just a place to reblog my favorite reader imagines/one shots, etc. to clear out my likes. 18+ content, minors dni. *this is a sideblog so i cannot follow back so if you follow me just know i love you!*
“Damn Graham, you get mauled by a fucking cougar or something?” Birdie asks. Garrett pauses mid-towel-off, brows knitting together for a second before realization dawns. A grin slowly spreads across his face as he glances over his shoulder. The hot shower had only made the pink scratch marks raked down his back stand out even more. Thanks to a little pre-practice sex.
“Well Birdie, considering my girlfriend’s four months younger than me…” he says, tugging a T-shirt over his head, “I’m gonna go with no.” The locker room erupts in laughter. Dean nods his head approvingly.
“Respect.” Dean says.
Logan squints at Garrett, and peers at his now shirt covered back skeptically.
“I’ll be honest… didn’t think she had that in her.” Logan says. Birdie nods in agreement. Dean looks like he’s contemplating his own thoughts about the situation.
“Seriously. She’s all sweet and quiet. I figured she’d be too shy to even raise her voice.” Logan offers. Dean’s eyebrows go up at the last part.
“Oh I’ve heard her raise her voice.” Dean exclaims. “Garrett! Garrett don’t stop!” He says trying to imitate your voice. Garrett chuckles and shakes his head.
“That was one time, and we were both a little tipsy and she was so embarrassed the next morning.” Garrett says pointedly, taking up for his shy girlfriend. Garrett grins.
“I mean when it’s just us, things get a little wild.” He offers with a shrug, the grin still gracing his lips. Dean points at him wagging his finger.
“Oh, there it is.” Dean says knowingly.
“What?” Garrett asks.
“That stupid grin.” Dean says with a sigh. Garrett just shrugs.
“You boys made assumptions about my girl, I’m happily letting you know there’s a good portion of her personality the public doesn’t get to see.” Garrett says happily, he slides open his phone to reveal a text from none other than you. He smiles down at his phone reading the message.
Baby 💛: I hope nobody notices your back… 🙈 I’m a little embarrassed…I’m not taking all the blame, though 🤭
Birdie folds his arms, peeking at the text over Garrett’s shoulder.
“So you’re telling me little Miss Sweetheart is secretly,” he begins. Garrett cuts him off with a grin.
“All I’m telling you she’s full of surprises.”Garrett says with a wink. The guys all exchange looks. Dean sighs dramatically before narrowing his eyes at him, jokingly of course.
“I hate how smug you are.” Dean says. Garrett slings his bag over his shoulder.
“You’d be smug too.” Garrett replies nonchalantly.
“Oh?” Logan asks, quirking a dark eyebrow in question. Garrett flashes a cocky grin.
“If you were dating my girl.” He offers. Three towels immediately get thrown at him.
“Get out of here! We all can’t get hot babes like you Graham.” Tucker says laughing. Garrett laughs, dodging every single towel.
“Hey don’t be mad that my girlfriend likes me.” He teases. Birdie points after him as he heads for the door.
“No, we’re mad because you get to go home to your hot girlfriend while the rest of us are out here sending ‘u up?’ texts.” Logan says. Garrett only grins wider.
word count: 2,766
ship: Garrett Graham x reader
rating: PG-13
summary: You and Garrett rarely get into real arguments. Little disagreements every now and then, sure, you’re both human. But legit fights? Not really. So when you do? It’s fucking awful.
notes: a masterlist? in this economy? shocked. notes2: gifs are from this gifpack :)
It’s not often you’re working during an event at Malone’s, but it does happen every so often. You know why you get put on the shifts, because Della trusts you. Because you’re someone that doesn’t just come in and do their job, but is thoughtful to what people might need, is conscious of cleaning up tables and getting refills and pitching in for whatever’s necessary, even if it’s not technically in your job description. Which is kinda what’s happening tonight—you’re moving all over the diner and bar, grabbing refills, taking orders, seeing what needs done and not waiting for someone to ask you for help, you’re just doing it.
You pause at the bar counter, reaching underneath to find your water bottle to take some greedy sips.
This event happens every year, Briar U athletics coming together to raise money for youth sports. There’s live music and an auction and sometimes you can even win dates with players on certain teams. You glance through the crowd of people to where Garrett is seated with Dean, Logan and some rookies.
You’re glad your Graham is off the market this year.
A small smile pulls the corners of your mouth before you draw in a breath to center yourself and get back to work.
—
Despite this being a fun event, Garrett has been tucked into the booth by the door since he’s arrived. The occasional hockey player will come up and talk to him, sometimes girls with raffle tickets, other times it’s Logan or Dean dropping off a beer but…he remains immovable.
There are two rookies that you can’t remember the names of on the other side of the booth and Garrett is leaning over the table, talking to them in, what you can tell, a very serious tone. They’re wide eyed and nodding their heads and glancing at one another like they might have seen a ghost. There’s a lot of reverence as they look at Garrett; they know how much value they can take from listening to him and learning. But—
You shake your head, reaching out to grab onto Dean as he walks past. He looks down at your fingers, “Damn you got a grip; feel like you need to try out for one of these sports. Maybe tennis.”
You roll your eyes, “Briar U doesn’t have a tennis team, Di Laurentis. What is Garrett doing?”
Dean sighs, straightening his cardigan when you let go, “Scaring rookies.” He leans against the bar counter, “Trust me, I’ve tried to get him to put his phone down, but he’s reviewing game tape with them. We got that game coming up this weekend.”
You blink, “It’s Tuesday.”
Dean winces, “Yeah, well. He takes his Captain role very seriously.”
You chew on the inside of your cheek, watching as Dean gets distracted by a pretty girl with curtain bangs and a great smile before your gaze lingers on the booth by the door. Look, you totally understand that Garrett puts a lot on his shoulders, things he should never have to carry. Responsibilities and expectations and promises and disappointments that aren’t all his own; some placed there by well-meaning teammates and a voice in his head that sounds too much like his father.
But sometimes you worry he’ll get in these headspaces where he can’t pull himself out.
You’re giving him ten more minutes before interrupting to remind him that it’s not going to hurt if he takes a breath every so often.
—
Ten minutes come and go. Dean and Logan join the booth of rookies, though you’re not sure if they were trying to free them or what. They’re stuck there too, like some sort of hockey player glue trap. You sigh softly and grab two plates of fries from the pickup window and carry one of them to a nearby table before setting down the other in front of Garrett and company.
“On the house.”
Garrett tips his chin to look at you, his features softening as his phone rests on the table. He reaches an arm out to wrap around your waist and you can’t help but smile, leaning down to press a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth,
“Thanks, babe.” He mumbles against your lips.
You reach out to run a hand through his curls as you pull back. He looks tired but not in a way that could probably be solved with sleep, it’s that sort of deep exhaustion that lives in your bones.
Dean instantly starts in on the fries, not waiting for an invitation and you roll yourself back on your heels, trying to think of a gentle way to put this.
“I dunno if anyone told ya’ll, but uh, this is a party.” You motion around to people having fun; dancing, singing along with the live band, drinking and checking out the raffle ticket table. Your gaze falls to the rookies, who look like they would love nothing more than to wriggle their way out of the booth, “Actually, Tuck was looking for volunteers to—”
“We’re on it.” One of them says, giving a sympathetic look towards Garrett.
The second one actually looks like he’s waiting for Graham’s approval and when your boyfriend sighs before offering a small nod, they practically crawl out from underneath the table, not even waiting for Dean to move to let them out.
You smile a little, shaking your heads as the rookies head into the crowd to find Tucker.
Turning your attention back to the table, you slide in beside Garrett for a few moments. You haven’t taken a break yet tonight so you figure a few minutes won’t hurt. Reaching for a fry, you pop it into your mouth, turning your head to look at your boyfriend. You’ve been in these booths countless times at Malone’s, there’s rarely a moment where Garrett isn’t pulling you close. There’s always a wide grin on his handsome features, an arm around your shoulders, tugging until you’re mapped against his side, stealing a kiss.
He looks stiff right now, borderline annoyed, it’s in the way his shoulders are straight, in the way his nostrils are flaring, the way you can tell he’s chewing on words in his mouth. And maybe that should have been enough of a warning for you to keep comments to yourself but—it’s frustrating when he allows himself to settle in this attitude. You’ve talked about this countless times; Garrett’s really been working on allowing his father’s harsh prospects to roll right off his shoulders. To build his own path.
But you also know that old habits die hard. It just…you wish you could eliminate the hurt and damage that Garrett is left to deal with. He’s not alone.
You breath out, lifting your hand to run along his shoulders, “You should take a break, grab a drink. Maybe dance with me.” A soft smile pulls the corners of your mouth, “I’m off in thirty minutes.”
“I can’t,” Garrett’s reply is sharp, causing your hand to pause on the back of his neck. He clears his throat, shifting in his seat. He doesn’t look at you when he says, “There’s too much riding on the game this weekend.”
You glance at Logan and Dean across the table and both of them have various degrees of concern on their faces. Logan clears his throat, looking at you before his gaze wanders to Garrett,
“I mean, I’m sure a small break wouldn’t hurt anything…especially if we’re gonna get to see your dance moves.”
A small smirk lives on your lips and your hand slides off Garrett’s back, reaching for another fry. One of your favorite things to do with your boyfriend is dance. Mostly because it’s nothing serious; it’s feeling the beat of the music and singing along and doing absolutely ridiculous and silly dance moves that make one another laugh. It’ll definitely help his mood, you think, if not just loosen up the tension in his body.
But Garrett is as unmovable as stone.
“Also the game is this weekend,” You add after a moment, “It’s Tuesday—isn’t there such a thing as overtraining and overpreparing—"
“You don’t get it,” Garrett interrupts, his gaze cold and unyielding as his hazel eyes fall to yours. “Okay? I know you’re trying to help, but you’re not. So stop.”
You draw back from him a little, his words feeling like a physical punch.
The moment Garrett gets a good look at your face, he winces, closing his eyes and breathing out of his nose. “Fuck, wait—”
You shake your head, offering a watery smile towards Dean and Logan before mumbling that you have to get back to work. You quickly leave the table, feeling embarrassment and a little bit of shame heat the back of your neck.
“Big mistake, G.” Dean comments, disappointed.
You hear Garrett telling him to shut up before you disappear into the chaos of Malone’s.
—
You work through the last thirty minutes of your shift, untying your apron to tuck away in your bag. You don’t look back at Garrett’s table, you don’t check your phone to see if he’s texted you, you resist the urge to approach him and apologize because—because you hate being in a fight with him. The thing is, you and Garrett rarely get into real arguments. Little disagreements every now and then, sure, you’re both human. But legit fights? Not really. So when you do? It’s fucking awful.
You should have known better than to push when you knew he was in a bad mood, when he was wound too tight from unspoken words and pressures that you couldn’t see. Sometimes you have to let him wade through his shit on his own and come out on the other side without your help. And that’s okay? There’s nothing wrong with that.
You breathe out and pull your hair into a clip, glancing up as someone comes up to the counter. You think…his name might be Matt. He’s on the basketball team for Briar U and giving you a soft grin. He’s in some of your classes, so you recognize his face above anything else.
“You off?”
You nod, “Yeah. Having a good time?”
His eyes are slightly glazed—tipsy but not too far gone, “Yeah, I was thinking of playing a game of darts. You want to join?”
Any other night, that might be a nice idea. But you’re in no mood, “Oh,” You shake your head, “No, I think I’m just gonna head home. Thanks though.”
He pouts, which almost makes you laugh, “C’mon, one game. I’ll let you throw first.”
You draw in a breath, almost saying yes—and then, out of nowhere, a voice sounds behind you, “She’s too nice to tell you to fuck off, but I’m not.”
Your eyes widen as you turn to see Garrett looming. You know he’s taller than you, but it’s the way his body is positioned. It’s almost one hundred percent pure hockey aggression, his one hand gathering his fingers into his fist and jesus.
You open your mouth to apologize to Matt but when you turn to look at him, he just looks amused. Which you suppose is better than being insulted or pissed off, “No worries, man. I know she’s your girl.”
A muscle feathers in Garrett’s jaw. You roll your eyes, “Oh my god,” You mutter, then, “Thanks for the offer Matt but I think I’m going to head home.”
You grab your bag, not looking back at either of them as you head right out the front door of Malone’s. The bell tings as Garrett follows you out, saying your name but honestly? You don’t want to talk to him—not after that weird-ass display of being protective when he had no reason to be. Look, you’re not going to pretend that you don’t like when Garrett watches out for you, when he has your back, that he wants to make sure you’re safe. Your past relationship with guys and relationships haven’t always been so thoughtful.
But Matt wasn’t doing anything wrong. You didn’t need help.
Garrett gently reaches for your elbow to get you stop walking and you turn to face him, smacking his hand away, “Don’t.”
He lets out a slow breath as he pauses on the sidewalk, running both of his hands through his curls, “Matt may seem like he’s an okay guy but he’s got a reputation for being pushy.”
And you know what that means; your annoyance flickering at the edges because…Garrett was trying to look out for you. But—
“You don’t get to talk to me like you did and then pretend you’re boyfriend of the year, okay?” You adjust the strap of your bag on your shoulder.
Garrett lets out a breath, “Okay, you’re right.”
You stare at him a moment, crossing your arms over your chest because…okay, out of all the things he could have said, that’s not too bad. You crinkle your nose at how easily you’re willing to fall for this man but the longer you look at him, you can see that the early frostiness he was embodying has thawed. His shoulders are looser, his gaze warm, tone gentle. Regret is painted on all aspects of the way he’s holding himself.
You chew on the inside of your cheek, “Keep going.”
A twitch of a smile pulls at the corner of his mouth and he nods before taking a few steps closer. Your head tilts back to look up at him, your stomach doing ridiculous flips that it always seems to do when you’re near him. Part of you doesn’t want to easily give in to accepting whatever apology is going to come out of his mouth but…you also know Garrett, and the guy that was distant and cold and said things to push you away, that’s not who he is.
“I’m really sorry about how I was acting earlier, for hurting you,” He reaches out to play with a strand of hair near your ear, tucking it behind a moment later, “Not that this is any excuse but I…I got a call from my dad earlier today. And like an idiot, I picked up the phone.” He shakes his head, his lips pursing, “Anyways, I’ve been letting it bother me ever since.”
There’s an ache in the center of your chest at his explanation and you swallow over an emotion crowding your throat. You want to reach for him, but don’t. Not yet.
“I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”
You nod, “You should have talked to me.”
Garrett nods, biting the inside of his cheek. He glances down at the sidewalk a moment before taking a small step closer, “I should have.” He clears his throat, “I’m—I’m still figuring this out. This whole boyfriend thing,” He admits, “I usually just let things go from bad to worse and figure out how to claw through until I’m on the other side of it.”
Your arms drop from your chest and you tentatively reach a hand forward, resting it on his chest. You fix the clasp of his necklace so that it’s in the back where it belongs, smoothing your thumb along his neck. You can feel the way his pulse leaps underneath your touch,
“Well, as someone who does have a girlfriend of the year award,” You tease, making an easy smile spread across his handsome face, “I’m here. You’re not alone, okay? I know I might not always understand but…we can work through things. Together.”
“Together,” He repeats, “I like the sound of that.”
You hum softly, tugging on his chain to draw him closer. Garrett leans down, your noses brushing in a bunny kiss.
“I like the sound of you making it up to me…we can start with a kiss.” You tell him, very matter of fact.
He smirks, wrapping his arms around your waist to draw you up against him. The kiss is slow and easy, Garrett’s head tilting as he deepens it. A shiver runs down your spine as his tongue slips into your mouth, stroking along your own. He keeps you close, even as you pull away to breathe. He presses a lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth and your cheekbone, your foreheads resting together.
“How else can I make it up to you?” He asks softly, fingers tucking themselves underneath your shirt at your back to feel your skin.
You smile, “Don’t worry, I’ve got plenty of ideas.”
Garrett hums, brushing one last kiss along your forehead before guiding you towards his Jeep to take you home.
Summary: Everyone thinks you're just another pretty puck bunny. They don't know your apartment is filled with comic books, Dragonstone maps, Marvel figurines, and enough fandom T-shirts to last a month. Garrett certainly doesn't, until one rainy movie night changes everything. Suddenly he's sitting through hours of Game of Thrones, asking questions every five minutes, and realizing he likes watching you get excited far more than he likes whatever's happening on screen.
warnings: fluff, established crush, idiots in love, nerdy reader, movie nights, comic books, marvel & dc references, game of thrones references, garrett being hopelessly in love.
requested by : @adent0 hope you like like! a little short so I hope its okay!
masterlist
One shot
Garrett had spent three weeks trying to convince you to let him come over.
Not because he wanted anything.
Okay... maybe a little.
Mostly because he couldn't figure you out.
You looked like every other girl hockey players usually went for. Pretty, always put together, sweet but quiet. He'd expected your apartment to look like a Pinterest board.
Instead...
"...Is that a sword?"
You looked up from taking the pizza boxes from him.
"Oh. Yeah."
He stepped inside.
There were comic books stacked neatly on shelves. Marvel posters. A Batman figurine sitting beside a tiny Baby Groot. Books everywhere. A map of Westeros covered one wall.
Garrett blinked.
"I think I walked into the wrong apartment."
You laughed.
"Nope."
"So... whose stuff is all this?"
"...Mine?"
He stared.
"You like comics?"
"I love comics."
"And Game of Thrones?"
"My favorite show."
"Marvel?"
"I've watched every movie."
"DC?"
"I will defend DC until I die."
Garrett couldn't help smiling.
"I definitely judged you."
"You did."
"I thought you listened to Taylor Swift and watched The Bachelor."
"I do listen to Taylor Swift."
"...Okay, fair."
"And I hate The Bachelor."
Movie night turned into movie weekends.
Garrett had never seen Marvel in order, so naturally you insisted on fixing that.
"No, you can't skip ahead."
"Why not?"
"Because then nothing makes sense."
"I don't think it makes sense now."
You paused the movie with a sigh.
"Okay, so back in 1943—"
Garrett smiled to himself.
You'd been explaining the same scene for five minutes and somehow you looked happier than he'd ever seen you.
He honestly wasn't paying much attention to Captain America anymore.
He was watching you.
A month later Dean walked into Garrett's apartment without knocking.
"...Why are you wearing a Nightwing shirt?"
Garrett looked down.
"Huh."
"You bought that."
"I did."
Dean slowly looked around.
The coffee table was covered in comics.
There was a LEGO Millennium Falcon sitting half-built.
You were asleep against Garrett's shoulder while House of the Dragon played quietly in the background.
Dean looked horrified.
"...She converted you."
Garrett laughed.
"Nah."
He looked down at you, gently brushing a piece of hair behind your ear.
"I just realized the nerd stuff is pretty cool when it's her talking about it."
Dean made a face.
"That's disgustingly romantic."
"I know."
A few weeks later you dragged Garrett through a comic convention.
He had absolutely no clue what anyone was dressed as.
Every few minutes you'd stop to excitedly point something out.
"Oh my god, look! They did his armor perfectly!"
Garrett looked.
"...That's awesome."
"You don't even know who that is."
"Nope."
"So why are you smiling?"
He shrugged, squeezing your hand.
"Because you are."
You looked up at him, smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.
"You know, I always worried guys would think I was weird."
Garrett stopped walking.
"Weird?"
You nodded.
"I look like I'd be into makeup and shopping. Then people come over and see..." You gestured around. "...all this."
He smiled.
"I don't care if you collect dragons or comic books or life-size Batman statues."
"I don't have a life size Batman."
"Yet."
You laughed.
He leaned down and kissed your forehead.
"I like hearing you explain things, even when I have no idea what you're talking about."
"You really don't."
"Not even a little."
"But you still listen."
"Always."
Because somewhere between the dragons, superheroes, and endless comic book lore...
Garrett had realized his favorite story was the one where you got excited enough to tell it.
Summary: You break up with Tucker because you are tired of being a secret, but when another guy hits on you at Malone's, he snaps and publicly claims you in front of his entire team.
Angst to fluff? But definitely Angst
Warnings: spoiler alert if you didn't read the books!, cursing, violence
A/N: Well, this would probably fit book Tucker rather than TV Show Tucker, buuuut. Truth is we didn't really see much of Tuck this season. Anyway, I hope you like it. Feedback is much appreciated! Take care of yourselves xx also, @airgoddess maybe you can enjoy this in the meantime
Words: 2.6k
Gif
It was never supposed to be this fucking complicated.
John Tucker, Briar U's laidback forward was the kind of guy who took everything in stride. He had a heart of gold, infinite patience, and a Texas drawl that could melt the panties off a saint. But his life had recently become a massive, tangled wreck. Earlier in the year, a brief hookup with Sabrina James had resulted in an unexpected pregnancy. Tucker, being the thoroughly decent, stand-up guy he was, stepped up immediately, vowing to support Sabrina and the baby every step of the way.
But then, he fell in love with you.
Because of the fragile situation with Sabrina, you and Tucker had decided to keep your relationship off the radar. You didn’t want to add to her panic, nor did you want to deal with the relentless, vicious gossip of the Briar campus. But what started as a temporary protective measure had morphed into a heavy, suffocating weight. You were sick of hiding. Sick of slipping out the back door of the hockey house before his roommates could catch you doing the walk of shame. You were tired of feeling like a dirty little secret, and the brutal strain had caused a constant, underlying friction between you two.
Which led to the explosive argument in his bedroom just hours before the team’s victory party.
You were pacing the length of his floor, your arms crossed tightly over your chest, while he sat on the edge of his neatly made bed. He was watching you with those heavy-lidded, deep brown eyes, his large hands resting loosely on his spread knees. His unnatural stillness only fueled the anxious, clawing fire burning in your chest.
"I can't do this anymore, Tuck," you said, your voice trembling as you snatched your jacket off his desk chair. "I'm fucking done. We're done."
He went utterly, terrifyingly still.
"Come here, darlin'," Tucker commanded, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that usually turned your knees to absolute water.
"No." You zipped up your jacket with shaking fingers, refusing to look at him because you knew if you met his gaze, your resolve would snap in half. "I mean it this time. I am so fucking exhausted. I feel like a ghost in my own relationship."
Tucker pushed himself off the bed. His massive, muscular frame seemed to swallow the small space of the room as he stepped directly in front of his closed door, effectively trapping you inside. His dark auburn hair was a messy halo, and beneath his calm exterior, his warm brown eyes were flashing with a dangerous mix of panic and pure, unadulterated male stubbornness.
"We are not doing this, Y/N," he said slowly, his Texas drawl thick with absolute refusal. "We are not breaking up."
"I am the goddamn side piece in my own relationship!" you yelled, the frustration boiling over as hot tears finally spilled down your cheeks. "I know you have to be there for Sabrina and the baby. I want you to be there for them. You're a good man, Tuck, the best I know. But I can't be your hidden fuck-buddy anymore. I can't watch you rush out of the room to take her calls, or drop my hand the second we step outside because someone might see us. It hurts too much. It's tearing me apart."
A muscle feathered in his tight jaw. Tucker closed the distance between you in two long strides. You tried to step back, but his large, callused hands gripped your shoulders, hauling you gently but firmly against the hard wall of his chest. You were instantly grounded in his signature scent of sandalwood and citrus, a scent that felt so much like home it made a broken sob rip from your throat.
"You listen to me," he rasped, his voice vibrating against your collarbone as he lowered his head to look you dead in the eye. "You are not second place. You are never second place. You are everything to me."
"Tuck, please—"
"No, you're going to let me speak." He brought one of his large hands up to cup your cheek, his rough thumb catching a tear before it could fall. "I know it's hard. I know I'm asking a hell of a lot of you to wait for me to sort this mess out. I hate that I'm the goddamn reason you're crying right now. But I am a patient man, Y/N. I will wait out any storm to keep you."
You squeezed your eyes shut, shaking your head as you pressed your hands against his chest, trying to physically push away the one thing you wanted most in the world. Beneath your palms, his heart was hammering wildly against his ribs.
"You have to," you whispered, your voice cracking. "Go figure out your life. Be a dad. Do what you have to do without worrying about keeping me happy in the shadows."
You pulled out of his grip, intentionally ignoring the raw, devastated look that flashed across his handsome face. You reached around him, your hand wrapping tightly around the cool metal of the doorknob.
"I'm going to be at Malone's tonight," you said, your voice remarkably steady despite the fact that your heart was breaking into a million jagged pieces. "I promised Allie and Hannah I'd celebrate the win with them. But don't look for me, I need space."
You slipped past him, yanking the door open. You left him standing there in the middle of his bedroom, his jaw clenched tight and his broad chest heaving, his heart full of absolute, uncompromising refusal to accept that this was the end.
By the time you pushed your way into Malone's, your hands were still shaking.
And the absolute worst part of being best friends with Allie and Hannah? It meant you were automatically dragged into the Briar hockey team's inner circle.
They had commandeered the massive, wraparound leather booth in the back corner, and you were squished right into the middle of the loud, rowdy chaos. Garrett, Dean, Logan, and Fitzy were practically shouting over the music, toasting their shutout win and passing around pitchers of beer.
And sitting directly across the wooden table from you was John Tucker.
He hadn't said a single word since you sat down. He just sat rigidly on the cracked vinyl cushion, a half-empty bottle of Miller gripped in his large hand. For Tucker, the booming bass of the jukebox and the chaotic crowd seemed to fade entirely into white noise. The only thing in sharp focus was you. Every time you dared to glance up, those heavy-lidded, dark brown eyes were already locked on you, burning with a heavy, volatile intensity that made it impossible for you to draw a full breath.
You felt like you were bleeding out invisibly. You’d done it. You’d looked him in the eye, told him you were done being his dirty little secret, and walked away. Now, forced to sit so close to him, it felt like you’d carved out your own heart with a dull knife.
Hannah nudged your shoulder, shoving a shot of cheap tequila into your hand. "Drink up! You look like you're at a funeral, Y/N/N, not a party."
Allie leaned in over Dean's shoulder, her blonde hair catching the harsh neon light. "Seriously, what's going on with you? You've been miserable all week."
You forced a smile that didn't reach your eyes and downed the shot. The liquor clawed down your throat, "Just tired. Let's go dance."
You dragged them out of the booth and shoved your way onto the small, packed dance floor near the jukebox. The music was deafening, the heavy bass vibrating through the soles of your shoes and rattling your ribs. You squeezed your eyes shut, letting yourself get lost in the chaotic, grinding rhythm of the crowd. You laughed loudly with Allie and Hannah, desperately trying to project the image of a girl having the time of her life. But all you were really doing was trying to ignore the heavy, scorching gaze you could feel burning into your skin from across the room.
Tucker was watching you.
Usually, he was the anchor of his friend group—observant, laidback, the quiet guy who kept his head and his temper when everyone else lost theirs. Tonight, he felt like a coiled spring pulled back so tight it was about to snap.
Every breath he took felt like inhaling broken glass. You’d told him you were done. You’d looked at him with tears in your beautiful eyes and told him you couldn't be his second-place secret anymore. And the worst, most agonizing part? He knew you were absolutely right.
His eyes tracked your every movement through the strobe lights. You looked fucking breathtaking—flushed, wild, and utterly out of his reach—and he wasn't the only one who noticed.
A tall guy from the lacrosse team slid up behind you on the dance floor, his hands hovering dangerously close to your hips. Another guy, some frat bro in a backward cap, was trying to catch your eye, shouting some garbage pickup line over the loud music.
Tucker’s jaw locked so hard his teeth ground together. A dark, ugly possessiveness flared in his chest, incinerating every ounce of his southern patience.
They saw a beautiful, single girl looking to get wrecked and have a good time. They didn't know you belonged to him. They didn't know the soft, needy sounds you made when he sucked marks into your neck, or how perfectly your body bowed up to meet his. And it was his own damn fault they didn't know. He had kept you in the shadows to protect Sabrina's privacy and manage the baby drama, but in doing so, he had left you completely unprotected. He’d made you feel like you didn't matter. He'd practically served you up on a silver platter to every thirsty dirtbag in Malone's.
He watched, every thick muscle in his massive frame going violently tense, as the lacrosse player leaned in, his mouth entirely too close to your ear. Tucker saw you politely step back, your posture stiffening in clear discomfort, but the guy persisted. The asshole actually closed the distance again, flashing a cocky grin and reaching out to boldly wrap a hand around your waist.
That was it. Patience was officially dead.
Tucker’s grip on his beer bottle tightened until his knuckles turned stark white, the thick glass groaning dangerously under the pressure. With a harsh, ragged exhale, he slammed the bottle down on the sticky wooden table so hard the remaining liquid foamed over the top.
"Whoa, Tuck, where are you going?" Garrett asked, looking completely startled by the sudden, aggressive movement from the calmest guy on the roster.
Tucker didn't answer. He didn't even look at his captain. He was already moving, his broad shoulders cutting through the crowded bar, his dark eyes locked dead on the man touching what was his.
He parted the sweaty, grinding crowd like Moses parting the Red Sea, his massive frame shoving through the bodies without a single apology. The rational, endlessly patient part of his brain—the part that always played the long game, the part that had agreed to keep this relationship off the radar to deal with Sabrina's baby drama—was dead and buried.
Fuck the secret. Fuck the gossip. Tucker didn't care about the whispers, the rumors, or the stares that were bound to follow. He only cared about the fact that the woman he was completely, irrevocably in love with was slipping through his fingers, and half the bar was trying to swoop in and take his place.
You spun around, desperate to step away from the persistent lacrosse player whose hands were getting way too bold, but before you could tell the guy to back off, a blur of black and silver stepped into your line of vision.
You gasped as the lacrosse player was suddenly violently ripped away from you.
Tucker’s massive, callused hand was fisted in the collar of the guy’s shirt, lifting him nearly off his feet.
"Hey, what the hell, man?" the lacrosse player sputtered, throwing his hands up. He puffed out his chest, trying to look tough.
The words had barely left the guy's mouth before Tucker’s fist cracked across his jaw.
The sickening thud cut through the immediate vicinity of the dance floor. The lacrosse player stumbled backward, crashing into a nearby table and taking a couple of empty beer bottles down with him. The crowd gasped, forming an immediate, wide circle around you, but Tucker didn't even flinch. He stood over the groaning guy, his broad chest heaving, his fists clenched tight at his sides.
"Stay the fuck away from my girl," Tucker growled, his voice dropping to a low, lethal vibration.
The guy scrambled back, holding his bleeding jaw, and frantically nodded before disappearing into the crowd.
Tucker didn't spare him a second glance. He turned to you, the violence in his frame immediately shifting into a raw, desperate need. Large, familiar hands instantly gripped your hips, hauling you flush against his hard chest.
"Tuck—" you breathed, your heart doing a wild, violent somersault against your ribs.
"Mine," he murmured fiercely.
He pulled you seamlessly into the heavy rhythm of the music. His hands slid from your hips to trail possessively up your spine, sending a shiver of blistering heat straight to your core. He spun you around, pressing your back flat against his broad chest, his thick arms wrapping securely around your waist as he swayed with you.
He could feel you trembling, feel the exact moment the adrenaline bled out of your muscles and you melted against him. This was where you belonged. Not hiding in the shadows. Not sneaking out the back door of the hockey house. It was an undeniably intimate, blatantly sexual claim, loud and clear for the entire fucking bar to see.
Over by the booths, the reaction was instantaneous. Dean’s jaw practically unhinged, his drink freezing halfway to his mouth. Garrett actually choked on his beer, coughing violently while Logan thumped him on the back. Hannah and Allie exchanged wide-eyed, completely stunned looks. John Tucker, the quietest, most reserved guy on the roster, had just knocked a guy out and put on a very public, very unapologetic show.
Tucker spun you back around to face him, completely oblivious to the shocked stares of his teammates. He brought one hand up to cup your cheek, his rough thumb brushing over your trembling bottom lip, parting it slightly.
"I don't care who sees," Tucker said, his voice fierce, unwavering, and laced with absolute certainty. "I don't care how complicated it is. I am not hiding you anymore, Y/N. And I am sure as hell not letting you break up with me."
Before you could formulate a response—before your brain could even process the magnitude of what he had just done—he dipped his head and captured your lips in a searing, breathless kiss.
It wasn't a gentle, hidden kiss in the dark. It was a bold, desperate, world-stopping declaration. He kissed you like a starving man, his tongue parting your lips and claiming your mouth with a consuming, dominant heat that made your knees buckle. He caught your weight effortlessly, pulling your hips flush against the hard ridge of his arousal, showing his teammates, your friends, and everyone else in Malone's exactly who you belonged to.
When he finally pulled back, you were both breathless, your chests heaving together in the smoky air.
"You're my girl," he whispered fiercely, resting his forehead against yours. His brown eyes locked onto yours to make sure you understood every single word. "And nobody is going to steal you away from me."
Thank you for providing some of the best writing out there for off campus, i'm kicking my feet giggling over here 🤭 Would you be down for a Tucker one where they're friends but he finds out she's into the spicy cowboy romance genre and that's when he decides to sing "save a horse, ride a cowboy" at karaoke? Lots of blushing, teasing from the boys and confessing feelings? Thanks!! 🤠🐎💛
wait this is everything to me 😭 I HOPE YOU LIKE IT!
Save A Horse - John Tucker
ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ
blurb: after dean gets his hands on your phone and discovers your cowboy romance habit, you’re convinced the teasing can’t get any worse. then tucker gets signed up for karaoke, chooses the one song guaranteed to ruin your composure, and suddenly your best friend starts feeling a lot less friendly.
warnings: 18+, smut, friends to lovers, mutual pining, teasing, karaoke chaos, alcohol mention, semi-public hookup, fingering, dirty talk, protected sex
You were sitting in Garrett and Hannah’s living room, tucked into the corner of the couch while everyone else argued over where to go that night. Logan wanted a bar. Dean wanted a bar with “personality,” which apparently meant sticky floors and men named Rick who took karaoke too seriously. Garrett wanted food first because he was Garrett and turned into a tragic Victorian orphan when he went more than two hours without eating.
Tucker sat on the floor in front of the couch, back against your knees, scrolling through his phone with one hand. His other hand rested loosely around your ankle, thumb brushing once over the bone like he hadn’t even noticed he was doing it.
You noticed.
Unfortunately, you noticed everything Tucker did.
Which was exactly why you should have known better than to leave your phone faceup on the cushion beside you.
Dean’s hand shot out before you could stop him.
“Whoa,” he said, dragging the word out.
You lunged for it. “Give it back.”
He twisted away, holding it just out of reach. “Absolutely not. This looks educational.”
“Dean.”
Garrett immediately perked up. “What is it?”
“Nothing,” you said quickly.
Dean’s grin widened. “Oh, it’s not nothing.”
Tucker turned his head, looking up at you from where he sat between your legs. His brows lifted, more amused than nosy, and somehow that made it worse.
“Di Laurentis,” Tucker said. “Give her the phone.”
Dean pressed a hand to his chest. “I’m offended you’d assume I’m doing anything wrong.”
“You stole her phone.”
“Temporarily relocated it.”
“Dean,” Hannah said, already fighting a laugh. “Give it back.”
But Dean had already seen enough.
His eyes dropped to the screen, and then his face transformed.
“Oh my God.”
You covered your face with both hands. “I hate you.”
Logan leaned over the back of the couch. “Read the title.”
“No,” you snapped.
Dean cleared his throat in a formal, dramatic voice. “Saddled by Sundown.”
Garrett choked on his water.
Logan made a sound like he had been punched in the ribs.
Hannah burst out laughing.
You snatched the throw pillow beside you and hurled it at Dean’s head. He ducked out of the way, still laughing.
“It’s a book,” you said, hot all over. “People read books.”
Dean looked down at the cover again. “This man is shirtless in a barn.”
“Farm labor is very demanding.”
Garrett nodded like he was considering it. “True. Lots of hay. Heavy equipment.”
“Don’t help,” you said.
Tucker still hadn’t moved, but you felt his thumb sweep once over the inside of your ankle.
You looked down.
He was watching you now, his mouth curved just enough to make your stomach tighten.
Dean, tragically still alive, kept going. “Wait, wait. There are more of these in the app. She has a whole collection.”
“Dean,” you said slowly. “I am begging you to remember that I know where you sleep.”
“Cowboy romances,” Logan said, looking far too pleased with this development. “Didn’t see that coming.”
“You don’t see most things coming,” you muttered.
Garrett leaned back in his chair, pointing his slice of pizza at you. “So is this why you got weirdly defensive during that movie when Dean said cowboys were overrated?”
“I was defending the genre.”
“The genre of shirtless barn men?” Dean asked.
You reached for another pillow.
This time, Tucker caught your wrist gently before you could throw it. His hand wrapped around you easily, warm and solid.
“Save it,” he said. “He’ll only get louder.”
Everyone started talking again, and slowly, mercifully, your phone was returned. You locked it immediately and shoved it under your thigh like that would erase the last five minutes from history.
Tucker gave your ankle one last squeeze before standing.
“You okay?” he asked, low enough that the others wouldn’t hear.
You lifted your chin. “I’m fantastic.”
His eyes moved over your face, taking in every bit of false dignity you had left.
“Sure are,” he said.
You hated the way his accent made two simple words feel like a hand sliding beneath your shirt.
By the time you all made it to the bar, the cowboy jokes had mostly died down, replaced by Dean getting rejected by the karaoke host because he tried to submit the same song three times under three fake names.
The place was crowded and loud, packed with Briar students, locals, and a few regulars who seemed deeply unprepared for whatever Dean had planned.
You claimed a booth in the back with Hannah while the boys fought their way to the bar.
“I’m sorry,” Hannah said, still grinning. “But the way your face dropped when Dean read that title was incredible.”
“You’re supposed to be on my side.”
“I am on your side. I also support your right to read about dusty, emotionally unavailable ranchers.”
“They’re not all dusty.”
“Of course not.”
“Some of them bathe in rivers.”
Hannah laughed into her drink, and you tried very hard not to look at Tucker where he stood at the bar.
He was leaning with one elbow on the counter, talking to the bartender like they were old friends, because of course he was. Tucker could make friends with a parking meter. He wore jeans and a dark shirt that fit him in a way you had been trying not to notice all night. His hair was a little messy from the cold outside, and when he glanced over his shoulder, his eyes found you immediately.
You looked away before you could do something humiliating.
The night settled into the kind of chaos that only happened with that group. Garrett sang a painfully sincere power ballad and somehow made half the bar cheer for him. Logan and Dean performed a duet that involved too much hip movement and absolutely no musical talent. Hannah recorded the entire thing while Garrett yelled, “That’s my girl,” even though she had told him twice that recording evidence of Dean’s crimes was a public service.
Tucker stayed beside you through most of it, shoulder brushing yours in the booth, one arm stretched along the back behind you. He did not mention the books again. He did not tease you about cowboys or covers or shirtless men in barns.
The silence felt deliberate.
You were halfway through your drink when Dean stumbled back to the table, flushed with victory from whatever crime he had just committed onstage.
“Tuck,” he said. “You’re up.”
Tucker lifted his brows. “Am I?”
“You are now. I signed you up.”
“Of course you did.”
Dean dropped into the booth beside Logan. “You’re welcome.”
You turned to Tucker. “You don’t have to.”
He looked at you for a second too long.
Then he smiled.
Not wide. Not obvious. Just enough to make you nervous.
“Nah,” he said, sliding out of the booth. “I’ll do it.”
Your eyes narrowed. “What did he sign you up for?”
Dean pressed his lips together with the focus of a man trying to keep a secret and failing at every visible level.
“Dean,” you said.
“I’m just here for the arts.”
Tucker walked toward the small stage, and your heart started beating harder for no reasonable reason. He looked too comfortable up there, taking the mic from the karaoke host, rolling his shoulders once like he was getting ready for something more dangerous than a song in a bar full of drunk college students.
Then the opening notes started.
You froze.
Dean slapped both hands over his mouth.
Logan fell forward onto the table, already laughing.
Garrett looked at you, then at Tucker, then back at you. “Oh, he’s dead.”
You sank slowly into your seat.
“No,” you whispered.
Hannah grabbed your arm. “Yes.”
Tucker stood under the cheap bar lights with the microphone in hand, his eyes already on you, and started singing “Save a Horse.”
The whole room erupted.
Dean was on his feet immediately.
Logan pounded on the table.
Garrett yelled, “Commit to the bit, Tuck!”
And Tucker did.
He did not have the best voice in the world, but he had enough confidence to sell it and enough charm to make the entire room go with him. He moved across the tiny stage like it belonged to him, smile easy, head tipped slightly whenever the crowd sang along. He kept it funny at first. Light. Ridiculous. Playing into the shouting and clapping like he was only doing it because Dean had signed him up.
Then he looked at you during the chorus.
Your entire body forgot how to behave.
He didn’t point. Didn’t wink. Didn’t make it obvious enough for everyone to catch.
He just held your gaze, singing the title like he knew exactly what it would do to you.
Heat climbed up your neck.
“Oh, she’s dying,” Logan said.
“I am not.”
“You kind of are,” Hannah said, delighted.
Dean leaned across the table. “Are the cowboys in your books this committed? Because I respect the hustle.”
“I’m going to pour this drink on you.”
Onstage, Tucker laughed through the next line, probably because he could see you plotting murder from the booth. It only made him worse. He got the crowd clapping again, voice rough and warm through the cheap speakers, and every time the song swung back to that chorus, his attention drifted to you like a match being struck.
By the time it ended, you were gripping your glass too tightly.
The bar erupted into applause.
Tucker handed the mic back, stepped offstage, and started toward the booth while Garrett and Logan cheered like he had just won a championship.
Dean bowed to him. “You’re welcome. I created this.”
Tucker slid back into the booth beside you, close enough that his thigh pressed against yours.
You stared straight ahead.
He leaned in, voice low. “You’re quiet.”
“I’m considering a transfer.”
“To where?”
“Somewhere without karaoke.”
“That’d be a shame,” he said. “You looked like you were enjoying yourself.”
You turned your head.
He was close. Too close for the amount of people at the table. His eyes were on your mouth for half a second before they lifted again.
“I was embarrassed for you,” you said.
“Were you?”
“Mhm.”
Tucker nodded slowly, as if giving that the respect it deserved, which was none. “That’s why you haven’t touched your drink since I got onstage?”
Your fingers loosened around the glass.
Across the table, Dean was loudly explaining to Garrett that he had “changed the romantic trajectory of the evening,” so at least no one was paying attention.
No one except Tucker.
You tried to find something sharp to say. Something that would put the night back where it belonged, with jokes and distance and plausible deniability.
Instead, you said, “You’re a terrible friend.”
The amusement in his face shifted into something lower, steadier.
“Yeah,” he said. “I was hoping that came across.”
Your breath caught.
Tucker’s hand slid under the table and rested on your knee. Not high. Not rushed. Just there, his palm warm through the fabric of your skirt.
“Tell me I’m reading this wrong,” he said.
There was still laughter around you. Dean shouting. Garrett arguing. Hannah ordering another round. The bar lights flickering over Tucker’s face.
You could have lied.
You had lied for months.
But his thumb moved once against your knee, and your self-control went thin enough to tear.
“You’re not,” you said.
Tucker’s jaw worked slightly.
Then his hand moved higher.
Your breath went uneven.
He leaned back like nothing had happened, picked up his beer, and took a slow drink. To anyone watching, he looked relaxed. Normal. Like he hadn’t just shifted something huge between you with two quiet words and a hand under the table.
Then he stood.
“I’m gonna hit the bathroom,” he said casually.
Dean waved him off, too busy trying to convince Hannah that he deserved producer credit for Tucker’s performance.
Tucker did not look at you when he walked away.
You stayed in the booth a little longer, listening to Dean talk over Logan, feeling the heat of Tucker’s hand still sitting on your knee like he’d left a mark there.
Then you slid out.
Hannah caught it, because of course she did. She glanced from you to the back hallway, and whatever she saw on your face made her pick up her drink and start an argument with Dean loud enough to cover you leaving.
Bless her.
The hallway to the bathrooms was dimmer than the rest of the bar, narrow and lined with old posters. Your pulse beat hard in your throat as you passed the women’s room and found Tucker near the single-use bathroom at the end.
His eyes lifted when he saw you.
That was all it took.
He opened the door behind him, and you slipped inside.
The lock clicked.
The room was small, with a sink set into the counter, a mirror, and music thumping faintly through the walls. For half a second, Tucker only looked at you.
Then you grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him down to you.
Tucker kissed you like he had been waiting all night to stop pretending.
There was nothing slow about it. His hand came to the back of your neck, the other finding your waist as he backed you toward the sink. You made a small sound against his mouth when the counter hit the backs of your thighs, and he swallowed it, kissing you deeper.
He tasted like beer and mint and Tucker, familiar in a way that made your chest ache even as your body went molten.
His hands slid down to your hips.
“You have any idea,” he murmured against your mouth, “what you looked like sitting in that booth?”
You tugged him closer. “Annoyed?”
“Distracted.”
Your breath caught before you could stop it.
Tucker kissed along your jaw, then down your neck, his mouth warm and unhurried even though the rest of him was anything but. The music outside changed, bass thumping through the door, and someone laughed somewhere in the hallway.
The sound should have made you stop.
Instead, your hands slid under the edge of his shirt, fingers pressing into the warm skin at his waist.
Tucker’s breath hitched.
“Keep doing that,” he said, voice roughening, “and we’re not making it back to the table.”
You dragged your nails lightly over his skin.
“Good.”
His hands tightened on your hips, and whatever control he’d been pretending to have snapped thinner.
Then he lifted you onto the sink counter.
The mirror shook faintly behind you. You wrapped your legs around him, and he stepped between them, kissing you again like he had no interest in remembering there were people waiting just outside.
His hand slid beneath the hem of your skirt, fingers brushing the bare skin of your thigh.
He paused.
His mouth stopped moving against yours.
You felt the second he realized.
He drew back enough to look at you.
“No panties?” he said, voice lower than before.
You tried to look composed and failed spectacularly. “Laundry day.”
His eyes darkened.
“That right?”
“Yeah.”
His hand moved higher, slow enough to make you grip the edge of the counter.
“All night,” he said, “you were sitting next to me like this?”
Your knees tightened around his hips. “I didn’t plan for you to sing that song.”
“No?” His mouth brushed yours. “What did you plan for?”
“Nothing involving a public bathroom.”
Tucker kissed you once, hard and brief.
“Plans change.”
His fingers slipped between your thighs, and your whole body jerked when he touched you. The sound you made was too loud for the space, too honest, and Tucker caught it with his mouth while his hand worked under your skirt.
“You’re gonna get us caught,” he murmured.
“You started this.”
“I sang a song.”
“You knew what you were doing.”
His smile brushed against your cheek. “Yeah, I did.”
He pulled his hand back just enough to lift it between you. You watched, breath stuck in your chest, as he licked two fingers slowly, his eyes not leaving yours.
Every thought in your head vanished.
Then his hand was under your skirt again.
“Oh,” you breathed.
He rubbed your clit in slow circles, slick fingers moving with a confidence that made your hips shift forward helplessly. You caught his shoulder with one hand and the counter with the other, trying to stay quiet as pleasure rolled through you fast and bright.
Tucker watched your face like he was learning what ruined you.
“You’re trying so hard to keep quiet,” he said, mouth near your ear. “It’s making it worse.”
You swallowed a moan. “Tuck.”
“I like that,” he said. “Say it like that again.”
Your thighs tightened around his hips.
He pressed a little firmer, circles steady and sure, and you gave him exactly what he wanted because you couldn’t help it.
“Tuck.”
His breath dragged out rough against your neck.
“There you go.”
The praise hit you hard, and he must have felt it in the way your hips rolled against his hand, because his fingers slowed just to make you chase them. Then they slipped lower, teasing your entrance, and your laugh broke apart into a gasp.
The music outside swelled, loud enough to rattle the door in its frame. A burst of laughter passed down the hall, and Tucker moved closer, his body covering yours as though that could hide what the two of you were doing.
His fingers pushed inside you.
Your grip on his shirt tightened.
He moved slowly at first, watching your face, reading every little shift. Then he curled them, and you had to press your mouth to his shoulder to keep from making too much noise.
“Tucker,” you gasped.
His jaw brushed your temple. “That’s the spot, huh?”
You nodded into his shoulder, too far gone to make a joke out of it.
He did it again.
Your whole body tightened.
“God,” you whispered. “Please.”
“Please what?”
You lifted your head enough to glare at him, even though you were breathing too hard for it to land properly.
“Tuck.”
He smiled, but it was strained now, his control wearing thin. “I know. I’m sorry. I just like hearing you ask me.”
You reached between you, fingers finding his belt. “Then I’m asking.”
Tucker kissed you as he helped, hands brushing yours, breath uneven. He got his belt open, shoved his jeans and boxers down just enough, and you caught one glimpse of him before he was reaching for his wallet with the kind of urgency that made your stomach flip.
“Tell me you have a condom,” you whispered.
He pulled one out.
“Thank God,” you breathed.
He tore it open, rolled it on, then gripped your thighs and pulled you closer to the edge of the sink. The movement made you gasp, your skirt pushed up around your hips, his jeans low, both of you still mostly dressed and somehow that made it filthier.
Tucker’s hand came to your face.
He kissed you once. Not rushed. Not this time.
Then he lined himself up and pushed inside.
Your mouth fell open, but no sound came out at first. He stretched you slowly, one hand braced on the counter beside your hip, the other gripping your thigh. Tucker’s forehead dropped against yours as he filled you, his breath shuddering.
“Fuck,” he whispered.
Your nails dug into his shoulder. “Tuck.”
He stayed still once he was all the way inside, jaw tight, his body pressed close enough that you could feel the effort it took for him not to move right away.
“You feel so good,” he said, voice rough. “I need a second.”
A breathless laugh escaped you.
He smiled against your cheek, and then he started to move.
The first thrust made your head fall back against the mirror.
His hand came up behind your neck, cushioning you before you could hit too hard. Even here, even like this, he noticed. Then his hips snapped forward again, and your thoughts scattered.
He fucked you against the sink with his mouth at your neck and one hand gripping your thigh, keeping you open for him. The counter creaked beneath you. The mirror fogged slightly near your shoulder. Your skirt was bunched at your waist, your top twisted under his hand, your body taking him in quick, deep strokes that made it nearly impossible to stay quiet.
“Tucker,” you breathed, and his name came out broken.
His grip tightened.
“You have no idea,” he said against your throat. “How many times I thought about you like this.”
You clung to him, barely able to answer. He angled his hips, and the next thrust hit so perfectly that your eyes squeezed shut.
“There,” you gasped.
He caught it immediately.
“There?”
“Yes.”
He kept that angle, steady and focused, kissing you to swallow the sounds you couldn’t hold back. Every thrust pushed you closer to the edge, pleasure building too fast after his fingers, your body already sensitive and wet for him.
His hand slid between you again.
When his fingers found your clit, you nearly fell apart.
“Oh my God,” you whispered.
Tucker’s breath stuttered. “Come on. Let me feel it.”
Your body locked around him.
He kissed you hard as you came, his fingers still moving, his hips slowing just enough to drag it out. The orgasm hit you in waves, your thighs shaking around his waist, one hand slapped over your own mouth because you could not trust yourself.
He watched you through it, eyes dark and stunned, like he could not believe he got to see you like this.
Then his thrusts got rougher.
Desperate.
He buried his face against your neck, breathing hard, his hands gripping you as he chased his own release. You held onto him, murmuring his name near his ear, and that seemed to finish him.
Tucker came with a low groan, his body pressing yours back against the mirror, his hips stuttering once, twice, before he went still.
For a few seconds, the only sounds were your breathing and the muffled disaster of the bar outside.
Then someone in the hallway shouted, “Yo, whoever’s in there, some of us have beer organs with limited patience.”
Dean.
Of course.
Your eyes widened.
Tucker dropped his forehead to your shoulder.
“I’m gonna kill him,” he whispered.
You started laughing, quiet and helpless, your body still wrapped around his.
Tucker lifted his head, and the look on his face softened so much that it made the laughter fade in your throat.
He kissed you gently.
Then once more.
Then he helped you down from the counter like your knees were not in immediate danger of betraying you. He cleaned up, fixed himself, washed his hands, and handed you a paper towel without making you ask.
You straightened your skirt, then turned to the mirror and immediately regretted it. Your hair, your mouth, the flushed look on your face all gave you away at once.
Tucker came up behind you, but he didn’t wrap his arms around you right away. Instead, he braced both hands on the sink on either side of you, boxing you in without touching anywhere except the faint brush of his chest against your back.
You looked at him in the mirror.
He was watching you there, his hair a little mussed, his shirt wrinkled, his eyes quieter now than they had been all night.
“I don’t want to walk back out there and pretend this was just the song,” he said.
Your fingers paused at the hem of your skirt.
Tucker’s eyes stayed on yours in the mirror, steady in a way that made your chest feel too tight for the room.
“I want you,” he said. “Not just tonight. Not just because Dean’s an idiot and I picked a song I knew would get under your skin. I mean seriously.”
Your throat went dry. “You’re telling me this in a bar bathroom?”
His mouth curved a little, but he didn’t look away. “Yeah. Not my best setting.”
“No,” you said, softer now. “But it’s very you.”
Tucker leaned in, pressing one kiss beneath your ear. “Let me take you home. Let me take you out tomorrow. Let me do this right after doing it completely wrong first.”
You stared at him in the mirror for another second, trying to keep your face together and failing.
“Okay,” you whispered.
Tucker’s hands tightened once on the sink, like that one word had hit him harder than anything else you’d done in that bathroom. Then he kissed your shoulder, soft and lingering, before finally reaching past you to unlock the door.
Dean was leaning against the opposite wall with his arms crossed.
Not surprised. Not horrified. Barely even interested.
Just waiting.
“Finally,” he said. “I was starting to think I’d have to send Garrett in with snacks.”
You froze in the doorway. “How long have you been standing there?”
“Long enough to know I was right.”
Tucker sighed. “Dean.”
“No, no, I’m being mature about this.” Dean pushed off the wall, eyes flicking between Tucker’s hand at your waist and your very obviously fixed-in-a-hurry hair. “I’m not saying a word.”
You stared at him.
Dean lifted both hands. “Out loud.”
Tucker started guiding you past him.
Dean fell into step beside you like he had been invited. “For the record, I accept thank-you gifts in cash, liquor, or public acknowledgment that I’m the reason this happened.”
Requested by iheartbooks12344321: John Logan x reader, reader gets way too drunk at a bar and insists on walking home alone. After slipping and hitting their head, they stumble back to the hockey house covered in blood without even realizing it. Everyone panics, but John immediately takes charge, gets protective and refuses to let anyone else help clean reader up.
Watch Your Step
pairing: John Logan x female reader
description: When you stumble into the hockey house bleeding from a head wound after a drunken fall, Logan's protective instincts kick in.
The bass from the bar's speakers thrums through your body as you take another shot, the burn of tequila barely registering anymore. Your friends' voices blend together in a cheerful haze and you nod along to whatever they're saying, though you've lost track of the conversation about ten minutes ago.
"I should probably head back," you slur, grabbing your purse from the sticky table. "It's not that far."
"We can call you an Uber!" your friend insists, but you wave her off.
"Nonsense, it's a nice night for a walk," you declare, swaying slightly as you stand. "I'll be fine!"
The cool night air hits your face as you step outside and you take a deep breath, convinced sobriety is just around the corner. The thirty-minute walk back to the hockey house seems totally doable, even as you struggle to walk in a straight line.
Halfway there, your heel catches on an uneven patch of sidewalk. You stumble forward, arms pinwheeling in a desperate attempt to regain balance before gravity wins. The impact knocks the air from your lungs as your head connects with the pavement.
"Ouch," you mutter, sitting up slowly. Your head feels... wet? But you're too drunk to process it properly, pushing yourself to your feet and continuing your journey with a new determination.
The lights of the house come into view and you fumble with the doorknob before finally stumbling inside.
"Whoa, what the...?" Garrett's voice cuts through the noise of the living room where several guys are gathered around the TV, video game controllers in hand.
All eyes turn to you and their expressions shift from casual interest to alarm.
"Jesus Christ," Dean mutters, dropping his controller.
"What happened to you?" Tucker asks, rushing toward you.
You blink, confused by their reactions. "What? I'm fine!" you insist, though your words come out slightly slurred.
"Your face," Garrett says, his eyes wide. "You're bleeding."
You reach up to touch your cheek, your fingers coming away wet and dark. "Huh," you say, more curious than concerned. "I must have fallen."
Before anyone else can move, Logan is on his feet, his expression dark with concern as he pushes through the small crowd gathering around you.
"Everyone back off," he commands, his voice leaving no room for argument. "I've got her."
His hands are gentle as he steadies you, his eyes scanning your face with an intensity that makes your stomach flutter despite your intoxicated state.
"You need to sit down," he says softly, guiding you toward the couch.
"I'm really okay," you insist, though you wobble slightly.
Logan's jaw tightens. "You're bleeding from your head. You're not okay."
He helps you sit, his touch careful and deliberate despite the urgency in his voice. "I'll get the first aid kit," he tells the others, his tone brooking no argument. "Nobody else touches her."
As he disappears toward the bathroom, you can hear the muffled whispers of his teammates, their concern palpable. When Logan returns, he's carrying a white box with a red cross, along with a wet washcloth and a towel.
"Here," he says softly, kneeling in front of you. "Let me see."
His fingers are gentle as he tilts your head, his touch sending shivers down your spine despite the circumstances. He carefully parts your hair, his expression tightening when he finds the source of the bleeding.
"It's not too deep," he reassures you, though his voice is strained. "But it's going to need to be cleaned properly."
The cool touch of the washcloth against your skin makes you wince and Logan immediately pauses.
"Sorry," he murmurs, his eyes meeting yours. "I'll be as gentle as I can."
As he works, his focus is entirely on you, blocking out everything else in the room. His teammates have resumed their video game, though their attention keeps drifting back to your couch.
"You didn't notice you were bleeding?" Logan asks softly, dabbing at the wound.
You shake your head, then immediately regret it as the room spins slightly. "Too drunk to feel it, I guess."
A small smile touches Logan's lips, though it doesn't reach his eyes. "Typical. You're too stubborn for your own good."
"Hey!" you protest weakly.
His fingers trace the line of your jaw, his touch sending warmth through your body. "Let me take care of you," he says, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "Please?"
You nod, unable to form words as he continues cleaning the wound, his touch impossibly gentle. When he's finished, he places a small bandage over the cut, his fingers lingering against your skin.
"There," he says softly. "All better."
"Thank you," you whisper, your heart pounding in your chest.
Logan's eyes meet yours, and for a moment, the world narrows to just the two of you. "Anytime," he murmurs, his thumb brushing gently across your cheek.
The moment is broken by Dean's voice from across the room. "Hey, Logan, your turn!"
John glances over his shoulder, his expression tightening slightly. "I'm out."
"But we're winning!"
"I said I'm out," he repeats, his tone firm as he turns his attention back to you. "You should stay here tonight. I don't want you being home alone, especially not like this."
You want to protest, but the sincerity in his eyes stops you. "Okay," you agree softly.
John's shoulders relax slightly, but then he seems to reconsider. "You can sleep in my room," he says, his voice dropping lower. "If that's okay with you. You´ll be more comfortable in there."
You give him a greatful nod and vefore you know it, he's scooping you into his arms effortlessly, one arm behind your back and the other beneath your knees. You let out a small squeak of surprise, instinctively wrapping your arms around his neck.
"Logan!" you protest weakly, though you secretly love being held by him like this.
"I've got you," he murmurs, his breath warm against your ear as he carries you toward the stairs. "Just relax."
As he ascends the stairs, his teammates' teasing whistles follow you, but Logan ignores them completely. His focus is entirely on you, his grip secure and steady.
"Hey," he says softly as he reaches the top of the stairs. "You should have called me. I would have picked you up."
"I didn't want to bother you," you mumble into his shoulder.
"You're never a bother," he insists, his voice firm. "Especially not when you've been drinking. I was worried sick when I saw you walk in like that."
He pushes open his bedroom door with his foot, carefully lowering you onto his bed. The room is tidy, with hockey posters on the walls and a faint scent of his cologne that makes your head spin in a different way now.
Logan kneels beside the bed, his hand gently brushing hair away from your face. "I was really scared seeing you like that," he admits softly. "All bloody and not even realizing it."
"I'm sorry," you whisper, reaching out to touch his cheek.
He catches your hand in his, bringing it to his lips for a soft kiss. "Just promise me you'll call next time. Okay?"
You nod, your heart fluttering at the intensity in his eyes. "I promise."
A small smile touches Logan's lips as he leans in, pressing a gentle kiss to your cheek. "Good."
He moves to stand up, but you catch his sleeve. "Stay?" you ask, your voice barely audible.
Logan's expression softens, and he nods without hesitation. "Of course."
He kicks off his shoes and slides into bed beside you, carefully arranging the pillows and pulling the blanket over both of you. When you instinctively curl into his side, he wraps his arm around you, holding you close against his chest.
"Comfortable?" he asks softly.
You nod, your cheek resting against his chest where you can feel the steady rhythm of his heart. "Very."
"Good," he murmurs, pressing another soft kiss to the top of your head. "Get some sleep. I've got you."
hello! I love your writing and was wondering if you could please write a fic for john logan with a reader with glasses? thank you!!!
Seeing You Clearly
Pairing: John Logan x Reader
Word Count: 886
Request open!
Off campus masterlist
John noticed your glasses before you said anything about them.
That was the thing about John. He noticed details in a way that made you feel seen before you even had the chance to explain yourself. The first time he saw you wearing them, you were standing in the kitchen of the hockey house with your hair tied back and one hand wrapped around a mug, squinting at a text on your phone.
He looked up from where he was leaning against the counter and smiled a little. “You wear glasses?”
You glanced up, startled. “Yeah.”
He gave you a curious, soft look. “Since when?”
“Since forever.”
John nodded as if that made perfect sense, though his eyes stayed on your face a second longer than necessary. “You look good in them.”
You blinked. “That’s a very specific thing to say.”
He shrugged, entirely unbothered. “It’s true.”
You looked down, suddenly shy in a way that felt ridiculous because you were the same person you’d been ten minutes ago. Still, there was something about the way he said it that made you warm all the way through.
After that, he started noticing them everywhere.
When you were studying with your glasses perched low on your nose, John would glance up from the couch and smile to himself like he was trying not to be obvious. When you took them off and rubbed at your eyes after too much reading, he’d quietly offer you water and ask, “Headache?”
“Maybe,” you’d say, and he’d just nod like he understood without needing more.
The first time he kissed you while you were wearing them, it was after a quiet night in his room. You had been curled up beside him with a textbook open on your lap, arguing with him about a paragraph you were reading out loud. He had been mostly pretending to listen, except for the part where he kept looking at you over the top edge of the book like he had forgotten the point of the assignment entirely.
“You’re not paying attention,” you accused.
“I am.”
“No, you’re not.”
John gave you a very calm, very guilty look. “I’m trying.”
“Trying to do what?”
He leaned in closer, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Not stare at you.”
You stared back. “That sounds like a you problem.”
He smiled, then reached out and gently nudged your glasses up your nose with two fingers. The touch was so light it nearly made you forget how to breathe.
“You’re cute when you’re serious,” he murmured.
Your face warmed instantly. “John.”
He hummed softly, still looking at you like you were the best thing in the room. “What?”
“You’re distracting me.”
“That wasn’t the plan.”
You laughed under your breath, but then he kissed you before you could say anything else. It was slow and soft at first, the kind of kiss that felt like it had nowhere else to be. His hand came up to your cheek, careful not to bump your glasses, and when he pulled back, you were smiling despite yourself.
John looked pleased. “There.”
You blinked at him. “There what?”
“I wanted to see if you’d still kiss me while wearing them.”
That made you laugh for real. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I know.”
After that, he got a little too good at noticing when you were tired. He’d spot the small crease between your brows after a long day and ask if your eyes hurt from your contacts. He’d remember the way you rubbed the bridge of your nose after a long night of reading and quietly hand you the case from your bag if you’d forgotten it.
One night, after a long study session in the library, you were packing up with your glasses in one hand and your notes in the other when John stopped you at the door.
“What?” you asked.
He took your hand before you could overthink it. “Can I tell you something?”
Your expression softened. “Always.”
He looked at you for a second, then smiled that quiet, honest smile that always made your heart do strange things. “You look like yourself in them.”
You blinked. “In my glasses?”
“Yeah.”
You looked down, suddenly unsure of what to do with that. “I mean, I am myself.”
“I know.” He brushed his thumb over your knuckles. “That’s what I mean.”
Something in your face must have changed because his expression softened further. He stepped closer, a little more careful now.
“I like when you wear them,” he said quietly. “Not just because you look good. Because you look comfortable.”
You swallowed hard.
John’s voice stayed soft. “Like you don’t have to hide anything.”
That got to you more than the compliment had. The room felt quieter after that. Smaller. More intimate.
You smiled a little, and he smiled back, then kissed your forehead with the gentleness of someone who understood that some things were not about being pretty at all. They were about feeling like yourself.
And somehow, with John, your glasses never felt like something you had to explain. They just became one more thing he liked about you. One more detail he paid attention to. One more proof that he wasn’t looking for a version of you that was easier to love.
details: pure smut. dirty talk. reader is hooking up with garrett, but knows logan has a crush on her & has been hearing them hookup and doesn’t mind it… part two here
garrett warned you early on how thin the walls are, and hooking up here just means you have to be comfortable with whoever might be hearing you. it is harder than you’d think to keep the volume down when he just knows all the right spots, but it never phased you.
that was until recently… the boys have been teasing you about logan’s crush on you. you thought they were making it up for a while, because he never acts on it. he knows you’re sleeping with garrett and he’d never interfere.
but when you leave garrett’s bedroom with swollen wet lips, blushed face, and smudged makeup- you catch the look on logan’s face in the living room and can’t seem to shake it.
garrett finds it amusing. you’ve tried to talk about it, but you know garrett knows more than he spills and brushes it off. he says it’s bro code. god forbid.
now when garrett’s fingers are toying at your clit, you can’t help but remember logan is right behind that wall. you try to forget about it, but it turns you on even more. i mean, two of the hottest guys in school listening to you orgasm at once… is it so bad to enjoy that?
“you’re thinking about him again…” garrett teases. your stomach flips, feeling exposed which is ironic considering you’re naked underneath him.
“i am not,” you defend, immediately blushing red.
“you get goosebumps every time you hear the slightest shuffle from his room.” he laughs.
“you’re the one who keeps bringing him up! your best friend pop in your head everytime your dick is hard?” you retaliate.
he chuckles at your remark, trailing his hands up and down your bare thighs. some men would take offense to this, snap back with some i’m not gay! insecurity. not garrett graham. he is sure of himself and can take a joke.
he has no insecurities when it comes to his sex life. he knows girls look at all of his friends, this doesn’t intimidate him. you’ve never asked if any of them have ever slept with the same girl before, but it wouldn’t be surprising.
“just remind me one more time you’re comfortable here…” garrett says, teasing his cock at your entrance. you know he loves a consent check, but it feels motivated.
“yes. always. now, please– fuck me.” you say, receiving a cocky snicker from him as he slams into you. he wastes no time knowing how wet you already are and how easily you take him in.
he groans at the feeling and sight of you. his cock fills you with an aching warmth, which you thought couldn’t get better until he started talking.
“for one, i don’t mind the whole house hearing what i do to you. i don’t mind if the whole fucking school knows,” he whispers in your ear.
you try to cover your mouth at the loud whimper you let out at this thought, but he quickly moves your hand away and pins it down into the mattress.
“you know he’s listening… and i know your body. it makes you so fucking wet. it’s okay with me, baby. let him hear you.” he reassures and at that, you officially lost it.
he picks up the pace thrusting into you roughly as you moan loudly, unashamed. the sweet sounds you make puts the cruelest smile in his face. his grip at your hips tightens, pulling you closer to make sure he hits as deep as possible.
“that’s it… let it all out.” he whispers as you whine, letting your body relax into pure bliss. you’ve never let yourself feel like this before, and you feel safe in his hands. even safe enough to think about such a crazy thought of both of them. “you sound so fucking hot.”
each thrust taps the headboard against the wall, making you shiver thinking about the other side of it. as your orgasm comes faster than it ever has, he quickly seals your fate.
pairing: dean di laurentis x neurodivergent!reader
summary: to help you find the words to accurately describe how you feel for Dean, you create a list. you never intended for anyone to see it, least of all him.
contains: reader has behaviors that reflect those on the spectrum! no use of y/n, pet names (baby, sweetheart), sappy romance fluff, allusions to sex, kissing, cursing, teasing, tickling (sorry :/)
author’s note: apparently i’ve got dean on the brain today! this is my sort of sequel to my oblivious fic! i hope u guys like it :))
It felt worth the mention that you had never been in love before.
Had you been, this might not have been an issue. But like most things in your life, you were a little late to the party. You had been in one relationship before Dean, but it hadn’t lasted long enough to create feelings beyond infatuation or mere like. With Dean, it was different, like everything was. You felt out of control—which you didn’t particularly care for, but it felt like a fair trade with how happy he made you—and like there was a constant pull beneath your sternum to be near him at all times.
You liked your solitude, in fact, you needed it most times. People usually drained your social battery; just a simple exchange of pleasantries feeling exhausting some days. It was almost as if Dean had hacked your system and bypassed all the firewalls you’d put in place. You never felt drained after being with him, it was actually quite the opposite, you felt energized.
You had turned into one of those girls who giggled and giddily spoke about their boyfriend. These were emotions you previously wouldn’t have reserved for even your most intense passion, let alone a man. You couldn’t understand it. It was as if some chemical had been released and it was changing your genetic makeup.
You thought perhaps the feelings would fade the longer you were together. It was new and exciting and maybe your psyche was just reacting positively to a new stimuli.
A promising theory, however it did not prove to be correct. If anything, your intense feelings grew the longer you were together. You had considered the possibility that you may love Dean, but you weren’t sure. And since he hadn’t mentioned it to you, you thought the risk was too great to venture a guess on your feelings towards him.
You knew the common solution other people might suggest would be asking a friend, but this seemed utterly mortifying to you. And how were you to know whether or not people’s experiences differ? Were the symptoms universal? And you hadn’t a clue whether popular media, such as romantic comedies, were to be believed and taken as fact. So no, you wouldn’t be seeking the advice of other’s, there were too many ‘what if’s?’
Hence, the list.
You liked lists. They were functional and proved helpful for various occasions, your current predicament included. You hadn’t intended for anyone to ever see it. It was for you and you alone. A solo experiment you were conducting.
You wanted to both record instances when you felt strong positive feelings towards Dean, and mark down what specifically he had done to warrant that response. Your hope was that after a few entries, you would be able to draw similarities between them and create a solid thesis.
So, alone in your room, you began writing your list in a previously empty notebook in your bedside table.
1.) He doesn’t treat you like a child
There had been times when your lack of social awareness or naïveté had been misconstrued as child-like. This often led to patronization from past partners. It was a common point of anxiety for you; not being in on a joke everyone else seemed to be, not picking up on sarcasm when you assumed someone was being genuine. It made it even worse when your own partner was apologizing for your actions, or explaining things to you like you were dumb.
Dean didn’t do this. Sure, there had been times when he found your ‘face value’ tendencies to be funny, but it never felt as though he was laughing at you. He had a sort of fondness in his eyes when he looked at you, like he enjoyed the way you saw the world and the people in it.
You never felt left out when Dean was around, either. He and his friends had certain bits they liked to do with each other, and at first you found it hard to pick up on, but when you were alone he would break them down for you. He wouldn’t explain why they were funny, you could understand that, but he was letting you in on the inside joke.
He had told you once that Tucker’s mom had shown them pictures of their young friend dressed up like Mr. Mistoffelees from Cats the musical when she came to help her son move in. Ever since then, the guys had teased him mercilessly about not only enjoying Cats the musical, but dressing up as one of the actors at the age of thirteen.
One afternoon, you and Dean were sitting at the kitchen island while Tucker made breakfast, the three of you discussing the Hawks’ latest game, and more specifically Tucker’s success and scored goals.
“What can I say? I’m magical.”
You looked over beside you to find Dean hiding his smile behind his mug filled with coffee.
You spoke before you thought, which was not something you found yourself doing often. “Magical and mystical.”
“Mr. Mistoffelees,” Dean sung the rest, Tucker immedaitely groaning.
“You told her?” He screeched. Dean laughed so hard he almost fell out of his chair.
2.) He doesn’t make you stay the night at his place
As much as you loved his friends, you didn’t love spending the night at the hockey house. And it really had nothing to do with the other boys at all. It was more to do with…routine.
You had little things. Things most people didn’t see unless they spent the night with you, which was a very few number of people, and you intended to keep it that way.
You hadn’t always felt ashamed of displaying these behaviors that you couldn’t control, but after your last boyfriend broke up with you over them, it became something you thought to hide. Especially from Dean.
For as long as you can remember, you had a routine before bed. You would check the front door lock three times, check all of the stove burners to ensure they’re off, and unlock and re-lock each of the windows. Once you finished your routine, you could sleep peacefully. If you didn’t… you did not sleep.
Your therapist had ensured you this was a behavior that was harming no one, and therefore saw no reason why you should have to stop. Usually, that validation would have been good enough for you, but now you couldn’t help but feel insecure.
You’d tried sleeping at Dean’s house on two different occasions, and both left you feeling unrested and unsettled.
It was around the fifth time that you declined his invitation to stay over that he questioned you about it.
“How come you never wanna stay at my place? Are you uncomfortable there?” He asked you.
“No,” you rush to say. He gives you a look like he knows your lying. “Well…yes, but not because of anything you’ve done.”
“Okay,” he trailed off like he wanted you to continue.
You took a deep breath. “I like my sheets,” you confess.
“You…like your sheets?” He repeats like he doesn’t understand.
“Yes. I got them because they’re the perfect texture and yours are itchy. And my toothpaste is here. Yours is the weird charcoal toothpaste and I don’t like the taste, it leaves my tongue feeling dry. And your TV has a broken pixel in the top left corner that I can’t help but get distracted by every time we try to watch a show, and your front door doesn’t have a chain lock like mine does, and your air purifier is too loud, and—“
“Okay, baby.” He moves to take your hands in his, smiling and laughing lightly at your nervous rambling. “Why don’t we just stay at yours?”
You blink at him. You hadn’t known that was an option. It hadn’t been in your last relationship.
“You would want to?”
“Of course.” He laughs incredulously. “I just want to spend time with you, I don’t care where it is.”
You tackled him onto his bed with a hug, pressing kisses to his face as he laughs and holds you to him like he doesn’t want to let go. You hope he doesn’t.
3.) Soft sweaters
Your list began with the more serious reasons, and at some point over the weeks turned into the smaller stuff that left you feeling warm and gooey like a freshly baked cookie.
Before Dean, you hadn’t really considered the perks of having a richer partner. Yes, obviously having money was nice, but you weren’t sure what benefit it would have specifically for you. You didn’t intend on being financially dependent on your partner; you had dreams of your own.
Then you felt cashmere and the world made sense.
“Hey, baby?” Dean called from inside his closet. You were sat criss-cross on his bed with your physics notes in your lap and your computer open in front of you.
“Yeah?” You call back without looking up.
“Do you have any idea where all my cashmere sweaters might have gone?” You look up to find him leaning against one of the doors to his closet, his face looking like he knows exactly where all his sweaters went. And you knew too.
“No,” you reply in your most innocent voice you can muster. “I have no clue.”
“Huh.” He walks towards you, a towel slung low on his hips and his skin still damp from his shower. “That’s so weird, because what you’re wearing right now kind of looks like one.”
The both of you look down at your top at the same time, your eyes trailing back up to his guiltily.
“It’s so soft,” you whisper your explanation.
“I know,” he whispers back. “That’s why I bought it.”
You sigh and then slip the material over your head. You hadn’t been wearing anything underneath, but Dean had seen you naked mulitiple times now, you didn’t think it would affect him as much as it did.
You go back to your notes, but when you notice him still standing beside the bed, the sweater you tossed to him hanging off the tips of his fingers, his eyes alight with something, you ask, “what?”
He throws the sweater over his shoulder and moves to crowd you on the bed. “It makes it even hotter that you have no idea how much you affect me.”
4.) Dimples.
Dimples are caused by slight anatomical variations in facial tissue. A separation of muscle. It made absolutely no sense to you why Dean’s had the affect on you that they did.
Maybe it was because they didn’t always come out. It was only when he smiled or laughed hard that the indents in his cheeks showed. And you did love his laugh. And his smile.
You were lying in your bed, your skin still slightly tacky from your earlier excursions, and normally that sensation would bother you, but it never did with Dean. You loved to trace over different parts of his body and watch the muscles beneath the skin work, or the goosebumps rise over his flesh and know you caused it.
When you trace over his ribs, you feel his abdomen flex and a strange, high noise leave him in a rush. You look up to him.
“What?”
“Nothing,” he answers, a bit too quickly.
So you do it again, gently tracing your fingers over his ribs, and he squirms a little more intensely.
“Are you ticklish?” You grin.
“No…”
You run your fingers over both sides of him this time and you’re rewarded by his real laugh, full and loud, with his dimples digging deep into his cheeks.
You don’t know what makes you do it, but you lean up to kiss them. First, the one closest to you, then the other. Though, they fade into just faint indents with how his smile shrank from wide to small, almost shy.
“I love…” you watch his irises expand at your words, his chest stalling for a moment like his breath stuttered. “your dimples.”
His smile isn’t as wide as before, but you watch the indents grow deeper and feel the divots with the tips of your fingers. You feel like he wants to say something else, but he doesn’t.
5.) The noise he makes when you kiss his neck
Dean made plenty of noises you loved.
You loved his laugh, obviously. You loved the noises he made while working out. But you especially loved the noises he made when you teased him.
In your previous relationship, you hadn’t really enjoyed making out. You couldn’t help but focus on the texture of their saliva or the taste in their mouth. You didn’t understand the appeal until Dean, like many things.
You loved the firm and somehow also soft feel of his lips. You loved the delicate way his tongue would brush over yours. You loved how his hands gripped the flesh of your hips and tangled in your hair.
And you loved the noise he made when your mouth would move from his mouth to his neck.
It was technically his jaw, closer to his ear, but your technical thoughts were inconsequential at the moment. You had no appetite to be contrarian when his hips were moving beneath yours uncontrollably and his mouth was open and panting.
You liked conducting experiments, and you were fairly sure that Dean felt the same. After all, it had been an experiment that resulted in your finding the spot that made him whimper. So you decided to conduct another and see how far you push it before he was begging you to stop.
You bit his skin lightly and then soothed it with your tongue, his breath shuttering in his throat and the sweetest noise surfacing. You smile against his skin.
“Baby,” he breathlessly spoke. You moved to the other side of his throat, trying to spread your attention evenly. “You keep doing that, I’m not gonna last.”
It sounded like a warning, but it wasn’t one you cared to heed. So you hummed against his skin and continued your ministrations. You didn’t even have to take your clothes off to get the response you wanted from him.
6.) The fact that he loves you too
In hindsight, you shouldn’t have left something out that you didn’t want your boyfriend to see who had unrestricted access to your apartment.
You could blame the exhaustion, but it was entirely possible that you had subconsciously left it out for him to potentially find, alleviating you of your obligation to confess your feelings.
You’d come home later than usual to find him lying on your couch with a book in his hand. It wasn’t an unusual sight, but the book made you do a double take once you recognized the leather-bound cover as your journal. Your love list journal, to be exact.
“Dean!” You squeal, diving for the book and completely missing it when he moves it out of your reach, your body falling over his onto the couch.
“I feel honored my dimples made your list, baby. I knew you had a thing for them.”
“Oh my god.” You cover your face with your hands, feeling like you could potentially throw up from embarrassment. You hear him set the book down on the coffee table and then gently place his hands over yours.
“Hey.” He moves to uncover your face, his eyes gentle as he takes in your undoubtedly red face. “You know I love you too, right? Because I do. I was just waiting because I didn’t want to move too fast and scare you.”
“Well that’s dumb,” you deadpan. He laughs abruptly. “You wouldn’t have scared me.”
“You don’t have the best track record when it comes to being aware of my feelings towards you, sweetheart. You can be a little oblivious sometimes.”
You smile sadly. “Sorry.”
“No, don’t apologize. I’m just glad you finally caught up.” You roll your eyes before he leans in to kiss you, far too quick and chaste for your liking. Then he’s speaking again. “And to think, all it took was realizing you love when I whimper.”
“Oh my god!” You hide your face in his chest again and feel it rumble beneath you as he laughs. You refuse to look up to show him, but you can’t help but laugh as well.
Content: Smut, Oral Fem Receiving, Pussy Drunk, Hockey Celebration, Graham Has A Thing For Eating Pussy, Spit Play, Praises, Really That Song Again?
The bass thumped through the crowded frat house like a second heartbeat, the air thick with beer, sweat, and pure triumph. Briar had just crushed Atlanta in the final, and Garrett Graham had been the fucking king of the ice. Everyone knew it. He’d scored the game-winner in overtime, and now the entire campus seemed crammed into this one house to celebrate him.
You were buzzing half from the shots Allie kept handing you, half from the overwhelming pride swelling in your chest. Your boyfriend had done that. Your Garrett. The man who still looked at you like you hung the damn moon even after two years together.
“C’mon, get up there!” Allie laughed, already half-drunk and hyped as hell. She laced her fingers together to give you a boost.
The wooden table in the middle of the living room groaned under the weight of empty cups as you climbed up with her help, your short black dress riding dangerously high on your thighs. The crowd cheered at the sight of you up there, but you raised both arms, demanding their full attention.
“LISTEN UP, YOU DRUNKEN BASTARDS!” you shouted, voice carrying over the music. People turned, phones already coming out. “MY BOYFRIEND FUCKED THOSE ATLANTA BITCHES ON THE ICE TONIGHT… AND HE’S GONNA FUCK ME NEXT! SO GIVE ME A FUCKING OVATION FOR GARRETT GRAHAM!”
The room exploded. Cheers, whistles, and roars shook the walls. Someone started chanting Garrett’s name. Cups raised in the air. The energy was electric, wild, and completely his just how you liked it.
From across the room, Garrett watched you with that slow, devastating smile, hazel eyes locked on you like you were the only person in the universe. His hair was still slightly damp from the shower he’d taken after the game, and the tight black t-shirt stretched across his broad shoulders did nothing to hide how fucking good he looked.
He didn’t look embarrassed. He looked proud. Hungry. In love.
Dean, standing right beside him with a beer in hand, barked out a laugh. “Bro, if that was Allie up there I’d already have her ass over my shoulder and halfway to a bedroom. You’re really just gonna let her—”
“Yeah,” Garrett cut him off, voice low and warm, eyes never leaving you. “Let her have this. Look how happy she is. She’s proud of me. That’s my girl up there screaming my name like that… she’s the whole reason I played like my life depended on it tonight.”
He took a slow sip of his drink, but his gaze was pure heat. The kind that promised he’d absolutely deliver on every filthy word you’d just yelled.
You caught his stare from the table and grinned, cheeks flushed, heart racing.
The crowd was still losing their minds around you, but all you could focus on was the way Garrett was looking at you like he was already imagining exactly how he was going to ruin you later.
Allie tugged at your leg, laughing. “Babe, you’re insane and I love you. Get down before you break your neck!”
You let her help you off the table, legs a little shaky from adrenaline and alcohol you barely had both feet on the ground before the crowd parted and Garrett was right there. Strong hands caught your waist, steadying you as the adrenaline made your legs feel like jelly.
Before you could say anything, he pulled you flush against his chest and kissed you like he’d been starving for it. Deep, hungry, tongue sliding against yours in front of half the fucking party. His fingers dug into your hips, possessive and warm, and you melted into him instantly.
When he finally let you breathe, you grinned up at him, cheeks burning, heart hammering.
“I love you so fucking much,” you breathed against his mouth, “and I’m so fucking proud of you, baby. You were incredible tonight.”
Garrett’s eyes darkened with heat and something softer, deeper. He cupped your face with one big hand, thumb brushing your bottom lip, and kissed you again slower this time, but no less filthy. A slow glide of tongues that had your toes curling in your shoes. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.
“Fuck, I love you too,” he murmured, voice rough and low just for you. “Hearing you scream that up there… telling everyone I’m gonna fuck you next?” He let out a dark little chuckle that sent heat straight between your legs. “You’re insane. And you’re all mine.”
His hands slid down to squeeze your ass shamelessly, not caring who saw. You could feel him already half-hard against your stomach, the thick outline pressing through his jeans.
“You’ve been hyping me up all season, wearing my jersey, screaming louder than anyone in the stands,” he continued, lips brushing your ear. “You deserve to feel so fucking good tonight, baby. Let me take you upstairs. Let me thank you properly… with my mouth or my cock whatever you choose. I want to taste how proud you are of me.”
He nipped your earlobe, then soothed it with his tongue, voice dropping even lower.
“Say yes and I’ll eat this pretty pussy until you’re shaking. I’ve been thinking about burying my face between your thighs since the final buzzer.”
Your core clenched at his words. Garrett had always been vocal, but tonight he was extra filthy—fueled by victory, pride, and pure need for you.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes blazing with that intense focus he usually saved for the ice. Waiting. Patient, but clearly ready to drag you upstairs the second you gave the word.
You bit your lip, looking up at him with that mischievous, horny little smile he loved so much. The music pulsed around you, but the rest of the party had faded into background noise. All you could feel was the heat of his body and the way his eyes devoured you.
“What do you think?” you whispered, voice sweet but dripping with challenge. You grabbed his wrist and slowly guided his big hand under the hem of your short dress, right there in the middle of the crowded room.
Garrett’s breath hitched the second his fingers brushed your bare, soaked pussy. No panties. Just slick, warm, dripping arousal coating his fingertips as he cupped you possessively.
“Fuck, baby…” he groaned low in his throat, eyes flashing with raw hunger. Two thick fingers slid through your folds, teasing your entrance before circling your swollen clit. “You’re fucking drenched. Walking around my victory party with this pretty cunt bare and dripping for me? You really are trying to kill me tonight.”
You whimpered softly as he pressed one finger just inside you, enough to make your thighs tremble. He curled it slowly, perfectly, like he already knew exactly how to make you fall apart.
Garrett pulled his hand free, brought his glistening fingers to his mouth, and sucked them clean with a filthy moan that sent another rush of wetness down your thighs.
That was it.
Without another word, he bent down, grabbed you like you weighed nothing, and tossed you over his broad shoulder. One strong arm locked around the backs of your thighs, your dress riding up so high your bare ass was practically on display for anyone looking.
You let out a surprised laugh that quickly turned into a needy moan when his free hand boldly palmed your exposed cheek and squeezed hard. “Garrett!” you squealed, half-laughing, half-turned on beyond belief as he started carrying you through the crowd toward the stairs.
People whistled and cheered as you passed. Dean shouted something like “Fucking finally!” but Garrett didn’t even glance at them. His focus was locked on you on the way your soaked pussy was inches from his face, on how you squirmed over his shoulder, on the little whimpers you couldn’t hold back.
He took the stairs two at a time, one hand still gripping your ass, fingers dangerously close to where you needed him most.
“You’re gonna be screaming my name all night, baby,” he promised, voice dark and rough as he kicked open the door to an empty bedroom at the end of the hall. “I’m not stopping until this pussy is ruined and you can’t walk straight tomorrow.”
The second the door clicked shut, Garrett spun you off his shoulder and kissed you like he was dying of hunger.
It wasn’t sweet. It was desperate, messy, and filthy. His mouth claimed yours, tongue fucking into you deep while his hands roamed everywhere squeezing your ass, sliding up your dress, gripping your waist like he couldn’t decide which part of you he wanted to devour first. You moaned into his mouth, fingers threading through his hair, tugging hard the way he liked.
He walked you backwards until your knees hit the bed, then tossed you onto it with zero effort. You bounced once on the mattress, dress bunched up around your hips, legs spread, pussy completely exposed and glistening. Garrett stood at the edge of the bed, staring down at you like you were his favorite meal.
“Wait, wait—” he said suddenly, voice rough with lust. He held up one finger, that cocky little smirk tugging at his lips. “Let me put on some music to get inspired.”
You watched, breathless and amused, as he grabbed his phone, scrolled for a second, and hit play. The opening guitar riff of Cherry Pie by Warrant blasted through the room.
You let out a surprised laugh. “Again? That song?”
Garrett chuckled, low and warm, the sound vibrating straight to your core. He tossed the phone onto the dresser and crawled onto the bed, hovering over you with that devastating blue-eyed smirk.
“What can I say?” He leaned down, brushing his nose along your jaw. “It keeps me inspired. Every time I hear it I think about spreading your legs and burying my face in that sweet pussy until you’re dripping down my chin.”
He kissed you again, slower this time but no less hungry, swallowing the moan that escaped your throat. His hand slid up your inner thigh, fingers teasingly close to where you were aching for him, but not quite touching yet.
“You looked so fucking hot on that table tonight,” he murmured against your lips between kisses, “yelling that I was gonna fuck you. Got me so hard I could barely think straight.” He nipped your bottom lip. “Now I’m gonna make good on that promise, baby.”
His kisses trailed down your neck as the guitar solo kicked in, his big body pressing you deeper into the mattress. You could feel how hard he was through his jeans, thick and insistent against your bare thigh.
He kissed, licked, and sucked along your throat with filthy hunger, teeth grazing that sensitive spot that always made you shiver. One of his hands pinned your wrist above your head while the other tugged the straps of your dress down your shoulders, exposing your tits.
“Fuck, look at you,” he groaned, voice thick. He kissed lower, lips brushing over your collarbone before latching onto one of your nipples. He sucked hard, tongue flicking and swirling, while his hand kneaded the other breast, pinching and rolling your nipple between his fingers until you were arching off the bed with a broken moan.
“Garrett…” you whimpered, already impatient. Your free hand fisted in his hair, trying to push him lower. Your pussy was throbbing, dripping onto the sheets, aching for his mouth. “Please… stop teasing. I need you.”
He chuckled against your skin, the vibration sending sparks straight to your core. Instead of moving faster, he took his time on your other nipple, sucking it deep into his mouth with obscene wet sounds while his hand slid down your stomach, fingertips brushing just above your clit before pulling away again.
“You’re so fucking impatient tonight, baby,” he murmured, kissing down the valley between your breasts. “I just won the championship and my girl screamed to the whole party that I’m gonna fuck her… You really think I’m rushing this?”
He looked up at you, eyes dark with lust, lips shiny. “I’ve been dreaming about eating this pussy all night. I’m gonna take my time.”
Still, he kept moving lower, pressing open-mouthed kisses down your stomach, tongue dipping into your belly button for a second just to make you squirm. Your hips kept bucking up, desperate for friction, but he held you down with one strong hand on your hip, keeping you right where he wanted you.
“Garrett, please,” you begged, voice shaky. “I’m so wet it hurts.”
He groaned at your words, finally settling between your spread thighs. His broad shoulders pushed your legs wider apart as he stared at your dripping pussy like it was the best thing he’d ever seen.
“Jesus Christ, baby…” He licked his lips. “Look how fucking pretty and sloppy you are for me.”
Garrett’s breath ghosted over your soaked pussy as he pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss right on your mound, right above your clit.
Then another. And another. Teasing you mercilessly while the guitar riffs kept playing in the background.
He moved lower, kissing along the crease of your thigh, then the other, before finally pressing his lips to your slick outer folds. Soft, reverent kisses at first almost worshipful like he was savoring the moment. Then he inhaled deeply, nose brushing against your wetness as he breathed you in.
“Fuck, baby,” he groaned, voice wrecked. “You smell so fucking good. Sweet and horny… all for me.”
The sound that left your throat was pure need. Your fingers tightened in his hair, pulling hard as you tried to grind against his face. Garrett let out a low, filthy chuckle that vibrated against your pussy.
“Easy, greedy girl,” he murmured, lips brushing your folds with every word. “I’ve got you.”
He kissed your pussy again, slower this time, dragging his lips up and down your slit, coating them in your slick. He licked once, long and flat from your entrance all the way to your clit, then pulled back just to look at how wet you were, eyes half-lidded with pure lust.
You yanked his hair harder, hips rolling desperately. “Garrett, please stop fucking teasing me.”
He moaned at the sharp tug on his hair, clearly loving the way you were manhandling him. Without warning he dove in, mouth latching onto your pussy with hungry, filthy enthusiasm. His tongue licked broad stripes through your folds, savoring every drop of your arousal like it was his favorite flavor in the world.
“Mmhh— fuck, you taste even better than you smell,” he growled between long, messy licks. “So fucking wet… dripping all over my tongue.”
Your back arched off the bed as he sucked your clit into his mouth, tongue flicking fast and perfect while two thick fingers teased your entrance. You pulled his hair even tighter, thighs shaking around his head, and Garrett groaned loudly against your cunt, the vibration making you cry out.
“No,” you gasped, yanking his head up just enough to meet his eyes. “No fingers. Just your tongue, Garrett. Please.”
A slow, wicked smirk spread across his shiny, slick-covered mouth. His eyes were dark with pure lust as he looked up at you from between your thighs.“Your wish, my command, dollie,” he murmured, voice low and rough.
Then he dove back in like a man on a mission.
Garrett flattened his tongue and licked a long, slow stripe up your entire pussy, collecting every drop of your slick before wrapping his lips around your swollen clit. He sucked it into his mouth like it was his favorite piece of candy gentle at first, then harder, rhythmic pulses that had your eyes rolling back.
“Fuck— yes, just like that,” you moaned, hips bucking against his face.
He groaned loudly against your cunt, the sound vibrating straight through your clit as he sucked and licked with messy enthusiasm. His hands gripped your thighs hard, spreading you wider so he could bury his face deeper. He was making obscene, wet sounds slurping, sucking, humming with pleasure like he couldn’t get enough of your taste.
Every time you pulled his hair, he sucked your clit harder, flicking the sensitive bundle of nerves with the tip of his tongue before sucking it again, over and over, until your legs started shaking uncontrollably around his head.
“You’re so fucking sweet,” he panted between long, hungry licks, his voice muffled against your dripping pussy. “Keep dripping for me, baby. I could eat this pretty cunt for hours.”
He sealed his mouth around your clit again, sucking with perfect pressure while his tongue worked you relentlessly. Your slick was all over his chin, his lips, even the tip of his nose, but Garrett didn’t care. If anything, it seemed to make him hungrier. He moaned into you like a starving man finally getting fed, completely lost in the taste and feel of you.
His tongue licked you everywhere: long, messy strokes through your dripping folds, circling your clit, dipping inside your tight hole to fuck you with it, then dragging back up to lap at every drop of slick that kept pouring out of you.
You were a moaning, trembling mess beneath him, hips grinding against his face as Cherry Pie played on repeat in the background.
“You really enjoy eating pussy, don’t you?” you gasped between broken moans, fingers yanking hard at his hair.
Garrett pulled back just enough to look up at you, lips swollen and glistening, chin shiny with your juices. His eyes were glazed with pure lust.
“It’s my favorite meal,” he growled, voice hoarse and dripping with hunger. “And yours is the best I’ve ever had, baby.”
Without warning, he gathered saliva in his mouth and spit directly onto your swollen clit. The wet sound was filthy and hot as hell. You cried out, thighs twitching, but before you could even process it, Garrett dove back in like a man possessed.
He devoured you with renewed intensity sucking your clit hard, licking up his own spit mixed with your slick, then spitting on you again just to watch it drip down your folds before he licked it all up.
The obscene, wet sounds of him eating you filled the room louder than the music. He was moaning continuously into your pussy, completely addicted, tongue working faster and sloppier as he chased your pleasure like it was his own.
“Fuck— Garrett!” you whimpered, back arching sharply off the bed.
He gripped your ass with both hands, tilting your hips up so he could bury his tongue even deeper, fucking you with it while his nose rubbed perfectly against your clit.
He was drunk on you messy, greedy, and so fucking good at it that your vision was starting to blur.
Garrett let out a deep, needy groan against your pussy and doubled down. He didn’t slow down. If anything, he got more eager, more desperate, like your pleasure was feeding him. His tongue kept working your clit in fast, perfect circles while he sucked rhythmically, messy and loud, his hands gripping your ass so tightly you knew you’d have marks tomorrow.
“That’s it, baby,” he growled against your clit, barely pulling away long enough to speak. “Cum on my tongue. Let me taste it. I want every fucking drop.”
You were shaking, thighs clamped around his head, fingers yanking his hair so hard it had to hurt, but Garrett loved it. He moaned even louder, the vibration pushing you right to the edge. He kept licking and sucking without mercy, tongue flicking relentlessly over your swollen clit while he buried two fingers deep inside you this time, curling them perfectly against that spot that made stars explode behind your eyes.
You tried to warn him again, but all that came out was a broken cry.
“I’m— fuck, I’m cumming—!”
Your orgasm crashed over you hard. Your whole body tensed, back arching violently off the bed as you came with a loud, shameless moan of his name. Garrett didn’t stop for a second. He kept licking and sucking through every pulse, every tremble, drinking down everything you gave him with filthy, satisfied groans.
He looked wrecked face shiny with your cum, eyes dark with lust but he still kept going, gentler now but no less hungry, licking you through the aftershocks like he couldn’t bear to pull away.
“Oh fuck, Garrett… you’re so fucking good.”
He hummed happily against your oversensitive pussy, clearly pleased with the praise. Instead of pulling away, he kept licking you slowly, gently, cleaning up every trace of your orgasm with long, lazy strokes of his tongue. Soft, thorough licks that sent little aftershocks through your body.
“Mmm, that’s my good girl,” he murmured, voice low and warm, lips brushing against your slick folds as he spoke. “You came so fucking hard for me. Tasted so sweet, baby. I could live between these thighs.”
He gave your clit a soft, affectionate suck, then licked lower, pushing his tongue inside you to drink up the rest of your release. Every slow pass of his tongue was accompanied by more praise, murmured right against your soaked skin.
“Look at this pretty pussy… still dripping for me even after you came.”
Another long lick.
“So fucking wet. So perfect.”
A gentle kiss to your swollen clit.
“My favorite fucking meal. You did so good, dollie. Let me clean you up nice and slow.”
You whimpered, oversensitive but too blissed out to stop him. Your fingers loosened in his hair, now stroking through the messy strands as he continued his gentle worship. Garrett took his time, licking and kissing every inch of your pussy like he was savoring the taste of your orgasm. His big hands caressed your thighs, thumbs rubbing soothing circles while his mouth stayed busy.
He looked up at you between your legs, hazel eyes dark and full of adoration, chin and lips still shiny with you.
“You have no idea how much I love this,” he said softly, pressing one last open-mouthed kiss to your clit. “Eating you, making you fall apart… best part of my night. Every night.”
⠀˖⠀⠀છ⠀⠀EVEN DURING A STUDY DATE, HE CAN’T STOP TEASING YOU; 𝑑ean 𝑑i 𝑙aurentis 𝓍 𝑠hy!reader ﹙✹﹚
ᰋ ˓ ♡ 𝑓awn’s notes ㆍ a small dean drabble because i can <3 love love me a shy!reader though!
The Briar University library was supposed to be quiet. That was, after all, the entire point of a library.
But as Dean sprawled across the worn leather couch in the corner of the second floor, he’d discovered an unfortunate truth: silence only made it harder to concentrate. Every rustle of paper, every distant cough, every whisper from the circulation desk felt like a personal attack on his ability to finish this stupid history paper.
And then there was you.
You sat across from him at the low table, completely oblivious to the chaos you were causing in his brain. Your head was bent over a stack of textbooks, one earbud dangling from your ear, lips moving silently as you mouthed the words you were reading.
Dean had been staring for approximately four minutes now. He knew this because he’d been counting.
“This is pathetic,” he muttered under his breath.
“Did you say something?” You looked up, eyes bright with curiosity.
“Nothing. Just talking to myself.” He flashed what he hoped was a charming grin. “I’m not used to being this quiet for this long. I think my brain cells won’t last much longer. To tell the truth, I feel like a damsel in distress. Or knight in distress.”
You laughed—that soft, genuine laugh that made his chest go all warm and fluttery. “Maybe you should take a break. You’ve been staring at that same paragraph for twenty minutes.”
Busted.
“How do you know what I’ve been staring at?” he challenged. “Weren’t you supposed to be studying?”
Your cheeks flushed so hot you could feel the heat radiating off them, a look on you that Dean had become entirely too fond of. “I was just glancing occasionally.” You ducked your head, suddenly fascinated by the grain of the table. “It’s called being aware of your surroundings.”
“Uh-huh.” Dean sat up, abandoning all pretense of studying. He tucked his hands behind his head and stretched, a move he knew showed off his arms to their best advantage. “So you were looking at me?”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Too late.”
You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling. That was good. Dean lived for your smiles.
He’d met you at the start of the semester, when you’d accidentally walked into his kitchen while looking for a study group that met in the other off-campus house on the street. You’d been so flustered, so adorably apologetic, that Dean had immediately decided he needed to see you again.
It had taken two weeks of strategically showing up at coffee shops you frequented and accidentally bumping into you on campus before you’d agreed to have coffee with him—just coffee as friends.
Three months later, just coffee had become casual study sessions which had become “maybe we could study together more often?” which had become, well, whatever this was, because Dean didn’t do relationships. Everyone knew that. He hooked up. He moved on and kept things casual and uncomplicated.
So why did the thought of you moving on make him feel like someone had sucker-punched him in the gut?
“I’m getting hungry,” you announced, closing your textbook. “What do you think about grabbing dinner?”
“I think that’s the best idea you’ve had all day.” Dean was on his feet before you’d even finished gathering your things. “My treat.”
“You don’t have to.”
“Wanted to.” He shrugged, trying to play it cool. “Consider it payment for letting you crash my study session.”
“You invited me, remember?”
“Details, details.”
You packed up your bag, and Dean found himself watching your hands as they moved. You had nice hands. He noticed things like that now. Before you, the only thing he noticed about a someone was how quickly he could get their clothes off.
It was the lingering touches that gave him away. When you brushed past him to grab your bag, his hand found the small of your back—there and gone before you could fully register it. When you reached for your water bottle on the table, his fingers grazed yours, the touch lingering in the air. He didn’t even seem to notice he was doing it. It was instinct, akin to muscle memory.
You noticed, even though you tried not to. It was impossible not to feel the way his thumb traced a lazy circle on your wrist when you showed him something on your phone. The way his knee stayed pressed against yours under the table long after the initial accidental brush. The way he’d find any excuse to touch you—adjusting your collar, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, taking your hand to pull you around a puddle on the sidewalk.
You were different. You were everything different, and that terrified you almost as much as it terrified him. Dean still wasn’t sure what to do with that, and neither were you.
✏ 𝒹𝗁𝖺𝗓𝖾𝆑𝖺𝗐𝗇───all rights reserved; even when credited, these works are not allowed to be reposted, translated, modified or fed into ai ࣭ ౄు
Also, can we just appreciate whoever it was that decided to include Fade Into You by Mazzy Star in the show? Because *chef's kiss*, that song has ALWAYS been a gem.
pairing – garrett graham x princess!reader
summary – garrett graham is a reasonable man. her little pink top is testing that theory.
warnings – fluff, jealousy, possessive-ish Garrett, hockey house party, alcohol, suggestive humour, strong language
notes from me – based on these combined requests!!! i am.... obsessed with them....
word count – 0.9k
navigation – masterlist |
There are several things Garrett Graham’s prepared to tolerate at a hockey house party, because he is, despite what multiple people have said about him, a reasonable man with leadership skills and a flexible understanding of property damage.
He can tolerate Dean standing on the coffee table with a beer in each hand, conducting a room full of drunk sophomores through the chorus of Mr. Brightside. He can tolerate Logan spilling chips into the couch cushions and then eating them anyway. He can tolerate Tucker looking at the mess in the kitchen with that wounded expression he gets when people disrespect coasters.
What Garrett cannot tolerate, is her standing across the room in a tiny pink top that looks like it was assembled from dental floss, optimism, and a profound lack of concern for his blood pressure.
She’s by the windows with two of her friends, drink in one hand, the other moving around as she talks, all bright eyes and animated wrists and that little wrinkle between her brows she gets when she’s explaining something with more emotional investment than the topic reasonably deserves.
She’s laughing too much to notice the guy hovering near the edge of their circle, one of Dean’s friends from some class he’s definitely never attended, trying to time his approach like a nature documentary predator with worse hair.
Garrett’s jaw ticks. Dean follows his gaze, then very deliberately looks back into his cup. Logan, for once in his life, says nothing. Tucker takes one slow sip of beer and stares at the wall.
“Don’t,” Garrett says.
“I didn’t say anything,” Dean says, deeply innocent.
The guy makes it three steps before Garrett lifts his chin. “Nope.”
The guy pauses. “What?”
Garrett smiles at him. It’s not one of his better smiles. It has teeth in it, technically, but none of the warmth. “She doesn’t want to talk to you.”
The guy looks past him, confused, like maybe there’s been a misunderstanding and the enormous hockey player in front of him is not, in fact, speaking directly into his future. “I was just gonna–”
“Yeah, I bet,” Garrett says. “Cute. Fuck off.”
Dean makes a soft, strangled sound into his drink. Logan turns away, shoulders shaking. Tucker mutters, “You’re going to get us sued one day,” but he says it with the exhausted affection of someone who has accepted that this is simply part of the household ecosystem now, like beer pong, lost hoodies, and Garrett acting normal about a girl he has never once acted normal about in his entire life.
Across the room, she keeps talking. Completely unaware.
That’s the worst part. She’s over there yapping away about something, probably class or lip gloss or how she hates when coffee shops don’t have almond milk, while Garrett stands by the island losing years off his life every time the light catches the little metal bars pressing against the fabric of her top. Enough that every man in the room with eyes and a death wish seems to keep discovering religion in her direction.
By the third guy, Garrett doesn’t even bother smiling. “No.”
“Bro, I just know her from–”
“No, you don’t.”
The guy blinks. “I do, actually.”
Garrett tips his head. “Then you know she’s not interested.”
“She told you that?”
“She didn’t have to.”
Dean scratches his jaw, voice careful. “That’s maybe insane.”
Garrett doesn’t look at him. “Captain’s intuition.”
“You’re captain of hockey,” Tucker says.
“Still counts.”
By the time she finally peels away from her friends and comes toward him, Garrett’s redirected four men, intimidated one freshman into walking backward into a lamp, and taken exactly two sips of his beer. She drifts into his space like she owns it, which is irritating mostly because she does, shoulder brushing his arm as she looks up at him with a pout already forming.
“Garrett.”
He glances down, still annoyed at the entire male population. “What?”
“My feet hurt.”
He frowns at her, eyes dropping to the little pink heels she insisted were comfortable when he picked her up, despite all available evidence and the fact that she had winced before even making it down the dorm stairs. “The fuck do you want me to do about it?”
She glares at him.
He holds the glare for maybe half a second before sighing through his nose. “Go get my UGG boots. They’re in my room.”
Her head tilts, slow and expectant, mouth softening around the shape of a smile she’s trying very hard not to give him. “Aren’t you going to come with me?”
Garrett looks at the ceiling like maybe there’s a version of himself up there with boundaries. “Jesus Christ. Yeah, come on.”
He sets his beer down and puts a hand at the small of her back before he thinks better of it, steering her through the room while she waves goodbye to her friends over her shoulder, entirely pleased with herself. His palm is warm against the bare strip of skin above her jeans. It’s familiar. It’s normal. It’s going to put him in an early grave.
Halfway up the stairs, he mutters, “While we’re in there, let’s get you a hoodie or some shit.”
She laughs, bright and immediate, glancing back at him. “Oh, in your dreams, Graham.”
Garrett looks at the tiny pink top again, then at the hallway ahead, then very seriously considers throwing himself out the nearest window.
“Yeah,” he says, rough enough that she looks back at him twice. “Something like that.”
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You and Tucker breaking the bed would be hilarious
Tucker girls, this one is for YOU. And for the non-book girlies, Tucker is not the innocent guy you made him to be
Summary: You and Tucker break the bed
Warnings: 18+, smut, nipple play, p + v, dirty talk,
Unlike Dean or Garrett, Tucker didn’t take girls into his bed. It wasn’t that he didn’t have sex — he did. Just not there. For reasons none of the guys fully understood, Tucker’s bed was off-limits. Almost sacred. Malone’s bathroom, a girl's dorm room, even his truck if he was desperate enough, but never his bed. That space was reserved for something more than a casual night. Something real.
So when he took you upstairs during a post-game party, you couldn’t help but feel special.
You and Tucker had been seeing each other for a few weeks of heavy flirting at Malones. On a downpour night, he kindly offered to drive you home…which ended with you riding him in the driver seat of his truck. Since then, you’ve been making out at parties you happened to be both at and snaking hands under clothes.
There was also that one blowjob in Malone’s bathroom.
Tucker’s mouth was sucking on your nipple, teasing as you pulled at his curls. He was good at this. Playing with your breasts and busying his mouth on them. He knew exactly how much to bite and suck and kiss — how to make you feel good.
You pushed your hips against his hard cock, still hidden by the boxers he had yet to take off, silently directing his attention to where you needed it most. Foreplay was nice, but your pussy was aching for him right now.
‘’Come on, Tuck. I need you.’’
You did it again, grinding against him needily, and he lifted his head. ‘’You in a hurry tonight or something?’’ Tucker asked, raising an eyebrow.
‘’No. I’m just really horny, so get naked and fuck me,’’ you ordered, reaching down his back and pulling down his boxers mid-ass. ‘’Please.’’
Tucker laughed and crawled up to your lips, kissing you as he reached for a condom in his nightstand. ‘’Yes, ma’am.’’
After rolling it on, Tucker positioned himself between your legs and sank himself into you in one go, filling you and making you gasp. You wanted him to be quick, so he did.
For the next ten minutes, the only sounds echoing in the room were your and Tucker’s moans of pleasure mixed with skin slapping and the creaking of the bed at every deep thrust. Sex with him was much dirtier and hotter than I thought it would be. At first glance, Tucker doesn’t look like he’d be this way, but isn’t it always the quiet ones?
‘’Ahh, fuck—’’ you cried out after a particularly hard thrust, quickly bringing your hand over your mouth. There’s people in the house.
But Tucker grabbed your hand and held them both above your head. ‘’Let me hear you, baby,’’ he whispered against your lips. ‘’Tell me how it feels.’’
And you did exactly that, back arching as he drilled into you, causing the headboard to hit the wall over and over and—
Crack.
For one suspended second, neither of you moved. What was that?
Then, the bed gave a pathetic groan as the wood splintered beneath you and collapsed on the top left side.
‘’Are you fucking kidding me?!’’ Tucker grumbled, pulling out to go and look at the wreckage. The condom was still on, the mood thoroughly ruined by splintered wood and pure structural betrayal.
He exhaled through his nose — half laugh, half groan — and dragged a hand down his face.
The bed was definitely broken.
The one time he takes a girl to his bed, it breaks.
in which everyone knows that john logan is head over heels with you, and it’s not like you don’t feel the same way, so what’s the issue?
cw: angst, comfort if you squint
word count: 1.5k
an: this is unlike anything i’ve ever written but i’ve had so much fun writing it!! please be gentle xx
“Dean, sit down and shut up.” You pleaded, trying to shove the obnoxiously large and drunk blonde into your passenger seat.
“I’m not sure why I’m sensing such a tone in your voi- ow fuck!” Dean was quickly cut off by hitting his head on the top of the door.
You took your hands off of his shoulders, taking a slow breath in, “I am seriously trying my hardest to not kill you right now.”
“Dean, can you just get in the car?” A slightly less drunk Tucker asked from the backseat.
Reluctantly, Dean slowly lowered himself down into the seat. You closed his door, attempting to walk as fast as you could to the driver's side before Dean tried anything else. You had been trying to wrangle him into the car for the past five minutes.
“Does anyone know if Logan is coming with us?” You asked, looking out of your windshield as you sit down. There was a large group of people but you didn’t see Logan anywhere.
“Oh please, if anyone would know it would be you.” Dean slurred, laughing to himself.
The rest of the car remained quiet, causing Dean to look back at Tucker. “I mean come on, you know it's true too Tucker.” Dean turned his head back to you, “You know, you’re just so confusing. Fuck, I’m getting a headache just thinking about it.”
You narrowed your eyes at him, “I’m not sure what you mean by that, but if you have any hope of making it back to your house tonight I would sit there and be a good passenger princess, okay?”
Dean held his hands up in defense, “Just trying to lighten the mood. I feel some animosity coming from you.”
Whatever response you were going to come up with was quickly cut short by the feeling of your phone vibrating in your pocket. Logan’s name flashed on the screen.
You answered, bringing your phone up to your ear. “Hey.”
“Hey, Y/N. You got Tucker and Dean, right?” He asked you.
“Mhm, I got Tucker in the back and Dean up front unfortunately.” You laughed.
Dean threw his hands up, “Okay, seriously what the hell?” He whispered.
You brought your finger up to your lips, trying to silence Dean.
Logan’s voice “Good, I’ll just ride back with Garrett. I’m sure you have your hands full as is. Um, but I’ll see you at the house, right?”
You clear your throat, “Yeah sounds good, I don’t know if I’m staying the night but we’re about to leave so I’ll just see you there.”
“Alright just let me know, drive safe.” Logan said.
“I will, bye.” You replied, hanging up and throwing your phone into the cupholder. “Okay everyone has their seatbelt on, yes?”
“All clear.” Tucker replied, leaning forward to check Dean.
You nodded and began to reverse out of the driveway. You were about ten minutes out from the party when Dean grabbed your phone and asked to play music.
“Spotify?” He asked, already unlocking your phone.
“Yeah, you can play whatever.” You trailed off, trying to focus on the road. After Dean had played nothing for thirty seconds you looked over at him only to be met by a puzzled look on his face. “Dean? Music?”
He quickly snapped out of it, shaking his head. “Sorry, just trying to find the perfect song you know?”
He settled for some 90’s rock song. The car was mostly silent for five minutes besides the aux, and you were pretty sure Tucker had dozed off in the back.
The silence in the car was broken by Dean clearing his throat.
“Does it hurt?”
You snapped your head to look at him, confused. “I’m sorry, does what hurt?” You asked.
He simply gave you a knowing look. “You know what I’m talking about.”
You let out a short laugh, thinking he was going into another drunken rant. “No, I really don’t. Care to enlighten me?”
“John Logan.” He said leaning forward to pause the music.
It took every fiber of your being to not slam on the breaks right there.
“Dean, why would it hurt? We’re just friends.” You immediately knew what he was talking about, feeling heat rise to your face.
“Y/N, I literally just saw a yearning playlist on your phone, don't even. I mean this is like some The Notebook yearning type shit. I know you’re not just friends. He knows you’re not just friends. Fuck, literally everyone knows. Everyone but you apparently.”
“I know too.” Tucker chimed in from the back. You glared at him in the rearview mirror.
Was it really that obvious?
“Look, me and Logan are friends. That’s it, nothing more. Besides, it just wouldn’t work.” You argued, briefly glancing away from the road to look at both of them.
“See, I just don’t know why you say that.” Dean shook his head in disbelief, Tucker silently nodding, agreeing in the back. “I mean he’s practically on his knees for you, that’s blatantly obvious.
“I really thought after the last game, you two were going to lock it down. Instead, everything just went back to normal. You and Logan being friends again and you trying to pretend like you don’t see the way he looks at you.” Tucker added.
You bit your tongue, trying to come up with a reasonable explanation without absolutely airing out all of the things wrong with you. You took the turn onto the boys’ street. “I think you both are just drunk and barely know where you are.”
“No, we’ve all been thinking about it for a very long time.” Dean replied.
“I would just fuck it up, okay?” You finally snap, “He doesn’t deserve that, especially not after everything.”
As you began to approach the house, you already saw Garret’s car in the driveway. You quickly pulled into the driveway attempting to get these two out of your car as soon as possible. You put the car in park, sitting there quietly.
“Well, I guess we’re here now.” Tucker said, unbuckling his seatbelt. He opened his door, walking, well, slightly tumbling into the house.
“You know you’re my friend and so is Logan,” Dean said as Tucker shut the door, “and I also know that you’re hurting and he is too. I just don’t know how much more of it either of you can take.” You simply sat, looking down at your hands trying to stop the tears from welling in your eyes. “If you ever want to talk about it, maybe when I’m a little less drunk,” he laughed, “I’m here. Okay?”
“Okay.” You murmured quietly. A new light emerged from the porch, Logan was coming down the stairs and coming straight to your car. Dean unbuckled, starting to open his door. You quickly stopped him, shooting your hand out. “Dean, please don’t say anything to him.”
The blonde turned to you, “I won’t, this is between the two of you. Don’t worry about it.” He smiled, fully opening his door to meet Logan.
Dean slightly stumbled, standing out of the car.
“Jesus, I knew you should have stopped after the eighth shot.” Logan laughed, letting Dean lean into him. “Are you coming in?” He asked, turning his attention to you. The sight of your teary eyes caused him to draw his brows together in confusion.
He lightly pushed Dean up off of him, “Dean, think you can get inside by yourself?” He asked.
Dean nodded, slowly trudging up the stairs before it was just you and Logan. He sat down into the passenger seat, looking at you. “You good?”
You cleared your throat, blinking rapidly. “Oh, yeah I’m fine.”
The look on his face told you immediately that he didn’t believe that. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah!” You said, trying to pull off your best smile. “Sorry, I’m just like really tired and I honestly don’t feel good so I think I’m just going to go back to my place tonight.”
“I don’t know if you should be driving if you’re that tired. You can totally sleep here if you want to. I’ll even let you have the bed all to yourself.” He responded, slightly leaning towards you.
“Haha, no it’s okay. I think I might have caught something so it’s probably best if I’m not around everyone.” You lied, trying to hint to him to get out of the car.
It was clearly not true, but Logan nodded, getting out of the seat before turning back to you, “Just um- just text me when you get home, yeah?”
“Will do.” You promised, fingers thumping against the steering wheel.
He smiled in response, closing the door and heading towards the porch before turning to take one last look at you. You hoped he couldn’t see right through all of the bullshit you just told him.
Finally, he reached the door and stepped inside.
You let out a long breath, rubbing your hands on your face.
pairing – garrett graham x figure skater!reader
summary – one competition routine is all it takes for the boys to understand exactly why garrett graham is so gone.
warnings – pure fluff!
notes from me – based on this request!! this was so cute they're so wholesome <3
word count – 0.8k
navigation – masterlist |
Garrett has told them she’s good. He’s said it enough times, actually, that Dean had started making gagging noises every time Garrett brought up the competition like the man wasn’t the same person who once spent forty-five minutes explaining the emotional stakes of a regular season hockey game to a girl at Malone’s who had only asked what position he played.
But the thing is, Garrett saying she’s good and the boys actually seeing her are two entirely different events.
Because the girl they know is quiet in the way that makes Logan lower his voice without thinking. She stands half a step behind Garrett when they’re all in the hallway outside the rink, hands tucked into the sleeves of her hoodie, smiling at Tucker’s bad jokes like she’s still deciding whether she’s allowed to laugh properly.
She says hi, and then lets Garrett do most of the talking, cheeks going pink whenever Dean says something deliberately stupid just to see if he can get her to break.
That girl doesn’t look like the girl currently cutting across the ice like she owns the entire building and is being generous by letting everyone else breathe in it.
“Holy shit,” Logan says, leaning forward so fast his elbows nearly slip off his knees.
Garrett doesn’t even tell him to shut up. He can’t. He’s too busy watching her.
She’s all sharp edges and soft hands, chin lifted, mouth set around something that’s not quite a smile but knows exactly what a smile would do if she chose to use it.
The music snaps into something quicker and she moves with it, one shoulder turning, hips following, skirt flicking around her thighs as she drops into a low, fast curve that makes Tucker mutter, “Jesus,” under his breath like they’re in church and she’s just done something rude to the altar.
Dean has gone strangely still beside him. That, more than anything, feels historic.
“She’s…” Dean starts, then stops, unable to locate an insult or a joke sharp enough to survive the moment.
“Yeah,” Garrett says, and his voice comes out rougher than he means it to.
She throws one arm out on the beat, blade biting clean into the ice, and there’s attitude in it. Real attitude. Not the careful little version of herself she lets them see when she’s tucked under Garrett’s arm in the kitchen at the hockey house. This is something brighter. Meaner. A little wicked around the mouth.
She moves like the rink is an argument she plans to win beautifully, and Garrett feels something warm and stupid punch through his ribs so hard he forgets, for once, to be embarrassed by how gone he is.
Usually, Dean would smell that weakness from three seats away and make a meal of it. Dean says nothing.
None of them do, actually, not when she lands the jump with one quick, hard check of her shoulders, not when the crowd claps and she barely seems to hear it, already turning into the next sequence with her eyes focused somewhere past the boards.
Logan makes a helpless sound when she spins, fast enough that the loose pieces of hair at her temples lift with it. Tucker’s hand finds Garrett’s shoulder and squeezes once.
Garrett keeps his eyes on her until the final note hits and she stops dead in the middle of the ice, chest rising hard, one hand lifted, face flushed and fierce and alive.
For half a second, the arena holds its breath, then the boys are on their feet.
Dean’s first, both hands cupped around his mouth as he yells, “LET’S GO!” loud enough to make three parents in front of them flinch. Logan’s whooping like an idiot, Tucker clapping so hard Garrett can hear it over the music cutting out, and Garrett stands there with his hands together and his throat tight and the biggest, dumbest smile of his life pulling at his face.
She sees them. She sees all of them. Her fierce little competition face cracks clean down the middle, shy and bright and breathless, one hand coming up in a small wave that turns into a giggle when Dean nearly trips over a seat trying to cheer louder.
Garrett whistles, sharp and proud, and her eyes find him through all of it. For one second, it feels like the whole rink narrows to that. Her cheeks pink, his heart gone useless in his chest, the boys still losing their minds around him.
Dean drops back into his seat as she skates off, stunned into reverence for maybe the first time in his life. After a second, he looks at Garrett and says, very seriously, “Okay. I get it.”
Garrett doesn’t even gloat. He just keeps watching the tunnel she disappeared through, still smiling like an idiot. “Yeah,” he says. “Me too.”
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