“Dean, you don’t want me. Not really. I’m missionary with the lights off, and god knows what you are, but it’s something way more wild and exciting than that.”
Summary: How could she ever be enough for Dean Di Laurentis? How could someone who likes their life quiet and safe ever be enough for the life of the party?
Pairing: Dean Di Laurentis x Introvert!Reader
Warnings: 18+! Reader is very insecure and worried that she’s not enough for Dean, Dean assures her that she is more than enough as she is. Takes place after sex and involves discussions of sex.
Author’s Notes: Something heartfelt and vulnerable for my vanilla girlies, and any of my girlies who worry that they aren’t enough ❤️
When Dean comes back from the bathroom, his bed is empty. She’s picked her clothes up off the floor, and the only evidence that she was ever there is the faint smell of her body mist on the sheets.
He finds her outside, his Patriot’s blanket wrapped around her shoulders. Her cheeks are rosy, and he can see the faint tracks of tears down her cheeks. She’s holding one of Garrett’s mugs, something with a stupid quote from a sitcom written on it.
Dean doesn’t say anything as he sits next to her, listening to the faint breeze and the faint sound of music coming from the fraternity down the street.
“I’m sorry.” She said quietly. “I’m holding you back.”
Dean furrows his brows, reaching for her hand and trying not to look hurt when she pulls her hand away. “What are you talking about, pretty girl?”
“You should be at the frat party. Instead you’re here, watching nineties horror movies in bed with me over a bowl of white cheddar popcorn. Dean Di Laurentis never misses a frat party.”
Where was all of this coming from? Dean was enjoying his evening, curled up in bed with the girl that he loved, laptop propped up on a breakfast tray, watching Scream, and trying not to laugh as she quoted the movie in different voices depending on which character she was quoting.
“Dean, you don’t want me. Not really. I’m missionary with the lights off, and god knows what you are, but it’s something way more wild and exciting than that.”
That’s when his heart shattered. How could the funniest, most caring person he had ever met think that she wasn’t enough? How could she think that she was boring?
“Oh, honey.” Dean’s voice was soft as he reached for her hand, his chest warming as she wrapped her fingers around his. “You are so much more than that. And for the record? There is nothing boring about missionary with the lights off. It can be romantic, and sensual, and when I’m with you, it’s a fucking spiritual moment. You aren’t missionary with the lights off. You’re spooning in the soft morning light, dressed in a comfy, oversized shirt that makes you look breathtakingly sexy.”
That made her smile, chest rising and falling with a small chuckle as she hid her face from him. “I’ve got nothing going for me, Dean. I graduate in a week, and I start working in September. Once I start dressing like an office worker and leaving the house at seven in the morning, you aren’t going to want anything to do with me.”
Dean remembered their first date. He remembered the nervous girl with the bright smile, dressed in sensible sandals and a beautiful linen dress. She’d talked his ear off about horror movies until their food arrived, and then gave him a beautiful, shy smile when she realized that no man could possibly have wanted to listen to someone blabber on about Wes Craven.
He had loved it. He had almost leaned over the table and kissed her then and there.
“Come here.” He said softly, opening his arms for her to situate herself in his lap. Feeling his body against hers was reassuring, and reactivated her dormant emotions. She sniffled, doing her best not to cry. “I will always want you. When you’re dressed like a sexy librarian, and when you’re dressed like the girl who dragged me to see a Metallica tribute band. You’re my girl, and nothing is going to change that.”
She smiled, wiping some tears away from her eyes as she allowed herself to sink into Dean’s touch, allowing his reassurance to reach the darkest corners of her mind and heart.
“What about when not being adventurous in bed leaves you bored and wanting more?” She asks this softly, not meeting Deans eyes as her fingers toy with his hair.
He knew she leaned more vanilla. It had been a very blunt and honest conversation, and he felt honoured that she had trusted him enough to share that part of herself with him. To be able to say to him ‘I’ve spent too much of my life feeling small. That’s why I’m not comfortable allowing a partner to make me feel small during something so intimate, even if I know he doesn’t really mean it.”
And Dean, being the gentleman that he is, took it in stride. He wanted her to feel safe with him, comfortable and able to be herself. His new favourite position was prone bone. He loved draping himself over her like a weighted blanket, kissing her neck and the side of her head while he lavished her with praise and made her feel special.
“Baby,” He rasped, kissing her neck softly. “You trust me with your body. That’s more than enough for me. I’ve had my fun, but none of those girls have ever made me feel the way I feel when I’m with you. None of them have ever made me nut so hard that I blacked out for a few minutes. That was all you.”
She laughed, kissing his knuckles softly before resting her head on his shoulder. “I don’t want you to get bored with me.”
“I could never.”
There was so much conviction in his voice, but her chest was still tight. She couldn’t allow herself to have false hope.
“Hey,” he encouraged “tell me what’s going on in that pretty head of yours.”
She sighed, brushing her hair behind her ears. “I’m not used to being wanted. Not the way that you want me. And I think I’m scared.”
Dean kissed her forehead softly, trailing his fingers up and down her thigh. “You think I’m not? I just shared my bed with the most incredible woman I’ve ever met, and she’s telling me she thinks she’s not good enough? Baby, if anyone in this relationship isn’t good enough, it’s me.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“Yes I do. You’re a career woman who knows what she wants, and very soon I’ll be an ex-hockey player with no idea where he’s going in life. You’ve got it made, baby.”
“Fuck, I don’t know what I want any more than you do.” She laughed through her tears, which Dean wiped away with the corner of his sweatshirt. “I guess I just needed a little bit of extra validation today. I’m sorry I get emotional after sex.”
Dean shook his head. “Never apologize for how you feel. I like taking care of you. And if you need validation? I’m your guy. I’ll get you a goddamn membership card if I have to, just to show everyone you’re my girl.”
She smiled behind a sob, wrapping her arms around Dean as she buried her head in his chest.
“I love you, sweetheart.” Dean breathed, combing her hair with his big fingers. “Now, why don’t we go inside and watch Dirty Dancing, and god willing, I will give you two more orgasms before the night is through.”
pairing – garrett graham x kitty!reader
summary – the plan is simple: take garrett home, satisfy the curiosity and move on. the plan fails spectacularly.
warnings – 18+, smut, protected sex, fingering, oral stimulation, multiple orgasms, praise, scratching and biting, playful banter
notes from me – the first fic in this series!! so excited for you guys to read this one and let me know your thoughts! this fits in as the first time kitty & garrett sleep together! <3
word count – 7k
navigation – masterlist | MBF masterlist
The red wine has made the pavement look shinier than it is. That’s the only explanation she can come up with for the way everything seems slightly richer around the edges when they spill out of the restaurant into the December cold: taxi lights dragged gold over wet asphalt, steam breathing from a grate near the kerb, the dark windows above Mercer Street reflecting little broken pieces of the city back at itself.
Her friends are laughing about something that stopped being funny inside, all three of them crowded beneath the awning while the hostess tries to arrange cars nobody actually wants yet.
She pulls her coat tighter around herself, black fur swallowing the narrow straps and short hem of her dress until she looks significantly more prepared for the weather than she feels.
The cold catches instantly at her bare knees. Her heels click against the pavement when she steps aside for a couple pushing past, and she’s halfway through telling one of her friends that they are absolutely not going uptown yet when Sophie grabs her forearm hard enough to interrupt the sentence.
“Wait. Oh my God. Hey!”
She follows Sophie’s line of sight mostly because the girl is already waving both arms like she’s flagging down a rescue helicopter.
A group of guys is coming toward them through the foot traffic, broad shoulders and dark coats breaking apart the smaller bodies moving the opposite way. Dean Di Laurentis is the easiest to recognise. His coat is open despite the cold, his hair still perfectly arranged, one hand lifted in answer to Sophie’s wave.
Beside him are Tucker and Logan, both familiar enough from Briar parties and the occasional photograph Dean has posted from some ski trip or boat or stupidly expensive dinner. Beau is there too, laughing at something Logan says.
And then there’s Garrett Graham. Her eyes pass over him once, then come back. Then, humiliatingly, leave and return for a third time as if the first two inspections could not possibly have collected enough evidence.
Oh. The plot has thickened.
Garrett had been hot at the hockey house. Obviously. She hadn’t mistaken him for an accountant while he leaned against the wall in his own team sweatshirt and tried to call her Madison.
She had seen the curls, the shoulders, the grin. She had noticed enough to let him spend nearly an hour asking around for her name rather than simply walking away and forgetting he existed.
But that had been hockey-house hot. Campus hot. A little drunk beneath ugly lighting with a red cup in his hand and an entire building arranged to remind everyone he was important. This is something else.
The dark knit sweater sits snug across his chest and arms, fitted enough to show exactly how much body is hidden beneath it. A thin chain catches at the base of his throat whenever he moves. His jeans are loose, riding low over heavy tan Timberlands, and he walks with an easy, grounded weight that makes the women coming toward him shift aside before they consciously decide to.
He walks, she thinks faintly, like whatever is happening beneath those jeans requires consideration.
Which is a disgusting thought to have on a public street. She has it twice.
Garrett sees her just as Dean reaches them. There’s a flicker of recognition across his face, quick but unmistakable, before his mouth curves.
Dean sweeps Sophie into a hug and kisses the side of her head. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“I live here, idiot.”
“No, you don’t. You live at school nine months of the year and terrorise Manhattan recreationally.”
Sophie rolls her eyes. “That’s still living here.”
He laughs and turns, attention landing on her. “There she is.”
Dean hugs her with the easy familiarity of someone she has known through Christmas parties, charity dinners and summers where both their families kept ending up in the same places without anyone admitting they had coordinated it. He smells expensive and cold from outside.
“Your mother told mine you were home,” he says as he releases her.
She scrunches up her nose. “That sentence made me want to walk into traffic.”
“Yeah, well, our mothers are obsessed with each other,” Dean grins, then gestures carelessly at the men behind him. “You know everyone, right?”
She looks past him. Garrett’s still watching her.
“Yeah,” she says, because her voice has apparently decided to become perfectly normal at the least convenient moment. “More or less.”
Logan leans in for a quick hug, Tucker offers her a warm, slightly apologetic smile as though he already knows whatever Dean is planning will become everybody’s problem, and Beau greets Sophie by name. Garrett waits until last.
Up close, the sweater is worse. His shoulders are worse. The little glimpse of chain at his collar is so much worse she briefly considers whether she has been unknowingly ovulating for the entire length of Mercer Street.
“Hockey boy,” she says.
His smile pulls wider. “Manwhore girl.”
Her friends go silent with the speed and precision of animals spotting movement in tall grass. She arches one brow. “That isn’t what I called myself.”
“No, but it’s the only name you gave me.”
“I gave you my actual name eventually.”
“After I conducted a campus-wide investigation.”
She rolls her eyes. “It was forty minutes.”
“Forty-seven.”
She stares at him. “You timed it?”
Garrett’s eyes move over her face, dark and amused, then dip for one brief second to the fur folded at her throat. “Maybe.”
“Oh, that’s embarrassing for you.”
“It worked.”
Before she can answer, Dean looks between them. His head turns once toward Garrett, once back toward her, his expression brightening with a level of interest that should legally require a permit. “You two know each other?”
“Barely,” she says.
“At a deep spiritual level,” Garrett says at the same time.
She gives him a flat look. “You forgot my name while speaking directly to me.”
“And then I learned from adversity.”
Tucker makes a quiet sound that might be a laugh. Logan looks delighted already. Dean, naturally, looks ready to cancel every other plan he has ever made. “Okay. Great. We’re all going out together.”
“We’re already going out,” Sophie points out.
“Perfect. So are we.”
“To where?” her other friend asks.
Dean gestures vaguely down the street, as if New York has been waiting for him to choose from it. “Next place.”
“That’s not a place,” Tucker says.
“It will be when we get there.”
There’s some discussion about a club downtown that Sophie knows, another place Logan heard about from a guy on the team, and whether the table Dean has access to is real or the result of him once again treating his surname as a universal keycard.
She hears almost none of it. Garrett has shoved his hands into his pants pockets, which pulls the knit tighter over his arms. He’s standing half-turned toward Dean, listening, his weight settled back on one heel.
Every now and then his eyes return to her, not lingering long enough to be called staring, but doing it often enough that she feels each glance like the brush of fingers along the exposed skin above her dress.
It’s been a little while since she has had sex.
Not an alarming length of time, nobody needs to establish a welfare committee. She’s been busy, and the last man she entertained spoke about venture capital for twenty-two uninterrupted minutes.
Still. It’s been long enough. Getting back on the horse is healthy. Sensible, even. Her eyes drift down Garrett’s body once more, taking in the heavy boots and the loose denim and the sheer size of him.
That’s a very large horse.
“Are you coming?” Garrett asks.
Her gaze snaps to his face. His mouth is twitching.
She narrows her eyes. “Where?”
“The club.”
The bastard knows she was looking. She steps closer as the rest of the group starts moving, letting the fur coat fall open just slightly at her throat. Garrett’s eyes drop before he catches them. Better.
“Try not to lose track of my name on the way,” she says.
His smile turns slow. “Think I’ve got it now.”
The club is beneath a hotel with no sign outside and a doorman who looks at Dean for approximately two seconds before unclipping the rope.
“See?” Dean says, glancing back at Tucker as they descend the narrow stairwell. “Real table.”
The music reaches them before the room does, bass climbing through the stairs and into the bones of her feet. Downstairs, everything is low red light and mirrored walls, bodies packed beneath a ceiling deliberately made to feel too close.
Someone takes their coats. Someone else appears with champagne Dean insists he didn’t order, which means he absolutely ordered it.
She turns away from the coat check, smoothing one hand down the side of her dress. Garrett stops speaking.
It’s subtle enough that nobody else catches it. Logan is arguing with Dean about the table. Beau has already disappeared toward the bar. Her friends are being drawn into a conversation with girls they know from Spence. But she sees Garrett’s mouth close.
The coat had hidden most of the dress. Without it, the black silk skims close over her body and ends high against her thighs, while lace climbs over her chest in thin, delicate shapes that reveal skin. The back dips low. She had chosen it because it made her legs look excellent and because her mother had once called it a little severe, which had been all the encouragement required.
Garrett looks from her heels to the lace at her chest, then drags his eyes back to her face with visible effort.
She pretends to check her bag. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah.”
She tilts her head, smiling. “You look confused.”
“I’m adjusting.”
“To what?”
His gaze flicks down once more, quick and unrepentant now. “New information.”
Heat slides pleasantly beneath her skin. “Try to keep up.”
He huffs a breath. “I’m trying.”
Dean pushes a glass of champagne into Garrett’s hand, breaking the line between them. Garrett takes it without looking away from her.
The first half-hour passes around them rather than through them. Their group expands and contracts as people recognise Dean, then Logan, then Garrett. Girls approach the table with that particular bright confidence athletes attract, already knowing the answer they want before asking a question.
Garrett is polite. He smiles. He leans down to hear people over the music. He doesn’t touch anyone. She notices this despite having absolutely no reason to.
She also notices when he notices a man at the bar offering to buy her a drink. Garrett’s jaw shifts once before he lifts his own glass to his mouth.
Interesting.
She refuses the drink, because she already has one and because the man has a scarf tied around his neck indoors. Then she turns back toward the table and catches Garrett watching.
“What?” she asks when she reaches him.
“Nothing.”
“That looked like something.”
He takes a slow sip of whiskey. “Thought you might’ve found your next victim.”
She glances back at the scarf. “Please. I have standards.”
Garrett looks down at her. “Do you?”
Her mouth opens in theatrical offence. “You’re standing dangerously close for someone who’s saying things like that.”
The music shifts, something heavier moving through the speakers. Around them, the dance floor packs tighter, hands lifting through red light, the mirrored wall flashing pieces of skin and jewellery and open mouths.
Garrett leans closer, his voice warm near her ear. “You gonna threaten me all night?”
A shiver moves over the back of her neck, too quick and fine to hide. She turns her face toward his. They’re close enough now that she can see the faint shadow along his jaw, the small movement of his throat above that stupid chain.
“Depends,” she says. “Are you going to do anything worth threatening?”
His eyes drop to her mouth. Something settles over his face, darkening the amusement without removing it.
“You tell me,” he says.
She could stand there and keep sparring with him. She could let the entire night collect itself in little looks and unfinished sentences, then return home alone and think about his shoulders while pretending she had made a point.
Instead, she puts her glass on the table and holds out her hand. “Come dance.”
Garrett looks down at her fingers, then back up. “You ask everyone like that?”
“No.” She curls her fingers once. “I usually don’t have to ask.”
His hand slides into hers, large and warm enough to swallow it entirely. “Lucky me.”
She leads him into the crowd before her body can do anything humiliating about the contact. The dance floor is hotter near the centre, all perfume and sweat and the sweet chemical fog spilling from a machine above them.
Garrett stays close behind her as they move through, one hand briefly touching the small of her back whenever somebody presses too near. It should feel presumptuous. It feels useful. Worse, it feels natural, his palm broad and steady against the bare dip above her dress.
She finds a pocket of space and turns to face him. For the first minute, they’re almost respectable.
Garrett moves better than she expects. Easy in his body in the way athletes tend to be, shoulders loose, weight shifting naturally beneath the music. His eyes stay on her, mouth curving whenever she catches him watching.
She steps closer. He looks down at the diminishing space between them. “Hi.”
“Hi.”
“You always this friendly in New York?”
She smirks. “I’m being welcoming.”
“To the city?”
“To you.”
Garrett’s eyebrows lift. “That so?”
She turns before answering, putting her back to his chest. His hands catch her hips on instinct. The reaction moves through both of them at once. She feels it in the way his fingers tighten against the silk, then deliberately loosen as if he’s giving her space to change her mind. She doesn’t. She settles back, letting the music move through her knees and hips, the hard length of him aligned behind her.
Jesus Christ. He’s even bigger from this angle.
His chest brushes her shoulders when he bends, mouth near her ear. “This your idea of welcoming?”
She grins, though he cannot see it properly. “You complaining?”
“Trying to understand local customs.”
“Keep your hands where they are and you’ll learn.”
A laugh leaves him, low and warm against her neck. His thumbs move once over her hips, almost absent, and her stomach tightens. She starts slowly because she’s not completely cruel. Then the chorus drops, bodies surging around them, and she rolls her hips back into him.
Garrett’s breath stops. It’s only half a second, a small interruption against her hair, but she feels it. Feels the way his hands clamp more securely around her, the heavy press behind her turning unmistakable beneath those baggy jeans.
There you are.
She does it again.
His mouth touches her ear when he says, “You’re doing that on purpose.”
“Doing what?”
He laughs without much humour. “Right.”
She turns her head just enough that her cheek brushes his jaw. “You seemed very confident at your party.”
“I am confident.”
“Are you?”
His fingers spread over her waist, thumbs nearly meeting beneath the lace at her sides. “You want proof?”
The words settle low in her body. Heat pulses between her thighs, thick and immediate, and suddenly the red wine explanation seems stupid. The pavement hadn’t made him look better. The city hadn’t done anything. Garrett is simply built like a personal failing and currently hard against her ass.
She looks back at him over her shoulder. His eyes are darker now, the teasing dragged thin beneath something focused and hungry. He’s still letting her control it. Still waiting, even with his hands on her and his body saying something much less patient behind her.
That restraint does more to her than it should. She turns in his arms. Garrett makes room, but his hands remain at her hips. Their bodies stay close enough that the lace over her chest brushes his sweater with each breath.
She slides her hands up his chest, feeling the dense muscle beneath the knit, and nearly loses the next sentence to the fact that he’s even harder than he looks. “Come home with me.”
Garrett goes very still. The music keeps pounding around them, light moving over his face in red and black. His hands tighten once at her waist. “How much did you drink?”
The question surprises her enough that she blinks. “Excuse me?”
“You were drinking before, and champagne here.”
“I had two glasses of wine over dinner and approximately four sips of champagne because Dean ordered one that tastes like shit.” She tilts her head. “Are you rejecting me?”
Garrett’s mouth twitches, but he doesn’t let the joke move him off the point. “I’m asking.”
She studies him for a moment. The confidence is still there, but it’s no longer careless. He wants her. She can feel exactly how much. He’s simply not going to make wanting her the only relevant fact in the room.
Something unexpectedly warm shifts beneath her ribs. “I’m not drunk,” she says. “I’m making a completely sober bad decision.”
“That supposed to reassure me?”
“No. It’s supposed to get you into a car.”
His grin returns slowly. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Yeah.” He bends until his mouth is near her ear again. “Let’s make your bad decision.”
They don’t tell everyone immediately because Dean would become unbearable. She retrieves her coat while Garrett finds his. By the time they reach the stairs, Tucker has noticed anyway. His eyes move from Garrett’s face to her hand wrapped around his sleeve, then lift with quiet understanding.
“You leaving?” Tucker asks.
Garrett nods once. “Yeah.”
Tucker glances at her, not judgemental, only checking something she cannot quite name. She gives him a small, easy smile.
“Have fun,” he says.
Logan hears that and turns. “Who’s having fun?”
“No one,” Garrett says.
Dean looks up from the table. His eyes sharpen instantly. “Wait.”
She pulls Garrett toward the stairs. “Goodnight, Dean.”
“Wait. Are you guys–”
The music swallows the rest as the door shuts behind them. Outside, the cold hits her hot skin so violently she laughs. Garrett looks down at her while the attendant brings their coats, his cheeks faintly flushed from the club, curls pushed messier than before.
“What?” he asks.
“Nothing.”
“You keep looking at me weird.”
She accepts her coat, then lets Garrett hold it while she slides her arms into the sleeves. His hands settle briefly at her shoulders, adjusting the fur around her before stepping back.
“I’m processing new information,” she says.
He recognises his own line and laughs. “About?”
Her eyes travel pointedly down the front of him.
Garrett’s face changes. “Jesus Christ.”
“What?”
“You’re not subtle.”
“I’m wearing lace to my waist in December. Did I seem committed to subtlety?”
The car ride uptown is fifteen minutes of concentrated poor judgement. She takes the middle seat despite there being no reason to, her thigh pressed along Garrett’s while Manhattan moves silver and black outside the windows. His hand rests near his knee at first.
Then she places her own over it. His fingers turn beneath hers, threading through. It’s a strangely intimate thing to do on the way to have sex with someone she barely knows.
That thought arrives, waits for her to feel alarmed, then leaves when Garrett’s thumb strokes once along the side of her finger.
Her building rises above the park in pale limestone and glass, every window lit warm against the dark. The doorman greets her by name, opens Garrett’s door and very carefully doesn’t look at their joined hands.
Garrett tips his head back as they cross the lobby, taking in the stone, the enormous arrangement of white flowers, the chandelier descending through three floors of open space. “This is where you live?”
“One of them. This where I live when I’m home.”
The private elevator doors open. She steps inside and presses the button for the penthouse. Garrett looks at the single option above the lobby, then at her.
She folds her arms. “Don’t.”
His laugh bounces softly off the mirrored walls. “One of your homes is the most– like, Dean answer you could’ve given.”
“Do not compare me to Dean while I’m trying to sleep with you.”
“That’s fair.” Garrett steps closer as the elevator begins to rise. “Really kills the mood.”
She looks up at him. “Is the mood dead?”
His gaze drops to her mouth. “Not even a little.”
He kisses her before the doors open. There’s no careful beginning to it. His hand comes around the back of her neck, warm beneath her hair, and his mouth finds hers with the confidence he’s been holding behind his teeth all night.
She catches the front of his sweater in both fists, dragging him closer until her back touches the mirrored wall and his body settles against hers. He kisses like he talks: a little smug, a little demanding, deeply pleased whenever she pushes back.
Her lips part beneath his. Garrett makes a low sound into her mouth when she bites his bottom lip, and the noise sends a quick, molten rush through her. One of his hands slips from her neck to her waist, pulling her flush against him.
The elevator chimes. They separate by approximately two inches, and the doors open directly into the penthouse.
Garrett looks past her at the dark sweep of the living room: floor-to-ceiling windows, the park below them, pale furniture arranged around a low marble table, art her mother bought because somebody in Paris said it mattered.
“Holy shit,” he says.
She grabs his hand and pulls him inside. “Don’t make it weird.”
“I’m not making it weird. Your elevator opened into your house.”
She nods seriously. “Our neighbours are very dangerous.”
His head whips toward her. “Your neighbours can access your living room?”
“No, but it sounded mysterious.”
He laughs as the doors close behind him. The apartment is silent. Her parents are in Palm Beach until after New Year’s, the staff gone for the night, every lamp controlled by a panel she cannot operate properly despite growing up here. She hits three buttons before the lights near the windows soften on.
Garrett shrugs out of his coat. She takes it and drops both of theirs over a chair that’s almost certainly not meant to hold coats. His eyes track the room once more, curious but not impressed in an overeager way. He doesn’t start asking what things cost. He does not look at her differently.
Instead he glances at the enormous abstract painting above the fireplace and says, “That supposed to be anything?”
“My mother says it’s about grief.”
“It looks like ketchup.”
She stares at him for one second, then laughs so suddenly she has to press her lips together.
“What?” Garrett asks.
“Nothing. I’ve been saying that for four years.”
“So I’m right.”
She shoots him a look. “You’re definitely not cultured enough to be right.”
He steps closer. “You gonna throw me out?”
“Maybe.”
“Before or after?”
Her breath catches slightly.
Garrett’s gaze drops to the lace over her chest. He reaches up, not quite touching, one finger tracing the air near the delicate edge at her collarbone. “This dress has been making my life difficult for two hours.”
“Only two?”
“Started when the coat came off.”
She slides both hands beneath the hem of his sweater, palms meeting warm skin at his waist. His stomach contracts beneath her touch.
“And the sweater?” she asks. “That was an accident?”
Garrett glances down at himself. “It’s a sweater.”
“It’s working very hard.”
His mouth curves. “You’ve been staring all night.”
“So have you.”
“Yeah.” He takes her face in both hands, thumbs resting near her jaw. “I have.”
Then he kisses her again. They nearly knock over the lamp beside the sofa. Garrett catches it one-handed without taking his mouth completely from hers, setting it upright with a muffled laugh when she pushes him back into the console behind him.
“That expensive?” he asks against her lips.
“Probably.”
“Great.”
“Stop backing into things,” she murmurs, her lips brushing his.
His hands slide up her dress, then stop. “Bedroom?”
She looks toward the hallway. “That’s very efficient.”
“I’m trying to protect your furniture.”
She smiles. “How responsible.” She takes his hand again and leads him down the hall.
Her room has barely changed since she left for college, except that her mother replaces things whenever she decides they no longer represent the adult daughter she imagines having.
The bed is enormous and neatly made, the windows looking south over the city, her old photographs arranged beside newer perfume bottles and jewellery trays. Garrett pauses in the doorway.
She turns. “What now?”
His eyes move over the room, then settle on a framed photograph of her at sixteen in riding clothes, one hand resting on the neck of a chestnut horse.
A grin spreads across his face. “You ride?”
She follows his gaze. “Don’t.”
“You actually ride horses.”
“I used to.”
She grabs his sweater and pulls it over his head. The laugh disappears. So does most of her ability to form language.
Holy fuck.
His body is broad in a way clothing had only suggested, shoulders packed with muscle, chest solid and warm beneath her hands. His stomach is leaner, cut deeply above the waistband of his jeans, a faint trail of dark hair disappearing beneath the loose denim. She stares.
Garrett drops the sweater near his feet. “You okay?”
“No.”
His eyebrows lift.
She reaches for the button of his jeans. “This has become a much more serious situation.”
He catches her wrist, smiling. “Thought you had standards.”
“I have eyes.”
“That’s romantic.”
“I’m not trying to romance you.”
“No?” His hand slides around her waist, fingers finding the zip at the back of her dress. “What are you trying to do?”
She leans closer until her mouth brushes his. “Take a guess.”
Garrett pulls the zip down. The dress loosens over her body, silk slipping from her shoulders beneath his hands. He watches it fall, and this time the expression on his face is not playful at all. His eyes move slowly over the black lace beneath, over her waist and hips and bare thighs, the look so open and concentrated that her skin warms everywhere it touches.
“Fuck,” he says quietly.
The single word does more than an entire prepared speech could have. She steps out of the dress and pushes him backward toward the bed. Garrett lets her. Mostly. His hands remain on her hips as he sits, pulling her between his knees.
Up close, his lashes look offensively dark. His mouth is already swollen from kissing her. She puts one hand beneath his chin and tilts his face up.
“You’re very pretty,” she says.
Garrett’s hands tighten. “Pretty?”
“Mhm.”
His brows furrow. “I’m six-two.”
“Congratulations.”
“I play hockey.”
“I’m sorry.”
He laughs and turns his head, kissing the inside of her wrist. The gesture is so casually soft that she goes still for half a second.
His eyes lift to hers. “Still good?”
The warmth beneath her ribs deepens by a degree. “I’m good.”
His mouth presses to her stomach just above the lace, then lower, one slow kiss near her hip. Her fingers slide into his curls before she’s decided to touch him there.
Garrett looks up. “You want me to slow down?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“I invited you into my parents’ home and took off your clothes.”
“Technically, you only took off my sweater.”
She reaches for his belt. “Do you want to keep arguing?”
“Little bit.”
She opens the buckle. “I can send you back to Dean.”
Garrett immediately catches her around the waist and flips her onto the bed.
A startled laugh breaks out of her as her back hits the duvet, his body coming over hers without crushing, one knee pressing between her thighs. “That was rude.”
“You threatened me.”
Her brow arches. “With Dean.”
“Exactly.”
His mouth finds her neck. She turns her head, giving him more room before she can pretend otherwise. The first drag of his lips beneath her jaw sends heat rushing down her spine. Garrett kisses lower, slower than she expects, one hand spreading over her waist while the other braces beside her head.
For someone with manwhore energy, he’s irritatingly attentive. He watches every small reaction. The way her stomach tightens when his fingers skim beneath the lace. The hitch in her breathing when his mouth closes over her breast through the fabric. The sharp little pull of her hand in his hair when he finally moves the lace aside and takes her nipple into his mouth.
“Garrett,” she breathes.
His eyes lift. The smugness there is unbearable.
“Don’t look so pleased with yourself.”
He drags his tongue slowly, making her back arch before she can stop it. “Hard not to.”
She tugs his hair. Garrett groans against her skin, and the sound goes directly between her legs.
“There,” she says, breathless but triumphant. “Better.”
“You like hurting people?”
“Only athletes.”
“Specific.”
“You’re very annoying,” she gasps.
His hand slides down her stomach. “You’re very wet.”
Her next answer disappears. Garrett pauses at the edge of her underwear, eyes on her face. She nods before he asks, and his fingers move beneath the lace.
The first touch is slow. Almost cautious. Then he feels exactly how ready she is and his forehead drops briefly against her ribs. “Jesus.”
She smiles at the ceiling. “Problem?”
“No.” His fingers slide through her again, gathering the slick heat there before pressing with more purpose. “Just adjusting to new information.”
Her laugh catches when one finger eases inside her.
“Still funny?” he asks.
“Still hate you.”
“Sure.”
He takes his time, which she both appreciates and resents. One finger, then two, curling until the pressure catches somewhere that sends her hand flying to his shoulder. Garrett watches her face as though this is the only subject he’s ever studied seriously, his thumb moving in slow circles that make her thighs tense around his wrist.
It’s been a while. Her body is making that information humiliatingly clear.
Garrett bends and kisses her, swallowing the sound that escapes when he finds the angle again. She grips the back of his neck, dragging him closer, kissing him harder because every careful little stroke of his hand is pulling her apart too quickly.
“You always this impatient?” he murmurs against her mouth.
“You always talk this much?”
“Usually more.”
She bites his lip. His fingers press deeper in retaliation.
Her hips lift. “Fuck.”
“There she is.”
“Don’t start.”
“At the party you looked at me like I was wasting your time.”
“You were,” she mumbles.
His thumb moves faster. “Am I wasting it now?”
The answer breaks into a moan before it becomes a word. Garrett’s mouth curves against her throat, but whatever smug thing he might have said stays there. His other hand slips into hers against the mattress, fingers locking, and he keeps touching her until the tension low in her stomach twists too tight to hold.
It hits quickly enough to embarrass her. Her thighs close around his hand, breath breaking as the room goes white and soft at the edges. Garrett kisses beneath her ear, his fingers slowing but not stopping, working her through the sharpest part until she pushes weakly at his shoulder.
“Okay,” she gasps.
He lifts his head. “Okay good or okay stop?”
“Stop.”
His hand stills immediately. The obedience of it lands strangely. Comfortably. She lies beneath him breathing hard, skin hot against the cool sheets, and Garrett waits without crowding her, pressing a brief kiss to her jaw.
“You good?”
She looks up at him. His hair is wrecked from her hands, mouth damp, shoulders filling the space above her. “Very irritatingly good,” she says.
His grin flashes. “Yeah?”
“Take your jeans off before I reconsider.”
Garrett stands beside the bed, and she props herself onto her elbows to watch. He opens the button. Pushes the jeans and boxers down together. Her eyes widen.
Oh.
Oh, he had not been exaggerating through the denim.
Garrett catches her expression and looks down at himself, then back at her. “What?”
“You’re kidding.”
A laugh escapes him. “That bad?”
She considers the size of him with the grave concentration of someone reviewing building plans. “I have things to do tomorrow.”
He drops his head, laughing into one hand. “Holy shit.”
“This isn’t funny!”
“It’s a little funny.”
She points at him. “You should disclose that before leaving the house.”
“Put it on my medical alert bracelet?”
“Something tasteful.”
Garrett climbs back over her, still smiling. “We can stop.”
She wraps one leg around his waist. “Don’t be stupid.”
His expression settles. “Condom?”
She points toward the bedside drawer. “There.”
He reaches for it, finds the box and glances at her. “You keep these in your childhood bedroom?”
“I’m wealthy, Garrett, not irresponsible.”
“Very inspiring.”
Her eyes narrow at him. “You have one in your wallet, don’t you?”
He pauses.
She gasps. “Of course you do.”
“I went out with Logan and Dean. It felt responsible.”
“Manwhore,” she mutters.
“You started it.”
He tears the packet open, then looks at her again when he is ready, the humour easing from his face. “Tell me if you want me to slow down.”
“I will.”
“Or stop.”
“I know.”
Garrett settles between her thighs, one hand beneath her knee. The first press of him makes both of them go quiet.
She’s warm and loose from his fingers, but he’s still a lot, the stretch sharpening enough that her nails catch at his shoulder. Garrett stops immediately. “Too much?”
“No.” Her eyes close briefly. “Just wait.”
His hand smooths over her thigh. “Okay.”
He stays there, perfectly still despite the tension running through his body, mouth pressing slow kisses to her cheek, her jaw, the corner of her lips. Her body eases around him by degrees.
She opens her eyes. “You can move.”
“You sure?”
“Garrett.”
“Right.”
He pushes in slowly. The breath leaves her in a long, shaking pull. Garrett’s forehead drops to hers, his own breathing rougher now, control showing in the hard line of his shoulders and the careful grip of his hand at her thigh.
“Fuck,” he whispers when he is finally all the way inside her.
She cannot make fun of him because her entire nervous system is busy reorganising itself around the fact that he feels even bigger than he looked, which seems unfair.
“You okay?” he asks.
Her eyes narrow faintly. “I’m good. You’re just… whoa.”
His laugh comes out strangled. “Whoa?”
“Move before I insult you properly.”
The first stroke is slow, drawing nearly all the way out before he pushes back in. Her head tips into the pillow. His mouth catches hers, kissing her through the second, then the third, each movement loosening into something deeper and steadier as her body adjusts.
He feels good. Good in a way that catches her by surprise. The weight of him over her. The broad palm holding her thigh. The warmth of his mouth and the small, involuntary sounds he makes whenever she drags her nails over his shoulders.
She had expected a performance from him. Something polished and self-satisfied, Garrett Graham proving why half the campus knows his name.
Instead he gets messy. His curls fall into his eyes. His breathing breaks whenever she tightens around him. His jaw goes slack when she pulls him closer with both legs and he drives deeper, the practiced control slipping just enough to show her what she’s doing to him. That’s better than confidence.
She scratches lightly down his back. Garrett’s hips snap forward, harder than before. The bed shifts beneath them.
“Oh,” she says, delighted despite the breathlessness. “You like that.”
His eyes open. “Careful.”
She does it again.
“Fuck.” He drops his face into her neck, laughing once without humour. “You’re a problem.”
“You followed me home.”
“You dragged me.”
Her laugh turns into a sharp moan when he changes the angle, lifting her thigh higher over his arm. Garrett’s mouth curves against her throat.
“Not funny now?”
“You’re still annoying.”
“But?”
She digs her nails into him. “Don’t fish for compliments.”
He kisses her hard, rhythm roughening as the humour burns back into heat. The headboard begins tapping softly against the wall. His chain swings between them, cool metal brushing her chest before warming against her skin.
Her hands move everywhere they can reach: his back, his hair, the hard line of his arm beside her head. Garrett watches her whenever he can, eyes dark and intent, catching each shift in her body until he recognises the pressure beginning to build again.
His hand slips between them. The first circle of his thumb makes her hips jerk beneath him.
“Yeah?” he murmurs.
“You sound smug.”
“I sound focused.”
“You sound–” The next word disappears when he does it again, pressure firm and exact while he keeps moving inside her.
Garrett’s mouth finds her ear. “What do I sound like?”
She turns her head and bites his jaw.
His groan shudders through both of them. “Jesus Christ.”
“There,” she breathes. “Now you sound better.”
He laughs, ruined and low, and thrusts harder. The room narrows around them. The dark windows. The city spread in lights beyond the glass. The expensive quiet of her parents’ apartment being steadily dismantled by the soft knock of the bed and Garrett breathing her name against her throat.
Her orgasm climbs slower this time, building beneath every stroke until her entire body feels pulled tight around it. Garrett senses the change. His arm slides beneath her back, holding her closer, his mouth moving along her jaw in kisses that become less coordinated with every breath.
“Come on,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.”
The words should be too intimate from him. They’re not. Her legs tighten around his waist. The pressure breaks bright and hot, dragging a cry out of her before she can swallow it. Garrett kisses her through it, hand steady between them, body moving until she starts trembling beneath him.
“Fuck,” he breathes. “That’s it.”
She clings to him through the aftershocks, nails biting into his shoulder. Garrett’s rhythm loses its careful shape. His face presses into her neck, breath coming apart against her skin.
“Where?” he asks, voice rough.
“Inside.” She catches his jaw, making him look at her. “Condom, remember?”
Something flashes through his eyes. “Yeah.”
A few more uneven thrusts and his whole body locks over hers, mouth falling open around a low, broken sound. She watches the last of his control go, watches his brows pull together and his forehead drop to hers as he comes.
For several seconds, neither of them moves. Garrett’s weight settles carefully onto one elbow. His chest rises hard against hers, chain lying warm between them. She can feel the rapid beat of his heart where their bodies meet.
He lifts his head eventually. His hair is a disaster. There’s a red mark beginning near his shoulder from her nails. His mouth looks thoroughly kissed and slightly stunned. She smiles before she can stop herself.
Garrett narrows his eyes. “What?”
She traces the scratch with one fingertip. “You look a little less confident.”
He glances down at her, still beneath him, legs tangled with his. “Do I?”
“A little.”
“Interesting.” He rolls his hips once, barely. Her breath catches. Garrett’s grin returns.
“You’re deeply irritating.”
He laughs and kisses the heel of her palm before carefully pulling away.
She watches him deal with the condom, expecting the strange shift that sometimes follows. The sudden awareness of a near-stranger in the room. Clothes on the floor. The body beside hers no longer obscured by wanting.
It doesn’t arrive. Garrett comes back with water from the bathroom, naked and completely comfortable, passing her the glass before climbing into bed again.
“You found the glasses?” she asks.
“There were twelve beside the sink.”
“My mother thinks hydration should feel formal.”
He settles against the headboard. “Your bathroom’s bigger than my bedroom.”
“Don’t tell Dean. He’ll become competitive.”
“Dean’s bathroom’s probably bigger than my house.”
She drinks, then hands him the glass. Garrett takes a long swallow from the same side without thinking about it. That shouldn’t feel intimate either.
She shifts beneath the sheet, studying the scratches along his shoulder. “Did I hurt you?”
Garrett looks down. “No.”
“You hesitated.”
“It stings.”
Her brows lift. “So I hurt you.”
“You say that like you’re proud.”
She tilts her head. “I’m… collecting information.”
“About?”
She drags one nail lightly over his chest. Garrett’s stomach tightens. “New information,” she says.
His gaze drops to her hand. “You planning a follow-up study?”
She looks at him. This was supposed to get him out of her system. That had been the point somewhere between the restaurant and the club, before the sweater came off and his hand stopped the second she asked and he kissed her like her reactions mattered more than his reputation.
Instead, Garrett’s sitting naked in her childhood bed, drinking from her water glass, hair destroyed by her fingers, looking far too pleased by the possibility that this might happen again.
The plot hasn’t merely thickened. The plot has developed shoulders, put on a chain and followed her home.
She takes the glass from his hand and sets it on the bedside table. “Maybe.”
Garrett catches her waist when she moves toward him, guiding her into his lap beneath the sheets.
“Good,” he says.
She settles over his thighs, trying not to react to the first unmistakable sign that they might not be finished for the night. “Don’t get cocky.”
His hands move slowly up her back. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
He’s lying, obviously. She kisses him anyway.
to be notified when i post new fics, follow @kooksandpearls-library and turn on notifications! i no longer use a taglist for garrett fics.
You’d be lying if you said you weren’t tired. No, you were currently fighting for your life in lecture. You’ve nodded off too many times to count, the culprit? Your deliciously hot boyfriend. Said boyfriend had kept you up all night last night.
“Are you okay?” Hannah asks. You blink rapidly, trying to wake up.
“What? Me?” You ask sleepily. She stares at you like you have two heads before looking down at your notes that are illegible due to the fact that you’re half asleep.
“Uh, yeah, your notes look like a toddlers art project.” She says. You look down, blinking your eyes into focus.
“Fuck, can you send me pictures of yours later?” You ask. She nods.
“Of course, but like are you sure you’re okay?” She asks again looking concerned.
“Yeah, I was just uh, up late last night.” You say, a blush coming to your face.
“Fuck, Logan don’t stop!” You moan. His hand grabs a fist full of your hair causing your back to arch even more. Logan’s hands on your hips pull you further back against him, nothing but the sound of your combined moans and skin slapping against skin.
“Oh, were you studying for that Ethics exam we have next week?” She asks. Okay you had originally been studying before your sexy ass boyfriend got back from hockey practice looking delicious with his hair still damp and his sweatpants slung low on his waist.
“Uh… a little.” You admit. Hannah looks at you, her eyes narrowing as she smirks.
“Were you having sex all night?” She asks. You blush, looking around to make sure no one heard her.
“Maybe.” You admit. She lets out a cackle, you roll your eyes playfully.
After class, you and Hannah had promised to meet your friend group in the dining hall for lunch. Normally the walk would leave you feeling refreshed after sitting in a lecture hall for an hour but today not so much.
“Damn, why are you limping?” Tucker asks as you set your book bag down next to the chair that Logan has saved for you. He grins up at you, a knowing look in his eyes.
“One more baby, come on.” He coos. You thrash underneath him. His pace is unrelenting, his fingers deftly working your clit.
“Can’t Johnny, too sensitive.” You whimper. His thrusts slow, still deep and hitting every sensitive spot inside of you. He taps your clit.
“One more pretty girl, know you can do it. Let me feel you.” He coaxes. His praise and unrelenting attention to your clit does the trick, sending you over the edge for the third time.
“Oh fuck!” You moan, eyes screwing shut as the pleasure runs through you.
“That’s it, good girl. So pretty when you cum around this cock.” John murmurs, his thrusts slow grow erratic as he spills himself inside of you.
“Probably pulled something a Pilates.” You say shrugging. Allie frowns.
“You didn’t come to Pilates with me this morning? Are you still hurting from yesterday?” She asks voice full of concern. Beside you Logan snorts. Tucker quickly puts two and two together.
“Oh my God! Geez Logan you don’t have to take it out on the poor girl.” Tucker says as you sit next to your boyfriend.
“Okay so it was you two who kept me up last night. I thought it was Allie and Dean.” Garrett says with a shrug. Allie rolls her eyes.
“I am not that loud.” She says gesturing to you.
“Are you seriously limping from sex?” Dean asks laughing. You stare at him.
“Are you seriously asking me that?” You say mocking him before adding, “Dude you guys share a house and the whole locker room situation, you know exactly what’s going on down there.” Dean considers your statement.
“Fair enough.” He says. Dean leans back in his chair, still looking entirely too amused.
“So…” he says, pointing his fork at you. “Hypothetically.”
You already know you aren’t going to like whatever comes next.
“How long before you stop walking like that?” He asks.
You drop your forehead onto the table with a groan. Allie smacks his arm.
“I’m transferring.” You say.
“No you’re not,” Hannah laughs.
“I am. Effective immediately.” You say exasperatedly.
Logan, the traitor, is sitting beside you trying, and failing, not to smile.
“You think this is funny?” you mutter to him narrowing your eyes.
“I think you’re cute.” He says with a grin.
“You are the reason I’m being publicly interrogated.” You tell him.
“I’ll buy you lunch.” He says with a wink.
“You can’t buy my complacency with meal swipes Logan.” You say sassily.
“I’ll buy you dinner.” He offers.
“You already do that anyway.” You say. Garrett snorts into his drink.
“Damn, Logan’s negotiating for his life.” Garrett says. Tucker points at Logan.
“No, because look at him. Dude hasn’t stopped smiling for like… twelve hours.” Tucker says raising his eyebrows at Logan.
“I smile all the time.” Your boyfriend exclaims.
“No,” Dean says. “You smirk all the time. This is different.”
Allie squints. Staring at Logan.
“He’s glowing.” Allie confirms.
“People don’t glow.” Logan tells her.
“Hockey players after a win do.” Dean says.
Garrett nods.
“And apparently after whatever happened last night.” Dean adds with a cheeky grin. You make a strangled noise into the table. Logan casually reaches over and steals one of your fries. You smack his hand away without looking.
“You’ve done enough.” You inform him.
“I said I was sorry.” Logan shrugs, popping the fries in his mouth.
“You absolutely did not.” You tell him.
“I was thinking it.” He says grinning at you.
“Oh, good. That fixes everything.” You say sarcastically. The table erupts into laughter. Dean wipes a tear from his eye.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen her roast you this hard.” Dean laughs. Garrett nods.
“She’s got him on a leash today.” Garrett says. Logan narrows his eyes at his best friend.
“Like you’re one to talk, G.” Logan simply shrugs, looking entirely unbothered. Garrett just laughs to which your boyfriend replies,
“Totally worth it by the way.” Your head snaps toward him.
“John Logan.” You scold, your face heating with embarrassment.
“What?” He says innocently.
“You cannot say things like that in front of our friends.”
“I wasn’t talking to them.” He says coolly. “I was just making a statement.” He says.
“You were absolutely talking to them.” You laugh. He presses a kiss to your temple. He grins, completely unapologetic. Garrett points across the table.
“He’s never beating the whipped allegations.” Dean says.
“I’m not whipped.” Logan says. Dean raises an eyebrow.
“Dude.” Garrett says.
“You made her latte yesterday and delivered it to her in class.” Tucker says.
“So?” Logan says.
“You drove across campus because she forgot her favorite pen.” Dean offers.
“It was important.” Logan says.
“It’s a pen.” Dean says.
“It was her lucky pen.” John clarifies. The entire table falls silent before everyone bursts out laughing. You reach over, squeeze Logan’s hand under the table, and shake your head smiling at your sweet guy.
“Okay,” you admit, smiling despite yourself. “That one was actually kind of sweet.” You say. Logan squeezes your hand back.
“I know.” He says grinning at you. “Not as sweet as you though.” He adds cheekily. Dean groans dramatically.
“Oh great. They’re flirting now.” Tucker stands up with his tray.
“I’m leaving before these two get even more insufferable. And I have class, but mostly because you two are insufferable.” He says.
“You love us,” Logan calls after him.Tucker doesn’t even turn around.
“I love her. I tolerate you.” He says. The table erupts in laughter again as Logan good heartedly flips on of his best friend’s off behind his back.
Word Count: ~19,6K (I know it's quite long, but once I started I couldn't stop.🫦)
Setting: Sixth year, during the Triwizard Tournament
CW: discussion of parental abandonment, anxiety around abandonment/attachment, brief mention of a parent leaving a family, a slut-shaming comment (challenged, not dwelt on), a panic-attack-adjacent moment, angst, a few kisses, one shirtless-adjacent scene (nothing explicit), swearing, emotional hurt/comfort, a misunderstanding trope, a brief argument, happy ending.
Summary: Everyone at Hogwarts knows two things: Fred Weasley is hopelessly, publicly, embarrassingly in love with you, and you don't do relationships — only casual, only temporary, only safe. So when you bet him he can't last a month as your boyfriend without losing his patience, you expect an easy win. You've never lost a bet in your life. You didn't expect this one to cost you your heart.
Masterlist here!
Director's note: Maybe some of the days or timeframes of the bet sound incoherent(? I'm not good with numbers and I got a little confused in the middle, but I think it turned out well. Anyway, please think of it as fiction! I loved how this one-shot turned out, and I'm planning a themed series of one-shots with Harry Potter characters. I hope you like it!
Before any of this was a bet, Fred Weasley had been shameless about it for two full years before the bet ever existed.
He wasn't subtle. He never tried to be. He'd corner you in corridors just to tell you your hair looked good, hand you the last treacle tart at dinner before you'd even reached for it, materialize at your elbow in Hogsmeade with some excuse about ‘just happening to be going the same way’. Half the school had watched him do it so often it had become a kind of background noise to Hogwarts life, like Peeves or the moving staircases — Fred Weasley, hopelessly gone on you, making absolutely no effort to hide it.
"You're doing it again," you told him once, fourth year, when he'd shown up at the library table where you were studying for no reason except that he'd seen you go in.
"Doing what?"
"Following me around like a lost Kneazle."
"I prefer 'devoted.'" He dropped into the chair across from you, propping his chin on his hand, watching you with the kind of open, unembarrassed adoration that should have been unbearable and somehow, infuriatingly, wasn't. "Also I wasn't following you. I was here first."
"You were not."
"Prove it."
You couldn't, because he'd clearly followed you in, and he knew it, and he grinned at you like getting caught was half the fun.
He flirted with other girls, plenty of them, loudly and cheerfully — but it never once looked the same as whatever this was. With other girls it was a performance, easy and weightless, over the second it stopped being fun for either of them. With you it had teeth in it. It meant something, and everyone could see it meant something, including, eventually, the entire castle.
There was an afternoon in fifth year — you never knew about it, not for a long time — when a Slytherin boy named Warrington had made a comment in the corridor outside the Great Hall, loud enough in a malicious tone for a knot of people to hear, about how you'd 'been through half the boys in your year' and ought to charge admission.
Fred had been three feet away, and something in his face went very still and very cold in a way that people who only knew his easy grin rarely saw.
"Say that again," he said, quiet, which was somehow worse than shouting.
Warrington, sensing an audience and stupidly emboldened by it, said something about how he was "just being honest," and Fred stepped in close enough that the corridor went silent around them.
"She can kiss whoever she wants, however many times she wants, and it's worth exactly nothing to you," Fred said. "You don't get a say in what she does with her own life. And if I hear you talk about her again — if I hear you talk about any girl in this castle like that again — you'll wish McGonagall had gotten to you before I did."
He hadn't hexed him o punch him. Hadn't needed to. Warrington had gone pale and muttered something and left, and by the next week the story had made its way quietly through Gryffindor and half of Hufflepuff, and nobody — not once, in all the time since — ever said anything like that about you again where it could be traced back to a source.
You never found out it was Fred. He never told you, never held it over you, never once used it as leverage in all the months that followed. It simply sat there, one more thing he did for you without expecting anything in return, the kind of thing that made George, who had seen it, look at his twin sometimes like he was trying to solve a puzzle he already knew the answer to.
All Hogwarts had opinions about you, and none of them were particularly kind.
It wasn't just that you moved from person to person without apology — that alone might have earned you a raised eyebrow and nothing more. It was that you did it loudly, unapologetically, with a kind of sharp, biting wit that made you genuinely frightening to cross. You'd been known to reduce a seventh-year Slytherin to stammering silence in the middle of the Great Hall over a comment about your skirt length. You'd hexed a boy's eyebrows off in third year for grabbing your wrist too hard on the dance floor, and never once apologized for it, even when a professor docked house points. You picked fights the way other people picked flowers — easily, often, and without much regard for whether it was strategic.
"She's not exactly warm," a Ravenclaw prefect had said once, within earshot of Lee, not realizing — or not caring — that word traveled. "Fun to watch from a distance. Terrifying up close."
It wasn't entirely fair, and it wasn't entirely wrong either. You were sharp. You picked fights with people who deserved it and let the collateral reputation fall where it may, because defending yourself — and, quietly, defending anyone smaller or softer than you — had always felt safer than being soft yourself. Better to be the girl people whispered about than the girl people could hurt.
This was, more or less, why the rest of Gryffindor found Fred's devotion so baffling. It wasn't that you were unlikeable. It was that loving you looked, from the outside, like signing up for a fight you hadn't started.
"You're an idiot, mate," Lee Jordan said, not unkindly, one evening in the common room a few weeks before the bet, watching Fred watch you across the room with an expression Lee had personally seen aimed at nothing but a decent plate of chips before. "She's turned you down, what, four times now? Five?"
"Six," George supplied helpfully, not looking up from his cards. "I'm keeping a tally."
"She called me an insect last week," George added, half delighted, half baffled, "because I asked if she and Fred someday they would go out and she would be my sister-in-law.. An insect, Fred. Unprovoked."
"You deserved it," Fred said, not looking up from his toast. "You'd been needling her for ten minutes."
"That's not the point. The point is most people would be scared off by that. You're just — encouraged."
"She only bites when she's protecting something," Fred said, simply. "Usually herself. Sometimes other people. It's never actually cruelty, George, it just looks like it if you're not paying attention."
"You're never going to wear her down by mooning at her from across a room," Lee tried again.
"I'm not trying to wear her down," Fred said, mildly. "I'm not a bloody millstone."
"Then what are you doing?"
Fred considered the question with more seriousness than either of them expected. "I like her," he said. "Properly like her. Not the version everyone talks about — the reputation, the casual thing. I like that she memorizes people's likes and dislikes and never tells anyone she does it. I like that she reads the same three books over and over because she says knowing how they end is comforting, not boring. I like that she's rude to people who deserve it and unbearably gentle with everyone who doesn't. I like that she pretends she doesn't care what happens to Kettleburn's ridiculous creatures and then sneaks food to the injured ones at two in the morning." He shrugged, entirely unembarrassed. "I'm not chasing an idea of her. I know her. That's the whole point."
Lee and George exchanged a look.
"You've actually got it bad," Lee said.
"Been saying that for two years," George muttered, and dealt another hand.
"Someone should have thought about why she bites first," Fred added, quieter, almost to himself, "since she's spent five years making sure nobody else bothers."
The thing about Fred Weasley was that he never pretended to be subtle about it.
You'd been at the Three Broomsticks for exactly eleven minutes when he abandoned the sixth-year Ravenclaw girl he'd been leaning over — hand braced on the table, grin doing all the work his mouth hadn't gotten around to yet — because you'd walked past the window. Just walked past it. Hadn't even looked in.
He was outside a minute later, coat half-on, cheeks red from the cold or from running, you couldn't tell which.
"You didn't come in," he said, like it was an accusation.
"I wasn't invited."
"You don't need an invitation, you're — " He gestured at you, vaguely, as if the rest of the sentence was self-evident. "You're you."
Behind him, through the frosted window, the Ravenclaw girl was watching with the particular expression of someone recalculating her entire evening.
"Go back inside, Fred."
"Come with me."
"I have somewhere to be."
You didn't. But it was easier than telling him the truth, which was that being anywhere Fred Weasley was for longer than ten minutes had a way of rearranging things in your chest that you'd worked very hard to keep in order.
He caught your wrist — not hard, just enough that you stopped. "One of these days," he said, "you're going to run out of somewhere to be."
"Careful, Weasley. Almost sounded like a threat."
"It was a promise." He let go, stepped back, and the grin came back like it had never left. "See you at the match Saturday? George says Angelina's captaining us to an early grave but I have faith."
"Wouldn't miss it."
You would have missed it, gladly, except that everyone in Hogwarts had come to understand, without ever being told outright, that watching you and Fred Weasley orbit each other without touching was better entertainment than most of what happened on a Quidditch pitch.
It was Angelina who finally said it out loud, three days later, sprawled across your bed with a Chocolate Frog card held up to the candlelight like she was reading tea leaves instead of Dumbledore's face.
"You know he means it. The thing he says. That you're ‘the love of his life’."
"He says that to everyone."
"He says charming things to everyone. He says ‘you're the love of my life’ only to you. There's a difference." She flicked the card onto your blanket. "He turned down Diane Fenwick at the party last week. Mid-flirt. Because you walked by and glanced at him for maybe two seconds."
"I didn't glance."
"You glanced."
"I was looking for the exit."
Angelina gave you a look you'd been on the receiving end of enough times to recognize instantly — patient, a little exasperated, entirely too knowing. "You like him."
"I like a lot of people. Liking people casually is sort of my whole thing."
"Right. Casual." She said the word like she was testing it for weak spots. "Except you've never once been casual about Fred. You've been very deliberately, very determinedly not about Fred, which isn't the same."
You didn't answer that, because there wasn't a good answer that didn't require unpacking things you'd rather leave packed.
It was true, what people said about you — that you didn't do serious. You did fun, you did easy, you did a few weeks of somebody's attention and then a clean, friendly end before anybody got in too deep. It wasn't cruelty. It was maintenance. You'd learned a long time ago that the deeper a thing got, the more of you it could take when it left, and you had exactly one data point on what that looked like, and it had nearly ended your father.
Fred Weasley was not a few-weeks kind of complication. Fred Weasley was the kind of complication that rearranged furniture in a person's life and didn't apologize for the mess.
So you didn't do Fred. You did everyone except Fred, sometimes rather pointedly, and if his ears went a bit red every time he found out about it, that was his business, not yours.
The bet happened almost by accident, the way the worst — or best — decisions usually do.
It was at Katie Bell's birthday, the common room too warm and too loud, and Fred had been telling some story about the twins' latest almost-catastrophe with a swamp-in-a-teabag prototype, gesturing so widely he knocked over someone's drink, and you'd said, half into your own cup, "You'd never survive being someone's boyfriend for longer than a week, you know. You've got the attention span of a niffler."
The common room didn't go silent, exactly. But it definitely leaned in.
Fred set his drink down very deliberately. "I beg your pardon."
"You heard me."
"I could absolutely be someone's boyfriend."
"For a week. Maybe. Before you got bored, or they got bored, or George set something on fire and you forgot the person existed."
"Name a month," Fred said, "and I'll prove you wrong."
"A month?"
"A month. Thirty days. You pick the person, I'll be the perfect, patient, devoted boyfriend, and you'll eat your words."
And this was the part where you should have laughed it off, should have said 'sure, ask Diane, good luck,’ should have done anything except what you actually did, which was look at him — really look, the way you tried very hard not to — and hear yourself say:
"Me. I'm the person."
The common room, this time, actually did go quiet.
Fred blinked. "You?"
"Me. One month. You be my boyfriend, properly, no cheating, and if you make it thirty days without losing your patience with me — " you paused, because some reckless, self-destructive part of you had already decided to make this as impossible as you could — "I'll stand up in the Great Hall and tell all of Hogwarts I've fallen hopelessly in love with you."
Somewhere behind you, George choked on a Butterbeer.
Fred didn't say anything for a long moment. Then: "And if I lose my patience even once?"
"Then I get to say I was right, and you never bring it up again."
"Deal." He held out his hand, and when you shook it, his grip was warm and sure and didn't let go half a second longer than it should have. "Thirty days, starting tomorrow."
"You're going to lose."
"Maybe." His eyes were bright, delighted, entirely too pleased with himself. "But I've wanted this for two years, love. I'll take losing on these terms over winning on any other."
You went to bed that night with your heart doing something complicated and refused, absolutely refused, to examine it.
You had a plan, and the plan was simple: be exactly difficult enough, exactly often enough, that Fred's patience — which you privately suspected was more myth than fact — would crack within the week.
Day one, you were forty minutes late to meet him at the lake, on purpose, and arrived to find him lying in the grass reading a Quidditch magazine, entirely unbothered.
"You're late," he said, without looking up.
"I got held up."
"Sure you did." He turned a page. "Sit down, I saved you the good spot, the one without the ant hill."
"I didn't say I was staying."
"You didn't say you weren't, either." He patted the grass beside him, and — this was the maddening thing about Fred — he didn't beg, didn't sulk, didn't make you feel guilty for the lateness. He just waited, easy as anything, like your company was worth the wait and the waiting itself wasn't a hardship.
You sat down. You told yourself it was strategic — better to needle him up close.
That first week you noticed, despite yourself, the small things. The way he always split whatever food he had in half without being asked, sliding the bigger portion toward you and pretending he hadn't. The way his handwriting went looping and careless in his own notes but turned neat, almost careful, on the little scraps of parchment he occasionally left folded on your books — a joke, a doodle, once just the words 'you looked tired at breakfast, sleep well tonight’ — as if the difference in penmanship was his way of saying ‘this part is serious, even when I'm not.’
He had a habit, too, of touching the back of his neck when he was nervous, which he almost never was except, you began to realize, around you, in the seconds right after he'd said something that mattered to him and was waiting to see how you'd take it.
You weren't supposed to be cataloguing these things. You did it anyway.
Day four, you flirted, deliberately and obviously, with a Hufflepuff boy in front of him at breakfast, waiting for the flash of jealousy, the crack in his composure. Fred watched for a moment, then turned to George and said, loudly enough for you to hear, "d'you reckon she's trying to make me jealous, or does she actually fancy Wentworth's personality?" and went back to his eggs, apparently unbothered, though you noticed — you always noticed, damn it — that his knuckles had gone white around his fork.
He found you after breakfast anyway. Not angry. Just there, falling into step beside you like nothing had happened, and he'd slipped his own scarf around your neck without asking, because you'd complained about the corridor draft the day before and he'd apparently filed it away like everything else.
"You're not going to ask about Wentworth?"
"Do I need to?"
"Maybe I like him."
"Maybe you do." Fred shrugged, hands in his pockets. "Doesn't change my thirty days. I'm not trying to win you by being the only option, love. I'm trying to win you because I'm the best one."
You had absolutely no response to that, so you didn't give him one, and he seemed content to let the silence sit between you all the way to Transfiguration, his sleeve brushing yours the whole walk, never quite closing the last inch of distance unless you closed it first.
It happened in the middle of the Great Hall, at lunch, with absolutely no warning and no discernible reason, sometime around day ten.
Fred stood up from the Gryffindor table, climbed — actually climbed, one boot on the bench, one on the table itself, ignoring the way plates rattled and pumpkin juice sloshed dangerously close to the edge — and cleared his throat with the exaggerated gravity of a man about to deliver a State of the Union address.
"Fred," you hissed, already feeling your face heat up. "What are you doing."
"Attention, Hogwarts!" he announced, arms spread wide, entirely unbothered by the two hundred faces now turning toward him. "I would like it formally recorded that I am, as of this moment, the luckiest man in this castle, possibly this country, arguably this hemisphere."
"Fred, get down — "
"I am dating," he continued, undeterred, gesturing grandly at you like you were a prize being unveiled at a fair, "the cleverest, funniest, most terrifyingly competent witch in our year, who has, against all odds and several of her own better instincts, agreed to put up with me for thirty days! I would like everyone here to know that I do not, in any way, take this for granted."
Someone at the Hufflepuff table actually started clapping. McGonagall, three seats down at the staff table, had pressed two fingers to her temple in the specific way she did when deciding whether a rule violation was worth the paperwork.
"You're an idiot," you said, hiding your face in your hands, mortified down to your toes, while half the hall laughed and George banged appreciatively on the table.
"A very devoted idiot," Fred corrected, hopping down at last, landing with a flourish, entirely pleased with himself. "Ten points from Gryffindor, probably, but worth it."
He was right. McGonagall docked exactly ten points on his way out of the Hall, muttering something about theatrics under her breath, and Fred didn't look remotely sorry about any of it — grinning at you the whole walk to class, utterly without shame, while you buried your burning face in his shoulder and told him, with zero real conviction, that you were never speaking to him again.
You forgave him by dinner. You suspected he'd known you would would before he even climbed onto the table.
One evening that same week, George cornered his brother by the fire while you were off at something, and asked, half-teasing, half-genuinely baffled, the question that had apparently been bothering both him and Lee for a while now.
"Why do you keep at it? She's said no more times than I can count. Most blokes would've called it after the third."
Fred didn't even look up from the essay he wasn't really writing. "Because she's not actually saying no to me. She's saying no to the version of this that scares her." He tapped his quill against the parchment, thinking. "You know she's got the entire Hogwarts kitchen staff's names memorized? Talks to every one of them like they matter, because to her they do. You know she reorganizes her whole schedule during exam week just to sit with first-years who are panicking, doesn't tell anyone she does it, would be mortified if I brought it up to her face. She picks fights with people who bully smaller kids and never once mentions it afterward like it's something worth being proud of, even though it obviously is."
"That's — a lot of very specific detail, mate."
"I pay attention." Fred finally looked up, and there was nothing performative left in his face at all. "Everyone sees the version of her that flirts and moves on and doesn't stick around. I see the rest of it. The part she doesn't let people see because she thinks it'll get used against her eventually." He shrugged. "I'm not chasing someone who doesn't exist. I know exactly who she is. That's rather the whole problem — once you know, you can't really unknow it."
George didn't have anything to say to that, for once, and simply reached over and clapped his brother on the shoulder instead.
Day twelve, you told him, flatly, over a shared table in the library, that you thought this whole thing was stupid and he should give up now and save you both the trouble.
Fred looked up from his essay, and for once there was no grin, no performance. "Why do you want me to give up?"
"Because you're wasting a month on something that isn't going to end how you want."
"That's my risk to take."
"It's not just your risk. It's mine too, and I don't — " You stopped yourself, aware you'd said more than you meant to.
"You don't what?"
"Nothing. Forget it."
He didn't push. That was the thing about Fred that you hadn't accounted for, hadn't built into your plan at all — you'd expected loudness, persistence that grated, the kind of pressure that would make walking away easy. Instead he gave you room. He noticed when you needed the room and he gave it to you without making a production of it, and somehow that was so much harder to resist than anything else could have been.
It was that same evening, walking back from the library, that he asked, apropos of nothing, "What's your favorite flower?"
"Why do you want to know that?"
"Because I don't know it yet, and I'd like to."
You considered lying, just to be difficult, and then didn't, mostly because the question had caught you off guard enough that the honest answer came out before you'd thought better of it. "Lilies."
"Yeah? Any particular reason?"
"They're the only thing that ever grew properly in the garden at home. My dad planted them the year my mum left, said the garden needed something that would keep coming back even if nobody remembered to look after it. They just do it on their own." You shrugged, embarrassed at how much you'd said. "I don't know. I like that about them."
Fred didn't say anything clever back, for once. He just nodded, filed it away the way he filed everything else, and didn't bring it up again for weeks — not until much later, when he mentioned to Hermione in passing that he wanted to get you lilies for your birthday, and Hermione, delighted and a little smug, informed him that in the old language of flowers, lilies carried a particular meaning: I dare you to love me.
Fred laughed for a solid minute once she told him, half disbelieving, entirely charmed, because of course — of course — the flower you loved without knowing anything about its meaning turned out to be exactly, precisely the dare the two of you were already living inside.
Whatever else you wanted to say about Fred Weasley, this much was true and had always been true, long before the bet: he noticed people. Not in the loud, performative way he flirted — that was for show, mostly, harmless and a little silly — but underneath it, quieter, he actually saw people.
He'd seen you, once, crouched by a first year's trunk in the corridor outside Gryffindor tower, helping a small, frightened boy repack the mess of robes and books he'd spilled everywhere after some older student shoved past him too fast. You hadn't known Fred was there until you stood up and found him leaning against the wall, watching, something unreadable in his face.
He'd seen you with Ginny, too — hadn't said anything at the time, hadn't needed to, but he knew you'd sat with his little sister the night of her first period, scared and embarrassed and not wanting to bother Molly over the holidays, and that you'd talked her through it with the kind of steady, unbothered warmth that made a terrifying thing feel ordinary. Ginny had told him, eventually, in the offhand way siblings share things, and Fred had filed it away like he filed away everything about you — evidence, slowly accumulating, of the person underneath the reputation.
He'd seen you be kind to professors, too, the ones the students mostly ignored or mocked behind their backs — Professor Kettleburn, half-forgotten by the current wave of Care of Magical Creatures students, and you always stayed a few minutes after class to ask him something, anything, because you couldn't stand the idea of someone feeling invisible in their own castle.
None of that was casual. None of it fit the story Hogwarts told about you, the story you told about yourself. Fred had known, for two years, that the girl everyone thought was allergic to seriousness was in fact one of the most quietly serious people he'd ever met — she simply reserved it for everyone except herself.
He didn't say any of this to you. Not yet. But it was why, when you tried to provoke him, tried to be difficult and prickly and impossible, he never quite managed to be as frustrated as you wanted him to be. He wasn't fighting the version of you that you were trying to perform. He was fighting for the version he'd already seen.
What you didn't expect — what genuinely surprised you, somewhere around the second week — was how much you had started noticing about him.
You noticed that he was left-handed but wrote with his right because a teacher had corrected him as a child and he'd never bothered to switch back, and that when he was truly exhausted, past the point of performing anything for anyone, his handwriting would slip back to the left without him seeming to realize it.
You noticed the small scar above his eyebrow that he'd gotten from a garden gnome incident at age nine, which he told you about with such delighted, self-deprecating detail that you'd laughed until your ribs hurt.
You noticed that he hummed under his breath when he was concentrating on something fiddly — usually a prototype for one of the twins' inventions — and that the humming stopped entirely the second he thought someone was watching, like he was embarrassed by a habit that was, in fact, one of the more endearing things about him.
You noticed that he always let George take credit for the funnier of their jokes in front of teachers, quietly stepping back so his twin could have the moment, and that he never once seemed to mind.
You noticed the way his ears went pink before the rest of his face did, every single time, a full half-second warning system for whatever he was about to say.
None of this was information you had gone looking for. It had simply accumulated, the way sand collects in the folds of a coat without anyone noticing they've been to the beach, and by the time you realized how much you knew about Fred Weasley that had nothing to do with his reputation, it was already far, far too late to pretend you hadn't been paying attention.
It happened on day sixteen, in a mostly empty corridor after dinner, torchlight throwing long shadows, and you weren't entirely sure afterward which of you moved first.
You'd been arguing — not seriously, the kind of argument that was mostly banter with teeth — about whether he'd cheated by having George slip you compliments on his behalf—he hadn't, George had done it entirely of his own accord, delighted by the whole arrangement—, and somewhere in the middle of your sentence Fred had simply stepped closer and kissed you.
It was not a gentle, testing kiss. It was two years of 'almost finally’ allowed to happen, and for several long seconds you kissed him back like you meant it, like your hands hadn't fisted in his shirt entirely on their own, like this was easy, like this was nothing.
Then you pulled back, breathing unsteady, and said the cruelest thing you could find fast enough to reach for:
"I've kissed better than you, Weasley. You're not the first, and you won't be the one who makes me fall for anyone."
You watched it land. Watched something flicker across his face — hurt, quick and real, before he shuttered it.
"Alright," he said, quietly.
"Alright?"
"You're allowed to say that. Doesn't mean I believe it." He tucked his hands in his pockets, and there was none of the usual performance in his voice, just something steadier and sadder. "But you don't kiss someone like that if you're trying to convince them you don't feel anything. You might want to work on your delivery."
He walked away before you could answer, and you stood alone in the corridor for a long time, furious at him for being right and furious at yourself for kissing him like you meant it, because you had.
The next Quidditch match fell three days later, Gryffindor against Ravenclaw, and Fred found you at breakfast that morning with a piece of chalk-paint and an expression far too pleased with itself.
"You're coming to watch."
"I always come to watch."
"You're coming to watch as my girlfriend, which means you're required, by ancient and binding tradition, to wear my number." He was already reaching for your cheek before you'd agreed to anything, carefully painting a small, crooked 5 just below your cheekbone, tongue between his teeth in concentration like it was the most important spellwork he'd ever attempted.
"This is ridiculous."
"This is tradition." He leaned back to inspect his work, grinning. "There. Perfect. Now everyone in the stands will know exactly who you're cheering for."
"I could cheer for you without face paint, Fred."
"You could. But this is more fun." He kissed the corner of your mouth, quick, easy, like it cost him nothing at all to be that soft with you in front of half the Gryffindor table, and jogged off toward the pitch before you could tell him to stop grinning like an idiot.
You cheered loudest for him that match, whether you meant to or not, and when he help to scored — showing off, clearly, doing an entirely unnecessary loop before landing — he looked straight up into the stands and found your face in the crowd like he'd known exactly where to look the whole time.
The invitation came two days before the holidays, delivered with the kind of casualness Fred clearly hoped would disguise how much he wanted you to say yes.
"Mum's doing Christmas at ours. Everyone'll be there. You should come."
"Fred, we're in the middle of a bet. I don't think 'meet the family' is part of the terms."
"It's not a term. It's an invitation." He shrugged, but his ears had gone slightly pink, the way they did when he was hoping harder than he wanted to admit. "You don't have to. But I'd like you there. And Ginny's been asking, and Mum already knows about you — "
"Your mum knows about me?"
"Ginny wrote her a very detailed letter. I had no editorial control." He grinned, but it softened almost immediately. "Come. Please."
You went. You told yourself it was for the sake of the bet, optics, keeping up appearances — you did not tell yourself the truth, which was that some small, starved part of you wanted, badly, to know what it felt like to be somewhere a family actually wanted you.
The Burrow was chaos in the best way you'd ever seen it — crooked, warm, impossibly full of noise and love in a way that made your chest ache before you'd even taken your coat off. Molly Weasley hugged you like she'd known you for years, pulled you into the kitchen, put a mug of something hot in your hands before you'd said a full sentence, and asked about your classes with a warmth so unguarded it nearly undid you on the spot.
"Fred talks about you constantly," Molly said, conspiratorially, stirring something on the stove. "Has done for ages. I was starting to think we'd never actually meet you."
"He's — persistent."
"He's smitten, dear, there's a difference, and don't let him tell you otherwise." Molly's eyes crinkled with quiet amusement, and then, gentler: "You look tired. Not sleep-tired. The other kind."
You hadn't expected to be seen that clearly, that fast, by someone you'd known for twenty minutes, and it knocked something loose in you that you weren't prepared for.
"I'm alright."
"You don't have to be, in this house. Whatever you're carrying, you can put it down here a while." Molly patted your hand once, brisk and warm, and went back to her stirring like she hadn't just cracked something open in your chest with a sentence.
The days passed, the afternoon turned bright and cold, and the whole yard behind the Burrow dissolved into an impromptu game — some chaotic Weasley variant of tag crossed with a made-up Quidditch drill, played entirely on foot because Ron insisted his broom needed ‘repairs’ that suspiciously coincided with him being terrible at flying that week. Ginny recruited you onto her team without asking, on the grounds that you ‘looked fast,’ and George immediately declared this an outrage and demanded a trade.
Fred ended up on the opposite team, which meant the entire game rapidly stopped being about the actual rules and became almost exclusively about the two of you trying to tackle each other into the frost-hardened grass, laughing too hard to actually catch anyone properly.
"That's cheating," you shouted, when he scooped you clean off your feet to stop you scoring past him, spinning you half around before setting you down, both of you breathless and pink-cheeked from the cold.
"Everything's fair in love and backyard Quidditch."
"You made that up just now."
"Doesn't make it less true." He was grinning at you in a way that had nothing performative left in it at all, snow-dusted and delighted, and for one unguarded moment you grinned back just as helplessly, forgetting, entirely, that this had ever started as a bet.
From the kitchen window, Molly and Arthur stood side by side, drying dishes that had long since stopped needing drying, watching the two of you chase each other across the yard.
"She's laughing," Molly said, quietly, like it mattered. "Really laughing. Have you seen her do that before?"
Arthur shook his head, smiling. "Not like that." He nudged his wife gently. "Reminds me of someone else I used to watch through a window, actually."
Molly swatted him with the dish towel, but she was still smiling when she turned back to the glass.
Dinner that night was loud and enormous, plates passed hand to hand faster than anyone could track, Fred's knee pressed warm against yours under the table the entire meal, and it was somewhere in the middle of the noise and the warmth and the sheer, overwhelming muchness of the Weasley family that it slipped out of you before you'd caught it.
"Could you pass the potatoes, Mum?"
The table didn't go silent all at once. It went silent in pieces, the way a held breath does, Ron's fork stopping halfway to his mouth, Ginny's eyes going wide, George actually turning to look at you properly for the first time all dinner.
You heard it a half-second after you'd said it, the word sitting in the air long after it left your mouth, and your face went hot with a mortification so total it felt like drowning.
"I — sorry, I didn't — " Your chair scraped back before you'd finished the sentence. "Excuse me."
You were up the stairs before anyone could stop you, into the first empty room you found, door shut, back against it, hands pressed to your burning face, humiliation crashing over you in waves you couldn't seem to get ahead of.
Hermione found you there less than a minute later — she'd been at the table too, had followed without a word, and simply sat down on the floor beside you without asking permission or offering platitudes.
"That was mortifying," you said, voice thick.
"It was an accident. Nobody thought anything of it."
"Everybody thought something of it, Hermione, I just called Molly Weasley ‘Mum’ in front of her entire actual family and Fred and — " Your voice cracked. "I don't even know where that came from. I don't call anyone that. I haven't had anyone to call that in five years."
"Maybe that's exactly where it came from," Hermione said, gently. "You've been sitting in a house that feels like what you didn't get to have. It doesn't mean anything's wrong with you. It means you noticed something you needed."
You didn't have an answer to that, and Hermione, wisely, didn't push for one, just sat with you on the floor until your breathing evened out.
It was Fred who came up eventually, knocking once before letting himself in, dropping onto the floor across from you with the specific, careful casualness of someone who'd clearly rehearsed several serious speeches on the stairs and decided, at the last second, against every single one of them.
"So," he said. "Word around the house is you've adopted my mother."
You groaned into your hands. "Fred."
"I'm only saying, if this keeps up you'll technically outrank me. Mum's had five sons and a daughter, and you managed it in one dinner. Efficient, really."
"I want to disappear."
"Don't. I like you visible." He nudged your knee with his. "For what it's worth, Mum nearly cried into the gravy boat after you left the table. Good tears. She's been saying for weeks she hoped you'd feel comfortable enough here to slip up exactly like that."
You peeked at him through your fingers. "You're not going to let me be embarrassed about this in peace, are you."
"Not a chance. It's far too good material." But his voice had gone soft underneath the teasing, and he reached over, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear with a gentleness that didn't match the joking at all. "You didn't do anything wrong. You just felt safe somewhere for a second and it came out sideways. That's not something to apologize for, love. That's just a house doing its job."
You let yourself laugh, finally, shaky and real, and let him pull you up off the floor and back down to a dinner that had, mercifully, moved on to arguing about dessert by the time you returned.
Later that night, unable to sleep, you found Fred out by the garden fence, staring up at a sky far too full of stars for anywhere near a city, and settled beside him without a word.
"Can I tell you something nobody outside my family knows?" he asked, after a while, voice quieter than you were used to hearing from him.
"Of course."
"George and I want to open a joke shop. A real one — Diagon Alley, our own name on the door, everything we've ever built and tested finally getting sold properly instead of confiscated by Filch." He picked at the fence post, not quite meeting your eyes. "Mum thinks it's a phase. Dad's supportive but worried, because it's not exactly a stable career, is it, and everyone assumes we'll end up doing something safer eventually because that's what's expected." He exhaled. "We've got savings hidden away. Not much. Enough to start, maybe, someday, if we're careful and lucky. But I don't really tell people that part, the plan, because it's — it's the thing I actually want, underneath all the jokes, and it feels like it'd hurt more than usual if someone laughed at it."
"I'm not going to laugh at it."
"I know. That's rather why I told you." He glanced over, something unguarded and slightly nervous in his face — the same look you'd catalogued weeks ago, right before he said something that mattered. "You're one of maybe four people who know that's real and not just a running joke with George."
"For what it's worth," you said, quietly, "I think it's a brilliant idea. And I think you'll actually do it. You're the most relentlessly clever person I've ever met, when you're not busy being an idiot about girls."
"Only one girl," Fred said, "and she's sitting right here," and you let him take your hand in the dark without pulling away, both of you quiet for a long time after that, comfortable in a way that had nothing to do with a bet at all.
"My mum left," you said, eventually, into the dark. "When I was eleven. Told my dad she couldn't do it anymore — couldn't do me anymore, said living with us would kill her. She wasn't wrong to leave, probably. But she made it sound like I was the reason staying wasn't possible."
Fred didn't say anything for a moment. Then: "That's not love talking. That's her limits talking. Those aren't the same thing, even if it felt like they were."
"You don't know that."
"I know you helped a terrified eleven-year-old with her first period because you didn't want her to feel alone with something scary. I know you sit with Kettleburn because you can't stand the idea of him feeling forgotten. I know you shoved half your dinner at a first year last week because his trunk got trampled and he looked like he hadn't eaten." He looked at you, steady, unflinching. "You are not difficult to love. You're just used to people who weren't equipped to try."
You didn't have an answer for that. You let him keep the silence with you instead, and for the first time in longer than you could remember, the quiet didn't feel like something you had to fill or flee.
You wrote to your father that week, from the Burrow's kitchen table while Molly hummed over the stove, and found yourself telling him more than you'd meant to — about the noise and the warmth of the house, about Fred, about the word that had slipped out at dinner and the shame that had followed it.
His answer came back three days later, his familiar cramped handwriting filling both sides of the parchment.
'You don't have to feel guilty for wanting a full table, love. I've watched you build yourself into someone who doesn't need anyone, these last five years, and I've let you, because I didn't know how to teach you otherwise while I was busy learning it myself. But your mother leaving wasn't a rule about what happens to people who let themselves be loved. It was one woman's limit, not a law of the universe. I've thought that every day since, and I should have said it to you sooner. If this Weasley boy makes you feel like a full table is possible again, don't apologize for it. Let yourself have it. We're a good team, you and I, always have been — but a team of two was never meant to be the whole shape of your life."
You read it twice, sitting very still at the Weasleys' kitchen table, and folded it carefully into your pocket instead of your trunk, where you could find it easily whenever you needed to.
Back at Hogwarts after the holidays, the little things kept accumulating, on both sides, in a way neither of you commented on directly.
Fred gave you his jumper without being asked, the first properly cold morning back, sliding it over your head before you'd finished complaining about the temperature in the corridor, sleeves swallowing your hands entirely. He saved you breakfast on the mornings you slept through your alarm, wrapped in a napkin and left on your usual seat with a scrawled note 'eat something,’ before he'd gone to Quidditch practice. He fixed your hair without thinking about it, tucking a strand behind your ear mid-conversation the way you'd catalogued him doing for weeks, an absent, easy gesture that had nothing showy in it at all.
You, in turn, had started doing things you didn't fully notice yourself doing until Angelina pointed it out over lunch one day.
"You've been carrying an extra quill in your bag for two weeks."
"So?"
"Fred's quills keep exploding because George keeps testing prototypes on them. You've been quietly replacing his without him asking." Angelina raised an eyebrow. "You also started reminding him to eat when he skips lunch because he's too deep in some invention to notice he's hungry."
"I haven't — " You stopped, because you had, actually, done all of those things, without deciding to, the way you'd apparently decided things about Fred a long time before you'd agreed to admit it.
"You're taking care of him," Angelina said, not unkindly. "You've just been doing it so quietly you didn't clock it as anything."
You didn't have a response to that, mostly because it was true, and because some part of you had apparently started treating Fred's wellbeing as something worth quietly managing long before you'd agreed this was anything more than a bet.
There were other things, too, that you only noticed because you were looking for reasons to stop noticing him, and kept finding the opposite.
You once braced for him to say something petty about a boy you'd dated briefly the year before. Instead Fred just shrugged. "He seemed alright. Didn't work out, clearly, but I've no interest in trashing someone just to make myself look better by comparison. Not really my style."
When Angelina needed to talk to you privately during a Hogsmeade trip, Fred didn't sulk about being excluded or ask what it was about. He simply said, "Take your time, I'll get us a table," and did exactly that, without a single pointed question when you returned.
He'd shout compliments across the Great Hall without a shred of embarrassment, but the second you were alone and something had actually gone wrong — a bad grade, an argument, a bad day — his teasing dropped instantly, replaced by something quieter and far more careful, like he understood the difference between performance and the moments that actually mattered.
None of it was dramatic. All of it, taken together, was somehow harder to argue with than any grand gesture could have been.
It hit you at the most ordinary moment — Fred's hand laced through yours at breakfast, nothing dramatic, nothing new — and still your chest went tight and your pulse spiked and some old animal part of your brain screamed this is too much, this is too close, this is exactly the kind of thing that gets taken away.
You excused yourself before anyone noticed, made it to an empty corridor, and stood there with your back against cold stone, breathing hard, furious at your own body for betraying you over something as small as a held hand.
Fred found you five minutes later — you hadn't heard him follow, hadn't wanted him to — and didn't touch you, didn't crowd you, just stood a careful few feet away.
"You don't have to tell me what that was," he said quietly. "But I'm not going anywhere, whatever it was. Take whatever time you need."
"I don't understand why this is so hard," you admitted, voice cracking. "It's just a hand. It's nothing. Why does nothing feel like everything with you?"
"Because it isn't nothing to you," Fred said gently. "It hasn't been nothing in a long time. That's allowed to be frightening. It doesn't mean you're broken for finding it hard."
He didn't bring it up again after that — no careful check-ins over breakfast, no meaningful looks — just quiet, steady normalcy that let you decide, on your own timeline, whenever you wanted to explain it further. You didn't, not for a while. He never once made you feel like you owed him the explanation sooner.
The closer you got to the end of the bet, the less it felt like a bet and the more it felt like something... natural, something that was always meant to be.
It happened on an ordinary Tuesday, late, the common room fire burned down to embers, most of Gryffindor tower gone up to bed. You'd been curled against Fred's side on the sofa, half-listening to him and George argue happily about a Filibuster firework variant, and at some point, without deciding to, you'd simply fallen asleep against his shoulder.
Fred noticed the exact moment it happened — your breathing evening out, the weight of you settling fully against him — and went very, very still, like any movement might undo it.
"Oi, don't wake her," he hissed, when Lee came thundering down the stairs a few minutes later with some story that clearly required a loud audience.
Lee stopped dead, took in the sight of you asleep against Fred, and grinned slowly. "Oh, this is precious."
"Lee, I will hex you."
"Wouldn't dream of waking her." Lee lowered his voice to an exaggerated whisper, which somehow drew more attention than his normal volume would have, and George, delighted, immediately shushed the common room with the enthusiasm of someone orchestrating a very important event.
"Everyone quiet, Fred's got a girl asleep on him and he looks like Christmas came early."
"I hate all of you," Fred whispered, and did not move an inch, one arm curled carefully around you, expression so unguardedly happy that Angelina — arriving from the girls' dormitory, hand in George's the second she reached the bottom step, since the two of them had gotten together earlier that term — actually laughed out loud at the sight of him.
"Someone get a camera," she said. "This is going in a frame."
Someone did, in fact, get a camera — Colin Creevey, roused from his dormitory by the commotion and thrilled beyond measure to be included — and the photograph that resulted, developed and delivered the next morning, showed you fast asleep against Fred's shoulder, his arm around you, his face turned slightly toward you instead of the camera, wearing an expression of such uncomplicated happiness that even you, seeing it for the first time, felt something in your chest go soft and unguarded.
Fred kept that photograph in his trunk for the rest of the year, tucked inside the cover of his Charms textbook where nobody but him would think to look.
You woke an hour later, disoriented, to find the common room mostly empty and Fred still exactly where he'd been, patient, unmoving, one hand resting loosely against your hair.
"You didn't wake me up."
"Didn't want to." He smiled, soft in the low firelight. "You looked like you needed it. Figured Lee's shouting could happen literally anywhere else in the castle."
"How long was I out?"
"Hour, give or take. George took a photo. Fair warning, it's going to end up somewhere embarrassing eventually."
You should have minded that. You found, somewhat alarmingly, that you didn't.
All that new familiarity, this affection, awakened something in you had come loose and frightened, and you did what you always did when things got too real too fast: you reached for the one language you trusted completely.
You sent Fred a note — the password to the prefects' bathroom, a time, nothing else. He arrived to find candles floating over water gone opal-soft with bubbles, and you, waiting, dropping your robe with a steadiness you didn't feel, offering him exactly the kind of easy, physical, uncomplicated thing you knew how to give without breaking.
Fred didn't move toward you. He looked, for one unguarded second, and then very deliberately looked away, reaching for a towel and holding it out instead.
"Put this on."
"Fred — "
"I'm not doing this." His voice was gentle, but there was no give in it. "Not like this. Not because you got scared and this is easier than talking about it."
Something in you flared, humiliated. "I'm offering you exactly what you've wanted for two years and you're turning it down?"
"I've wanted you. All of you. Not the part you hand out easy so the rest stays safe." He kept his eyes carefully, deliberately on your face, patient even now, even with you furious and half-dressed and lashing out. "If we do this — when we do this — it's going to be because you want me, not because you're trying to prove something's still simple between us. That's not a punishment. That's just — that's what I want it to mean, when it happens."
"You're an idiot," you said, voice thick.
"Probably. Ask George." He held the towel a little further out. "Get dressed. I'll wait outside. We can still talk, if you want to."
You didn't talk that night. But you didn't send him away either, and something about the walk back to the common room in silence, his hand loosely, carefully not-quite-touching yours the whole way, felt like the first honest thing that had passed between you in weeks.
It happened on day twenty-four, and it was, in retrospect, almost funny how small the argument actually was.
Fred had made plans — dinner, just the two of you, sneaked down to the kitchens with help from a very smug house-elf — and you'd cancelled at the last minute with a flimsy excuse—Just because your self-destructive side was faster than your new feelings—, then been caught twenty minutes later by George, laughing easily with a Ravenclaw boy in the library, clearly not otherwise occupied at all.
Fred found you afterward, jaw tight, some of the easy warmth gone out of his face entirely.
"You lied to me."
"I didn't lie, I just — didn't feel like dinner."
"You didn't feel like dinner with me, so you made something up instead of just saying so." His voice had an edge to it you'd never heard directed at you before, frustration finally breaking through weeks of careful patience. "Do you know how that looks? I planned something, I told the elves, I was excited, and you couldn't even be bothered to tell me the truth instead of making something up."
"I didn't think it mattered that much — "
"It mattered to me!" It came out louder than he meant it to, echoing slightly in the empty corridor, and you both went still, startled by it. Fred's hands had curled into fists at his sides, and for one long, terrible second you thought, with something like grim vindication, 'there it is. There's the crack. He's finally done’.
Then you watched him catch himself. Watched him take a breath, visibly, deliberately, and unclench his hands one finger at a time.
"I need a minute," he said, quieter now, strained but controlled. "I'm not — I don't want to say something I can't take back. Give me a minute."
He walked a short distance away, back to you, shoulders tight, and you stood there in the sudden quiet feeling something you hadn't expected to feel at all: not triumph, but a strange, unfamiliar guilt.
When he turned back around, a minute or two later, his voice was steadier, though his eyes were still bright with the leftover heat of it.
"That hurt," he said, simply. "I'm not going to pretend it didn't. You lied to me over something small, and it stung more than something small should, because I keep hoping you'll trust me enough not to need to." He exhaled. "But I'm not giving up on you. Not over this, not over one bad night. I got frustrated, and I'm allowed to get frustrated, and I'm telling you honestly instead of swallowing it — but that's different from losing patience with you. I haven't. I'm still here."
"I thought you'd bolt," you admitted, quiet, thrown by your own honesty. "I thought that was it. I thought I'd finally found the thing that would make you stop."
"I'm not your mother," Fred said, gently, echoing Hermione's words from weeks before without knowing it. "Getting annoyed isn't the same as leaving. I'm allowed to be human about this without it meaning I'm done with you."
You reached for his hand, and this time it was you who didn't let go first. "I'm sorry, i-i get scared…again.That wasn't fair, what I did,"
"No," he agreed. "It wasn't. But I forgive you, and I'd still rather have dinner with you tomorrow than not have you at all." He squeezed your hand once. "Next time, just tell me the truth. Even if the truth is you'd rather have a night alone. I can handle that far better than I can handle being lied to."
The habit didn't stay confined to Fred, and it hadn't started with him, either — which was, in its own strange way, some comfort a few days later, when Hermione was the one who felt the edge of it.
You picked the fight with her over something so small you could barely remember it afterward — a comment about a shared essay, a joke that landed wrong — and escalated it far past where it needed to go, voice sharp, words chosen precisely because you knew they'd sting.
Hermione didn't yell back. She just went quiet, hurt clear on her face, and said, "Why are you doing this? I didn't do anything to deserve that."
The question landed like a slap, mostly because you didn't have a good answer. You apologized within the hour, mortified, but the pattern was old enough that Hermione recognized it before you did.
"You do this when you're scared," she said later, gently, no accusation in it. "You did it to Fred a lot of times. You're doing it to me now. It's like you need to test whether people will still want you around after you've been at your worst — and it's exhausting for the people on the other end, even when they understand why."
"I'm not trying to hurt you."
"I know. But you are, a little, and I'd rather you just told me you were scared instead."
It happened again later, worse, with Fred himself, though this time you knew exactly what you were doing even as you did it.
You told him, unprompted, that you thought the entire relationship had been a mistake, that you'd been counting down the days until you could stop pretending.
It wasn't true. You knew it wasn't true the second it left your mouth. But some old, frightened part of you needed to see what his face did when you said it — needed, badly, to catch him in the act of finally, finally giving up on you, so you could point at it and say see, ‘I told you so’ and never have to risk this again.
Fred went very still. Then, quietly: "That's not what you actually think."
"How would you know?"
"Because you've been leaving me notes in my Charms book and you cried actual tears telling me about your mom and your dad and you fell asleep against my shoulder in the common room like it was the safest place you'd been in years. People who think something's a mistake don't do any of that." He wasn't angry, just steady, watching you with something that looked uncomfortably like understanding. "You're trying to make me leave first so it doesn't feel like your fault when it happens. I'm not going to do that for you."
You didn't have an answer. You went to bed that night furious at yourself, and it was Hermione, again, who found you crying about it afterward, who said nothing except I know and let you sit with the shame of it until it passed.
The letter had been sitting under your pillow for eleven days.
It was from your half-brother — a name you'd known about only distantly, a fact more than a person, the son your mother had gone on to have after she left, at a school in the north with a name that sounded cold even to say. He'd written to you out of nowhere, careful, hesitant handwriting, saying he'd like to meet you, if you'd be willing. He didn't mention your mother beyond a single line: ‘she's not really part of my life either, not the way you'd think’.
You hadn't answered. You weren't sure you could.
Hermione was the one who finally asked about it directly, catching sight of the parchment corner poking from your bag. "Are you going to write back?"
"I don't know what I'd even say."
"You don't have to know everything before you start. You could just say hello."
"He's got the same mother who thought staying with us would kill her. What if he's — what if there's something about the way she raised him that means he'll leave too, eventually, the second I'm inconvenient?"
"Or," Hermione said, carefully, "he's a kid who never got a sister and is trying, awkwardly, to have one. That doesn't mean he inherited anything except her handwriting."
You looked at the letter a long time that night before you finally wrote back — three sentences, tentative, an agreement to meet during the Tournament, when the delegations were all at the castle together. It felt like the bravest thing you'd done in years, and also the smallest.
By the last days of the bet, something had settled between you that no longer felt like performance at all.
You'd started sitting together at breakfast without any prompting, your hand finding his under the table as easily as breathing. He walked you to class even when it took him wildly out of his way. You'd started leaving your own notes back, tucked into his books — nothing profound, sometimes just ‘good luck in practice’ or a badly drawn picture of George's face — and he kept every single one.
"Twenty-eight days," Fred said one evening, lying beside you in the grass by the lake, fingers laced loosely through yours. "Two to go."
"Feels strange, doesn't it. Counting down to the end of something."
"Doesn't have to be the end of anything." He turned his head to look at you, something hopeful and a little nervous in his face, the look you'd catalogued weeks ago. "I know how this started. But it doesn't have to stop just because the thirty days run out. I'd rather this kept going. Properly. No bet attached to it at all."
"I know," you said, and found, to your own quiet astonishment, that you meant it entirely. "I'd like that too."
He kissed you then, slow and unhurried, nothing like the first kiss weeks before that you'd tried so hard to undercut with a cruel joke. This one you didn't pull away from. This one you leaned into, both hands fisted gently in his shirt, and when you finally broke apart he rested his forehead against yours, breathing uneven, smiling in the dark.
"Two more days," he murmured.
"Two more days," you agreed, and let yourself, for the first time in five years, imagine what came after without flinching from it.
Your brother's name was Kirill, and he was younger than you by two years, gangly and awkward in his Durmstrang uniform, with your mother's eyes and none of her coldness that you could find, not yet, not in the hour you spent with him in a quiet alcove near the courtyard.
He talked too fast, nervous, told you about his father — not yours, a stepfather who'd never quite warmed to him — about a mother who was, in his words, ‘around, but not really there, not for either of us, I think’. Somewhere in the middle of him showing you a battered photograph of a ship he wanted to sail someday, something in your chest cracked open with a feeling that wasn't grief exactly, more like relief: 'it wasn't just me. It was never just me.’
When he finally, awkwardly, hugged you goodbye — stiff-armed, unpracticed, clearly unused to affection — you were laughing, eyes bright with tears you hadn't let fall, cheeks flushed from the cold courtyard air and the strange, enormous feeling of maybe, possibly, gaining something instead of losing it.
Fred saw you like that. From across the courtyard, half-turned toward the castle doors, he saw you wrapped around a Durmstrang boy, laughing, glowing, happier than he'd seen you in the entire month he'd been trying to earn exactly that look.
He didn't wait to find out who it was. He turned around and walked back inside, something cold and quiet settling into his chest, and told himself, with the particular, practiced ease of someone protecting a heart he'd handed over freely: 'of course. Of course it was never really me’. She was always going to find someone easier to be happy with.
Fred didn't confront you. That was almost worse.
For the last day he was polite — cordial, even, still technically your boyfriend, still technically inside the bounds of the bet — but the warmth had gone out of it, replaced by a careful, controlled distance that felt like watching a fire go out one ember at a time. He didn't seek you out at meals. He didn't find you in corridors. When you spoke, his answers were short, correct, and utterly without the teasing warmth you'd only just let yourself start expecting.
"What's going on with you?" you finally asked, cornering him outside the library.
"Nothing. Everything's fine."
"You're lying."
"I saw you," he said, finally, voice tight, "with him. In the courtyard. Looking happier than you've looked with me all month." He wasn't looking at you, jaw set hard. "I'm not angry. You're allowed to want someone else. I just — I'd rather know now than keep pretending for the sake of a bet you never wanted to lose anyway."
You stared at him, and for a second you almost laughed, except it wasn't funny, it was awful, this entire month reduced to a single misread hug.
"Fred. That was my brother."
He blinked. "Your — what?"
"My half-brother. From Durmstrang. My mother's son." Your voice was shaking now, some mixture of fury and relief and old grief all tangled together. "The letter I've been avoiding — I finally answered it. I met him for the first time today. He hugged me because neither of us have ever had a sibling, and I was crying because for once in my life something about my mother didn't feel like it was going to hurt, and you thought — you actually thought — "
"I didn't know." His voice cracked, just slightly, guilt flooding in fast behind it. "I'm sorry. I should have asked. I should have come and asked instead of just — deciding."
"Yeah," you said, some of the fight going out of you, replaced by something rawer. "You should have."
"I was scared," he admitted, quiet now, all the careful distance gone. "The whole month I've been terrified you'd wake up one day and realize you didn't actually want any of this, that I'd just worn you down instead of actually winning you over, and then I saw you look at someone like that, and every fear I've had for two years just — came true, all at once, before I could stop it."
You let the silence sit a moment, let both of you breathe through it.
"I'm not in love with my brother, Fred."
"I know that now."
"Are you still in love with me?"
"I have been for two years," he said, simply, no performance left in it at all. "That's never been the question. The question's always been whether you'd let yourself believe it."
Day thirty one arrived on a grey, ordinary Tuesday, and you stood at the doors of the Great Hall with your heart going faster than it had any right to, watching four long tables full of people who had, whether you liked it or not, spent a month watching this exact thing unfold.
Fred was at the Gryffindor table, not looking at you, giving you the space to do this on your own terms, which was, you thought, exactly like him.
You didn't need to stand on a table or make a speech dramatic enough for the whole month to deserve. You simply walked to the middle of the hall, waited for enough eyes to land on you that the room quieted on its own, and said, plainly, "I lost the bet."
A ripple went through the hall. Somewhere near the Gryffindor table, George was already grinning like Christmas had come early.
"Fred Weasley did not lose his patience with me once in thirty days, which is either the greatest feat of patience in Hogwarts history or proof I'm not nearly as difficult to love as I've spent the last five years convincing everyone, including myself." Your voice wavered, just slightly, and you let it. "So. I fell for him. Completely, embarrassingly, against every plan I had. I'm in love with Fred Weasley."
The hall erupted — laughter, a few cheers, someone, definitely George, actually applauding — and Fred was already crossing the hall toward you, disbelief and hope and something helplessly fond all fighting for space on his face.
"You didn't have to do the whole hall," he said, when he reached you, voice low, just for you now. "A quiet word would've done."
"You didn't win a quiet bet. You won loudly, in front of everyone. Seemed fair you got your answer the same way."
"I love you," he said, like it was easy, like it had always been easy, like the only hard part had ever been getting you to a place where you could hear it without flinching.
"I know," you said. "I love you too. Try not to let it go to your head."
"Too late," Fred said, and kissed you in the middle of the Great Hall, in front of all of Hogwarts, like he'd been waiting two years for exactly this moment and finally, finally, wasn't waiting anymore.
Later, much later, curled together by the lake with his jacket around your shoulders and his fingers laced loosely through yours, you asked him the question you'd been sitting with since the courtyard.
"What would you have done? If it really had been someone else. If I really had wanted out."
Fred was quiet a moment, thoughtful in a way that had nothing to do with the easy performance he gave the rest of the world. "Let you go," he said, finally. "Badly. Probably pathetically. But I wouldn't have made you stay somewhere you didn't want to be, no matter how much it would've wrecked me." He looked at you, steady. "Wanting you was never about winning, love. It was always just wanting you happy, even in the version where that didn't include me."
You thought of your mother, then, the version of leaving that had nothing to do with love and everything to do with limits she wasn't equipped to hold. And you thought of Fred — thirty days of staying, of noticing, of giving you room instead of pressure, of a hand held out with a towel instead of taken advantage of, of a moment of real frustration met with honesty instead of an exit.
Not everyone who could leave, would. Not everyone who loved you was destined to find you too difficult to keep.
"Good," you said, finally, resting your head against his shoulder. "Because I'm not going anywhere."
"Neither am I," Fred said. "Never was." He reached into his pocket, a little sheepishly, and produced — of all things — a slightly crumpled lily, clearly transfigured rather than grown, given the season. "Hermione told me what these mean. In the old language. Apparently I've been daring you to love me since October without even knowing the word for it."
You laughed, and took the flower, and didn't let go of his hand for the rest of the afternoon.
synopsis – a scary incident reveals your that your boyfriend is a lot closer to your friend group than they realize, and Logan wins the award of best boyfriend for taking care of you as you recover
based on this request
warnings – language, angst, detailed descriptions of a car accident and injuries, ambulance, hospital, mention of death, reader is referred to as she/her, protective!Logan, Hannah has her bluebaru
note – I’m a sucker for this type of fic, I absolutely loved writing this! if you’re sensitive to any of the warnings above, please read with caution! requests are currently closed, thank you for understanding. enjoy ♡
masterlist
✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧
A girl’s trip with Hannah and Allie was exactly what you needed. Renting a cabin with a fireplace, a hot tub, staying in the middle of nowhere, it was the winter-y getaway of your dreams. A freak snowstorm made its way into town, but you three still decided to head out anyway, hoping you’d get lucky and beat the storm.
Deciding to take two cars, you drove alone as Hannah and Allie followed behind you in Hannah’s car. As you continued to drive, the snow became heavier and heavier, the visibility lessening for you. The girls decided to pull over for a quick pee break, you letting them know you were going to keep going.
Seeing the snow finally let up, a sigh of relief comes from you, as you can at least see now. Maintaining a fair distance from the car in front of you and not going too fast, you were determined to get there on time and safely.
It was only a matter of time before the familiar feeling of your tires skidding makes your heart drop in your stomach. You try gently turning the wheel, foot hovering over the brake as your car eventually reaches the stop sign, coming to a complete stop at the divided highway.
Slowing your breathing down, you exhale, thankful nothing too scary happened. Seconds later, a car rear ends you, most likely unable to stop properly on the ice as well, causing your car to be pushed into the middle of the highway. Attempting to turn your wheel and move was a lost cause, the gas pedal doing nothing as your tires skid in place. A loud horn sounds as you look out of your driver’s side window, seeing bright headlights coming straight for you.
Your heart lurches in your throat, the car slamming into the center of the driver's side your car. Your head whips to the side on impact, your car now being pushed by the truck, unable to stop. Eventually, you separate from the truck as they successfully hit their brakes, only to send your car ping ponging off a metal pole as your car slides into a ditch.
Snow starts to pour down again as you finally stop, angled awkwardly in the ditch, the car tilting to the right. Your right foot managed to get stuck under the now busted brake pedal, any movement sending waves of pain through your foot and up your body. Airbags deployed, every light on your dash on or flashing, your seatbelt locking you in place. Being too scared to unbuckle it and do more damage, you leave it alone.
Trying to breathe and stop the tears, you try and reach for your purse. Your phone peeks out, just out of your reach, a loud groan leaving your lips as you realize you're trapped. A sense of lightheadedness creeps up on you, not knowing how severe your injuries were, you closed your eyes, focused on your breathing, praying that someone would help you.
Hannah and Allie weren’t too far behind you, confusion finding them as they still haven’t seen your car. They approach the divided highway, Allie noticing some slight debris in the road.
“What the hell?” she says, looking around, seeing a truck stuck in the middle of the road. She watches as the guy who presumably was in the truck runs towards the ditch. Allie’s heart drops, seeing a strange brush of the grass and snow paved out as if something slid through it, leading into the ditch.
“Hannah, pull over, they might need help.” Allie says. Hannah doesn’t question her, pulling off to the side of the road, putting the car in park. Allie rushes out, not caring if she slips on ice. Snow continues to fall as she runs to the top of the ditch. Her heart sinks, seeing a Briar U bumper heart shaped sticker, distorted from the initial hit but still visible on the right side of the back of the car.
The bumper sticker she gave you.
“Fuck! Call 911!’ Allie shouts out to someone, anyone, as she runs down the hill, Hannah on her trail, grabbing her phone. Allie finally reaches the car, her heart sinking once again, seeing you passed out in the driver’s seat. She yells out your name.
“Shit! We’re here, okay?! We’re gonna get you outta there!” she yells, not even knowing if you can hear her.
After what feels like hours, the police and fire rescue arrive, safely extracting you from the car, getting you onto a stretcher as you groan in pain at any sudden movements. The girls get the approval to leave Hannah’s car as they both get in the back of the ambulance with you, one of the firefighters handing Allie your purse with your belongings. Hannah holds your hand as Allie pulls your phone out to start calling your family. After notifying your family, she puts your phone away, grabbing hers from her pocket. Before she can call Dean, your mumbles catch her attention.
“Shhh try not to talk, okay?” Allie soothes.
“Logan…” you mumble, “someone… has to tell Logan,” you finish, your eyes slowly blinking, slightly loopy from the morphine given to you to help ease your pain. Allie and Hannah’s eyes leave yours to look at each other, both incredibly confused, thinking you’re just extra loopy. Hannah looks back down to you, leaning in closer to you.
“John… Logan?” Hannah asks. You nod ever so slightly.
Logan’s hanging out with the guys at the house, complaining once again about Tucker’s massive Christmas to-do list when his phone buzzes in his pocket. He laughter dies down, smile fading, confused when he sees the caller ID as ‘Allie Dean’. They were chill with each other, sure but never really interacted too much unless she was with Dean, hence the contact name. Unsure if it’s a butt dial, he answers.
“Hello?”
Logan’s chest tightens hearing Allie’s stressed voice, rambling as she explains what she knows about your situation and mentions that although strange to her, you asked her to call him. The guys look at Logan with concern, seeing the way his face dropped and the color seemed to wash away from his face. Allie drops the name of the hospital you’re headed to.
“You gotta get here now.”
✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧
Logan enters the hospital faster than humanly possible, scouring the waiting room until he finds the girls sitting there, nervous looks on their faces. Garrett, Dean and Tucker follow behind him, the same stressed looks on their faces.
“Where is she?!” Logan asked, worried out of his mind. Hannah reassured him that you were currently in surgery and most importantly, that you were alive. Logan runs his hands through his hands as he sits down, his head now sitting in his hands as he tries to slow down his breathing, the adrenaline consuming him.
“What the fuck happened?” Dean asked, rushing to hug and comfort Allie.
Hannah tries to explain everything they know, not knowing how you ended up in the ditch. They described your injuries, Allie explaining how she found you, tears welling up in her eyes. The energy in the waiting room is heavy, not just from the stress of your unknown status, but of everyone but Logan looking at each other, confused yet intrigued about what was going on between the two of you.
No one brought it up, obviously wrong place, wrong time, but the thoughts did circulate, along with waiting, hoping and praying you’re okay.
After what felt like hours, the surgeon enters the waiting room, calling out your last name. All six heads snap towards the sound of his voice, Logan getting up the fastest as the surgeon walks over to the group.
“She’s stable,” he starts, exhales and sighs of relief leaving everyone.
“She did break her right foot and she’s got some minor fractures in her leg, along with some torn muscles, some cuts and bruises from the impact. Fortunately, there were no signs of spinal injury or any internal bleeding, but we did find signs of whiplash and the few broken bones. She’s incredibly lucky,” he finishes.
Logan rubs his sweaty palms against his pants, his body still shaking from the overwhelming anxiety. The surgeon continues,
“We’ve got her in the ICU now. We’re going to keep an eye on her for a little bit before we can move her to a room, then she can have visitors,” he finishes. Everyone says their thanks before sitting down.
The longer the wait, the more nervous Logan got. His leg bouncing at a rapid rate, him constantly standing up and pacing around the room. His heart raced in his chest at the thought of anything happening to you. Although he felt relief knowing you were okay, not being able to physically see you, to physically touch you, was killing him.
After what felt like days, into the late hours of the night, a nurse comes out, saying your last name, once again, grabbing everyone’s attention.
“She’s finally settled in her room, we can start bringing you guys back, but it’ll have to be one at a time,” she explains.
Garrett pats Logan on the back, “Go. Go see your girl.”
Logan nearly tears up, not even caring that everyone knows now. Everyone nods in agreement as Logan follows the nurse back into the inpatient rooms area. His heart races, not knowing what to expect. Eventually, he and the nurse arrive at the door, opening it softly.
Logan’s body tenses up, anxiety bubbling up inside him. You lay on the bed, peacefully sleeping, an oxygen mask sitting lightly in your nose. A small cut on your left temple, scrapes on your arms, your foot elevated in a sling and wrapped in a cast.
He didn’t think he hated anything the way he hated seeing you so hurt, so vulnerable, so quiet. The nurse leaves, shutting the door behind him as he approaches the bed. You lie there, another wave of nausea coming over him, his mind thinking the absolute worst. He finds the spare chair in the room and gently pulls it over so he can sit at your bedside. His hand reaches up to find yours, being careful to not touch any wires. Slight redness graces your knuckles as Logan brings your hand up to his lips, kissing your knuckles, wishing he could take away all of your pain.
“I’m so fucking glad you’re okay,” he mumbles into your hand, before dropping both your hands on the bed. As if his words had some magic touch, your brows furrow as you shift slightly, your eyes opening slowly, a groggy, glazed look in your eyes.
“Hey, hey…” Logan says, standing up so you can see him without having to move your head too much. “You’re okay.” he says, for you but also for him.
“Water… please,” you croak out, Logan letting go of your hand, finding the cup of water sitting on the counter. He grabs it, extending the straw for you as you try and sit up, grunting in pain.
The ice cold water washes into you like you had been dehydrated for weeks, instantly feeling better before nodding to signal you were done. Logan puts the cup down before coming back to you, sitting down in the chair. Despite the pain in your neck, you turn your head, a tear that was sitting in your eye falls down your cheek, bottom lip quivering.
“I thought I was gonna die,” you say, voice breaking, fighting more tears that threatened to spill.
Logan’s hand comes up to your head, lightly moving the hair from your forehead before kissing it, soothing you with gentle hands, his thumb lightly grazing your temple.
“I know, baby, I know. But you didn’t. You’re here and you’re safe,” he reassures, his thumb moving to your cheek. With a light nod, you agree, thankful that this didn’t go where you thought it was going to, being trapped in that car for so long.
After a few moments of a now more comfortable silence, Logan speaks up again,
“Allie called me, she and Hannah found you,”.
Tears refill your eyes, guilt washing over you knowing you had probably traumatized both of them, them having to see you like that. Logan immediately clocks it, shutting down those thoughts.
"Hey, this was not your fault. Thank God they were there and were able to get help, right?" he reassures. You nod, Logan's thumb coming to wipe the tears off your cheeks.
“They all know.”
“Good. It was about time we told them,” you joke, a light giggle leaving your lips, your eyes still full of tears. Logan had never been happier to hear your laugh, joining you in laughter.
✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧
After the overnight stay, your vitals looked good and you were cleared to go home. After seeing everyone, you insisted that they all went home and got some sleep. Logan had immediately said no to that, staying with you the entire night, camping out on the guest chair in your room. Once you got discharged, the nurse wheeled you out on a wheelchair to the front drive, Logan pulling his truck around the front. He and the nurse both worked to get you in the truck, saying your goodbyes and thanks before heading to your apartment.
You hobble off the elevator on your crutches, muscles still sore as you approach your apartment door. Logan opens your front door for you as you enter, you immediately finding your couch. Sighing, you plop down, thankful for finally be rid of that hospital bed.
“You hungry?”
“Oh my god, yes, I’m so tired of hospital lasagna and Jello cups.”
Logan stayed with you at your place for the first week of your recovery. The way he always took care of you, doing everything you needed - half the time without you even needing to ask - made this recovery process so much lighter and less stressful. No matter how frustrated you got, he always knew exactly what to say to calm you down and comfort you.
✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧
Following that first week, after your energy came back, you and Logan made your way to the hockey house, hanging out with everyone, you needing desperately to get out of the house. A hangout with your friends is exactly what you needed.
You all sit on the couch, Logan setting a pillow down on the coffee table for your foot, helping you hike your leg up before he sat down next to you as you both explain, well, everything.
"You guys have been dating?"
“For months??!”
"No way."
“And you didn’t tell anyone?”
“Why wouldn’t you say anything?”
Questions bombarded both of you as you laughed. “In my defense, I was gonna tell you girls at the cabin,” you say, giggling.
Despite this very traumatic event, you found yourself incredible grateful for not just your boyfriend, but the group of friends you had surrounding you. This was going to continue to be a long and frustrating recovery process, but knowing you have the support system behind you that you do, alleviated some of that pain for you.
18+ minors do not interact | details: enemies, unspoken tension, bickering, dirty talk, rough & filthy but sweet aspects leaving them confused about where they stand, party bathroom hookup, consent is discussed, no specification of protection method so reader can mental insert preference!
usually in stories, the conversation goes… “is he always an asshole?” “it’s not just you! he’s misunderstood. you need to get to know him!” but with john logan, it’s just you.
everyone treats him like the angel of the jocks, as if he’s any different. maybe because he doesn’t parade his hookups on display like dean or that he wears that bright smile instead of garrett’s moody demeanor but whatever the reason, you see right through it.
he’s always been cold to you especially in comparison to the girls that flock to him. anytime you were around it’s almost like he’s too stressed to pay you any mind. you question if it’s because you don’t bow down to the hockey players the way the puck bunnies do, but his reason seems deeper than that.
so the last person you thought you’d end up hooking up with in this party bathroom would be him. truthfully it didn’t take much from either of you tonight. the usual sarcastic banter, a couple eye rolls, him blocking your way to the fridge on purpose with his ridiculously large body just to make you say please…
eventually he came up behind you placing his warm hand gently placed on your lower back whispering “meet me in the bathroom in five minutes… or don’t. up to you.” he says. you originally scoff at the insane suggestion, but when glancing up at his face and seeing nothing but seriousness for a change– your body betrayed you.
now sat on the bathroom sink in a rough makeout session and your legs spread apart… he’s pressed up against you between your thighs. the rough material of his jeans still holding in his hard on and despite your best efforts at grinding forward, his mean grip on your hips controls the pace. he’s determined to make you take it achingly slow and is cruelly amused by the mess he’s making out of you.
he told himself he wouldn’t even kiss you, that maybe that will help him justify this. but when he first felt your tempting lips mumble your first bitchy remark that close to his in a private room now with no one else to talk about it, he needed to devour you and couldn’t stop. he knew you’d tease him about your lipstick all over his as soon you were done but he didn’t care. if anything, that drove him further.
for two people fully dressed still, the room sounded like a desperate mess. thank god the music outside was so loud that nobody could ever hear the breathy gasps caused by the bucking of your hips against him both fighting for friction and control of the other. his gripped in your hair yanking every time you tried to take over, keeping you in your place.
if you didn’t know any better, you swore you heard a “beautiful” slip as he nibbled down your neck but the feeling was too intense to process right now. his teeth surely leaving marks, clear payment for all the talking back you do to him around his friends, but his lips graze soothingly for forgiveness over the aching skin quickly after– a confusing feeling that made you shiver.
he laughs at you desperately working to unlock his belt “you need it that bad, huh?”
“god– shut up and hurry up before i change my mind.”
to this comment, he grabs both of your hands and pins them firmly above your head making you go silent and bright red. staring deep into your eyes with his forehead against yours, you feel more naked than ever despite being covered.
“cute… well, this is how this is going to work. if you want me to stop, you say stop. and-”
“i don’t need the sex lecture.”
“well considering your bratty mouth, i’m not expecting you to say anything nice so i need to know you know the real word to stop. fuck you, shut up, your usual miscellaneous insults i won’t let phase me. are we clear?”
you huff nodding quickly wanting the intense eye contact to be over, even though you know he’s doing the right thing. you can’t even think for half of a second that he’s a good person or that he’s doing this for any reason other than boredom, it’ll ruin all of this. so bare minimum thought at best. he raises an eyebrow at you unsatisfied by the lack of words in response which makes you finally say “stop means stop… now can you please fuck me?”
“atta girl… see she does have manners.” he snickers rewarding you with his fingers teasing along your wet folds, making you sigh in both pleasure and relief hearing him finally undo his belt buckle.
“stay like this. i want to see you take it.” he says, wrapping your legs around his back and lining himself up. this surprised you as you expected him to turn you around without needing to even look at each other.
his large hands cup around your face persistent to watch your expression as he sinks deep into you, eyes fixated on your mouth parting, unable to hold back his cocky smirk as you whine out at his length. he pushes fully inside and remains still making you sink into the feeling of him for a minute. “that’s it… take it all.”
“m-move. fuck. aren’t you taking a break from being an asshole?” you plead at his stillness.
“never said all that, but you’d think you’d watch your mouth considering… well…” he taunts, before moving one rough thrust at a time between his words “who’s– in– charge.”
you try to cover your squeal with your hand, but he quickly removes it and holds it back yet again. he keeps the grip on you to help his now relentless thrusts pick up the pace. “what’s the matter? worried someone’s gonna find out you’re letting me fuck you like this?”
his arm wraps around your back where it meets the mirror to soften the banging from his thrusting, at least spare you from a couple marks after the number he did on your neck. he does his best to position himself to where he can cause the least discomfort for you, but still get deep enough to make you squirm. “r-right there, fuck.” you cry at his angle.
“yeah? you like getting fucked like this? such a good girl.” he says picking up the pace, fighting his own moans. he moves one hand to your clit rubbing in small circles, pulling you closer to your orgasm.
“you drive me so fucking crazy…” he mutters breathily, leaving a warm kiss on your forehead. you were already close, but this ruins you. you know his ego is going to do something ridiculous like pull out if you cum without telling him and right now the feeling is too euphoric to care about looking desperate anymore.
“logan–”
he’s almost startled by how gently you say his name for once. “…yes?”
“m’so close.”
“and?”
“please let me cum.”
“see you can be so good. just needed to get put in your place, yeah? cum for me. make a mess all over me.” he coos in your ear, bringing your orgasm rushing.
watching you cum around him with your walls clenching tight is enough, but the harsh tug on his hair from your fingers curled tight in the strands is what does it… this sends him quickly over the edge. watching his eyes flutter shut in pleasure before hiding his head in the crook of your neck.
before either of you can catch your breath, the sound of your phone vibrating on the counter makes you jump. you realize immediately it’s your friends looking for you. reality sinks in that you have to go downstairs and forget that john logan just ruined you on a random stranger’s sink. expecting a smug comment and preparing yourself for the rumors you’re about to hear when he flaunts the fact he managed this out of you, all he says is “i won’t tell anyone… just go enjoy your night.”
say my name and everything just stops | john logan
“Okay, baby.” His eyes never stray from your face—he can deal with everything else later. “Where do you want me?” He asks, and you know that it is his way of asking whether you are okay with him sitting with you.
contents — protective logan, protective friends too <3, hurt/comfort, harassment (not by main characters), misogynistic behavior, brief sexual implication, very brief mention of aaron delaney | word count — 2.2k | title — dress by taylor swift
request — Hello! If you have the time could you do a loganxreader where they go plus the group going out and maybe some players from other team start to make you unconfortable and Logan protects you and the after that, the super cute and caring logan
gabby says — i love protective logan so i really loved writing this. i hope you love this just as much, anon!! 🫶🏼
“Damn.” Logan whistles as soon as you step out of his room after changing. He pushes off the wall, and his hands instinctively find your waist, skimming the dress appreciatively. “You look absolutely gorgeous, sweetheart. The color looks perfect on you.”
“Thank you.” You smile bashfully up at him, placing your hands on his shoulders as he pulls you closer. “Is it not too short? Does it not bother you?”
“The length is perfect as long as you are comfortable wearing it,” he says softly, “And no, I am not bothered, and I will never be. You can wear whatever you want, whenever you want to, baby. You look gorgeous in anything, I can assure you that.” His eyes now have that look in them, but you quickly shut it down, knowing where it’s going.
“Nope.” You laugh, pushing his face away playfully. “We’re going out, baby, so maybe after the club?” You grin. “And also, you’re not going to tell me I can wear whatever I want because you can fight?”
“Sweetheart, I am a six-foot hockey player—I can bodycheck someone without blinking if they even look at you wrong, but I’m sure that’s not what you want to hear from me,” he murmurs, looking into your eyes.
“You’re right, it’s not.” You can’t help but feel moved by how much Logan knows and understands you. “But anyway, that’s enough softness for tonight. I need to drink and dance the night away!” You pull away and take Logan’s hand, tugging him towards the stairs.
“Easy, baby, we’ll get there.” Your boyfriend laughs behind you, stroking the back of your hand with his thumb soothingly.
“I know, but it’s almost ten, so we have to get there now.”
“Alright, I’m sorry.”
—
It’s half-past eleven when you start feeling the buzz from the alcohol grow stronger. You, Hannah, Allie, and Dean are on the dance floor, while Logan, Garrett, Tucker, and Beau are in the booth you and the group had reserved for tonight.
You are engaged in a dance battle with Dean—who is absolutely winning—when it happens.
“Damn, Di Laurentis!” You whistle as Dean outdances the three of you. “What did your mother feed you?”
“I did eat a lot of those corn flakes as a kid—they were all I ate for, I think, a year.” He laughs when you all gape at him.
“Criminal.”
“Is Lori okay after raising a barbarian?”
“Hey!”
You watch as Logan excuses himself from the booth to walk over to the bar, and with the three of your friends bickering, you barely notice the unfamiliar man sliding into the small space beside you, nearly pressing himself against you. None of you thought badly of it at first—the dance floor had just gotten more crowded, so you simply shift closer to your group to give the man some more space.
But he clearly has other plans.
He moves even closer to you, and that is when the fun around you dies down. You fidget uncomfortably, Hannah’s smile fades instantly, Allie turns to glare at the seemingly unsuspecting man trying to press himself up against you, and Dean moves between you and the unfamiliar person, effectively shielding you and the girls away from the guy. He is facing the man, his imposing presence making him seem larger than the stranger despite their similar height.
“Hey, dude—” The guy says, but Dean cuts him off swiftly.
“Walk away, man,” Dean says calmly. “The club is big enough for you to be in someone’s personal space like this.”
“Come on, I was just trying to—”
“Nope.” Dean crosses his arms, unflinching as the man tries to reason his way out of the mess he created—or into your pants, probably. “She clearly looks uncomfortable. Just walk away, and we’ll have no problem here.”
“Whatever,” the guy grumbles, “She’s not worth it anyway.”
Your friends’ brows raise at his words, but they do not say anything, not wanting to escalate the situation.
You wait until the grade-A asshole is out of earshot before speaking, “Guys, I’m gonna go back to the booth.”
They all turn their heads to you, smiling at you with sympathy.
“I will too,” Hannah says, slipping her hand into yours.
“Han, you don’t have to,” you say, squeezing her hand gratefully. “You guys stay here if you want to. I’m okay, I promise.”
“No, you’re all good, babe,” Allie says, pulling Dean off the dance floor to walk back with you and Hannah. “It’s getting too crowded in there anyway.”
“Okay, but can we please not make a big deal out of this? It’s all handled anyway. I just don’t want to spoil the rest of the night,” you say, your clammy hand still in Hannah’s warm, grounding grip.
“You know you’re going to have to tell Logan, right?” Dean notes, uncharacteristically soft.
“I know, I know.” You nod. “But give me time to process, please?”
Your friends reluctantly agree, and as you walk back to your table, they try their hardest to stay calm and act as if nothing happened. Thankfully, the rest of your group see nothing out of the ordinary.
You keep replaying that encounter in your head. Every time you think about it, you feel like you should have done more—maybe stepped away, spoke up instead of letting your friends deal with your problem, or did literally anything other than freeze. You are grateful that Dean and your girls were there with you, but you could not help but let your mind drift to what could have happened if you were alone.
Logan, having gone back from the bar holding a tray of glasses filled with water, immediately notices your glum expression—a stark contrast to the buzzed, giddy expression you had when you left the booth to dance. He slides into the booth beside you after putting the tray down on the table and places a grounding hand on your thigh. “You okay?” He leans close enough that only you can hear. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s nothing, baby,” you mumble, nuzzling your face into his shoulder. “Just tired.”
He stays silent for a few beats, his hand still stroking your thigh soothingly. “Are you sure?” He asks.
You hesitate. Part of you wants to brush it off and put it all behind you, but the other part of you feels like he deserves to know. Ultimately, you decide to be honest, so you pick your head up to look at Logan. “There was this guy on the dance floor… well, he was, like, right up against me, so that made me uncomfortable.” Your words have your friends turning to you, alarmed, while your boyfriend’s grip tightens on your thigh—not enough to hurt, but enough to have you saying, “But it’s all good. Dean handled it, and he’s gone.”
“Okay, baby.” His eyes never stray from your face—he can deal with everything else later. “Where do you want me?” He asks, and you know that it is his way of asking whether you are okay with him sitting with you.
“Right here,” you murmur, shifting closer.
“Alright, sweetheart,” he hums, moving away briefly to remove his jacket and drape it over your shoulders. He hands you the last glass of water from the tray—you end up drinking the entire glass once you realize how thirsty you have been. He places the glass back on the tray and leans back to wrap his arm around your shoulder, pulling you close to him.
You stay wrapped up in his jacket and his arms for about twenty minutes, while your friends return to their respective conversations after making sure you are alright. Then you start pulling away from Logan, and he automatically follows you, but you stop him. “I’m okay, babe, I just need to get some water.”
“I’ll get it for you.”
“No, please let me. You’ve done enough already, plus I need to stretch my legs for a bit,” you say as you stand.
He reluctantly lets you go alone, but he keeps a careful eye on you.
Meanwhile, your gaze is fixed on the bartender as he attends to another customer, so you do not notice the man from earlier standing beside you by the bar.
“Hey,” he drawls, and you freeze as you recognize his voice, a chill running through your spine. “Finally got you alone, huh? Your boytoy finally let you out of his sight?”
“He’s my friend,” you say weakly, willing the bartender to finish with the other customer faster and turn to you, but alas, the position you are in does not look compromising from the outside—just a woman looking nervous beside an attractive man. Nothing suspicious, nothing dangerous, but in reality, it’s anything but harmless.
“Your friend, huh?” He chuckles, leaning closer to you. “That’s what they all say, sweetheart. Now, how many of those boys have you fucked yet?” He nods towards your table.
You decide that you are not that thirsty anyway, and abandon your hunt for a glass of water completely. You push off the bar with a quiet, “Excuse me.” You hope he will just drop it and leave you alone, but you quickly learn that hope is a dangerous thing to hold on to during times like this.
“You look a little tense, beautiful. Why don’t you smile a little for me?” He drawls from behind you, making sure to keep his distance so as not to look too suspicious.
However, Logan catches on to what is happening as soon as you are close enough that he sees the panicked expression on your face, and he is on his feet to meet you halfway. He had been watching you since you stood from the booth earlier, but he had chalked up the tension in your posture while standing at the bar to the traces of panic and discomfort left behind by your encounter not even an hour prior.
“John,” you call out to him, your voice tinged with a deep sense of discomfort, and Logan’s heart drops almost violently, but he willed himself to stay calm for you as he lets you step behind him.
Your friends spring into action—Hannah and Allie gently pull you into the booth, while the guys stand behind Logan.
“May we help you with something, buddy?” Logan asks, stepping closer to the other man.
“No, I—” He stammers, your group’s sharp gazes making him feel small. “I didn’t know she was yours.”
“Huh,” Logan wonders aloud, “Why does it matter who someone is with for you to respect their boundaries?”
“Look, I’m sorry.” The guy raises his arms in surrender. “It was all just a misunderstanding, and I’d gladly apologize to your girl.”
“Don’t you think it’s a little too late for apologies, bud?” Dean chimes in from his place. “We’ve told you to cut your shit earlier, but you still didn’t listen. I think it’s time for a conversation, dude, just a man-to-man conversation. No big deal.” He shrugs.
“Hey, aren’t you the dude from Eastwood?” Beau pops in casually, and the guy pales.
Of course he knows who they are—he had seen Garrett Graham pummel Aaron Delaney into the ice for messing with his girl, so he knows how these men get when it comes to their women.
“Eastwood, eh?” Tucker grins wolfishly, mirroring Dean’s and Garrett’s expressions, while Logan remains completely serious.
“What a great coincidence, buddy!” Dean claps the guy on his back rather roughly.
“It’ll be a fun game for us, you think so?” Garrett teases, still grinning, while the guy does nothing but stand there awkwardly—and rather weakly.
“Baby, do you want this guy’s apology?” Logan turns to you, his eyes softening, but his expression quickly hardens back when you shake your head. He turns back to the guy. “It’s settled then. I’ll see you on the ice, buddy.”
“If he ends up playing,” Beau quips. “Dude’s been benched since the start of the season. Guess that’s both his damnation and his saving grace.”
Before anyone else can speak, the guy quickly walks away with a shameful expression on his face.
Once he is gone, your friends leave you and Logan to give you some privacy.
Your boyfriend slides into the booth beside you. “Hey,” he murmurs, hooking his pinky with yours on your lap—he is not sure how much skinship you can take right now. “I’m sorry, angel.”
“Why are you apologizing?” You ask quietly, taking his hand into yours. “It wasn’t your fault. You defended me, even.”
“Bare minimum,” he says, offering a hand as he stands, “Wanna get out of this place? I think the rest of us are ready to leave too.”
“Yes please.” You nod, taking his hand. “Thank you again for defending me.”
“I am hating your exes even more now,” he says, half-joking.
“What a weird turn of conversation, babe.”
“No, seriously. They made you feel like you had to thank me for standing up for you,” he says, all worked up now. “That’s not even the bare minimum.”
“Babe, babe.” You smile softly, squeezing his hand. “I couldn’t care less about them, okay? You’re undoing every expectation I have of love by simply being you, and I love you for that.”
garrett doesn't want to be possessive. really, he doesn't. your soft edges bring out the worst in him.
tw: dumbification, dirty talk, fingering, oral, bondage, daddy kink, probably not a very healthy relationship, toxic!garrett....
wc: 733
an: mdni pls!!! unedited and posting from drafts!! really like this concept. lmk if you guys are into it and i will explore it more! tysm to everyone who has sent in requests. so grateful and excited to work on them. i will do my best to do your marvelous ideas justice! pinky promise. — berry
garrett hated the word possessive. it made him feel like some insecure loser harboring a complex bigger than his daddy issues.
it’s something he didn’t want to be. something he was working on. fuck, it was something he had gone to therapy for.
he’d spent countless hours processing why he felt insecure in his relationships. unpacking the destructive behaviors he was so prone to.
and then you showed up. little, unassuming you.
you — who styled your hair with lacy bows, smelled like a freshly baked lemon meringue pie, and smiled at him so sweetly your cheeks would turn bubblegum pink.
he was fucked.
had been since the first time he saw you on the quad. you’d been handing out flyers to join your volunteer group at the hastings animal shelter.
he knew there was no going back. he was irrevocably fucked.
that was months ago. now that he has you, old habits are bubbling up to the surface.
he really doesn’t mean to be like this. he knows he shouldn’t be caging you in. keeping you all to himself. shutting others out.
he shouldn’t always ‘forget’ to charge your phone when you’re over, or shove it between the couch cushions when you’re not looking.
shouldn’t delete the dinners you’d planned with friends from your calendar when you’re in the bathroom.
and he really shouldn’t have your wrists tied up to his bedframe when you’re supposed to be halfway across campus taking lecture notes on kafka’s the metamorphosis.
but he can’t help how pretty you look pouting down at him while he stuffs his tongue up your tight cunt. watching you bite down on your glossy bottom lip. he can’t find it in himself to care one fucking bit.
you’re rubbing your wrists together against the leather of his belt. wriggling against his grip to get more friction than he’s giving you.
“such a brat sometimes,” he mutters, only half-meaning it. really just meaning to rile you up.
he pulls his mouth away from your heat and you can see the pearly sheen of your last orgasm on his stubble. “sit pretty and take what i’m giving you, baby. know you can be a good girl f’me.”
“i am a good girl,” you huff. you jostle the makeshift cuffs, and garrett’s bedroom echoes with the sound of the buckle clattering against his bedframe.
garrett raises a brow, and your face goes pale. “not gonna tell you again, baby.”
he decides maybe you need a little more guidance today. he sprawls his palm against your warm belly and pushes lightly on the soft skin of it. “stay.”
you sigh contently at that, and garrett knows he’s won. he knows sometimes you just like to test his limits. make him prove that he should be in charge. that he knows best.
but when you melt under him so easily, what you’re really after is so obvious.
“like being told what to do, don’t you baby? just turn your brain off and be a good little fucktoy.”
he leaves a trail of kisses up your thigh, and inserts two fingers into your weeping cunt. your soft pink walls flutter as they open up for him.
“you like being used, huh? is that it? like it when i use this pretty cunt?”
he gets his mouth back on your clit, and sucks hard.
“yes! love it so much…wanna come so bad, daddy!”
you’re a squealing mess. heart beating out of your chest like a jackrabbit. pretty manicured hands balled up into little fists above you. he can see your brain whirring, trying to get a hold of yourself.
you know better than that, garrett thinks.
“tell me you love it when daddy uses you,” he hums, and the vibration of it shocks your eyes wide open. he looks up at you and marvels at how fucked out you look. pupils dilated, and drops of sweat dripping down the valley of your breasts.
your throat bobs as you gulp, wracking your brain. trying to find your voice
“c’mon, baby.”
“love it when you use my pussy, daddy.”
you look absolutely pathetic, hiccuping and whining as he inserts a third finger.
you’re usually all soft pleads and sweet moans in the bedroom. garrett never makes you talk dirty. but you want to make him happy. always such a good girl for him.
“such a perfect little fucktoy for me, aren’t you?”
omg will we get anymore with Dean and exchange student reader? i love your writing!!
I want someone badly
Pairing: Dean Di Laurentis x exchange student!reader
⟡ Main Index | ⟡ Archive for Earth-66
a/n: Sorry for not posting last week, I was busy cooking this up and I'm also sorry for what you're about to read. (⟡ Read Terms and conditions here!!!)
Summary: No one warned Dean that leaving could start long before you ever booked the plane home. As winter break draws closer, an inexplicable certainty begins to haunt him that this thing between you has an expiration date. What better way to chase that fear away than in bed? Sex couldn't possibly make it worse...right?
Classification: Smut +18 | Heavy yearning, protected p in v sex, themes of emotional confusion and attachment anxiety, mild sports-related injury references, anxiety, panic and crying during sex
Word count: 7,9k
Divider by me ;)
The arena buzzed with pre-game energy, the distant roar of the crowd rolled through the concrete corridors like a living heartbeat, every chant, whistle and burst of applause bleeding into the next until the whole building seemed to vibrate beneath everyone's feet, while the clock crept dangerously closer to puck drop and Garrett's patience finally snapped.
"Where the hell is Dean?" he demanded for what had to be the third time in as many minutes, voice slicing through the tense locker room as helmets clattered against benches and sticks were shoved into waiting hands.
Dean had stepped out for what was supposed to be a quick phone call, barely sparing anyone a glance before disappearing through the door but now his phone went unanswered, his stall sat untouched and every passing second tightened the knot settling over the team.
Out in the stands, Hannah frowned as her phone buzzed in her lap, the glow of the group chat reflecting across her face before she looked up.
"Dean's missing," she announced, angling the screen so you and Allie could read the frantic string of messages piling in.
Wedged comfortably between your friends, hard plastic seat pressed cold against the backs of your thighs through your jeans, your attention snapped away the instant your own phone let out a single, familiar ping. The only notification you still kept unmuted was reserved for Dean alone, paired with a ridiculous contact name hidden safely behind your privacy screen protector from the inevitable curiosity of anyone nearby.
Your pulse kicked a little harder against your ribs as you read the short message waiting for you.
“We need to talk.”
Questions came immediately the moment you pushed yourself to your feet. "Where are you going?" Allie asked, brows knitting together as she moved to let you pass.
"Bathroom," you answered without missing a beat, already turning sideways to squeeze through the impossibly narrow row, muttering quick apologies as your knees brushed strangers' and you accidentally stepped on more than one pair of shoes before finally reaching the aisle with a relieved exhale.
His text sat heavily in your mind as you descended the concrete steps, the choice of words carrying too many meanings between the two of you to ever be simple. Sometimes it ended with clothes abandoned across the floor in a rush neither of you truly acknowledged afterward, other times it meant sitting shoulder to shoulder in silence until one of you found the courage to admit something neither of you wanted to say out loud but receiving it minutes before one of the biggest games of the season, twisted your stomach into an anxious knot.
You had no idea what waited on the other end of that message, only that if Dean had reached out, there had to be a reason, because beneath the practiced smirk, the effortless confidence and the cool-guy act he wore as naturally as his jersey, you were beginning to catch glimpses of the man underneath, the one who only seemed to surface when no one else was looking.
Meanwhile, several corridors away, Dean stood alone with one hand braced against the cool cinderblock wall, jaw working as he stared blankly at his phone before slipping it back into his pocket with a frustrated sigh, unable to drown the restless energy buzzing beneath his skin no matter how many deep breaths he forced himself to take.
His chest felt strangely tight, shoulders refusing to relax and every instinct that usually sharpened before a game seemed hopelessly distracted by whether you'd actually come. He checked the hallway without meaning to, caught himself listening for footsteps instead of the muffled roar pouring in from the ice, rubbed the back of his neck hard enough to ease the tension gathering there, then huffed under his breath at himself.
It was ridiculous and he knew it. He just wanted to clear his head before the game, that was all.
So why the hell did the thought of you ignoring his text without answering feel worse than facing the opening faceoff?
You followed the directions Dean had fired off in a rush, leaving the bright, crowded concourse behind as the arena slowly transformed around you, polished concrete giving way to older, scuffed tile worn smooth by years of staff traffic, each turn pulling you farther from the crowds until the deafening roar of thousands of fans dissolved into a distant, muffled hum buried beneath the walls.
The service hallways twisted in every direction, narrow and dimly lit with exposed pipes snaking across the low ceiling and fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, a few flickering enough to cast shadows that stretched across the floor as you passed doors stamped with Staff Only, Equipment Storage and Maintenance, wondering more than once if you were about to get caught somewhere you definitely weren't supposed to be.
The air carried the stale scent of concrete dust mixed with machine oil and the lingering sweetness of popcorn drifting in from somewhere impossibly far away, while the bass from the arena speakers reached you only as a faint vibration through the walls, your own footsteps suddenly sounding too loud in the quiet.
By the time you found the room he'd described, your pulse had climbed higher than you'd care to admit, your hand hesitating only briefly before pushing against the heavy door.
It creaked open to reveal a cramped storage room swallowed in shadow, cluttered with haphazard towers of labeled cardboard boxes, battered equipment trunks, racks of old practice jerseys, spare goalie pads, broken sticks shoved into corners and enough forgotten arena gear to fill an entire locker room, dust drifting lazily through the thin strip of light spilling in from the narrow window set into the door.
You barely had a second to take it in before a large hand closed around your upper arm and tugged you firmly inside, the sudden movement pulling a startled breath from your lungs as the door clicked shut behind you and Dean guided you farther into the room, away from the window, until your back met the cool cinderblock wall with a soft thud.
Your eyes adjusted to the darkness little by little, finding him standing far closer than you expected, broad shoulders drawn tight beneath the half-fastened layers of his gear, blond hair slightly mussed from dragging frustrated fingers through it and jaw clenched.
"What the fuck was that?" you hissed, voice barely above a whisper as you looked up at him, still catching your breath.
"Where were you?" he shot back immediately, the words coming lower than usual, rough around the edges with something that reached beyond pre-game nerves, his hand lingering around your arm for another heartbeat before he seemed to realize he was still holding you.
The warmth of his grip disappeared as you gently pulled free, smoothing the sleeve of your jacket more out of habit than necessity.
"I'm not from around here, remember?" you muttered, shooting him an unimpressed look. "These hallways all look exactly the same."
Dean let out a quiet exhale through his nose, his eyes flicking instinctively toward the narrow window in the door, checking for passing shadows before returning to you almost immediately, as if reassuring himself you were actually standing there.
The tightness that had been sitting in his chest ever since he walked away from the locker room eased so subtly he didn't even register it, his shoulders dropping a barely noticeable inch, though he would've sworn it was simply because he could finally get this conversation over with.
"Yeah," he replied, one corner of his mouth twitching despite himself, "I do. Every time you curse me out over text in a language I can't understand."
"That's what dictionaries are for." You folded your arms across your chest, watching him with growing suspicion as Dean let out a long, exhausted sigh that seemed to come from somewhere deep in his lungs, his shoulders lifting and dropping beneath the weight of his pads.
"I'm aware," he muttered. "I ordered one."
Despite everything, you couldn't stop the corner of your mouth from twitching. "Great. Did you want the audio version too?" You reached forward and gave the center of his chest a light punch, more teasing than reprimanding, your knuckles meeting solid muscle that barely budged beneath the protective layers, hoping the familiar banter would snap him out of whatever strange headspace he'd worked himself into. "And you can't just grab me like that."
Dean didn't react to the joke the way he normally would. His eyes stayed fixed on yours, unusually intent, his expression caught somewhere between frustration and unsettlement.
"You're leaving," he said quietly, the words falling heavily into the silence between you.
You stared at him, confusion replacing the irritation that had flared when he'd dragged you into the room. You didn't exactly object to him throwing you around under the right circumstances but hidden inside a storage room five minutes before puck drop definitely wasn't one of them.
"Let me get this straight," you said slowly, lifting a brow. "You called me down here minutes before the game just to tell me to leave? I like being told what to do, Dean but preferably when we're both naked and horizontal…I thought I made that clear."
Normally that would've earned you an eye roll or one of his cocky grins but instead his chest rose sharply as he sucked in another deep breath, dragging both hands through his blond hair until it stood up in messy directions before falling untidily across his forehead again.
The dim lighting carved hard shadows beneath his cheekbones, making the strain on his face impossible to miss.
"You're leaving," he repeated, slower this time, watching you with an expectant look that somehow made even less sense than before.
You frowned harder. "The game hasn't even started. Why the hell are you breathing like that?" Your eyes swept over him properly now, noticing details you'd brushed past when he'd first pulled you inside. The faint flush climbing his neck, the sheen of sweat gathering at his temples despite the cool room, the restless way his fingers kept flexing at his sides as though he couldn't get comfortable inside his own body.
"Do you have asthma?" you asked, genuine concern slipping into your voice despite yourself. "Or did you take a puck to the head already?"
For half a second Dean almost smiled because hearing you ramble somehow eased the pressure squeezing at his ribs, your voice grounding him more effectively than those deep breaths he'd been forcing ever since he left the locker room.
It irritated him that it worked. He had no explanation for why the frantic, inexplicable feeling clawing under his skin had only gotten worse while you were gone and quieted almost immediately now that you were standing in front of him, safe, talking and looking at him with that familiar mix of annoyance and concern.
It couldn't possibly have anything to do with you…He was just stressed, that had to be it.
"Can you focus?" he asked, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck, his voice rougher than intended.
"Can you make some fucking sense?" you fired back immediately. "What do you mean?"
Dean's brows knitted together so tightly they nearly touched as he pointed at his own chest with obvious disbelief. "What do you mean, what do I mean? It was a question."
A short, breathless laugh escaped you, completely devoid of amusement as you stared at him.
"No...what you just said was a statement, it has that flat inflection at the end." You gestured between the two of you as though explaining something painfully obvious. "You said, 'You are leaving.' Full stop. That's not a question, Dean, the words are literally in the wrong order." You pinched the bridge of your nose with a quiet groan, shaking your head. "I mean...I knew partying was going to mess with my English eventually but apparently it's taking yours down with it by association."
He nodded once, his jaw still set so tightly you could see the muscle ticking beneath his skin.
"Fine...okay." He paused, visibly thinking through it before trying again. "Are you leaving..." His mouth twisted with faint irritation. "Question mark."
You almost rolled your eyes. "The question mark is implied, genius, and no..." The answer had barely left your mouth before you caught it, the change in him so immediate it was almost startling.
His shoulders sagged as if someone had quietly lifted a weight off them, the rigid line of his chest loosening with a long breath he didn't seem to realize he'd been holding, his fingers finally going still instead of drumming anxiously at his sides.
Dean only knew the tightness squeezing his ribs had eased, the strange pressure behind his sternum faded into something manageable and his brain eagerly filed it away as relief over having an answer…nothing more.
"What made you think that?" you asked, voice softening.
He scrubbed both hands through his hair again, leaving the blond strands even messier. "Winter break. Some guy Logan knows is an exchange student too." He looked away for a second, jaw flexing. "He said he's leaving and isn't sure he'll come back."
Your eyebrows climbed. "And that got your nuts in a twist?" you asked, blinking at him in disbelief. "You're about to play one of the biggest games of the season and your team thinks you've disappeared–"
"But are you leaving?" he interrupted again, the question slipping out before he could stop it. He was impatient with himself for needing to hear the answer twice.
"No, I'm not leaving!" you repeated, meeting his eyes without looking away, even though holding his gaze still had an annoying habit of making your stomach somersault. "Jeez…I'm not dropping all that money just to sit bored out of my mind in my room back home for two weeks." You tilted your head. "Are we done here?"
"Not even close." The grin spread slowly across his face, easy and genuine, transforming him so completely it was hard to believe he'd looked ready to crawl out of his own skin less than a minute ago. "What will you be doing then?"
You threw your arms out dramatically, shrugging with exaggerated indifference. "Having tons of sex. Who the fuck knows?" You reached over and poked a finger firmly into the center of his chest. "You need to focus."
His grin only widened, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he looked down at you with unmistakable amusement. "You care about me performing well." His voice dipped into something teasing. "That's cute."
"In bed? Sure…On the ice?" You shrugged, fighting the smile threatening to betray you.
Dean laughed under his breath, the sound low and unguarded, eyes lingering on your face. It struck him, not for the first time, just how effortlessly you filled silence, how every expression crossed your face before you could hide it and how animated your hands became whenever you talked to anyone you felt comfortable with.
He found himself watching those tiny details without thinking, memorizing them for reasons he couldn't explain and every time he caught himself doing it, he blamed simple curiosity.
"You should come to New York with me." The invitation escaped before he'd thought it through, tumbling out naturally enough that he couldn't grab it back and his own eyebrows lifted a fraction as if surprised he'd said it aloud.
Still, he didn't look away. His eyes searched your face shamelessly, catching every flicker of surprise, every twitch at the corner of your mouth and every tiny shift in your expression. He'd discovered somewhere along the way that his favorite part of talking to you wasn't even the conversation itself, it was watching you have it, watching your face give away thoughts before your words ever could.
Your eyes narrowed, suspicion replacing anew the concern that had settled there only moments before. "I hope they test you for drugs before you go out there, because something's..." You trailed off, studying him like you were trying to solve a puzzle. "Off." The word hung between you before your expression changed again. "New York? Are you–" Your brows knitted together as the implication finally caught up with you but just as quickly you seemed to shove the thought aside, lifting a hand to point toward the door instead. "See that door right there?"
Dean didn't even bother looking, his attention never leaving your face.
"I'm gonna leave the way I came."
A quiet, breathy laugh escaped him. "Good luck kiss?" he asked, trying to sound casual, though there was an unmistakable note of hope tucked beneath the teasing.
Your lips twitched. "Good game fuck," you corrected matter-of-factly. "Because that's what we do." You gave him another pointed poke against the chest before stepping around him. "Now go do your fucking job and we'll talk."
He stepped aside without complaint, giving you room to pass even as his eyes followed you across the cramped storage room with an absent sort of focus he couldn't seem to switch off.
"You're obsessed with good sex," he noted, shaking his head with a grin that reached all the way to his eyes.
Your hand was already wrapped around the door handle when you glanced back over your shoulder. "You would be too if you could squirt your stress away."
The door eventually swung open and shut behind you with a hollow click, leaving Dean alone in the sudden silence.
He stood there for another second, looking down at the toes of his skates before a laugh slipped out under his breath, quiet and helpless as he rubbed the back of his neck.
"I've created a monster," he muttered to the empty room, the words swallowed by the cluttered space. Still, he didn't move. His eyes drifted toward the closed door, lingering there without any real reason, as if part of him expected it to open again and when he caught himself staring, he huffed out another laugh at his own expense before reaching up to adjust the collar of his gear, trying to shake off the strange pull that made leaving feel oddly difficult.
You, meanwhile, had only made it a handful of steps down the dim service hallway before your pace slowed. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as you stopped in the middle of the corridor with an exasperated groan, scrubbing a hand over your face.
"Don’t…Your visa was too fucking expensive for this. Just too…fuck." you muttered to yourself, already turning on your heel before your brain had fully committed to the decision.
You marched back, shoved the heavy door open and crossed the cramped storage room in quick, determined strides. Dean barely had time to register your return before both of your hands fisted in the front of his jersey, dragging him down to meet you.
Your lips crashed into his with all the urgency you'd been pretending not to feel for the past week, the kiss stealing the rest of his surprise before it could reach his face. He froze for the briefest heartbeat, then melted into it instinctively, one large hand finding your jaw while the other settled carefully against your side, thumb brushing the curve beneath your ear as he tipped your face upward. The faint taste of the mint gum he always chewed before games lingered between you, familiar enough to make the distance of the past week disappear in an instant and the kiss deepened naturally, unhurried despite the clock counting down somewhere beyond those walls, every anxious thought that had chased him all afternoon dissolving into the simple fact that you were there.
For ten perfect seconds nothing else existed, not the game, the waiting locker room or the noise outside, until you finally pulled back with a quiet, reluctant breath, your foreheads nearly touching as both of you stood there breathing a little harder than before.
"Didn't want to be responsible for the team losing tonight," you murmured, the confidence from moments earlier giving way to vulnerability as your eyes wandered everywhere except his face, settling briefly on a stack of dusty equipment before darting toward the floor. "That's me being charitable..." You cleared your throat awkwardly, waving a hand as if you could dismiss your own words before they sounded as ridiculous as they felt. "You should probably look that up in your dictionary and highlight it or something...just in case it happens again, you know?"
Dean's expression softened, the teasing edge melting away as his voice dropped into that low, unhurried register you usually only heard in dark bedrooms after the jokes had run out. "Of course..." His thumb brushed slowly across your swollen lower lip, lingering for a heartbeat as though committing the feeling to memory before he smiled to himself. "You just hate repeating yourself and it's definitely not because you wanted a kiss."
Warmth crept into your cheeks before you could stop it. "That's not good for the brand," you muttered, catching his wrist and pushing his hand away from your face before giving the center of his chest another light shove.
Dean let you move him without resistance, rocking back half a step with an easy chuckle. "Right...because Y/n has a very strict program that doesn't include boyfriends." His grin grew wider. "Only sex."
You nodded with exaggerated seriousness, trying very hard to ignore the way your pulse still hadn't settled. "It's good that you know that, because I was about to remind you of your position." You cleared your throat again, pointing toward the door with as much authority as you could fake. "You should go first. It's you they're looking for."
He nodded, then ignored your attempt at ending the conversation by stepping back into your space one last time. His fingers slipped beneath your chin, tilting your face up just enough for him to press one final kiss against your lips. It was nothing like the one before, soft, brief, almost careful and somehow that made it infinitely more disarming, lingering long enough to feel like gratitude before he pulled away again.
He turned toward the door, wrapped a hand around the handle, pushed it open, then paused halfway through the doorway as though another thought had caught up with him.
Looking back over his shoulder, he asked casually, "Ever been to Central Park?"
You rolled your eyes so hard they almost disappeared, intentionally looking somewhere over his shoulder instead of at him.
"Fuck you, Dean," you answered, though there was barely any heat left in the words.
His laugh echoed quietly down the hallway. "I know you want to do both," he shot back. "I'll see to it."
Then he disappeared into the corridor, the soft thump of his guarded skates fading over the worn tile until it blended with the distant noise of the arena, leaving you alone in the dim storage room as the heavy door clicked shut behind him.
For several long seconds you didn't move. You simply stared at the closed door, absentmindedly touching your lips before catching yourself and dropping your hand with an exasperated sigh. Normally your brain would've seized on every tiny detail, turning each sentence over until you convinced yourself there had to be a hidden meaning buried somewhere underneath it, dissecting every glance and every pause until you could no longer tell what was real and what you'd invented.
That version of you would've spent the entire walk back constructing theories that would only leave you more confused than before but that version of you was exactly who you'd promised to leave behind when you boarded a plane for the other side of the world.
Your exchange year had never just been about another university or another country, it had been about unlearning the exhausting habit of searching for answers to questions nobody had actually asked, of carrying every uncertainty until it became unbearable.
If Dean wanted to tell you something, he would. If he didn't, you refused to do the work for him.
With one last glance at the closed door, you drew a slow breath, squared your shoulders and headed back toward the arena, letting the roar of the crowd grow louder with every step until it drowned out the temptation to overthink altogether.
The moment you found your seat again just as the puck hit the ice, it became painfully obvious that whatever labels the two of you had so carefully built around your arrangement had started to bend under the weight of something you hadn’t agreed to allow.
You told yourself you were only watching the game, yet your eyes kept finding Dean without permission, tracking every powerful stride across the ice, every hard check into the boards and collision that made your stomach tighten before you could remind yourself he did this for a living.
Whenever he was knocked down, your fingers curled instinctively around the edge of your seat and whenever the whistle sent him to the penalty box, your heart lurched with an irrational frustration that had nothing to do with the score.
Across the rink, Dean fought the same losing battle.
Every so often, his gaze drifted toward the stands until it found you effortlessly, lingering only long enough for him to catch himself before dragging his attention back to the play, jaw tightening as though forcing himself to focus.
It became a quiet exchange that you didn’t mean to participate in, two separate worlds orbiting each other across the ice without ever truly meeting.
As expected, the game ended in victory, the arena erupting into deafening cheers while teammates celebrated, fans screamed themselves hoarse and congratulations echoed through every hallway of the building, yet beneath the smiles you each wore for everyone else's benefit lingered a strange distance that neither of you seemed capable of shaking.
You slipped out before the celebration had the chance to grow louder, offering quick excuses before retreating to your dorm instead, feeling oddly detached from the endless parties already spilling across campus, the idea of forcing yourself into another crowded room suddenly exhausting.
Dean disappeared just as quickly the first chance he got, exchanging the post-game chaos for a hood pulled low over his damp hair as he crossed campus unnoticed, taking advantage of the fact that most students had already scattered toward bars and apartments.
He knew the walk to your building by heart now, every turn familiar and staircase automatic but when he finally reached your door his confidence faltered for the first time.
There had been no text or call, none of the casual messages that usually brought one of you to the other's room. Just a quiet knock and the hope that with whatever had taken home uneasily between you earlier that evening, you wouldn't send him away.
The door opened after only a moment, revealing you standing in the warm glow of your desk lamp, the room behind you dim and comfortably lived in.
Your eyes met his and without a single word you stepped aside to let him in. The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable, only heavier than usual, lingering as the door clicked shut behind him.
There was no frantic rush to close the distance this time, none of the familiar race against the clock that usually accompanied stolen evenings together.
Shirts were shrugged off absentmindedly, shoes abandoned near the door, your movements slower and more careful.
You asked where he'd been hit during the game, fingertips brushing lightly over the places he admitted were already beginning to bruise while he answered in short, distracted replies, unable to ignore how often his eyes wandered back to your face instead of the spots you were checking.
The room remained hushed around you, the muffled sounds of distant parties drifting through the window, every small gesture carrying an unfamiliar tenderness, both choosing, at least for tonight, to let the comfort of being close speak louder than the questions waiting patiently beneath the surface.
You lay beneath him, legs spread wide and open, thighs trembling slightly from the effort of staying that way. Dean’s weight pressed you deeper into the mattress, the heat of his body sinking into your skin as he reached for the drawer. The foil wrapper crackled sharply in the quiet room when he tore it open and you watched, breath shallow, as he rolled the condom down his length, the latex gleaming with the slickness already coating him.
A flash of memory hit you then, of the first time you’d ever been penetrated. You hadn't told him then and you weren't about to start now, though the way he moved told you he already knew. He was too observant, too attuned to the slight tremors in your frame and his gentleness was a testament to that unspoken knowledge.
Your mind was a blur of conflicting instincts. When he had reached down earlier, you’d declined the fingering. Your body felt wound tight, like a spring pushed to its limit and you feared that any more preparation would make you snap. You were still navigating the map of your own desire, caught between the logical fear of the unknown and the primal, aching need to be claimed.
Right now, your body didn't want a tease, it wanted to be intruded upon.
He hovered above you, chest rising and falling as he nudged the blunt, heavy tip of his cock against your soaked entrance, sliding through your wetness with a filthy, audible sound. He held there, eyes locked on yours and waiting until you gave him a small, shaky nod. Only then did he begin to press forward.
A sharp gasp tore from both of you as he started to breach you. The stretch burned instantly with a tight, searing pressure that made your walls clamp down hard around his girth.
Inch after thick inch pushed its way inside, the slick drag of the condom against your drenched heat creating a heavy, obscene friction. Your legs jerked, heels digging into the sheets as your body fought the overwhelming invasion, forcing a broken whimper to slip from your throat.
Being opened like this felt terrifying and perfect all at once, as though your body was being remade around him.
He paused halfway, buried deep enough that you could feel the pulse of him throbbing inside your tight channel. The stillness let the sensation bloom, from the way your pussy stretched obscenely around his cock, to the slick heat of your arousal coating him and the heavy fullness pressing against every sensitive spot deep in your belly.
His thumb found your swollen clit then and started rubbing slow, firm circles, sending sparks of sharp pleasure shooting through the ache.
Your walls fluttered and gradually softened, growing wetter, slicker and yielding to the relentless stretch. You moaned softly, eyes fluttering as the burn melted into something hotter, deeper.
Dean felt it too, deciding to rock forward again, gliding deeper with one long, smooth thrust until he bottomed out completely, hips flush against yours as the head of his cock kissed your pulsing cervix.
A long, high whine escaped you, back arching off the bed, nipples tight and aching as your body struggled to adjust to the sheer size of him splitting you open. The wet, squelching sound of your bodies joining filled the small room, embarrassingly loud in the quiet.
You remained locked together, chests heaving and skin already slick with sweat as you felt his heart hammering against your breasts. Dean’s gaze dragged slowly downward, drinking in the sight of your puffy, glistening pussy stretched wide around the base of his cock, your juices shining on his skin and dripping down to soak the sheets beneath you. Then his eyes traveled up over your heaving chest, stiff nipples begging for attention, until they reached your face again.
“Talk to me,” he rasped, voice rough and low, raw with need. “You know I can’t read your mind.”
You swallowed, throat tight and let your trembling hand slide down his sweat-damp abs until your fingers reached the place where he disappeared inside you.
The feeling was dizzying. Your pussy felt impossibly full, stretched taut and throbbing around every inch of his girthy cock, the heat of him radiating through your core.
“I’m just…” Your voice came out shaky, barely a whisper. “I feel so full of you.”
Dean groaned softly at your words, leaning down to brush his lips hot and wet along your shoulder and across your collarbone, leaving open-mouthed kisses that made you shiver. The contrast between his gentle mouth and the heavy, throbbing fullness buried deep between your legs sent another rush of slick flooding around him.
Your walls clenched hard, failing to milk his length as fresh wetness coated you both.
He stayed there, buried to the hilt, letting you feel every inch while his thumb kept working your clit in steady, slippery circles. The vulnerability of being so completely opened, so helplessly wet and full beneath him, only made the heat between you burn hotter.
Tentatively, he gave a slow roll of his hips, the weight of his cock dragging heavily inside you.
The latex slid through your soaked walls with a slick, audible squelch, sending a raw jolt of pleasure-pain straight through your core, pushing a broken whimper from your lips as you clung to him, fingers pressed tight against the messy, dripping place where your bodies joined.
"Move your hand, baby...you’re okay," he breathed against your neck, the low rumble of his voice sending fresh shivers across your skin.
You obeyed, fingers slipping away from the drenched heat. They left a shiny trail of your arousal across his forearm as you wrapped your hand around the strong muscle there, gripping him hard for something solid to hold onto while the rest of the world narrowed to the obscene fullness splitting you open.
"There you go..." he whimpered, the sound raw and desperate, almost broken. He rolled his hips again, deeper this time, grinding his cock into your pussy with slow, heavy strokes. Each movement dragged against your sensitive walls, stretching you so wide it stole your breath.
It simultaneously filled the room with wet, filthy sounds every time he pushed in, your slick coating the condom and leaking out around his shaft and soaking his balls.
He paused for a moment, eyes searching yours as his chest heaved against your breasts, sweat slicking your skin together. "We’re okay, right?"
You could only nod, lips parted and breath coming in shaky little gasps as the mix of the stinging stretch and building pleasure twisted tight in your belly. Overwhelmed by it all, you turned your face into the pillow, muffling the desperate noises you couldn’t hold back.
An unabashed moan vibrated against the fabric as he moved again, pussy clenching hard around his cock, fluttering and squeezing with every inch that pushed deeper. Your fingers dug into his arm, nails biting into his skin, leaving little red crescents while your other hand fisted the pillow.
Dean groaned loudly, the sound rumbling through his chest into yours as he could feel the way your walls pulsed and fluttered around him, producing a hot and silky substance that kept gushing around his cock with every slow thrust, your whole body trembling underneath him.
"We can slow down," he offered, voice rough with worry even as his hips kept rolling in that same devastating rhythm.
You shook your head quickly, pulling your face from the pillow. You didn’t want ‘slow’, you wanted to feel every inch of him ruining you, filling you up until there was nothing left but him and the desperation must’ve shown clearly on your face because his expression changed, need bleeding through the concern.
He eased his thumb off your clit, the sudden absence making your breath catch sharply. The pleasure narrowed down to the heavy, throbbing pressure of his cock alone, buried so deep inside your soaked pussy.
"Better?" he whispered.
You nodded, breath hitching anew. Without the extra stimulation everything became sharper, more intense. He continued moving, rolling his hips in long, deep strokes, angling upward to hit that perfect spot that made your toes curl tight and your back arch off the bed.
He leaned down further to press his lips to yours, messily and desperately, tongues sliding together as he moaned into your mouth. The sound was primal and needy, breaking into a whimper every time your pussy squeezed him especially tight or when your body pressed against one of his forming bruises, until kissing was no longer possible.
“You…you should be at a party,” you whined, voice shaking with every thrust, trying so hard to cling to some scrap of sense while your body melted around him. “Celebrating.”
Dean let out a low, breathy laugh that melted into a soft moan against your neck, the sound smug and hungry all at once. You couldn't help grinning through the pleasure, head falling back against the pillow as another shaky whimper slipped out. “What? Got lost around campus…and…fuck–ended up here?” you gasped, fingers digging hard into his broad shoulders. “You have no excuse, Dean.”
“Gonna decide for me now?” he teased, voice dropping low and rough. He answered his own question by rolling his hips deeper, a slow, grinding circle that forced his cock even farther inside you. The thick head rubbed right against that sensitive spot, stretching you wide and making your pussy flutter wildly around him.
He paused there for a brief second, buried to the hilt while watching with dark, hooded eyes as your lips fell open and your breath caught in a silent, desperate plea. He continued thrusting then.
You nodded frantically, vision blurring at the edges. “I…should.”
“What’s so wrong about this?” he murmured, though the question sounded more like a tease than anything else. He was too busy savoring the way your dripping cunt clung to him and the obscene wet sounds it produced.
You lost yourself in it too, eyes fluttering shut as a long, broken moan poured out of you.
“Mm, pretty?” he called softly, the velvet in his voice pulling you back to him while he kept rolling his hips in those lazy, devastating circles.
You swallowed hard, mind hazy. “New York,” you breathed, the word jagged and barely there. “That’s what’s…w-wrong.”
The second it left your lips, Dean dropped his head into the crook of your shoulder with a guttural “fuck.” His hot breath fanned across your skin as he kept moving, hips rolling steadily, the pressure building tighter and hotter with every deep grind. His cock throbbed inside you, stretching you so perfectly it made your toes curl.
He eventually lifted his head again, eyes intense and understanding as they locked onto yours. “Can’t be alone that long…bored,” he murmured, voice thick and rough with lust. “I want you to come–”
Your pussy clamped down hard around him at his words, squeezing his cock in tight, rhythmic pulses that made him stiffen above you, a sharp hiss escaping through his teeth as the sudden grip made his head spin.
“Right here…and to New York too,” he added, voice strained and breathy.
A whiny and breathless laugh bubbled out of you, half disbelief and half aching longing, the sound melting into a soft moan as he kept moving. Your eyes snapped open to meet his and the hunger on his face looked almost cataclysmic but underneath it sat something devoted that made your chest tighten in return.
“I’m serious,” he confessed, the words vulnerable.
He rolled his hips slower now, intentionally dragging every inch along your fluttering, greedy walls so you felt every ridge, every vein and throbbing pulse of him.
You opened your mouth, ready to give him that familiar warning tone, to tell him he was pushing for more than he knew how to handle but the words never made it out. Your eyes widened suddenly as a sharp jolt of pleasure ripped through you and one of your hands flew up, palm pushing against the headboard as your back arched off the mattress, pushing your peaked nipples to his burning chest.
"Dean..." you gasped, voice cracking.
He shifted above you without a word, catching the back of your knee and pushing a leg higher, folding it toward your chest. The new angle opened you up even more, letting him sink impossibly deeper as his hips switched to shorter, sharper snaps that made the wet, filthy slap of skin on skin echo through the room. Every quick thrust pulled a broken moan straight from your throat, the slick sounds of your dripping pussy taking his cock growing louder and messier with each measured snap.
You couldn’t stop moaning when pleasure coiled progressively tighter in your belly, as his cock dragged against that perfect, newly found, spot inside you over and over with precision. Your soaked walls fluttered and clenched around him, fresh slick leaking out around his shaft with every thrust, coating his pelvis and making everything slippery and loud.
Your gazes met and neither of you could look away, breaths mingling hot and heavy between your parted lips. His face hovered just above yours, sweat glistening on his forehead, blond hair damp and messy as he stared down at you in a manner you couldn’t quite read.
The usual cocky smirk had faded, replaced by something open and stripped bare.
You felt so vulnerable like this, leg hiked high, body completely spread open beneath him while he fucked you with those relentless shallow strokes. You pushed against the headboard harder while your other hand clutched desperately at his back, nails shamelessly leaving marks into his skin.
"D-Dean," you whispered again, voice timid and trembling even as another moan slipped out. "I’m right there, please…I’m…I’m gonna cum."
The words came out shaky and sincere but shy, as if admitting it made the pleasure even more intense. Your pussy clenched hard around his cock at the confession, squeezing him in wet, rhythmic pulses as the pressure inside you built higher and higher while your breathing turned frantic.
He groaned low in desperation but held that steady eye contact, gaze becoming more exposed as he watched every flicker of overwhelming pleasure cross your face.
You stayed right on the sharp, deep edge, leg trembling in his grip, body arching and clenching, eyes locked with his as the orgasm hovered dangerously close.
Both of you were breathing hard now, chests heaving in sync against each other with every shallow, snapping thrust as a sudden and strange wave of emotion crashed over you without warning.
It was thick and impossible to name, lodging itself in your throat until swallowing became difficult, eyes stinging as tears gathered without warning.
Dean's brows knit together, a sharp breath catching somewhere in his chest as his own eyes began to glisten, confusion flashing across his face because neither of you understood where it had come from. The feeling swelled between you, overwhelming in its intensity, tangled with something far deeper than either of you was ready to confront, all while your bodies raced toward release.
Tears slipped down your cheeks first, hot and startling, catching you so off guard that you barely noticed them until they blurred your vision. Dean's eyes widened almost imperceptibly, searching your face for an explanation you couldn't give but before either of you could speak, his own tears spilled over, carving short tracks through the flush coloring his cheeks. You were both crying now, breaths meeting in uneven, trembling exhales, unable to tear your eyes away from each other as confusion settled, while he kept fucking you with those short, desperate rolls of his hips.
Instead of breaking the moment, it only seemed to sharpen it. Your pussy clenched hard around his cock, fluttering wildly as the orgasm finally crested.
A broken, sobbing moan tore from your throat as it hit you. Your back tensed violently, leg trembling in his faltering grip while wave after wave of intense pleasure ripped through your core. Your walls pulsed and squeezed around him in powerful, rhythmic contractions, gushing wet heat around his cock as you moaned openly. Dean groaned deep and raw, his own tears falling faster as he kept thrusting through it, hips stuttering but never stopping.
His cock throbbed hard and heavy inside you, buried to the hilt as your orgasm milked him in powerful, rippling squeezes. He let out a broken groan that cracked into a sob as the pleasure finally overwhelmed him.
He came hard, hips stuttering against you in short, desperate thrusts. You felt every pulse as he spilled into the condom, thick, hot spurts filling the latex barrier while your clenching pussy kept squeezing around him. The condom swelled slightly with each heavy rope, the warmth of it noticeable even through the thin layer as he emptied himself deep inside your soaked cunt.
The pleasure rolled on and on, leaving you shaking with tears streaming down your face and into the pillow while you stared at him through blurred vision. He looked just as lost, just as wrecked, jaw tight and eyes shining with the same strange uncertainty as his hips kept moving, drawing every last tremor out of you.
When the last trembling aftershock finally ebbed away, leaving nothing but the echo of it humming beneath your skin, the spell between you shattered all at once. Dean pulled out of you so abruptly that you both sucked in startled breaths at the loss, scrambling backward until his spine hit the wall at the end of the bed, his chest rising and falling in frantic, uneven pulls as though he couldn't draw enough air.
You reacted just as instinctively, scooting backward until your shoulder blades met the headboard, folding your knees tightly against your chest and wrapping your arms around them, curling inward as if making yourself smaller might somehow quiet whatever had just happened.
Silence rushed in to fill the room, broken only by your shared, ragged breathing, while tears continued slipping unchecked down both your faces.
Without thinking, your hand fumbled for the rumpled sheet tangled beside you, dragging it over your body in one desperate motion and across from you Dean snatched the nearest pillow from the mattress, clutching it awkwardly across his lap as if the flimsy barrier could restore some distance that no longer existed.
Neither of you spoke.
You only sat there shaking, pussy still pulsing with the aftereffects and heartbeat refusing to slow down, the warmth lingering beneath your skin now overshadowed by a confusing ache that settled deep in your chest, because whatever had existed between you moments ago had felt impossibly right while it was happening, only to leave you feeling painfully exposed afterward in a way that had nothing to do with nudity.
You couldn't understand the tears still falling and judging by the bewilderment written across Dean's face, neither could he.
His unfocused gaze wandered aimlessly around the room until it caught on the open suitcase sitting in the corner, half-packed with neatly folded clothes for the upcoming break and he stared at it without blinking, fresh tears gathering along his lashes as something behind his expression quietly crumpled.
Your eyes followed his, settling on the same suitcase and suddenly the ordinary object seemed unbearably heavy, loaded with all the clauses the two of you should've underlined in the terms and conditions of this arrangement before either of you ever agreed to it, the reality of time, distance and a decision that still hadn't been made staring back at both of you from the corner of the room.
Another tear slipped free before you could stop it, your breath catching as the unanswered questions thickened inside the room, leaving the two of you stranded at opposite ends of the bed, still breathing hard, crying and unable to explain why.
a/n: Comments, likes and reblogs really do mean the world and help more than you know! More stories will be added to the archive soon, so stay tuned for new content. Thank you so much for reading! 🤍
summary: you don't do parties. and you don't do hockey players. Dean Di Laurentis is the last person your anxious brain would ever want to talk to. But when he becomes the only thing that can quiet the noise in your head, it becomes harder to stay away.
wc: 1.3k
warnings: 18+ , panic attack, drugs and alcohol
a/n: this is my first time writing off campus and I'm really hoping I did ok! would love to continue this one if enough people are interested so lmk if you like it! I have some ideas for these two.
banner by: @/issysh3ll
You didn’t do noise. You didn’t do crowds. But your roommate, Britt, had gotten an invite to a party at the hockey house. And at Briar, nobody passed up an invite to the hockey house. So, despite your discomfort, you sucked it up so she wouldn’t have to go alone.
It was easy to go through the motions: hair, makeup, outfit. The hard part was walking through the front door. The party was already packed, students spilling out onto the porch, bass vibrating the ground. You gripped Britt’s hand like a lifeline as she dragged you into the chaos.
Off to one side, a game of beer pong was underway, a crowd cheering them on. On the other, a group was doing shots. In the middle was a makeshift dancefloor with girls in the cutest outfits shaking their hips rhythmically to the music. You make note of the only other exit, a door near the pool table that someone was just heading out of.
Everyone around you was everything you wished you were: confident, excited, having fun. Instead, your brain was torturing you. The noise, the low lights, the crowd: everything was danger. You could feel your pulse spiking already, sweat beading across your forehead.
“Thanks for coming with me. Couldn’t have done this without you.” Britt offers you a smile as she tries to speak over the noise. Even though she was much more social than you, she was also introverted. But unlike you, she hated being alone. For you, being alone was solace. Comfort. Peace.
“Of course!” You force a smile back as best you can. “Do you see John?”
“Not yet.” She answers, her brown eyes searching the crowd. “Oh! He’s in the kitchen.” Dropping your hand, she waves at him until he notices. You follow Britt into the other room, trying to take some deep breaths in a way that you hope doesn’t make you look insane. Britt introduces you, and to your relief, John greets you nicely. In a way that makes you feel like he’s trying to remember your name.
Yet, the moment he starts talking to Britt, it’s like you don’t exist to either of them anymore. In a way, it’s nice. You don’t have to keep up with the conversation or pretend to be having fun. But now you need to find something to do other than disassociate and breathe manually. Grabbing a red solo cup, you it up with beer and take a small sip.
That moment is when Garrett Graham descends down the stairs of the hockey house. He’s the star hockey player, so of course people notice. Heads turn. Multiple people call out to him. And somehow it makes the house feel louder, stuffier, and more overwhelming. You shift on your feet, trying to find somewhere that feels a little less crowded, when someone slams into you.
“Shit, sorry!” The man’s voice echoes in your ear as your beer sloshes out of the cup.
“Nice job, Di Laurentis.” John deadpans.
“My bad.” The man laughs awkwardly, running a hand through his blonde hair. It’s Dean. The other hockey star. Somehow, that makes it worse. Heat rushes to your cheeks, your ears starting to ring. He says something to you that your brain won’t process, his voice sounding far away. Your only clue is him pointing at your drink. Shaking your head quickly, you mutter something about not needing another one before walking away.
Tunnel vision is your next clue things are going downhill. And then it feels like you don’t know how to swallow. Throat too tight to breathe. Hands going numb. Legs going numb. You needed to get some air. Let it pass. Not in front of all these people. The back exit is your target.
Deep breath in. Out. In. Out.
You make it outside, relief slowly blooming as the cold air hit your skin and the noise muffled when the door slams closed. No one else was out here. Just you. Crouching down on the world’s smallest deck, you keep your head low and try to breathe through it.
In. Out. In. Out.
All too quickly, the door creaks open. Your head whips around, eyes wide, heart rate picking up again.
Britt?
John?
Nope. Dean.
Shit.
“Damn, ‘s freezing out here.” He announces to no one in particular, lighting up a joint. Once he takes a drag, his blue eyes lazily scan the deck, landing on you. “Shit, it’s you. Sorry again, for spilling your drink.” The way he chuckles is so easygoing it makes you jealous. You wanted to have fun, to be casual. Your brain always had other plans.
“It’s fine.” You grit out, fists clenching so your nails dug into your palms.
“Whoa,” Dean finally takes in your demeanor. “You sick?” His attention makes your skin prickle.
“I said I’m fine.” Your voice gets harsher, hoping he’ll take the hint and leave.
“You don’t look fine.” There’s an edge of concern in his voice. That sends a new wave of panic. Dean was, based on rumors and the fact that you had eyes, the kind of person always the center of attention. The last thing you needed was someone like that focused on you.
“I’m good, I’ve got it handled.” You try to sound better than you feel.
“Sure.” Dean drawls, unconvinced.
“Don’t you want to go back to your friends?” You ask, nodding back at the door.
“I’ve got a joint to smoke. Don’t you want to go back to your friends?” He counters.
“I just need a minute.” You admit. Truthfully, he was providing the tiniest distraction. Which let feeling come back to your hands and legs. But the song playing inside changes, and the new, louder bass thump makes you flinch. Dean notices it, because of course he does.
“Too much?” He guesses. You can only nod, hoping that’s enough of an explanation to get him to drop it. He’s quiet for a minute, and you think that that’s it. “Be right back.” He promises, the door slamming shut behind him.
You exhale fully now that you’re finally alone. Trying to convince yourself that you’re safe. It’s just a party. There’s no danger. But the door opens again way too quickly, and Dean’s standing next to you, one hand with a joint and the other extending a dark blue, large pair of headphones.
“Put these on.” He offers, shaking them slightly for emphasis. It felt wrong to refuse someone trying to help, and you didn’t have the strength to argue. You grab the headphones, placing them over your ears.
Immediately, the world quieted slightly. You could still feel the bass of the music. But all the noise from the party fully faded. It was a subtle change, but somehow enough to bring much needed relief. And your expression probably showed that, because Dean was smiling down at you.
“I use those before my games. Help me block out distractions and shit.” He tells you, his voice much quieter through the headphones. As he continues to smoke, looking out across campus, you let your panic pass. Your body, as it always does, starts to calm down. In the moment, it always felt catastrophic. Like you were dying. And when it passed, it felt like you were dramatic for no reason.
Once you feel steady enough, you stand slowly. Dean is tall enough that you have to look up at him. When you take off the headphones, you hand them back with a hint of a smile.
“Those are expensive, okay? Be careful with ‘em.” He chides with a grin.
“Oh, no.” You deadpan, pretending to drop them. His reflexes are quick, his warm, large hands covering yours as he takes the headphones back. You flush again, not from anxiety this time, but from how nice it felt. And how good he looked. And that he bothered to do something nice.
“What’s your name, trouble?” He winks, seeming to like that he helped you relax. You tell him, and he repeats it a few times as if to commit it to his crossfaded memory.
“Thank you.” You say honestly, ready to make your way back inside before Britt really noticed you weren’t there.
“Anytime.” He replies in a way that makes you feel like he means it.
you get in trouble with dean, and the bedroom turns much less vanilla than usual.
warnings: MDNI, mean!dean, hard dom!dean, a lil bit of bdsm, dub con, oral fixations, hints of puppy play, dumbification, degradation, reader rides dean’s boot…, confused!reader is facing a moral dilemma
word count: 2.3k
a/n: whew!!! here it is! my first ever completed request!!! shoutout anon. this idea was so much fun,,, kinda sorta ran wild with it idk something came over me. lmk if u like it :) — berry
dean was a puck bunny magnet.
it didn’t matter where he was — class, the rink, malone’s, hell, even his own house. one was always just around the corner. batting their long pretty lashes at him. clawing at his biceps with their french manicures just to grab his attention.
to dean’s credit, he never gave in.
well– not since he met you.
you’d seen the performance a hundred times over. he’d flash them a practiced smile and a polite ‘thank you,’ before parting the crowd in search of something (or someone) actually worth his time.
your heart still turned a tinge sour every time. plagued by age old insecurities and infinite what ifs. usually, you swallowed all of those icky feelings down.
but tonight the girl begging for dean’s attention looks a little too much like you. the chatter of the party is a few notches too loud. and the beer you drank earlier is currently curdling in your stomach.
so tonight, you decide to try something new.
you scan the backyard, and lock eyes with your target.
reclined on a deck chair, he’s pretending to listen to beau’s teammate bitch about how fucking terrible their offensive line has been playing.
he’s got a half-drank bottle of miller high life dangling from his hand. the condensation of it is a steady drip, drip, drip onto his levis.
hunter davenport.
bingo.
you knew it was a fucking stupid idea. the kind of idea your brain only conjures up after taking a shot of room temperature tequila.
but just because you know what’s good for you doesn’t mean you turn your ass around.
no, dean deserves this, some deep dark part of you thinks. he deserves to know how shitty you feel every time you see a puck bunny feening for his attention.
you march up to hunter. plaster a bright a smile on your face, and convince yourself you’re making the right call. ignoring that rotten feeling in your gut screaming at you to find dean. it’s your body betraying you, you decide. you pull the trigger anyway.
“hunter! it’s so great to see you. you’re usually never at these things.”
you cringe at the truth hidden beneath your words. he’s usually not at these things because these things are at your boyfriend’s house off campus. your boyfriend who wishes hunter davenport was buried six-feet under. your boyfriend who stays up at night plotting how to do it himself.
you squeeze your eyelids shut, bracing for the retort you’re expecting to be slapped in the face with. some mean, cruel comment that hunter is somehow always armed with.
you pray for a portal to open up, and spit you out into an alien dimension where you have a shred of confidence.
you really thought you could flirt to hunter davenport. what a fucking stupid idea.
you’re about to raise the white flag, to be noble and walk away, when hunter’s face breaks out in a wide-toothed grin.
“hey, trouble.”
oh?
he flashes his canines at you, and you swear his teeth glimmer. his eyes trace the outline of your silhouette, figure accentuated by your mesh mini dress. his gaze lands on your breasts.
you look down. your nipples are pebbled from the cold air. standing at attention through the mesh fabric.
you’re quick to cross your arms and shield him from the view he thinks he’s so privy to. the view he sees as an invitation.
“i didn’t realize dean would let you off your leash with so many people around. must be my lucky day.”
oh. right.
this is why you didn’t talk to hunter davenport. he was a pretentious fucking asshole.
“i’m not–” you sputter at the comment.
“dean doesn’t.. i’m not on a leash," huffing, you set a hand on your hip.
you can see hunter wracking his brain for some quippy comeback. but the smug look is wiped clean off his face the second a shadow overtakes it.
you feel someone breathing down your neck, and a heavy arm wraps itself snugly against your middle.
dean.
“what the fuck is going on here, davenport? what are you playing at?” dean’s gaze is hard-set on hunter.
“dean, chill out. it's fi–” hunter is practically cowering under the weight of dean's stare.
“actually, no. y’know what? get the fuck out of my house. i’ll deal with you later.” dean’s voice is steady and cold. he doesn’t yell. he doesn't need to. he points to the back gate, and hunter has already left with his tail between his legs.
“upstairs. now.”
you don’t need to hear another word before you’re sprinting through the crowd of strangers.
your heart is beating in your throat. the lace trim of your dress is itchy on your skin as you take the stairs two steps at a time. you almost trip over the last one on your way up.
when you get to dean’s bedroom, you’re blurting out apologies before he even gets the chance to shut the door.
“i’m so so sorry, dean. i didn’t– didn’t think he’d be like that. i didn’t think it through, i swear,” you hiccup as you plead, throat tight and scratchy — straining just to get the words out.
“please, please don’t be mad.”
dean’s got that unimpressed look on his face. massive arms crossed cooly over his chest. his large frame kicked back with one boot against the door.
he looks so handsome tonight in a creamy white henley and faded jeans. the mean, unforgiving look in his eyes doesn’t suit him. it makes you burst into tears. this is all your fault.
“you’re un-fucking-believable, you know that? running off to fucking davenport in my house. didn’t realize you were such a little attention whore. can’t handle not having my eyes on you for two seconds, can you?”
a loud sob escapes you. you wanna scream and plead and promise him you want nothing to do with hunter. you were just being stupid.
but you keep your mouth shut and hang your head. try and convince yourself his words are empty. devoid of any real meaning. you’re jumping through hoops trying to tell yourself your boyfriend doesn’t think you’re a whore.
you sniffle and wipe at the flood of tears pouring from your bloodshot eyes. you look like a wreck, you’re sure of it.
maybe dean’s right. none of this would’ve happened if you’d just been good.
“i’m just so so sorry, dean. i just– i missed you. you were busy and i–”
he gives you an accusatory look that shuts you right up. he’s not interested in excuses right now, obviously.
you try again.
“i wanna make it better. please, let me make it better. i’ll do anything.”
his ears perk up at that. he cocks his head. “you’d do anything, huh?”
you nod furiously. it’s true. you’d do whatever he asked if it meant he’d stop looking at you like this. like you'd disappointed him.
“anything you want,” you promise.
dean’s toying with you. pretending to weigh his options. maybe he’ll granting you forgiveness. or maybe he’s planning how to make sure you regret ever going up to davenport in the first place.
he pushes his body off the door. walks a few steps over to the end on his bed and slowly lowers himself down. he sits and stares at you.
you’re standing in front of him, pulling at the mesh fabric of your dress. tracing the pretty cheetah print pattern of it. distracting yourself by thinking of a happier time — last weekend, when dean had bought you this dress at a boutique downtown. he'd chanted sweet nothings to you in the dressing room.
“crawl.”
“w–what?” your eyes pop open.
he’s got his hand beckoning you forward in a come hither motion. his legs are spread wide and you feel yourself start salivating at the bulge in his jeans.
“crawl to me.”
you weigh it in your brain.
you and dean definitely weren’t vanilla by any means. he was prone to settling a rough hand around your throat every now and then. slapping your ass in doggy. but you’d never delved into anything teetering on bdsm.
you decide dean knows best.
you gulp in anticipation, legs shaky as you lower yourself onto your knees.
it feels so primal, having his eyes on you as you bring yourself to all fours. a natural submission. feeling any sense of power slip through your fingers as the fibers of the rug eat at the skin on your palms. knees scraping against the fabric. your bones aching against the wooden floorboards.
you move toward him, and you see his hand slip under his waistband. lazily playing with his cock. and, god, you want it so bad.
the heady smell of him hits you when you arrive at his feet, eye-level with his crotch. it’s a woody musk mixed with the denim fabric of his jeans. you want to bury your face in it.
“sit.”
you immediately obey. panties completely soaked through. slippery arousal dripping down your thighs.
you’re wet.
the realization is a sucker punch. you pause. the anxious, flighty feeling bubbling up is like dark storm clouds over your head.
you like this.
maybe you shouldn’t.
you’re reeling. navigating the ocean of your brain a million thoughts per second. thinking that you’re dirty. that this is wrong. thinking why the fuck do you like being treated this?
and the worst one of all — oh god. dean’s really going to think you’re a whore now.
“hey, where’d you go baby?” dean’s voice is so soft and shaky it makes your guts tangle into something poisonous. he’s touching your face so lightly, dragging his thumb up and down your jaw.
“you need to stop? shit. baby, i shouldn’t have pushed you that hard.”
if it weren’t for the panic attack you were on the brink of, you would’ve laughed.
“no, no, dean i–” you take a deep breath in and muster up the courage. “i don’t– i don’t think the punishment is working.”
“god, baby, i’m so sorry. had a feeling that was too far. smack the shit out of me next time i–”
“dean, i–,” you sigh. “you don’t understand. i liked it.”
god, what were you even saying? how are you supposed to tell your boyrfiend that you like being punished. that you like it when he’s mean to you.
“sorry, what?” dean stops in his tracks.
fuck it.
“i think i like it when you.. um– get mean? how terrible is that. god, you probably think i’m disg–”
“oh, baby.”
he lifts your chin up. looks deep into your eyes.
you hope he doesn’t see the deep rooted humiliation you feel.
no, it seems like he doesn’t. or maybe he’s putting it to the side for now. because he’d got this fond look in his eye. readjusting himself to lean in closer to you, pressing a kiss against your forehead.
you preen at that, nuzzling your head further into his hand.
“my girl likes being roughed up a little? likes being on her knees for me?” his thumb forces its way into your mouth and you latch on. swirling your tongue around the digit instinctively.
“jesus, baby, you’re so fucking hot. just wanna be told what to do, yeah? c’mon then, baby. show me how bad you want me.”
you hear his boot tap against the floorboards, and look down at the laces swinging side to side.
“c'mon. be a good girl for me, baby,” he coaxes. it’s a warm invitation. one you really can’t refuse. you lick your lips at the thought of it.
taking a shaky breath, you lift your hips, and he’s quick to fill in the gap with his boot. you carefully settle yourself down onto it. wince at the feel of the hard leather against your heat. it’s so much pressure so quickly. it has your pussy throbbing against the laces as you start grinding against it.
“oh fuck– dean,” you choke out, grasping at his jeans and twisting the denim fabric in your fist. trying to ground yourself.
he leans back with a smirk on his face.
“ride out your feelings for me, angel. show me what a good puppy you can be.”
you suppose you asked for this. and god it feels so fucking good, riding his boot with his hand tangled up in your hair. your clit snagging between the laces. pussy juices leaking onto the leather. it'll probably fucking stain.
dean’s always been a dirty talker. and you’re lucky it drowns out that little voice inside your head telling you how wrong people would think this is.
“you wanted to be my puppy this whole time, didn’t you? just needed a little guidance, babydoll. fuck– keep rolling your hips like that. make a fucking mess on me, pup. i’ve gotcha.”
you know you’ve never been this wet before. then dean starts bouncing his leg up and down, and a white hot heat burns in you as the leather vibrates against your core. the coil in your tummy is about to snap.
“dean– can’t. i’m gonna, fuck– dean!” you squeal, pain searing deep in your bones and throttling you headfirst into an orgasm.
a soft command, let go f’me, puppy, is all you need before you’re squirting all over the black leather of his boot. body convulsing and pretty tears welling up in your eyes.
“you’re such a good girl,” he coos, lightly tapping your damp cheek. “you liked that? making a mess on me?”
you nod dumbly, still grinding out the aftershocks.
“since you liked it so much, you can clean it up too.”
he raises a brow, daring you. seeing just how far you’ll push yourself for him.
if he only knew.
you inch yourself backwards. arch your back till your ass is wagging in the air, and you’re eye level with your slick pooling on his boot.
it doesn’t take long before you’re practically making out with it. tongue threading between the laces.
it’s so mindless and oh so fucking hot. you can’t help yourself when you reach down, pushing your panties to the side and rub circles on your raw clit.
it’s heaven, until you feel the sharp sting of dean smacking your ass and you pout, pulling your hand away from your core.
“did i say you could play with yourself, pup? maybe davenport was right. should keep you on a fucking leash next time.”
⋆˙⟡ BSF!DEAN OFFERING TO HELP YOU OUT AFTER HE FOUND OUT YOU WERE A VIRGIN ꣑ৎ ( nsfw )
“Wait, are you..?” Dean trailed off, sitting up from where he was laid out on the couch. He invited you over for a movie night, claiming he hadn’t seen you in soooo long and you needed to hang out with him again.
Totally unrelated, all of his roommates were at their girlfriends’ places for the night.
You felt your cheeks warm, the thought of verbally admitting you’d never actually had sex far too embarrassing. It wasn’t like you didn’t want to, it had just never happened naturally.
Guys had tried, but it always felt like a bad idea. Like you would regret it after, wishing you’d just taken care of yourself at home.
It wasn’t a religious thing, you weren’t saving yourself for marriage. You just didn’t want to regret it. You only wanted to do it if you were 100% sure and that hadn’t happened yet.
“Well, I mean I haven’t like—” you trailed off, feeling a pit in your stomach. “I’ve done stuff.”
One of his eyebrows popped up, his ridiculously large smile terribly hidden. “Look, I’m not judging. I’m just... Surprised?” his eyes flickered over your body and back up to your eyes. “You’re like, objectively hot.”
You rolled your eyes, feeling the knot in your stomach turn to heat. “It’s not like there haven’t been opportunities, jackass. I just don’t want some disgusting douchebag to be my first.”
Dean noticed the way you were fidgeting with your sleeves, avoiding eye contact with him. He felt bad for making you feel uncomfortable but he was genuinely in disbelief.
“Is it like... You want it to be special?” his voice came out softer than before, the humor in it almost entirely gone.
Shaking your head, you told him the truth you’d kept to yourself for years, “No, it’s just—every time I tried, it was like either the guy was gross, or he literally saw me as a fucking fleshlight, or he was trying to do crazy shit, and I’m just scared,” you laughed in self-pity, “I know it’ll probably hurt, and I just want to trust whoever I’m fucking to not hurt me. But that’s not a hook-up thing, and I’m not in a relationship, so...”
There was a long silence between you, the only sound in the house coming from the tv playing whatever comedy movie Dean put on when you first got there.
Dean chuckled to himself a little, “What if... I helped you out?”
You knew Dean was a horny guy, but you wouldn’t in a million years expect him to try to fuck you.
The offer literally had you speechless.
“Look, I don’t mean it in a weird way, okay? But I mean, you know I know my way around a woman. And you can trust me. It’s an exchange between friends, nothing crazy.”
You were starting to consider it, his stupid explanations actually sounding somewhat reasonable.
“What exactly is the exchange? What are you getting out of it?” You weren’t planning on selling your body when you agreed to coming over.
His typical smirk flashed across his face as he replied, “I get to have sex with a girl and not feel like I’m being used as a dildo.”
You snickered, “actually, I think it’s the opposite. I’m literally just using you for your dick.”
“Potato, puhtahto,” he shrugged.
“I thought it was ‘tomato, tomahto’?”
He rolled his eyes, leaning so close to your face that you could feel his minty breath on your lips. “Do you want me to fuck you or not?”
Squinting your eyes at him, you nodded, “Yeah. You promise it won’t make things weird between us?”
“Pinky,” he stuck his pinky up to you, waiting for you to finish it.
The second your pinky laced with his, his mouth was on yours. He let you start kissing back before he progressed, his hand finding it’s place on your neck. “C’mon, my room,” he mumbled against your lips, pulling away.
You followed him up the stairs, biting your tongue to not make a joke about how you’re special because you get his bed.
But the closer you got to his room, the more nervous you got. Your mind was racing with a thousand issues that could come from this, yet you didn’t want to stop.
The click of the door shutting made it feel impossibly real, the realization that you would never look at his room the same after today invading your brain.
“Stop overthinking it,” Dean spoke, his body so close to yours you were sure you could feel the warmth radiating off of him.
“I’m trying,” you whispered, leaning forward just an inch, closing the gap between you. “Kiss me.”
You didn’t have to tell Dean twice.
His lips met yours in a heated kiss, the intensity of it compared to the one downstairs throwing you for a loop. His tongue was in your mouth, yours in his, and his fingers were brushing the skin underneath your waistband.
“Are you sure? Hundred percent?” he asked, pulling back enough to look you in the eyes.
“I’m sure.”
The second the words came out of your mouth, he pulled you closer by your waist, walking you backward until his legs hit the bed and you fell on top of him.
His hands slid up your shirt, the warmth of his fingers against your cool skin giving you goosebumps. “Can I take this off?” he asked, bunching up your shirt in his hands.
“Mhm,” you nodded, putting your arms up to help him pull it off.
You thanked whatever made you choose to wear cute underwear today, because you weren’t originally planning on anyone seeing it, yet here you were.
He leaned forward, leaving open-mouthed kisses all over your bare skin. His hands were steady on your hips, pulling you down to grind against him while he worked his mouth on you.
Your hands rested on his shoulders, suddenly thankful for his aversion to wearing a shirt around the house.
You felt his right hand find your bra clasp, a moment of hesitation in him before he unclipped it. “Okay?”
“I’ll tell you if it’s not.”
He rolled his eyes as he pressed another kiss to your neck, this one getting a little bit of extra attention.
The loose bra straps fell forward, exposing your entire chest. Your nipples perked up at the sudden cold air, hardening within seconds. “Jesus, dude, you’re fucking gorgeous.”
“Is calling me ‘dude’ your way of keeping this friendly?”
He scoffed, throwing your bra on the floor. “No…”
“You’re so weird,” you laughed, “Just, act like you normally would.”
Nodding, he spoke in his low voice, “I can do that.” Then he flipped you over on your back, hovering over you while his lips dragged kisses down your body. “Ever been eaten out before?”
You squeaked when your back hit the mattress, pulling a giggle from your chest as he moved his way down. “Nope, only ever been asked to give head, never to get it.”
“Well, we’re changing that today. Ain’t that right?” he whispered as he pulled your pants off, his warm breath fanning over your barely clothed pussy. “Y’want that?”
You whimpered a pathetic, “mhm,” and nodded, your hole clenching around nothing as he kissed right beside where you needed him.
His fingers dipped in your waistband, pulling it down your legs tantalizingly slow. The anticipation was killing you, your heart beating out of your chest.
He ran his hands up and down your thighs soothingly as he spread you open, his eyes focusing solely on your pussy. You started feeling self-conscious by how long he was staring, trying to close your legs and quit this while you could, but he held you open.
“So wet for me,” he muttered as two of his fingers slid between your folds, gently pressing against your entrance without slipping in. “So fucking pretty.”
“Dean,” you groaned, “Are you gonna do something, or not?”
He clicked his tongue, “Sorry, sweetheart. I’m just admiring the view.”
“Mhm,” you sassed.
“Have you ever been fingered?”
Fighting the urge to roll your eyes, you tell him, “Yes. Plus my own. A lot.”
His grin widened but he didn’t press on it further, he could always do that later. His tongue darted out, licking a stripe up your folds to get a first taste.
Moaning against you, his constant lapping at your cunt was a feeling you’d never expected to be so good. He wasn’t slowing down, either. Licking, sucking, at one point you even felt his teeth gently scrape against your clit—the feeling oddly good.
You were writhing under him, your back arching off the bed until one of his hands came to press you flat. The other started teasing your hole with just one finger, easily slipping in and out.
Just as he hit a specific spot inside you, his mouth came up to suck harshly on your clit. Your legs shook, almost missing when he added his other finger.
“Fuck, Dean. How are you so—” you cut yourself off with a loud moan, slapping your hand over your mouth.
He pulled away—without stopping his fingers—just enough to look you in the eye and say, “Don’t quiet yourself. Nobody’s home, and I want to hear how good I’m making you feel.”
“Okay. Okay. Jesus fuck,” you whined as a third finger slipped in your soaking cunt, stretching you out.
His fingers were longer and thicker than yours, more skilled than anyone else that’d fingered you before. They were sloppy and lazy and you had to practically teach them basic anatomy.
Dean was already amazing at it.
A tight knot was forming in your core, the familiar feeling of an orgasm building up as Dean relentlessly finger fucked you. “Dean,” you breathed, your fingers finding and gripping his messy blonde hair. “I’m gonna—”
“Uh-huh,” Dean hummed as he licked you through your orgasm, his other hand gripping your shaky thighs.
You gasped a deep breath when he finally let up, trying to direct oxygen back into your brain. “Holy shit, what is wrong with you?” you laughed, throwing your arm over your eyes as Dean sat up, towering over you.
“What?” his lips twitching up like he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to laugh or not, “I just gave you the best orgasm of your life and—”
“Says who?”
“Are you saying it wasn’t?”
Your eyes darted to the other side of the room before you replied, “Can you just—”
“You haven’t said a full sentence since I put my mouth on you,” he scoffed, the playful fire in his eyes telling you he wasn’t going to drop this. “Admit it. Admit that was the best orgasm of your life and I’ll fuck you without another word.”
“Want me to scream it out the window too?” you asked, deflecting as long as you could.
He shrugged, a cocky look on his face as he mumbled, “Eh, it wouldn’t hurt.”
Ignoring him, you leaned up, your face lining right up with his very obvious bulge. Your fingers gripped on his waistband, slowly sliding it off to reveal his lack of boxers.
A quiet giggle bubbled out of your chest before you could stop it. “Really? No shirt and no underwear?”
“Dude,” he groaned, ignoring you to finish taking his pants off. “It’s convenient.”
“Were you planning on sticking your dick in me?”
“No! Oh my god. For peeing. It’s convenient for peeing. Get your mind out of the gutter.”
You rolled your eyes, laying on your back. “Okay, I’m ready.”
You could hear him sighing and shuffling around before his huge body was hovering over yours, one of his arms down and rolling a condom onto his already fully-erect dick. “Are you still—”
“Oh my god, Dean. Yes. Please.”
He nodded, lining up his tip with your aching hole. “Y’gotta relax for me. It’ll feel better if you do, okay?”
Nodding, you tried to let your muscles slacken. His lips were back on yours, a deep and controlled kiss that almost distracted you from the stretch of his cock sliding into you.
“Oh, fucking shit,” you strangled out, feeling a mix of pain and pleasure as Dean stilled. You took a deep breath and grabbed onto his biceps, “Okay. Keep going.”
He smirked, biting his lip as he slowly pushed himself further in.
His head fell to your shoulder, pressing his lips to your neck. But this time wasn’t a distraction for you. He needed something to focus on so he didn’t slam himself to the hilt.
Your moans were urging him on, your nails digging into various parts of his upper body. He stopped once he was fully in, feeling the need to check in again. “Does it hurt?”
Shaking your head, you whispered, “Just a little. But a good kind of hurt. I’m okay, really.”
The words seemed to comfort him, his back muscles loosening just a little. “Tell me when you’re ready for me to move.”
He was still pressing small kisses along your neck, eventually moving to your lips for a deeper, messier kiss. Your hand found the nape of his neck, pulling him closer against you.
You whispered against his lips, “I’m ready.”
You could feel him smile against your mouth, his hips starting to back up and come back down. His pace started slow, the pain turning into pleasure as his thick cock rammed into you.
“Fuck. Faster,” you panted, Dean’s actions quickly reflecting your words. He was still holding back, still being gentle, but giving you what you wanted.
His hips snapped back and forth, bringing that very familiar feeling back to your stomach. Dean was back to sucking on your neck, feeling his own orgasm start to build up.
Without warning, his hand slid between your sweaty bodies to rub circles on your clit. That tight knot in your core was already coming undone, your entire body squirming from the pleasure of your release.
“Fuck, I’m gonna...” Dean trailed off as you felt his warm cum fill the condom inside you, riding you through your orgasm.
He pulled out slowly once you’d finished, pressing a small kiss to your lips to distract you from the sensitivity of him sliding out.
Your chest was rising and falling quickly, still trying to catch up to the current moment. “Wow,” you breathed, feeling Dean’s heavy body drop beside yours after he took care of the condom.
“Still don’t wanna admit it’s the best orgasm you’ve ever had?”
You scoffed, throwing your arm over his bare chest. “You already know it is, you don’t need that extra ego boost.”
His laugh carried throughout the room, “Yeah, that’s probably true.” You shut your eyes, letting yourself breath for a minute before you went and washed up.
“So... Just to be clear... You don’t regret it, right?”
You shook your head. “No. That was actually really good. I’m glad I waited.”
Hearing his tongue click again, you turned your head to face him. “Y’wanna try shower sex next?”
masterlist
note ᥫ᭡.ִֶָ𓂃 i feel like i’m so bad at ending smut cuz it’s so awkward but like wtv 😣 i kinda just realized the request never straight up said that they do it so i’m hoping that’s what they wanted LMAO also ts is not proofread my head hurts so fricking bad rn i cannot be bothered 😪
Warnings: past family trauma, depictions of anger/loss of control, trauma response, mentions abuse, this fic is pretty intense ngl
Summary: Garrett Graham notices everything about you - including the things you never meant for him to see. When the pressure of the semester finally breaks him open, one moment is enough to change everything, and neither of you knows how to come back from it.
Author's Note: Writing fics where they mention John Logan is lowkey weird because I just keep referring to him as Logan and not John and that is just how it's gonna go. Anyways, new angsty hockey boy in the houseeeee. This one is highkey intense. Hope you angst craving weenies (like myself) enjoy!
The thing about Garrett Graham is that he pays attention.
People assume he doesn't, assume that the cocky grin and the easy confidence mean there's nothing running underneath, that he moves through rooms the way he moves through a crowd: loud, certain, taking up space. His teammates assume it. His professors definitely assume it. Even Hannah assumed it, once, before she knew him better.
But you figure it out early.
You figure it out the first time he shows up at your apartment door in October with coffee. Yours, specifically, the order you'd said out loud exactly once during a group hangout where there were six other people talking over you, and just sets it on the counter while he unpacks his calc notes like it's nothing.
"How did you even—"
"You said it last week," he says, not looking up. "At the Sig house thing."
Hannah is watching from the kitchen doorway with an expression you can only describe as I told you so, and you think: okay. Okay. So that's how it is.
It's how it is.
You've been dating since early September. Three weeks after Hannah dragged you to her tutoring session because her car was in the shop and she didn't want to go alone, and Garrett showed up ten minutes late with his hair still damp from practice and made fun of her notes and somehow that turned into all three of you getting food after, and then somehow that turned into him texting you at midnight about a meme he saw that reminded him of something you said, and then somehow that turned into this.
Two months in. Still new enough that sometimes you catch him looking at you like he's surprised you're real. New enough that you still get a little breathless when he reaches for your hand in public, casual, like it's nothing, like you haven't spent most of your life around people who treat softness like a liability.
But new enough that there are still questions neither of you has asked yet.
The first time he notices, really notices, is at a home game in mid-October.
You're in the student section with Hannah and Allie, squeezed in close because the rink is packed and everyone is loud and happy and drunk on the particular electricity of a team. You've got Garrett's number on your back - a fact that made him smile so wide it looked like it hurt when he saw you in the tunnel before warm-ups - and you're holding your plastic cup of terrible beer and watching the ice.
Logan scores in the second period and the section erupts.
You flinch.
It's barely anything. It's the kind of flinch most people wouldn't even register. A quick tightening of the shoulders, a slight lean away from the noise.
Garrett is on the bench when it happens, but he looks up into the crowd the way he always does, scanning for you without meaning to, and he sees it. He sees the way your body moves before you catch yourself.
He doesn't say anything.
He files it away.
It happens again at the post-game party.
Dean cranks the music up without warning and someone behind you lets out a whoop right next to your ear and your whole body jerks. Just for a second, just a small intake of breath and a slight step sideways, away from the sound. You recover instantly. You smile at whatever Hannah is saying and nobody else even blinks.
But Garrett is watching you from across the room with a red cup halfway to his mouth and something tight forming behind his eyes.
He doesn't bring it up.
He thinks about it all night.
He thinks about it lying next to you afterward when the party has thinned out and you've ended up back at his place, half-asleep in his bed, your breathing slow and even against his shoulder.
He decides not to push. He decides to wait until you're ready.
He also decides that from now on, he's going to notice. Really notice. Keep cataloguing the small things the way he catalogues play patterns on the ice: quietly, carefully, building a picture.
The way you scrunch your nose after a shot.
The way you twist a strand of hair around your finger when you're anxious.
The way you go a little still when someone raises their voice, even in laughter.
He notices everything. He keeps all of it.
---
It's a Wednesday night in late October when you finally say it.
You're both in his bed, the lamp on the nightstand casting everything amber. You're on your stomach, his shirt barely covering you, scrolling through your phone with the kind of boneless satisfaction that follows a very good hour. Garrett is on his back, one arm behind his head, the other resting warm across the small of your back.
"Okay but Dean," you say, without looking up.
Garrett laughs - the real one, low and easy. "I know."
"He threw the cup."
"He didn't throw it, it slipped—"
"He launched it, Garrett. There was arc. There was follow-through."
"He was drunk and it was plastic and it went like four feet—"
"The point is the energy," you say. "The point is that he was losing at a drinking game and decided the appropriate response was to throw something."
Garrett is still laughing. "He was fine. He wasn't even actually mad."
"He was a little mad."
"He was a little drunk."
"Both," you say. "Both can be true."
He concedes that with a hum. His thumb moves, absently, back and forth across the small of your back.
You look at your phone. Scroll without reading anything.
"My dad used to throw shit when he got mad," you say.
You say it casually. The way you might say I had a weird dream or I think we're out of coffee. Like it's a small fact, a footnote, something that doesn't require a particular response.
Garrett goes very still.
"Throw shit," he says, slowly.
"Like. Plates sometimes. His keys. Whatever was near him." You don't look up from your phone. Your voice is even. "He had this temper. Not - it wasn't like he was scary all the time. Just when he got really wound up."
Silence.
"At you?" Garrett asks.
There is a pause.
It lasts about three seconds longer than it should.
You don't answer.
Garrett feels something cold settle in his chest. He looks at the side of your face - the way you're looking at your phone but not really looking at it, the slight tension in your jaw, the careful way you're holding yourself.
"Y/N."
"I'm fine," you say. "It was a long time ago."
He doesn't push. He is very, very good at knowing when not to push.
But he moves his hand on your back. Slowly, deliberately, just pressing warm and steady there, and you exhale.
"I know," he says quietly.
He doesn't say: that's fucked up. He doesn't say: I'm sorry. He doesn't perform anything. He just keeps his hand on your back and stays.
Later, after you've fallen asleep, he lies awake for a long time.
He thinks about the flinching.
He thinks about the way your body knows things before your brain admits them.
He thinks about you, small and too young, in a room with someone who threw things.
He doesn't sleep well.
---
November comes in cold and relentless.
The thing about the back half of the semester is that it doesn't ask nicely, it just arrives. The midterms and the papers and the looming weight of finals building on the horizon, plus practice ramping up because playoffs aren't that far off and Coach is running them into the ground trying to get the power play where it needs to be. Plus Garrett's dad has been calling more, which always means something, and that something is never good.
Garrett doesn't talk about his dad. Not really. Not to most people.
He talks to John Logan sometimes. Late nights, half a beer in, when the walls come down a little. But to you, he hasn't gone there yet. There's a part of him that doesn't want to. That wants to be the version of himself he is with you: the guy who brings you coffee because he remembered your order, the guy who makes you laugh, the guy who holds you steady.
He's not sure he can be that and also this. This thing that gets wound tight and snaps at Logan and stares at his phone for ten minutes after his dad's number lights up without answering.
He compartmentalizes. He's always been good at it.
But you notice.
You've been noticing for three weeks.
The way he's quieter after practice. The way the easy grin doesn't come as fast. The way he laughed at your joke last Tuesday but the laugh didn't reach his eyes.
You don't say anything at first. You give him room. You show up and make yourself comfortable in his space the way you always do, and you don't ask, because you know what it feels like to not want to be asked.
But it gets worse.
By the second week of November, it's bad enough that Logan is making faces at you behind Garrett's back, the universal sign for I don't know what's going on either but something is.
And then there's the Thursday night.
You're at the hockey house when he comes back from practice. You've been there for an hour doing readings at his kitchen table and patiently waiting for him to come home.
He comes in at nine-thirty, and you know from the sound of the door that it's bad.
"Hey," you say, not looking up immediately. Testing the temperature.
"Hey." Flat.
You look up then. He's dropping his bag, his jaw set, not looking at you. There's a bruise forming along his cheekbone from whatever happened on the ice. He moves to the fridge, grabs a water, drinks half of it standing over the sink.
"Rough practice?"
"I'm fine."
You go back to your reading.
Thirty seconds pass.
"You don't have to stay," he says. Still not looking at you.
You put your pen down.
"I know I don't have to."
"I just- I'm not good company right now."
"That's okay. I'm not here for company. I'm here because I want to be here."
He doesn't respond to that. He refills his water and moves to the couch and picks up his phone, and you can see from across the room that he's not actually looking at anything on it. He's just holding it. Staring at the screen.
You give it ten minutes. You try to read. You get through one paragraph three times without absorbing any of it.
"Garrett."
"I'm fine."
"You keep saying that."
"Because I am."
"You're not. You've been somewhere else for three weeks and I've been trying to give you space but-"
"Y/N." His voice has an edge to it. "I said I'm fine."
Something sharpens in you. Not anger, exactly, more like a refusal. A refusal to be managed.
"You're shutting me out," you say, and your voice comes out steadier than you feel. "I'm your girlfriend. I'm sitting right here. You can talk to me."
"There's nothing to talk about."
"That's not-" You close your textbook. "That's not true and we both know it. Your dad's been calling. Playoffs are coming. You're running on no sleep and you're carrying all of it alone and I'm right here and you just keep-"
"I don't need you to fix it."
"I'm not trying to fix it! I'm trying to be here-"
"You being here doesn't actually help." He says it fast, like he didn't mean to say it, but it's out now.
The room goes quiet.
You stare at him.
He's sitting on the couch with his phone in his hand and his jaw tight and there's something in his expression that's half anger and half guilt, and for a moment neither of you moves.
"Okay," you say, quietly. "That was a shitty thing to say."
"Y/N-"
"No, I know you didn't mean it like that, but it came out like that and it landed like that and I'm telling you, that was-"
"I know." His voice is rough. "I know. I'm sorry."
"I don't want an apology, I want you to talk to me-"
"I can't." It comes out frustrated, strangled. "I can't right now, I don't - I can't do the whole talking thing right now, I just need-"
"What? What do you need? Because I keep trying to figure that out and you won't let me close enough to-"
"I need you to stop pushing!" His voice rises sharply. "Jesus Christ, Y/N, I said I'm fine, I said I need a minute, why can't you just-"
"Because you're not fine and someone has to say it—"
"WOULD YOU JUST-"
The sound is very loud in the small room.
There is the crack of something hard against something hard, his phone, face-down onto the coffee table. Not thrown, just slammed. One sharp motion.
The room goes silent so fast it feels like a held breath.
Garrett breathes.
The room breathes.
He turns back to you.
And sees it.
The flinch.
Not dramatic. Not a cowering, not a cry. Just your body doing what your body learned to do, sometime between the first time a door slammed and the first time something broke near your feet on a kitchen floor. Your shoulders up. Your chin down. Your weight shifted back, one small step, heel finding the floor behind you.
Your face.
He will never, for the rest of his life, forget your face in that moment.
It is not scared of him, exactly. It is something worse. It is a face that has already run the calculation. Already moved through the sequence. Already folded itself into something smaller, something unthreatening, something that does not make the moment worse.
It is the face of someone who has done this before.
It is automatic. It is not about him. And somehow that makes it worse.
Because it doesn't matter that it's not about him. It doesn't matter that you already know, intellectually, in the three seconds it takes you to recover, already straightening, already blinking, already pulling yourself back up to full height, that he is not your father. That he is not that.
It doesn't matter.
Because he still did it.
And your body still knew what to do.
The silence that follows is the loudest thing Garrett has ever heard.
He doesn't move.
He is standing with his hands at his sides now, not touching anything, not doing anything, and he is staring at you with an expression that is very pale and very still and completely hollow.
You are looking back at him. You have straightened. Your arms are at your sides. You are breathing.
Neither of you speaks.
Garrett's eyes drop to the phone on the table. Then back to you.
"I—" he starts.
His voice breaks.
He steps back. Away from you, putting space between you and him like that's the thing that matters right now.
His throat moves.
"I'm sorry," he says. It is very quiet.
You open your mouth.
"Y/N, I am so-" He stops. Swallows. "I am so sorry. I shouldn't have - I didn't - I'm not going to-" He runs a hand over his face, pressing hard. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
"Garrett-"
"You should go." He says it without looking at you. "Please."
"I don't think that-"
"Please." His voice cracks on the word. "Please."
You look at him for a long moment.
He is looking at the floor. His hands are at his sides. He looks like something is eating him from the inside, quietly, with his permission.
You pick up your bag, your jacket, and let yourself out.
The door closes behind you.
The house is very still.
Garrett stands in the middle of it for a long time.
---
Logan finds him at eleven-thirty.
He comes back from a late night repair job to the house being dark except for the kitchen light, and Garrett is sitting on the couch with an open beer bottle, not drinking, just holding it. Staring at the middle distance.
He stops in the doorway.
"Hey," he says carefully.
Garrett doesn't respond.
Logan takes off his jacket. Gets a glass of water. Sits on the other end of the couch, leaving space.
Five minutes pass.
"She looked scared of me," Garrett says.
His voice is flat. Empty. Like he's reported something from very far away.
Logan is quiet for a second. "What happened?"
"I lost it." Garrett sets the bottle down on the coffee table, right next to the phone he'd slammed there earlier. "I was frustrated and she kept pushing and I just- I slammed my phone down. And I yelled. And she-" He breathes. "She flinched."
Logan says nothing.
"You yelled," he says, after a moment. "You were pissed. You slammed something down. That's - look, that's not great, but it's not-"
"That's not the fucking point." Garrett's jaw tightens. "That's not - Logan, her dad-" He stops himself. That's not his to say. He shakes his head. "She has a thing. About loud-"
"You didn't know you were going to do it."
"That doesn't matter."
"Garrett-"
"It doesn't matter." He finally looks at his friend, and his eyes are red-rimmed. "I don't get to say I didn't mean to and have that fix it. I did it. It happened. She was standing in my house and she flinched because of me and there's no-" He exhales roughly. "There's no walking that back."
Logan sits with that.
"You're not him," he says, eventually.
Garrett looks away.
"I did the same thing."
"You didn't hurt her."
"I scared her." He says it quietly. "That's enough..."
He was so tired. Tired of himself right now.
"I love her," Garrett says.
"I know," Logan says.
"I don't know what to do with that right now."
Logan doesn't answer, because sometimes there isn't an answer, and Logan is smart enough to know which moments those are.
---
You, meanwhile, are not wallowing.
You are sitting on the edge of Hannah's bed at midnight, and you are furious.
Not at Garrett. Or, not only at Garrett.
That's the complicated part. That's the part that would take a therapist and probably a lot of time to fully untangle, and right now you don't have either, so instead you have your knees pulled up to your chest and Hannah sitting across from you cross-legged and patient besides Allie, because they both know you well enough to wait.
"He scared me," you say.
"I know."
"For like two seconds. I knew it wasn't - I knew it was different, I knew he wasn't going to-" You make a frustrated gesture. "But my body didn't get the memo. And then I looked at his face and I felt guilty-"
"You don't get to feel guilty for-"
"I know that, Allie, I know that, I'm not saying it's rational." You press your fingers against your eyes. "I'm saying that's what happened. I looked at his face and he already looked gutted and I thought oh god, now I've done that to him and that is so fucked up."
"It's not fucked up."
"It is a little bit."
"It's complicated."
You all sit with that for a moment.
"He's going to spiral," you say.
"You don't know that."
"Hannah. You know him. He's going to spiral."
She doesn't argue.
"And then what?" you continue. "He gets to have the breakdown and I get to feel like the reason for it and none of this is-" You stop. Breathe. "I wasn't made of glass before tonight. I'm not made of glass now. I hate the idea that this is the thing that defines the whole-"
You stop again.
You think about the coffee order. The way he remembered.
You think about the nights he made you feel like the most noticed person in the world.
You think about the flinch, and the look on his face afterward.
You're angry. You're scared. You're exhausted. You're grieving something that isn't quite gone yet but that you can feel shifting.
You don't know.
And not knowing is the part that is actually, genuinely unbearable.
---
Two days pass.
They are the worst kind of days. You go to class. You do your readings. You text Hannah and Allie too much and your phone is quiet otherwise and you don't let yourself check it more than twice an hour, which still feels like too much.
Garrett texts once, on day two.
I'm sorry. I know that doesn't fix it. I'm sorry.
You read it six times and don't respond, not because you don't want to, but because you don't know what to say.
On day three, Allie appears in your doorway and says, "We're going to Malone's," with a tone that doesn't accept alternatives.
You go because the walls of your room have started to feel like they're listening.
Malone's on a Friday is comfortable and loud in the way of a place that has hosted a thousand Friday nights, worn into its own shape by it. You slide into a corner booth with Hannah and Allie and order a beer you're not sure you want and try to be present, which mostly works. Hannah doesn't mention Garrett. Allie mentions him once and gets a look from Hannah and drops it. You talk about Allie's audition nightmare and Hannah's research paper and the fact that the dining hall has been inexplicably serving breakfast food at dinner three times this week, and it's almost normal.
Almost.
You see him when he comes in.
Garrett, with Dean and Tucker, half-past nine. He doesn't see you immediately. He's saying something to Dean, nodding toward the bar, and you have about six seconds to decide what to do with your face.
You decide: nothing. Neutral. You're not going to perform anything.
Hannah has seen him too. Her hand finds your knee under the table. Brief. You okay?
You nod.
He spots you on the way to the bar.
The moment is small and enormous. He goes still for just a second, a slight check-step, and then he keeps moving, but his eyes stay on you for a beat longer than is casual. You hold his gaze. You don't look away.
He looks like he hasn't slept.
He looks like he's been carrying something very heavy for three days, which tracks, because you know him well enough now to know that he carries things heavily.
Dean notices the exchange. He steers Garrett toward the bar and away from your line of sight.
You turn back to Allie's story.
An hour passes.
It's Garrett who ends up outside first. You see him slip toward the door, shoulders tight, probably needing air or a moment or both. You give it three minutes and then you look at Hannah.
"I'm going to go talk to him."
Hannah holds your eyes. "You don't have to."
"I know."
"You're allowed to be angry."
"I know that too."
You slide out of the booth.
He's standing at the side of the building, away from the small cluster of smokers near the door. His hands are in his jacket pockets and he's looking at the street, and you watch him for a second before he hears your footsteps and turns.
His face does the thing - the opening, the complicated hope - and then goes careful. Reining something in.
"Hey," he says.
"Hey."
You stop a few feet away. Not the distance of strangers, not the distance of people who have slept tangled together for two months. Somewhere in the middle.
"How are you?" he asks.
"I've been better." You look at him. "You?"
He lets out a breath that might, in another version of this conversation, have been a laugh. "Yeah."
Silence. The street hums. Someone comes out of Malone's and moves past you and the door swings shut again.
"I'm angry," you say, because you decided on the way out here that you weren't going to start anywhere else.
"Okay." He says it carefully.
"Not- it's not a simple anger. It's not just at you." You watch his face. "I'm angry because you scared me. I'm angry because my body did that stupid thing and I hate it. I'm angry because-" You stop. Breathe. "Because you get to spiral about this and I'm the one managing my trauma response and worrying about you at the same time and that's a lot to be in charge of."
His jaw moves. "I know. You shouldn't have to-"
"I know I shouldn't. I'm telling you how it felt, not asking you to fix it."
He nods. He's looking at you very carefully, like he's translating, making sure he hears the right thing.
"I've been thinking," he says, after a moment.
"Tell me."
He looks away. Down the street, at nothing. His jaw works.
"I've been thinking that - I saw your face." His voice is rough. "That night. After I... You stepped back and I saw your face and I can't-" He stops. Swallows. "I know why. I know what that look means and what you learned to do with that look and the fact that I made you do it, that I was the reason-"
"Garrett-"
"Let me say it." He looks at you. "Please."
You go quiet.
"If I can do it once," he says, "I can do it again."
The words land like stones in water.
You watch him.
"That's not-" you start.
"It is." His voice is very flat. Not performative. Just... certain. Like he's made up his mind about something and he's telling you the result. "That's just- that's what it means, Y/N. I have his temper. I've always known I have his temper. I thought I had it controlled but I didn't, and if I couldn't keep it then, when things got bad-" He breathes. "What happens when things get worse? What happens in two years, five years, when there are more things to be bad? What happens the first time something really falls apart and you're standing in front of me and I-"
"Stop."
"-I can't make that promise. I can't look you in the eye and say that won't happen again-"
"Stop." Your voice is harder now. "Stop narrating my future for me."
He goes quiet.
"I'm not a child," you say. "I get to decide what I can and can't handle."
"That's not-"
"You doing this, deciding for me what's too much, deciding I'm too breakable, deciding that you get to make the call about what I walk away from, that's not protection. That's just a different way of taking away my choice."
He looks stricken.
"I know what my dad was," you say, very quietly. "I know what it looks like when it's bad. I've been in a room where bad was the whole atmosphere. That's not-" You gesture, frustrated. "What happened was not that."
"It could be-"
"Stop." You step closer, close enough that you can see the exhaustion in his face, the way he's held himself apart for three days and it's cost him. "You scared me for two seconds. I've been scared before. I survived." You hold his gaze. "And then I looked at your face and saw what it did to you and that was..." Your voice wavers slightly, just once. "That was different than what I grew up with. You understand? That look on your face was different."
Garrett's eyes are wet.
"That's not enough," he says.
"That's not your call."
"Y/N..."
"It's not." You are shaking slightly, not from cold. "You don't get to love me and then decide you're protecting me by leaving. That's not-" You laugh, short and humorless. "That's not how any of this works."
He is quiet for a long time.
The street keeps going. Car lights sweep past the mouth of the alley. Music from inside Malone's bumps through the wall, muffled and warm.
"So what now?" you ask.
Garrett doesn't answer.
He opens his mouth. Closes it. He looks at you with the kind of look that holds an entire argument inside it, every angle, every possibility, all the ways this could go. He looks at you like you're everything and like you're the most dangerous thing in the room.
If he forgives himself, there's a part of him that believes he's telling himself it's okay. That it's acceptable, that the first time is a free pass, that he can do it again with a story ready.
If he doesn't, if he holds this and holds himself responsible and carries it permanently...
He loses you.
He already knows he loses you.
And standing here, in the cold, looking at you in the light spilling out from Malone's, with your arms crossed and your eyes tired and something in your face that is sad and angry and still so impossibly here - he thinks he might deserve to lose you.
He thinks: I am my father's son.
And that thought is so old and so ugly that it's almost a relief to finally be looking at it directly.
"I don't know," he says.
His voice is barely above a whisper.
"You don't know," you repeat.
"I don't know," he says again. "I don't know if I can..." He stops. "I don't know how to do this right. I don't know if there is a right."
You look at him for a long time.
Then you say: "You're not your father."
"You don't know that," he says.
"I know you remember my coffee order," you say. "I know you moved slow every time you saw me flinch at loud sounds. I know you've had three days to be angry at me for pushing you and instead you've been punishing yourself." You hold his gaze. "Your father didn't do any of those things."
Garrett closes his eyes.
"That's not..."
"It's not nothing," you say. "I'm not saying it fixes anything. I'm not saying you're perfect. I'm saying those are two different things and you're flattening them into one because it's easier to decide you're a monster than to actually do the work."
He opens his eyes.
He looks wrecked. Genuinely, quietly, terribly wrecked.
"I scared you," he says.
"Yes." You don't flinch from it. "You did."
"I'm sorry."
"I know you are."
"I can't promise..."
"Then promise something smaller," you say. "Promise therapy. Promise that when you're wound that tight you tell me instead of letting me walk into the middle of it. Promise that you stop making decisions about my life without consulting me." Your voice is very steady, and you are very tired, and you are also, despite all of it, still here. Still standing in front of him. "Promise the next thing. Not the whole future. Just the next thing."
He is looking at you like you've said something in a language he's still learning.
"Why?" he asks.
"Because you remembered my coffee order," you say quietly. "Because you went slow. Because the second it happened you looked sick with yourself before I even had time to react." You swallow. "Because I'm angry and I don't want to leave."
The street is quiet.
Garrett breathes.
He reaches out, very slowly, and the question is obvious - is this okay? - and you step forward instead of back.
He pulls you in.
He holds on like you might disappear if he isn't careful, like you're the most breakable thing in the world and also the most solid, and he presses his mouth against the top of your head and says your name.
Not I love you. Not I'm sorry again. Just your name.
Y/N.
Like it means you are real.
You are here.
I will try to deserve it.
You stand there until the cold gets to be too much.
Until Hannah appears in the doorway looking for you and takes in the scene and disappears back inside without a word.
Until Garrett's breathing evens out against your hair and you feel the tension start to leave his shoulders, slowly, by degrees.
The work isn't done. You both know that. But his arms are around you and you haven't pulled away, and for tonight, that's the only answer either of you has.
pairing: john logan x fem!reader (garrett's sister)
warning: this will include mentions of physical abuse (visible bruising & alluding to physical abuse about to happen), verbal & mental abuse, abusive relationships, and mild discussion of child abuse, accidental cut (cooking accident) & blood, parental loss
word count: 1.5k
summary: you had always been someone loud and confident. the kind of person who is so magnetic that it's hard not to be drawn into you. it's hard not to love you, to not want to be loved by you. that was the first thing that any of the hockey boys noticed when garrett graham introduced them to his "annoying" twin sister. you fell into step with them easily, just as you fell into step at briar easily. the popular graham sister with a heartstopping smile and magnetic personality. you met your boyfriend quickly into your freshman year, a st.a's hockey player who slid into your dm's after the first game of the season. it's been about two years now, and everyone thinks you are perfectly in love. you lead them to believe, truly. what you don't show is what lies underneath, a secret begging to be exposed; a girl screaming for help.
author note: this is also short, bc again i thought it deserved it's own moment. i will get back to regularly scheduled, longer parts after this! i just didn't want to take away from the seriousness of the moment by focusing on another scene. pls ignore all errors bc this was written during a packing break!
it feels like no time has passed between the moment that logan hangs up the phone and your brother is walking through the door. as if he sped through every stoplight to get to you. which, made sense.
the two of you came into this world together, garrett only a few minutes before. you were loved by your mother together, and you lost her together. you endured the anger of phil graham together. got accepted to briar u together, and everything else in between. there was never not a moment in which he wasn't right there by your side.
it ran even deeper than that, though.
it goes back to halloween when you were twelve, when you should have dressed up and laughing throughout the city as you collected candy. instead you were both hiding under the blankets on your full sized bed, waiting to hear the thundering footsteps of your father subside as he finally went to bed. garrett beaten and bruised, and you too scared to move. when the door to your fathers bedroom had finally shut closed for the last time, and the silence stilled over the house, garrett looked at you intensely before promising that he would make sure that this would never happen to you.
to his credit, he did try.
yet in the quiet moments when he wasn't home, you still fell victim to your fathers hand. in those moments you should have categorized him as a monster, and perhaps you had. perhaps you could agree with your twin brother on that one. however, it still instilled this idea in you that the way he treated you was how love looked. it's how he loved your mother, and its how luke had loved you.
you can hear garrett's voice in your head then, that's not love.
a part of you knows that he is right, but another part of you isn't so sure. you wonder if perhaps you were cursed in the way that your mother was. that you were only allowed a love that consumed you, rotting you from the inside out.
when garrett enters your house, he does so almost aggressively. the door pushes open and his eyebrows are furrowed together as he searches the room for you. hannah tags behind him, confusion knitting across her face as she closes the door behind him. there is no words shared between garrett and logan as he pushes through the living room, and back to your bedroom. there he stops in the doorframe, eyebrows creasing together as he takes you in.
time stills and you watch as sad turns to anger on his face. how all the emotions seem to play out slowly and deliberately, as if he can't quite decide which one he feels. perhaps it was just that he felt them all at once. then his hand flexes by his side, balling up before releasing again.
he steps forward, fully in your room, and closes the door shut behind him. the click is amplified by a thud, and it causes your face to scrunch in response. garrett doesn't seem to catch on to it, his eyes too busy looking you up and down cataloguing the damage. "what happened," his voice low and gravely as he speaks.
a hand runs through your hair, and you clear your throat hoping it would remove the lump that had formed there. the idea was futile, and you knew that. you were fully aware that the lump was there to stay. "um," you say softly, your voice seeming to crack under the pressure of the word, "luke--"
he cuts you off, a sharp tone overtaking him, "luke?" though it comes out more like a blunt observation than anything else. an acknowledgement of something, as if he had already decided this in his head the moment that he saw you. garrett isn't stupid, so he doesn't ask how long it's been happening. he knows how abuse functions. how it seeps in and consumes a relationship, and how it likely started long ago and trapped you in the cycle of it.
there is a gentle, strangled tone that overtakes you then as you say, "don't be mad at me."
a furrow forms in between his brows, and the muscles in his shoulders seem to lose the tension that they were previously holding. your brother stands still for one moment, the room stilling along with him, before he takes a few long strides and sits beside you on your bed. "i'm not mad at you," he says then, long arms wrapping you in a hug as he pulls you into him, "i should have noticed," he adds then, "i should have protected you, i'm sorry."
your body shudders against his, a tear that you didn't know was capable of escaping suddenly rolling down your cheek. you stay there in silence for a moment, finding comfort in the feeling of his familiar grasp. suddenly, you are teenagers again and he is protecting you from a world that dared to harm you. a promise that he was always so good at keeping.
"i--," your voice cuts in then as you pull back to look at him, "i don't know what to do." then your eyes advert from his and to your bedroom door where logan and hannah stand just outside of it, "logan says i should stay at your house for a couple days, because it'll be safer."
"i agree," garrett cuts in, eyes hardened now.
"i don't know what comes after that," you say helplessly.
garrett pauses then, his eyebrows creased and a dark cloud forming behind his eyes. "you stay with us, and i deal with luke, that's what comes after," he says with so much confidence. as if it wasn't a suggestion, but rather exactly what was going to happen.
concern floods your face, and there is desperation in your tone, "no, gar, you will kill him."
garret shrugs then, "probably," the word falls flat between you. the idea of it doesn't ease anything in you. it doesn't make this feel better or bring you any comfort. rather, there is a knot that forms in the pit of your stomach. one that twists and turns, causing everything to ache.
"no, gar, i can't--" you cut yourself off then, "i don't want that." which is something you are sure of. it's confusing the way you felt about luke. how he could do this to you, and you could still love him enough to care about him. "just... just let me break up with him, okay? and then it will all be over."
garrett doesn't believe you, and you can tell simply by the look on his face. however, he seems to concede from the argument regardless, "fine, but you are not going alone," he says then, "the boys and i will go with you."
the crease in your brows deepens, "i'll take tucker," you say plainly, "he seems to have the best anger management skills, and i can trust him to not fly off the handle."
another moment of contemplation before garrett lets out a hefty sigh, "tucker will go in with you, and we will all wait in the car in case you need us," he states, trying to find a compromise.
you hesitate before shaking your head, "fine," because you knew there was no way of getting out of this. no way of finding another solution that doesn't involve garrett's involvement.
he pulls you in for another hug then, holding you tightly against him. the hug brings a comfort that almost makes you forget about the ache that it was causing by adding pressure to a bruise on your ribs. something that you didn't want to tell garrett in fear of making him feel worse, "why didn't you just tell me?," he asks then, words coming out quietly, "did you not trust me?"
there is a beat of silence. one that spans out across the entire room, and your arms reach up and pull him tighter against you. it felt like home, or at least all the best memories of it. the home that you chose to remember, and not the one that lived vividly in the back of your mind. "i didn't want you to be disappointed in me," you say softly then, "and i knew it would wreck you, watching me become mom."
he pulls away from you, but his hands stay planted on the side of your arms as he forces you to look at him, "you are like mom," he says gently, "but not because of this." there is an intensity in the way that he looks at you, and you swear that if you look just past the cloud in his eyes that you would see tears forming. "you are all my favorite things about her, and i am so happy to see her whenever i look at you," he continues, his voice serious and even, "and this? this isn't mom and phil, and it definitely doesn't get to define you."
pairing: john logan x fem!reader (garrett's sister)
warning: this will include mentions of physical abuse (visible bruising & alluding to physical abuse about to happen), verbal & mental abuse, abusive relationships, and mild discussion of child abuse, accidental cut (cooking accident) & blood
word count: 2.5k
summary: you had always been someone loud and confident. the kind of person who is so magnetic that it's hard not to be drawn into you. it's hard not to love you, to not want to be loved by you. that was the first thing that any of the hockey boys noticed when garrett graham introduced them to his "annoying" twin sister. you fell into step with them easily, just as you fell into step at briar easily. the popular graham sister with a heartstopping smile and magnetic personality. you met your boyfriend quickly into your freshman year, a st.a's hockey player who slid into your dm's after the first game of the season. it's been about two years now, and everyone thinks you are perfectly in love. you lead them to believe, truly. what you don't show is what lies underneath, a secret begging to be exposed; a girl screaming for help.
author note: THIS IS VERY SAD!!!! also, a lot of people have asked to be tagged & i tried my best to include everyone that asked!! if i missed you then pls pls pls lmk!! i def didn't do it intentionally!!
hannah sits comfortably on garrett's lap, his arm wrapped delicately around her waist. everyone around her is wrapped up in a conversation, but her eyes settle on you. hannah lifts her cup to her lips as she watches logan grab onto your hand and pulls you out of the room. it's easy for her to zone in on the way that his fingers lace through yours, and how comfortable he seems to have your hand in his own.
"question," hannah says then, turning to garrett.
his eyes shift up to her, and he simply says, "shoot."
hannah exhales softly then before asking, "does logan have a crush on your sister?" the question coming out bold and honest, loud enough for the entire room to hear.
it is dean who snickers before saying, "you caught on to that?" as if this was a well known thing amongst everyone but her. hannah watches the way that everyone seems to get the same knowing look on their face, and her eyes shift to garrett with a furrowed brow.
garrett lifts his bottle up to his lips to take a drink, before saying with ease, "he has liked her since the day they met." then, as if he could tell what question hung on her lips, he continues, "he was too chicken shit to ask her out, because of the whole 'her being my sister' thing, and then she met luke." he explains it as if it was simple. as if it was just how it was.
dean groans then, "and we have all had to deal with his pathetic yearning ever since." hannah takes the information in, eyes flickering back to the door that logan had dragged you out of before focusing back on garrett.
"does she know?" she asks innocently, taking another drink from her cup.
garrett sighs and his eyes roll ever so slightly as he states, "i think everyone knows." he is quick then to change the topic, turning to tuck and mentioning something that hannah doesn't quite catch. no, rather, her eyes flick back to the door then and she wonders what was going on just past it.
in the backyard, where hannah can't see, you stand face to face with logan as his confession lays thick and heavy between you. i would love you. a simple promise, that would make any girls heart leap out of their chest. however, it just makes yours beat heavy and thick against your chest wall. a blatant reminder of how alive you were, even though you wished you could disappear all together.
your eyes flicker from his face down to the way his hand wraps delicately around your arm. a touch that holds a gentle kindness that you are unfamiliar with. he holds you in a way that is tender and sweet. a tenderness that you never experienced at the hands of the man who loves you. it causes your breathe to hitch in your throat, and your heart to skip a beat.
then, without much warning, you pull your arm from his hand. untangle the fabric from his gentle touch and allow your hand to fall by your side. your eyes don't lift from his hand and how it floats in the air for a moment, as if it was still holding the ghost of you. when it drops to his side, your eyes flicker back up to his face. his eyes still hold that same intense promise that they had before, but yours become overwhelmed with sadness, "no," you say softly then, "you can't."
the air around you grows thick then, nearly suffocating you. his eyebrows furrow together then as he looks at you, hand helplessly held by his side. there is a confusion that over takes his eyes, but that is quickly replaced something that seems so close to hurt. his voice then goes quiet as he says, "do you seriously not know?"
a sigh escapes your lips then, eyes closing tight for a moment as you try to regulate your breathing. for that one question felt like a dagger wedged in between your ribs, directly pressing against your lungs. when your eyes open then, they seem wetter than before, tears being held at their brim, "of course i know," you say softly, "but you don't-" your word clips off then as you scrub a hand over your face, "you don't actually like me, logan." his face contorts as soon as the statement lands, "you like the idea of me," you continue, voice straining in your throat as you speak, "you don't even really know me."
there is a moment then where he goes to speak. where his mouth opens to protest, but your hand falls onto his arm as you say, "i have to go." your hand lingers then for a moment, and your face scrunches up ever so slightly as you add, "please don't tell garrett... he won't be able to handle it."
there are tears that prick at your eyes then, and you force them back as you turn away from him and walk away. as soon as he is far enough behind you, your hand raises up to wipe the tear away from your cheek.
as you walk through the kitchen, you know that your red, wet eyes catch the attention of your brother. you can see it on his face, but you don't stop to reassure, but rather just find your way out of the house.
you can't drive home, you had too much to drink, so you call a cab to meet you down the street. it's cold, but you couldn't be in that house any longer. you couldn't face him.
✿ . ˚ . ˚ ✿
by the time that you got home, your phone was sat dead and heavy in your pocket. there is a moment in which you consider plugging it in. a moment where you acknowledge that you should reply back to everyone, but you don't have the energy. there was this bone deep exhaustion that had overtaken you, leaving you only with enough energy to lay in bed.
your body falls heavy against the bed, still in the clothes that you wore to the party. as you lay there, you pull your legs up to your chest and hug them tightly. the words "that's abuse" and "i would love you" swirl around your mind, mixed in with the look on his face as you walked away.
it only takes a few minutes before the sobs come wracking through your body. for the sorrow and overwhelm to consume you entirely. there was this weird mix of grief that swirled inside you. an anguish from watching the perfectly crafted image you had built come crashing down mixed with the forced revelation of the situation that you had found yourself in with luke. all of that combined with the pain you had caused logan. a hard truth slammed between you, crushing the image he had built of you for all these years.
because, you were right when you said that he didn't know you. a truth that you felt too heavy to bear. in truth, no one truly knew you. they knew the facade that you put up before them. it was only luke that saw you for who you were, he made sure that you knew that every day. that it was only him who could love you for the wretch that you were.
all of this was too much. the confession, the realization, the truth. it was too heavy to carry.
you didn't know what to do. didn't know how to carry the weight of everything, and the only answer that you could find seemed to be laying there letting the sobs wrack through your body until the tears had exhausted you enough, and the quiet roaring of the street outside played you asleep like a sickly sweet lullaby.
✿ . ˚ . ˚ ✿
the sun peaking through the window was not what woke you up the next morning. rather, it was the harsh slam of a fist against the door. the rapid progression over and over, falling into beat with the feeling of the pain that was slamming against your forehead. a soft grumble escapes your lips as you push your body, which felt heavy as lead, up from the bed. there is a moment of hesitation, where you sit there waiting to see if the individual would simply go away.
however, when the rapid hard raps hit the door again, you knew they were here to stay.
a hand scrubs over your face as you rise to your feet and slowly make your way to door. your body feels groggy, and it causes your steps to move rather slowly across the floor. the person on the other side of the door was growing impatient, and it causes an irritation to form within you.
finally, your hand wraps around the door knob and you pull open the door with a sharp, "what."
the color drains from your face then as you come face to face with the angered glare of your boyfriend, "what the fuck," he growls, pushing past you in the door. there is a moment where you stand in the door, body unafraid to turn and face him. "you think you can just ignore me all night," he snaps then.
as you turn to face him, you can feel yourself shrinking under his gaze. he was angry. perhaps angrier then you had ever seen him. there was a rage that boiled deep within him. a rage that you felt so familiar with, but this felt different. as if it boiled a little hotter than it ever had before.
"is there a man here? is that why you went radio silent?," he asks, beginning to frantically look around the room. there was something animalistic in his eyes. as if he had been consumed by something other than himself. a demon that was out of his own control.
it was always like this before...
your attention snaps back to him, "what? no," you assure him, voice quiet and panicked as you try to take a step closer to him, "i would never do that to you.. you know that, luke," you try to reassure him, hand reaching out to grab onto his arm.
"do i know that?," he asks, taking a step closer to you then. your hand falls back down to your side, and you take a step back.
there it was, that demon in his glazed over eyes.
✿ . ˚ . ˚ ✿
the phone rings twice before logan's voice comes through, saying your name in that broken, confused tone. you don't respond at first. rather, you let a silence settle over the line. one that seems to unsettle him, because he is quick to ask, "are you okay?"
it is then when your speak soft and low, "no." there is a sadness in your tone, and tears streaking down your cheeks as you speak, "luke came over and he was.. he was so angry," you go on to explain, "because my phone died last night and he thought i had someone over, and he just got so mad. he was really mad, and i know it was my fault, i really do know that-"
he says your name, cutting you off as you speak. the silence that falls from you is punctuated by a soft, gentle sob. "is he still there?," he asks then, his voice wrought with anger and concern. a blend that felt confusing and unfamiliar.
another sniffle, and the back of your hand gentle wipes the tear that had fallen from your cheek, "no, he.. he left," you say then, your voice tight and rough as it escapes you.
without a moment of hesitation he states, "i'm on my way," then there is a pause, "just stay on the phone with me until i get there."
your eyebrows knit together then, and your hand grips tighter to the phone as you let out a shaky breath. "i'm sorry," you say softly then, "i'm really sorry."
there is a silence, not even the ruffling sound of him getting dressed coming through the phone, "you have nothing to apologize for, okay?" he says, and a sigh escapes him again, "i'm leaving now. i'll be there in 15 minutes."
✿ . ˚ . ˚ ✿
he gets there in ten, and you are convinced he must have sped the entire time and ignored every stop sign. his knock is different then luke's. it's soft and delicate, but there is still an urgency to it. there is a moment where you hesitate, body stilling where you sit on the couch as the realization hits you.
you had called him, and he came.
not only that, but him coming means he would have to see the state you were. the cut across your cheek, and the bruise that was blossoming under it. the wreck of your apartment, a lamp shattered in the corner and the place messier than you ever left it.
a sense of panic floods you as you consider the vulnerability of the moment. of the way that you were cracking open your chest and sharing this with someone. that you were no longer enduring it alone, and that should comfort you. it should bring some sense of relief, but all you can feel is an unsettling doom in the pit of your stomach.
his knock comes through again, and he gently says your name against the door.
you had called him, and he came.
you move slowly then, a soreness in your body that had just begun to settle in causing it difficult to move too quickly. once at the door, your hand hesitates over the handle for a moment. he says your name again, and you turn the knob opening the door to see him.
a deep sadness floods his face, and in a moment it begins to mix with an anger that you know isn't aimed at you. the door clicks shut behind him, the lock snapping into place. the moment that the click hits your ears, you fall forward and into his arms. there is hot, wet tears then begin to soak into his sweater as you sob against his chest, "i'm so sorry," you say through the sobs, "i didn't know who to call," you confess then, "i didn't know what to do."
his arms wrap around your body, hand rubbing gentle circles into your back as he holds you close. there is a gentle "shh" that comes from his lips then as he tries his best to soothe the way your body shakes against his own. "it's okay," he says gently into your hair, "i'm here now, it's okay."
Warnings: use of [Y/N], enemies to lovers kinda?, swearing, drinking, smoking, injury, talk of death (specifically a parent). potential for part 2
EDITED because apparently I completely forgot to add in a part while moving this from docs to tumblr 🤦♀️
Word Count: 6327
・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・゜
The air bit at your skin, cold enough to draw pale ribbons of steam from your overworked body. Beneath you, your blades carved delicate wounds into the ice as you spun and turned, your legs moving as though they belonged to the music rather than to you.
The speakers sent soft pop music rolling through the grandstand, though it struck the arena with the force of heavy rock. Plastic seats trembled beneath the beat, their faint rattling swallowed by the scrape of your skates and the steady rhythm of your breath.
For one suspended moment, your feet left the ice.
Your legs unfolded into a Russian split, sharp and effortless in the air. Your hands flexed as they reached for the tips of your skates, fingertips brushing against polished leather before gravity drew you back down.
You landed with a graceful exhale, the impact softened by years of practice. A proud smile touched your lips as your body flowed into another spin. Your arms folded around yourself before rising slowly overhead, your leg following suit as you pulled yourself into a forward upright variation spin.
At the edge of the rink, Dean stood beneath the shadows of the arena.
His eyes followed every movement—the way you glided across the frozen surface as though the ice had forgotten how to hold your weight. The curve of your body through each turn. The controlled strength behind every jump. The faint smile that appeared whenever you struck your mark, and the small crease between your brows whenever you fell short of your own expectations.
He had arrived that morning with his hands itching to pull on his skates, to chase a puck across the ice, practise his slapshots, and sharpen his edges before the team’s first away game that weekend.
Instead, he had found you.
Music spilled through the empty arena as you flew across the rink, all concentration and movement, your body telling a story he could not quite understand but could not stop watching.
He was lost in the way you moved.
You pulled yourself tight, arms raised and crossed above your head, chin dipping forward as you fought to hold the position. Your breathing came rough and quick, each inhale betraying the hours you had already spent on the ice.
A gentle clap echoed from the sidelines.
Dean stepped out from the shadows, an easy smirk settling across his lips.
“That was beautiful. Truly,” he said, his voice carrying over the music. “But could you wrap it up now? You’re cutting into my training time.”
Your eyes narrowed as you skated slowly towards him, chest still rising and falling with effort. You stepped off the ice and dropped beside your training bag, wiping the sweat from your brow as frustration settled across your features.
“What are you doing here?” you snapped.
Dean bent slightly at the waist, looking down at you as though the answer were obvious. “Uh, it’s a hockey arena?” he said. “And I’m a hockey player.”
He gestured towards himself, his training jersey stretched across the muscles of his chest and arms.
You slipped one skate off, then the other, before lifting your gaze to meet his.
“No, sweetie,” you said slowly, your tone coated in mock sweetness. “It’s an ice rink.” You leaned back against the bench, a small smile tugging at your lips. “You’re not the only one who needs ice to train.”
Gathering your belongings against your chest, you gave him one slow, assessing look. “But don’t worry,” you said, your voice low and teasing, “the rink is all yours.”
Your gaze flicked briefly over his hockey gear before returning to his face, a knowing smile tugging at the corner of your lips. “Clearly, you need the extra training.”
Before he could find a response, you turned on your heel and walked from the arena, leaving only the fading echo of your footsteps and the faint scent of cold air behind you.
・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・゜
Your fingers skimmed across the kitchen counter as your eyes searched the benches for anything remotely edible. You rolled your neck slowly, trying to ease the ache that had settled into your muscles after spending hours on the living-room floor.
“Hey, Tuck,” you called, turning to lean back against the counter. “Do you have any noodles?”
Tucker’s eyes snapped towards you, wide with offence.
“Excuse you?” he practically spat, stepping closer as though you had personally insulted his entire bloodline. “I make five-star, gourmet meals. I am the closest thing to Gordon Ramsay that you will ever come across.”
You bit back a smile as he continued, his voice growing more dramatic with every word. Instead, you nodded along solemnly, as though his outrage were entirely justified.
“How dare you ask me something like that?”
From beside him, John Logan grinned. Without drawing attention to himself, he slid a packet of two-minute noodles across the counter towards you, a soft laugh slipping from his lips.
You turned towards him, your face brightening immediately.
“And this,” you said, lifting the packet between two fingers, “is exactly why you’re my favourite John.”
Your eyes met Tucker’s over the top of the packet as he muttered under his breath about your audacity, his expression somewhere between wounded pride and reluctant amusement.
You hummed quietly beneath your breath as the noodles cooked, the soft sound filling the kitchen in the brief lull between Tucker’s complaints. Once they were ready, you carried your bowl back towards the living room just as the boys disappeared upstairs, their voices fading along with the creak of the staircase.
Hannah was already settled on the lounge, surrounded by a messy constellation of notebooks, loose pages, pens, and highlighters scattered across the floor. Her hand moved quickly over the page, scribbling down song lyrics with a focus that made the rest of the room seem to disappear around her.
You lowered yourself onto the couch beside her, balancing your bowl carefully in your lap as you glanced over the notes spread between you.
The two of you had agreed to study at the hockey house rather than returning to your dorm that night. Your final class had ended nearby, and Hannah had been waiting for Garrett to come home from his captainly duties—apparently involving training the new freshmen until they could barely stand on their skates.
The house was quieter now, wrapped in the comfortable warmth of the evening. Only the faint sounds of the boys upstairs, the steady scratch of Hannah’s pen across paper, and the soft lull of a forgotten movie playing on the television disturbed the silence.
“You know,” Hannah said, glancing down at the page in front of her, “I think I’ve written the word ‘heartbreak’ so many times tonight that it’s stopped looking like a real word.”
You leaned over slightly, peering at the mess of lyrics scattered around her. “That’s because you only write sad songs.”
“I do not only write sad songs,” she protested, though the smile pulling at her lips ruined any chance of sounding offended.
“You wrote one called I Hate You, But Please Call Me last week.”
“It was emotionally complex.”
“It was about Garrett forgetting to bring you coffee.”
“He forgot my order,” Hannah corrected, placing a hand over her chest. “That is betrayal.”
You laughed softly, nudging her shoulder with yours. “You’re so dramatic.”
“And yet, you love me.”
“Unfortunately.”
Hannah gasped, pressing a hand to her chest once more. “You wound me.”
“Good. Maybe you can write another song about it.”
She narrowed her eyes at you, though the look lasted only a second before she broke into a quiet laugh. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”
The conversation faded after that, settling into the kind of silence that only existed between people who had known each other long enough not to fear it.
The movie continued playing softly in the background, its flickering light dancing across the walls of the living room. You sat shoulder to shoulder on the couch, occasionally glancing towards the screen, neither of you particularly invested in the plot anymore.
At some point, Hannah’s pen slipped from her fingers and rolled quietly onto the cushion beside her.
You looked over to find Hannah curled against the arm of the couch, her notes forgotten in her lap and her breathing slow and even. The faint glow of the television softened her features, a small smile resting on her face as she slept.
The front door opened quietly a few moments later.
Garrett stepped inside, looking tired from the day, his hockey bag slung over one shoulder. His eyes immediately found Hannah on the couch, and the exhaustion in his expression softened into something warm.
“Hey,” you whispered.
He gave you a small nod before setting his bag down carefully near the door. Moving closer, he crouched beside the lounge, brushing a loose strand of hair away from Hannah’s face.
“She’s been working all night,” you murmured.
“I can see that,” he replied softly, a fond smile tugging at his lips.
With practiced ease, Garrett slid one arm beneath Hannah’s knees and the other around her back. She stirred only slightly as he lifted her, her body naturally curling into his warmth, her face tucking into the space beneath his jaw.
“You’re welcome to stay the night,” Garrett said quietly, turning towards you. “One of the boys can give up their room.”
You smiled appreciatively, though you shook your head. “Thank you, but I have a seven a.m. class tomorrow. I should probably go home, shower, and sleep in my own bed while I still have the chance.”
Garrett nodded, accepting your answer without argument. “Fair enough.”
He adjusted Hannah gently in his arms before starting towards the stairs. Halfway up, he glanced back over his shoulder. “Get home safe, yeah? Call me if you need anything.”
“I will,” you promised.
Once he disappeared upstairs, you bent down to gather your scattered notes and pens from the floor. The movie still played quietly in the background, its dialogue barely audible beneath the soft rustle of paper.
The front door opened again.
Dean walked inside, his hair damp from the cold and his jacket half-zipped, as though he had been in too much of a hurry to bother properly taking it off. At first, he did not notice you. He dropped his keys into the bowl by the door and glanced towards the stairs, his expression distracted.
Then his eyes landed on you.
For a brief second, his face softened.
He remembered the morning—the way you had moved across the ice, weightless and precise, every turn and jump carrying a quiet kind of confidence. The memory flickered across his expression before he covered it with a familiar smirk.
“Well, well,” he said, leaning against the doorway. “You following me now?”
You paused mid-reach, one of Hannah’s notebooks in your hands.
“What?”
Dean lifted a brow. “First the rink, now my house. Starting to think you’re stalking me.”
A laugh escaped you before you could stop it. “I didn’t even know you lived here.”
His smirk faltered for only a moment before settling back into place. “Right,” he scoffed, his eyes trailing slowly over you. “And I’m just supposed to believe you?”
You stood, tucking the notebook beneath your arm as you gave him a once-over of your own.
“Believe whatever you want, babe,” you replied, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “But if I’d known you lived here, I would’ve told Hannah to cancel the study date.”
Dean’s eyes narrowed slightly, though amusement still lingered behind them.
For a moment, neither of you moved. The quiet hum of the television filled the space between you, along with the faint sound of movement upstairs.
Then Dean stepped aside.
You brushed past him without another word, the warmth of the house falling away as you opened the front door. Cold night air rushed in around you, sharp against your skin after the heat of the living room.
Behind you, Dean remained in the doorway, watching as you disappeared into the dark.
・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・゜
Malone’s was warm and busy by the time you settled into your usual spot at the counter, textbooks spread out in front of you between a half-finished drink and a growing pile of handwritten notes.
Hannah and Allie were working behind the bar, moving easily between customers while still managing to keep up a conversation with you.
“I’m telling you,” Allie said, polishing a glass as she leaned across the counter, “you need to take a night off from studying before your brain starts leaking out of your ears.”
“You say that like it hasn’t already happened,” Hannah added, passing by with a tray balanced on one hand.
You glanced down at your notes, sighing dramatically. “I have an assignment due next week.”
“You have an assignment due every week,” Allie pointed out.
Before you could reply, the front door swung open, letting in a rush of cold air and the unmistakable sound of too many hockey players entering a room at once.
Tucker and Logan spotted you almost immediately.
“There she is,” Tucker called, his grin widening as he crossed the room.
Logan followed close behind, both of them making their way straight to the counter. Before you had the chance to stand, Tucker pulled you into a quick hug, Logan joining in with a warm squeeze from the other side.
“Well, look who it is,” Logan said as he stepped back. “You avoiding the rink now?”
“Never,” you replied. “Some of us actually train in the mornings.”
Tucker placed a hand over his chest, feigning offence. “And here I thought you were there just to admire us.”
“You wish.”
Behind them, Garrett had already made his way towards Hannah. He leaned over the counter and pressed a soft kiss to her cheek, his expression immediately gentler when she smiled up at him.
“Hi, babe,” he murmured.
Hannah’s smile softened. “Hi.”
Dean entered last, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket. His gaze drifted over the room before landing on Tucker and Logan standing far too comfortably beside you.
His brows pulled together.
“Why are you two hugging her?” he asked, his tone edged with confusion.
Tucker turned, looking between Dean and you. “Because we know her?”
Logan nodded. “We’ve met her a few times at training. She’s always there in the mornings.”
“Almost every morning,” Tucker added. “Practising her skating.”
Dean’s eyes shifted to you, recognition flashing briefly across his face. He rolled his eyes, though it did little to hide the fact that he had been caught off guard.
Garrett glanced over from beside Hannah. “Be nicer, Dean. She’s Hannah’s friend, and she’s cool.”
You lifted your brows at Dean, a faint smirk tugging at your lips. “Hear that? Officially cool.”
Dean opened his mouth to respond, but a girl in a fitted dress approached him before he could get a word out. She smiled brightly, touching his arm as she leaned in close enough to say something only he could hear.
Dean’s attention shifted almost instantly.
You watched him for a moment, unimpressed, as his familiar smirk returned and he angled his body towards her.
Allie followed your gaze, then looked back at you with a knowing expression.
You leaned closer to her and Hannah, lowering your voice just enough that Dean would not hear.
“Disgusting,” you muttered. “A complete pig.”
Hannah bit back a laugh, while Allie covered her smile with the back of her hand.
Across the room, Dean glanced over at you as though he had felt your eyes on him.
You simply smiled sweetly and returned to your notes. The boys eventually claimed a booth near the back of Malone’s, their voices carrying easily over the low music and clink of glasses. Hannah moved between them and the bar throughout the evening, stopping to take orders, drop off drinks, and steal a few quiet moments with Garrett whenever she could.
You stayed at the counter, your textbooks and notes spread out before you as the night slipped by. Page after page filled beneath your hand—lecture notes, half-formed ideas, highlighted paragraphs, and hurried reminders to yourself in the margins.
By the time you finally glanced at the clock, several hours had passed.
With a tired sigh, you began packing away your belongings. Pens disappeared into your pencil case, loose papers were gathered into neat stacks, and your textbooks were tucked carefully into your bag.
You stood from the counter, slinging your bag over your shoulder before leaning across to press a quick kiss to Allie’s cheek.
“I’ll see you at home,” you said.
Allie smiled, brushing her hand against your arm. “Get home safe.”
You turned to Hannah next, pressing a kiss to her cheek as well. “Don’t stay up too late.”
Hannah laughed softly. “No promises.”
You gave them both one last smile before making your way towards the door.
The cold hit you the moment you stepped outside, sharp and unforgiving against your cheeks. You pulled your jacket tighter around yourself and headed across the dimly lit car park, your breath clouding in front of you with every step.
You were only a few steps from your car when the door behind you opened.
The bell above it chimed brightly through the quiet night.
“Hey—wait!”
You turned just as Dean jogged towards you, one hand raised to catch your attention. He slowed when he reached you, his breath visible in the cold air.
“You left your phone on the counter,” he said, holding it out towards you.
For a moment, you simply looked at him, surprised.
Then you reached for it, your fingers brushing his as you took it from his hand.
“Thanks,” you said, tucking it safely into your bag.
Dean shoved his hands into his jacket pockets, watching you with that familiar, unreadable expression.
“Try not to lose anything else,” he said, a teasing edge slipping into his voice.
You lifted a brow. “Try not to assume everyone is following you.”
A reluctant smile pulled at his mouth.
“Goodnight,” he said.
“Goodnight, Dean.”
You turned back towards your car, though you could still feel his gaze on you as you walked away.
・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・゜
The following week, you were back at the arena before the sun had properly risen, the rink quiet except for the music playing softly through the speakers and the familiar scrape of your blades against the ice.
You pushed yourself through the routine, each movement sharper than the last. Your body moved on instinct as you gathered speed across the rink, preparing for the jump you had been working on for weeks.
You took off cleanly.
For a second, everything felt weightless.
Then you came down wrong.
Your blade caught awkwardly against the ice, your ankle twisting beneath you as your hip took the brunt of the fall. Pain flared through your side, sharp enough to steal the breath from your lungs.
You lay there for a moment, staring up at the ceiling as the music continued without you.
Frustration rose faster than the pain.
Tears pricked at your eyes, hot and unwelcome, and you clenched your jaw hard enough to ache. With an angry huff, you ripped one skate from your foot and threw it across the ice. It skidded halfway across the rink before coming to a stop near the boards.
“Fuck,” you muttered, dropping back against the ice.
You stayed there, flat on your back, eyes fixed on the high, shadowed roof above you. Your chest rose and fell as you tried to gather yourself, to push past the humiliation of a fall you knew you should have been able to avoid.
“Are you okay?”
Dean’s voice cut through the quiet, softer than you expected.
You turned your head sharply, finding him standing near the boards, his hockey bag at his feet. His expression was unusually serious.
You pushed yourself upright, wincing as pain tugged at your hip. “How long have you been watching?”
Dean hesitated. “I saw the whole thing.”
Your face burned.
“It was a pretty nasty fall,” he added, taking a cautious step closer. “Are you okay?”
The concern in his voice only made your frustration flare hotter.
You looked away from him, yanking off your second skate. “I’m fine.”
“Doesn’t look like it.”
You ignored him, planting your hands on the ice and forcing yourself to your feet. Your ankle protested immediately, sending a pulse of pain up your leg, but you refused to let it show.
You limped carefully across the rink to retrieve the skate you had thrown, then made your way off the ice.
Dean followed a few steps behind, watching as you shoved your skates into your bag and traded them for your normal shoes.
Even with the sneakers on, your limp was noticeable.
“You should probably get that checked out by the medic,” he said, his voice firmer now. “Your ankle could be worse than you think.”
You straightened, gripping the strap of your bag as you looked at him.
“Jog on, Dean.”
His jaw tightened, but you did not wait for a response.
You pushed past him and headed towards the exit, leaving him standing beside the rink as the cold air swallowed the sound of your uneven footsteps.
Your ankle throbbed with every step, pain blooming higher and higher until it sat heavy behind your eyes. Tears threatened there—not only from the injury, but from the bitter disappointment curling inside your chest.
You had spent hours chasing that jump.
Hours balanced in front of the mirror back at the dorms, watching every angle of your body. Weeks carving the movement into muscle memory beneath the bright lights of the rink, falling and getting back up until it felt as natural as breathing.
And still—
It had unraveled in an instant.
One wrong edge.
One heartbeat.
One violent collision with the unforgiving ice.
Your palms caught the side of your battered Dodge Dakota before your knees could give out entirely. You folded against the driver's door, forehead nearly brushing the cool metal as you fought to steady your breathing.
"You shouldn't drive on it." Dean's voice drifted easily across the nearly abandoned parking lot. "Shouldn't even be walking on it."
You barely turned your head, catching him only through the corner of your eye.
"I'm starting to think you're the one stalking me." The words came wrapped in a dry huff, though the tremor beneath them betrayed you.
You reached for the handle, wincing as you yanked the door open, tossing your skate bag onto the passenger seat with more force than necessary.
Before you could climb in, warm fingers circled your wrist.
Not enough to hurt.
Just enough to stop you.
"I'll drive you home."
"I've got class, Dean." You rolled your eyes, letting your gaze fall to where his hand held yours before lifting back to his face. "I don't have time for this right now."
"First of all..." His grip loosened as he guided you around the front of the truck instead, one arm sliding carefully beneath your shoulder to carry some of your weight. "...you can miss one class."
Every limping step sent another sharp reminder through your ankle.
He opened the passenger door and waited.
"And second..." His eyes found yours, steady and unwavering. "...I'm not asking."
A beat passed.
"I'm not taking no for an answer."
You studied him for a long moment, your head tilting, eyes narrowing as though you could stare him into surrender.
He didn't budge.
Eventually, with an exasperated sigh that tasted suspiciously like defeat, you eased yourself into the passenger seat.
His hand settled instinctively against your waist to help you lower yourself.
The contact made your face pinch.
"Don't."
Dean immediately lifted both hands, taking a step backward with a crooked grin.
"My bad."
The engine rumbled awake beneath you.
A moment later, soft R&B drifted through the speakers, warm melodies filling the empty spaces the conversation had left behind.
Outside, the rink slowly disappeared in the side mirror, swallowed by distance until only patches of white remained.
You leaned your head against the seat, eyes tracing the morning sky through the windshield.
Anger settled heavily inside you.
Not at the ice.
Not at your ankle.
At yourself.
How could you have missed it?
You had poured weeks into that jump.
Every practice. Every bruise. Every early morning before the rest of the campus woke up.
All of it collapsed in the space between takeoff and landing.
Hours of your life scattered across the ice in less than a second.
Hours that could have been spent doing anything else.
The thought burrowed deeper with every passing streetlight.
By the time Dean eased the truck to the curb outside your dorm building, exhaustion weighed almost as much as the pain in your ankle.
A quiet groan escaped before you could stop it, your eyes slipping closed for just a moment.
Neither of you moved.
The engine idled softly.
Music hummed beneath the silence.
For a long while, the two of you simply stared through the windshield, watching students wander across campus, neither willing to disturb whatever fragile stillness had settled between you.
Finally, Dean cleared his throat.
"Why..." he asked quietly.
The question lingered in the air before he finished it.
"Why are you so hard on yourself all the time?"
You let out a bitter laugh, shaking your head. "You've gotta be kidding me."
Dean frowned. "You damn near broke your ankle..." His voice was careful now, quieter than before. "...and you're sitting here crying because you missed a jump."
Your head snapped toward him. "What?"
His jaw shifted. "You heard me."
"What the hell does that mean?" Something hot flared in your chest.
"It means—"
"No." You cut him off, anger rushing in faster than you could stop it. "Why do you even care?"
Dean blinked.
"You barely know me." You laughed again, this one sharper. "So why is it suddenly your business whether I cry over skating or over my ankle or over anything else?"
The words filled the truck before falling away just as quickly.
Dean looked down at the steering wheel.
For the first time since you'd met him...
He didn't have an answer.
His thumb tapped absentmindedly against the leather.
"I..." he started quietly before shaking his head. "I suppose it's not."
Silence settled between you.
Instantly, guilt nipped at the edges of your anger.
You swallowed it down.
Without another word, you twisted in your seat, leaning awkwardly over the centre console toward the back seat. Pain shot through your ankle as you stretched for your skate bag.
You hissed through your teeth.
Almost...
Almost—
"You know..."
Dean's voice stopped you.
You paused, one hand buried beneath your jacket in the back seat.
"I liked watching you skate."
You glanced over your shoulder.
He wasn't looking at you.
His eyes stayed fixed ahead through the windshield.
"You looked..." He searched for the words. "...different."
You frowned. "What?"
He let out a small breath through his nose.
"I don't mean different like..." He rubbed the back of his neck. "You looked beautiful. You did."
Heat crept into your cheeks before you could stop it.
"But that isn't what I noticed."
You slowly turned back around in your seat.
Dean finally met your eyes.
"It's like..." he murmured. "Every other time I see you..." He smiled faintly. "...you're waiting."
"Waiting?"
"For someone to say the wrong thing."
His smile disappeared.
"You're always guarded."
He wasn't accusing you.
He was simply observing.
"Like you're carrying around a suit of armour nobody else can see."
You stared at him.
"But when you're on the ice..." His eyes softened. "...it all disappears."
The words came slowly now, as though he was afraid saying them too loudly would somehow ruin them.
"You stop trying to protect yourself."
"You stop worrying about everyone else."
"You don't look angry."
"You don't even look happy."
He shook his head gently.
"You just..." Another pause. "...exist."
"You get so lost in it… So completely lost..." Another pause. "...that for a few minutes, it feels like you're just..." His eyes found yours again. "...you."
The truck became impossibly quiet.
Outside, students wandered across campus, slowly waking up for their early classes.
Inside, neither of you moved.
Something in your chest loosened.
No one had ever described your skating like that.
No one had ever looked closely enough to notice.
You looked down at your hands.
"...My mum was an Olympic figure skater."
Dean stayed silent.
You appreciated that.
"She won gold." A humourless smile tugged at your lips. "Back home, everybody knew who she was." You traced the stitching along the edge of the passenger seat. "Growing up... skating wasn't really something I chose. It was just… life." You paused. "She coached me. Every morning. Every afternoon. Every competition.”
Every word came easier than the last. "She wanted me to be better than she was."
A lump settled in your throat.
"And then..." Your voice caught. "...she died."
Dean's expression changed instantly.
"It was..." You swallowed. "Really sudden. I was sixteen." You blinked hard, staring somewhere beyond the dashboard. "And after that… There wasn't anyone telling me to get up at five. No one yelling across the rink. No one making me stay for one more run-through."
You laughed quietly. "So I started doing it myself."
Your fingers curled together.
"Because if I stopped..." Your voice barely rose above a whisper. "...it felt like I was leaving her behind."
Another breath.
"If I'm not working as hard as she would've made me..."
"If I'm not getting the grades..."
"If I'm not landing every jump..."
"If I'm not becoming someone she'd be proud of..."
You shook your head.
"...then what was the point of everything she sacrificed?"
The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable.
It was heavy.
Dean opened his mouth once.
Closed it.
Whatever he had been about to say wasn't enough.
Nothing would've been.
Instead...
His hand slowly crossed the centre console.
He rested it gently over yours.
Warm.
Steady.
Not asking for anything.
Just there.
You looked down at where your hands met.
"I think..." he said quietly. "...you're carrying something that was never meant to be carried alone." His thumb brushed lightly against your knuckles. "And..." He smiled sadly. "I think you're being a whole lot harder on yourself than your mum ever would've wanted."
Your eyes met his.
"I think..." His voice softened even further. "...she'd already be proud of you."
“Not because of the medals.”
“Not because of the jumps.”
"Just because you're still here."
Your vision blurred again.
This time...
You didn't try to blink it away.
"...Thank you."
The words came barely louder than a breath.
Dean smiled. "No worries."
Another comfortable silence settled over the truck.
Eventually, you glanced toward the windshield. "...How are you getting back to the rink?"
Dean leaned back in his seat. "Garrett stayed over with Hannah last night." He shrugged. "He'll give me a lift back when he heads out."
You nodded. "Oh."
Another pause.
"...Well..." You looked toward the dorm building. "You can come wait inside if you—"
The front doors swung open.
Both your eyes lifted at the same time.
Garrett stepped outside, keys dangling from one hand as he looked down at his phone.
Neither you nor Dean moved.
Neither of you spoke.
Instead, you found yourselves looking back at each other.
The moment stretched.
Neither one of you seemed quite ready for it to end.
・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・゜
Music pulsed through the walls of the Sigma Tau Gamma house hard enough to make the floorboards hum beneath your sneakers.
The place smelled like cheap beer, cologne, and someone's failed attempt at microwaving pizza.
Three years ago, it would've felt like home.
Freshman you would've already been dancing in the middle of the living room with Allie, dragging strangers into conversations and stealing shots off whoever left them unattended.
Now… You mostly lingered around the edges, nursing the same drink, watching everyone else.
"You've become eighty years old," Allie complained, looping an arm through yours as she tugged you further into the crowd.
"I have an early skate."
"You have an early skate every day."
"I know."
"Exactly."
Hannah appeared beside the two of you, already laughing at something Garrett had whispered in her ear. "You never come out anymore."
"I came out."
"You were forced out."
"I still came."
"When we met, you were the biggest party girl I'd ever seen." Allie gave you an unimpressed look.
"I don't know about biggest."
"You climbed onto a table and started a dance battle with three engineering students."
"They deserved it."
Hannah laughed. "They absolutely did."
"You've lost yourself." Allie squeezed your shoulder.
The words were gentler than they sounded.
"You skate, you study, you sleep and then you do it all again." She tilted her head. “You deserve one night where you're just... you."
You wanted to argue.
Instead...
You stayed.
・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・゜
The first time you saw Dean, he was leaning against the kitchen counter talking to Beau.
His eyes lifted almost instinctively.
Found yours.
Held them.
Neither of you smiled.
Neither of you waved.
Just...
A quiet acknowledgment.
Then someone called his name.
The moment disappeared.
・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・゜
The second time was by the stairs.
You were heading up.
He was coming down.
Both of you slowed just enough that your shoulders almost brushed.
"Hey."
"Hey."
That was all.
Still...
You found yourself thinking about it long after he'd disappeared downstairs.
・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・゜
The third time was across the living room.
People danced between you.
Someone shouted.
Someone spilled beer.
Dean caught your eye for half a second.
Tilted his head ever so slightly.
You mirrored the gesture without thinking.
Then Beau dragged him away.
・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・゜
By midnight, the house felt too warm.
Too loud.
Too crowded.
Hannah had already left with Garrett.
Allie had disappeared upstairs before texting you that Sean was walking her back to the dorms.
You smiled to yourself.
Typical.
Slipping quietly through the back door, you welcomed the cool night air like an old friend.
The deck overlooked the dark yard, strings of fairy lights swaying gently overhead.
Beau sat on the railing, one foot hooked over the lower beam.
He looked up. "There she is."
"There I am."
"You smoke?" He held up a half-finished joint.
"When someone else is generous."
He grinned. "I am nothing if not charitable."
You accepted it, taking a slow drag before passing it back. For a while, you talked about absolutely nothing.
The professor who accidentally locked himself out of the lecture hall.
Garrett's terrible singing.
Beau insisting raccoons would've dominated the planet if they'd evolved thumbs.
By the time you were both laughing over something neither of you would remember tomorrow...
The back door opened again.
Dean stepped outside.
"There you are."
Beau looked over. “What's up?"
"Someone threw a beer bottle through the downstairs bathroom mirror."
"I leave for five minutes..." Beau sighed dramatically.
"They're saying it wasn't one of ours."
"Of course they are."
He hopped down from the railing.
Looking toward you, he jerked a thumb toward the house. "Don't disappear."
"No promises."
"I'll pretend you said yes." With that, he disappeared inside.
Silence settled over the deck again.
Dean wandered over, stopping a respectful distance away.
His eyes drifted toward the joint in your hand. "...Can I?"
You held it out.
He took it carefully, fingertips brushing yours for the briefest second. "Thanks."
He inhaled, holding the smoke for a moment before letting it drift into the cool night.
Neither of you spoke.
The music inside became a distant heartbeat beneath the chirping of crickets.
Dean passed the joint back.
You accepted it.
Another quiet minute slipped by.
Then—
"...Did you really mean what you said?"
Dean glanced sideways.
"The other day."
He frowned thoughtfully. "...Which thing?" A crooked grin spread across his face. "I talk a lot."
A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.
Not polite.
Not restrained.
Real.
It burst out of you, warm and unguarded.
Dean looked over, not laughing himself.
Just...
Watching.
"What?"
He shook his head. "Nothing."
"You've got the face."
"What face?"
"The one where you're thinking something."
His smile softened.
"I think..." He rubbed the back of his neck. "...that's the first time I've heard you laugh."
You blinked.
"I’ve laughed before."
"Not like that."
He looked down at the deck between his feet. "Usually you're laughing at me."
That earned another laugh.
Quieter this time.
He smiled to himself. "There it is again."
The warmth in your chest surprised you.
You took another drag before passing the joint back.
The silence returned.
Only now...
It didn't feel awkward.
Dean stared out into the dark backyard.
Then, almost so quietly you nearly missed it—
"Yeah."
You turned toward him.
"What?"
He kept his eyes forward. “What I said." Another pause. "I meant it."
His fingers rolled the joint absentmindedly between them.
"Every word."
He finally looked at you. "I've never seen anyone disappear into something the way you disappear when you skate."
A faint smile touched his lips. "And..." He shrugged. "I still think it's the truest version of you I've met."
You looked away before he could see how much those words affected you.
The corner of your mouth lifted anyway.
Neither of you said anything else.
You didn't need to.
The joint burned slowly between your fingers as the party carried on inside, the noise muffled by walls and distance.
summary: a night out takes an uncomfortable turn when beau is away for a moment, leaving dean to step in and protect his best friend’s girlfriend
established relationship
warnings: misogynist trying to flirt with/intimidate the reader, reader feels trapped, confrontations, beau and dean are sweethearts though
word count: 5.7k
a/n: based on this request!! i hope this is wat you had in mind :) also, i love protective dean and beau sm
── ᵎᵎ ✦
you should’ve known the night was going too well, though there had been absolutely no reason to think that at the time.
getting the four of you to malone’s had been surprisingly easy. dean and allie had met you and beau there. there had been no argument over where to go, no waiting forty minutes for somebody who claimed they were already on their way, and no last-minute debate about whether malone’s would be too crowded on a friday night.
it was, of course, far too crowded.
by the time you made it through the door, the place was already warm with the press of too many bodies and loud enough that you had to lean close to hear each other properly. music played from somewhere toward the back, nearly swallowed by the noise of overlapping conversations and laughter, while people stood two and three deep around the bar waiting for drinks. every time the front door opened behind you, a brief rush of cold air slipped inside before disappearing almost immediately.
beau’s hand settled against the small of your back before you’d taken more than a few steps.
you hardly noticed it anymore. not because you didn’t like it, but because beau touched you so often that his hand finding you had become as familiar as anything else about him. in crowded places, it was almost guaranteed. his fingers would find yours, or his palm would settle against your back, or he’d hook an arm loosely around your waist while he talked to someone else. sometimes you thought it was less about keeping track of you and more about reassuring himself that you were still there.
you’d never asked him about it. you liked the habit too much to risk making him self-conscious about something he probably didn’t even realize he was doing.
he guided you through the crowd with his hand resting lightly at your waist, glancing back every few steps as though there were any possibility you could’ve disappeared from beneath his palm without him noticing.
“i’m still here,” you said eventually.
beau turned his head toward you, eyebrows pulling together because he hadn’t heard. you leaned closer and repeated yourself, nodding toward the hand at your waist, “you keep checking.”
his expression cleared with understanding. his gaze dropped briefly toward where his palm rested against your side before returning to your face, and for a moment he looked almost sheepish, “people keep pushing past.”
“and?”
“and you’re—” he stopped himself at your raised brows. his mouth opened, then closed again as he apparently reconsidered whatever answer had first occurred to him, “easier to lose in a crowd than me.”
you stared at him for a moment. “that was almost offensive.”
“but it wasn’t.”
“debatable.”
his mouth twitched, but he continued walking, keeping his hand exactly where it had been before. you tried not to smile.
the four of you managed to find a booth tucked against one of the walls near the back of malone’s. it was one of the larger ones, curved around a rectangular table, and for once there was enough space that nobody had to sit half on top of anyone else. allie slid into one side first, dean following her, while you took the opposite side with beau beside you.
you ended up near the wall, which suited you perfectly. beau settled in, stretching one arm along the back of the booth while his knee rested against yours beneath the table. across from you, allie was already shrugging off her jacket while dean attempted to flag down someone for drinks.
the first hour passed easily as conversation wandered without direction. allie told you about something that had happened in one of her classes, dean interrupted often enough that she eventually started ignoring him, and beau spent several minutes pretending not to be interested in the fries someone had ordered before eating more of them than anyone else.
the booth became increasingly cluttered as the night went on, glasses leaving rings of condensation across the table and discarded napkins collecting near the empty basket that had once contained food.
you liked nights like this.
there was something easy about being with the three of them. beau had known dean for so long that half their conversations seemed to rely on context neither you nor allie possessed, while you and allie had become increasingly good at communicating your shared confusion through increasingly expressive looks across the table.
beau stole the lime from your drink and you stared at him as he ate it without the slightest trace of remorse, “that was mine.”
“you were taking too long,” he shrugged.
“i was holding it.”
“exactly.”
you narrowed your eyes before reaching for his drink and taking a deliberately long sip. beau watched you over the rim of the glass, eyebrows slowly lifting, “you have your own.”
you copied his shrug as you took another sip while maintaining eye contact, then set the glass back in front of him.
his mouth twitched, “thief.”
“prove it.”
something warm and amused settled into his expression as he looked at you, and for a second the crowded bar seemed to disappear from his awareness completely. you knew that look. it usually preceded either a kiss or an extremely annoying comment, and judging by the way his gaze briefly dropped to your mouth, you suspected it would be the first.
before he could do either, someone called his name from across the room.
beau glanced over his shoulder, recognition immediately crossing his face. he looked back at you as though considering whether whoever had called him was worth leaving the booth for.
“go,” you said, laughing softly.
“i’ll be right back.”
you nodded, but before he could move away, you caught the front of his shirt and pulled him down far enough to press a quick kiss to his lips.
the smile that appeared was smaller than his usual grin. softer, almost private, despite the fact that you were surrounded by people. his hand briefly squeezed the back of your neck before he straightened and disappeared into the crowd.
you watched him go for a few seconds, following the back of his head until the crowd swallowed him from view. when you turned around again, dean was looking at you from across the table.
you narrowed your eyes. “what?”
“nothing.”
allie glanced at him before looking at you, “he’s judging you.”
“i’m not judging anyone.”
“you have a very judgmental face.”
dean frowned at her, “what does that even mean?”
allie took a sip of her drink rather than answering, and you laughed softly as dean began arguing his case to a girlfriend who had already stopped listening.
the conversation moved on easily after that. you stopped thinking about where beau had gone, knowing he was somewhere nearby and would eventually find his way back to you. he always did.
you were listening to allie tell you something when someone stopped beside the booth.
at first, you assumed he was waiting for somebody to pass. people had been squeezing between the booths and the bar all night, and you barely looked up until a voice interrupted allie halfway through her sentence.
“hey.” the guy standing at the end of the booth looked vaguely familiar, though you couldn’t remember where you’d seen him before. maybe another party, or somewhere on campus. his face was one of those you recognized without being able to attach a name or memory to it.
you gave him a polite smile, “hi.”
he didn’t move. you waited for a moment before turning back toward allie, assuming that was the end of the interaction.
“i know you, don’t i?”
you looked at him again, “i don’t think so.”
“i’ve seen you somewhere.”
you gave a small shrug, “probably around campus.”
he nodded as though that proved something, and the pause that followed lasted a little too long. you became aware of allie watching him from across the table while dean’s attention remained, at least outwardly, on something happening near the bar.
“can i buy you a drink?” the guy asked.
you glanced at beau’s half empty glass sitting in front of you, “i’m good, thanks.”
he followed your gaze. “when you finish that one.”
“still good,” you smiled politely again before turning back toward allie. this time, neither of you immediately resumed your conversation.
the guy remained there, and you could feel it without looking. there was a particular kind of awareness that came with knowing someone was watching you, an uncomfortable pressure between your shoulder blades that made it impossible to return your attention fully to whatever allie had been saying.
after a few seconds, he spoke again, “you got a boyfriend?”
you exhaled quietly through your nose. “yeah.”
“where is he?”
the question irritated you more than it should have. you turned toward him again, one hand still resting around the condensation-slick glass in front of you, “somewhere over there.”
the guy glanced toward the crowded room before looking back at you, “he left you here by yourself?”
you stared at him before looking deliberately across the table at allie and dean, “clearly.”
allie’s mouth twitched, though she quickly hid it behind her glass. the guy didn’t seem to notice, but dean did.
you caught the briefest shift in his expression before he looked away again, and you knew him well enough by now to understand what it meant. he was listening.
that realization didn’t bother you. if anything, it gave you the strange comfort of knowing somebody else had noticed without the annoyance of having them immediately take over.
dean knew you could handle yourself.
you and he had argued enough over the years for him to know that better than most. he had seen you annoyed, furious, stubborn and unreasonable. he had also been on the receiving end of all four often enough to know that stepping into an argument you were perfectly capable of handling would only earn him your irritation as well.
so he stayed where he was, but he listened.
“what’s your name?” the guy asked.
“does it matter?”
his smile faltered slightly, “i’m trying to be friendly.”
“and i’m trying to talk to my friend.” the words came out more sharply than you’d intended, but you couldn’t bring yourself to regret them.
something in the guy’s posture changed, “you always this rude?”
you stared at him for a second, “i said no to a drink.”
“i heard you.”
“then i’m not sure what we’re still talking about.”
a silence settled around the booth that had nothing to do with the noise of malone’s. the rest of the bar continued around you, music playing and people laughing only a foot away, but your attention had narrowed to the man standing at the edge of the table.
he looked irritated now. not embarrassed or disappointed, but genuinely irritated, as though you’d broken some unspoken rule by refusing to participate in a conversation you had never asked to have, “you don’t have to be a bitch about it.”
allie’s expression changed immediately. you felt your temper flare before common sense had a chance to catch up, “and you don’t have to still be standing here.”
across the table, dean went very still. he hadn’t said anything, and he wasn’t even looking directly at the guy yet, but the awareness between them was immediate, “you got something to say?” the guy asked.
dean finally looked at him, “no.”
the answer was so simple that the guy seemed almost disappointed by it. you looked back at him, “great. are we done now?”
his attention returned to you, “you think you’re funny?”
“no.”
“could’ve fooled me.”
you frowned, your patience almost entirely gone by then, “what do you want?”
“nothing now.”
“then go.”
that was when something changed.
you saw it before he moved, though later you wouldn’t have been able to explain exactly what you had noticed. maybe it was the tightening of his jaw, or the way his shoulders shifted forward, or the sudden disappearance of whatever thin layer of friendliness he’d been pretending to have.
he stepped closer to the booth and the irritation inside you vanished so quickly it left you cold.
until that moment, you’d been angry and annoyed. completely certain that, however unpleasant the interaction was, it was still only an argument. you’d dealt with men like him before, the kind who treated rejection as the opening of a negotiation rather than the end of a conversation, and you had never particularly struggled to tell them exactly what you thought.
suddenly, you weren’t so sure that was all this was.
you became acutely aware of where you were sitting. against the wall, with the table in front of you and the stranger standing at the only open end of your side of the booth.
for the first time since he’d walked over, you felt trapped.
the realization must have shown on your face. you didn’t know how. maybe your eyes widened slightly, or your shoulders tensed, or you simply stopped arguing. whatever it was, dean saw it.
his reaction was immediate, because he was out of the booth before you fully registered that he’d moved, crossing around the end of the table and stepping directly between the stranger and your side of the booth, “back up.”
his voice was calm, and something about that calmness changed the atmosphere immediately. you’d seen dean loud before. everyone had. he was loud when he was annoyed, competitive, amused, or losing an argument he insisted he was winning.
this was different.
allie knew it too. you could tell from the way she had gone still across the booth, watching him carefully without attempting to interfere. there was no alarm in her expression, only attention. she knew him well enough to recognize that the absence of his usual theatrics meant he was genuinely angry.
the guy scoffed, “we were talking.”
“she’s done talking.”
“she can tell me that.”
dean was silent for a second, “she did.”
there was nothing clever in the response and no attempt to make the moment into something it wasn’t. dean simply stood there, broad shoulders blocking your view of the man almost entirely.
the guy tried to look past him, but dean shifted so he covered you.
“move.”
dean didn’t, “you need to leave.”
the guy laughed under his breath, “or what?”
dean watched him for a moment, his expression unreadable from where you were sitting. the silence stretched for several seconds, though it probably felt longer than it actually was.
“you were comfortable enough when it was her sitting there,” he said eventually, his voice still quiet. “now somebody your own size is standing here and you want to make it a fight.”
the guy’s jaw tightened. dean tilted his head slightly, “doesn’t look great.”
the words weren’t particularly threatening. that was probably what made them land. the guy glanced around at the people at nearby booths who had begun to notice, and the attention seemed to drain some of the confidence from his posture.
he muttered something you couldn’t hear before finally stepping away.
dean watched him disappear into the crowd. he waited longer than necessary, eyes fixed in the direction the stranger had gone, before finally turning back toward you.
the change in his expression was immediate. whatever coldness had been there disappeared, “you good?”
you nodded automatically, “yeah.”
dean looked at you for a long moment.
“i’m fine.”
he didn’t call you a liar, though you suspected he wanted to. instead, he looked toward allie, and something passed silently between them, the kind of easy communication that came from knowing someone well enough not to need words for everything.
allie gave a small nod before dean slid into your side of the booth.
you moved closer to the wall to make room, and he settled beside you in the space beau had left behind. across the table, allie stayed where she was, though her attention remained on the two of you for a few seconds longer.
dean didn’t crowd you. he didn’t put an arm around you or ask again whether you were all right. he simply sat beside you, close enough that his shoulder rested lightly against yours, his presence creating a solid barrier between you and the rest of the room.
across the table, allie picked up her drink and looked at you with deliberate casualness, “do you remember what i was saying before?”
you blinked, “something about your professor?”
“close enough,” she continued her story anyway.
you loved her for that. she spoke normally, picking up somewhere in the middle of whatever she’d been telling you before, and after a moment dean added a quiet comment that made her roll her eyes.
neither of them looked at you too closely. neither of them asked if you wanted to leave. they simply gave you time to stop feeling like your heart was beating somewhere in your throat.
you leaned back against the booth and let their voices wash over you. dean’s shoulder remained against yours, the occasional movement reminding you that he was still there without forcing you to acknowledge why.
you’d known him through beau first.
for a long time, that was how you’d thought of him. beau’s friend. beau’s teammate. one of the people who occupied so much space in the stories beau told you that you’d felt like you knew him before the two of you had ever had a proper conversation.
somewhere along the way, that had changed, because dean had become your friend too.
he annoyed you. frequently. he stole food off your plate without asking and disagreed with you on principle whenever he was bored. but he also remembered your coffee order after hearing it once and texted you whenever beau left his phone somewhere stupid. he treated you like someone who belonged in his life rather than somebody he tolerated because you were dating his friend.
you hadn’t really thought about what that meant until now.
dean had known you could handle yourself. he’d waited because he respected that. and then, the second you couldn’t, he’d been there.
a few minutes later, you saw allie’s attention move toward the crowd. her expression softened slightly as her eyes settled on something, “beau’s coming back.”
your stomach tightened.
dean looked toward the crowd, then at you, and you knew from the brief pause that he was waiting to see what you wanted to do. he didn’t ask, though. he simply remained beside you, his shoulder still resting lightly against yours, while allie watched beau make his way through the crowd.
you didn’t have time to decide what expression to put on your face before he reached the booth.
at first, beau looked relaxed. there was still a faint smile on his face from whatever conversation had kept him away for so long. then his eyes found you, moved to dean sitting beside you, and returned immediately to your face.
the smile disappeared and you saw the exact moment he understood that something was wrong, “what happened?” his voice was quiet, but the question came without hesitation. you shook your head almost instinctively, “i’m fine.”
beau’s gaze remained on you for another second before shifting toward dean.
dean didn’t answer for you. instead, he stood. the movement was unhurried, and his hand touched your shoulder briefly as he moved away, an absent gesture you doubted he had consciously thought about. he walked around the table and slid back into the booth beside allie, who shifted closer to the wall to make room for him.
the space beside you was empty again. beau looked at it, then at you, before sliding into the booth.
the moment he sat down, his body angled toward yours as much as the table allowed. one knee pressed against yours beneath it, and his hand settled lightly against your thigh, warm even through the fabric of your clothes.
he didn’t look across the table again, “tell me.”
there was nothing demanding in the words. if anything, the quietness of his voice made the knot in your chest pull tighter.
you looked down at his hand for a moment, gathering your thoughts. the whole interaction had lasted only a few minutes, but trying to explain it now made it feel strangely complicated.
“this guy came over while you were gone,” you began. “he was trying to buy me a drink, and i told him i wasn’t interested.”
beau’s thumb moved once against your thigh, but otherwise he remained completely still.
“he kept talking to me after that. asking where you were and things like that.” you paused, suddenly uncomfortable beneath the weight of beau’s attention, “i told him to leave. he got annoyed.”
you could see beau trying very hard not to interrupt, the effort was written across his face, “how annoyed?”
you hesitated, “he called me a bitch.”
beau’s jaw tightened. you felt the change beneath your hand where it had come to rest over his. the tension that moved through him was subtle, but immediate. across the table, dean leaned back against the booth, watching the two of you without saying anything.
“that’s when dean got up,” you continued. “he made him leave.”
beau’s eyes moved across the table. dean gave a slight shrug, as though the entire thing had been considerably less important than it actually had. “she’s skipping a bit,” he said.
you frowned, “i’m not skipping anything.”
dean looked at you, “you are.”
“i told him what happened.”
“you gave him the edited version.”
you felt beau’s attention shift back to you, “there’s an edited version?”
“no.”
“yes,” dean said at the same time.
you looked across the table at him, “whose side are you on?”
dean’s eyebrows lifted slightly, “not really a sides thing.”
allie rested her chin against her hand, watching the exchange. she had been quiet since beau returned, but you caught the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth.
you turned back toward beau and found him waiting. a sigh escaped your lips, “i got a little scared. that’s all.”
beau’s expression changed. the anger didn’t disappear, but something else moved over it. concern, quieter and heavier, settling into the crease between his eyebrows.
before he could say anything, dean spoke again, “she couldn’t get out.”
you looked at him, but his expression was no longer teasing, “he was standing at the end of the booth,” he explained, looking at beau now. “table in front of her, wall behind her. when he moved closer, she was boxed in.”
the words made your stomach tighten all over again. hearing it described that plainly was different from remembering it. you had known, in the moment, that there was nowhere for you to go, but you hadn’t put it into words even inside your own head.
beau’s hand stilled beneath yours, “did he touch you?”
“no,” you said immediately, “he didn’t. dean got there before he could,” you added.
something passed across beau’s face at that, too quick for you to identify. his eyes moved toward dean again.
“he wasn’t going to,” dean said, his voice matter-of-fact, “not after i got over there.”
beau looked at him for a moment, before his attention returned to you. his expression softened slightly, though the tension hadn’t left his shoulders.
“it was just for a second, babe,” you tried to reassure him, but you knew he didn’t believe that was the entire truth.
his hand moved from beneath yours. for half a second, you thought he was going to try and find the guy. instead, he reached beneath the table and took your hand properly, threading his fingers through yours. the familiarity of the movement made something inside your chest loosen before you could stop it.
“i’m here now,” he said quietly.
there was anger in his face. you could see it in the tension around his mouth and the way his jaw tightened every few seconds, but he wasn’t making it yours to deal with. he wasn’t demanding a description of the guy or asking why you hadn’t come to find him. he wasn’t telling you what you should have done differently or turning what had happened into a reason for you to comfort him.
he simply held your hand, and as his thumb moved slowly across your knuckles, you found you hadn’t realized how badly you’d wanted him back until then.
your shoulders loosened slightly and beau noticed. of course he did.
he let go of your hand to move his arm along the back of the booth behind you, and you shifted toward him before he even had to ask. the moment you leaned into his side, his arm settled around your shoulders and drew you closer.
you rested your head against him, letting yourself sink into the familiar warmth of his side. beau’s arm tightened around your shoulders almost immediately, drawing you closer until there was barely any space left between you, while beneath the table, his other hand remained wrapped around yours.
for a while, nobody spoke. across the table, dean had settled back beside allie, one arm resting behind her while she leaned into the corner of the booth. beau looked up, and his eyes met dean’s over the table.
the exchange lasted only a few seconds. beau gave a small nod, something quiet and serious passing over his expression, and dean returned it just as subtly. neither of them said anything, but you understood enough anyway.
beau knew exactly what dean had done. and dean, apparently, didn’t think it required discussion.
you closed your eyes briefly as beau’s fingers moved against your shoulder in slow, absent strokes. the adrenaline that had been sitting beneath your skin was beginning to fade now, leaving you tired in its place, and you let yourself concentrate on the small things instead: the warmth of his body beside yours, the weight of his arm around you, the familiar movement of his thumb brushing over your hand beneath the table.
you hadn’t realized how tense you still were until you felt yourself slowly beginning to relax.
after a while, beau lowered his head and pressed his lips to the top of yours. the kiss lingered for a second before he spoke, his voice quiet enough that the words stayed between the two of you despite dean and allie sitting only a few feet away, “i leave for ten minutes.”
the comment was so characteristically him that a soft laugh escaped you before you could stop it. you turned your face slightly into his chest, hiding the small smile that had finally begun to appear, “it was longer than ten minutes.”
you felt him shift beside you, “was it?”
you lifted your head enough to look at him, “mhmm.”
beau seemed to consider that for a moment before his mouth twisted, “shit.”
another laugh slipped out of you, quieter than the first but easier this time. something in beau’s expression softened at the sound, though the concern hadn’t entirely disappeared from his face. it was still there in the slight crease between his eyebrows and the careful way his eyes moved over yours, as though he were checking for something you might not be telling him.
you knew that look, “i’m fine,” you told him.
“i know,” his answer came easily, but his thumb continued moving over the back of your hand.
you studied him for a moment, “really.”
he nodded again, but you didn’t believe him. or, more accurately, you believed that he believed you were fine now. that didn’t mean he had stopped thinking about what had happened before he came back.
the tension in his jaw gave him away. you narrowed your eyes slightly, “you look like you want to kill someone.”
beau’s eyebrows lifted, “i don’t.”
you continued looking at him and he lasted approximately three seconds before sighing, “fine. i’m annoyed.”
“annoyed,” you repeated, unconvinced.
“very annoyed.”
you waited with raised brows. beau looked at your expression and amended, “extremely annoyed.”
“better.” you smiled before you could stop yourself, and some of the remaining tension in his expression finally eased when he saw it. his eyes stayed on your face for another moment before he shook his head slightly and pulled you closer again.
you settled back against his side, and this time the movement came more easily. some of the last tension in your chest went with it.
you though back to the quiet exchange between beau and dean. it was something that made warmth press unexpectedly against the lingering discomfort in your chest.
beau trusted dean.
not just with football or parties or whatever other stupid things they’d gotten into together over the years. with you.
and dean had treated that trust like the most natural thing in the world. not as an obligation, or a favor he would need thanking for. it was just something he did because beau loved you and, somewhere along the way, dean had decided that meant you were his person too.
beau’s thumb continued its slow movement over your shoulder, and you let yourself sit there for another minute before he spoke again. his voice was quieter this time, all traces of humor gone, “do you want to leave?”
you thought about it; you were still shaken. you could admit that to yourself now. every so often, the memory of the stranger stepping closer returned without warning, bringing that same cold feeling into your stomach. but the thought of leaving made the whole thing feel bigger somehow, as though one unpleasant stranger had managed to take the entire night from you.
you shook your head, “not yet.”
beau nodded, his expression giving away nothing but acceptance, “then we’ll stay.”
there was no hesitation and no attempt to change your mind. he simply settled back into the booth and kept his arm around you.
across the table, allie seemed to sense that the moment had passed. she waited another few seconds before starting her story over from the beginning, apparently deciding that none of you had been paying enough attention the first time.
dean frowned, “didn’t you just just tell this story?”
allie looked at him, “nobody was listening.”
“i was.”
“what was i talking about?”
dean opened his mouth, then closed it again.
allie nodded, “exactly.”
a quiet laugh escaped you, and beau’s attention immediately dropped toward you. the corner of his mouth lifted, and his softly squeezed your shoulder once before he turned his attention back to the conversation, though his arm remained securely around you.
you still felt the remnants of adrenaline beneath your skin, and every so often your attention flicked toward the crowd without permission. you caught yourself searching faces you didn’t recognize, checking the spaces between groups of people before you could stop yourself.
each time, beau’s thumb moved gently against your shoulder. you weren’t sure if he noticed you doing it, but you suspected he did.
after a while, dean caught your eye from across the table. you held his gaze for a second, then mouthed a quiet, thank you.
his expression tightened with immediate discomfort, causing you to almost smile. dean had never seemed like somebody who enjoyed sincere emotion being directed at him.
he gave you a brief nod though, and immediately reached for allie’s drink. she moved it out of reach without even looking at him, “no.”
“i didn’t do anything.”
“you were going to.”
“you don’t know that.”
allie finally looked at him, “i absolutely do.”
dean leaned back in the booth, looking unfairly accused.
you looked at beau. he was already looking at you. something passed between you, a flicker of shared amusement that needed no explanation.
the four of you stayed at malone’s for another hour. conversation never returned entirely to what it had been before, but it came close. allie eventually finished her story, dean continued to insist that he had been listening the first time, and beau absentmindedly pushed his glass towards you so you could finish what you’d started.
when you finally left, the cold air outside hit your face hard enough to make you inhale sharply. after the warmth of malone’s, the night felt almost startlingly clear, the sounds of the bar dulling as the door closed behind you.
beau immediately wrapped his arm around your shoulders as the four of you started down the sidewalk. dean and allie walked a few steps ahead. allie slipped her hand into his, and he glanced down at her before adjusting his pace to match hers.
after a minute, dean looked back. his eyes moved over you, then beau. apparently satisfied, he turned forward again and you smiled to yourself.
the night hadn’t gone the way any of you had expected. your heart still beat a little faster when you thought about the moment the stranger’s expression had changed, and you suspected it would take a while before the memory stopped making something unpleasant twist in your stomach.
but beau was beside you, warm and solid, his arm wrapped around you.
a few steps ahead, dean was listening to allie talk, occasionally turning his head toward her as she spoke. she said something that made him laugh, then shoved his shoulder when he apparently responded with the wrong thing.
a couple minutes later, dean glanced back at you one more time. it was only briefly, but you understood then, perhaps more clearly than you had before, why beau loved him like a brother.
it wasn’t because dean was particularly good at saying the right thing. he usually wasn’t. it wasn’t because he made grand gestures or turned friendship into something that needed to be announced.
it was knowing when to stay out of the way and when to step in. it was sitting beside someone without demanding they explain how they felt. it was looking back over your shoulder once, then again, just to make sure the people you cared about were still there.
beau’s thumb moved across your shoulder and when you looked up at him he was already watching you. his eyebrows lifted slightly in a silent question, and this time you didn’t tell him it was nothing. you only moved a little closer and something in his expression softened.
you knew then, that you weren’t alone; you’d never been, and you never would be.
i ❤️ liverpool @liverpoollover20 - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
