but he wasn't ready to let go of his safety net.

"Go back inside and get your takeout, Garrett," you said quietly, stepping backward out of his reach, letting the cold rain fill the space between you. "I'm going to go back to my date."

You turned your back on him, your boots splashing through the puddles as you walked back toward the heavy wooden door of the restaurant, leaving him standing entirely alone in the dark, rainy alleyway. Garrett didn't follow you this time. He stayed rooted to the wet asphalt, his hair stuck to his forehead, watching you disappear back into the warmth of the building where another man was waiting to clean up the mess he had made. You had wanted a reaction from him for months, but as you sat back down in the booth and let your date take your cold hand, you realized that the only thing worse than Garrett Graham not knowing he was breaking your heart was him finally realizing it and still choosing to let you go.

Notes - So many of yall asked for a part two so it only felt right to write one asap! Thanks for reading! Love ya! ps. I'm tagging every one that requested a pt. 2

Taglist - @wonderpals02 @xxviv1xx @daphnen21 @anaestrellar @readinf @lnnysnts @taeraeshii @blonde-girl06

[belleeebelleee]

Jax Teller (Sons of Anarchy) x fem!reader

It's your wedding day. You're still in love with Jax. Jax shows up and steals you away.

The worst part about your wedding day wasn't the dress.

It wasn't the flowers.

It wasn't the hundreds of carefully arranged white roses lining the aisle of the church.

It wasn't the expensive reception venue, the string quartet, the champagne waiting on ice, or the fact that every single guest in attendance believed they were about to witness the beginning of a beautiful future.

The worst part was that you looked stunning.

Because if you had looked terrible, maybe it would have been easier.

If your makeup had smeared..

If your hair had fallen apart..

If the dress hadn't fit perfectly..

If something had gone wrong..

Then maybe you could have blamed your unease on nerves.

Maybe you could have convinced yourself that the knot sitting in your chest was normal.

That every bride felt like she was walking toward an execution.

Instead, everything was perfect.

And you had never felt more miserable.

You stood in front of the mirror inside the bridal suite, staring at your reflection as if she were a stranger.

The woman looking back at you smiled when prompted.

She laughed when people expected it.

She accepted compliments graciously.

She looked exactly like a bride should.

But she didn't look happy.

Not really.

Not where it mattered.

Your maid of honor fussed with the veil one last time.

"You okay?"

You forced a smile.

"Of course."

A lie.

A practiced one.

The kind you'd been telling yourself for years.

The room buzzed around you.

Excitement.

Conversation.

Laughter.

The sounds seemed distant somehow.

Muted.

As though you were underwater.

Because despite everything—

despite the years that had passed—

despite the fact that you were standing minutes away from marrying a good man—

there was still only one face in your mind.

Blond hair.

Blue eyes.

A crooked smile.

The smell of leather and engine oil.

Jax Teller.

You closed your eyes.

Immediately regretted it.

Because memory hit like a punch.

You'd spent years trying to forget him.

Years.

You'd moved.

Changed jobs.

Started over.

Built an entirely different life.

You had done everything people were supposed to do when a relationship ended.

Everything except stop loving him.

That part never happened.

No matter how hard you tried.

No matter how much distance you put between yourself and Charming.

No matter how many times you told yourself it was over.

He remained.

Like a scar.

Like a ghost.

Like something stitched directly into your bones.

And God, you'd tried.

You'd tried dating other people.

You'd tried moving on.

You'd tried convincing yourself that what you and Jax had shared belonged in the past.

The problem was that nobody had ever loved you the way Jax had.

Nobody had ever looked at you like you were the answer to a question they'd spent their entire life asking.

Nobody had ever made you feel quite so alive.

Or quite so furious.

Or quite so terrified.

Or quite so loved.

Years earlier, you had walked away because loving Jax came with a cost.

Violence.

Danger.

Fear.

The constant possibility that one day you'd get a phone call telling you he wasn't coming home.

And eventually you'd reached your breaking point.

Not because you stopped loving him.

But because you loved him too much.

So you'd left.

And Jax—

for perhaps the first time in his life—

had let someone go.

Not because he wanted to.

Because he loved you too.

Enough not to stop you.

Enough to watch you walk away.

Enough to break his own heart.

You still remembered the look on his face.

You suspected you always would.

"Five minutes."

The wedding coordinator appeared in the doorway.

Everyone perked up.

Excitement surged through the room.

Your stomach dropped.

Five minutes.

Five minutes until forever.

Five minutes until you promised your life to a man who deserved your whole heart.

And would never receive it.

Because part of it still belonged to someone else.

The realization struck so hard you nearly lost your breath.

The room blurred.

Suddenly you couldn't hear anyone speaking.

Couldn't focus.

Couldn't think.

Only feel.

And what you felt was wrong.

This was wrong.

Every piece of it.

Wrong dress.

Wrong church.

Wrong future.

Wrong man.

You sat down abruptly.

Your maid of honor frowned.

"Hey."

You stared at the floor.

"What am I doing?"

Nobody answered.

Because nobody knew.

Not really.

Your fiancé was kind.

Steady.

Reliable.

Safe.

Everything Jax had never been.

He loved you.

You cared about him deeply.

But love?

The kind of love that consumed entire pieces of you?

The kind that made your heart race after years apart?

The kind that lingered in every quiet moment?

No.

Not that.

Never that.

Your maid of honor slowly sat beside you.

There was a long silence.

Then—

quietly—

she asked the question nobody else would.

"Are you still in love with him?"

The room disappeared.

Everything disappeared.

Because the answer arrived instantly.

Without hesitation.

Without confusion.

Without doubt.

"Yes."

The word cracked.

Your eyes filled immediately.

"Oh God."

Silence.

Then your maid of honor squeezed your hand.

"You should've told someone."

"I thought it'd go away."

"It didn't."

"No."

"Does he know?"

You laughed shakily.

A broken sound.

"No."

Because you hadn't spoken to Jax in nearly three years.

Not really.

A few brief conversations.

A couple accidental encounters.

Nothing substantial.

Nothing dangerous.

Nothing that would let either of you fall backward into old habits.

Into old feelings.

Into old love.

And yet.

Here you were.

A bride.

About to marry someone else.

Still hopelessly in love with him.

Outside, a motorcycle engine roared.

The sound froze every muscle in your body.

No.

No way.

Not here.

Not today.

Your heart immediately started pounding.

You knew that engine.

You knew it the way people knew their favorite song.

The way they knew their own heartbeat.

Years could pass.

You'd still know it.

The room went silent.

Someone moved toward the window.

Then froze.

"Oh my God."

Your stomach dropped.

Your maid of honor slowly stood.

"What?"

The bridesmaid looked back.

Eyes wide.

"He..."

She looked stunned.

"He what?"

"There's a biker outside."

Your pulse exploded.

No.

No.

No.

Your maid of honor walked to the window.

Peeked outside.

Then looked directly at you.

And suddenly she started laughing.

Disbelieving.

Completely shocked laughter.

"Oh my God."

"What?"

She pointed outside.

"You need to see this."

Your legs felt numb.

You stood anyway.

Walked toward the window.

Looked down.

And forgot how to breathe.

Jax.

It was Jax.

Standing beside his motorcycle.

Looking exactly like every memory you'd spent years trying to outrun.

Older.

A little rougher around the edges.

A few more lines around his eyes.

But still Jax.

Still devastating.

Still yours in every way that mattered.

His gaze lifted.

Found the window immediately.

Found you.

And just like that—

everything else disappeared.

The years.

The distance.

The heartbreak.

Gone.

Because he was looking at you exactly the same way he'd looked at you the day you'd left.

Like losing you had never stopped hurting.

Like finding you again felt impossible.

Like he loved you.

Still.

After all this time.

Still.

Your chest physically hurt.

The church door opened.

Jax started walking inside.

Chaos erupted almost immediately.

People protested.

Family members panicked.

The wedding coordinator looked seconds away from a nervous breakdown.

You barely heard any of it.

Because Jax walked through the church like a man with absolutely nothing left to lose.

And maybe he didn't.

He wore jeans.

Boots.

His kutte.

Nothing formal.

Nothing appropriate.

Nothing except complete certainty.

Every eye in the building followed him.

He never looked at anyone except you.

Not once.

The church fell silent.

Jax stopped at the end of the aisle.

And stared.

For a long moment neither of you spoke.

Neither of you moved.

The entire world seemed to hold its breath.

Then—

very quietly—

Jax said your name.

Just your name.

Nothing else.

And somehow that hurt more than anything.

Because of the way he said it.

Like a prayer.

Like a wound.

Like coming home.

Your eyes filled instantly.

"Jax."

His jaw tightened.

The same way it always did when he was emotional and trying not to show it.

"You look beautiful."

You laughed through tears.

Because of course that was the first thing he'd say.

Of course.

Then his eyes dropped briefly.

To the dress.

The veil.

The wedding.

And for the first time you saw uncertainty.

Pain.

Fear.

Real fear.

The possibility that he might be too late.

That terrified him.

You could see it.

"I shouldn't be here," he admitted.

The church remained silent.

Nobody dared interrupt.

"I know that."

You couldn't speak.

Couldn't move.

Couldn't breathe.

Jax swallowed hard.

Then looked directly at you.

And everything inside you shattered.

Because his voice broke.

Just slightly.

Just enough.

"I tried."

The words echoed.

"I tried to stay away."

Tears slid down your cheeks.

"I know."

"I told myself you were happy."

Your heart twisted.

"I wanted you to be."

More tears.

More pain.

More love.

Always love.

"I figured if you were marrying him..." His voice cracked. "Then maybe he'd figured out how to make you happier than I ever could."

The church disappeared.

Nothing existed except him.

"I stayed away."

He laughed once.

Humorless.

Painful.

"I stayed away right up until yesterday."

Your pulse hammered.

"Then what happened?"

Jax looked at you.

And the honesty in his eyes nearly destroyed you.

"I heard your wedding was today."

Silence.

"And?"

He took a breath.

A shaky one.

The kind you'd never heard from him before.

Then:

"I couldn't do it."

The confession hung between you.

Raw.

Exposed.

Real.

"I couldn't let you marry somebody else without telling you."

You were crying openly now.

Jax didn't seem to care.

Neither did anyone else.

"I love you."

The words landed like thunder.

Gasps echoed somewhere behind him.

You didn't hear them.

Couldn't.

Because Jax kept talking.

"I still love you."

Your knees nearly gave out.

Years.

Three years.

And there it was.

Unchanged.

Untouched.

Still alive.

Still burning.

"I tried not to."

A small laugh escaped him.

Broken.

Hopeless.

"Christ, I tried."

Your entire body shook.

"Jax..."

"I know I shouldn't be here."

He took a step forward.

Then another.

"I know this is selfish."

Another step.

"I know this is unfair."

Closer.

"But if you walk down that aisle..."

His voice failed.

For a moment he couldn't continue.

Then he forced himself to.

"...I'll spend the rest of my life wondering if I should've fought harder for you."

Silence.

Complete silence.

Then Jax held out his hand.

The same hand you'd held a thousand times.

The same hand you'd dreamed about.

The same hand you'd never truly let go of.

His eyes never left yours.

"Come with me."

Your breath caught.

Everything stopped.

Every voice.

Every thought.

Every fear.

Come with me.

Not marry me.

Not choose me.

Come with me.

Simple.

Honest.

Terrifying.

And suddenly you knew.

You'd always known.

The answer had never changed.

Not once.

Not in three years.

Not in a hundred.

You loved him.

That was the truth.

Messy.

Complicated.

Impossible.

But true.

You loved him.

And he loved you.

Your fiancé stood.

The movement pulled your attention briefly.

You looked at him.

Really looked.

And somehow he already knew.

Sadness filled his expression.

But not surprise.

Just understanding.

He gave a small nod.

As though he'd seen this coming before you had.

And that hurt.

Because he deserved better.

You walked toward him first.

Tears streaming down your face.

"I'm sorry."

He smiled sadly.

"I know."

More tears.

More guilt.

More heartbreak.

But beneath it all—

certainty.

For the first time all day.

Certainty.

Then you turned.

Toward Jax.

Toward the man who'd ruined you for everyone else.

Toward the love of your life.

Toward home.

And took his hand.

The second your fingers touched, Jax closed his eyes.

Just briefly.

Relief.

Disbelief.

Gratitude.

All visible.

Then he laughed.

A genuine laugh.

The kind you hadn't heard in years.

And suddenly you were laughing too.

Crying and laughing and completely falling apart.

"Hi," he said.

You stared at him.

"Hi."

He looked at the dress.

Then at you.

Then grinned.

"Stealin' a bride wasn't exactly my plan."

You laughed through tears.

"Sure it wasn't."

"Okay."

His grin widened.

"Maybe a little."

For the first time all day, your heart felt light.

Actually light.

And that told you everything.

Jax squeezed your hand.

"Ready?"

You looked around the church one final time.

At the wedding that almost happened.

At the life you almost chose.

Then back at him.

At your future.

At the man you'd never stopped loving.

And smiled.

"Yeah."

Together, you walked out.

Straight past the flowers.

Past the guests.

Past the expectations.

Past the life that was never really yours.

Outside, sunlight flooded the church steps.

Jax's motorcycle waited at the curb.

You stared.

Then started laughing.

"No."

"What?"

"I am not climbing onto a motorcycle in a wedding dress."

His grin turned wicked.

"You absolutely are."

"Jax."

"C'mon, sweetheart."

You rolled your eyes.

Then climbed on anyway.

Because some things never changed.

Jax settled in front of you.

Your arms wrapped around his waist automatically.

Familiar.

Natural.

Right.

He covered your hands with his.

For a moment neither of you moved.

Neither of you spoke.

The world seemed strangely quiet.

Then Jax turned his head slightly.

Just enough for you to hear him.

"I missed you."

Your throat tightened.

"I missed you too."

He nodded once.

As if that was all he needed.

Then started the engine.

The ride back to Charming was surreal.

Partly because you were still wearing a wedding dress.

Partly because you'd just walked out of your own wedding.

Mostly because every time the motorcycle stopped at a light, you found yourself staring at the back of Jax's head and thinking:

I actually did it.

You'd chosen him.

After years.

After heartbreak.

After convincing yourself it was impossible.

You'd chosen him.

And every time that realization hit, your grip around his waist tightened.

Jax noticed every single time.

You knew he did.

Because his hand would leave the handlebars for just a second to squeeze yours where they rested against his stomach.

A silent reassurance.

A silent I'm here.

Neither of you talked much.

There wasn't much to say.

Not yet.

The conversation waiting for you was too big.

Too emotional.

Too overwhelming.

So instead you simply held on while California rolled past around you and for the first time in years your chest didn't hurt when you thought about the future.

It was terrifying.

And wonderful.

And completely insane.

Which was probably why it fit Jax so perfectly.

The second the clubhouse came into view, you knew something was wrong.

Motorcycles.

Too many motorcycles.

The parking lot was packed.

People standing outside.

Club members.

Prospects.

Crowds.

Movement everywhere.

You frowned.

"What the hell?"

Jax groaned.

Actually groaned.

"Oh no."

"What?"

His head tipped back briefly.

"Word got out."

Your stomach dropped.

"Oh God."

"Yeah."

"Oh God."

"Yeah."

The motorcycle rolled into the lot.

Everything stopped.

Literally everything.

Conversations died.

People froze.

Heads turned.

Someone dropped a beer.

And suddenly dozens of eyes landed on you.

Specifically—

on the woman sitting behind Jax Teller.

Still wearing a wedding dress.

The silence lasted approximately two seconds.

Then absolute chaos erupted.

"NO FUCKING WAY!"

"You actually did it!"

"HOLY SHIT!"

"I TOLD YOU HE WOULD!"

"What happened to the groom?!"

Laughter exploded across the lot.

Someone nearly fell off a picnic table.

You buried your face in your hands immediately.

"Oh my God."

Jax was laughing so hard he could barely park.

"Sweetheart."

"I hate all of you."

"You don't even know what they're saying yet."

"I can hear them."

The bike finally stopped.

Before either of you could dismount, the clubhouse door burst open.

And out stormed half of SAMCRO.

Leading the charge was Tig.

Which immediately felt like a bad sign.

Tig stopped dead.

Looked at the wedding dress.

Looked at Jax.

Looked back at the wedding dress.

Then screamed:

"YOU STOLE THE FUCKING BRIDE!"

The entire lot erupted.

Jax laughed.

You laughed.

Everyone laughed.

Except Tig, who looked genuinely emotional about the situation.

"This is the most romantic thing that's ever happened here."

"It's definitely not," Chibs said.

"It absolutely is."

"It isn't."

"It is."

"You cried when Gemma got a new dog."

"THAT DOG HAD A HEART CONDITION."

The argument immediately spiraled.

You stood beside Jax completely stunned.

And then Chibs approached.

The older Scot looked between the two of you.

Then grinned.

A genuinely delighted grin.

"About bloody time."

Jax laughed.

You smiled.

Chibs pulled you into a hug before you could react.

The warmth of it nearly made you emotional.

Because despite everything—

the years away—

the heartbreak—

they'd never really stopped considering you family.

"Good to have ye back, lass."

Your eyes stung unexpectedly.

"Thanks."

A rough voice appeared behind you.

"Nice dress."

You turned.

Happy.

Of course it was Happy.

He looked exactly the same.

Terrifying.

Expressionless.

Holding a beer.

"Thanks."

Happy nodded.

Then pointed at Jax.

"Took him long enough."

You barked out a laugh.

Jax looked offended.

"Oh, screw you."

Happy drank his beer.

"Three years."

"Okay."

"Could've been faster."

"Happy."

"Just saying."

The next hour was insanity.

Questions.

Celebrations.

Laughter.

Drinks appearing from nowhere.

Stories being invented before you could correct them.

Apparently by the time you'd arrived:

someone had already claimed Jax punched the groom.

Someone else insisted there'd been a sword fight.

Tig was telling anyone who would listen that Jax had ridden directly into a church through stained-glass windows.

None of it was remotely true.

Nobody cared.

You ended up sitting on one of the worn couches inside the clubhouse while everyone continued losing their minds around you.

Your veil had long since disappeared.

Nobody knew where it went.

Juice had somehow acquired wedding cake despite there being no wedding cake present.

Chibs was taking bets on how long it would take before Gemma found out.

And through all of it—

Jax couldn't stop looking at you.

Every time you glanced up, his eyes were already there.

Following you.

Watching you.

Like he still couldn't believe you'd actually come with him.

Like he was worried you'd disappear if he looked away too long.

Eventually you caught him staring again.

A soft smile pulled at your mouth.

"What?"

His expression softened.

"Nothin'."

"Liar."

A slow grin appeared.

"You really came."

The simplicity of the statement hit harder than it should have.

Because beneath it was something vulnerable.

Something scared.

A fear he'd been carrying all day.

The possibility you'd say no.

The possibility he'd lose you again.

You reached for his hand.

Immediately.

Without thinking.

His fingers closed around yours.

"I came."

The tension left his shoulders instantly.

And suddenly he looked years younger.

Lighter.

Like a man who'd finally stopped carrying something heavy.

Hours later the clubhouse finally began settling down.

People drifted away.

Conversations quieted.

The chaos faded.

Until eventually only a handful of members remained.

And somehow you found yourself upstairs.

Standing inside Jax's room.

Alone together for the first time all day.

Silence settled between you.

Comfortable.

Warm.

Real.

The distant sounds of the clubhouse drifted through the floorboards.

You stared at yourself in the mirror.

The dress suddenly felt absurd.

A relic from another life.

Another future.

One that no longer existed.

Jax appeared behind you.

His reflection meeting yours.

Neither of you spoke for a moment.

Then he reached up carefully.

Slowly.

Giving you every opportunity to stop him.

His fingers found the zipper at the back of the gown.

Your breath caught.

Not from nervousness.

From emotion.

Because this wasn't about seduction.

Wasn't about anything physical.

It felt symbolic somehow.

Like shedding the last piece of a life you'd almost chosen.

His voice was quiet.

"You okay?"

You met his eyes in the mirror.

And smiled.

A real smile.

One you hadn't worn all day.

"Yeah."

The zipper slid down.

The tension in your chest seemed to unravel with it.

Slowly.

Gently.

Patiently.

Jax helped you out of the dress.

No rush.

No pressure.

Just careful hands and soft eyes.

When the gown finally pooled around your feet, both of you looked down at it.

The white fabric spread across the floor.

Beautiful.

And no longer yours.

For a moment neither of you moved.

Then Jax disappeared toward a dresser.

He returned holding a black shirt.

One of his.

Soft from years of wear.

Smelling faintly of laundry detergent, leather, and him.

Your heart squeezed.

"Here."

You took it.

Something about that simple gesture nearly made you cry.

Because after the insanity of the day—

after the church—

after the motorcycle—

after running away—

this felt strangely intimate.

Not the dress coming off.

The shirt.

The fact that he wanted you comfortable.

Wanted you to feel at home.

Wanted you to have something that belonged to him.

You pulled it on.

The fabric swallowed you immediately.

Falling to mid-thigh.

The sleeves far too long.

You looked down at yourself.

Then up at him.

Jax froze.

Completely.

His expression becoming almost comically lovestruck.

You started laughing.

"What?"

His hand covered his mouth.

"Oh, that's dangerous."

"What is?"

"You wearing my clothes."

You rolled your eyes.

His grin widened.

"You look perfect."

The compliment was so sincere it made your chest ache.

You walked toward him.

Slowly.

Until there was no space left between you.

Then rested your forehead against his.

The room was quiet.

The world was quiet.

For the first time all day, everything felt still.

Jax's arms wrapped around you carefully.

Like he was holding something precious.

Something he'd gotten back after believing it was gone forever.

"I love you," he murmured.

The words were simple.

No grand speech.

No dramatic declaration.

Just truth.

Steady and certain.

You closed your eyes.

And smiled.

"I love you too."

His arms tightened instantly.

And for the first time since you'd walked into that church that morning, everything felt exactly right.

[kooksandpearls]

garrett graham ❄︎ line?! | 02

pairing – garrett graham x reader summary – a few weeks after drunk shakespeare, a coffee shop run-in turns into the conversation garrett should’ve had months ago. warnings – second-chance romance, post-breakup angst, apologies, jealousy/insecurity references, emotional conversation, strong language notes from me – so so so many requests for this!! so here you go, loves!! enjoy <3 word count – 9.7k

navigation – part 01 | masterlist | taglist

The coffee shop near campus always smelled like burnt espresso, cinnamon syrup, and wet wool in the winter, the kind of damp, overheated little student place where the windows fogged at the corners and everyone inside looked faintly trapped under their own deadlines. 

Backpacks knocked against chair legs. Someone in a Briar sweatshirt was hunched over a laptop at the counter with the desperate, glassy focus of a man about to submit an essay he had not read back once.

The barista kept calling out names that sounded nothing like what people had ordered under, and every time the door opened, cold air slid across the floor hard enough to make her press closer into Garrett’s side without really thinking about it.

Garrett Graham had this stupid, unfair body heat that made him impossible not to lean into, especially when they were standing in line and he had one hand laced through hers, loose but secure, thumb brushing absently over the side of her finger like he didn’t even know he was doing it.

Her other hand was wrapped around his forearm, fingers resting over the thick sleeve of his hoodie, holding him in place with a kind of lazy ownership she would have denied if anyone pointed it out. 

He’d come from morning skate, hair still damp at the edges from the shower, curls drying messily over his forehead, the faint clean smell of soap and cold air clinging to him beneath the richer, steadier scent that was just Garrett. 

His cheeks were a little pink from the wind. There was a small nick near his jaw from where he’d shaved badly or taken an elbow or committed some other hockey-adjacent act of violence against his own face, and every time he looked down at her, his mouth did that little half-lift like he was privately pleased she existed within arm’s reach.

“You’re staring,” he murmured, not moving his eyes from the menu board.

“I’m reading your face.”

Garrett huffed a laugh through his nose, thumb dragging once over the back of her hand. “Yeah? What’s it say?”

She tipped her head against his arm, squinting up at him like she was studying something academically important and not just the ridiculous line of his jaw. “Mostly, ‘I’m Garrett Graham and I think I’m very charming because strangers clap when I skate in circles.’”

He looked down at her then, grin spreading properly, bright and immediate enough that it made the old lady in front of them glance over like she had felt the wattage shift in the room. “Skate in circles?”

“Fast circles.”

“Baby, I scored twice last night.”

“I know,” she said, because she’d been there in the stands with her hands shoved into her sleeves and her throat going raw from yelling, because she’d seen the whole student section lose its collective mind when he slammed the puck into the net and turned with that sharp, triumphant lift of his chin like he had heard them all and expected nothing less. “Congratulations on your circles.”

Garrett leaned down, mouth brushing the top of her head in a kiss that was barely a kiss, more a warm press of amusement into her hair. “Mean.”

“You like me mean.”

“Mhm.”

She smiled despite herself, cheek still tucked near his bicep, her fingers tightening around his forearm for one second before relaxing again. 

The line shuffled forward. Garrett moved with it, bringing her with him by their joined hands, and for a few minutes everything was ordinary in the softest possible way.

The hiss of milk steaming. The sharp grind of beans. Garrett bending slightly to hear her over the noise when she muttered that the seasonal latte sounded like something invented by a candle company. His laugh warming the space just above her ear. Their hands swinging once between them when the guy behind the register dropped a stack of paper cups and swore under his breath.

Then the door opened behind them again, letting in a gust of cold and a cluster of perfume and high voices, and she felt Garrett’s attention shift before she even knew why. His head turned a fraction. His hand stilled in hers. The thumb stopped moving.

“Oh my god, Garrett!”

The voice was bright and delighted and close enough that she felt it hit the back of her neck before the girls fully came into view. There were three of them, all bundled in nice coats and glossy hair and the kind of leggings that had never once been asked to survive a dryer cycle. 

One of them had a Briar hockey beanie pulled low over her ears, the logo sitting right above her forehead like a small, knitted declaration of loyalty. They slid into the space beside him with easy confidence, smiling up at Garrett as if the line had simply rearranged itself to accommodate them and anyone attached to his hand was a background character.

“That game last night was insane,” the girl in the beanie said, eyes wide, lashes doing athletic work of their own. “Like, actually insane. You’re so good.”

Garrett’s mouth kicked up automatically, not the soft smile he’d been giving her, but the public one. The one with more teeth. The one that knew how to stand in a hallway after a win and absorb praise without looking too hungry for it. “Thanks. Yeah, it was a good one.”

“A good one?” another girl said, laughing like he’d said something far more charming than he had. “You destroyed them.”

He laughed, easy and low, shoulders shifting under her hand. “Wouldn’t say destroyed.”

“I would,” beanie girl said immediately. “That second goal? Are you kidding? We were screaming.”

“Yeah?” Garrett said, and it was harmless. It was nothing. It was the same voice he used with half of campus because half of campus seemed to know him, or want to know him, or want to be able to say they had stood close enough to smell his shampoo in a coffee shop line. 

He wasn’t touching them. He wasn’t flirting, not really. He was just being Garrett, open and amused and casually lit up by attention, the way he had been built to be before she ever got there. Still, her fingers tightened where they rested against his forearm.

Nobody looked at her. That was the part that made the first thin crack open under her ribs, not even a quick polite glance, not even the little social flicker people usually gave when they realised someone was standing close enough to matter. 

Their attention moved over her and around her with the smooth indifference of water around a rock, all of them angled toward Garrett like he was the only person in the coffee shop with a pulse.

Garrett shifted his weight. One of the girls said something about the next game, about seats, about maybe bringing a sign, and he laughed again, shaking his head. “Please don’t bring a sign.”

“Oh, we absolutely are now.”

“Great,” he said. “Love that for me.”

The line moved. The girl in the beanie stepped half a foot closer to avoid someone squeezing past with a drink carrier, and Garrett, without looking down, without seeming to register the exact mechanics of it, let go of her hand.

His hand simply opened. Hers was there, and then it wasn’t. The warmth vanished from between her fingers so suddenly that her whole body seemed to notice before her brain caught up, palm cooling in the empty air, arm hovering stupidly for half a second beside her hip. Something in her stomach dropped hard and clean, like stepping onto a stair that wasn’t there.

She pulled her hand back and folded both arms across her body, tucking her fingers under her elbows because she needed them somewhere and she refused to let them hang there looking abandoned. 

Her throat tightened in a way that felt childish enough to make her angry. Ridiculous. Embarrassing. It was a hand. He’d dropped her hand, not pushed her into traffic. He was allowed to speak to people. Girls were allowed to compliment him. 

The world had not ended because three pretty girls in expensive coats had decided Garrett Graham deserved to be admired over coffee. Unfortunately, her body didn’t seem interested in the rational legal framework of the situation.

Garrett was still talking. “Yeah, playoffs are gonna be brutal,” he said, one hand lifting briefly to rub at the back of his neck. “But we’re good. We’ve got it.”

“Of course you do,” one of the girls said, soft and admiring in a way that made her teeth press together.

She stared at the chalkboard menu until the words blurred into shapes. Latte. Mocha. Dirty chai. Almond milk seventy cents extra, because even milk alternatives had decided to participate in the humiliation. 

Her eyes prickled and she blinked once, hard, willing the feeling back down into her chest where it belonged. She would not cry in a coffee shop because her boyfriend was popular. She would not become the sort of girl who stood beside Garrett Graham and made a scene every time someone wanted a piece of him.

“Okay, well,” beanie girl finally said, dragging the words out with a smile, “good luck this weekend.”

“Thanks,” Garrett said.

“Bye, Garrett,” they chorused, all sweetness and perfume and teeth.

“Bye,” he said, giving them a quick little nod as they peeled away toward the pickup counter, one of them glancing back over her shoulder before whispering something that made the others laugh.

For a second, neither of them moved. The line had crept forward again, the old lady in front of them placing an order with surgical precision, and Garrett’s attention came back to her in pieces.

First the side of her face. Then the arms crossed tightly over her chest. Then the way she wasn’t looking at him.

He exhaled through his nose, quiet but not quiet enough. “Can we not do this shit here?”

Her head turned sharply, and the motion made the wetness in her eyes feel dangerously mobile. “Do what?”

Garrett’s jaw worked once. He glanced toward the counter, then back at her, lowering his voice. “This. Can we not have this argument again in public?”

The words landed badly, tired in a way that made the hurt flare into something hotter because now she was not only pathetic, she was predictable. A familiar inconvenience. A weather pattern he could see forming from across campus.

She shook her head, once, small and sharp, her mouth pressing together because if she opened it too fast something ugly was going to come out. “Fine.”

“Don’t do that.”

She looked away, blinking again, furious with herself for the stupid shine gathering at the bottom of her vision. “I’m not doing this here.”

Garrett made a frustrated sound under his breath, dragging a hand over his mouth. “What, I’m not allowed to talk to anyone now?”

Something in her face must have cracked because his expression shifted almost immediately, the defensive edge catching on whatever he saw in her eyes. She hated that too. Hated that he could make her feel small and then notice she was small and soften before she had decided whether she wanted him to.

“You dropped my hand,” she said, and it came out quieter than she meant it to. Worse, somehow. Small enough to be honest.

Garrett blinked. “I didn’t–” He stopped, looking down like his own hand might provide testimony. His fingers flexed once at his side, empty. “I didn’t mean to.”

She swallowed, arms still locked tight across her body. “Okay.”

“Baby.” He sounded less annoyed now, more strained, like the fight had shifted under his feet and he was scrambling to find the right angle before it got bigger. “I didn’t even realise.”

“I know.”

“But you’re mad.”

“I’m not mad.”

Garrett stared at her.

She looked at him then, eyes still watery, face arranged with all the dignity she could scrape together while standing under a chalkboard advertisement for peppermint syrup. “I’m not.”

“Okay,” he said, in the careful voice of a man who didn’t believe her but had, at some point, developed a survival instinct. He reached for her hand again, fingers sliding between hers, warm and familiar, thumb pressing over her knuckles like he could put the thing back exactly where it had been. “There. Better?”

It should have made her angrier. Maybe it did, a little, because there was something so Garrett about the quick fix, the half-teasing delivery, the assumption that touch could smooth the wrinkle if he caught it fast enough. 

But his hand was around hers again, secure now, and her body betrayed her with immediate, humiliating relief. The awful hollow place in her stomach eased by half an inch.

She sighed through her nose, looking down at their joined hands. “Kind of.”

His mouth twitched, but he didn’t let it become a full smile. “Kind of?”

She gave him a look.

“Okay. Taking the win.” He tugged her closer with their linked hands, and after one stubborn second, she let herself be moved. Let her shoulder brush his chest. Let her crossed arm unfold just enough for her free hand to settle against his hoodie again, lower this time, more hesitant. He dipped his head and pressed a kiss to the top of hers, soft and brief, his lips lingering for a beat like an apology he hadn’t figured out how to say yet. “Come on. We’re up.”

The barista looked between them with the dead-eyed discretion of someone who had seen five breakups, two proposal rejections, and an entire group project meltdown before noon. Garrett stepped up to the counter without letting go of her hand.

“Hey,” he said, easy again but quieter, like some part of him was still turned toward her. “Can I get a large black coffee, and then a medium iced vanilla latte with oat milk, extra shot, light ice?”

She looked up despite herself.

He didn’t look at her when he said it. Didn’t ask. Didn’t check. Simply ordered it exactly right, down to the light ice she always forgot to ask for until the cup came out ninety percent frozen and she got mad about forgetting to ask. 

The barista typed it in. Garrett added a blueberry muffin because she hadn’t eaten breakfast and he knew that too because his ability to be an idiot and devastatingly attentive within the same five-minute window remained one of his least convenient qualities.

When they moved to the pickup area, Garrett kept her hand until they reached the little stretch of wall near the napkins and sugar packets. Then he let go only to turn toward her properly, both hands finding the belt loops of her jeans and hooking there with gentle, familiar confidence.

He pulled her in a few inches, enough that she ended up standing between the brackets of his feet with the toe of one sneaker touching his.

She kept her eyes on the centre of his chest because his face was currently a problem. “You’re going to stretch my jeans.”

“They’ll survive.”

“They’re vintage.”

Garrett’s smile softened, and because he was unfair, because he had always been at his worst when he got quiet, he lifted one hand from her belt loop and brushed her hair back from her cheek. 

His fingers were warm against the side of her face, careful where they tucked a loose piece behind her ear. The noise of the coffee shop kept going around them, milk screaming, cups knocking, somebody laughing too loudly near the door, but the space between his chest and hers seemed to hush.

“Sorry,” he said.

Her throat moved around nothing. “For what?”

His thumb rested lightly near her cheekbone, not quite stroking yet. “I shouldn’t’ve dropped your hand.”

The words were simple enough that they slipped straight under the part of her trying to stay braced. 

She nodded once, small. “Okay.”

Garrett’s eyes searched her face with more patience than he’d had three minutes ago, the crease between his brows barely there but visible if you knew where to look. “I’m serious. I didn’t mean to make you feel like that.”

Her lashes flickered. “Like what?”

He gave her a look then, knowing enough to make her chest ache. “Like you weren’t there.”

The back of her eyes burned again, which was absurd because he’d already apologised and she’d already decided not to cry in a place that charged six dollars for coffee. 

She nodded again, quicker this time, and tried to make her mouth do something normal. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not, really.”

“Garrett.”

“What?” His thumb moved then, a slow pass over the apple of her cheek, catching the edge of whatever expression she had failed to hide. “I’m saying sorry. Let me be mature for, like, ten seconds. This is rare for me.”

A laugh slipped out of her before she could stop it. Small, wet at the edges, but real enough that his whole face changed in response, warming with relief like he’d been waiting for that exact sound. “You’re so annoying.”

“I know.” He leaned down a fraction, his forehead almost brushing hers, voice dipping lower. “Still sorry.”

She breathed out. The fight hadn’t disappeared, it had gone somewhere softer, folded itself into the familiar shape of his hands on her waist and his face close enough that she could see the faint shadow of stubble near his jaw. 

There were still girls at the pickup counter laughing over something, still a whole campus outside that knew Garrett’s name too easily, still the old sharp little worry that loving someone like him meant learning to share the sight of him with everyone. But right here, with his fingers hooked through her belt loops and his thumb warm on her cheek, the hurt had less room to move.

“It’s okay,” she said again, and this time she meant it enough for now.

Garrett watched her for a second longer, like he was checking whether the words had landed properly or just been placed there to end the conversation. Then he tugged her forward, gentle but decisive, and tucked her into his chest.

She went without much resistance, which was its own form of surrender. Her cheek found the front of his hoodie, right over the solid warmth of him, and she slid her arms around his waist with a quiet, grudging little sigh that made him huff a laugh above her. 

He rested his cheek on the top of her head, one arm folded around her back, the other hand still loose at her hip as they stood pressed together near the pickup counter like every other annoying couple on campus.

“You’re still kind of mad,” he murmured into her hair.

“I’m thinking about it.”

“Fair.”

“You ordered me a muffin.”

“I did.”

“That helped.”

His hand moved once along her back, not even a full rub, just a steadying pass that settled between her shoulder blades. “You gonna eat the muffin or just pick at it and tell me you’re not hungry?”

She closed her eyes against his chest, listening to the dull, steady thump under his hoodie, the low vibration of his voice moving through him before it reached the air. “Depends how sorry you are.”

Garrett laughed softly, cheek still pressed to her hair. “So I’m buying a second muffin.”

“Maybe.”

“Extortion.”

She smiled against him where he couldn’t see it. “Mhm.”

Their names were called a minute later, mangled so badly that Garrett lifted his head and squinted toward the counter. “Did he just call me Gerald?”

She tilted her face up, chin still against his chest. “Gerald Graham.”

“Don’t.”

“Briar hockey legend Gerald Graham.”

“I’ll leave you here.”

“No, you won’t.”

He looked down at her, and the smile that came over his face was softer than the joke deserved. “No,” he said, thumb brushing once at her hip before he finally let her go to grab their drinks. “I won’t.”

The coffee shop near campus hadn’t changed enough to be fair. That was the first thing she thought when she stepped inside and the bell above the door gave its same thin, tired little jangle, barely audible over the hiss of milk steaming and the flat slap of someone dropping a notebook onto a table. 

Same foggy windows. Same uneven line curling past the pastry case. Same chalkboard menu with seasonal drinks written in careful, loopy handwriting. Same smell of burnt espresso and cinnamon syrup and damp coats warming too fast under bad heating.

Different month. Different coat. Different ache under her ribs.

She stood in line with her hands shoved into her sleeves, trying not to look at the stretch of wall near the pickup counter where she had once stood tucked against Garrett’s chest.

It was stupid, how places did that, held onto things without permission. A table wasn’t just a table if you had once sat there with your knee pressed against someone else’s under it. A corner wasn’t just a corner if someone had kissed the top of your head there while your coffee went cold.

It had been a few weeks since Drunk Shakespeare, which meant it had also been a few weeks since Garrett had driven her home while she sat glittering and drunk in his passenger seat, apologising with her fingers caught in his sweater like she could keep the night from ending if she held on hard enough. 

She remembered pieces of the drive more clearly than she’d expected to. The low warmth from the heater against her bare knees. Garrett’s hands on the wheel, steady, thumbs resting near the spokes. The quiet between them that didn’t feel empty so much as overfilled. 

His voice, once, asking if she was going to make it to her door without eating pavement. Her own voice, offended and slurred, telling him she had incredible balance. The way he’d smiled at the road and not pushed.

He’d walked her up. He’d waited while she found her keys. He hadn’t kissed her, which had somehow felt kinder and worse than if he had. He’d only said, “Text Allie before she murders me,” and stood there with his hands in his pockets until she got inside.

Since then, they’d existed in the strange, charged quiet of almost. A couple of texts about nothing much. One from her the next morning saying, got home alive, sorry if I was insane. One from him ten minutes later, saying, you accused me of whoring for theatre but otherwise pretty manageable. Then a pause. Then, seriously though, you okay? 

And she had stared at that one for too long before answering, yeah. hungover but okay. thank you for getting me home. He had replied, always, which was unfairly Garrett of him and therefore had been left unanswered for two full hours because she didn’t trust herself around the word.

After that, campus had become a series of almost-run-ins. Garrett across the quad with Logan and Tucker, head tipped back laughing at something Logan said with too much hand movement. Garrett outside the rink, hair wet from a shower, duffel bag over one shoulder, eyes catching on hers for one second before the flow of people separated them. Garrett in the back of a lecture hall she was passing, pencil between his fingers, looking down at his notes with a focus that made her chest hurt. 

And now she had three missed calls from Allie about rehearsal scheduling, a tote bag heavy with scripts and notebooks digging into her shoulder, and an iced vanilla latte waiting at the end of the counter with her name on the sticker, spelled wrong in a way that had begun to feel personal.

She grabbed it too fast, because the strap of her bag was slipping and the student beside her was reaching for their own cup and someone behind her said “excuse me” with the panic of a man late to a class he was already failing.

Her fingers closed around cold plastic. She turned and ran straight into Garrett Graham’s chest.

The lid popped under her palm. Coffee sloshed up against the inside of the cup, a thin beige wave nearly breaching the plastic rim before she jerked it back with a sharp, breathless, “Sorry!”

His hands came up immediately, not quite touching her, hovering in the space around her arms as if his body had started to catch her and his brain had hit the brakes. 

“No, no, my bad–” Garrett stopped so abruptly the sentence almost tripped over itself. His eyes flicked from her drink to her face, and then the back of his neck flushed faintly above the collar of his hoodie. “I was, fuck. I was standing too close to you. I wanted to talk to you, but I–” He let out a short breath, half laugh, half embarrassment, dragging one hand through his hair. “Sorry. That’s my bad.”

For a second, she just looked at him. He was close enough that the coffee shop noise seemed to soften into static around them. Navy Briar hockey hoodie, sleeves pushed up to his forearms. Dark curls a little flattened at one side like he’d been wearing a cap recently and had taken it off without checking the damage. 

A faint shadow along his jaw. A healing bruise near one cheekbone, yellowed at the edges, barely visible unless someone had spent too many hours learning the geography of his face from too close. She had the stupidest urge to touch it.

Instead, she adjusted her grip on the cup and shook her head. “No, that’s… that’s okay.”

Garrett’s mouth pulled slightly, careful around the smile like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to use the full thing. His eyes dropped to the drink in her hand, and something softer crossed his face. “Iced vanilla latte. Extra shot?”

The smallness of it got her, like a finger pressed gently into an old bruise. She huffed a laugh before she could stop it, looking down at the cup because looking at him while he remembered things was dangerous. “Yeah.”

“Light ice?”

Her eyes closed briefly. “Fuck.” She looked at the cup, already mostly ice. “I forgot to ask.”

Garrett laughed under his breath, warm and immediate, the little thread between then and now pulling tight enough to feel. “Rookie mistake.”

“I’ve been ordering coffee by myself for weeks, Graham. I’m basically feral.”

“Clearly. No supervision at all.”

She laughed softly, enough that his shoulders loosened by a fraction. The space between them was awkward in that particular way that came after knowing someone’s body better than you knew how to talk to them. 

Too close felt reckless. Too far felt theatrical. They stood in the worst possible middle of it near the pickup counter while people moved around them with winter coats and laptops and paper cups, the whole coffee shop politely refusing to pause for the resurrection of anyone’s romantic history.

Garrett rubbed his thumb once along the side of his own cup, which she only noticed because she was trying not to stare at his mouth. “Um.” He glanced toward the door, then back at her. “How’ve you been?”

She nodded too quickly. “Yeah. Good. Been… busy. But good.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She shifted the tote bag higher on her shoulder. “Rehearsals have been kind of insane. Dexter decided we need to add another audience bit because, uh, chaos is cheaper than therapy.”

Garrett’s mouth twitched. “That tracks.”

“And one of my classes has decided the end of semester is a great time to discover group presentations, which feels illegal.”

“It should be.”

“Right?” She took a small sip of the coffee and immediately winced at the amount of ice crowding the straw. “Anyway. Busy. But good.”

Garrett nodded, eyes staying on her face like he was trying very hard not to miss any of it. “Same. Hockey’s been…” He paused, because hockey was not simply busy. “A lot. We’ve got playoffs coming up, so Coach is in that fun stage where every drill feels like a personal attack.”

She smiled despite herself. “So normal and relaxed.”

“Very. Love when a grown man with a whistle implies my moral character depends on backchecking.”

Something small moved in her chest. The whistle. She knew enough about that word to hear the edge buried under the joke, even if he smoothed it fast.

Garrett must have seen the flicker in her face because his expression shifted a little. He looked down briefly, then toward the cluster of worn couches near the front window. One was empty, the ugly brown one with the sagging middle and the little round table beside it carved with three sets of initials and what looked like a poorly drawn penis. 

He gestured toward it with his cup, casual enough that it was almost convincing. “Did you want to sit?”

The question hung there, stupidly huge for something so ordinary.

She looked at the couch. Then at him. “Sure.”

They moved together without touching, which somehow required more concentration than holding hands ever had. Garrett let her go first through the narrow gap between tables, turning slightly to block the path when a guy with a backpack nearly clipped her shoulder, and she pretended not to notice because noticing all the quiet practical things he did had always been bad for her. 

He sat on the far end of the couch, leaving space between them. She sat beside him with one leg tucked slightly under the other, coffee balanced between both hands, the tote bag at her feet. The cushion dipped toward him in the middle, gravity taking a side in the matter.

For a few seconds, they only drank coffee and watched campus move past the fogged glass. Outside, people hurried with their shoulders hunched, scarves pulled up, cheeks pink from the cold. A couple paused under the awning to share one umbrella so badly that both of them were getting wet and laughing about it. 

Garrett nodded toward the script peeking from her tote. “So what’s the next one? More public indecency with classical literature?”

She snorted into her straw. “Not this time. It’s technically contemporary.”

“Technically?”

“There’s no good way to explain it without sounding pretentious.”

“I watched a man in velvet call me pookie in front of half of Briar. I think I can handle pretentious.”

“Fair.” She leaned back into the couch, feeling the old shape of talking to him slide in before she could brace against it. “It’s this weird little black-box thing about a family dinner that goes completely off the rails. Everyone’s lying to everyone. Somebody finds out their dad has a second family. There’s a monologue about soup that makes no sense until the last scene, and then it somehow ruins your life.”

Garrett stared at her. “Soup?”

“It’s symbolic.”

“Of the second family?”

“No, of the mother’s emotional repression.”

“Obviously,” he said, nodding solemnly. “My bad.”

She bit back a smile. “I told you it sounded pretentious.”

“No, no, I’m following. Soup equals trauma.”

“Yeah. Kind of.”

“And you’re in it?”

“Yeah. I’m the younger daughter. So basically I spend two hours trying to keep everyone calm and then I scream at a roast chicken.”

Garrett’s eyes lit with amusement. “That feels right for you.”

“Excuse me?”

“I mean that as a compliment.”

“You think I have scream-at-poultry energy?”

“I think you have very strong ‘I’ve been polite for too long and now everyone needs to suffer’ energy.”

She laughed then, properly, and Garrett’s face did that awful, lovely thing where he looked pleased before he could hide it. It softened the line of his mouth, took some of the caution from his eyes, and for half a second they weren’t exes sitting on a couch with weeks of bad history between their knees. They were just them, caught in the tiny relief of making each other laugh.

“What about you?” she asked, because the quiet after her laugh was too warm. “How’s hockey besides the moral backchecking?”

Garrett groaned, tipping his head back against the couch. “Brutal. Logan took a puck to the thigh during practice yesterday and spent twenty minutes acting like he’d been shot in a war.”

“That sounds like Logan.”

“He made Tuck look at it.”

“Why?”

“Because he said Tucker has dad energy and would know if it was medically concerning.”

She looked at him over the lid of her coffee. “Did Tucker know?”

“Tucker poked it once and said, ‘That’s gonna bruise.’”

She smiled into her straw. “And Dean?”

“Dean suggested amputating.”

“Helpful.”

“Then he asked if we thought the scar would make Logan hotter.”

“And did you?”

Garrett looked at her, deadpan. “I said nothing because I’m a leader.”

“You absolutely said something.”

“I said scars are earned and whining subtracts sex appeal.”

She dissolved into another laugh, softer this time, one hand coming up to cover part of her mouth. “God, I forgot how stupid your house is.”

“Our house has layers.”

“Your house has mould.”

“We’re working on it.”

“You’ve been saying that since October.”

“Growth isn’t linear,” Garrett said, with such serious conviction that she had to look away before her face gave too much.

The conversation kept going after that, clumsy at first and then less so, like a machine clearing dust from its gears. Classes. Theatre gossip. Hockey gossip. Dean having decided he could cook because he made pasta once and then nearly poisoned the entire house. Tucker quietly throwing it out while Dean was distracted. Logan buying one of those massage guns and using it on his shoulder for approximately eight minutes before deciding it was too intimate and refusing to explain further. Allie texting her a photo of Dexter asleep on a prop couch with a half-eaten bagel on his chest and the caption our fearless leader has fallen.

Garrett laughed at all the right places. Listened at the right places too, which was more dangerous. He asked about the monologue she’d been nervous about, remembered the name of the professor she hated, made a face when she said her group project partner had used the phrase synergy in a theatre presentation. 

He talked about practice and team pressure without performing too much around it, one hand wrapped around his coffee, elbow on his knee, his shoulder angled toward her like he’d forgotten the space was supposed to stay neutral.

And she tried not to think about his hand in hers in this exact shop, the sudden empty air when he let go, the way her body had learned that loving Garrett in public meant being prepared to disappear without warning. The problem with trying not to think about something was that it tended to sit down beside you and order a drink.

She turned her cup slowly between both palms, watching the ice shift in the plastic. “I just wanted to say…” Her voice came out too quiet, and Garrett stopped mid-sip, eyes lifting to her immediately. That almost made it harder. “Properly, I mean. Not drunk in your car after calling you a stage whore.”

His mouth twitched, but he didn’t interrupt.

She breathed out, a careful little stream through her nose. The coffee shop felt too loud suddenly. Too bright. Someone near the window laughed at a video on their phone, tinny audio cutting through the room for two seconds before it stopped. The espresso machine shrieked. Her straw clicked against the lid once when her hand shifted.

“I’m sorry,” she said, looking at the cup because the cup was safer. “About how everything went down between us. I didn’t… I didn’t mean for it to end like that.”

Garrett didn’t say anything immediately. When she finally made herself look up, his expression had gone quiet in a way that made him look older than he usually did, less like the boy who could turn a whole rink toward him with one goal and more like the person underneath all that noise.

“You don’t have to–”

“I do,” she said, and the quickness of it surprised both of them. She softened her grip around the cup. “I do, Garrett. I was really hurt, and I think I made that your problem in ways that weren’t fair sometimes. Or… I don’t know. Maybe some of it was fair, but not all of it. I don’t think I knew how to tell you what was actually wrong without making it sound like I wanted you to become someone else.”

His jaw shifted once. He looked down at his own cup, thumb pressing lightly into the cardboard sleeve. “Someone less me.”

She swallowed. “Yeah. Maybe.”

A flicker crossed his face. A bruise accepting pressure.

“I didn’t want that,” she said, quieter now. “Not really. I loved you because you were you. The whole stupid Garrett Graham package. The hockey and the charm and the fact that bartenders and professors and elderly women all somehow think you’re delightful.” Her mouth pulled slightly, but the smile didn’t stay. “I just didn’t know how to be next to it without feeling like I was always one second away from being… I don’t know. Replaced? Embarrassed? Like everyone else knew some version of you I was supposed to pretend didn’t matter.”

Garrett looked at her then. Fully. No easy smile, no joke ready in his mouth.

She made herself keep going before she could lose the nerve. “And then I would get upset, and you’d get defensive, and I’d feel stupid, and then I’d be mean because feeling stupid made me want to bite something. So. Sorry.”

His mouth moved, almost. He huffed a breath, not a laugh. “You did bite.”

“I know.”

“Metaphorically.”

“Mostly.”

That got the smallest smile from him, there and gone. He leaned forward, forearms resting on his knees, cup dangling loosely between his hands. For a second, he watched the traffic of people outside the window. Then he nodded, once, not like he was agreeing with everything, but like he was choosing where to begin.

“I’m sorry too,” he said. “For a lot of it.”

She looked at him.

Garrett kept his eyes on the window for another beat before bringing them back to her. “I think I acted like if I wasn’t doing anything technically wrong, then you weren’t allowed to be hurt. Which is…” He grimaced slightly. “Not my best work.”

Her throat tightened with a small, awful tenderness. “No.”

“No,” he agreed, and the corner of his mouth twitched without humour. “And I don’t think I always understood that something could be nothing to me and still feel like shit to you. Like girls coming up after games, or people talking about stuff from before us, or… whatever.” He rubbed at the back of his neck, eyes dropping briefly to the table between them. “I thought if I said it didn’t mean anything, that should be enough.”

She turned the cup again, slower now. “Sometimes I wanted it to be.”

“Yeah.” His voice went softer. “Me too.”

The words settled between them, not fixing anything, but making the shape of the broken thing clearer. She felt herself breathing differently. Deeper, as if her ribs had been holding one position for months and had finally been allowed to move.

“I also got tired,” Garrett said, and the honesty of it made her eyes lift again. He looked careful, but not cruel. “Not of you. I don’t mean that. I just… I didn’t know how to keep proving I wanted you in a way that actually sunk in. And then I’d get frustrated because I felt like I was failing a test I didn’t understand, and I’d make it worse by being an asshole about it.”

She nodded, a small, painful thing. “You did make it worse sometimes.”

“I know.” He glanced at her, mouth softening faintly. “You made it worse sometimes too.”

“I know.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

They sat in that for a moment, the kind of quiet that would have terrified her once because it wasn’t clean. Nobody had won. Nobody had produced the perfect sentence that made all the old versions of them behave better retroactively. There was only Garrett on the couch beside her, coffee cooling in his hand, telling the truth without trying to charm his way around the ugly parts.

She was opening her mouth to say something else – she didn’t even know what yet, only that it felt important, something about how the coffee shop had been one of the places she kept thinking about, how stupid it was, how small things had started to feel enormous because she had been too proud to ask for them directly – when a voice cut through the space beside them.

“Garrett!”

Her stomach dropped so fast it was almost physical. The universe loved symmetry when it was being a bitch.

Garrett turned his head. Two girls had stopped near the edge of the couch, both holding drinks, one with a Briar hockey sweatshirt half-hidden under her coat. Pretty. Bright. Familiar in the campus way, faces she might have seen at games or parties or in the background of someone else’s Instagram story. 

One of them was already smiling like she had caught him at a perfect time because Garrett Graham sitting alone with a girl-shaped person didn’t register as occupied in the eyes of the general public.

“Oh my god, hi,” the girl said, stepping closer. “Sorry, we just wanted to say–”

Her fingers tightened around her cup. The conversation they’d been having folded in on itself immediately, delicate as tissue paper in a fist. Heat crawled up her neck, her body remembered before her mind had time to decide what was fair. The hand opening. The sudden empty air. Her arms crossing over her body in this same coffee shop while Garrett smiled for someone else.

Her gaze dropped to the table. That was it, then. Stupid, ugly, inevitable. He hadn’t changed. Not really. Maybe nobody did. Maybe people could apologise and mean it and still remain exactly themselves when the world came knocking. 

Garrett would smile politely, and the girls would gush about the game, and she would sit there holding a watery latte while the old humiliation slid itself neatly back under her skin like it knew the route.

Garrett’s voice came before the girl could finish. “I’m having a conversation.”

He didn’t snap it across the coffee shop or make some dramatic scene that would turn heads. He said it evenly, with a polite little smile still on his mouth, but his brow had drawn in just enough to make the words land solid.

The girl blinked. “Oh, but–”

Garrett shook his head once. “But nothing. I’m in the middle of a conversation.” His tone stayed calm, almost gentle at the edges, which somehow made it firmer. “Don’t interrupt.”

The second girl’s mouth parted slightly. The first went pink in the cheeks, eyes flicking for the first time toward the couch, toward the space, toward the drink in her hands and the conversation she had walked directly into like it had been invisible until Garrett made it visible.

“Oh,” she said, awkward now. “Sorry.”

Garrett nodded, not unkindly. “It’s alright.”

The girls retreated with the stiff, embarrassed quickness of people who had expected a fan-service moment and instead been handed a boundary in public.

Garrett turned back to her like nothing especially dramatic had happened, though there was a faint tension in his jaw and a carefulness in his eyes when he found her face again. “Sorry,” he said. “What were you saying?”

She blinked. Once. Twice.

The coffee shop was still noisy around them. The espresso machine still screamed. Someone by the door still laughed too loudly. Outside, students still moved past the window with collars turned up against the cold. Nothing had stopped, and yet the whole air around the couch felt different, rearranged around one ordinary sentence he had not managed to say back then.

I’m having a conversation.

Her fingers loosened around the cup. She looked down at it for a second because her face felt too open, like if she kept staring at him he would see everything move through her at once: surprise, relief, the small sharp grief of knowing he could have done that before but didn’t know how, the softer ache of watching him do it now.

She let out a breath that almost became a laugh but didn’t quite. “I think I forgot.”

His mouth softened. “Sorry.”

“No.” She shook her head, eyes lifting back to his. “No, it’s fine. I just…” Her voice thinned, and she hated it, so she swallowed and tried again. “Thank you.”

He looked down briefly, the tips of his ears going faintly pink in a way that was so stupidly sweet she wanted to be angry about it. “Yeah.”

“You didn’t have to be mean.”

“I wasn’t mean. Kind of proud of myself, actually.”

A laugh escaped her then, small and helpless, and Garrett’s smile appeared in response, cautious but real. The relief of it made her chest hurt. “You want a sticker?”

“Maybe. Depends what it says.”

“Congratulations on basic manners.”

“I’d wear that.”

“You would.”

“On my helmet,” he said. “Very intimidating.”

She shook her head, but the smile stayed this time, even as her eyes stung a little. His expression shifted, humour easing back into something quieter.

“I should’ve done that before,” he said.

The sentence went straight through the middle of her. She looked at him for a long second. “Yeah.”

“I know.” He nodded, taking it without flinching. 

There was no point in pretending that didn’t matter. It mattered too much, actually. It mattered in a way that made her want to reach across the space between them and also made her want to sit on her hands to keep from doing exactly that. 

Because if he had done it before, maybe some tiny pieces of them wouldn’t have gone wrong in the same way. But he hadn’t. And now he had. And both things existed at once, irritatingly, painfully, without cancelling each other out.

She drew a slow breath, then set her cup on the table because her hands needed freedom from the evidence of how much she was feeling. “I was going to say,” she began, voice more stable now, “that I think I wanted you to guess a lot of things I never actually said.”

Garrett’s eyes stayed on hers. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Which is unfair. I know that.” She picked at the edge of the cardboard sleeve he had peeled halfway from his cup and abandoned on the table, just to have somewhere to put her fingers. “But sometimes saying it out loud felt so humiliating. Like, please hold my hand when girls talk to you. Please don’t make me feel like I’m standing beside you with a big invisible sign over my head that says temporary. Please make it obvious that I matter before I have to ask and then feel insane for asking.”

Garrett’s throat moved. He didn’t speak right away.

“And then because I didn’t say it like that,” she continued, softer, “it came out sideways. Like I was mad you had a past, or mad that people liked you, or mad that you were…” Her mouth tilted faintly. “You know. Disgustingly social.”

“Disgustingly social,” he repeated, with a weak little smile.

“You are. It’s one of your illnesses.”

“I’ve been meaning to get that checked.”

She almost smiled back, but the rest of the words were still there, waiting. “And I think you heard it as me trying to punish you for things you couldn’t change.”

“Sometimes,” Garrett admitted.

“I wasn’t trying to.”

“I know that now.”

Her eyes lifted. He leaned back against the couch, but not away from her. His hand was still on his coffee, his fingers tapping once against the lid before stilling. “Or I understand it better now, I guess. I don’t think I did then. I was so focused on the part where I felt accused that I missed the part where you were asking me to make room for you.” He paused, mouth pressing together like the next part did not come easily. “And I should’ve wanted to do that without acting like it was a burden.”

The words weren’t polished. They had little awkward edges. That made them worse, somehow, because she could hear him working through it instead of reciting something tidy.

She sat very still beside him. “I don’t think I made it easy.”

“No,” Garrett said, and the quick honesty of it pulled a startled laugh out of her. His mouth curved, but his eyes stayed serious. “You didn’t. You get mean when you’re scared.”

Her laugh faded slowly. She looked down at the table. “Yeah.”

“I get defensive when I feel like I’m failing.” His voice softened. “Great combo.”

“Terrible.”

“Historically bad.”

“People should study us.”

“They’d cancel the course.”

That made her smile, and the quiet after it was gentler than before. Garrett watched her for a moment, then shifted slightly closer, enough that the space on the couch changed by an inch. She noticed. He noticed that she noticed. Neither of them called attention to it.

“I miss you,” he said.

Her breath caught. She looked at him and found no performance in his face, no cocky half-grin waiting to rescue him if she didn’t answer. Garrett Graham, who could walk into any room and let it bend toward him, was sitting on an ugly coffee shop couch with a cooling drink in his hand, looking nervous enough that her chest went tender in self-defence.

“Yeah?” she asked.

His mouth pulled faintly at one corner. “Yeah.”

She nodded, once. “I miss you too.”

Garrett’s eyes closed for half a second. A blink that lasted too long, like something in him had unclenched and needed a moment before he trusted it. When he opened them again, they were warmer. Less guarded.

“Even when I was mad at you,” she added, because honesty had become contagious and she resented it.

“Same.”

“Even when I told Allie I hoped your next shot tasted like hand sanitiser.”

Garrett’s brows lifted. “That’s specific.”

“It was after Drunk Shakespeare.”

“Ah.” He nodded, solemn. “Honestly? Some of them did.”

“Good.”

“Deserved.”

She pressed her lips together around another smile. “You were very annoying that night.”

“I was kidnapped.”

“You thrived.”

“I adapted.”

“You got shirtless.”

Garrett gave her a look. “There was a chant.”

“Oh, well, if there was a chant.”

“I’m an athlete. Crowd energy affects my decision-making.”

“That explains so much about you.”

He laughed, and this time the sound didn’t hurt in the same way. Or it did, but differently, like blood returning to a sleeping limb, pins and needles and relief tangled together.

They stayed there longer than either of them probably meant to. Her coffee watered down. Garrett’s went lukewarm. The afternoon thinned at the windows, pale light sliding across the little table between them, catching the condensation rings and the tiny pile of sugar granules someone had spilled. 

People came and went. A study group took over the long table by the wall. The barista changed shifts. A guy in a hoodie knocked over a chair and apologised to it before realising furniture could not accept.

The conversation wandered again after the heavy parts, because neither of them could stand inside all that seriousness forever. 

Garrett told her Logan had been banned from using the phrase team morale after trying to justify ordering four pizzas at midnight on a Tuesday. She told him Allie had started referring to one of their castmates as the man with the emotional range of a damp sock and nobody could remember his real name anymore. 

Garrett admitted Dean had asked, with disturbing sincerity, whether theatre people did cast parties better than hockey players. She said yes, obviously, because theatre people had more glitter and fewer protein shakers. Garrett said Dean would take that personally. She said Dean took mirrors personally.

At some point, her knee had ended up angled toward his. At some point, Garrett’s hand had shifted from his cup to the couch cushion between them, fingers resting loose near the seam. At some point, she’d stopped planning every breath before she took it.

Eventually, Garrett looked at the time on his phone and made a face. “I’ve got practice in forty.”

“Gross.”

“Yeah.” He slipped the phone back into his pocket but didn’t stand. His eyes came back to her, and the hesitation there made her stomach warm and nervous all at once. “Can I ask you something?”

She tried for casual and only half-landed it. “Depends.”

“Can we get dinner tonight?”

The words were simple. Almost too simple for the way they moved through her. Dinner. Dinner had a time and a table and the possibility of sitting across from each other without using a coffee shop accident as an excuse. Dinner meant choice.

Garrett must have read something on her face because he leaned in slightly, quick to clarify. “Doesn’t have to be a whole thing. I just… I’d like to keep talking. Somewhere that doesn’t smell like burnt milk”

Her mouth twitched. “You don’t find this romantic?”

“I do, actually. That’s the problem. I’m being vulnerable beside a drawing of a penis carved into a table.”

She glanced down despite herself. “It’s a very detailed penis.”

“We deserve better.”

She laughed softly, then looked at him, really looked at him. At the cautious hope he was trying not to let take over his face. At the bruise fading near his cheekbone. At the curls falling over his forehead. At the boy she had loved, the boy who had hurt her, the boy who had just told two girls not to interrupt because he was having a conversation with her.

Maybe it was stupid. Maybe it wasn’t enough. Maybe enough was the wrong thing to be asking for from one coffee shop conversation and one public boundary and one apology that had taken months to become possible. But something inside her had shifted, turned toward warmth.

“Yeah,” she said. Her voice came out quieter than she expected, but steady. “I’d really like that.”

Garrett’s smile spread slowly, like he was trying to behave and failing in increments. “Yeah?”

“Don’t make me regret it.”

“I would never.”

She gave him a look.

“I would try very hard not to,” he amended.

“Better.”

He laughed, then stood because he actually did have practice and because if they sat there too long, the moment would start growing extra limbs. He grabbed his cup, then hers, nodding toward the trash. “You done?”

“Yeah. It’s mostly ice now.”

“Tragic.”

“You could’ve prevented this.”

“I know.” He took the cup from her, fingers brushing hers for one tiny second. Warm and brief and a little devastating. “Dinner. Seven?”

She nodded, watching him toss both cups into the bin. “Seven works.”

“I’ll text you.”

“You still have my number?”

Garrett turned back to her with the kind of look that made her immediately regret giving him the opening. “Baby.”

The word landed before either of them could stop it. He froze for half a second. So did she. It was soft. Accidental. Familiar enough to hurt and warm enough to make the hurt complicated.

Garrett cleared his throat, his hand going through his hair. “Sorry. Habit.”

Her cheeks felt warm. She looked down, then back up, because pretending it hadn’t happened would somehow make it louder. “It’s okay.”

His eyes held hers for a second, careful again but not retreating. “Yeah?”

She nodded. “Yeah.”

The door opened and cold air moved through the coffee shop, lifting the ends of her hair and making the napkins on the counter flutter. Garrett glanced toward it, then back at her, shifting like he genuinely hated leaving and was annoyed at practice for existing in the middle of his own life.

“I should go,” he said.

“You should.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

He still didn’t move for another beat, and the smile that pulled at her mouth was small but real. Finally, Garrett backed up one step, then another, pointing at her as he moved toward the door. “Seven.”

“Practice,” she reminded him.

“I’m going.”

“You’re walking backwards in a coffee shop.”

“Because I’m charming.”

“You’re going to hit someone.”

“I’m very agile.”

He bumped lightly into a chair behind him. She raised her eyebrows.

Garrett steadied it with one hand, dignity only mildly damaged. “Chair came out of nowhere.”

She nodded solemnly. “Violent furniture.”

“Exactly.” He grinned then, full Garrett for one bright second, and her chest answered before she could tell it not to. “I’ll see you tonight.”

She nodded, fingers curling around the strap of her tote bag. “See you tonight.”

He turned and left before either of them could ruin it by adding one sentence too many. The bell above the door jingled as he stepped out into the cold, hoodie pulled up against the wind, shoulders broad beneath the navy fabric. 

Through the fogged window, she watched him pause on the sidewalk just long enough to pull out his phone. Hers buzzed a second later.

Garrett: Seven. And I’ll ask for light ice next time.

She stared at the message until her face started doing something dangerously close to smiling, then typed back with cold fingers and a heart that had no sense of self-preservation.

big talk from a man who got humbled by furniture.

The reply came almost immediately.

Garrett: Chair had bad intentions.

She laughed under her breath, small and stupid and impossible to stop, standing there in the same coffee shop where something had once gone wrong in a way neither of them had known how to fix. 

Then she slipped her phone into her pocket, picked up her bag, and stepped back into the afternoon with the strange, tender feeling that maybe not everything had to stay broken exactly where it broke.

❄︎ ❄︎ ❄︎

taglist ⋆⁺₊ ₄₄❅. @xlinxdax0704  |  @snowtargaryen  |  @goodbyetuesday  |  @staystrongsoa  |  @dadshirrt  |  @miya-111  |  @softburrow  |  @darlinglux  |  @waitingforsmartpeople  |  @seon9yeonie  |  @kmc1989  |  @laceyvt3  |  @sunny747  |  @cosmoh0lic  |  @blackgurlieee  |  @matchieee  |  @loomiz  |  @corvusmorte  |  @erin-alice  |  @cloudsxcherriesx  |  @lolskunk  |  @elizabeth123456767  |  @purplerainx1  |  @0witchtrials0  |  @pinkgiraffebeach  |  @lucyysthings  |  @outpostsworld  |  @s0ftdr1nks  |  @maybankslover  |  @instantplaiddream  |  @droppedyourhnd  |  @bsenpai  |  @urfavadi  |  @em1ly57  |  @parker-barnes-af  | click here to be added to the taglist!

[mattsmadness]

The Fit of It

idea: dean di laurentis being obsessed with his plus size girlfriend

a/n: take advantage of this because writers block normally hit me hard after two one shots. this one was for me 😛

To anyone who didn’t know Dean Di Laurentis, he seemed like a man who skimmed across the surface of life, never diving too deep into anything that didn't involve a hockey puck, a vintage bottle of scotch, or a good time. He was a creature of absolute privilege and devastating charm. He possessed a sharp, aristocratic jawline, eyes the color of a winter sky, and a lazy, dimpled smirk that had spent years acting as a skeleton key to almost any heart on Briar University’s campus.

People had expectations for a guy like Dean especially when it comes to who he’s dating. The campus gossip account expected him to end up with a girl who looked like she survived on nothing — someone who was fine lined, curated, and safely conventional who wouldn’t dare disrupt the aesthetic of a wealthy legacy athlete.

Then you crashed into his orbit, and Dean realized he’d been starving his whole life without even knowing it.

You didn't fit into a neat, predictable box, and you certainly weren't interested in shrinking yourself to fit into anyone else’s expectations. You were a gorgeous, soft, unapologetically curvy woman who moved through life with the kind of magnetic confidence that most people spent a lifetime trying to fake.

When you walked into a room, you didn't look around to see if you belonged; you just assumed the room was lucky to have you. You rocked outfits that hugged every single one of your curves, entirely indifferent to the outdated, arbitrary "rules" of what a plus-size woman was supposed to wear. If a dress showed off your thick thighs or a low-cut top revealed the soft, heavy curve of your breasts, you wore it with your chin held high and a defiance that was utterly intoxicating.

And Dean? Dean was completely, hopelessly brought to his knees by it.

From the very first night he got his hands on you, Dean was entirely addicted. He was a man deeply ruled by tactile pleasures, and you were the ultimate sensory experience.

He didn't want a girl who felt like a collection of sharp angles and fragile bones; he wanted you.

He loved the dramatic dip of your waist and the magnificent, heavy fullness of your hips. He loved the plush, velvety softness of your thighs and the way your body naturally cushioned his whenever he pulled you onto his lap. To Dean, your body wasn't just beautiful; it was a sanctuary of warmth.

Whenever you were together behind closed doors, his large, calloused hockey-player hands were never still. They were always anchoring themselves to you, buried deep into the soft giving wealth of your waist or gripping the backs of your thighs to lift you effortlessly against him. In the quiet, shadowed darkness of his bedroom, his grip would tighten on your hips, a low, possessive growl vibrating deep in his chest.

He didn't just hold you; he claimed you.

"God, you’re perfect," he’d mutter against your skin, his lips tracing the column of your throat while his fingers dug into your curves. He loved that there was something substantial to hold onto, something real and incredibly lush that filled his hands completely.

Every sigh that escaped your lips, every time you arched into his touch with absolute certainty of your own desirability, only drove him further out of his mind. He worshipped the weight of you against him, the absolute solid reality of you, and the beautiful fact that you never tried to hide from him.

But as much as Dean loved your confidence when you were alone, that same confidence out in public did things to his heart rate that his conditioning coach wouldn't approve of.

Because you knew you looked good, you dressed like it and that was where Dean’s fiercely possessive streak came roaring to life.

Dean Di Laurentis was usually the king of cool, but all it took was you stepping out of his bathroom in a tight-fitting skirt that made your ass look utterly lethal, or a top that put your full, jaw-dropping cleavage on display, and his inner caveman took over.

When you wore something that showed off how incredible your breasts were, Dean’s eyes would darken to a stormy, midnight blue. Suddenly, he couldn't keep his hands off you. If you were at a crowded party at the hockey house, his arm wasn't just casually draped around your shoulders; his large hand was splayed flat against your lower back, his fingers tucked firmly into the waistband of your jeans, right where your lower back met the generous, breathtaking curve of your ass.

He became a human shield, guiding you through crowds with his chest pressed against your back, his chin practically resting on your shoulder. If a guy so much as blinked in your direction, Dean’s lazy smirk vanished, replaced by a cold, territorial stare that reminded everyone in the room that he was a six-foot-two athlete who wielded a hockey stick for a living and took/gave multiple punches each game.

He absolutely loved that you were proud of your body, but he was incredibly greedy about it. Whenever your ass looked particularly spectacular in a dress, he’d find excuses to pull you into a dark hallway, pinning your hips against the wall just to get his hands under the fabric. "You’re driving me fucking crazy tonight," he’d growl against your mouth, his large palms gripping the full, soft weight of your cheeks, pulling you flush against him so you could feel exactly what you did to him. He’d leave a biting kiss right on your collarbone, a deliberate, unmissable mark right above your low-cut neckline -

just so everyone else knew exactly who you belonged to before you walked back out into the crowd.

Yet, despite that burning possessive streak, Dean never wanted his jealousy to make you feel restricted. He never wanted to be the guy who told you what you could or couldn't wear. He wanted you to shine, but he also wanted to be the one who got to wrap you up and keep you safe when the party was over.

That was how his secret wardrobe overhaul began.

Dean, who usually wore a perfectly tailored size large to accommodate his broad, muscular athlete’s shoulders, suddenly underwent a massive style shift. On their weekly shopping trips or when ordering custom gear, he began systematically buying extra-large and double-XL hoodies, massive vintage crewnecks, and oversized t-shirts.

His teammates in the Briar locker room noticed immediately. Tucker stared at him like he’d lost his mind, and Garrett openly mocked him, asking if he was trying to bring back early-2000s baggy skater fashion or if he’d suddenly forgotten his own clothing size. Dean would just offer them his trademark, lazy smirk, flip them off, and change the subject.

They didn't need to know the truth. The real reason for the giant clothes was currently sitting on his bed at the beach house, scrolling through her phone.

Dean did it with calculated, fiercely protective intent. He wanted to ensure that the moment you inevitably complained about being chilly and reached into his closet, you would never encounter a shirt that clung too tightly to your stomach, a zipper that wouldn't track over your hips, or a hemline that rode up uncomfortably. He never wanted you to pull on a boyfriend's hoodie only to be met with the silent, suffocating sting of it feeling snug.

Instead, his clothes swallowed you whole. Always.

Whenever you pulled one of his massive, heavy-blend Briar Hockey hoodies over your head, the thick fabric draped over your curves with inches of room to spare. The hemline fell well past your hips, hitting mid-thigh, and the sleeves hung loosely past your knuckles, forcing you to roll them up just to hold your coffee mug.

You just thought he loved the baggy, oversized aesthetic. You’d laugh, teasing him about how he looked like a giant in his clothes, completely oblivious to the real reason.

But Dean knew. From across the room, he’d watch you pad around his kitchen wearing nothing but one of his XXL gray sweatshirts and a pair of wool socks. He’d take in the sight of you—completely relaxed, incredibly cozy, and looking impossibly soft. A deeply satisfied, intensely protective look would settle into his winter-blue eyes.

He’d walk over, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind, his hands sliding under the massive sweatshirt to find the bare, plush skin of your hips. He’d press a kiss to the crown of your head, breathing a silent sigh of relief knowing that in his house, under his watch, you would *never* have a fleeting moment of body doubt. You would never feel anything less than small, utterly cherished, and entirely enveloped in his warmth. You were his queen, and if he had to buy out an entire inventory of oversized fleece just to keep your fiercely beautiful confidence perfectly intact, he’d do it without a second thought.

To the rest of the world, Dean Di Laurentis was the careless, untouchable playboy who had everything handed to him on a silver platter. But to anyone who actually saw him in your presence—who noticed the way his hands constantly anchored to your curves as if he’d float away without them, or the way he practically drowned you in his own clothes just to keep you safe from the world—it was terrifyingly clear.

He didn't just love you. He worshipped the very ground you walked on, and he was entirely devoted to keeping your beautiful, confident light burning as bright as the sun, exactly as you were.

[mattsmadness]

Pucks and Pilates

Summary | When the Briar hockey team dismisses pilates as an easy workout, she stages a surprise conditioning session that leaves the elite athletes sweating and completely dismantled.

a/n | AFAB x Dean Di Laurentis - we don’t stand for AI in this house

———————————————————————————

The debate over whether a workout was legitimate or not usually didn't involve this much yelling, but the Off-Campus house had a way of turning everything into a full-scale NHL playoff argument on a Monday evening.

"It’s a luxury nap, guys. That’s what it is," Tucker insisted, lounging back on the worn-out velvet sofa with a homemade salmon bowl. "You lay on a leather carriage, you use baby weights, and you gossip."

"Do not finish that sentence, Tuck," Dean warned, not looking up from his laptop. Garrett was playing a video game, Logan was scanning his phone, and Hannah and Allie were sitting at the kitchen island, sharing a bowl of popcorn and watching the disaster unfold.

"I’m just saying," Garrett chimed in, moving over his headset. "It’s for people who want to stretch their hips after brunch. No offense to Gigi, you look great, but it’s not the same kind of hard core training we go through."

Sitting right next to Dean on the loveseat, Gigi didn't even look up from her iPad, where she was studying a marketing case study. She just smiled a small, a private smile, soft dimples flashing in her cheek.

Georgia "Gigi" Montgomery was born and raised in South Carolina, her family’s roots ran deeper than the the oaks on King Street, and her father was incredibly close friends with the Di Laurentis family. Dean and Gigi had been attached at the hip since they were children, a pair of gorgeous sweethearts with everyone in their elite bubble already had money on to get married. Currently, Gigi was a marketing major at Briar, but her true obsession was her extracurricular certification program. She had been studying, training, and teaching Pilates for the past year, completely mastering the science of movement.

Dean, who was utterly and completely obsessed with his girlfriend, shifted his weight and pulled her securely against his side. His hand immediately found the soft curve of her waist, his fingers tracing the skin just beneath the edge of her oversized Briar hockey sweatshirt. He leaned down, burying his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling her expensive, floral perfume.

"You guys are absolute idiots," Dean muttered against Gigi's skin, making her giggle softly. He looked up, his golden-boy features tightening with genuine warning. "I tried *one* of her advanced mat classes last month. My obliques felt like they were bleeding for a week. Retract the statement. Retract it before she makes you regret it."

"Gigi wouldn't hurt a fly," Logan joked, waving a hand. "She’s too sweet."

Gigi finally set her iPad down, tilting her head up to look at Dean. The sheer adoration in Dean's eyes was blinding; he instantly bent his head to kiss her lips, his hand moving to cup her jaw. They genuinely couldn't keep their hands off each other, completely tuning out the boys as they shared a sweet, lingering kiss.

When they finally broke apart, Gigi turned her big green eyes toward the living room, her thick, velvety Southern drawl entirely pleasant. "Y'all think my workouts are easy just because we don't sprint on ice?"

"We just think hockey players need heavy weights, Gi," Garrett said, flashing a bright smile.

"Understood," Gigi smiled back, entirely sweet and unbothered. She looped her arms around Dean’s neck, pulling herself onto his lap. Dean’s arms immediately wrapped around her lush, curvy hips, holding her like she was the center of his universe. She kissed his jawline softly. "Well, I hope y'all get some good rest tonight."

Nobody thought twice about the comment.

The next morning at 8:00 AM, the entire Briar varsity hockey roster stood in the weight room, looking completely bewildered. The heavy lifting racks had been pushed back. In their place was a grid of mats.

When the door opened, Gigi walked in, and the boys' jaws collectively dropped.

She looked like a total professional, wearing a matching baby pink set that accentuated every stunning curve of her waist and hips, her long hair tied up in a high, bouncy ponytail. Behind her walked Allie and Hannah, both wearing their own athletic gear and sporting matching, deeply devious smirks.

Gigi had slipped away to Coach Jensen’s office the previous afternoon without a word to anyone, setting up the ultimate surprise.

Dean, standing in the front row, blinked in shock before a massive, proud grin spread across his face. Gigi walked straight over to him, completely ignoring the thirty guys watching them. She slid her hands up his chest, and Dean immediately bent down to kiss her deeply, his hands gripping her waist tightly. "What are you doing here, baby?" he murmured against her lips.

"Giving the boys a little conditioning," she whispered back, giving his chest a playful pat before turning to the room.

Coach Jensen stepped up beside her, crossing his arms. "Gigi told me you boys have been looking stiff in the third period. Tight hip flexors, slow transitions. So today, she’s running your warm-up. Allie and Hannah are here to help demonstrate. Listen up, and don't embarrass me."

"Alright, everyone!" Gigi cheered, her voice bright, clear, and encouraging. "We’re going to do a fast-paced, high-intensity mat flow today. Grab a set of dumbbells over there. Please pick a weight you're genuinely comfortable with! We want to keep the movement fluid."

Tucker, Garrett, and Logan immediately marched over to the racks, confidently grabbing fifteen and twenty-pound weights. Dean, however, walked past them, giving his friends a warning look, and grabbed a pair of tiny, two-pound weights.

"Dean, what are you doing?" Logan laughed under his breath. "Those are for toddlers."

"Trust me, bro" Dean muttered, taking his spot in the front row so he could stay close to Gigi. He knew what was coming. He was dreading it, but he wanted to do well for her.

"Weights in hand, everyone down into a wide second-position plié squat," Gigi instructed, dropping into a flawless, deep squat. Her posture was perfectly upright, her hips open, her core locked. Hannah and Allie dropped right beside her. They weren't as perfectly flexible as Gigi, but they kept up beautifully, their form solid and well-ahead of the men.

"Arms out straight in a T-shape," Gigi said, keeping the pace brisk. "We’re going to hold the squat, and we're just going to do tiny, microscopic circles with the weights. Inward first. Keep it small, keep it moving!"

The hockey players dropped into their squats, holding their heavy weights out. For thirty seconds, it was fine.

"Now, freeze the arms," Gigi called out. "Lower the squat one inch. Lift an inch. Lower an inch. Lift an inch. Just a two-inch range of motion. Now, pulse it out! Pulse. Pulse. Pulse. Don't stop those arms!"

Within ninety seconds, the heavy weights felt like they were made of solid lead. Garrett’s shoulders began to smoke. Tucker’s biceps were shaking so violently his twenty-pound dumbbell was rattling against his grip.

"Oh my god," Logan gasped, his quads locked in a horrific burn.

Gigi walked through the rows, her movements graceful. She stopped by Logan, kneeling down beside him. With an incredibly sweet smile and a gentle touch of her hands, she adjusted his alignment. "Keep those shoulders drawing down your back, Logan. Press into your heels," she said softly, before standing up. "Now, keep holding the squat, flip your palms to the ceiling, and pulse the weights up! Ten, nine, eight... less reps, more pulse! Six, five..."

*THUD.*

Tucker literally dropped his fifteen-pound weights onto the turf. He stumbled blindly toward the back rack, his arms shaking like jelly, and desperately grabbed a pair of two-pound weights. Within five seconds, Garrett and Logan broke down, abandoning their heavy dumbbells to sprint for the two-pounders, their pride completely shattered.

Dean was surviving, but his teeth were clenched so hard his jaw ached. His muscles were screaming, his veins popping out against his skin as he tried to keep up. Gigi walked past him, lightly brushing her fingers against his lower back to remind him to engage his core. The subtle touch made him tighten his abs even harder, pushing through the burn just to impress her.

"Good adjustments, everyone!" Gigi cheered, not missing a beat. "Now drop the weights, grab your resistance loop bands, and slide them above your knees. Everyone down into a forearm plank!"

The room groaned as thirty elite athletes scrambled to slide the tight elastic bands over their thighs.

"Plank position! Feet wide against the band," Gigi called out, transitioning smoothly, only sweating a bit. "We’re going to tap the right toe out, then the left. Fast pace! Tap, tap, tap, tap. Keep those hips steady!"

Allie and Hannah were breathing heavily, but they kept their form tight, doing their best to keep with Gigi and easily outperforming the struggling men.

"Hips down, Garrett," Hannah teased from her mat, panting a little but still looking entirely in control.

Gigi walked over to Garrett, completely gentle but unyielding. She lightly placed her hand on his lower back, guiding his hips down to the perfect level. "Keep that belly button drawn into your spine, Garrett. You've got this. Now hold the plank, everyone! Don't rest! Drive your right knee to your chest, pulse three times, and switch! Pulse, pulse, pulse, switch! Fast transitions, let's go! Less rest, more work!"

The weight room turned into a chorus of agony. Sweat was dripping off their noses; their shirts were soaked. These guys routinely took bone-crushing hits on the ice, but this micro-movement, fast-paced conditioning was completely dismantling them.

Meanwhile, Gigi was flawless, glowing, and totally in control. She grabbed a small, squishy Pilates ball and demonstrated the next move.

"Alright, onto your backs! Put the Pilates ball between your inner thighs," Gigi ordered, her voice sweet but demanding. "Glute bridges! Squeeze that ball! Lift those hips to the ceiling! Now, tiny pulses at the top! Squeeze the ball, squeeze, squeeze, squeeze! Don't let those hips drop an inch!"

Dean’s hamstrings felt like they were being targeted by a blowtorch. He looked over at Logan, whose legs were shaking so hard he looked like a newborn deer trying to walk on ice. Tucker was face down on his mat, actively groaning into the foam.

"Hold at the top!" Gigi encouraged, clapping her hands. "Lift your heels! High heels, boys! Now pulse the hips up! Pulse, pulse, pulse! Ten, nine, eight, seven... give me everything you've got!"

"Gigi, please," Garrett begged, his voice cracking. "I'll take it back. It's so hard."

"You're doing so well, Garrett, keep pushing!" Gigi smiled, completely encouraging as she held her bridge perfectly, her curves looking incredibly toned.

"And... release!" Gigi finally called out.

The entire Briar hockey team collapsed instantly. It sounded like a battlefield. Men were flat on their backs, panting heavily, clutching their glutes and their abs. They were utterly, completely spent, dripping in sweat and staring at the ceiling in shell-shocked silence.

Dean rolled onto his side, breathing hard, his core vibrating from the exertion.

Gigi walked right over to him, stepping gracefully over the mats. She knelt down beside him, completely fresh and pristine. "You did so good, honey," she murmured, leaning down to press a soft, loving kiss to his dripping forehead.

Dean hooked an arm around her waist, pulling her down closer to him. He dragged her lips down to his, kissing her with an intense, breathless heat that made his teammates collectively groan in exhaustion. "You're amazing," he panted against her mouth, his eyes locked on hers with total adoration. "But that never gets any easier."

Gigi laughed, a bright, musical sound, and kissed his lips quickly one last time. She stood up, smoothing down her emerald leggings, and offered him a hand to pull him to his feet. The moment Dean was up, his arm went right back around her waist, pulling her curvy frame flush against his side.

Coach Jensen walked into the weight room, a massive smirk on his face as he looked at his destroyed roster. "Outstanding work, Georgia. Absolutely outstanding. Alright, boys. You're nice and warmed up. Get your gear on. Ice practice starts in ten minutes."

A collective, pathetic groan echoed through the room.

Garrett painfully rolled over, clutching his hip flexor as he looked up at Dean and Gigi, who were practically wrapped around each other. "Dean... your girl... she’s a demon. A beautiful, polite demon."

Dean just smirked, tightening his grip on Gigi’s waist and pulling her in for another kiss. "I warned you guys," Dean said, looking down at his teammates with a smug grin. "Next time, listen to the guy who's has to go through this monthly.”

———————————————————————————

- I love this sm. We probably won’t see more of Gigi and Dean for awhile bc I just have one shot story ideas rn and want to get them all out

[andy-15-07]

I can totally get behind more Dean Di Laurentis

Come Sit With Me

Pairing: Dean Di Laurentis  x Reader

Word Count: 1842

Request open!

Off campus masterlist

Dean noticed the staring before you did.

That was the annoying thing about him sometimes. He could be half-laughing at something Garrett said, one hand wrapped around a drink, looking like he was only barely paying attention to the room, and still catch every tiny thing that mattered.

Especially when it involved you.

You were standing across the crowded living room at the hockey house, talking to one of Garrett’s friends from class. Or maybe former friends. Dean had decided he did not care enough to remember the name. The guy was smiling too much, leaning in too far, and looking at you like he was trying to memorize your face for later.

Dean’s jaw tightened.

He said nothing at first.

Garrett, sitting beside him on the couch, glanced over and immediately followed his line of sight. “Oh,” Garrett said, because he was an annoying bastard and apparently enjoyed being observant for sport. “That guy.”

Dean took a slow drink from his cup. “What about him?”

Garrett’s mouth twitched. “He’s been looking at her for a while.”

Dean kept his expression blank with effort. “Has he.”

“Yep.”

Dean’s eyes stayed on you. “And you’re telling me this because?”

Garrett turned toward him with that look that always meant he was about to be unbearable. “Because you’re doing the thing.”

Dean finally looked at him. “What thing?”

“The quiet thing.”

“I’m not quiet.”

Garrett gave him a long look. “Dean, you’ve barely spoken in ten minutes.”

Dean ignored that and looked back at you just in time to see the guy laugh at something you said. He laughed a little too loudly. Too confidently. Then he leaned in again.

Dean exhaled through his nose.

Garrett saw the movement and smirked. “Yeah. That face.”

Dean gave him a warning look. “Say another word and I’m throwing your drink in the sink.”

Garrett grinned. “You love me too much to waste the alcohol.”

Dean made a very rude gesture with his hand and stood up before the situation could get worse. Garrett watched him go with open amusement, the traitor.

You were still talking when Dean approached, and the second you saw him, your expression changed. Not much. Just enough to soften. Enough to make him feel better immediately, which was a little unfair considering how annoyed he’d been three seconds ago.

“Hey,” you said, smiling.

“Hey.” His tone was calm, but he positioned himself slightly closer than necessary, just enough to make the point. “You’re needed.”

The guy you’d been talking to glanced between the two of you. “Oh. Right. Sorry. I was just,”

“It’s fine,” Dean said, because he was not rude, just very obviously done. Then he looked at you. “Come sit with me.”

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. But it was enough to make the guy’s smile flicker.

You blinked at Dean. “What?”

Dean held your gaze, all easy confidence and quiet certainty. “Come sit with me.”

You looked at the guy beside you, then back at Dean, clearly trying to work out whether he was serious. Dean didn’t move. Didn’t explain. Just stood there looking at you like there was no other reasonable option.

Then, very slowly, your mouth curved. “Okay.”

Dean’s hand settled at the small of your back the second you stepped closer, and the guy’s expression went just a little awkward.

“Nice talking to you,” you said politely.

The guy nodded, clearly too uncertain now to be smooth about it. “Yeah. You too.”

Dean guided you away before the conversation could revive itself.

You made it about three steps before you looked up at him and murmured, “What was that?”

He didn’t answer right away. He just led you to the couch, waited until you sat, then sat down and pulled you straight into his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Your eyes widened.

A few people on the opposite side of the room noticed too, which was exactly why Dean had done it.

He wrapped one arm around your waist and leaned back against the couch, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

You stared at him. “Dean.”

“What?”

“You did that on purpose.”

He looked innocent in the way only he could manage, which was to say, not at all. “Did what?”

“This.” You gestured vaguely around you, at the room, at your position in his lap, at the fact that everybody now knew exactly whose attention you had. “All of this.”

Dean’s mouth twitched. “I invited you to sit with me.”

“You did not mean this.”

“I absolutely meant this.”

You narrowed your eyes, but the smile threatening at the corner of your mouth ruined the effect. “You’re ridiculous.”

Dean settled his hand at your hip and gave you a look like he was weighing whether to be honest or smug. He chose smug. “He was staring.”

That made you pause. “You noticed that?”

Dean gave you a flat look. “Yes.”

“Since when?”

“Since before I came over.”

You turned slightly in his lap so you could look at him properly. “And you didn’t say anything.”

He tilted his head. “Would you have wanted me to make a scene?”

“No.”

“Then there you go.”

You watched him for a second. “So you just decided to carry me off like a territorial cat?”

Dean’s brows lifted. “I prefer confident boyfriend.”

You laughed softly. “You are definitely being territorial.”

His hand flexed once at your waist. “Maybe a little.”

The answer was so calm that it made you smile wider. Dean saw it and looked mildly offended by his own sincerity. “Don’t look so pleased with yourself.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

You leaned in just a little, close enough that only he could hear you over the noise of the room. “You got jealous.”

Dean’s eyes narrowed a fraction. “I did not get jealous.”

“You absolutely did.”

He looked at you for a long second, then said, very quietly, “He was looking at you like he had a chance.”

You blinked.

The room around you blurred a little at the edges, not because anything had changed, but because Dean had lowered his voice into that serious register he almost never used unless something actually mattered.

You studied him. “Did that bother you?”

Dean’s expression shifted, then softened in a way that made your chest go warm. “Yeah,” he admitted. “A little.”

Your lips parted.

He glanced away for half a beat like he regretted saying it, then looked back at you again, calmer this time. “I don’t like people thinking they can step in where they don’t belong.”

The words settled over you in a way that was equal parts flattering and dangerous. Because Dean wasn’t possessive in a loud, messy way. He wasn’t trying to own you. He was just honest enough to admit that he liked being the one you were with.

That, somehow, was worse.

In the best way.

You touched his cheek, and the tension in his face eased instantly. “He didn’t have a chance.”

Dean watched you for a second, still visibly less tense than before, then murmured, “Good.”

Your smile softened. “You know you could just tell me when you’re jealous.”

He gave you a flat look. “That seems humiliating.”

“It’s kind of cute.”

Dean made a face. “Do not call me cute.”

“You are cute.”

“No.”

You laughed under your breath, and the sound made his expression shift into something warmer, more private. He pulled you a little closer just because he could, and you let yourself settle against him.

Across the room, Garrett saw the whole thing and pointed at the two of you from the couch like he was deeply amused by the display. Dean ignored him.

You glanced toward the guy you’d been talking to earlier and noticed he had very wisely found another conversation already.

You looked back at Dean. “You scared him.”

Dean’s mouth curved slightly. “Good.”

You gave him an incredulous look. “You are enjoying this too much.”

“I’m enjoying you being here.”

That made you go quiet for a beat.

Dean noticed immediately, of course, and looked at you with that half-smile that always meant he knew exactly what kind of effect he was having.

You tilted your head. “You really wanted me to sit in your lap?”

“Yes.”

The answer was instant.

You blinked, then laughed softly. “That was very direct.”

Dean shrugged one shoulder. “You asked.”

“I did.”

He looked at you for a second, then added in a lower voice, “I like when you’re with me.”

The words should have been simple. Maybe they were. But coming from him, in the middle of a crowded room, with his hand at your waist and his attention fixed entirely on you, they landed with far more weight than they should have.

Your chest warmed all the way through.

You looked down for a second, then back up at him. “I’m already with you.”

Dean’s expression softened.

Then he smiled, small and real and just for you. “Yeah,” he said. “I know.”

His thumb moved once over your side, absent and familiar. The room was still loud around you,somebody laughing in the kitchen, music playing too loudly in the background, Garrett and someone else arguing near the stairs,but none of it seemed particularly important anymore.

Dean leaned forward and pressed a quick kiss to your temple, then settled back with obvious satisfaction.

You glanced up at him. “So this was all just because he was staring?”

Dean took a sip from his drink, then looked at you with a completely straight face and said, “He was looking at my girlfriend.”

Your face heated at the word girlfriend, though you absolutely hated that he knew it would.

Dean saw the reaction and smiled.

“You did that on purpose too,” you muttered.

He tilted his head. “Did what?”

You narrowed your eyes. “You know exactly what.”

Dean’s mouth curved, slow and smug and far too pleased with himself. “Maybe I just like reminding people.”

“Of what?”

“That you’re mine.”

You stared at him, and the room suddenly felt a little too warm.

Then, because he was Dean and clearly had every intention of making this worse before it got better, he leaned in and kissed you properly this time,quick but certain, just enough for everyone nearby to understand the assignment.

When he pulled back, he looked calm again, like he had not just made your whole face go warm in front of half the hockey house.

You, on the other hand, were definitely blushing.

Dean noticed and smiled.

“Oh,” he said softly, clearly delighted. “There it is.”

You buried your face briefly against his shoulder, mortified and smiling at the same time.

Dean laughed under his breath and held you a little tighter.

And when you finally looked up at him again, he was still smiling like he had won something.

Maybe he had.

Because for the rest of the night, you stayed in his lap, and Dean looked perfectly content to let everyone know exactly where you belonged.