Sunset Strip

Avril |She/Her |27

[kooksandpearls]

garrett graham ❄︎ hydration police.

pairing – garrett graham x reader summary – garrett's girlfriend is drunk, freezing, and extremely loyal. so loyal, in fact, that she refuses his water, his jacket, and his flirting because she’s waiting for… garrett graham. warnings – fluff, drunk antics, alcohol, post-game party, protective boyfriend garrett, reader doesn't recognise him for most of the fic notes from me – part of my 1k celebrations!! & based on this request!! thank u anon, such a cute idea 🥹 word count – 4.4k

navigation – masterlist | taglist

There was two versions of Garrett Graham. The version people got in the rink, all sharp focus and captain voice and that very specific game-day intensity that made even strangers in the stands start sitting a little straighter when he skated past. 

Then there was the version people got after he’d won, showered, changed, and been handed exactly two beers at a party by Logan, who had called it recovery hydration with the confidence of a man who had never once been trusted by medical professionals.

That Garrett was looser. Warmer. Still tired in the shoulders, still carrying the ache of a hard check somewhere along his ribs, but smiling more easily now, head tipped back while Tucker said something dry beside him and Dean yelled over the music from the kitchen like volume could make a story better. 

His hair was still damp at the edges from his post-game shower, curling slightly where he’d shoved his hand through it too many times, and the dark blue Briar letterman jacket had stayed on for maybe twelve minutes before the house got too hot and he dumped it over the back of a chair.

He was, by every reasonable standard, doing great. His girlfriend was not. His girlfriend had arrived at the party with Allie and a plan that had included one drink, maybe two, and absolutely no consideration for the fact that girls pouring vodka cranberries in hockey houses tended to treat measurements as a loose concept. 

Garrett had been across the living room when she’d taken the first one. He’d been in the kitchen with Tucker when she’d finished the second. By the time he saw her again, she was standing near the bottom of the stairs with one hand wrapped around a red cup, smiling at something Allie said with the bright, floaty concentration of a girl whose whole body had started operating on a two-second delay.

He could notice a winger drifting out of formation from half a rink away with two guys trying to take his head off. He could absolutely notice his girlfriend blinking too slowly under the hallway light, her cheeks warm from alcohol and the heat of too many bodies packed into the house, her mouth glossy and parted slightly like she kept forgetting whether she was meant to be talking or laughing. 

She looked happy, which helped. Loose and giggly and pleased. But she also kept shifting her weight like the floor had become more wobbly than usual, and Garrett had not fought for his life against Harvard’s second line that afternoon just to let his girlfriend get taken out by hardwood.

So he left Logan mid-sentence. Logan didn’t even pretend to be offended. He just followed Garrett’s line of sight, saw her trying to drink from the cup and missing her mouth by half an inch, and winced. “Oh, buddy.”

Garrett pointed at him without looking back. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

“I was gonna say she looks graceful.”

“Die.”

Garrett crossed the room with the easy confidence of someone everyone automatically moved for, red cup of water in hand because Tucker, thank God, had seen the situation unfolding and passed it over like a medic on a battlefield. 

She didn’t see Garrett coming. She was too busy nodding very seriously at Allie, who was holding both her hands and saying something that involved the words no, babe, I’m so serious and eyebrow blindness.

Garrett stepped into her space, close enough that his knee brushed hers. “Hey, baby.”

She turned toward him. For one beautiful second, her face went blank. Then her entire expression rearranged itself into scandalised horror.

“Excuse you,” she said, pulling herself up to her full height, which was less effective than usual because she swayed slightly at the top and had to catch Allie’s wrist. “I have a boyfriend.”

Garrett blinked.

Allie made a noise like she’d swallowed a firework. Garrett looked at his girlfriend. His girlfriend looked back at him with genuine, drunken offence, like he’d approached her in a bar wearing a leather bracelet and too much confidence.

“Uh huh,” he said slowly, because there were moments in life that required leadership and moments that required not laughing directly in the face of the girl you loved while she was doing her best. “That’s great.”

“It is great,” she said, lifting her chin. “He’s very tall.”

Garrett’s mouth twitched. “Good for him.”

“And he plays hockey.”

“No shit?”

“And he’s, like, really good at it.”

Allie had turned away now, one hand clamped over her mouth, shoulders shaking. Garrett refused to look at her because if he did, he was going to lose it, and that felt like the sort of thing his girlfriend would interpret as disrespect from a strange man at a party, which apparently he was now.

He held out the cup. “Can you drink some water for me?”

Her eyes narrowed. Suspicious. Wobbly. Deeply loyal to the absent boyfriend currently standing less than a foot in front of her. “Why?”

“Because you’re drunk.”

“I’m not drunk.”

“Baby.”

Her mouth dropped open. “Don’t call me baby.”

“Right. Sorry.” He pressed his tongue to the inside of his cheek, nodding with a level of solemnity he absolutely did not feel. “My bad.”

“My boyfriend calls me baby.”

“Does he?”

“Yes.”

“Sounds annoying.”

“He’s not annoying.” She frowned at him with such force that it seemed to briefly take all her balance with it. Garrett’s free hand shot out to her waist before she could tip sideways into Allie. She looked down at it, then back up at him, appalled. “Don’t touch my waist.”

Garrett removed his hand at once, palms lifting. “Alright.”

Allie, still dying, leaned in and said, “Babe, maybe just drink the water.”

She looked betrayed. “You’re taking his side?”

“I’m taking hydration’s side.”

Garrett offered the cup again. “Just a couple sips.”

She stared at him for another second, clearly weighing the moral implications of accepting water from a man who looked suspiciously like her boyfriend but who she had, for reasons unclear to everyone except the vodka, decided was not. 

Finally, she took the cup with great caution, like he might use the transfer to propose something criminal, and drank.

Garrett watched her swallow three obedient little sips, then nodded. “Good girl.”

The look she gave him could have killed a weaker man. “Nope.”

“Right. Yep. Forgot.”

“My boyfriend says that.”

“Bet he does,” Garrett muttered.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

She handed the cup back, pleased with herself and still indignant, and then immediately turned toward Allie like the conversation had been handled.

Garrett stood there for half a second, holding the water, staring at the side of her face.

Dean appeared beside him like he had been summoned by humiliation itself. “Hey, man.”

Garrett didn’t look over. “Do not.”

Dean’s grin was audible. “She knows you’re her boyfriend, right?”

“She’s drunk.”

“She just told you she has a boyfriend.”

“Yeah, Dean, I was here.”

Dean leaned around him to look at her, delighted. “This is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Garrett finally turned his head and gave him a flat look. “That’s sad.”

“No, what’s sad is getting rejected by your own girlfriend.” Dean clapped him once on the shoulder and immediately stepped out of reach. “Tough shift, captain.”

Garrett pointed at him. “I will put you through a wall.”

“Wow.” Dean called over his shoulder, already retreating. “Her boyfriend would never.”

Garrett took a slow breath through his nose and looked back at her. She was laughing at something Allie said now, one hand pressed to her own chest, head tipping forward so her hair fell around her face. 

She looked ridiculous. Beautiful and unsteady and way too warm in the cheeks, standing under the hallway light like the world had gone pleasantly fuzzy and she trusted it not to hurt her because she hadn’t yet noticed Garrett had been replaced by some guy bothering her with cups.

His annoyance softened before it could become anything real. Fine. He could work with this.

For the next twenty minutes, Garrett kept orbiting. That was the only word for it. He didn’t hover, because hovering would get him accused of being controlling by Dean, and probably by her if she remembered how to form an argument. 

He orbited. Close enough to keep an eye on her, far enough that she didn’t look up and accuse him of trying to steal girlfriend privileges from Garrett Graham, who was both beloved and missing.

She danced with Allie in the living room, mostly from the waist up because her coordination had started giving its two weeks’ notice. 

She complimented Tucker’s shirt with extreme sincerity even though Tucker was wearing the same plain black t-shirt he wore to every party. 

She told Logan he looked so tall tonight, which made Logan look down at himself like height might have happened recently and without his permission.

Garrett found her again near the back door, rubbing both hands over her bare arms.

The house was hot, but the door kept swinging open whenever someone stepped out to smoke or yell into the yard, letting in cold spring air that slipped over her skin and made her shoulders inch up toward her ears. 

Garrett saw the little shiver move through her before she did. He grabbed his letterman jacket off the chair and came up behind her, careful this time, no hands first. Just the jacket, warm from the room and heavy with him, settled over her shoulders.

“There,” he said, low near her ear. “You’re cold.”

She froze.

Garrett closed his eyes for one second. “Please don’t.”

She shrugged the jacket off so fast it nearly hit the floor. Garrett caught it by the collar.

“Nope,” she said.

“Baby.”

Her head snapped around. “I said no.”

Garrett looked at the ceiling. The ceiling offered no help. “You’re shivering.”

“I only wear my boyfriend’s jacket.”

“This is your boyfriend’s jacket.”

“No, it’s not.”

“It literally has my name on it.”

She squinted at the embroidered Graham on the chest like letters were a personal challenge. “Lots of people are named Graham.”

“Not on this team.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do, actually. I’m the captain.”

Her face twisted with immediate doubt, like that was exactly the sort of lie a jacket predator would tell at a party. “You’re the captain?”

Garrett stared at her. “Oh my God.”

From the couch, Logan made a strangled sound into his beer.

She pointed at Garrett’s chest, very serious now. “My boyfriend is the captain.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard great things.”

“He’s very hot.”

“Is he?”

“So hot,” she said, and then sighed, soft and dramatic and so genuinely fond that Garrett’s irritation had nowhere to land. “Like, stupid hot. It’s actually kind of annoying.”

Garrett’s face moved before he could stop it, warmth pulling at his mouth. “Yeah?”

She nodded. “And he has really nice hands.”

Logan choked.

Garrett didn’t look away from her. “Good hands are important.”

“They are,” she agreed solemnly. “And he’s not some random guy trying to give girls jackets.”

“Right.” He held up the jacket between them, helpless now. “Can I just–”

“No thank you.”

“You’re gonna freeze.”

“I’ll wait for Garrett.”

“You do that,” he said, because love was standing in a hockey house holding your own jacket while your drunk girlfriend faithfully rejected you on your own behalf. “Sounds like a plan.”

She smiled at him then, bright and polite. “Thank you for understanding.”

Garrett looked at her for a long moment, then at the jacket, then back at her. “Anytime.”

He walked away to the sound of Logan losing the fight against laughter so badly he had to bend over his own knees.

“You’re not helping,” Garrett said.

Logan wiped under one eye. “I’m sorry, man, but she’s loyal as hell.”

“She thinks I’m a stranger.”

“She thinks you’re a stranger with bad intentions. There’s a difference.”

“Great. That makes it better.”

Tucker came up beside them, looking far too amused for somebody usually committed to being the reasonable one. “You know, technically, this is a very good sign for your relationship.”

Garrett gave him a look. “Don’t start.”

“She’s hammered and still refusing men for you.”

“She refused me.”

“Exactly. Nobody is safe.”

Dean reappeared then, because joy, unfortunately, had a way of finding him. “I just heard she wouldn’t wear your jacket.”

Garrett’s jaw tightened. “You heard wrong.”

Dean grinned. “Did I?”

“I’m gonna kill you before playoffs.”

“No, you’re not. You’re too busy getting friend-zoned by your girlfriend.”

Garrett shoved him in the chest. Dean laughed all the way into the kitchen.

By the time Garrett found her again, she had somehow migrated to the old armchair near the stairs, sitting sideways with her knees tucked up and Dean perched on the arm like some kind of terrible emotional support animal. 

Her bare arms were folded tight over her chest now, because she was still cold and still deeply committed to jacket monogamy. Her face had changed too. Gone softer around the edges, bottom lip pushed out, all the earlier moral outrage curdled into something wounded and grumpy.

Garrett stopped a few feet away. Dean saw him first and his grin turned wicked. “Oh, thank God.”

She frowned up at Dean. “What?”

“Nothing.” Dean patted the top of the chair. “Your night’s about to improve.”

She slumped deeper into the cushion, still looking at Dean. “I haven’t seen Garrett all night.”

Garrett blinked.

Dean pressed his lips together so hard his whole face went strange.

She kept going, mournful now, eyes glossy from alcohol and the kind of drama that only really existed after midnight in a crowded house. “He’s, like, disappeared.”

Garrett slowly looked at Dean.

“He had a game,” she said, to no one in particular, or maybe to Dean’s knee. “And I wanted to tell him he played really good.”

“He knows,” Dean said, voice suspiciously tight.

“No, but I wanted to tell him.” She rubbed at one eye with the heel of her hand, then stopped halfway as if remembering makeup existed. “And there’s this guy who keeps talking to me.”

Garrett’s eyebrows went up.

Dean made direct eye contact with him and looked like he might actually pass away.

“He keeps calling me baby,” she muttered. “And trying to make me drink water.”

Garrett bit the inside of his cheek.

“Sounds awful,” Dean managed.

“So annoying,” she said. “Like, okay, hydration police. I have a boyfriend.”

Garrett stepped closer then, because there were only so many times a man could be called the hydration police by the love of his life before he had to intervene. “Hey, baby.”

Her head lifted. The transformation was immediate and almost violent. Her whole face opened, bright and relieved and suddenly so happy to see him that it genuinely knocked the joke sideways in his chest. “Garrett!”

He froze. “Hi?”

“Baby!” She reached both arms out toward him from the chair, nearly tipping herself forward in the process. Garrett crossed the last step fast and caught her by the hands before she could slide off the cushion. “Hi.”

“Hi,” he said again, slower this time, looking down at her. “You recognise me now?”

She frowned like he’d said something deeply strange. “What are you talking about?”

Dean made a sound that might have been a cough if he had not immediately turned away with his shoulders shaking.

Garrett stared at her. “Nothing.”

She squeezed his face, delighted and fully unaware of the damage she’d caused him tonight. “I missed you.”

His mouth softened despite himself. “Yeah?”

“Yes.” She tugged at him, needy and uncoordinated, until he stepped properly between her legs where she’d moved to sit properly in the chair. Her knees bracketed his thighs, her fingers curling in the front of his shirt like now that she had found him, she intended to physically prevent further abandonment. “You were gone for so long.”

Garrett looked at her for one second, then over her head at Dean, who was wiping tears out of the corner of his eye. “I was around.”

She shook her head, very firm. “No.”

“No?”

“No. There was just this guy.”

Garrett nodded, face serious. “Right. The water guy.”

She gasped softly, looking up at him with genuine alarm. “You saw him?”

Dean slid off the arm of the chair. “I need to go tell Logan something immediately.”

Garrett didn’t even try to stop him. His hands had settled at her waist now, thumbs pressing lightly over the fabric of her top because she was still swaying in tiny increments even while sitting down. “Yeah, baby, I saw him.”

“You should talk to him.”

“Oh, I should?”

“Yes.” Her voice dropped into a whisper that wasn’t remotely quiet. “He was flirting with me.”

Garrett’s eyes flicked over her face. “Was he?”

“He kept calling me baby.”

“That’s crazy.”

“And he tried to give me his jacket.”

“What a dick.”

She nodded, relieved that he understood the severity. “I know.”

Garrett’s grin finally broke free, slow and helpless. He stepped closer until her forehead could tip against his stomach, and when it did, she sighed like the entire night had been restored to its proper axis by the smell of his shirt. 

He looked down at the crown of her head, at the way her hands had found the hem of his t-shirt and held on loosely, and brushed his fingers once over the back of her hair.

She had rejected him all night. She had accused him of being a stranger, declined his water on principle, refused his jacket with the ferocity of a woman defending a sacred oath, and still somehow the inside of him went soft at the way she leaned into him now, trusting and warm and gone enough to be ridiculous but not gone enough to forget where she wanted to end up.

“Baby,” he murmured.

“Mhm?”

“You wanna get outta here?”

Her head lifted at once. “Yes, please.”

“Yeah?” He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, watching the way her eyes followed his face now with no suspicion at all. “You done?”

“So done.” She nodded, then winced faintly at the motion like her brain had moved one direction and her skull another. “Can we go home?”

“Yeah, we can go home.”

“And maybe get McDonald’s?”

Garrett laughed under his breath, and the sound made her smile like she’d won something. “Sure, baby.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. But you gotta stand up first.”

She looked down at her own legs with sudden doubt. “Okay.”

“Confident.”

“I can do it.”

“I know you can.” He took both her hands and backed up half a step, giving her room. “Come on. Up we go.”

She stood with the intense focus of someone attempting a field sobriety test on a ship. Garrett’s hands went to her waist at once, steadying her as her knees straightened and her body tipped forward into his. 

He didn’t make a show of it. Didn’t laugh when she grabbed his forearms and blinked hard at the room. He only held her until she found the floor again, fingers spread warm and firm at her sides.

“There we go,” he said softly. “You good?”

She nodded, then thought about it. “Mostly.”

“Mostly works.” He leaned around her just enough to grab his letterman jacket from the back of the chair “Can I put this on you now, or are we still being loyal to your boyfriend?”

She looked at the jacket. Then up at him. Then back at the jacket.

“That’s yours,” she said, like he was the one struggling to keep up.

Garrett pressed his lips together. “Yeah.”

She smiled, sweet and pleased. “Okay.”

He slid it over her shoulders. This time she pushed her arms into the sleeves with immediate enthusiasm, even though they swallowed her hands completely. 

Garrett zipped it halfway because she was too busy smelling the collar with a happy little hum that did absolutely nothing for his ability to remain normal.

“You smell good,” she told him.

“Thanks.”

“Like Garrett.”

“Crazy coincidence.”

She nodded, accepting that, and slipped her hand into his when he offered it. Her fingers were warm and clumsy between his, squeezing twice like she was checking he was real. He squeezed back once and started guiding her through the house.

The party kept moving around them. Someone called his name from the kitchen and Garrett lifted his free hand without stopping. Logan appeared near the doorway, took one look at them, and grinned.

“She found you,” he said.

Garrett pointed at him. “Not a word.”

She turned toward Logan, solemn and slightly off-balance. “There was a guy bothering me all night.”

Logan’s mouth opened. Closed. He looked at Garrett, then back at her. “No way.”

She nodded. “Way.”

Garrett kept walking. “Let’s go.”

Behind them, Logan said, “Hope your boyfriend handles that.”

She turned around while still moving, which forced Garrett to catch her by the waist and redirect her like a shopping cart with a bad wheel. “He will!”

“I’m sure he will,” Logan called, voice cracking around laughter.

Outside, the cold hit her properly. She shrank into the jacket at once, shoulders rising, Garrett’s hand still wrapped around hers while they moved down the front steps and along the path toward his car. 

The night was damp and dark around the edges, grass glittering faintly under the porch light, the music dulling behind the shut door until it became a pulse more than a song. She walked close to him, not quite straight, occasionally bumping into his side and then apologising to his arm.

“Baby,” she said halfway down the walk.

“Yeah?”

“That guy was so annoying.”

Garrett glanced down at her. “Still thinkin’ about him?”

“He was talking to me all night.”

“Sounds like a loser.”

“He was kind of hot, though.”

Garrett stopped walking.

She stopped too, delayed, then looked back at him with wide innocent eyes. “What?”

He stared at her. “Hot?”

She nodded, very serious. “But not as hot as you.”

“Uh huh.”

“And he had your jacket.”

“My jacket?”

“Yeah.” Her brows pulled together. “Actually, that was weird.”

Garrett looked up at the sky for patience. “So weird.”

“You should talk to him, baby. I’m serious.”

“Oh, I will.”

“Good.” She nodded once, satisfied, and started walking again. “Don’t fight him though. You had a game.”

His mouth twitched. “Right. Wouldn’t wanna overdo it.”

“And you already won.”

“I did.”

“You were really good,” she said, and the words came out softer now, slipping under the joke with no warning at all. Her fingers tightened around his. “I forgot to tell you.”

Garrett’s steps slowed by a fraction. He looked down at her, at her messy hair and flushed cheeks and his too-big jacket hanging off her shoulders, at the careful way she was watching the pavement. “Yeah?”

“Mhm. You did that thing.” She lifted their joined hands vaguely, as if the thing might be available in the air somewhere. “Where you went really fast and then the other guy was stupid.”

Garrett laughed, warm and surprised. “That was my favourite play.”

“It was good. I’m real proud of you.”

“Thanks, baby.”

She leaned into his arm, pleased. “You’re welcome.”

At the car, he opened the passenger door and turned her gently by the hips before she could attempt entry at a dangerous angle. “Alright. Watch your head.”

“I always watch my head.”

“You don’t.”

“I have one.”

“Having one and watching it are different.”

She ducked into the car with exaggerated care, one hand on the roof, one hand still gripping his. Garrett waited until she was seated, then crouched slightly and drew the seatbelt across her. 

She looked down at him while he clicked it into place, her expression suddenly soft and sleepy. “Baby.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m so glad I found you.”

His hand paused on the belt for half a second.

She sighed, sinking back into the seat, eyes half-lidded now that the car’s quiet had started wrapping around her. “I missed you tonight.”

Garrett looked at her in the blue dashboard glow, and something in his chest pulled tight and fond and a little ridiculous. “Missed you too.”

“There was this guy–”

“I heard.”

“–and he kept trying to give me water.”

“So rude.”

“Exactly.” Her head tipped against the seat, eyes closing for one beat before opening again. “Can you get me nuggets?”

Garrett smiled and brushed his thumb over her knee before standing. “Yeah, babe. I’ll get you nuggets.”

“And fries.”

“Obviously.”

“And a Sprite.”

“You need water.”

She made a face. “The guy said that too.”

Garrett leaned one arm on the open door and looked down at her, trying very hard not to smile too much because she would see it and accuse him of something. “The guy sounds smart.”

She frowned. “Don’t compliment him.”

“My bad.”

“You’re my boyfriend.”

“I am.”

“And I love you.”

The words came out simple and softened by vodka and sleepiness and the warm cocoon of his jacket around her, but real enough that Garrett felt them land under his ribs.

He bent and kissed her forehead. “I love you too.”

She smiled, eyes closed now. “Good.”

“Good,” he murmured, brushing her hair back from her face before shutting the door. 

He walked around the front of the car with a grin he couldn’t quite get rid of, hearing the muffled thump of the party behind him and the faint sound of her shifting around in the passenger seat like she was trying to get comfortable in sleeves three sizes too big. 

When he got in, she was already curled toward his side, cheek against the seat, looking at him with heavy eyes and total, trusting recognition.

Garrett started the car. She reached blindly for his hand. He gave it to her.

For a minute they sat there in the dim quiet before he pulled away from the curb, her fingers woven through his, his thumb moving once over her knuckles. Then she inhaled like she had remembered something important.

“Babe?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re gonna talk to that guy, right?”

Garrett smiled at the road, the house falling behind them, McDonald’s glowing somewhere ahead like a drunken little lighthouse.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’ll give him a stern talking-to.”

“Good,” she mumbled, already drifting. “Tell him I have a boyfriend.”

His grin widened.

“Trust me, baby,” Garrett said, squeezing her hand once as he turned out onto the street. “He knows.”

❄︎ ❄︎ ❄︎

taglist ⋆⁺₊ ₄₄❅. @xlinxdax0704  |  @snowtargaryen  |  @goodbyetuesday  |  @staystrongsoa  |  @dadshirrt  |  @miya-111  |  @softburrow  |  @darlinglux  |  @waitingforsmartpeople  |  @seon9yeonie  |  @laceyvt3  |  @sunny747  |  @cosmoh0lic  |  @blackgurlieee  |  @matchieee  |  @loomiz  |  @corvusmorte  |  @erin-alice  |  @cloudsxcherriesx  |  @lolskunk  |  @elizabeth123456767  |  @purplerainx1  |  @pinkgiraffebeach  |  @lucyysthings  |  @outpostsworld  |  @s0ftdr1nks  |  @maybankslover  |  @instantplaiddream  |  @droppedyourhnd  |  @bsenpai  |  @urfavadi  |  @em1ly57  |  @parker-barnes-af  |  @violyn20  |  @bootyliciousbutterfly  |  @bloomingflower13  |  @rexit-mo  |  @tpwkmera  |  @cherryrry581  |  @stevesxwhore  |  @solapeachtea  |  @giuliaasstuff  |  @pamacs-macs  |  @loonylosworld  |  @alice07ea  |  @hitting-euphoria4  |  @tessf13  |  @canupourme14theroad  |  @jayda12  |  @kmc1989  |  click here to be added to the taglist!

[kooksandpearls]

garrett graham ❄︎ chain reaction.

pairing – garrett graham x reader summary – four times garrett’s chain causes problems, and one very smug hockey captain pretends he isn’t loving every second of it. warnings – suggestive content, making out/grinding, mild sexual references, implied oral sex, drinking, party setting, garrett being smug and whipped. notes from me – as part of my 1k celebrations, here's the top requested fic!! enjoy 🫶🏼 word count – 5k

navigation – masterlist | taglist

The first time Garrett realises his chain is a problem, they're in his room with the door locked, the bass from downstairs moving through the floorboards in lazy, uneven pulses and the old house doing what the old house always does around a party, which is pretend it’s not seen worse. 

There are voices below them, Logan’s laugh cutting through once in a bright, drunken bark, Dean yelling something that sounds like an accusation and Tucker answering with the sort of dry, patient tone that means someone is absolutely about to be called an idiot. 

But up here, everything has gone smaller. Warmer. The room narrowed down to Garrett’s weight between her thighs, the soft give of his mattress under her back, the skirt shoved high enough on her hips that there's no point pretending it’s even a skirt anymore, and his mouth dragging over hers like he has all night and no better use for it.

He kisses like an athlete too, which is deeply annoying information to have about him because it makes too much sense. Confident, paced, unfairly good at changing pressure right when she starts thinking she’s adjusted to him. 

One hand is braced beside her head, the other curled around her thigh, thumb pressing absent little circles into skin like he doesn't know it’s making her thoughts get weird and slippery around the edges. He’s still wearing his t-shirt, which feels rude considering she’s in a bra and skirt and whatever dignity survived the trip up the stairs is now lying somewhere dead near his laundry basket. 

His chain has slipped out from under his collar while he kisses her, warm gold catching against the side of her throat every time he grinds down into her and makes her breath come out embarrassingly thin.

“Garrett,” she gets out, though it doesn't have much purpose beyond giving her mouth something to do when his is suddenly leaving it.

He hums like he’s heard her and decided to take it under advisement at a later date. His mouth drifts to her jaw, then lower, slow and pleased and entirely too smug about the way her body moves before she can stop it. 

He kisses down her throat, over the spot where her pulse is doing something humiliating, then lower still, along the top edge of her bra, and she should probably let him. She should probably enjoy the fact that Garrett Graham, Briar hockey captain, walking campus hazard, has decided her chest deserves sustained attention. 

But the second his mouth leaves hers properly, some spoiled little part of her lights up in objection.

“No,” she whines, which is not her proudest moment, and is made worse by the fact that Garrett pauses against her skin like he’s trying not to laugh. She reaches down and gets her fingers in his hair, gentle but insistent, tugging him back up until his face appears over hers again, curls mussed, mouth shiny, eyes bright with the kind of amusement that makes her want to either kiss him harder or shove him off the bed. “Come back.”

His grin spreads slowly. “Bossy.”

“You stopped kissing me.”

“I was kissing you somewhere else.”

She pouts. “Wrong somewhere.”

He gives one of those little laughs that starts in his chest before it reaches his mouth, warm and low and stupidly pleased, and then he comes back happily, because that’s the worst part of Garrett. 

He has all this cocky-boy resistance in theory, all this mouth and attitude and captain-of-every-room energy, and then she asks for him directly and his body gives him away before his ego can file an appeal. He kisses her again, deep enough that the complaint evaporates under her tongue, and for a few seconds she forgets about the chain entirely.

Then he pulls back to sit up on his knees, one thigh planted on either side of her hips, and reaches behind his neck for his shirt.

“Oh,” she says before she can stop herself.

Garrett pauses with the hem already half up his stomach, eyebrows lifting. “Oh?”

“Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

His teeth catch at his bottom lip. “I was about to ask if you needed a minute to process.”

She narrows her eyes at him, which would probably have more force if she were not lying under him with her skirt bunched around her waist and her hands already drifting up his exposed stomach. “You’re so annoying.”

“Yeah, but you’re still looking.”

And she is. Tragically. Openly. With no legal defence. The shirt comes off the rest of the way and lands somewhere near the chair, and Garrett is there above her in the soft lamplight, shoulders broad from hockey, stomach tight under her palms, chain resting against his chest like it’s been placed there for the express purpose of ruining her life. 

It's not even that fancy. That’s the insulting part. Just a gold chain. Simple. Warm from his skin. Sitting right at the base of his throat.

Her hands slide up his stomach, over the hard shift of muscle when he breathes, and she catches her bottom lip between her teeth without meaning to.

Garrett’s grin softens into something more dangerous because he knows. Because Garrett is many things, but oblivious is not one of them, especially not when a girl is looking at his chest like she’s discovered a new academic field.

“Baby,” he says, amused.

She doesn't answer. She hooks two fingers under the chain and pulls. Garrett comes down with it, one hand shooting to the mattress beside her head, the other catching her waist as he laughs into the space above her mouth. “Jesus. Okay.”

She smiles, breath already uneven again. “Come here.”

“I was here.”

“Closer.”

His mouth hovers over hers, his chain trapped between her fingers, the metal a little warm, a little slick where it’s been resting against his skin. “You always this demanding?”

She tugs again, smaller this time, mostly because she likes the way his eyes drop to her mouth when she does it. “Only when you’re slow.”

Garrett stares at her for one beat, and then the smile goes all bright and helpless at the edges, like she’s pleased him against his will. 

“Yeah,” he murmurs, bending until the chain brushes her collarbone and his mouth is almost on hers again. “That’s gonna be a problem.”

The second time is quieter, though quiet in the hockey house is a relative concept and mostly means no one is actively breaking furniture within their line of sight. They're downstairs on the couch after dinner, the living room dim except for the television throwing blue-white light over everyone’s faces and the standing lamp Tucker keeps insisting gives the room ambience, which Dean keeps calling divorced dad lighting. 

A movie’s on, something Logan picked with the confidence of a man who would be asleep within twenty minutes, and sure enough he’s already slumped in the armchair with his head tipped back and one socked foot on the coffee table, snoring faintly through the loudest action sequence anyone has ever failed to respect.

Garrett’s stretched out behind her on the couch, one arm tucked under her head like a pillow, the other lying heavy over her waist. She’s settled half on top of him, half against him, legs tangled beneath the old throw blanket that smells faintly like fabric softener and Garrett’s laundry detergent and whatever popcorn crime Dean committed earlier. 

The whole room has that late-night, lived-in warmth to it. Empty bowls on the coffee table, Tucker leaning on the other end of the couch with his phone in one hand and his attention somehow still half on the movie, Dean sprawled on the floor with his back against Allie’s legs while she runs her fingers lazily through his hair like she’s rewarding a large, badly behaved dog.

Garrett’s chain has worked its way out again. She doesn't mean to start fiddling with it. Her hand is just there, resting against his chest, and the chain is right under her fingertips, cool at first and then quickly warming up. 

Her thumb catches the tiny curve of one link. Then another. Then she’s sliding it back and forth lightly against his skin, not really thinking, only listening to the movie and the steady sound of his breathing under her cheek and the occasional thud of Dean kicking the coffee table because he refuses to understand where his legs end.

Garrett lets it happen for a while. Long enough that she forgets she’s doing it. Long enough for the metal to move in a tiny, repetitive drag under her fingers, a private little rhythm tucked beneath explosions and the muffled rain starting against the windows. 

His chest rises under her palm. His hand at her waist flexes once, absent, and she shifts closer without lifting her head. Then his fingers close around her wrist. Warm and sure, stopping the motion.

She glances up. “What?”

Garrett looks down at her with the deeply patient expression of a man being tortured in a way he’s not allowed to enjoy too obviously. “You’ve been doing that for ten minutes.”

“Doing what?”

His eyes flick to the chain. Then back to her. “That.”

“Oh.” She looks down at her hand, caught in his like evidence. “Was I annoying you?”

“No.”

“You stopped me.”

“Because,” he says, lowering his voice as Dean makes a disgusted noise at the movie and Allie tells him to stop talking before she smothers him with a cushion, “you keep touching my neck, and I’m trying to be a decent citizen in a communal living space.”

Her mouth twitches. “Your neck?”

“My chain is on my neck.”

She bites back a smile. “That’s very scientific of you.”

“I go to college.”

“For hockey.”

He sucks at his teeth, a grin spreading across his face. “For hockey and the pursuit of knowledge.”

She laughs into his chest, and he immediately looks pleased with himself in that quiet Garrett way, like making her laugh while half the room is asleep counts as a personal win. 

His hand slides from her wrist to her fingers, lifting them to his mouth. He kisses her knuckles once, soft and warm, then again, slower, like he can get away with it because nobody’s looking directly at them. The contact sends a stupid little wave through her, low and gentle, a sudden looseness in her ribs and the sense that her body has settled another inch into his.

“Stop playing with it,” he murmurs against her hand.

“I didn’t know it was an activity with rules.”

“It is now.”

“Sounds controlling.”

“Sounds like you’re too hot for your own good and I’m a responsible man.”

She lifts her head just enough to look at him properly. “You’re so full of shit.”

Garrett smiles like that’s his favourite thing she’s said all day. “A little, yeah.”

Then he threads his fingers through hers and brings their joined hands down to rest against his stomach, trapping her there with him. Garrett’s hand stays wrapped around hers. Firm. Warm. His thumb moves once over the side of her finger, slow enough that it feels accidental and deliberate at the same time.

The third time, she should know something’s wrong with the whole arrangement because Garrett offers it too easily. It's the morning of her exam, a big one, the kind that has lived in the back of her head for three weeks like an unpaid bill and ruined several perfectly good evenings by existing near them. 

She’s already eaten half a banana, stared at her notes until the words lost meaning, changed shirts twice, and accused Garrett of breathing too loudly while he sat on her bed watching her spiral with the sort of affectionate calm that made her want to throw a highlighter at him.

“You studied,” he says, for maybe the fourth time, lying on his side with one elbow propped under him and his curls still damp from the shower. “Like, a disgusting amount. I know because you made me quiz you last night and I learned things against my will.”

She stands in front of the mirror, smoothing her top down and then immediately undoing the smoothing because now it looks too deliberate. “That doesn’t mean I know it.”

“That’s actually exactly what studying means.”

“No, studying means I knew it at midnight in your bed while you were half asleep and kept pronouncing things wrong on purpose.”

“I was keeping morale up.”

She turns to glare at him, and he grins at her from the bed, annoyingly gorgeous and unhelpfully relaxed, his chain sitting against his bare collarbone because he hasn’t put a shirt on yet. Which is also rude. Honestly, the whole morning has been a campaign of emotional terrorism.

“I’m serious,” she says, and the words come out thinner than she wants.

His face changes then. The grin doesn't disappear entirely, because Garrett without some amount of grin would be genuinely concerning, but it settles. He sits up properly, feet hitting the floor, and reaches for her when she comes close enough. His hands land at her hips, warm through the fabric, thumbs pressing once like he’s reminding her she has a body and it's standing here, not drowning somewhere in the imagined future of a badly answered essay question.

“I know you are,” he says. “I also know you’re gonna kill it.”

“Don’t say that.”

“What, kill it?”

“Yes.”

“Fine. You’re gonna… respectfully and academically dominate.”

“Garrett.”

He laughs under his breath and tugs her closer until she’s standing between his knees. Then, with the sudden seriousness of someone remembering an ancient ritual and not a bit he came up with seven seconds ago, he reaches behind his neck and unclasps the chain.

She looks down at it. “What are you doing?”

“Good luck.”

Her eyes lift to his. “What?”

He holds it up between them, gold catching the morning light from her window. “It’s lucky.”

She stares at him. “Your chain is lucky?”

“Extremely.”

“You’ve never said that.”

He looks almost offended. “I don’t tell everyone my deeply personal athletic superstitions.”

“You told Dean you had to wear the same socks for playoffs.”

“That was different. He touched them.”

“That feels like a public health issue more than a superstition.”

Garrett ignores this, and gestures for her to turn around. She does, suspicious but too nervous to fight him properly. He stands behind her, and for a second the mirror catches both of them: her in exam clothes and stress, him shirtless and too calm, chain hanging from his fingers. 

He lifts it around her neck, his knuckles grazing the sides of her throat as he brings the clasp together. The metal lands cool against her skin, heavier than she expects, and something in her chest gives one stupid little pull.

“There,” he says, hands settling briefly on her shoulders. “Guaranteed.”

She touches the chain with two fingers. “Guaranteed?”

“Yeah.”

“If I fail, I’m blaming your jewellery.”

“If you fail, I’ll fake my death and start over somewhere chainless.”

She laughs then, finally, and it comes out shaky but real. Garrett’s eyes meet hers in the mirror, his mouth tipped in a way that’s half smug and half proud of having pulled the sound out of her. 

He bends and kisses the side of her head, quick, easy, like he doesn't know the chain suddenly feels like some ridiculous little anchor against her collarbone.

“Go,” he says. “Ace it. Then come back and be unbearable about it.”

She does ace it.

She walks out of the exam hall two hours later with the weird, floating, slightly manic clarity of someone who knows the questions landed exactly where she needed them to, who wrote until her hand cramped, who remembered the thing from the bottom of page seven that she had absolutely expected to die with no audience. 

She calls Garrett from the sidewalk and says, “I think I nailed it,” and he shouts so loudly through the phone that a girl walking past looks over in alarm.

“Tell the chain I said thank you,” she says later that night, when she’s in his room again, sitting cross-legged on his bed with takeout containers open between them and his hoodie swallowed over her exam clothes because the adrenaline crash has finally arrived and brought a mild existential fog with it.

Garrett looks up from stealing one of her fries. “What?”

“The chain.” She taps it where it still sits at her throat. “Your ancient family luck charm.”

There's a pause. It's tiny. Almost nothing. But Garrett Graham has many gifts, and hiding guilt from his girlfriend while his mouth is full of stolen fries is not one of them.

Her eyes narrow. “Garrett.”

He chews slowly.

“Garrett Graham.”

He swallows. “Okay, before you get mad–”

“Oh my God.” She sits up straighter. “It’s not lucky?”

“It’s, uh, lucky adjacent.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I’ve worn it to some good games.”

“You told me it was extremely lucky.”

“I was trying to get you out of your head.”

“You lied!”

“I motivated.” He points at her with a fry. “And you crushed your exam, so actually, where’s my thank you?”

She stares at him for one second. Then another. The chain’s warm now from her skin, and the fact that he made it up should be annoying. It is annoying. 

It's also so Garrett that something in her gives up and goes soft around the edges despite herself, because he saw her standing in front of the mirror two seconds from vibrating through the floorboards and decided the solution was to hand her something of his and make it sound official enough for her nervous system to believe him.

“You’re unbelievable,” she says.

His grin comes back immediately, bright with relief and bad ideas. “But effective.”

“You’re never getting this back.”

“Baby, I look really good in that chain.”

“I look better.”

He studies her for a second, eyes dropping to where the gold sits against the oversized neckline of his hoodie, and his mouth does something slower. 

“Yeah,” he says, voice rougher. “You do.”

Her fingers move to the chain. His eyes track the motion. The takeout goes forgotten between them, steam thinning in the cartons, the lamp laying warm light over his bed and the stupid little lucky-not-lucky object at her throat.

She crawls toward him, slow enough to make his brows lift.

“What?” he asks, though his hands are already moving to her waist when she pushes the cartons aside with the care of someone who doesn't want to get sauce on his sheets but absolutely does want to ruin his evening in other ways.

“You want a thank you?”

Garrett’s mouth opens, then closes. He tilts his head, trying for casual and missing by a heroic distance. “I mean, I’m not gonna say no to gratitude.”

“Good,” she says, and leans in to kiss him once, soft enough that he follows when she pulls away.

His hands tighten on her hips. “Good?”

“Mhm.”

Then she slides off the bed onto her knees between his legs, and Garrett goes very, very still. For once in his life, he doesn't have a comeback ready.

She looks up at him, the chain hanging forward from her neck, gold swinging slightly in the space between them, and his eyes drop to it like he’s experiencing several personal revelations at once.

“Still think it’s lucky?” she asks.

Garrett exhales through his nose, a smile breaking helplessly at one corner of his mouth as his hand comes up to brush her hair back, careful and warm and already a little wrecked. 

“Baby,” he says, voice low with absolute reverence and zero shame, “I’m about to start fucking worshipping it.”

The fourth time is after a home game, which means the hockey house is operating at a volume level that could probably be reported to local authorities if local authorities hadn't long ago made peace with the fact that Briar hockey players were simply going to make too much noise. 

The living room is packed in that loose, post-win sprawl of bodies and beer and boys shouting over one another from distances that don’t require shouting at all. Someone has put the game highlights on the television and every single person in the room is pretending they're not watching themselves while absolutely watching themselves. 

Logan is arguing with a guy from the second line about whether his assist should have been cleaner, Tucker is sitting on the arm of the couch with a beer in hand and the calm expression of a man who played very well and doesn't need to scream about it, and Dean is stretched in the middle of the room like a Renaissance painting sponsored by bad decisions, loudly explaining to Allie that his defensive effort has layers.

Garrett’s on the couch below her, sitting with his legs spread, one arm hooked along the back cushions, hair still damp from the post-game shower and curling messily. He looks good in the obnoxious, lived-in way he always does after a win. Tired under the eyes, mouth lazy with satisfaction, hoodie pushed up at the forearms, chain glinting at his throat every time he turns his head to answer someone. 

There's a faint bruise starting near one cheekbone and stiffness in the way he holds his shoulders that he’s pretending doesn't exist because men who willingly block shots with their bodies have a complicated relationship with the concept of pain.

She’s standing behind the couch with her arms looped around his shoulders, her cheek resting against the side of his head, close enough that when he laughs she feels it before she hears it. The room smells like beer and aftershave and pizza grease and wet pavement dragged in from outside. 

Her chin is tucked near his temple, and his hand comes up every so often to touch her wrist where it crosses his chest, as if checking she’s still there even though she’s been draped over him for fifteen minutes like an affectionate scarf.

“You’re tense,” she murmurs near his ear.

Garrett tilts his head slightly toward her. “I got checked into the boards by a guy built like a refrigerator.”

“I saw.”

“You also yelled ‘get up’ at me.”

“You did get up.”

He huffs. “Supportive.”

“I’m very motivational.”

He smiles, eyes still on Logan across the room. “Yeah, Coach, you’re a real asset.”

She presses her thumb into the muscle at the top of his shoulder before he can get too smug, and his mouth shuts in the middle of whatever he was about to say. There’s a small drop in his posture, a breath leaving through his nose, his head tipping forward half an inch because the pressure hits somewhere useful.

“Oh,” she says softly, pleased. “There he is.”

“Don’t sound so happy about my suffering.”

“I’m happy about being right.”

He hums quietly. “You usually are.”

She starts working at his shoulders properly, thumbs pressing slow circles into the hard knots there, fingers sliding under the edge of his hoodie collar. Garrett tries to keep participating in the conversation around him, because Garrett Graham could be dying and still find time to chirp a teammate, but she feels him lose focus by degrees. 

His answers get shorter. His hand drops from his beer to rest loosely on his thigh. When she presses into the muscle beside his neck, he makes a low sound under his breath that is almost nothing and somehow still deeply satisfying.

Dean notices, of course. Dean would notice a private moment through drywall.

“Oh, that’s cute,” he says from the floor, voice carrying with surgical precision. “Captain’s getting a little spa treatment.”

Garrett doesn't open his eyes. “You jealous, Di Laurentis?”

“Of a shoulder rub? No. Of your girlfriend looking at you like you just returned from war? Little bit.”

Allie leans around him. “He did get slammed pretty hard.”

Dean points at her. “See? This is why I date women. Compassion.”

Tucker takes a sip of beer. “You date Allie because she tolerates you.”

“That too.”

She ignores them, and keeps working her thumbs into Garrett’s shoulders. The only problem is the chain. It keeps getting in the way, slipping under her fingers every time she moves toward the base of his neck, catching lightly against her knuckle, dragging sideways over his skin. She shifts it once. Twice. The third time, Garrett reaches up without looking, catches her wrist, and then lifts his other hand to the clasp.

“Here,” he says.

She pauses. “What?”

He takes the chain off in one smooth motion, turning his head enough to glance up at her with that soft, amused look that always feels worse when other people are around because it's not performative. It's just his face, open for one second before he remembers to make a joke. “Here, baby. Wear it before you strangle me with it.”

The room hears baby. Naturally. The room reacts with the dignity of wolves spotting an injured deer. Logan’s head snaps over. “Oh, wow.”

Dean sits up so fast Allie has to move her knees. “Did he just give her the chain?”

Tucker’s mouth twitches. “Big night.”

Garrett points vaguely at all of them without turning around. “Everybody shut up.”

No one shuts up. That would go against the entire founding philosophy of the house.

She bends down anyway, smiling despite herself, hair falling forward over one shoulder. Garrett lifts the chain around her neck from where he sits, reaching back and up, his fingers careful as they brush the sides of her throat. It's an awkward angle, and he fumbles once with the clasp.

Dean gasps. “He’s putting jewellery on her. In public. Garrett Graham has fallen.”

“I will throw this beer at you,” Garrett says.

“No, you won’t. Your girl’s wearing your chain and touching your shoulders. You’re domesticated now.”

Logan lifts his cup. “RIP to a slut.”

Garrett finally opens his eyes and looks over. “I’m still alive, asshole.”

“Physically,” Logan says. “Spiritually, you’re picking baby names.”

She laughs into Garrett’s hair before she can stop herself, and his hands settle briefly at her collarbone once the clasp is done, thumbs brushing over the chain where it sits against her skin. 

The touch is quick. Almost hidden. But his eyes stay there for a second too long, and the whole loud room blurs slightly at the edges in that private way it sometimes does around him, even when Dean is three feet away preparing to be the worst person alive.

The chain is warm from Garrett’s skin when it lands against her throat. Something about that should not matter as much as it does.

Garrett’s head tips back until he can look up at her. “Good?”

She nods, fingers touching the chain. “Good.”

“Can I have my massage now, or are we hosting a ceremony?”

“Ceremony,” Dean says immediately. “I have a speech.”

“No one wants that,” Tucker says.

“I do,” Logan contributes, raising a hand.

Garrett groans and drops his head forward again, but she can see the grin at the corner of his mouth, tucked away where the boys cannot fully get to it.

She goes back to his shoulders, the chain now resting against her instead of him, rising and falling gently with her breathing as she works the tension out from under his hoodie.

The boys keep going, because of course they do.

“Whipped,” Dean says.

“Tragically,” Logan adds.

“Clinically,” Tucker says, which makes Allie laugh so hard she almost spills her drink.

Garrett lifts one hand just enough to flip them off without opening his eyes. “Keep talking. I’m cutting all of you from the power play.”

“You can’t cut me from the power play,” Dean says. “I am the power play.”

She leans closer, thumbs pressing into Garrett’s neck, and murmurs, “They’re not wrong, you know.”

His eyes open slightly. “Careful.”

“What?” she says, voice innocent near his ear. “You gave me your chain in front of everyone.”

“You were choking me with it.”

“I was massaging your shoulders.”

“Poorly.”

She pinches him lightly.

He laughs, catching her wrist and bringing her hand down just long enough to kiss the inside of it, quick and warm and entirely too natural for a room full of men actively trying to ruin his reputation. Then he lets her go and sinks back against the couch, shoulders finally loosening under her hands.

Across the room, Logan makes a wounded noise. “Oh my God. He kissed her hand. We lost him.”

Dean presses his beer to his heart. “He was so young.”

Tucker, dry as dust, says, “He died doing what he loved. Pretending he wasn’t in love.”

Garrett’s jaw ticks once, but the smile wins. She feels it more than sees it, the small shift under her cheek when she bends down again and rests against him for a second, her arms around his shoulders, his chain warm at her throat, the whole loud, stupid house moving around them.

“Love is a strong word,” Garrett says, which is exactly the sort of thing Garrett says when everyone is looking and the truth has wandered too close to the middle of the room.

She smiles against his cheek. “Mm.”

His hand comes up and covers her forearm, fingers curling there, thumb sweeping once over her skin in a slow little pass that says more than his mouth is willing to risk with Dean waiting to pounce.

Around them, the boys keep chirping, the television keeps replaying Garrett’s goal from the second period, someone in the kitchen shouts about beer pong, and the chain rests against her collarbone like a tiny, ridiculous victory.

Garrett turns his head just enough that his mouth brushes near her temple, hidden from most of the room by the angle of her body.

“You look good in it,” he says quietly.

Her hands pause on his shoulders for half a second.

Then Dean yells, “I can see you whispering sweet nothings, Graham,” and Garrett closes his eyes like he’s begging a very unhelpful God for patience, and she laughs so hard into his hair that the chain jumps lightly at her throat.

❄︎ ❄︎ ❄︎

taglist ⋆⁺₊ ₄₄❅. @xlinxdax0704  |  @snowtargaryen  |  @goodbyetuesday  |  @staystrongsoa  |  @dadshirrt  |  @miya-111  |  @softburrow  |  @darlinglux  |  @waitingforsmartpeople  |  @seon9yeonie  |  @laceyvt3  |  @sunny747  |  @cosmoh0lic  |  @blackgurlieee  |  @matchieee  |  @loomiz  |  @corvusmorte  |  @erin-alice  |  @cloudsxcherriesx  |  @lolskunk  |  @elizabeth123456767  |  @purplerainx1  |  @pinkgiraffebeach  |  @lucyysthings  |  @outpostsworld  |  @s0ftdr1nks  |  @maybankslover  |  @instantplaiddream  |  @droppedyourhnd  |  @bsenpai  |  @urfavadi  |  @em1ly57  |  @parker-barnes-af  |  @violyn20  |  @bootyliciousbutterfly  |  @bloomingflower13  |  @rexit-mo  |  @tpwkmera  |  @cherryrry581  |  @stevesxwhore  |  @solapeachtea  |  @giuliaasstuff  |  @pamacs-macs  |  @loonylosworld  |  @alice07ea  |  @hitting-euphoria4  |  @tessf13  |  @canupourme14theroad  |  @jayda12  |  @kmc1989  |  click here to be added to the taglist!

[g0ldendesiree]

Betting Odds | John Tucker

summary: what are the odds that the girl they boys bet tucker won’t go talk to is already his girlfriend?

request: yes/no

warnings: drinking, swearing

word count: 1.42k

authors note: we've waited long enough and tucker finally gets to be added to our list of people I've written for! he is a cerified softie so I made sure I really leaned into that. Sorry that this is so short also! I’ve been in the thick of getting assignments done atm (I’ve got 1 and a bit left) so I should be back fully soon! Also keep on sending in those requests! I’ve had so much fun getting to start planning out the little concepts that you guys have.

Friday nights at Malone’s were always loud.

Too loud for Tucker’s liking, honestly.

Dean was halfway through his third beer and yelling at Beau over a hockey game playing above the bar. Garrett was trying to convince Logan to take shots with girls he definitely did not know. 

Tucker sat wedged between Beau and Dean in the booth, nursing the same drink he’d had for twenty minutes. 

Dean threw his arm over Tucker’s shoulders, “do you want to act like you want to be here?” Dean spoke dramatically as he sighed. 

Tucker didn’t even look up from his beer “I do want to be here.” He didn’t even sound convincing. 

Beau shook his head “look around, Malone’s is crawling with girls tonight.” He motioned to the surrounding tables of girls who were looking at them.

“And?”

Beau sent the boy a glare, “you have spoken to zero of them.” It was almost painful to the boys around them.

“Maybe I’m taking a vow of silence.” 

Dean snorted “no you’re being weird.” Beau was quick to clarify “more weird than usual.” Tucker flipped them both off without a beat.

Because the truth was simple: he wasn’t interested in anyone here.

Because he was already seeing someone.

Had been for months now.

Secretly.

Not because he was ashamed of you, actually, it was far from it. The problem was that the second the guys found out, his life would become unbearable. 

Garrett would become an overprotective father. Dean would question why you wanted to be with Tucker, and Logan would wonder how Tucker got you. 

So Tucker kept you to himself.

And you didn’t mind as you found it hilarious.

Especially tonight.

Because the second you walked into Malone’s, Tucker saw the exact moment Dean noticed you “oh my god dude.” Dean patted the boys chest as he pointed his head towards you.

Tucker took a sip from his drink as his eyes followed the blondes “what?” He cocked his head as he wondered what they wanted.

Dean nodded toward the front entrance “look at her.” Beau immeditely joined in “Jesus Christ.”

You were laughing at something your Allie said, pushing your jacket off your shoulders as you headed toward the bar.

Tucker bit back a smile, he had missed you “go talk to her!” Beau motioned to Dean to get up so that Tucker could move. 

But your boyfriend stayed calm “nope.” He shook his head as he smiled. 

He was intending to go nowhere “dude are you blind?” Logan groaned, getting involved. 

“She’s exactly your type.” 

“She’s anyone’s type.” 

Dean’s comment almost got a laugh out of Tucker. 

You glanced around, immediately letting your eyes land on Tucker in the crowded room as a tiny smile tugged at your mouth.

Dean caught it “oh my God,” he said looking like a kid in a candy store as he grinned “she smiled at you.”

Tucker leaned back casually “people smile at me all the time.” He tugged his fingers through the end of his hair.

Logan let out a snort as he shook his head “no they don’t,” Logan said.

The boys all got ready to push him in your direction “I am not doing this.” Tucker announced as he raised his hands in surrender.

Dean pointed accusingly “you’re scared.” His eye twitched as he almost wanted to hit the younger boy.

That got Tucker to look at him “scared?” Tucker raised an eyebrow slowly.

Beau grinned as he rubbed the boys shoulders “prove him wrong.” He urged Tucker to give it a shot.

You were fully aware of what was happening now. Tucker could tell by the way you were hiding your smile behind your drink.

Dean leaned across the table “ten bucks says he can’t even get her number.” The blonde was resorting to a bet to get Tucker moving.

Garrett snorted into his beer “twenty says he won’t even get half way there.” Garrett motioned to Tucker to get a move on.

Tucker sighed dramatically, setting his beer down “fine.” The table erupted immediately confirming that you knew what or who they were talking about.

“There he is!”

“Atta boy!”

“Don’t embarrass us!”

The boys all chanted as Tucker motioned to them to shut up.

You watched him approach with a dangerously amused expression.

And behind him, all of the guys were walking this like it was game 7 of a Stanley Cup final.

Tucker stopped in front of you.

You tilted your head innocently, “hi.” Your lower lip was caught between your teeth.

“Hi.”

Dean was practically standing on the seat trying to hear.

Tucker glanced back once at the table full of idiots watching him.

Then he looked at you again.

Without hesitation, Tucker slid one hand around your waist and kissed you.

Not quick, either.

A full kiss.

The kind that made your hand curl into the front of his shirt immediately.

The bar around you disappeared for a second beneath the whistles and shouting coming from the booth.

When Tucker finally pulled back, you were grinning so hard it hurt.

Behind him?

Absolute silence.

Dean looked horrified.

Beau’s mouth was literally hanging open.

Garrett nearly choked on his drink.

Logan slapped the table so hard the glasses rattled “huh?” Dean was almost speechless as he blinked repeatedly.

He shook his head “how did that?” He looked at Logan who was just as shocked.

Tucker didn’t even turn around yet almost amused that the boys were so shocked “you told me to talk to her.” He shrugged, making you grin.

“You kissed her!”

You shrugged, “he’s good with his words.” You tried to hold back a laugh as you never expected to meet the boys like this.

Dean recovered first.

Barely.

He looked between the two of you “this is absolute bullshit,” he declared as he knew that there was more to the story “there’s no way this just happened naturally.” You seemed too comfortable next to Tucker.

You were still tucked against Tucker’s side, laughing as Beau continued to stare at the two of you like you had told him Santa wasn’t real “thirty bucks,” Tucker reminded casually, holding his hand out toward Dean and Garrett without even looking at them.

They slapped their wallets onto the table in front of them “I can't believe this.” Dean grumbled as he shook his head. 

Logan was grinning now, delighted by everyone else’s suffering “this is my new favourite thing.” He laughed as he shook his head. 

Beau looked back at how you wrapped your arm around Tucker’s torso “you two know each other?” His words finally made the boys clock what was going on.

Tucker shrugged as he smiled “yep.” He shrugged grabbing the thirty dollars from the boys before he held it out for you to grab. 

You smiled as you took the money from him “thanks baby.” You pressed a kiss against his cheek as you slipped the money into your pocket.

Everyones face dropped, “baby!” Gasps travelled across the table.

Dean shook his head “I demand a redo!” He raised his hand as Garrett nodded in agreement. 

Tucker shook his head “you guys thought I didn’t have game!” He argued back as he squeezed your waist. 

Beau nodded as the other three went quiet, “y’know what it was kinda hot what you two did.” He confessed making the three boys glare at him. 

Tuckers cheeks turned red “so how did he get you anyways?” Logan asked as he watched you smirk. 

The truth was that Tucker needed a study partner and your professor nominated you. 

But your story was far more entertaining “have you seen this man?” You patted Tuckers chest making the boy turn even redder. 

The boys found this to be the funniest thing in the world “could have just asked me once I would have been swept off my feet.” Tucker felt like you were torturing him. 

And of course the boys were eating it up “this is perfect.” Dean quickly forgot about the bet as this all seemed far more entertaining to him. 

Tucker groaned “I hate all of you.” He grumbled pinching his fingers at your side. 

You smirked as you kissed his cheek “and you wonder why I waited to introduce you to them sweets.” The nickname rolled off of his tongue. 

Garrett laughed “how long have you been hiding her from us?” Tucker sucked at his cheek. 

“Spring Break?” 

The boys were back to looking offended “okay you go get more drinks.” Dean motioned to Tucker and the thirty dollars you had gone back to holding “we want to get to know her.”

[puckmegirl]

UPTOWN GIRL (ft. John Logan)

blurb: a rich uptown girl with car issues keeps visiting the small garage off the highway where the owner’s super hot son works.

warnings: fem!reader, fluff, lowk ditzy!reader but not really, yummy mechanic!logan.

Logan heard you before he saw you.

He memorized the sound of those heels clicking against the rough pavement like a second heartbeat. After all, not many girls around this side of town wore vintage Prada pumps to an off-highway garage.

And even if they did, they most certainly did not own a BMW 6er f12 convertible.

Logan’s older brother Jeff was leaning against the workshop desk and sipping on a can of Coke when he saw you strut in. He sighed, “Here comes Lottie.”

The nickname was a running joke between the brothers. Jeff had muttered it under his breath when you first visited the shop and asked a question about diesel gas. He took one look at you and knew you were a clueless, rich girl who shouldn’t be visiting garages such as theirs.

Logan hadn’t entertained the nickname so much. He thought it was unnecessarily mean. Besides, Lottie was always a sweetheart in Princess and the Frog.

Jeff turned on his heels and disappeared into the garage’s office, leaving Logan to deal with you on his own.

Logan put down a spare part he was working on and turned around, leaning back against the counter.

You waved excitedly with a cheerful grin. “Hi, Logan!”

He smiled politely, “Hey…”

“Did you save my girl?” You asked, batting your lashes.

Logan nodded, “She’s all fixed up for you,” he said, walking over to the wall of car keys hung on hooks to retrieve yours.

You clapped your hands, “Yay!”

He chuckled whilst shaking his head. You got happy over the simplest of things. He thought it was endearing.

You walked over to your car. Nebula, as you called her. A fitting name for a sleek, black convertible with dark purple leather upholstery and shiny silver rims.

Logan came over and handed you your keys. “You wanna try her out?”

You nodded and unlocked your car before opening the driver’s side door. No beeping. Perfect.

You beamed at Logan. “You did it!”

He smiled with an easy laugh, feeling proud of his work. In reality, your car issue was a minor one; the door sensor just needed a replacement. Nothing about it required a lick of rocket science, and yet you looked at him as if he hung the stars in your galaxy.

You put your designer bag into your car and bent over to fish out your wallet. Logan stared at your body for a second before he caught himself, clearing his throat and looking away respectfully.

You stood up straight, holding your leather wallet between both hands, looking at him with a doe-eyed expression.

He scratched the back of his neck and gestured for you to follow him to the counter. The gritty sounds of his boots crunching the gravel below and the rhythmic click click click of your heels echoed through the garage.

Logan went around the counter and pulled out a receipt and wrote down the service you needed with the price. He slid the piece of paper to you but you just kept looking at his face with a smile. He blinked before realizing you didn’t care for the price. Right, he thought. Rich girls don’t worry about those things.

“Cash or card?” He asked.

You held up your metal black credit card.

Logan pursed his lips and nodded as he pulled out a card reader. You tapped your card without even glancing at the screen and clapped your hands when the machine beeped in satisfaction.

“Thank you, Logan,” you told him kindly.

He shrugged politely, “It’s no problem.”

You smiled at him. He returned it, “Do you want your recei—“

Before he could even hand you your proof of service, you were walking back to your car. He nodded to himself and stuffed the receipt into the cash register.

He watched as you exited the garage, waving at him enthusiastically as you drove by. He gave a small wave back.

+

A week later, your BMW pulled into the garage whilst Logan was working under a car.

He didn’t hear the sound of your heels this time as he had headphones in, blasting a classic rock song. He felt a shadow looming nearby so he turned and saw your heels appear. He paused and rolled out from under the car, meeting the sight of your broad smile peering down at him.

“Hi, Logan!”

“Hey…” He sounded confused. His eyebrows furrowed and he glanced around, “Didn’t you pick up your car last week?”

You nodded. “Yep. But my AC is broken now…” You pouted.

Hm, Logan thought. He sat up, “Oh, I didn’t see that when I did the diagnostic last week—“

“Must be a new issue, then. These foreign cars are all funny,” you replied, tilting your head.

He cleaned his hands with a rag before standing up. He had oil stains on his shirt and just a little smudge on his face. You thought he looked so ruggedly handsome.

“Let me take a look,” he said and you stepped out the way for him to crank open your hood and inspect the situation.

As he got to work, you leaned against your car and watched. After a moment, you asked, “How was your weekend?”

People don’t usually talk to Logan when he repairs their cars. Especially not pretty, rich girls like you.

“It was good, played hockey, worked here in the shop,” he responded casually.

You nodded along even though he couldn’t see you.

“Did you win?” You asked.

He laughed, an amused sound. “Yeah…yeah, we won.”

You clapped your hands, “Yay!”

Logan laughed again. It was cute, he thought, how you always clapped at good news.

“You like hockey?” He asked, looking over your hood to meet your eyes.

You hummed, “I only recently got into it. My family prefers watching polo, golf, or tennis.”

Rich people sports, he wanted to say. That made sense.

“Recently, huh?” He said instead, ducking his head to keep working. “Who should I thank for putting you onto hockey?” He joked.

You smiled shyly and said, “You…”

His hand paused. The parts of your car suddenly looking like alphabet soup moving in jumbled letters. He lifted his head to meet your gaze again. But before he could manage a reply, you changed the subject. “Is it broken beyond repair?” You asked, turning your attention to your car parts.

He snapped out of his daze and shook his head. “Uhh, no. No, you just need AC coolant.”

“Is that an easy fix?” You asked.

He nodded, “Yeah, the easiest.” He said.

You smiled in relief. “Thank goodness I have you fixing my car,” you told him.

He smiled at that.

He fixed your car, you chirped out a “Thank you, Logan!”, you paid without looking at the bill, and waved goodbye as you left.

“That the BMW girl again?” Logan’s dad asked as he stepped out the office.

“Yeah,” Logan replied, wiping his hands.

“Lottie back again so soon?” Jeff teased. Logan rolled his eyes at the jab.

“You overcharge her?” His dad asked.

Logan looked at him, “Why would I do that?”

His dad shrugged, “Luxurious car fee?”

Logan squinted his eyes, “We don’t do that.”

Jeff piped in, “We could. She doesn’t even check her receipts.”

Logan looked between his dad and brother, “So what? We charge her fair and square.”

His dad shared a looked with Jeff before he went back inside the office.

+

Week after week, you came by to the garage. First it was an oil change, then a rim replacement, then a loose window ribbon, then a tire with low air, and so on.

By week 7, Logan had had enough. It’s not that he didn’t like seeing you, no. Far from it. He actually enjoyed your company. He often looked forward to when you’d come by and say Hi, Logan! in that sing-song voice of yours, your joyful smile, and innocent questions.

But now he was noticing a pattern.

So when you rolled in that Thursday night like clockwork, he didn’t go up to you. He stayed by the workshop desk and watched you with his arms crossed over his chest.

“Hi, Logan!” You beamed with a gleeful wave.

But upon meeting his stern expression, your smile faltered and your hand slowly dropped back to your side. You looked around the empty garage before walking over to him in hesitant steps. The sound of your heels filled the space between the two of you. You stopped in front of him and flattened down your skirt, a nervous tic of yours that you never noticed before.

“Y/n,” he said, his tone serious. “This is the seventh time you’ve come to the garage.”

You nodded, “Nebula keeps acting up—“

“No, she doesn’t.”

You looked at your feet. No smile, no lively clapping.

His arms uncrossed and he stepped closer. He wasn’t angry. No, it wasn’t that. Logan isn’t an idiot. He knew. He knew you had a crush on him, knew the only reason you showed up time and time again was just to spend time with him. Why else would you come? He knew families like yours had their own repairmen at fancy dealerships who could fix any problem. You didn’t need to come into his family’s garage.

Yet, you did.

Logan figured it out by week 4. But truth be told, he never mentioned it because a part of him liked being around you too. He liked hearing your upbeat voice, the familiar tap of your heels, the sound of your laugh. So he stayed quiet, he fixed your tires, and refilled your car’s oil. He went along with it. Because he liked your company just as much as you liked his.

Unable to lie to him, you lifted your head and met his eyes. “I did those things to my car on purpose.” You confessed quietly.

Logan blinked. His stance eased at your admission and he looked at you with soft eyes.

“I watched a YouTube video on how to drain AC coolant,” you added. “And drove around until my tires lost some of its pressure, and—”

“Y/n,” he held your chin with his hand. “You didn’t have to do all that to see me.”

Your eyes widened as you stared at him. He smiled gently, “I…like seeing you. With or without Nebula.”

“You do?” You asked.

He nodded, “I do.”

He leaned in slowly, giving you the chance to pull away. But you stayed. His lips met yours in a gentle kiss. Not hungry or desperate, just a soft sealing; a mutual understanding—I like you and you like me.

When he pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours. You looked at him with a honeyed, dazed expression. He smiled down at you and pecked your lips once more. You weren’t a spoiled, rich girl to him. Not clueless or ditzy. You were just…you. A sweetheart with a crush on a cute guy who would do anything to see him. You were Lottie.

He glanced behind you at your car. He pulled away with a reluctant sigh, “What did you do to her this time?”

You smiled sheepishly, “I jammed my gearshift…”

He chuckled softly, both amused and fondly exasperated by you. “Okay…let me take a look.” He said, lacing his hand with yours and bringing it up to his lips to press a kiss.

omg first off campus post, i’m nervy xx

[bittersweetlyblue]

it's become a running joke in the daily planet that clark kent has a girlfriend.

i mean, are we even talking about the same guy? clark kent, the one who habitually slouches in his chair, making himself look shorter than the six feet three inches brute he is.

clark kent who drops objects, trips over his own feet or stumbles into furniture. the clark kent who has poorly-fitting clothes which don't do any justice to the figure underneath and with thick-rimmed glasses that mask his facial expressions and eye colour that looks a little too similar to superman's if anyone ever thought twice about it.

he bought it up when lois was talking about her current boyfriend and she asked if anyone else had any partners. "yeah, me and my girlfriend have been dating for a few years now." he said with undiluted pride.

clark will always recall the way the whole room went quiet. jimmy had blinked like he had something in his eye as he squinted. even lois, who wasn't even looking at clark swung her entire head towards him. perry, who had secretly been eaves-dropping the entire time, nearly dropped the coffee he was making.

"girlfriend." jimmy repeated, fucking gawking.

clark turned a shade scarlet. "yes, my girlfriend."

"what's her name?" lois asked.

"y/n."

"pretty name," jimmy said after some silence.

"yeah, she's an extraordinarily pretty girl."

there was some silence again before perry moved over and slapped clark so sharply against his back that the poor man almost flinched. "crude sense of humour, boy, but i appreciate the effort."

clark hadn't even managed to scrounge up a wrinkled eyebrow and a question forming around his lips before the room dispersed. mainly, he presumed, to talk about the confident "joke" he had just made.

that night, when he comes home to you, the shy, farmer boy facade wiped off completely, he slides next to you in the bedsheets as you nestle against his bicep.

"how was work today?" you ask.

"good." after some silence where you just run your hand over his face, he adds, "they don't believe me."

"about?"

"us. that i have you."

you laugh, resting your cheek against his skin as you look up at him. "really?" he nods, brushing his fingers against your cheek. but you don't think much about it.

clark, on the other hand? well, he tries not to, but it's pretty hard when jimmy slides by him the next day and prods him a little too hard in the ribs and makes a joke about saying you have a woman just because you want them.

nor does lois, who talks to jimmy again about it and talks a little bit too loud about her partner.

"i'm not lying," clark says a little aggressively, the next week, at lunch, through gritted teeth as another jab is once again made. "i have a girlfriend."

"sure." perry says without missing a beat, stirring his coffee. "and you're superman."

well.

after about a few months of this banter, clark asks you to walk him to the daily planet that morning with his said reasons, and you're more than happy to obey.

when lois spots clark standing next to you, she thinks for a second that he's helping a very pretty lost woman even despite their proximity.

until he bends down and kisses you.

lois's jaw drops open as she swivels her head to perry, who seems to be seeing the same thing.

"am i? am i?" perry blinks, coffee long abandoned.

clark tries to act nonchalant about it while he introduces you to them, hand around your waist. and when jimmy appears, seeing you extend your hand to your lois while clark's nose is close to your temple which he can't even pass as friendship, well he almost faints.

oh, just wait until they found about who clark really was.

© BITTERSWEETLYBLUE. do not copy, translate, edit my work then claim it as your own, attempt to plagarise or repost it on any other website nor feed into AI. you will be blocked.

[sunnydilaurentis]

caught on thanksgiving | dean di laurentis ✶

summary: in which beau walks in on his younger sister tangled up in dean’s lap moments before thanksgiving dinner, forcing the entire hockey house to endure one painfully awkward meal filled with knowing looks, relentless chirping, and dean very seriously considering transferring schools.

pairing: dean di laurentis x maxwell!reader

note: hello! i hope you're all well. i've got a few exciting things planned so make sure you stay tuned! i hope you enjoy!! <3

ꪆৎ

the late afternoon sunlight filters softly through the thin blinds of dean's bedroom, casting warm golden stripes across it.

dean appreciated the moments he spent over thanksgiving with his friends more than anything. there were times however, when all he wanted was to spend time alone, in the presence of just you.

now, was one of those times.

dean's hand slides slowly along your waist as he shifts closer toward you on the bed, guiding you naturally into his lap without breaking the kiss.

you swiftly reposition yourself so that you're straddling him, your arms wrapped loosely around his neck while his hands remain on either sides of your waist, keeping you steady.

“dean,” you laugh quietly against his mouth.

“hm?”

“everyone’s downstairs.”

“guess we'll just have to be quiet then.”

you pull back slightly, your cheeks turning a crimson red from his words.

“tucker will literally come looking for us.”

dean's lips find your collarbone, lingering at a spot he had learned was your weakness, smiling faintly to himself when he feels you react beneath him.

“tucker’s got bigger priorities right now, most of them involving food.”

you laugh softly again before his face moves closer towards yours, closing the very minimal distance that had been separating the two of you. he cups your cheek before planting a soft, chaste kiss to your lips.

his lips were warm and soft, familiar in a way that made your chest loosen instantly. your lips parted slightly as you smiled into the kiss, and he took the opening to deepen it for a brief moment before gently pulling back. his hand stayed cradling your cheek, thumb lingering there as if he wasn’t quite ready to let go.

"still think it's an issue that everyone's home?" he questions teasingly, watching as you shake your head in response.

the room feels warmer now.

smaller somehow.

your fingers slide through the hair at the nape of his neck and dean lets out the softest exhale against your lips, the sound nearly making your brain stop functioning entirely.

“you have no idea what you do to me, y/n” he murmurs quietly.

your cheeks flush instantly.

“dean.”

“what?” he asks innocently, though the grin tugging at the corners of his mouth ruins the act completely.

you shake your head, trying to hide your smile while he watches you with obvious amusement.

god, he loved flustering you.

his hands pause briefly at the hem of your top, his gaze flicking up toward yours.

“is this okay?”

there’s something almost unfair about how gentle he sounds when he says it. you nod immediately, fingers curling lightly into the front of his sweater.

“yeah.”

his expression softens slightly at your answer before he slowly lifts your top upwards, careful not to rush you.

the cool air hits your skin instantly once the fabric disappears over your head, leaving you suddenly far more aware of the way dean is looking at you now.

like you’ve completely stolen every coherent thought from his brain.

his eyes drift slowly over you before he exhales quietly through his nose, almost like he forgot how to breathe properly for a second.

“you're beautiful, baby” he murmurs softly.

your cheeks warm immediately.

“stop it,” you laugh quietly, suddenly embarrassed beneath the intensity of his attention.

“what?” he asks innocently, though the awe in his voice is impossible to miss.

“just appreciating my girlfriend.”

his hands settle carefully against your waist again, thumbs brushing lightly against your skin while he leans forward to kiss you once more.

the kiss turns deeper almost instantly.

slower.

warmer.

dean’s fingers slide gently along your back before stopping against the clasp of your bra.

you feel him hesitate slightly.

not nervous exactly.

just careful.

like he always was with you.

“this still okay?” he asks quietly against your lips.

you nod softly, your forehead resting briefly against his.

“yes.”

his lips curve upwards faintly before he presses another soft kiss against your mouth, one hand still resting securely at your waist while the other awkwardly attempts to undo the clasp behind your back.

you feel his fingers fumble slightly before he exhales dramatically.

“who invented these things?” he mutters under his breath.

you laugh softly against his lips.

“struggling there?”

“i’m being set up for failure.”

his fingers brush clumsily against your skin again before he narrows his eyes in concentration.

“seriously,” he mumbles.

"i spend six days a week throwing around hundreds of pounds in the gym, and a tiny clasp is what humbles me."

you grin, shifting slightly to help him.

“maybe because you’re rushing.”

his cheeks flush immediately while a crooked smile appears across his face.

“can you blame me?”

your stomach flips embarrassingly fast at the tone in his voice.

a second later there’s finally a soft click as dean succeeds.

“holy shit,” he breathes quietly, sounding genuinely relieved.

you laugh harder this time as he shakes his head once in disbelief at himself.

“don’t laugh at me,” he says, though he’s smiling too.

his hands slide carefully along your sides afterwards, touch soft and warm as he presses a trail of kisses beneath your jaw again.

“i love you,” he murmurs quietly against your skin.

your heart melts instantly. dean was always like this with you, sweet and gentle in all the ways that mattered most. beneath the confidence, the teasing grin, and the easy charm he showed everyone else, there was this softer side reserved just for you.

your fingers drift beneath the hem of his sweater, tracing lightly along the defined muscles of his stomach and dean exhales quietly at the feeling.

his forehead rests briefly against yours afterwards, cheeks flushed, hair messy beneath your hands. he was completely gone for you.

“you’re staring again,” you whisper teasingly.

“can you blame me?”

his words linger between you before he leans in again, pressing another kiss just beneath your jaw. you close your eyes for a moment, letting yourself sink into the warmth of it, quietly savouring the feeling.

“you’re trouble, di laurentis.”

“yeah", he responds easily, lips brushing your skin again, “but you love me for it.”

before you can respond, the bedroom door suddenly swings open and everything freezes instantly.

“yo tucker said-”

beau stops mid sentence, his jaw falling agape.

silence.

absolute silence.

your eyes widen immediately as you turn toward the doorway while dean goes completely still beneath you. beau stands there holding his phone in one hand, his expression blank with horror.

pure horror.

his eyes flick between you sitting in dean’s lap, dean’s hands still very obviously around your waist, and the fact that neither of you had moved fast enough to make the situation look any better.

your discarded top is somewhere on the other side of the room, leaving you painfully aware that you're still only wearing your bra.

before you can even think of what to say, dean's arm tightens around you, pulling you closer against his chest. one hand slides up between your shoulder blades as he angles his body in front of yours, shielding you from beau's line of sight.

the movement is instinctive.

“oh my god,” beau says flatly.

dean immediately drops his forehead against your shoulder, keeping you tucked against him.

“please leave," dean murmurs, his voice coming out slightly muffled.

"i just watched my best friend practically inhale my sister."

you let out a horrified noise while dean groans louder, his grip on your waist tightening

"beau-" dean says into your shoulder, sounding like he's reconsidering every life choice that led to this moment.

“jesus christ, no-”

beau cuts him off instantly, physically pointing at both of you now.

“absolutely not. don’t talk to me right now.”

you feel your face burning with embarrassment while beau physically turns his head toward the hallway ceiling like he’s asking god for strength.

“i’m actually sick. this is why i don't come over here often” he mutters, more to himself and under his breath than to the both of you.

“you knocked for half a second!” dean argues weakly.

beau looks offended. “because i didn't expect to walk into this!"

"that sounds like a personal mistake" dean taunts.

you bury your face in your hands immediately, unable to face your brother who is still stood in the doorway of your boyfriends room.

dean leans back against the bedhead, dragging a hand down his face dramatically.

“i’m transferring schools.”

“good,” beau replies immediately. “do that.”

despite the awkwardness of the situation, a laugh slips out.

beau looks personally betrayed.

“y/n.”

“i’m sorry!”

“no you’re not.”

beau shakes his head once before backing toward the hallway again.

“dinner’s ready in ten,” he says flatly. “and if either of you make this weird downstairs, i’m telling tucker exactly what i walked in on.”

dean’s eyes widen slightly.

“you wouldn’t.”

beau stares at him.

“watch me.”

then he disappears back into the hallway, pulling the door shut behind him. silence settles over the room again and dean drops his head back against the wall with a groan.

“we’re never recovering from that.”

you burst into laughter immediately, the awkwardness and humour of the situation finally setting in.

dean points at you accusingly. “this isn’t funny.”

“him saying you inhaled me absolutely was.”

he narrows his eyes before suddenly pulling you closer towards him. you laugh softly as his hands settle back against your waist, familiar and warm.

“still worth it,” he murmurs quietly.

your heart melts embarrassingly fast.

“you’re ridiculous.”

a giddy grin slowly spreads across dean’s face before he shakes his head once.

“your brother is a goddamn cockblock.”

you gasp softly in mock offence before playfully slapping his chest, causing a quiet laugh to fall from his lips.

“dean!”

“what?” he grins. “am i wrong?”

you attempt to slide off his lap again, already knowing if you stayed there any longer you’d never actually make it downstairs, but dean’s hands tighten immediately around your hips, keeping you firmly where you are.

your eyebrows raise slightly at him in confusion before you suddenly feel him shift beneath you.

your breath catches instantly.

dean’s cheeks flush almost immediately as your mouth falls open slightly in realisation.

“dean heyward-di laurentis,” you whisper, horrified and amused all at once. his eyes squeeze shut briefly as he lets out another groan.

“don’t say my full name like that,” he mutters miserably.

“makes me sound guilty.”

“you are guilty.”

“yeah,” he sighs dramatically, glancing up at you again.

“but in my defence, look at you.”

your face warms instantly at the sincerity hidden beneath his teasing tone but before you can respond, a loud voice echoes up from downstairs.

“if you idiots don't get down here right now i'm starting dinner without you.”

tucker.

immediately, your eyes widen.

“shit.”

dean drops his forehead against your shoulder dramatically. “ignore him.”

“dean.”

“five more minutes.”

“absolutely not.”

he sends you the most painfully pleading look imaginable, his hands still secure against your waist like he thinks physically holding onto you will somehow convince you to stay.

when it very unfortunately almost works, dean notices instantly. his lips twitch upwards slightly, excitement taking over his features.

“baby,” he says softly, voice lower now, “c’mon.”

you narrow your eyes at him immediately. “don’t baby me right now.”

“that sounded way meaner than i think you intended.”

you laugh quietly and dean realises immediately that you aren’t giving in. he places both hands over his face before tilting his head back against his bed dramatically, letting out the most exaggerated groan imaginable.

you laugh harder at the sight in front of you.

“i’m glad one of us finds this funny,” he mutters, though there’s obvious amusement hidden beneath his embarrassment. he stands up slowly, still holding onto your waist as he pulls you up with him.

your hands naturally slide around the back of his neck while dean rests his forehead lightly against yours.

“i’ll tell them you’re in the bathroom and coming down in a few minutes,” you hum softly before leaning up to place a quick kiss against his cheek.

dean exhales quietly at the feeling before narrowing his eyes slightly.

“you’re so gonna pay for this one day, y/n.”

you smirk immediately. “is that a threat?”

“a promise.”

you laugh softly before turning toward the bedroom door. you barely make it two steps before dean’s hand lands sharply against your ass.

you gasp audibly, spinning around immediately.

“di laurentis!”

he shrugs innocently despite the smirk painted all over his face.

“sorry. couldn’t help myself.”

you roll your eyes, trying and failing not to smile.

“don’t be too long or tucker will rip into you,” you warn teasingly before slipping out into the hallway.

the noise downstairs grows louder the second you descend the staircase. thanksgiving at the hockey house was always chaos in the best possible way.

the kitchen smells overwhelmingly like garlic, rosemary and whatever tucker accidentally burned earlier, despite promising he was following his mother's recipe book, step by step. music plays faintly somewhere near the living room while everyone talks over each other.

logan notices you first, which is unfortunate.

he’s leaning back in one of the dining chairs beside grace when his eyes flick toward you coming down the stairs. immediately, his eyebrows lift knowingly.

oh no.

you suddenly become very aware of the fact that you hadn’t checked yourself in the mirror before leaving dean’s room. you feel your cheeks warm instantly as you quickly move toward the table, silently praying dean hadn’t left any visible marks on your neck.

logan watches you the entire way down, very amused.

you slide into your seat beside hannah while trying your hardest to look normal. logan leans back slightly in his chair across from you, arms folded casually.

“where’s dean?” he asks, feigning innocence.

your eyes narrow immediately.

he knows something...or at least suspects something.

“bathroom,” you answer casually, reaching for your water glass. “he’ll be down in a minute.”

“hm,” logan hums thoughtfully, clearly entertained. beside him, garrett glances between the two of you with immediate suspicion.

“why are you both acting weird?”

“we’re not,” you answer far too quickly.

logan snorts. grace lowers her drink slowly, eyes widening slightly as realisation dawns across her face.

“oh my god.”

your heart drops.

“what?” hannah asks immediately, now invested in the conversation before her.

logan grins lazily. “nothing.”

“logan,” grace says, already laughing slightly, “you totally know something.”

before he can answer, beau walks back into the kitchen holding a drink. the second his eyes land on you sitting at the table, he physically pauses before narrowing his eyes.

oh, absolutely not.

logan catches it instantly.

“why do you look traumatised?” he asks him.

beau grabs a roll off the table aggressively.

“don’t worry about it.”

his response of course only makes everyone more interested.

tucker emerges from the kitchen carrying a tray dramatically. “why does it feel like i missed gossip?”

“you did,” beau mutters darkly.

your face burns immediately.

logan’s grin grows wider.

“oh my god,” hannah says slowly, eyes flicking toward you. “did something happen?”

“nothing happened,” you say quickly.

you hear a laugh from across the table, and garrett points directly at you, “that sounded guilty.”

beau lets out a humourless laugh from across the table. “you have no idea.” before anyone can interrogate him further, dean finally appears at the top of the stairs.

slightly flushed.

sweater sleeves pushed up messily.

hair completely ruined.

logan notices instantly and nearly chokes on his drink.

“holy shit,” he laughs.

dean stops halfway down the stairs. “what?”

“you look insane.”

dean flips him off automatically continuing downstairs. the second he reaches the table, beau looks at him in complete disbelief.

“you came down looking like that voluntarily?”

dean freezes briefly, too briefly.

everyone notices.

tucker’s eyes widen dramatically. “wait.”

“don’t,” dean warns immediately.

“wait,” tucker repeats louder, pointing between the both of you now.

“oh my god.”

“tucker,” you say quickly, your cheeks beginning to flush a deep shade of crimson red.

“no wonder you two disappeared.”

dean drags a hand down his face while logan loses his mind laughing beside grace.

“i hate this house,” dean mutters

“you should,” beau replies immediately. “after what i witnessed.”

silence

then-

hannah gasps loudly and garrett chokes on his drink.

grace physically grabs allie’s arm and tucker slams both hands dramatically against the table.

“YOU WALKED IN ON THEM?”

[night-daily]

RED LIPSTICK | Dean Di Laurentis x fem!reader

☆summary: The puck bunnies need a reminder of who's Dean's girlfriend.

☆warnings: fluff. and a little of make out but nothing heavy lol

☆a/n: it's short but i needed to take this of out my head. And not proof reading, sorryyy

btw english is not my fisrt language so if you see any mistakes please let me know!

“I really have to go” Dean says but he makes not real effort to push you away of his lap. “Hmm?” You act innocent, bating your eyelashes at him. “I'm not stopping you”

“You are in my lap” His hands are tracing circles in your hips. “I know, I have eyes” “Please move, you know I can't arrive later at the interview” He looks at his phone and then you, “And Logan is already planning to kill me if I don't arrive like now” His tone is serious but he stills holds you closer to him. “But the place of the interview it's like 10 minutes from here, you won't be late” You whine, you don't want him to leave.

“But Logan says the boys, jules and the puck bunnies are impatient too 'cause—” You lift an eyebrow at the word puck bunnies. You don't necessarily hate them but you don't like them either.

Who would like someone who's always trying to flirt with your boyfriend?

“So are you desperate to leave just because your puck bunnies are waiting for you?” You cross your arms over your chest. Your lips moving a little forward, making a little pout.

And he laughs. “You're so cute when you're pouting” He tries to reach your lips with his but you move your head at the last moment. “I never say that they're mine, you said it, ” You feel one of his hands moving from your hips, making it's way to your cheeks. “And besides, between you and me” He lowers his voice as if he is telling you a secret, “there's a girl who drives me crazy just by looking at her, so they don't stand a chance” And with his hand still in your cheek, he kiss you.

Is a slow and deep kiss. You can feel all the love he feels for you, because your love matches his. You fit perfectly together. When you break the kiss, you finally look at him.

And you can't help but laugh. Your red lipstick is all over his lips. Little stains in and around his mouth. You're about to clean him but then an idea cross your mind.

Before he can ask you what's wrong, you run from his lap to your bathroom, looking for your lipstick.

“Hey are you—” And suddenly you open the door, a little agitated but with a grin from ear to ear.

“I don't want you to be late but let me kiss you one more time before you leave, is that okay?” You smile but your eyes can't hide you have a plan. And if he notices it, he says nothing. He leans his head down to you while you wrap your arms around his neck.

You peppers his face with kisses, too quickly and other too strong, making sure to leave your lips marks againts his cheeks his jawline and even some against his neck. You're kissing him with such devotion that he just stands there looking dumbfounded.

“Okay now you can leave” You brush his hair slightly with your fingers, making sure he looks presentable even if his face doesn't.

“Text me when you arrive, byee” You practically throw him out of his own room without another word. You close the door in his face.

“Okay? See you later? I guess?” He's still confused by your behaviour but he wastes no time when another text from Logan buzz from his phone. And he runs to get there in time.

Inside the room, you're still smiling. Oh, you really wish you could see their reactions...

“JULES” You scream with excitement. You fish your phone from the back of your shorts. And you have never texted so fast in your life.

'Jules pleasee record'

You can't even make a full sentence 'cause you know you're running out of time. He could arrive before you give them any explanation.

When you send the message, there's a single check mark.

“C'mon Jules, you and your phone are always together”

You sit on the bed, waiting. One of your legs is bouncing. Where are you? After a two or maybe three minutes, they finally respond.

'The interview?'

You scoff, frustrated.

'Dean' it's all your reply.

And again, they don't respond immediately.

But this time, Jules doesn't write back.

'Jules sent a video'

This is gonna be good.

You throw yourself onto Dean's bed. Your arms resting on his pillow. You play the video and you instantly giggles like a little child.

The video shows Dean arriving late, everyone is there. The team, the interview staff and of course, the puck bunnies.

When they see him, they all react diferent.

The boys make fun of him, 'damn Dean, you couldn't even wait after the interview?', the interviewer says something about if he's gonna look like that on camera. And the girls, oh this is your favorite part.

At the background, you can see them, all looking disappointed and annoyed at the view of Dean's face, you can see them muttering something between them. They pretend they're okay but you know better. They're pissed. Good, that's how it should be.

The video ends and you smile proudly.

You log into your ig account and post a storie.

'I just tried this lipstick, totally recommended'

[evermoresqueiswriting]

My Regards

Dean Di Laurentis

pairing: dean di laurentis x figure skater!reader

plot: Beau's childhood best friend is going to be studying at Briar after a winning a few medals at the Olympics. Dean is very interested in her, and he might just have met his match in terms of freakiness. And it turns out, it was very easy for Dean to settle down when things were right.

tags & notes: fluff, includes social media au (EDIT: i used olivia rodrigo for these posts!!) & notes, yes this is alysa liu i just love the asian women representation BUT all descriptions are inclusive (i try my best at least) <3 AND there is a little bit of badly written smut only because i don't know how to write it 😔

might also rewrite to edit some things in the future but i just love dean and off campus so much 😪

word count: 10.9k

“Beau! My favorite person ever!” you screamed, running at full speed toward your best friend. 

You let go of your suitcase and threw yourself in Beau’s arms. He squeezed you tightly before letting you back on the ground. 

“I missed you!” Beau smiled.

“I missed you too! Arh!” you shouted excitedly. “Smile for my picture,” you took out your phone. 

You pressed on your screen to take the picture when you noticed a third person posing. A tall, very hot, blond guy with your suitcase in hand. 

“Thief!” you pointed at him. 

“Not a thief,” the blond smiled at you before approaching you and Beau.

“Beau fight him!” you pushed your friend toward the stranger. 

You watched Beau wrapping his arm around blondie’s neck, and hugging him. You frowned, confused. Maybe he wasn’t a stranger after all. 

“Not a thief,” Beau patted blondie’s chest with his hand. “This is Dean who, very nicely, agreed to drive you, us, because I’m still slightly hungover from yesterday,” he grimaced. 

“Oh,” you gasped. “You’re that Dean.”

“What Dean?” he tilted his head, still smiling. 

You slowly approached them, and when your face was only a few inches from Dean’s, you whispered. “Whore Dean. Which,” you tilted your head, “respect. I can’t wait to see what that’s like,” you winked. 

You didn’t break eye contact when you went to grab your suitcase, your hand brushing his. 

“We should go,” you turned to Beau. “I can’t wait to sleep in a real bed, the flight was so long.” 

Dean took back your suitcase and you let him, while Beau grabbed your bag. His car was parked near the airport exit, which was a blessing because you were exhausted. Beau opened the passenger’s seat door for you, but you dragged him with you behind. 

“I want to sleep, so I’ll need something comfortable. You.”

The moment you laid down, you fell asleep. 

“Is she asleep?” Dean asked in a low voice. 

“Yep, out cold.”

“Good,” Dean nodded and then looked at his friend through the rearview mirror. “Whore Dean?” 

Beau laughed. “That’s the nickname she came up with,” he shrugged.

“From where? Based on what?” Dean laughed. 

“From what I tell her. She loves gossip, and your lives are like soap operas to her.”

“Well, does she have nicknames for everyone?”

Beau took a minute to think about it. “Nope. Just you, guess you’re special.”

The rest of the ride was spent in silence because Beau fell asleep too, still tired from the last day’s party. When the car stopped, you had been awake for a while already, but you kept your eyes closed, not wanting to get out of the car. You felt Beau carefully remove your head from his lap, and get out of the car. You heard them whispering and then you felt two hands wrap around you and lift you up to get you out of the car. 

“Just take her bag, and I can drop you two off after,” Dean’s voice was very close to you. 

You opened one eye and it was indeed Dean holding you. It felt nice, he felt nice. You closed your eyes back and sighed into Dean. 

“I know you’re awake princess,” Dean whispered. 

“Mmh, worth it,” you opened your eyes. “You can put me down now.”

Dean nodded, and then pretended to drop you off which made you yelp and grab onto his neck. But then, he just laughed, and tightened his grip around you, and walked up the stairs to the house. 

“What is wrong with you,” you slapped his chest, your heart racing. “Put me down you whore.”

Dean gently put you down, and when you turned around, you realised you weren’t alone. There were a lot of people. You were going to murder Beau for not warning you earlier. You glared at Beau, and then a gasp made you turn your head around. 

“Oh my god, y/n y/l/n, Olympics gold winner in figure skating,” a short-haired brunette stood up, smiling. 

“I actually won silver for women’s singles,” you faked a sad pout. 

“Yeah but you won gold in 2022, and won gold in the pair skating category a few months ago! Ah,” a wavy, long-haired brunette squeaked. “I’m Allie by the way.”

“I’m Hannah,” the other girl smiled. 

“Nice to meet you,” you smiled back. 

Beau leaned into you, and put his arm around your neck before dragging you closer to the group. Dean was following very closely behind.

“This is y/n, my childhood and oldest—”

“–and best,” you pointed out.

“And my best friend, who is also an Olympic superstar, and she transferred to Briar for this year.” Beau pointed at the guy sitting next to Hannah. “This is Garrett, the hockey team captain,” Beau then pointed at the guys sitting around the kitchen counter, “this is Logan, and Tucker who are also on the hockey team.”

You waved at them all. 

“Hannah and Allie,” Beau pointed at the girls. “And Dean, but you already met.”

“Beau talks about you a lot,” you put your hands behind your back. “I’m really happy to finally put a face on all these familiar names.”

“Well, now that the introductions are done,” Beau turned to you, “do you want something to drink?”

“Water?”

Beau nodded and went to grab some drink. You felt Dean leaned closer to you, with his hand on your back. 

“You can sit on the couch you know, they won’t bite,” Dean whispered. 

“I know,” you turned your face to look at him. 

Dean’s face was very close to yours because he had leaned down to be on your level. He pushed you slowly toward the couch and sat next to you. He left you the spot on the outside of the couch, so you wouldn’t be sitting next to someone you didn’t know yet. Beau gave you a bottle of water straight from the refrigerator, and sat between Garrett and Dean. 

“What are you guys playing?” you pointed at the TV.

“It’s their little hockey video game,” Hannah explained. “We could put on something else if you want.”

“Oh no,” you smiled. “I’d love to watch… you play this.”

“We’ll change it,” Logan laughed, grabbing the remote. 

He pushed a few buttons, and he put on a sports channel, which was covering the winter Olympics. Well, it wasn’t technically about the sports, but it was coverage of the sex ban lift for the Olympics. You let out a laugh escape you.

“Care to elaborate about this?” Dean smirked at you. “I heard Olympic athletes fuck like rabbits, is that true?”

“Dean!” they all shouted in unison.

You kept your eyes on Dean, your head looking up. 

“Yeah,” you smiled. “Like, all the time. Non-stop. I’m sure you would’ve loved that.”

“I would’ve. Especially if it was with–”

“Please stop talking about sex with the person I see as my sister in front of everyone,” Beau grimaced. 

Dean pouted, looking at his best friend. 

“Don’t worry,” you leaned into him, “I’ll tell you about it later,” you winked. 

You all watched TV, and then they replayed the highlights of the winter Olympics. You all talked together, and commented on the athletes and their sports. It was fun, they were fun and very nice and they all included you in their conversations. Hannah and Allie were the nicest. They told you about their majors, music composition and theatre, while you told them that you studied history with Beau. 

While the boys talked among them, you and the girls were in deep conversation, but no one changed places on the couch which meant you were slumped over Dean’s thighs. He had his arm lazily laying on your back, while talking to the boys and that lasted for a while until the TV started showing highlights of figure skating. 

“y/n y/l/n, the only skater this year to compete both in the single’s category and the duo category. During the last Olympics, y/n y/l/n won gold with a score of 178. Let’s take a look at what her routine looked like in Beijing in 2022.”

A montage of your training, the routine, the podium and you biting your gold medal was shown on the screen. 

“I can’t believe people are just able to do that on ice,” Allie sighed. 

“It’s incredible,” Dean agreed. 

They showed your whole routine on the pair skating and the zoom in on the throw jump, which was the scariest throw of your life. Everyone could see the smiles you and your dance partner had, but no one knew about the falls, plural, you had the day prior. But then thanks to the gods of winter sports, the throw was high, the spins came out good, the landing was stable, and then you continued to skate in sync. So everything was perfect. 

“My ego tells me I can do all of that,” Dean commented. 

“We can try it later if you want,” you laughed softly. “We could all do it someday, it’d be fun.”

“Mh, ‘scuse me,” Beau intervened. “I tried and you banned me for life,” he scoffed playfully. “Remember, ‘Maxwell, you are the worst skater I have ever seen’,” he imitated your voice. “I’m still wounded by those words, just so you know.”

“Well, you should move on, it’s been half a decade,” you hit him in the arm.

“I can confirm that Beau isn’t at his best when he’s on skates,” Dean shook his head. 

The day went on smoothly and very quickly. At some point, Tucker started to make dinner with Hannah’s help and you helped Garrett setting up the table. The meal went on very smoothly, conversation flowing through. 

When they all started to load the dishes into the dishwasher, and started to clean things up a little bit, Beau went to retrieve your coats, and your bag. 

“Dean, time to go,” Beau grabbed his friend. 

Dean nodded, went to grab his keys and the three of you left together to get in the car. Beau and Dean were in the front, and you went behind alone this time. You sat in the middle, so it’d be easier for you to see both of them. 

“So where am I dropping you off to?” Dean turned back to you.

“Beau’s place, my apartment isn’t ready yet.”

“And I told you it was a waste of money,” Beau added. “You could’ve just stayed with me.”

“Actually I’m not renting anymore,” you said, “the tenants in my parents’ apartment are moving out, so they decided to not rent it anymore and just give it to me,” you smiled. “But they’re not moving out until the end of the month, so I’m still waiting.”

“That’s nice of them,” Deann nodded, starting his car. “So you’d be living alone?” he glanced at you through the review mirror. 

“Yep,” you smirked. “No disturbing anymore, no need to be quiet for anything.”

“Good to know.”

Beau just stared at his phone, glancing back and forth between the two of you, but he said nothing. 

“Can’t wait,” you whispered before leaning back into the seat. 

Then Beau put on music, and he knew exactly what he was doing because when the first notes of Satisfied played, you gasped and started to sing along Renée Elise Goldsberry. The rest of the car ride was spent with you duetting with Beau. 

When Dean stopped the car, you all got out of the car. Dean grabbed your suitcase, and your travel bag before handing them to you. 

“Thank you for driving us around,” you smiled. “I will make sure to give you a five star review for your Uber skills.”

“The pleasure’s all mine,” Dean leaned against his car. 

“Alright,” Beau took your suitcase. “Let’s go.”

“Ok,” you waved Dean goodbye, before following Beau.

“If you need a car ride,” Dean shouted, which made you turn around. “You can call me. I hear my reviews have been stellar.”

You chuckled. “I will.”

There were still a few weeks left of vacation before school started again, so you spent your days hanging out with Beau and his friends. And when you weren’t, you were shopping for the apartment. Your mom had called you, telling you that the tenants were taking all the furniture with them since they had bought everything. You laid lazily on Beau’s bed while he was on his desk. 

“Is everything going to be shipped on time?” Beau asked. 

“Yep, I paid extra so I’d have everything delivered tomorrow before noon,” you continued to look through online furniture. “Oh now that I think about it, thank you for asking the guys if they could help me move tomorrow. That was nice of you.”

“It was all Dean actually, he heard me talking about it and volunteered himself and the rest of the team.”

“Oh,” you looked up from your phone, smiling. “That’s… really nice of him.”

“He always is,” Beau laughed. “So,” he jumped on his bed, “are you planning to sex with him?”

Your eyes widened, and you gasped.

“Excuse me, who do you think I am? A common whore?”

Beau looked at you knowingly.

“Fine, I am,” you shrugged. “Would I love to have sex with your very hot and very nice friend? Sure. But, would it make things weird for you? For me?”

“Why would it?”

“Because, from your very detailed stories, he hooks up with people and then that’s it. So if we were to hook up, we’d still see each other because you’re friends, and you’re my friend so we’d all still hang out together as friends.”

“I mean if it’s only casual, why would it be weird?” 

You sighed, looking at Beau, nodding. He was right, hooking up at the Olympic village didn’t make things weird or awkward at all. But then again, you didn’t even know the names of some of the athletes. No strings attached. Casual. But this couldn’t be casual when you knew Dean’s name, and how he volunteered to help out his friends without a second thought, and how nice he was. 

“You’re overthinking this,” Beau shook you out of your thoughts.

“I know. We should do something else instead.”

“Like?”

“Let’s shop, I still need a few things for tomorrow’s move.”

You ended up buying a lot of things. A new adjustable desk so you can work while standing, plants, a bunch of them, new clothes, a few notebooks, a few new pens and then, you made a stop at Barnes & Noble. Every trip to Barnes & Noble was expensive. And with an extra pair of hands, strong ones at that, meant the trip ended being even more expensive than usual. 

“Worth it,” you smiled at Beau when you paid. 

Beau was driving you home, when you received a notification from Dean.

Moving day was busy. Everything you had piled up at Beau’s place had to be put in his car. And you had to get to the apartment early to sign off your deliveries. Beau dropped you off first thing in the morning, and then went back to his place to get the rest of your stuff. You were pushing some of the boxes inside when you received a message from Dean. You quickly pushed the box from the elevator to your apartment before running down the stairs.

“Dean!” you yelled when you opened the main door. 

He was leaning against his car on the other side of the street, and looked up from his phone. When his eyes fell on you, his face broke into a grin. 

“Didn’t know you were such an early bird,” you smiled when Dean was standing in front of you. 

“I’m full of surprises.”

“Good ones,” you nodded. “Well now that you’re here, can you help me bring these up?” you pointed at the boxes left on the sidewalk. 

These were all books you had bought or your parents had shipped to you. Dean leaned down and grabbed two of them effortlessly, and followed you to the elevator. 

“I hope it’s not too heavy,” you pressed on the tenth floor, the highest one. 

“No it’s fine.” 

Your eyes were glued on his flexed arms. The short sleeves stretched out, clinging onto his skin. How was that possible? Probably because of hockey. Dean brought everything you had very quickly, and while you waited for the first few deliveries, you rested on the floor of the living room.

“This place is nice,” Dean said, sitting across from you. “Very…” he looked around, “spacious.”

“Yeah, might be too big for just me here.”

“Well, if you’re scared of the dark, I’m only a call away.”

You stared at Dean. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“So,” you dragged on the vowel. “Should I only call you when—,” you paused, “for the light issues?” 

Dean stared at you for a whole minute before shaking his head. “No,” he whispered. “You can call me for anything,” Dean’s dimple appeared. 

“Good,” you nodded, smiling back at him. 

“Maybe we could–”

But whatever Dean wanted to say was interrupted by your phone. The first delivery of the day. Soon after that, Beau arrived with the rest of your belongings. Around 9, Garrett, Logan, Tucker and Hannah and Allie arrived and after that, the deliveries didn’t stop. The boys worked hard under the hot weather. Logan built everything you had bought at Ikea, while Dean, Beau, Tucker and Garrett brought everything up. Allie and Hannah helped you put every piece of furniture where you wanted. Around noon, the sidewalk was full of your stuff. 

“It’s so hot,” Hannah sat on the couch you had just moved. 

“I know right!” you sighed, already tired and irritated from the heat. “How are the boys doing this?”

“Naked,” Allie laughed, standing next to the window. 

Hannah and you ran to stand next to her, and indeed, the boys had all taken off their shirts. Your eyes couldn’t leave Dean’s body and how his muscles flexed whenever he moved or grabbed something. You cleared your throat and stepped back. 

“I ordered some fresh drinks, and some food. We all deserve a big break,” you announced. 

When the food came in, you all sat around your table and dug in the food. Dean was sitting very close to you, feeling the heat his body was producing. 

“This place is starting to come along nicely,” Tucker looked around. 

“It is!” you smiled. “Thank you so much for this again.”

“That’s what friends’re for,” Beau smiled. 

“Yeah,” they all agreed. 

This much love could make you cry, but the heat made you sweat out all the water you had in your body. You all continued to talk, and joke around while you ate, and after the meal you went to cut out some fresh watermelon. Two gigantic watermelons that were inhalated by these five athletes. 

Once everything was fixed, and built and put at the right place, they all started to leave one after the other. You hugged them all, thanking them again. Beau stayed behind to help you tidy some things up, and Dean insisted on the fact that he needed a shower before leaving. 

“I’m gonna go, have to wake early tomorrow for practice,” Beau hugged you. 

“Oh, ok,” you hugged him back. “Thank you again for helping.”

“Don’t worry about it, I’m glad you’re back.”

“Me too.”

“Tell Dean I said bye,” Beau put his shoes on. “‘Kay, love you, bye.”

“Love you too, bye!” you waved at him until the elevator’s doors closed.

You put your phone to charge next to your bed, when you heard your name being called from the bathroom. You ran, and knocked on the door. 

“Is everything ok?” you asked, slightly worried.

“Yep, just hm, there aren't any towels.”

“Oh! Right, I’ll be right back!”

You ran around the house, looking into a few boxes before you found the towels and knocked back on the door. 

“My eyes are closed, you can open the door,” you said.

You heard the door opening, and he grabbed the towel. You could still feel his body being close to yours, and you opened your eyes slowly. He had wrapped the towel very low around his waist. Your eyes drifted down, and you kept them there on his V line. You noticed your breathing coming out in rapid-fire, and then you slowly looked up to see that Dean was already looking at you. 

“Enjoying the view?” Dean whispered. 

“I could get used to it,” you shrugged. 

“I’m still waiting for you to tell me all about the athletes’ sex drive during the Olympics.”

“I could tell you,” you nodded, “or I could show you too.”

“Mmh, I am a kinesthetic learner. I learn best when I’m practicing.”

“Oh, is that so? Then,” you trailed your fingers along his chest until they reached the towel, and you tugged on it to bring him closer to you, “we should probably do something about it.”

“Anything,” Dean nodded hazily. “Anything you want.”

Dean hung his head low, and you had to stand on your tiptoes to reach him and kiss him. The moment your lips touched his, Dean lost all composure and grabbed your hips, gliding them down until they reached your thighs and lifted you up. You wrapped your arms around his neck, and your legs around his waist. 

He kissed you hungryly, pressing you against the wall. Your hands travelled up to his hair and tugged on it lightly which made him stop momentarily. 

“Good?” Dean frowned. 

“Very,” you panted, “it’s just, I can feel your dick against my ass, and I think we should go to my bedroom.” 

“Ok,” Dean nodded. 

His towel was long gone by the time he put you on your bed. He stood naked, while admiring you laid out on your bed, slightly out of breath. 

“You have too much clothes on baby,” Dean leaned down on you. 

His hands trailed down your body until they reached the hem of your skirt. He pulled it off in a single tug, with your panties with it. And you took off your top and threw it with the rest of your clothes. 

“Better,” Dean stared at you hungrily. 

Dean grabbed your calf and pulled you closer to the edge of your bed before leaning down to kiss you again. His kiss trailed down your neck, slowly, and then he continued to go down until his mouth was on your breast. You moaned, tugging on his hair hardly. 

“I love that sound,” Dean smiled smugly. 

Dean went down further, and his mouth finally reached your sweet cunt, which made you let out a sigh of relief. 

“So wet for me,” Dean smiled.

His hand went up and grabbed on your breast, while you pushed on his head harder. Dean kept on going until you came. You looked down, panting, and watched Dean staring at you as he went to grab his dick and stroke it while continuing to eat you out. 

“Dean,” you moaned, “I’m—”

Close is what you were going to say, and so was Dean. He came to kiss again, and you found out you didn’t mind the fact that his mouth was on your pussy just a second earlier. 

“Go grab a condom on my nightstand,” you smirked. 

Dean nodded and followed your instructions, put it on and went back to you. 

“Ok?” Dean grabbed your thigh to put it around his waist. 

“Yeah,” you breathed out. 

He slowly slid his dick inside of you, and stayed still for a second. Dean was staring at you and it wasn’t until he felt you moving your hips around that he kept going. It kept going on and on and on, until you pushed Dean around so he’d be the one laying on his back. You rode him, while his hands roamed free around your body. You finally collapsed on him, panting for your life. 

“Good?” Dean asked smugly. 

“Incredible,” you pulled yourself off of him and laid on your back. 

Dean turned around and laid on his side, his fingers tracing around your body. He planted another kiss on your lips before he got out of the bed. He came back a minute later with a clean towel in his hands before wiping off his cum.

“Thanks,” you smiled. “But I think we should take a shower after everything we did.”

The shower lasted longer than you’d expected because Dean insisted on having shower sex which you couldn’t say no to since you always wanted to try it out. 

“Never again,” you moaned once you came. 

“Didn’t like it?” Dean asked between kisses. 

“You were perfect,” you smiled. “Being under the hot water was uncomfortable, and if I wasn’t under it, I was freezing my tits off.”

“I can see that,” Dean smirked looking at your breasts. 

You went to the kitchen and grabbed some leftovers before you went back to your bedroom. You both laid down and turned off the lights. Dean wrapped his arms around you, and pulled you close to him. 

“Didn’t take you for a hugger,” you chuckled. 

“I am, so get used to it.”

“Dean,” you said after a moment of silence.

“Mmh?”

“I can feel your hard dick again.”

“Sorry,” Dean pulled away. 

“Don’t be,” you climbed on top of him. “I can go for another round.”

You did, but as soon as you came, you fell asleep on Dean.

The warm sun in your room woke you up slowly. You tossed around in your bed, noticing it was empty before you grabbed your phone to check the time. It was already past 11, and Dean was nowhere to be seen. No in the room, not in the bathroom next to your room. And there were no messages from him either. 

Fuck, you thought. Did he regret what happened the previous night? You groaned into your pillow and stood to grab some clothes. You went to wash your face and brush your teeth before finding new underwear and a t-shirt, and then you stopped dead in your tracks when you heard noises coming from outside. You grabbed your phone, pulling out Beau’s contact just in case. You slowly walked toward the living room, and then the kitchen when you saw Dean preparing food. 

“Is that the treatment you give to everyone after sex?” you joked, sighing in relief. 

“No,” Dean chuckled, looking you up and down. “Just you.”

“I thought I was getting robbed by the way,” you quickly changed the subject. “I was ready to call Beau while getting murdered.”

“That was your first thought?”

“Well, yeah,” you sat down next to Dean. “You were gone, I didn’t think you'd stay.”

Dean smiled softly. “I did leave for an hour to get food. I took your keys by the way.”

“You can keep it,” you said. “Beau has a double, and I feel like someone else should have another set just in case.”

“Sure,” Dean nodded. 

You both started to eat in silence. The TV wasn’t on, there wasn’t any music, and you were still exhausted from the night. 

“So,” Dean started, turning his chair a little to face you, “how was last night?”

You smirked. “Mmh, decent.”

“Decent?” Dean laughed. “You came like so many times.”

“I know… I guess,” you paused, then stared at him, “we’ll just have to keep doing it for your rating to get up.”

“Yeah?” Dean leaned in. 

“Mmh hm,” you hummed.

Dean pushed the food away, placed his hand around the nape of your neck and brought you closer to him. You moaned into his mouth, and you were glad to be sitting because your knees couldn’t handle all his prowess. Your hands quickly found his pants, and unbuttoned them. You pulled his pants off slowly, gliding your fingers along his erected dick, never once breaking off the kiss. 

“I didn’t get to last night,” you kneeled down, smiling up at him.

Dean was already panting, his cheeks a rosy tint. He had his legs spread to give you all the space you needed.

“I’m all yours,” Dean breathed.

Dean came to your place at least once a day. And the sex was mindblowing, better than anything happening at the Olympics. He paid attention to your likes and preferences, he put your pleasure above anything else and he was just very good at it. 

It was finally Thursday which meant Beau was at your place around 4pm to get you to hockey practice. Beau, being your longest and best friend, had the privilege to know everything about your life. From Olympics gossip to what food gave you a stomachache. But if you told Beau about the sex with Dean, then you’d have to tell him that it wasn’t just one hookup. It was a daily hookup type of situation. And you didn't want to yet.

“Are you ready to skate?” you smiled at Beau once you were in his car.

“Sure,” Beau laughed. “Are you ready to hold my hand when I inevitably die from a cracked skull on the ice?”

“Ha ha,” you rolled your eyes. “As if I’d let you get hurt. I will body slammed any of these fuckers to protect you, don’t worry about it. I got your back boo.”

“It’s actually pronounced Beau,” he chuckled.

“You’re hilarious,” you deadpanned. 

When you arrived at the rink, practice was still going on. So Beau and you sat on the stands and watched. They pushed each other, and ran into each other while an adult was shouting things at them. 

“What’s happening now?” you frowned.

“I have no idea,” Beau shrugged. 

“You should put skates on, I’ll help you tie them up.”

Practice ended right when your skates were on. Half of the guys left while your friends stayed. 

“You should run to Dean and tackle him,” Beau suggested with a grin. 

“I will,” you grinned back. 

Dean had his back to you, and the moment you came on the ice you sprinted toward him. Garrett’ eyes widened when he saw her which made Dean turn around. Your eyes were fixated on his jersey number, and wrapped your arms around his chest to tackle him just like how Beau taught you. Dean was a great hockey player, he was good on skates, he was solid. But when he saw you skating to him, he loosened up which ultimately made him lose balance. 

Dean’s first instinct was to wrap his arms around your head because you weren’t wearing a helmet and if you hit your head, then it’d be his fault. Then he did his best to fall first so you’d stay on top of him. 

“What the hell,” Dean worried, “are you ok?”

Dean held your body against his then stood slowly. Once he made sure you didn’t injure yourself, he backed away a little. 

“I’d be good at hockey I think,” you nodded satisfied. 

“I wasn’t ready,” Dean shook his head.

“Guys!” Beau yelled from the stands. 

You all turned to him, and he held out his hand so you went to fetch him. Beau was grabbing onto your shoulders tightly. You all helped Beau gain a little confidence on the ice before they could start teaching you the basics of hockey. 

When Beau could hold his own, you divided into two groups of three. Dean, Logan and you against Garrett, Tucker and Beau. The first first rounds were easy, they let you and Beau score a few points to build your confidence up. 

You were all skating around, playing hockey when Beau went for the puck, skating a little too quickly, and slammed his body into yours. As a figure skater, you learn very early on how to fall on the ice so you wouldn’t get hurt or break a bone. But falling while playing hockey was different, mainly because your body was thrown against the barriers before you fell on the ice. 

“Beau! What the fuck!” you moaned. 

“I’m sorry!” Beau tried to help you up. “I couldn’t stop.”

He tried to squat down to help you up, but Dean quickly came to you and helped you up, and the rest of the guys gathered around.

“Your sport is too dangerous,” you mumbled. 

“My sport?” Dean snorted. “Yours is just as bad, have you seen some of the falls you can get, and how dangerous a throw is?”

“It’s not,” you looked at him and then smiled. “You guys should try out some figures. You’re comfortable on ice, so it should be fun!” 

It was so much fun. All of them were great, trying out spins and little jumps. There were some falls, but they were used to it. And then Beau suggested trying out your duo routine. Skating with someone who had to throw you in the air required a lot of trust. It didn’t happen overnight, but you trusted these people. Or you trusted them enough to know you wouldn't die. 

Garrett and Tucker opted out because it felt dangerous, but Logan and Dean were in. You all gathered around the edge of the rink, and Beau took out his phone to show your routine.

“We can try out some of the simpler figures, and we’ll do another type of throw,” you said confidently. “Ok, Logan you first,” you held out your hand. 

You skated around a bit before you positioned his hands firmly on your waist. 

“I can hear your teeth grinding from here dude,” Beau laughed at Dean.

“I’m not,” Dean laughed it off. He was definitely grinding his perfect teeth.

“We have to skate a bit, and then you just bend your knees a little, lift me up to throw me away,” you explained very badly. 

Training usually started off the ice, with harness and on ground training. But you were good, so if half of the duo knew what they were doing, then it should be fine. 

It definitely wasn’t. First of all, your explanations weren’t nearly as good as your coach’s. Second, maybe you should’ve told Logan to not use all his force to throw you away. Hockey players had more brute force in their arms than figure skaters. 

The fall wasn’t bad at all. It was controlled, with minimum damage and you got up immediately. But that wasn’t enough to convince them. 

“I’m sorry,” Logan winced. 

“It’s fine,” you repeated. “I swear I had worst falls with a professional. So stop apologising, honestly.” You turn back to Dean. “Your turn.”

“Uh, I don't want to anymore,” Dean frowned. 

“What, why?”

“Because you just fell on hard ice without any protection!” Dean choked out. 

You stared at Dean, just like everyone else in the room. Was he worried about you? 

“Dean, I’m fine,” you assured him. “And you said you wanted to try this out.”

“When?” Beau wondered out loud, with a smug look on his face.

“Fine, let’s do this,” Dean ignored his friend.

He took your hand and you both skated away from the guys. He planted his hands firmly on your waist, a place he knew too well.

“Just, don’t use too much force,” you warned him. 

“I won’t,” Dean said. “You know what I’m thinking about?” he whispered in your ear. 

“What?” you looked up, smiling.

“How fun it’d be if we had sex here.”

You felt goosebumps forming all over you, and you knew Dean could too. That little fucker. And then, Dean lifted you up and threw you away. Your spin and landing were perfectly done, and it was met with applause and whistling. After a few more rounds of skating around, it was time to leave. 

They all walked to the changing room, and you meant to follow them too but Beau had other plans.

“Where are you going?” Beau asked.

“Following your friends, where are we supposed to go?”

“Home.”

“You’re ruining things for me,” you complained. 

Dean, who was the last one to go in, laughed. He stopped at the door and took off his jersey, revealing his broad, toned, and very familiar chest to you. He winked and smiled at you, and started to untie the lace of his pants before going into the changing room. 

“That little shit,” you snickered. “Right?” you turned to Beau.

“Meh,” Beau shrugged. “He’s naked all the time, so you’ll see it someday. Eventually.”

If only he knew.

“Right,” you nodded. “Let’s just go.”

Your headache didn’t go away, it got worse. It turned into a sore throat, and a fever and an even worse headache. Your body ached so much you couldn’t get any medicine, which meant recovery was even slower. Dean volunteered to come but you refused categorically, insisting that you only needed rest. A day before the party, you called Beau to get you medicine because you were still determined to go. 

“You look really bad,” Beau gave you the meds. 

“Gee thanks,” you coughed. 

“You don’t have to come tomorrow you know,” he sat on your bed. 

“Don’t come too close or you’ll get sick too,” you scootched away. 

“Fine, just take your meds and I’ll–” Beau’s phone rang. “Dean… Yeah she’ll be fine… She just didn’t check her phone. Don't worry… Yep… Yea I’ll tell her, bye… See ya tomorrow,” Beau hung up his phone. 

“Wha’ d’he say?” you mumbled into your pillow. 

“He was worried you didn’t answer any of his texts, and he said you should rest instead of trying to come tomorrow.”

“Mmh, so he doesn’t wanna see me ‘nymore,” you wined. “Great.”

“That’s not what I or he said. Just take your meds y/n,” Beau insisted. 

Beau helped you take your meds and a few minutes later you were out cold. Beau made sure you were all covered up with a fresh bottle of water on your bedside table before leaving your room. He cleaned up your house, put your dirty clothes in the washing machine, did your dishes, opened the windows to get some fresh air and checked on you again. You were still sleeping heavily, snoring a little. He had to wait for the clothes to be done before he could leave and once that was done, he left. 

When you woke up again, you did feel slightly better. Your first instinct was to check your phone. A few messages from Dean, one from Beau saying he was home and that you shouldn’t forget to take your meds and another one from your dad, sending you a funny video. 

You took your meds, and slept for another few hours before waking up. The first thing you did was take a long and cold shower because of the mild, persistent fever. You put on your bathrobe before dragging yourself to the living room.

“Fuck!” you shouted, clutching your heart. “Beau I will fucking kill you right now! What are you doing here?”

“Driving you to the party even though you shouldn’t go,” Beau looked up from his phone. 

“Then why are you here?”

“Because the alternative was to let you take an Uber and that’s not safe enough.”

You sat next to him, resting your head against his shoulder. Beau put his hand around you.

“Thank you,” you mumbled. 

“Promise me if you start to feel like you’re going to faint, you’ll come to me or Dean.”

“Yeah, yeah. I promise,” you nodded. “Now, help me pick an outfit.”

Once you picked your outfit, Beau handed you your meds.

“Wait,” Beau frowned, “when was the last time you took ‘em? It has to be at least eight hours apart.”

“It was this morning, very early.”

You took them with some water, and grabbed your bag before you left for the boys’ house. It was already past 8 when Beau parked his car. The house was packed, loud music, lots of light and people making out outside. 

“Are you ok?” Beau walked beside you.

“Surprisingly fine,” you admitted. 

The house inside was even fuller, people dancing around and singing along the music. You hands were glued to Beau’s shirt so you wouldn’t lose him.

“Jules!” Beau waved. “Logan,” he dapped him up.

“Hey you alright?” Logan asked you. “Dean has been worried about you for days.”

“I’m fine,” you nodded, smiling at him. 

“This is Jules,” Logan introduced you two. “They’re managing the fifth line’s account, and Jules, this is y/n, Beau’s dearest friend.”

“Hi,” you gave Jules a hug. “It’s really nice to meet you.”

“Likewise.”

“Hm, what’s fifth line by the way?”

“An account dedicated to Briar’s hockey team,” Jules explained. 

“Oh,” you smirked. “I’ll have to check that out.”

Beau started to talk but your name being called made you all turn around. Dean.

“What are you doing here?” Dean frowned, worried. “Are you ok?” he gently held your face, checking if it was hot. 

“I’m doing better than this morning so yep, all good.”

They all observed the scene with great interest, so you backed away a little. If Jules managed a gossip account about them all, then you were in gossip territory. 

“Drinks,” you shouted. “Beau, let's get something.”

“Alright,” he threw Dean a questioning look. 

On your way to the kitchen where all the drinks were, you bumped into Hannah and Garrett. You talked a little while Dean handed you a cup. You clanked your cups before drinking it down in one go. First mistake of the night, as that cup held a shot of vodka. 

“Couldn’t have found something softer?” you slapped Beau’s arm.

“Sorry, it was the first thing I found.” 

You danced with Hannah, and Allie who joined a little later and sang all together. You were alternating between dancing around and going in the kitchen to find alcohol. Fresh canned beer, or weird homemade cocktails, that was the question. 

“You should drink water,” Dean’s voice appeared behind you. 

“Water robing,” you slurred out. “Robing? Boring.” 

Dean placed his hands on your stomach and brought you closer to him, your back pressed against his chest. 

“I missed you,” Dean whispered. 

“You missed having sex with me,” you chuckled. 

“Two things can be true.”

“Well,” you turned around, wrapping your arms around his neck, “I missed having sex with you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“But let’s have a drink before,” you pushed Dean away.

You filled your cup with the mixture, and grabbed a beer to pour it into your cup before gulping it all down in one go. You grabbed another beer and pressed it into his chest.

“Drink, and we should dance!” 

Dean gulped the beer in one go, before tossing it aside. He grabbed your hand and led you to the corner of the living room where there were less people. His hands on your hips kept you held on to him. You moved together with the music, and then suddenly, you were facing him. 

“I want to kiss you,” Dean whispered. 

“Mmh,” you paused to think about it, “you should then.”

Dean leaned down and kissed you slowly, his hands sliding down to rest on your ass. 

“I’ve missed this,” Dean mumbled against your lips. 

“Mmh,” you closed your eyes, leaning against Dean. 

You were very grateful for Dean’s strong hands, because you would’ve fell on the floor if it weren’t for him. 

“Dean,” you whispered. “You’re so hot.”

“Yeah?” Dean smirked, looking at you smugly but his smile fell once he realised how warm your face felt. “Fuck, how much did you have to drink?”

“A lot,” you laughed, eyes still closed.

“Fuck,” Dean looked around, looking for Beau, but when he couldn’t find him he let it go.

Dean carried you in his arms to his bedroom.

“Ooh, are we going to have secret sex in your bedroom?” you bit your lips.

“No,” Dean put you in his bed. “You’re going to sleep because you’re clearly out of your mind.”

“Aren’t you gonna stay with me?” you pouted. 

Dean stared at you, and sighed. He touched your forehead and it was warm, too warm for someone who wasn’t still sick. 

“I’m staying,” Dean whispered, stroking your cheek. 

Dean watched your breathing slowly become more even before he cracked his window open. He went back to the party, looking for Beau but that was difficult with all these people. And then, people handed him drinks, and shouted his name and he found himself doing shots. After a few drinks, he finally spotted Beau outside. 

“Dude!” Dean ran after him. “Where’re you goin’?”

“Looking for my very sick and drunk best friend,” Beau sighed. 

“She’s in my room, I was looking for you.”

“Is she ok?” Beau frowned, going back into the house.

“I don’t–” Dean hesitated, following his friend.

Beau was walking very fast, and he ran up the stairs two at the time and reached Dean’s bedroom in record time. You were still sleeping soundlessly, Dean’s comforter on the ground, with your clothes too, and you had one of Dean’s t-shirts on. 

“Hey,” Beau squatted down next to you. 

“Heeey,” you opened your eyes. 

“Do you want to go home?” 

You shook your head. 

“‘m gonna sleep here,” you mumbled into Dean's pillow before falling back asleep.

“Ok. Let’s hope it’s just the alcohol,” Beau sighed. 

“She has a fever,” Dean leaned against his door. “I don’t think she had fully recovered yet before coming.”

“Yeah… Just-- I’ll check on her again tomorrow, can you keep an eye on her until–”

“Of course. I’ll call if anything happens.”

“Thanks, I’m gonna head home,” Beau stood, and then stopped in front of him. “Please don’t have sex with someone when she’s in your bedroom.”

Dean scoffed, slightly offended. “I know!”

“Just to be sure,” Beau put up his hands. “Thanks.”

“Don’t worry ‘bout it.”

The party was still going on strong, but Dean didn’t go back. He made a promise to his friend, and even if Beau didn’t ask, Dean would’ve stayed and looked after you. He took a quick shower before laying in his bed next to you. It wasn’t the first time you two slept in the same bed, Dean often spent the night when he came to your place. 

Dean was a physical touch type of person, which meant he loved to hug the person he’s sleeping with. He loved sleeping with you wrapped around him, safely tucked away in his arms. You usually enjoyed the feeling, but that morning, it felt anything but nice. 

It felt suffocating, with a touch of hungover and sickness. You tried to leave the bed, but Dean had his leg over your body, his arms wrapped tightly around you. 

“Dean!” you tapped lightly on his leg. “I need to get up.”

Dean groaned and let you go, and went back to sleep, his limbs sprayed out. You needed to take a shower. You opened a few doors before you found it and took a quick shower. You weren’t going to risk it and use one of the towels in there, which meant putting Dean's t-shirt back on while you were still damp. You took some toothpaste and used your tongue to spread it around your teeth, and rinse it off before going back to Dean. 

You didn’t want to wake him up. He looked peaceful, and he needed the rest but you had no other option if you wanted to go home.

“Dean,” you sat on his bed. “Dean,” you shook him a little. 

“Mmh,” Dean groaned, opening his eyes. “‘m awake.”

Dean rubbed his eyes to wear off the sleepiness and sat up. 

“Are you ok?” Dean frowned, slightly worried. “Are you feeling better?”

“Yeah,” you nodded. “I just– I think I need to go home.”

“You can rest here if you need,” Dean took your hand in his. “We don’t have anything planned, you’ll be able to rest.”

“Uh…” you hesitated.

“Or not,” Dean finished for you. “Give me five minutes ok?” 

You nodded, relieved. You went to grab your clothes and put them with your bag on Dean’s bed. Then you went to his closet, and took one of his jackets to put on. The sleeves were too long, but it covered your ass. 

When Dean came back he froze for a second before he went to put on some clothes and helped you carry your clothes and bag before you went down. 

No one was up in the house yet, the party had ended late so they were all getting their beauty sleep in. You watched Dean grab two apples, wash them and a bottle of water and then, handed them to you.

“I’m not hungry,” you still took everything. 

“For later then.”

“Thanks,” you smiled weakly.

The moment you sat down in Dean’s car, you started to feel nauseous. You rarely regretted decisions you took in life, but coming to the party yesterday was one of them. You were definitely still sick, and when you had realised that you were drinking alcohol on an empty stomach it was already too late for you. And it turned out, sleeping didn’t help at all since you were still feeling like shit. You closed your eyes, trying everything to stop your head from spinning. You drank the water and it didn’t help. You focused on your breathing until Dean called your name.

“Are you alright? You look…” Dean grimaced.

You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak. 

“We’re almost there,” Dean stroked your thigh with his thumb.  

By the time you reached your apartment, you ran out of his car and rushed to your place. You sprinted to the bathroom and vomited in the toilet. There wasn’t anything consistent since you hadn't eaten in a while, but still, it made you feel a little better. You flushed the toilet and went back to the living room. 

“Fuck,” Dean ran in your apartment. “You scared the shit out of me,” he took you in his arms. 

“I didn’t want to puke in your car,” you joked, a small smile forming on your face. “Thank you for driving me home, mh—,” you rested your face against his chest, “you can go back home and rest— I’m sorry again for waking you and—.”

“I don’t mind. Let’s get you back to bed.”

You couldn’t fight him even if you wanted to. You simply nodded and let him lead you to your bedroom. A place he was very familiar with. You took off his jacket and threw it on your bed.

“Call me if you need anything,” Dean sat on your bed.

“I will.”

“‘Kay.”

Dean leaned down, but you quickly pushed his face away with your hand. He gasped, and stood from your bed.

“I’m sick you weirdo,” you laughed. “Were you really going to kiss me?”

“Fine, but you owe me a kiss,” Dean stared at you and sighed. “I’m gonna go now.”

“Mmh,” you nodded. 

Once you heard your front door closing, you closed your eyes and tried to sleep again but unlike the few previous days, it didn’t come to you. You constantly felt you wanted to vomit made it impossible to rest, so you slowly stood. You went to your kitchen and drank a little bit of water. You should eat some chicken soup, but you certainly weren’t going to cook that. You could do some avocado toasts, but you didn’t have any avocados. You grabbed some plain bread and ate half a toast before you felt sick. You should call someone, call Dean back or call Beau but you couldn’t find your phone anywhere.

“Fuck this,” you sighed. 

You turned on your TV and watched your current series, Abbott Elementary, white munching on plain toasts to fill your stomach. That did not work because then, you spent a few hours laying on your bathroom floor to be close to the toilet. And without your phone, you couldn't even update your friends. 

You spend the day alternating between watching your series and the bathroom. You were dozing off on your couch when you heard your front door opening. You quickly stood, which was a mistake because it made you nauseous, and trip over your blanket. 

“Fuck,” Dean ran to you, “baby are you ok?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” you grabbed his arms to steady yourself. 

“You don’t look like it,” Beau stood next to Dean.

“What are you two doing here?” you changed the subject.

“I was worried, and you weren’t answering your phone,” Beau said.

“I lost it!” 

“Then I called Dean, and turns out, your purse was in his car.”

“Oh.”

“And,” Beau stared at you, “we’re going to the hospital because you’re clearly dying over there.”

“I’m sorry,” you sighed. 

“It’s ok,” Dean reassured you, shielding you from Beau. “You’ll be fine.”

You looked up at him and gave him a shaky nod. 

“I’ll help her change into some clean clothes,” Dean held you against him, “and you can…” his voice trailed off, not knowing what to say.

Beau looked smugly at Dean, and waited for his friend to continue. 

“Or you could help her find some clothes because you’ve been friends forever and I’ll check her bag,” Dean frowned, “to see if… yeah.”

Dean smiled and handed you to Beau before leaving your apartment. Once it was only the two of you, Beau looked at you expectantly. 

“Your friend’s weird,” you shrugged, walking away slowly. 

“Ok,” Beau smiled, shaking his head a little.

The trip to the hospital wasn’t very long, but waiting for someone to get to you and take care of you felt never-ending. Then, unsurprisingly, you had alcohol poisoning and it got worse very quickly because you were sick and you hadn’t eaten anything. And then, the alcohol poisoning induced the vomiting and the severe dehydration made you feel lightheaded and weak. 

They were going to keep you overnight, and pump your stomach and rehydrate you through IV before you could go home. 

“I already feel better,” you smiled once you were settled in your room for the night. “At least I’ll be all good to go back to school next week.”

“You have weird priorities in life,” Beau commented. 

“I know…”

Then a nurse came in to tell you it was way past visiting hours, and they could come back tomorrow at 8am. Dean made sure your phone was charging next to your bed before they left. Another nurse came in to check on you before leaving you alone. 

That was a complete lie. You didn’t know how to answer Dean saying he didn’t want to have sex with someone else, so you lied. You still called Beau, because that way, it would only be partially lying. 

When morning came and you woke, Dean was already in your room. He was sitting on the chair next to the door, looking through his phone. 

“What time is it?” you yawned. 

“Past nine,” Dean looked up. “Are you feeling better?”

“A lot better,” you nodded.

“The nurse came in earlier.”

“Oh?”

“She said you were clear to leave when you were ready, just needed to check out. For the food, you’d have to eat chicken broth for a few meals before going back to full, real meals. And don’t forget to drink water. And she also mentioned that it was normal if you felt like you wanted to puke, just if you do puke a lot, you should come back to the hospital.”

“Ok,” you nodded. “That's– alright.”

“Beau is grocery shopping which is why he isn’t there,” Dean explained. “And, I picked up some clothes for you so you could change,” he handed you a bag. 

You’d thanked him so many times by now it felt like it lost its meaning. So you stayed silent, and just stood from your bed and walked to Dean. He looked at you with a hint of concern, but then you just wrapped your arms around him, resting your head on his chest. His arms instinctively went around you, one holding the back of your head. 

You could get used to this, to Dean. And that was something new that made your heart flustered. You could picture it, eating with him, going to his games, skating together, sleeping together, but then that wasn’t the lifestyle he was leading. But then again, these past few days, he hadn’t slept with anyone. 

You were overthinking this. This was casual, you could do casual, it’s all you knew how to do things. So, you grabbed your bag and left for the tiny bathroom to change. 

“Ready?” Dean stood when you came back out. 

“Yep.”

Dean held his hand out for you to take it, and you did only after a second of hesitation. How could you keep telling yourself that this was casual when he kept doing these things? These very couply things. It was fine, you’d just follow Dean’s lead. Whatever he did, you would do and keep things casual-ish. 

Things went back to normal once you were fully recovered. Meaning, Dean was spending every single day at your place, even if school started again, even if he had practice, even if there was a party at his house, he always ended up at your place. Some of these nights were spent watching your series, you had forced him to watch Abbott Elementary with you, some other nights were spent on working on school assignments, but most nights were spent with Dean naked. And you still didn’t tell Beau about it.

“Have you told anyone about this?” you asked Dean one night, while you were both in your oversized bathtub. 

“About?”

“Us having sex, you spending all your free time here.”

“The guys know, yeah,” Dean nodded, tracing his fingers along your arm. 

“Do ‘the guys” include Beau Maxwell?” 

Dean stayed silent for a moment. “No,” he breathed out. “Did you?”

“Nope. I–” you sighed, throwing your head back, resting it in the crook of his neck. “I’ve been thinking about it, and the more I wait, the weirder it is. What would I even say?”

“That you’ve been having the time of your life with his best friend,” Dean kissed your cheek, and then his kisses trailed down your neck. 

Sex in the bath was messy. Literally. Because you both spent at least fifteen minutes cleaning up the spilled water. But it was stil better than shower sex.

“Never again,” you glared at him knowing damn well you’d be doing it again soon. 

You were eating with everyone near the school’s restaurant, you all listened to Garrett talking about the next game they had. Beau, who sat in front of you, looked at you with a confused look and you only shrugged. 

“y/n?” a voice called you from behind. 

Garrett stopped talking, and you all turned around. You had to take a double take before standing up. 

“Jake!” you gasped. “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same question,” he laughed, giving you a tight hug. “But I go to school here, have been for a couple of years now. What about you?”

“I transferred here,” you turned around. “Hm, this Jake Huges and these are my friends.”

“Hi,” Jake smiled at them. “I saw you guys play hockey for Briar right?”

“Yeah,” Garrett nodded. “You’re–”

“Yeah, do you play?” Dean snarked.

You glared at Dean, because you knew for a fact he knew who that was. 

“I do play,” Jake laughed. “A little.”

“Yeah, a little at the Olympics,” you laughed. 

“Ah,” Dean nodded, still smiling politely. “Must’ve missed it.”

“Well, there were better programs,” Jake looked at you. “The best one, figure skating.”

“Ha, ha,” you gleamed. “Oh my god. We should have lunch someday, together.” 

“Yeah or we could catch up after you’re done here?”

“Yeah, sure,” you smiled.

“Well it was nice meeting you all,” Jake gave them a nod and then turned to you. “See you later?” 

“Yep.”

Jake gave you a quick embrace before joining his friends again. 

“Who was that?” Hannah asked.

“Jake Hughes, NHL player, playing for Montreal,” Garrett said. “Won silver at the Olympics.”

“And you didn’t know who that was?” Hannah looked at Dean suspiciously. 

“Must’ve slipped my mind,” Dean shrugged.

“Right,” Beau smirked. “Must’ve.”

Dean glared at his best friend, and went back to eating. Garrett continued to talk about hockey strategy until Hannah stopped him and then you all talked about other things. School, assignment, the next drunk Shakespeare play. 

Dean was a casual type of guy, breezing through life, with little to no worries in life. He was having the time of his life ever since he met you, and everything was great until Jake came in, because why did he feel like starting a fight with that guy when he took you in his arms. That little fucker. 

When they were done eating, Dean watched you walk away to that guy while they all walked in the opposite direction. Dean took Beau aside while the rest of the group talked a little further away. 

“What’s wrong?” Beau asked.

“Nothing,” Dean shrugged. “We should go to Malone’s tonight.”

“Alright,” Beau nodded, “why are you being so weird about that?”

“I’m not.”

Beau sighed. “Fine, I’ll believe you. Is this about her,” he nodded toward the restaurant where you were still sitting with Jake. 

Dean looked back, and sighed, rolling his eyes. “No. Maybe. Yes.”

“We can go to Malone’s right now if you need.”

Dean sighed. “Yeah.”

They told the guys, and then Beau drove them to Malone’s. It was fairly empty, people had already eaten. They sat in a booth, far away from people, and they ordered drinks. Dean still didn’t know what to tell his friend, and stayed silent until their drinks were served. Dean took a sip of his drink before pushing it away. 

“I’ve been hooking up with y/n,” Dean blurted out, staring at Beau.

Beau stared at Dean for a minute before nodding. “I know.”

“You know?”

“Well, I suspected it and you’re only confirming it for me now,” Beau smiled. “You’re not exactly subtle.”

“What?” Dean huffed. 

“You’re always together, you’re always the one driving her home when I could do it because she lives closer to me, you calling her baby. And when we’re spending time together, she’s always on her phone, smiling at it and I can see that she’s talking to you. You’re very comfortable with each other. You get weirdly jealous whenever there’s someone else close to her or touching her. I can go on.”

“No it’s fine, I get it.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“Nothing,” Dean shrugged. “Not between us, it’s been great.”

“But?”

“But I fucking hate Jake,” Dean lashed out. “That fucker—”

“Because?”

“Because he’s with her right now, and maybe she’ll stop whatever we have and go back to–.”

“Olympic athletes she has had sex with before?” Beau finished for him.

Dean nodded.

“And you have a problem with that?”

“No. Yes. I don’t know,” Dean sighed. 

“Dude,” Beau grinned,” you like her.”

“Of course I like her.”

“No, you like like her.”

Dean leaned back on the couch. 

“Dean you’re fucking awesome,” Beau crossed his arms on the table. “I know that, she knows that. You just gotta stop being a chicken and tell her about how you feel and what you want.”

“Yeah,” Dean smiled after a minute. “I know.”

“And gotta do it quick before she has sex with that Jake, hockey, Olympic medal guy,” Beau grabbed his phone.

“I will,” Dean stood. “I’m going back to that restaurant and I’ll—”

“She’s at her place,” Beau stood. “We share our locations,” he shrugged when Dean gave him a weird look. “Just, go to her and do your thing.”

“Yeah,” Dean walked away but then stopped. “You drove us here though,” Dean turned back. “Can you drive me to hers?”

Beau drove like a maniac, that man was on a mission. 

“What if he came back to her place?” Dean clenched his jaw.

“Then fuck that guy,” Beau said. “You got this.”

Twenty minutes later, they were at your place. Dean got out of the car, thanked Beau for his pep talk and went to your apartment. He stood in front of your door and hesitated. Should he ring the doorbell or just use his spare key? 

“Fuck,” Dean mumbled to himself. 

Dean banged his fist on your door. He waited a minute, then two and then three. And then he took out his key and came in. He directly went to your bedroom, and swung the door open. 

“Oh! What the fuck Dean!” you screamed, clutching your heart, taking off your headphones. 

“You weren’t—,” Dean coughed nervously, “answering your door.”

“Couldn’t hear,” you showed him your AirPods. “What happened?” you left your bed to join him. “Did something happen? Is Beau ok?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean frowned. “Why wouldn’t he be?”

“I saw you leave together earlier, and you look like something wrong happened.”

“Beau’s fine. I— How was your date with Jack?”

“Jack?” you laughed. “I know you know it’s Jake.”

“Do I?”

You stared at Dean. “It wasn’t a date, I was just catching up with a fellow athlete.”

“Good.”

“Good?” you smiled. 

Dean leaned against your door, crossing his arms. 

“I haven’t had sex with other women ever since we started to hook up,” Dean blurted out.

“Ok,” you nodded slowly. “Do you want to?”

“No! I just wanted to let you know. And I won’t and I don’t want you to… also.”

“I’m not,” you smiled. 

“Good,” Dean smiled, approaching you slowly. 

“Is that your weird way of asking me, us, to be exclusive and monogamous?” you joked. 

“Yeah.”

Dean pulled your face closer to his and sighed into the kiss, like something had been lifted off his shoulders. Dean continued deepening the kiss while bringing you to your bed. 

“We’re not leaving this place for the next twenty four hours,” Dean grinned. 

[athousandblunts]

comfort (part i) | john logan

john logan x f!reader

premise: you're in a "casual" relationship with logan, but you continuously refuse to spend the night at his place. in fact, you force yourself to never fall asleep in his bed. falling asleep next to him risks exposing him to your demons. and the last thing you want to do is place a burden on the man you're deeply in love with.

category: super super super light smut (minors dni), mostly fluff and yearning (incoming hurt/comfort in part ii)

word count: around 3.5k

content/trigger warnings: the lightest smut ever at the beginning (again, minors dni), vivid description of a night terror (brief mentions of blood, gunshots, screaming, suffocation in the night terror, but no other mention outside of it).

context notes: reader works at Briar's tutoring center. i originally was only going to make her a Psych major, but i added Bio because i wanted her majors to reflect her interest in figuring out how night terrors work (i never explored this angle in part i, but i will in part ii)

author notes: i've been in a creative writing rut for two years and off campus has pulled me out of it. sooo there's definitely room for improvement, please bear with me :) i'm also super inexperienced in writing smut, which is why you can barely consider the smut scene "smut" in the first place lmao. i originally wanted to write this fic all in one go, but i'm having some writer's block with the latter half, which is why i'm publishing it in two parts. feedback is much appreciated! (also very lightly proofread as of 06/02/26)

The afternoon sun slowly filters into his bedroom, basking your bodies in a soft, gentle glow. Though the entirety of Briar’s student body is still recovering from the brutal winter storm, you found shelter in his arms, feeling nothing but warmth while pinned beneath his body. As the end of February approaches, the promise of Spring weather reinvigorates Briar students as they deal with the exhaustion brought on by their grueling midterms. After all, the new season brought blooming flowers, brilliantly sunny days, and new beginnings.

Perhaps, the onset of Spring could mark a new beginning for you as well. Maybe you could experience a fresh start in your life by ending this bizarre arrangement that you have with this dazzling hockey player. Ending this “casual” relationship would be good for the both of you.

But ever since you stumbled into his bed on one October night during some Halloweekend festivities, Logan quickly became your comfort zone. And right now, as you restlessly writhe between his sheets, you have absolutely zero desire to leave this comfort.

“Fuck,” the man of the hour rasped and grunted, his head dropping unceremoniously onto the crook of your neck. He breathes frenzied exhales into your shoulder, hot air drifting towards the bottom of your ears. His body weight practically crushes you, leaving you with just the tiniest slot of air to supply your lungs. But you’re not complaining. You’re exactly where you want to be.

You gasp into his brown curls as his thrusts quicken, your hands desperately fisting and grabbing onto the fitted sheet as some sort of pathetic attempt to anchor yourself. Watching you twist underneath him with heavy-lidden eyes, Logan grasps your hands, carefully interlocking your fingers with his, your palms firmly sealing against each other. Like the satisfying connection of the final pieces of a puzzle.

The loving gesture tugs at your heart. This “casual” intimacy is too much to bear, but you can’t bring yourself to let go.

“Y/N,” He rasps into your skin, his frantic breaths imprinting themselves like love bites onto your neck. You know that he’s close, and judging by the tension breeding underneath your belly that’s threatening to release itself, you know that you’re not that far off either. With your elbows digging into his mattress, you arch your back, slightly lift your hips just a tad higher, and the sound that emerges from your throat reverberates off the walls of his bedroom. Logan immediately finds his own release as he moans your name into your neck, his stubble etching a mark onto your skin, and his own body shaking from head to toe.

After he takes off the condom, Logan’s chest makes its way on top of yours as you sink into his bed, trying to catch your breath as he lazily draws circles on your thigh. Though your mind flinches at the “casual” nature of your relationship with Logan, your heart eventually learns to return to slow resting state while around him. He’s a steady presence, and his company is much needed as you try to navigate around the various stressors in your life.

Already, your tortuous coursework and demanding work-study stint are clearly draining you. Hannah frequently points out the dark bags under your eyes and the sluggish, lethargic nature of your gait as you force yourself to attend class.

But you had another stressor that completely robbed the last morsels of life clinging on to your body. A hidden, yet dangerous stressor that you kept snapped shut in the corners of your mind, only giving the key to your therapist for her to unlock.

The reason why you always refused to sleep at Logan’s place.

“So beautiful,” Logan’s voice pulls you from your reverie, his hoarse whisper tickling your collarbone. He kisses over the hickeys he proudly implanted near your breast, admiring his view. “All for me.”

You bite your bottom lip at his comment, pressing down so hard that you’re sure blood will ooze out any minute now. You’re technically not “all for him.” Even though he skips hockey practice to help jumpstart your car on the side of the road. Even though he now uses a fragrance-free laundry detergent because his sheets would irritate your sensitive skin. Even though he looks at you with those eyes that compel you to answer his text every single time. Even though his bed feels so comfortable right now.

Control yourself.

“Back at ya,” You awkwardly laugh, delivering a very nervous and spur-of-the-moment reply. So smooth, Y/N. Did you flirt this badly when he tore your Tinkerbell costume off?

Chuckles rumble from his chest, pressing down onto your heart. You could play his laugh on repeat. Hell, even set it as your ringtone. “Still not used to receiving compliments, I see.”

You don’t offer a response. Suddenly, the bed feels way too warm and way too inviting. As his pillow swallows your head, your eyes start to close.

But you quickly force yourself to wake up, remembering that you do not, in any circumstance, want to fall asleep in his bed. You will not make that mistake.

Instead, you lean over to check the time on your phone. 4:09 PM.

“I need to get going to my shift,” You slide out from underneath him, removing yourself from his grap. The sudden loss of warmth feels like whiplash.

His dark eyebrows furrow as you grab the haphazardly laid clothes on the wooden floor. “Doesn’t it start at 5:00? You still have some time,” He pats your unofficial side of his bed, watching you shimmy yourself into your jeans. “Come ‘ere. Stay a ‘lil longer.”

You bite your lip even harder, using it like a stress ball, and you try to forget that your situationship remembers that tiny detail of your work schedule. Of course he does.

“I like getting there early, though. It’s much better than arriving five minutes before a session starts,” You zip up your jeans, chuckling softly when he flashes his signature sad puppy eyes at you. “I like to quickly refresh myself on the content beforehand.”

“As if you would need any refreshing, Mrs. Bio and Psych Double-Major,” He teases, and yep, you’re pretty sure that’s blood you’re tasting right now.

“Trust me, I don’t always remember the ins and outs of signal transduction.”

Logan tilts his head to the side, staring at you with those confused eyes that you find so absolutely endearing. “And what the hell is ‘signal transduction?’”

You sigh, kneeling onto the floor and tying your shoes. “That’s a story for another time. I better get going.”

“Wait, I’ll walk you down,” He says as he jumps out of the bed, rapidly putting on his sweatpants and grabbing a random flannel from his desk chair.

You roll your eyes as you open his bedroom door, hearing the noises of his roommates from downstairs. “I’ve been here plenty of times, Logan. I know my way around the house.”

He shrugs, buttoning up his flannel. “So? God forbid a guy wants to be a gentleman.”

“A gentleman?” You stifle a laugh, and he has the gall to put on a mildly offended face.

“Of course, my lady. I’m always on my best behavior for you.”

More blood seeps from your lip. You give him a playful shove on his shoulder, but he brandishes that signature crooked "John Logan smile" at you, and fuck, you’re in deep.

As the both of you walk downstairs, your peer at the living room and say a goodbye to the rest of the boys. Tucker and Dean were sitting on the couch, pouring over a textbook that you knew all too well. By the looks of it, Garrett wasn’t home. He was probably hanging out at Hannah’s dorm, per usual.

“Good seeing ya, Y/N,” Tucker smiles at you, lifting his head from the textbook.

“Yes, very good seeing ya,” Dean drawls, suddenly jumping up from his spot on the couch and making his way over to you. “And we are in desperate need of your guidance. This bio class is killing us.”

All of the boys knew you already. Though you and Logan weren’t “serious” by any means, neither of you kept your situationship a secret from others. At least Logan spared you the hurt and discomfort that comes from sneaking around.

Then again, all of his charming, boyfriend-coded compliments haven’t made the situation any better either.

You shake your head jokingly at Dean. “You guys have Professor Ragner, right? He’s chill. You’ll be fine.”

Dean gasps in fake shock, puting a hand to his heart as if he were in a melodramatic soap opera. “Wow, so you’re just leaving us to drown with no support? I see how it is, Y/N.”

You scoff. “No offense to y’all, but I don’t have time for free tutoring. I’m getting paid minimum wage, which is practically nothing to begin with, to tutor jocks like y’all in the first place. I’m sure as hell not doing any unpaid labor.”

“I can pay you in a different way,” Dean unabashedly flirts, blond waves falling over his eyes, voice dropping to a lower tenor. You raise an eyebrow in amusement, knowing that he’s joking.

Then someone behind you loudly clears their throat. You turn around to Logan, who is adorning an expression that you can’t quite decipher.

“Jesus, relax, Johnny,” Dean comes around and pats him on the back, which Logan rejects in fake disgust, pretending to flinch. “I was just suggesting an alternative method of payment.”

“Uh-huh, sure you were," Logan replies with a chuckle, though his smile doesn’t reach all the way to his eyes.

Tucker rejoins the conversation. “I don’t know about cash, but I’ll pay you back with free meals. I make a mean pasta carbonara.”

“Now that, I can get behind,” You point finger guns towards Tucker. “Well boys, I’m off to work. I’ll see y’all later.”

Tucker and Dean say their goodbyes. With a light touch of his hand on the small of your back, Logan leads you to the porch. He opens the door, and as you step outside, he wraps a hand around your wrist, wanting to say one last thing before you leave.

“Have a good shift,” He presses a kiss to your forehead. You force yourself to not bite your lip for the hundredth time. Control. “I’ll see you on Friday, yeah?”

You don’t know what to say. You knew that the team was throwing a party before their game on Saturday. A sharp inhale exits your nose.

“Yeah, sure,” You smile at him, starting to walk to your car. “See you, Logan.”

As you drive to the tutoring center, you chastised yourself for how close you were to falling asleep in his bed. This pathetic attempt at a situationship was going to tear you apart. And if you need to distance yourself from those warm eyes and beaming smile, then so be it.

Friday was two days away. You decided to not come over to the hockey players’ house for their party before playing Eastwood. Not only did you want some space between you and Logan, but you also had an upcoming midterm that made up a good chunk of your grade for your Psych class. You thus planned on devoting your entire weekend to studying for it.

So when Friday night came along, giving excuses to Logan felt easy. Somewhat easy.

(9:21 PM) Logan: Hey, I haven’t seen you yet. Are you on the way?

(9:46 PM) Y/N: I have a huge midterm on Monday. I need to study. Sorry, I forgot to tell you :/

(9:48 PM) Logan: Ahh I see, no worries.

(9:51 PM) Logan: I looked forward to seeing you.

(9:52 PM) Logan: I’ll see you after the midterm? Good luck, you got this.

(10:23 PM) Y/N: Thanks, good luck with the game. 

A twinge of guilt spread through your chest and hammered at your heart when you didn’t confirm the rendezvous. You always came to the boys’ parties before their games, even though you continuously stuck by your rule of never sleeping over, which definitely took Logan a little bit of time to get used to. During Halloweekend, you surprised him when you slipped out of his bed at 3:00 AM, grabbing your car keys and opening his bedroom door.

“You don’t want to stay the night?” You recall his gravelly voice, utterly rattled with sleep, as he watched you put on your shoes. “It’s kinda late.”

“I have an early morning. And I didn’t drink at all, so…” You explained, giving him a tight smile before closing the door so that you didn’t have to stare any longer at his bare, toned chest. “See ya.”

Starting with a clean slate was necessary. After all, you needed to keep your commitment to both your grades and your job. Logan would only serve as a distraction.

That’s what you kept repeating to yourself as you went to bed later that night, putting your phone on the other side of your room in order to stop checking it.

The first thing that you notice is that you can’t speak.

You bring a palm up to your mouth, but your face feels completely numb. Anything you say just comes out extremely muffled, as if you never had a mouth in the first place. You gaze around your environment with blurry eyes, looking at the four corners of the dingy room. You try to touch one of the walls, but as soon as your hand comes into contact, the wall becomes translucent, your hand just floating around in open space. But as you pull your hand back, the wall comes up again, inching closer and closer to your face.

Your breath hitches as you try to find an escape—a trapdoor, a window, just anything will do. But the room starts to resemble a box the more you look at it, as if you were an inanimate object shoved inside a carton to never be seen again. The lump in your throat grows as your vision subsides with each passing second, complete murk and darkness clouding up your eyes.

You try to bang on the walls, but your balled up fists just fall into air. You try to scream for help, but you feel chains wrapped around your mouth, silencing your cries and greedily swallowing up any remaining shred of air needed for your survival.

The sound of falling objects tears your gaze away from the walls. You eyes widen as you watch clumps of your hair disintegrating into the floor and massive droplets of blood emanating from your fingertips. You frantically search your whole body for any sign of a cut, a wound, an injury, but your hunt is fruitless.

And that’s when the walls start closing in, devouring every inch of space that’s not covered by your trembling body.

You sink to the floor as your knees helplessly buckle, crawling up into a ball as a fresh flow of tears sprint down your cheeks. Soon those tears also turn to blood, drowning your limbs in a sea of red. And the ceiling feels so fucking close to you, you’re certain that it’s going to collapse.

Sounds of whining sirens and howling wind and quick gunshots and terrified screaming all fuse and merge tightly together in perfect storm, a cacophony where you can hear each individual occurrence happening at once. The walls are up to your nose, and you try so hard to scream. To cry for help.

The sound of a door slamming shut finally wakes you up.

You’re heaving as you sit up in your bed, your fists rapidly unclenching to rest your palms on your chest. Your body feels so unbearably hot, outlines of your sweat etching themselves onto your sheets. A fearful whimper tears out of you, and you wrap your hands around your curled-up body as you begin to frantically rock yourself back and forth on your bed. The sobs pour out of you in an instant, breaths clawing themselves up your throat in such a sharp, stiniging manner that you’re sure there’s clawmarks scarred across your trachea. You’ve had night terrors ever since elementary school, but you’ve never really adjusted them.

The tears completely wreck you. You move your hands from your body to the sheets, fists digging into the fabric, helplessly searching for security. What a stark contrast to your time with Logan, where you desperately fisted at his sheets while waves of pleasure cascaded through your body.

Both times, however, you were looking for control.

Nevertheless, as your sobs gradually begin to subside, you inhale shaky breaths to center yourself back to reality. When your vision starts to clear up, you go back to the 5-4-3-2-1 coping technique that your therapist suggested to ground yourself.

Five things you can see. Four things you can touch. Three things you can hear. Two things you can smell. One thing you can taste.

As you slowly list through the four things you can touch, your mind goes back to the hockey player you’re trying so desperately not to think about. But all you desire is to feel his callused palm on your cheek, his long arm around your waist, and his mouth trailing kisses on your neck.

And you hate how much you yearn to be in Logan’s arms right now. You ache for his comforting presence, but you know you can’t place this trouble on him, this overwhelming burden to bring you back to Earth after a night terror. He already has enough on his plate.

Sighing, you make your way to the bathroom to splash some water on your face. On your way there, you grab your phone, looking at the date and time. 2:38 AM, Monday, February 23rd.

So you had a night terror the morning of your big exam. Great.

At least you can thank your neighbors’ rowdiness for pulling you out of your dream. They loved to slam the door after a night out, and unfortunately for you, they seemed to go out every fucking night. You kindly asked them to close their door more gently, but clearly, your words had zero effect.

After wiping your face and staring too long at your bloodshot eyes in the bathroom mirror, you walk to your desk, deciding to fit in a last-minute study session now that you’re awake. You definitely don’t want to go back to sleep now.

After five minutes of flipping through some flashcards, you make the mistake of scrolling through the notifications on your phone. Your eyes immediately lock on to some notifications from Instagram. Specifically, some DMs from Logan.

When your trembling fingers open your message thread with him, the slight shaking in your body stops when you browse through his messages. All of them were either the silliest of reels or the stupidest of memes. And under each and every one of them, he wrote a message: This made me think of you; or you definitely need to watch this; or even this is so stupid, but it made me laugh so hard that I had to send it you.

As you laugh while watching cat videos and overplayed vines, the desire for Logan seeps through your veins. He has no idea of the effect you have on him.

But you’re still going to keep your distance. You have to, even when you watch all of the reels he sends you, despite telling yourself that you need to go back to studying any minute now.

[broodingboysimp]

High Maintenance

Garrett Graham x Female!Reader

Warnings: alcohol use, drinking to cope, anxiety, angst

Summary: You've been falling apart quietly for three weeks and you're very good at making sure nobody notices, especially your boyfriend Garrett. You're less good at it after four drinks and one overheard conversation you were never supposed to hear.

Author's Note: Thx for all the love on my first Garrett fic! I'm doing an OC rewatch rn and just felt like I needed to get this one off my chest. I <3 bestie Dean fr.

Eight months in and you still hadn't figured out what to do with being someone's favorite thing.

Garrett wasn't subtle about it. That was the thing, he had absolutely no interest in being subtle about it. He'd find you across a dining hall full of people and his whole face would do something embarrassing. He'd mention you to his teammates with the casual frequency of someone who didn't realize he was doing it, which, according to Dean, he wasn't. He'd show up at your dorm with soup when you were sick, uninvited, unashamed, completely certain he was welcome. He was always welcome. That was the other thing.

Eight months. Long enough that his hoodie had more or less permanently become part of your wardrobe. Long enough that you knew exactly which toothpaste brand he preferred, and that he took his coffee wrong, and that he looked up at the stands exactly once per game - same moment every time, right after warm-ups - just to find you.

You were, by every reasonable metric, fine. Good, even. Happy.

You were also, quietly and without telling anyone, coming apart at the seams.

It hadn't started with anything dramatic. That was the part that made it hard to explain. There was no single thing to point to, no moment where it all went wrong. Just a bad exam grade, then another. Readings piling up in two classes, then three. A cold that moved into your chest three weeks ago and apparently liked it there, the kind of tired that sleep didn't touch.

You'd cancelled plans with Garrett twice. Both times he'd said it's okay, babe, seriously, without missing a beat, and both times something in you had gone slightly sideways, because of course he had. Of course he was fine about it. He was always fine about it, which somehow made it worse, because it meant he was noticing, and adjusting around you, and that meant you were someone who needed adjusting around.

He'd started checking in more. Texts a little more often. Soup you hadn't asked for, dropped off with a knock and a smile like it was nothing.

It was nothing. That was the problem. To him it was nothing, and to you it was accumulating into something you didn't have a word for yet.

Too much, something in the back of your head had started saying. Quietly at first. Then less quietly. You're too much right now.

You were good at ignoring things. You'd been ignoring this for three weeks. You were, it turned out, not as good at it as you'd thought.

The party was Garrett's idea. Well, it was everyone's idea. Briar had won the game 4-1, and the hockey house was the kind of loud that rattled inside your skull pleasantly, all bass and laughter and the clatter of the boys being celebratory and stupid. The living room smelled like beer and Axe and the particular chaos of hockey players who were very pleased with themselves.

You'd smiled through most of it. You were good at that, too.

Garrett had kept you close the whole first hour, arm slung around your shoulders, pressing a kiss to your temple every time someone stopped to talk to him, like punctuation. Hannah had found you at some point and the two of you had ended up in the kitchen with drinks you weren't really finishing, talking about nothing, which was nice.

But Garrett had gotten pulled away - something about Dean needing him, something about the highlight reel someone had pulled up on the TV - and you'd drifted. Which was fine. You were fine.

You'd ended up on the back porch without fully meaning to.

The night air was cold as you leaned against the railing, tipped your head back, and breathed.

You're okay. You're fine. You're at a party celebrating your boyfriend's win and everything is fine.

You heard them before you saw them. Two girls tucked into the corner of the porch, half-hidden by the shadows. You hadn't noticed them when you came out.

You recognized one of them.

Kendall. You'd heard the name in the careful, neutral way girls mentioned names when they meant something. She and Garrett had hooked up before. Before you. It wasn't a big deal. You knew it wasn't a big deal.

You turned slightly away, meaning to go back inside, meaning to just not be here for whatever this was.

But her voice carried.

"-no, I just mean, look at her. She's been off all night."

A murmur from the other girl. You went very still.

"I'm not being mean, I'm just - Garrett has a lot going on. He's got scouts looking at him, he's got finals coming up, and now he's got-" a pause, something that wasn't quite a laugh, "-one more thing to manage."

One more thing to manage.

The words landed somewhere below your sternum and just sat there.

"She seems kind of high maintenance," Kendall continued, quieter now. "I heard she's been sick, like, for weeks, and he's been running over there constantly. He doesn't have time for that. He doesn't have time for someone like- I mean, it's Garrett Graham. He could have-"

You stopped hearing the rest.

Not because they stopped talking, you just stopped being able to take anything in. The world narrowed down to the railing under your hands and the cold air in your lungs and the feeling of something fracturing very quietly behind your eyes.

One more thing to manage.

High maintenance.

He doesn't have time for someone like-

You turned around and went inside.

You went for the kitchen.

There was a handle of something on the counter - vodka, cheap, the kind that came in a plastic bottle - and you poured it into whatever cup was closest without really looking at what was already in it. You drank it faster than you should have. Poured another.

This was not something you did. You were not, by nature, a drink-until-it-goes-away person. You'd watched enough people use that particular coping mechanism to know better. You knew better.

You poured a third.

The thing was, and you understood this even as you were doing it, which somehow made it worse, that the words were just sitting there. One more thing to manage. Right in the center of your chest, perfectly placed, like Kendall had known exactly where to aim. And you needed them to move. You needed them to blur, or soften, or stop feeling so much like the thing you'd already been thinking at three in the morning for the past three weeks.

So you drank.

Hannah found you twenty minutes later, laughing too loudly at something a guy from the lacrosse team had said. She gave you a look, the kind that meant how many is that, and you smiled wide enough that she let it go. Or seemed to. You slipped away before she could ask a follow-up question.

The party had taken on that particular underwater quality that meant the alcohol was working. The edges of everything softened. The bass felt further away. You moved through the living room with the careful precision of someone who knew they were drunk and was trying very hard not to show it, which probably meant you were showing it completely.

Garrett was somewhere in this room. You could feel it the way you always could, that low awareness, like a compass needle swinging north. Normally you'd find him without thinking.

Tonight you turned the other direction.

You grabbed someone's abandoned drink off the end table. You didn't know whose, you didn't care, which was so unlike you that some distant sober part of your brain flinched, and made your way to the other side of the room. Someone pulled you into a conversation about something. You nodded. You laughed when they laughed. You were very good at performing fine, even now, even like this.

But Garrett kept appearing at the edges of things. You'd see his shoulder, the back of his head, catch a flash of his smile across the room, and something in your chest would do that terrible thing it always did.

So you kept moving.

You ended up in the hallway. Then near the stairs. Then, without fully deciding to, on the stairs themselves, sitting halfway up with your cup.

You sat for a while.

The alcohol had moved past the useful stage and into something messier, the kind of drunk where everything felt slightly too large and slightly too true at the same time. Your eyes were doing something embarrassing. You pressed the back of your wrist to them, hard.

You're fine. You're not going to do this here.

You stood up. Gripped the railing. Made it to the top of the stairs on the second try.

The upstairs hallway was dark enough that it felt like breathing room. You leaned against the wall and closed your eyes for a second, just long enough to get your legs back under you. Your dorm key was in your jacket pocket. Your jacket was downstairs. You needed to find it and leave before Garrett realized you'd been avoiding him for an hour, because if he looked at you right now with that face - the one he made when he was worried - you were going to fall apart in the middle of his own party, and you would not do that to him, you refused to do that to him tonight...

You pushed off the wall.

Misjudged the distance to the opposite side of the hallway by about four inches.

The door swung open before you could knock properly, or maybe you knocked wrong, and suddenly there was light and Dean Di Laurentis was right there, some girl half visible behind him, and all three of you stared at each other.

"Bathroom," you said, except it came out slightly sideways.

Dean blinked. Looked at you. Looked at the cup in your hand, mostly empty. Looked back at your face.

Something shifted in his expression, fast and uncharacteristically serious.

"Babe." Not to you. He was already half-turning to the girl, his voice dropped low. "I need a minute."

"You're kidding-"

"I'm really not." A beat. Something in his tone that left no room for argument. "Please."

The girl left in the precise way people left when they were furious and had decided to be graceful about it anyway. You watched her go down the hallway and felt vaguely guilty about it.

Dean stepped back from the doorway. "Get in here."

"I don't need-"

"You just walked into my door."

"I knocked."

"With your face, a little bit." He looked at you levelly. "Get in here."

You got in there.

He closed the door. The noise from downstairs dropped to a murmur.

"How much have you had to drink?"

"That's a weird opener."

"It's a normal question for someone who just almost fell through my door." He crossed his arms, leaning against the wall, "How much."

You thought about lying. Decided it wasn't worth the effort. "Enough."

"Enough," he repeated, in the tone of someone doing math. His eyes moved over you, assessing. Quick and thorough the way athletes were sometimes, used to reading situations fast. "You don't drink like this."

"People drink at parties."

"Not you. Not like-" he gestured vaguely at the cup still in your hand, "-whatever this is." A pause. "What happened?"

"Nothing happened. I'm fine."

"Okay."

You stared at him. He stared back. He did not appear to be in any rush whatsoever.

You hated that. You hated the waiting.

"I overheard something," you said, and the words came out a little slurred at the edges. "On the porch. Kendall - you know who that is?"

Something crossed his face. "Yeah. I know who that is."

"She was talking about me." The cup in your hand felt very heavy suddenly. You set it down on the nearest surface. "She said I was one more thing Garrett had to manage." The words tasted exactly as bad coming out as they had going in. Worse, maybe, because you were saying them out loud now, making them real. "That I was high maintenance. That he didn't have time for someone like me."

Dean was quiet for exactly two seconds.

"She said that."

"She's not wrong, that's the thing." You laughed, and it came out wrong, too bright and too brittle. "I've been sick for like three weeks, and stressed, and he keeps showing up for it, and I keep letting him, and he has scouts and he has finals and I just-" You stopped. The room was doing something slightly unsteady. You pressed your fingertips to the dresser behind you. "I just didn't want to feel it. I didn't want to stand there in the middle of his party and feel like that, so I-" You gestured at nothing. At the cup. At yourself.

"So you drank a stranger's leftovers."

"I don't know whose cup it was."

"Yeah, that's the part I'm stuck on." Dean pushed off the wall and grabbed the desk chair, set it down in front of you, and sat in it backwards, arms folded over the top, looking up at you with an expression that was not quite his usual one. "Sit down before you fall down."

"I'm not going to fall-"

"You're leaning."

You looked down. You were, in fact, leaning slightly. You sat on the edge of his bed.

Dean watched you with the particular patience of someone who had decided they weren't going anywhere.

"She's not-" You exhaled, stared at your hands. "She's not some villain. She just said the thing I've already been thinking. And I couldn't-" Your throat tightened. "I couldn't stand there and keep smiling, so I thought if I just-"

"Drank enough that it blurred out?"

"I wasn't going to phrase it like that."

"But yeah?"

A beat.

"Yeah," you said, very quietly.

Dean rubbed the back of his neck. Looked at the ceiling. Then back at you, and something in his face shifted into something more serious, more deliberate, the version of him he mostly kept underneath all the noise he usually made.

"Can I tell you something without you getting weird about it?"

You made a helpless gesture.

"Garrett talked about you at practice last week," he said. "Full cringe, by the way, I'm doing you a public service by telling you this. Tucker asked how you were doing - just like, making conversation - and Garrett stopped mid-drill to answer. Like, stopped skating. Coach blew the whistle. Garrett didn't even flinch, just full-on answeredTucker like they were at brunch." He paused. "It was genuinely awful. The guys made fun of him for four days."

You stared at him.

"He said - and I am going to say this exactly once and then never again - that being with you was the first time in his life that coming home from a game felt better than the game itself." Dean's expression was the one people made when they'd eaten something sour. "Verbatim. He said that. To the whole team. In the locker room. While wearing his pads."

Your eyes were burning again, for a completely different reason.

"He talks about you like-" Dean exhaled through his nose. "Look, I've lived with that guy for three years. I have never, not once, seen him like this. And I mean the whole team. We all, okay, this is going to sound really weird-"

"Just say it."

"We all kind of think of you as ours too. Like, you're around all the time, and you're funny, and you ate nachos with us during the game and didn't complain about the TV volume once-" A pause. "That matters more than you think."

A noise came out of you that was almost a laugh. Wasn't quite.

"Kendall doesn't know what she's talking about," Dean said, and his voice had gone flat again. "She's not a bad person, she's just... she wanted something she didn't get, and that makes people say stupid things. It doesn't make the stupid things true."

Your eyes burned. You pressed the heel of your hand against one of them, hard, like you could physically hold it back, and for a second you almost managed it. Then your breath hitched and you didn't.

You hated it. You hated this, you hated that you were sitting in Dean Di Laurentis' room at your boyfriend's party with someone else's alcohol in your bloodstream, falling apart. This was not you. This was so profoundly, embarrassingly not you - and yet here you were, doing it anyway.

"I hate this," you said, rough.

"The crying or the drinking?"

"Both." You dragged your wrist across your face. "I don't do this. Either of this. I keep it together, and I've been keeping it together for weeks, and then one person says one thing and I'm-" You gestured at yourself. At the whole situation. The cup on his dresser. Your face. "This."

"You can't hold it together forever and then wonder why it comes out somewhere inconvenient." Dean's voice was even. "That's not strength. That's just pressure building."

You looked at him.

"Real talk," he said. "You've been running on empty, you've been pretending you're fine, and tonight cracked it open. And instead of letting yourself feel it, you drank half a mystery cup and were about to walk home alone in the cold." He raised an eyebrow. "Which we are going to circle back to."

"I wasn't going to walk home."

"You were absolutely going to walk home."

You didn't answer.

"Also," he said, and the sarcasm slid back in like he genuinely couldn't help it, "if you tell anyone I said any of this, I will deny it completely. I have a reputation and I'd like to keep it."

A sound came out of you that was almost a laugh. Wasn't quite. But almost.

"Drink some water," he said, standing, already moving to the mini fridge in the corner. He tossed you a bottle without looking. "And hey-"

You looked up.

"He's been looking for you for twenty minutes. Downstairs, increasingly frantic. You should talk to him."

You found Garrett's room because it was the only one with the light on.

The door was cracked. You pushed it open and stood in the doorway for a second, holding onto the frame slightly. The water Dean had given you was helping. A little. The edges of things were still slightly wrong.

You made it to the bed. Sat down. Put your face in your hands.

You heard him on the stairs before the door opened - that particular weight and rhythm, two at a time the way he always took them. And then Garrett was there, filling the doorway, and he stopped.

Just for a second.

Long enough for you to see it, the relief flooding in so fast it almost looked like something else. And underneath it, the residue of the twenty minutes before. He'd been worried. Not panicked, not Garrett, but worried. You could see it in the set of his jaw, the way he exhaled.

Then his eyes moved over you and his expression shifted into something different.

"Hey," he said carefully. "How much did you drink?"

You laughed, and it came out wrong. "Dean already asked me that."

"Dean texted me that you'd had a lot and that you were upset and to be..." he paused, "gentle. His word."

"Dean used the word gentle?"

"I was also surprised." He crossed the room and dropped to his knees in front of you, and it was such a Garrett thing to do - not sitting beside you, not keeping distance, just immediately down to your level, hands finding yours - that your throat tightened all over again. "Look at me."

You did.

He looked back, and he didn't rush it. Just looked at you the way he sometimes did when he thought you weren't paying attention. His thumb rubbed circles on your knuckles.

"I'm okay," you said. Force of habit.

"I know you're not." Not a judgment, just a fact. "Talk to me."

Your jaw worked. "I don't want to..." The words snagged. "I don't want to be something you have to manage, Garrett."

He went very still.

"I heard something tonight." Your voice came out thinner than you wanted, and you couldn't tell anymore how much of it was the alcohol and how much was just you: exhausted, hollowed out, finally out of room to hold it. "Someone saying I was... that I'm a lot right now. That you're running yourself into the ground for me, and you don't have time for someone like..." You stopped. "I've been thinking it for weeks. She just said it out loud."

"Who."

"It doesn't matter."

"It matters to me."

"Garrett." You shook your head, and the room moved slightly with it. "That's not the point. The point is that I believed it. That I heard it and something in me just - yes, obviously, correct. And I hated that. So instead of finding you and telling you I was upset like a normal person, I-" You gestured vaguely at yourself. At the state of you. "This."

He looked at you for a long moment.

"You've been carrying this for weeks," he said. Not a question.

"I didn't want to make it your problem."

Something crossed his face. "You are not a problem."

"You have scouts. You have finals. You've been coming to my dorm every other day with food I didn't ask for-"

"Because I wanted to."

"-and I keep letting you, and I feel like I'm taking something, like I'm-"

"Stop." His hands tightened around yours. "Listen to me. I come over because I want to be there. I text you because I want to know how you are. That's not- it's not labor, it's not obligation, it's not me managing anything. It's me." He exhaled slowly. "You're it for me. You know that."

"You can't just say that."

"I say it constantly. The guys are sick of hearing it."

"Dean told me about the locker room thing."

"Of course he did." No heat in it. Just resignation, and something softer underneath. "It was embarrassing. I meant every word."

You looked at him, and your eyes were burning again, and this time you let them. You were too tired and too drunk and too emptied out to hold that back too.

Garrett rose off his knees and sat beside you on the bed and pulled you into him without any hesitation.

You leaned.

That was the hardest part, always. The leaning. Letting someone else take some of the weight.

You were so tired of holding yourself upright.

"You're not too much," he said, into your hair. "You have never been too much."

You didn't answer.

"I mean it."

"I know you do," you said, very quietly.

He held you tighter. The party carried on below, muffled and oblivious, bass thumping through the floor, and up here it was just this. His arms. The familiar smell of him. The particular exhaustion of something finally, finally spilling over after being held too long.

You didn't feel better.

Not exactly. Not the way you'd maybe hoped. The shame of the drinking wasn't gone - that would probably be worse in the morning, honestly.

But Garrett didn't let go.

He kept one hand moving, slow and steady, through your hair, the way he did when you were half-asleep and he thought you weren't noticing. Like this was something he wanted to do. Like you were something worth being careful with.

You didn't know how to explain what that did to you.

You weren't sure you had to. At least not tonight. Not to Garrett.

Tonight, you closed your eyes and let him hold you, and tried to remember how to just be here. Without managing, without performing.

Just be here.

[finelinevogue]

have you seen the tiktok trend of the girlfriends telling their boyfriend they found their bestie on hinge/tinder. think of that with garrett graham, his reaction would be hilarious

OBSESSED WITH THIS!!!!!!

trouble

summary - you’re going to send garrett to an early grave with some of these tiktok pranks

pairing - garrett graham x girlfriend!reader

word count - 948

You slumped down on the sofa next to Dean.

Garrett was on the other side of the sofa, doing whatever guys did on their phones.

You had set up this prank with Dean, to play on your boyfriend, after having seen it on your TikTok a couple of times.

“Dude, you have to see this.” You said to Dean, sitting shoulder to shoulder with him as you pretended to show him the fake Allie profile you’d set up on Hinge. Yes you’d really gone to lengths trying to perfect this prank.

“What?” Dean asked, looking up from his own phone at yours.

“Allie’s on Hinge.”

“Huh?”

“Allie. I found her on Hinge.”

“Like the dating app?” Dean pretended to look confused as he put down his phone to look at yours.

You subtly looked at Garrett from across the room, who you could tell was actively listening but still paying close attention to his phone.

“Yeah, look.” You fully handed Dean your phone.

“The fuck?” Dean spluttered. “I literally took this photo of her.”

“That’s seriously what you’re focusing on right now?” You gaped.

“But look…”

“Yes, I’ve seen, Dean.”

“What are you two freaking out about?” Garrett piped up.

He was peering over his phone at you two like he was absolutely done with whatever nonsense was ensuing. He had told you multiple times about the day he regretted introducing you to Dean.

“My girlfriend has Hinge, G!”

“Oh.” His brows furrowed and you wondered whether he had already sussed out the situation. “Let’s see.”

You tried to hold back a laugh as your boyfriend walked over to your side of the sofa, sandwiching you between him and Dean as he sat next to you.

Garrett looked over your shoulder to your phone in Dean’s hand.

Dean gave you the side eye as Garrett intensely looked at the fake Allie profile. Both of you wanted to laugh so bad, but you were in too deep to stop the prank now.

“God.” Garrett tutted. “Why would she do that?”

“Fuck if I know.” Dean answered.

He scrolled down Allie’s profile, past the pictures and prompts. It was made to look like she’d really taken building a profile seriously.

Then Garrett pulled away from you really fast.

You pursed your lips to keep you from laughing as Dean looked at his best friend with teasing eyes.

“Hold the fuck up a minute.”

“What?” Dean played.

“Who’s Hinge are we looking at this on?” Garrett asked.

Hook, line and sinker.

The crux of the prank.

“I dunno. Y/N passed me her phone.” Dean shrugged.

Your chin was cupped by Garrett’s hand. He twisted your face so you were looking at him, his eyes wild and eyebrows raised.

“Yes?” You teased.

Garrett just raised his eyebrows further.

“Why do you have Hinge?” He looked at you, assessing every micro-movement.

Dean returned your phone to your lap and scooted an inch away from you, clearly very disturbed by whatever was happening between you and Garrett.

“I don’t know.” You shrugged.

“You don’t know?” Garrett challenged, dropping his hand from your chin now that he knew he had your attention.

“She doesn’t know.” Dean chimed in, causing Garrett to momentarily shoot dagger eyes at him.

“Shut up Dean.”

Garrett didn’t look angry or upset.

He just genuinely looked confused at what was going on - like he was missing a central piece of information.

“You download it by accident?” He asked.

“Maybe.” You shrugged again.

You chanced a look at Dean, who was way too focused on his lap to be acting normal. He clearly felt your gaze on him because the next minute he was trying to hold back a grin, causing you to bite the inside of your cheek to do the same.

“You know what I think?” Garrett asked, and you turned back to look at him.

“Hm?”

“I think you’re both idiots.”

You broke by letting out a burst of laughter, whilst Dean already began to protest.

“Uh - What? So you don’t think your girlfriend’s cheating?”

Garrett looked at Dean like he’d just said the most ridiculous thing ever.

“No.” He said matter of factly. No hesitation.

The simple word made your laughter dry up.

You saw the sparkle come back to life in his eyes when he looked at you. He was clearly beginning to understand the lack of seriousness in this situation.

Your hand moved to link through his and you squeezed tight for reassurance.

“But seriously, why do you have Hinge?”

“It was a TikTok prank, I’m sorry.” You said.

“So the joke was that I had to notice you had Hinge, not that Allie was cheating on Dean?”

“Woah - no-one’s cheating on anyone, buddy. It’s a fake profile. My girlfriend is very much obsessed with me.”

“You two are exhausting.”

“You love us really.” Dean said.

Your boyfriend sighed and fell back flat on the sofa, covering his eyes with his hands.

You decided to lay down with him - or, on top of him - before he could escape. His hand automatically moved down to cup against your back, despite the complaint he’d made moments before.

“See?” Dean tried.

“Don’t start.”

“But that’s love. Right there.”

“Dean.”

“I’m just saying…”

“Dean!”

“How am I the one in trouble? Your girlfriend’s the one with a fake Hinge profile.”

“And she will be in trouble later.” You buried yourself into the crux of Garrett’s neck as he spoke, trying to hide the rising blush.

“Okay, at some point there’s too much love, G…” Dean gagged. Deciding there was only so much affection he could witness in one day, Dean got up and left, leaving you and Garrett alone.

[sasaririri]

Don't you dare stop the music.

pairing: John Logan x readerfem

summary: When you confessed your love to the idiot on the hockey team and he rejected you like a coward… only to write you 22 letters later, ignore your silent treatment, and confess everything to you in the rain like he’s in a Nicholas Sparks movie. Because of course, talking like a normal person is too hard, but declaring eternal love while soaking wet is totally reasonable.

warnings: Prepare yourself for some angst with a happy ending, fueled by heavy pining and absolute emotional constipation. This story features miscommunication (but make it dramatic) and, yes, literal kisses in the rain. Expect Logan being a simp in denial, lots of crying in aprons and on shoulders, and friends who consistently give much better advice than the main characters actually listen to. Fair warning: you will experience severe secondhand embarrassment, endure excessive dramatic monologues, and encounter plenty of swearing along the way.

a/n: hey guys, I’m back! I hope you like it. You have no idea how fucking much I love kisses in the rain. Sending you a kiss — I hope you enjoy it as much as I did. xoxo

part one.

'Cause all I know is we said, "Hello" And your eyes look like comin' home All I know is a simple name And everything has changed

(Guys, you lost me.)

I don’t know what to do with this. With all this love I have for him. I don’t know where to put it now.

The world kept spinning like nothing had happened. And I hated it a little for that.

Every morning I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror of my room with that question stuck somewhere inside me, unanswered, with nowhere to go. Love doesn’t disappear just because you want it to. It doesn’t work like that. There’s no switch, no drawer where you can stash it and lock it away. It was just there, huge and useless, taking up space that no longer had anyone to belong to.

When was the last time I actually slept?

I couldn’t remember.

I wasn’t trying to be dramatic, but fuck, not talking to him had hit me hard.

I washed my face with ice-cold water until my cheeks burned to bring down the swelling, then I put on concealer under my eyes and a little blush so I wouldn’t look so dead. War paint, I told myself. As if calling it that turned it into something that required courage instead of just the small, sad act of trying to look like a functional person.

Today I finally decided to leave my cave—my incredible, comfortable bed—to dignify myself with going to work. One of the perks of your mom being the owner is that she really doesn’t care if you miss work. I think she’s even at peace when I’m not at the café. It must be exhausting to see me moving around like a ghost in an apron.

The walk was twelve minutes. Janis was still at the car wash, so I had no choice. I usually didn’t mind walking, but now I couldn’t stand those twelve minutes alone with my thoughts. Before, I’d spend them with music or my phone in my hand, answering Logan’s messages like a dumb teenager. Now I just wore the headphones without playing anything. Just the dead weight of them as an excuse for no one to talk to me. So I could be, for those twelve minutes, exactly as broken as I was before having to pretend I wasn’t.

I’d been replaying the same moments all weekend. The feeling of his lips against mine. His big, warm hands closing around my hips. The way he looked at me right before he kissed me, like he’d been holding back for years. The hoarse sound that escaped his throat when I kissed him back. Everything played on loop, sharp, cruel, perfect.

And then came the memory of the next morning. His voice in the kitchen.

“I fucked everything up.”

“I need you to leave.”

I shook my head and picked up my pace, as if I could leave the memories behind on the sidewalk.

“The only thing I learned that night,” I muttered, dropping my forehead onto the table with a dull thud, “was that I should’ve stayed home.”

We were sitting at one of the outdoor tables in the central courtyard at Briar, under a sun that felt way too cheerful for my mood. I had a coffee that had already gone cold between my hands. Sarah was nibbling on an apple with a bored face, and Alison was stirring her chocolate milkshake with a straw while listening to me repeat the weekend story for the thousandth time.

Sarah let out a snort and ran her hand down my arm in a caress that was supposed to be comforting but mostly looked like she was holding back laughter.

“What if he’s gay and just hasn’t realized it yet?” she whispered mischievously, leaning toward me.

Alison let out a short, dry laugh.

“Men,” she said ironically, clinking the ice in her drink. “Tell them you love them and you’ll never see them again. They disappear faster than my patience on a Monday morning.”

“God, my life sucks,” I lamented, letting out a pitiful groan against the cold wood of the table.

The silence lasted barely two seconds before Sarah leaned in closer.

“For God’s sake! You’re twenty-two years old, what do you know about life?” she exclaimed, though her voice had that protective tone she always used when she saw me like this. “You’re beautiful, smart, and never apologize for feeling things, for setting boundaries, or for having ambitions, babe. Got it?”

I lifted my head enough to look at her. Sarah had that kind of confidence I envied with all my soul: short hair, sharp gaze, and a tongue that could destroy male egos in less than ten words. Alison was the same, only more cruelly funny. Both of them were like a man’s ego put into the bodies of beautiful, fearless women. The exact opposite of me right now.

“Besides,” Alison continued, pointing at me with her straw, “if John ‘Eat Me’ Logan is dumb enough to let you go after you told him you loved him, then fuck him. There are more guys at Briar. Most of them are worse, but at least some know how to use their mouths for something more useful than babbling excuses.”

I tried to smile, but it only came out as a crooked grimace. I knew they were saying it to cheer me up. I knew their words came from a good place. But none of that took away the weight I felt in my chest.

“Who needs therapy when I have you guys? Hooray…” I said in a tired but sincere voice.

But then I saw him.

Logan was walking along the path that crossed the courtyard with that stride of his I knew by heart—not too fast, not too slow, that way of moving that had always felt somehow inevitable. Tucker was beside him talking about something, hands in his pockets, and Logan had his head slightly tilted toward him with no expression at all.

And then he looked up.

I don’t know if it was instinct or bad luck, but his eyes went straight to mine. Without searching. Without hesitation. Like he already knew exactly where I was before he looked.

His brown eyes locked onto mine.

And I saw everything on his face in the space of a second: the impact of finding me there, the tension that rose up his jaw, something that could have been relief or pain or probably both at the same time. He had dark circles. A tight line between his eyebrows that I hadn’t seen before, or maybe I had and just didn’t know what it meant at the time.

Now I did.

He stopped dead.

Tucker took two more steps before realizing and turning around. I saw the exact moment he processed the situation—his eyes going from Logan to me and back to Logan—and something in his face closed off with an expression that wasn’t exactly pity but was too close for my comfort. Logan watched me with a mix of pain, regret, and something else I didn’t dare name. He took an involuntary step toward our table, like his body reacted before his brain. Tucker, beside him, noticed immediately and grabbed his arm firmly, stopping him.

Logan didn’t even look at him.

His eyes moved quickly over mine, my mouth, the line of my jaw, scanning my expression with an urgency that almost hurt.

He didn’t even like me. Why was he torturing me like this?

His lips parted slightly and then closed. I could see him working inside, the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers briefly clenched into a fist and then opened. His entire posture was a question. Almost a plea.

Give me something. Anything.

I felt my heart rise to my throat and stay there, huge and inconvenient, pulsing with a force that I’m sure showed on my face.

No. I’m not going to be the one who does it this time.

I can’t be the one again.

I looked away with effort, breaking the contact like I was tearing off a piece of my own skin. I lowered my head and tightened my fingers around my coffee cup until my knuckles turned white.

“I’m not taking the first step,” I whispered, more to myself than to them, though the words came out loud enough.

“Bravo girl, Bravo” Sarah said proudly, giving me a gentle pat on the back. “Let him crawl this time.”

----

J.L

I sat on the edge of the bed with my head in my hands, feeling like my chest was going to explode. In my head, the same image played on loop without stopping: the way her eyes filled with pain. And then she looked away. Like looking at me burned her. Like I was something she could no longer stand.

Like I was something she could no longer stand.

The three of them looked at me in silence. It was weird seeing the guys so quiet. Disturbingly weird. Normally Dean would’ve already said some shit to lighten the mood, but even he didn’t dare. Garrett had his arms crossed and his jaw tight, staring at the floor. Tucker was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, looking at me… with a lot of pity.

How fucked up was I?

“…I ruined everything,” I muttered, my voice hoarse.

Dean let out a dramatic sigh and threw himself onto my bed like it was his.

“Yeah, we already know that. The question is: what the hell are you going to do about it?”

I stayed quiet for a long time. The knot in my throat was choking me. I ran my hands through my hair, pulling harder than necessary, as if the physical pain could organize the chaos inside me.

“I’m in love with her,” I admitted almost angrily. “I love her eyes… fuck, I love the way she looks at me like I’m someone decent. I love her hair, the way it falls in her face when she’s focused. I love her smile when she hears the stupidest thing that comes out of my mouth… like I’m the best thing that’s ever happened to her.” My voice was shaking by the end. I stood up without really knowing why. I needed to move, I needed to do something with my body because if I stayed still I was going to explode. I stood in the middle of the room like an idiot. “She confessed everything to me… and I told her I couldn’t. What kind of son of a bitch does that? After what happened that night?”

Dean, for the first time in a long time, didn’t make a joke. He just looked at me seriously.

“Bro… you’re really fucked.”

Garrett moved.

He’d been silent the whole time, staring at some point on the floor, and that silence from Garrett was what had me the most nervous since they arrived.

He leaned forward. Looked straight at me.

“So what are you going to do now? Because avoiding her and looking at her like a lost puppy isn’t working.” He said it without cruelty, but without softening it either. “Listen to me, Logan. You’re a mess, I know. But you can’t go dump all of this on her at once.” He paused, choosing his words. “She’s hurt. Really hurt. If you go now and tell her everything you’re feeling, she’s going to think it’s pity or that you’re confused. You have to take it slow… but don’t drag your feet. Do it right. Approach her little by little. Start by asking for forgiveness. Be honest, but gentle. Give her room to breathe.”

Garrett continued:

“You know where she works. You should go. Not like an ambush, just you. Order a coffee, sit down… and talk to her. On her turf. No pressure.”

Tucker pushed off the wall. He nodded slowly.

“Fast, but careful. Show her with actions that it wasn’t a mistake.” His voice was calmer than Garrett’s, quieter, but just as firm. “That she wasn’t a mistake.”

-

-

-

I stood in front of the café door for almost ten minutes, hands in the pockets of my jeans, my heart pounding against my ribs like it wanted to get out. The smell of fresh coffee and sweet bread reached me from inside, but it didn’t calm me. It did the opposite. It reminded me of her. Of her hands moving with that calm motion behind the counter, of how she bit her lower lip when she focused on making a latte.

Breathe, Logan. Don’t fuck this up again.

I pushed the door open and the little bell sounded way too loud in my ears. There weren’t many people. A couple of occupied tables and her behind the counter, cleaning the espresso machine. She was wearing the black apron she always wore, her hair pulled back in a loose ponytail with some strands falling in her face. God… she looked beautiful.

I approached the counter with heavy legs. She looked up for a second, her eyes passing over my face without stopping, like I was just another customer. No surprise. No pain. Nothing. Just cold indifference.

Ouch. I deserve that.

“A black coffee, please,” I said, my voice rougher than I intended. 

She nodded without meeting my eyes and turned toward the machine. Her shoulders were tense. I knew that body language. She was holding herself back.

Say something, John. Now.

“…I need to talk to you,” I murmured, lowering my voice so only she could hear. “Alone. Please.”

She didn’t respond. The sound of the espresso machine filled the silence between us. She served the coffee with precise movements, placed the cup in front of me, and wrote something on the order slip like I hadn’t said a word.

“That’ll be four fifty,” she said, looking at a point over my shoulder.

“Hey… please,” I insisted, leaning a little over the counter. “Just five minutes. I know I don’t deserve even that, but…”

She took the bill I held out without brushing my fingers. She gave me the change with the same empty expression, like she was serving a stranger. Her eyes didn’t meet mine even once. It was worse than if she had screamed at me. That indifference was destroying me inside.

She’s hurt. Really hurt. Shit, Garrett was right.

“I understand that you don’t want to see me,” I continued, almost in a whisper. “But I can’t keep going like this. What I did… was shitty. I was shitty. I need to explain…”

“Here’s your change,” she cut me off in a neutral voice, placing the coins on the counter. Then she turned back to the machine and started cleaning again, giving me her back.

The knot in my throat tightened so much I thought I was going to choke. I stood there like an idiot, the coffee burning my hand and my chest on fire. I wanted to jump over the counter, grab her by the arms, and force her to look at me, to see everything that was eating me alive inside. But I couldn’t. Not after what I’d done to her.

I took the coffee and sat at one of the tables in the back, where I could see her. I wasn’t moving from there. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not for as long as it took.

I’m not giving up on you. Even if you ignore me. Even if you look at me like I no longer exist. I’m going to prove to you that you weren’t a mistake. That you never were. That you’re the only thing I want in this fucking life.

-

-

-

“Hey, kid!”

A strong, decisive voice snapped me out of my sleep. I blinked, confused, my cheek stuck to the table and a trail of drool that didn’t even embarrass me. The café was empty. The chairs were already up on the tables and the main lights were off. Only the dim light from the counter remained.

In front of me was her mom. And fuck… she was just as pretty as her daughter. The same expressive eyes, the same way of tilting her head when she was half amused and half serious, the same hair falling softly over her shoulders. Seeing her was like seeing a more mature, confident version of her. It hurt my soul.

“What, you think this is a hotel?” she said in a half-mocking, half-annoyed tone. “You’ve been sleeping there for like three hours, drooling on my table. We closed a while ago.”

I sat up quickly, wiping my mouth with my sleeve, my face burning. I looked around desperately.

“Did she… already leave?” I asked, my voice thick.

She let out a soft, almost maternal laugh and shook her head while picking up a rag.

“My daughter left a while ago. She said she had things to do.” She looked at me for a second longer, with that warmth she’d always had toward me. “You okay? You look… tired.”

Ma’am, I’m trying to prove to your daughter that I’m not a complete son of a bitch.

“Yeah, I’m… I’m fine,” I lied, standing up. My neck hurt like hell. “I just wanted… to talk to her for a bit.”

She pointed at the door with the mop. “Come on, out. I have to open early tomorrow and I’m not leaving you here as decoration.”

I got up unsteadily, still half-asleep and with a sore neck. I tried to keep some dignity, but it was hard with the table mark on my cheek and my hair a mess.

She took the mop and gave me a gentle but firm push toward the door, like she was shooing out a big, clumsy dog that didn’t want to leave.

“Ma’am, I just—”

“Out, out,” she cut me off playfully, opening the door. “I open early tomorrow and I’m not tripping over you drooling on my tables. I don’t know what happened between you and my daughter, but I hope you can fix it soon. It kills me to see her walking around like a ghost. Good night.”

The cold of the night hit me as I stepped out. The door closed behind me with that cheerful little jingle that now sounded like mockery.

I stood there on the dark sidewalk, running my hands over my face.

How pathetic. Ugh.

---

“Hi…” The low, close voice startled me so much I let out a small scream and nearly dropped the cup from my hands. I spun around, heart hammering in my throat.

Tucker took a step back and clutched his chest with one hand, eyes a little wide.

“Fuck… you scared me,” he muttered, breathing deeply, clearly surprised by my reaction. “Got a minute?”

I didn’t answer. Instead I stood there, pressing the cup against my chest like a shield. My pulse thundered in my ears.

He ran a hand over the back of his neck, uncomfortable, and looked down for a second before speaking. “I’m sorry,” he said simply, with that calm but heavy voice. “I’m sorry about what happened.”

I looked at him in silence. Tucker had always been the quietest. Seeing him here apologizing squeezed something in my chest.

“It’s not your fault, Tucker,” I answered quietly, forcing a weak smile. “Really. You didn’t do anything. You don’t have to apologize for something that wasn’t your responsibility.”

He frowned slightly, like he didn’t fully agree, and still insisted, but before he could say anything I beat him to it:

“It’s okay,” I added, trying to sound firmer than I felt. “I’m fine. I don’t need anyone carrying this. Not you… not anyone.”

What a huge lie. I’m not fine. Nothing is fine. But what else can I say?

Tucker nodded slowly, still with that pitying look I hated so much. He stayed one more second, like he wanted to add something, but in the end he just murmured:

“How are you feeling?” he asked quietly. “Don’t lie to me.”

Crack.

I couldn’t hold it anymore.

The knot that had been tightening in my throat for days, weeks, broke all at once. Tears flooded my eyes and I started crying uncontrollably, right there. Everything came out in a shaky, broken torrent.

“I really… I really didn’t want to like him,” I sobbed, covering my face with one hand. “I didn’t want to, Tucker. I tried not to… but it just happened. And now I miss him so much it hurts to breathe. I miss his stupid voice, the way he looks at me… I miss feeling safe with him. But he told me he couldn’t and… and I had to walk away. I needed to walk away. I don’t know how to keep pretending I’m okay when everything reminds me of him. He’s been coming nonstop, leaving these stupid letters I haven’t even bothered to open, and fuck, it complicates everything when I see him on campus… I’m drowning. I regret going to that stupid party. I regret confessing my feelings. If only… if only I’d held back a little.”

The tears kept falling, soaking my cheeks and my apron. I felt pathetic, exposed, but I couldn’t stop.

Tucker walked around the counter without saying anything. His steps were quiet, steady. Suddenly his arms wrapped around me carefully, pulling me against his chest in a warm, protective hug. I tensed for a second, but then I collapsed against him, crying harder into his sweatshirt.

“Shh… it’s okay,” he murmured against my hair, rubbing my back with slow, comforting strokes. “Cry as much as you need. You don’t have to be strong all the time.”

I felt pathetic. I admit I really tried not to cry, but I just couldn’t hold it back anymore.

When will this suffering end?

I had to rip it out by the roots.

Maybe not right now. When I’m ready.

“Eight days!?”

They said it at the same time. Both of them. With the same incredulous face that made the lady at table three look up from her newspaper and stare at me like I was the problem.

“Shh, lower your voices.” I leaned on the counter with my arms crossed and waited for the echo to fade. “Eight days in a row,” I confirmed, lowering my voice.

Alison and Sarah were sitting on the high stools in front of the counter, their half-finished milkshakes in front of them and that look on both their faces that meant they weren’t letting me out of this conversation easily. The café was quiet at that hour, only four tables occupied and my mom in the kitchen making muffled clattering noises from the back. It was the kind of afternoon I normally liked. Calm. Manageable.

Until they showed up.

“And what does he do?” Sarah asked, raising an eyebrow while pointing at Logan’s table with her straw.

“He writes.”

“He writes?” Alison repeated, like the word didn’t quite fit, looking at me with a “Seriously?” face.

“He sits down, takes out paper, and writes. At first I thought he was studying, taking notes, whatever. Something normal.” I grabbed the rag from the counter and unfolded it, wiping the drops of chocolate Sarah’s straw had left. “But then on the third day he slipped a folded letter into the tip jar when he left.”

Both of them looked at the jar. It was there in its usual spot next to the register, completely innocent.

“In the tip jar?” Sarah pointed out, still not believing it.

“In the tip jar.”

“Why there?”

“Because I was giving him the silent treatment and every time he tried to talk to me I found something super urgent to do in the kitchen.” I folded the rag. Unfolded it. “So he stopped trying and found another way.”

Alison turned her stool slightly toward Sarah. Then looked at me.

“And what do the letters say?” Sarah asked.

“I don’t know.”

Silence.

“What do you mean you don’t know?” Alison said slowly, her voice showing that something didn’t add up.

“That I haven’t opened them.”

“None of them?”

“None.”

Alison stared at me. Then at Sarah. Then back at me.

“How many letters total?” she asked, and something in her tone told me she was already bracing for the answer.

I wiped a part of the counter that was already perfectly clean.

“Twenty-two.”

The silence lasted exactly two seconds.

“Twenty-two,” Alison repeated, toneless.

“Sometimes he leaves me three in one day. He sits, writes, folds the paper, puts it in the jar, and starts again. Like he always has something more to say.”

“But why?” Sarah frowned, not in judgment but with the genuine confusion of someone trying to solve a puzzle. “I mean, what’s the point of him writing you letters if he’s the one who told you no?”

“Exactly what I keep asking myself.”

“And you have no idea what they might say?”

“None.” I shrugged, though the gesture came out a little forced. “Maybe it’s an apology. Or he wants us to stay friends and doesn’t know how to tell me in person. Or he just feels guilty and this is how he’s dealing with it. I don’t know.”

“Or maybe,” Alison said finally, measuring her words, “they say something that has nothing to do with any of those things?”

“Alison.”

“I’m just saying.”

“Well, don’t say it.” I grabbed the rag again. “He made it pretty clear where things stood. The letters will be what they are, probably something I don’t need to read, and when I get the courage I’ll open them and that’s it.”

Sarah rested her chin on her hand and looked at me with that calm of hers that always felt slightly destabilizing.

“Do you have them on you?” she asked.

Of course I had them on me. I’d been carrying the wad folded in my apron pocket since Monday, but I had no explanation that made me look good. I took them out and placed them on the counter between the two milkshakes.

Alison and Sarah looked at them.

“Can we take a look?” Alison asked.

I glanced sideways at the table in the back. Logan was sitting with Dean Di Laurentis, a ridiculously hot blond who had always seemed almost unfairly attractive. They both had muffins they’d ordered a while ago in front of them. Logan was saying something with his elbows on the table and Dean was listening, leaning back in his chair with that half-smile of his, like he found the world generally entertaining. Neither was looking at me.

I shrugged.

“Whatever you want,” I said, and turned to clean the coffee machine. “They’re probably just apologies or something. I don’t think they’re a big deal.”

I heard the rustle of paper unfolding.

Silence. More silence.

The kind of silence you notice because there should be some comment and worryingly there isn’t. There should’ve been an “aw how sweet” or “look at his handwriting” or anything, but there was nothing, and that nothing started to itch somewhere I tried to ignore.

I turned around.

Alison had the letter in her hands and an expression I’d never seen on her. It wasn’t exactly surprise. It was something quieter, deeper, something that had settled on her face while she read and hadn’t moved when she stopped. Her eyes were still fixed on the paper.

“Oh,” she said.

Just that.

Oh.

Oh?

She passed the letter to Sarah without looking at her, pointing to a specific spot with her finger. Sarah read. I saw the exact moment she reached that part because her shoulders dropped a centimeter, she let out a very slow breath through her nose, and then she looked at me with an expression that was half tenderness and half something pretty close to “oh, sweetie.”

“This…” she started.

“What?” I said.

“This is pretty…”

I leaned over the counter without realizing it.

“Pretty what?”

The two of them looked at each other like accomplices and let out a small laugh.

“Give it to me,” I said.

Alison picked up the letter from Sarah’s hands.

“No.”

“Alison.”

“Nope.”

“Come on, it’s probably just a long apology—”

“It’s not an apology.” She said it without thinking and then closed her mouth like she’d said too much. Sarah pinched her.

I stayed still for a moment.

“What do you mean it’s not an apology?”

“Nothing, forget it.”

“Alison, if it’s not an apology then what—”

“When you’re ready you’ll read it and that’s it.” She leaned on the counter with a firmness that left no room for negotiation. “And don’t look at me like that, I’m serious. This is something you have to read alone and at the right moment, not here in the middle of your shift because we pressured you.”

“But I didn’t even want to know—”

“And now you do, right?”

I shut up. She was right. Damn it, she was right, because ten minutes ago I was perfectly convinced those letters were probably some elaborate apology or a request to stay friends and I didn’t need to read them to know they’d hurt anyway. And now I was leaning over the counter with my heart doing weird things because Alison had said “it’s not an apology” in that voice and—

A shadow fell over the counter.

The three of us looked up at the same time.

Dean Di Laurentis was standing on the other side of the counter. He didn’t say anything. He simply reached out, took the letter from Alison with a calmness that left no room for argument, grabbed another from the stack still on the counter, and placed them in front of me with startling ease.

I looked at him.

He held my gaze for a second, nodded slightly like he’d just done the most reasonable thing, then turned his head toward Alison.

And winked at her. Slowly. With total and absolute premeditation.

And he walked back to his table with his hands in his pockets like he hadn’t just dropped a grenade, leaving calmly.

The silence he left lasted exactly three seconds.

Sarah and I looked at each other.

Alison’s cheeks were flushed. Alison, who had once told a guy trying to hit on her at a party that his technique was conceptually deficient. Alison, who in the three years I’d known her had never lost a millimeter of composure in front of any male human being.

She had flushed cheeks.

She picked up her milkshake. Took a long, absolutely deliberate sip while looking out the window.

“Don’t even think about it,” she muttered.

Sarah opened her mouth.

“Don’t. You. Dare,” Alison repeated without looking at her, with a calmness that didn’t match someone with cheeks that color.

Sarah closed it. But no one could wipe the smile off her face.

I looked down at the two letters in front of me on the counter. White paper, folded in three, nothing written on the outside. Just the paper. And underneath all of that, that phrase spinning nonstop: it’s not an apology.

If it wasn’t an apology, then what was it?

I didn’t want to know. Lies. Yes, I did.

It was past midnight. I was sitting on the floor of my room in my pajamas, with the twenty-two letters spread out on the rug around me in roughly chronological order of when Logan had left them in the tip jar. They formed a semicircle that completely surrounded me. From the outside it probably looked pretty bleak, but there was no one watching so it didn’t count.

I’d taken them out of the drawer where I’d been saving them one by one, with that weird mix of care and denial that didn’t make much sense if you analyzed it. I’d organized them. I’d been staring at them for a while, convincing myself that as soon as I opened them I’d find something manageable. An apology. Maybe several apologies, one per letter, with different wording because Logan had always been that meticulous when he wanted to be. Something that would hurt a little but that I could fold back up, put in the drawer, and move on with my life.

It’s not an apology.

Damn Alison.

I picked up the first letter.

I held it for a moment without opening it, fingers on the fold of the paper, staring at it like I could read through it. Logan had spent eight days sitting in the café writing things I didn’t understand why he needed to write.

He had told me no. He had chosen to reject me. Those were concrete, verifiable facts and there was no reason for any of this to mean something different from what I had already assigned it.

No reason.

I unfolded it.

Logan’s handwriting was exactly as I remembered, a little careless at the edges with some words crossed out and rewritten.

I read the first line.

I froze completely. This can’t be real.

“Oh, shit,” I said out loud.

Hockey.

I wasn’t really into hockey until I met Logan. Before, it was just that sport they showed on TV that my dad sometimes watched and that I completely ignored. Noise, ice, guys crashing into each other at speeds that made no sense. I didn’t get the appeal.

Now I know exactly how many points the team needs to advance to the next round. I recognize the plays. I can tell for sure when a referee is calling too many penalties and when a defenseman is being deliberately dirty. Which says a lot—and nothing good—about what John Fucking Logan does to a person’s critical judgment.

I sighed and sank deeper into my seat.

The stadium smelled of popcorn and that weird mix of sweat and excitement that exists in sports venues. The stands were full, Briar colors everywhere, and the noise was that constant, dull kind that after a while just becomes pressure. Sarah was gripping her soda cup with both hands like it was the only thing anchoring her so she wouldn’t lose her mind, while Alison had been taking pictures of a certain player wearing number sixty-six for twenty minutes.

Meanwhile, I just couldn’t stop looking at player number twenty-two.

You’re an idiot.

My conscience scolded me. We’ve hurt each other and I’m still sighing and staring at him like an idiot. Why can’t feelings have an off button? What’s the point of loving him if he doesn’t feel the same about me?

“You okay?” Alison leaned toward me with genuine concern that, in the three years I’ve known her, had never once fooled me.

“Perfect.”

“Sure,” Sarah said from my other side, without taking her eyes off the ice. “That’s why you have that face.”

I didn’t answer because I didn’t have a response that didn’t incriminate me. Technically, it was the idiot with number twenty-two skating on the ice who had unfinished business with me. Though “unfinished business” was a very generous way to describe a situation that basically boiled down to: I had made the huge mistake of feeling things I shouldn’t, he had told me he simply couldn’t (or didn’t want to) be with me, and since then I’d been trying to disappear from my own life as discreetly as possible.

I shouldn’t have come.

I knew it since this morning. I knew it the exact moment I opened the reminders app to see what I had pending and found “Briar Game — 8pm” marked in red. I’d written it down weeks ago, in another life almost, when Logan and I were still whatever we were before I ruined everything by being honest. And then, without meaning to, without looking for it, with that masochistic tendency I have and should probably work on with a professional, I went to the messages.

Just to see. Just to remind myself why what happened was the right thing.

And there it was, among three unanswered messages I had left on read with absolute cowardice. One that simply said: Hope to see you tonight.

The message that made me want to check my reminders list and the reason I was here tonight.

I should have ignored it. I should have stayed home with a movie, a pack of cookies, and some dignity intact.

Instead here I was, in the stands at Briar’s stadium, flanked by Alison and Sarah who were pretending—not very effectively—not to monitor me every thirty seconds, with my stomach in knots and my eyes fixed on one spot on the ice so I wouldn’t keep unconsciously searching for number twenty-two.

Because I was searching for him. That was the worst part. That despite everything, despite the days avoiding him and the speeches I’d given myself and the times I’d repeated that I was fine, my eyes found him on their own. Like they had their own memory. Like no one had told them the memo.

Logan skated well. That was the fundamental problem—that he was really good and knew it without being arrogant about it, and when he moved on the ice there was something about him that settled, that relaxed.

I looked away.

The scoreboard was two to one in favor of Briar and the atmosphere had that electricity of the final minutes of a close game. Alison had put her phone down and was standing without realizing it. Sarah was muttering something under her breath.

And then it happened.

Logan intercepted the puck in the offensive zone. He dodged the first defenseman with a turn that seemed physically impossible, the second with an acceleration that made the whole crowd collectively hold its breath, and shot.

Score.

The stadium exploded.

I stood up with everyone else. I clapped without thinking. Alison grabbed my arm screaming something I couldn’t hear over the shouts. Sarah whistled with her fingers in her mouth.

Then Logan raised his hockey stick.

He turned toward the stands with a smile—that smile I knew by heart and that right now was doing damage to me that had no name—and I saw it before I could prepare myself.

He pointed at me. What the fuck is that supposed to mean.

Straight. Unmistakable. With his arm extended and his eyes locked exactly where I was standing, like there weren’t three hundred other people in the stadium, like there was no chance he was pointing at anyone else, like he wanted to make sure there was absolutely no doubt.

The stands made that collective sound. That “oooh” people make when they smell drama from afar. And the commentator, the damn commentator, didn’t miss the moment:

“Looks like one of our favorite guys had his heart stolen tonight, ladies and gentlemen. Don’t cry all at once, girls—there are still more players on the ice—”

Heat shot up my neck to my ears in about half a second.

Alison let go of my arm.

Sarah turned her head toward me very slowly, still looking stunned at what had just happened.

They both looked at me. They didn’t say anything. They didn’t need to. And thank God they didn’t.

“No,” I said.

I grabbed my jacket from the seat. I put it on wrong, one arm inside out, and fixed it with more violence than necessary. My stomach was in a tight knot, my cheeks were burning, and my ears were ringing. I needed to get out of there.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” I lied.

“Sure,” Alison said, glancing sideways at Sarah, who returned a worried look.

Neither of them made a move to follow me.

I went down the stands almost tripping twice, dodged three groups of people still celebrating, pushed the exit door with both hands, and the cold air hit me in the face the second I stepped out. Honestly, it was a relief. I needed that hit. I needed something to remind me that it was real, that I was real, that what had just happened inside that sweaty, noisy stadium had also been real.

He had pointed at me. In front of everyone. What the fuck.

I’m overthinking this.

I shouldn’t let it affect me. I shouldn’t let it break my decision to stay away from him.

I closed my eyes for a second and the commentator’s voice came back like a horrible echo: “Looks like one of our favorite guys got shot by Cupid tonight, don’t cry ladies—”

I wanted to die. For real. Not metaphorically. I wanted the ground to open up and swallow me whole and not even spit out the bones.

I started walking fast. Then faster. The parking lot was dark and the streetlights made those blurry orange spots that multiplied on the wet asphalt, and I was only thinking about getting to the car, getting inside, and crying with dignity where no one could see me. I had parked Janis in the fifth circle of hell because I arrived late and there were no spots nearby, so when I finally found her I was going to be completely soaked.

Good. Perfect. Great. And it was raining.

Not just raining. Pouring. Like the entire universe had decided that tonight wasn’t humiliating enough and needed a little more drama. The water soaked my hair in seconds, ran down my neck, my shoulders, got into my shoes. Good. Perfect. Great.

I kept walking.

I had spent entire days convincing myself that what we had was just a friendship I had misinterpreted, that I had seen things where there was nothing, that when he told me no—when he simply told me he couldn’t give me what I wanted—it was the most honest truth anyone had told me in a long time. I had forced myself to accept it. I had forced myself to keep functioning.

And then he scored and pointed at me. Son of a bitch.

“Wait!”

I stopped.

I didn’t want to have stopped. It was a reflex, a betrayal by my own body recognizing that voice before my brain could tell it no, to keep walking, to pretend to be deaf, to die a little.

I turned slowly.

Logan was running toward me. With his hair completely stuck to his face and still in his team uniform darkened by the water, and his eyes—God, his eyes—searching for me with an urgency I didn’t understand, didn’t want to understand. Didn’t want to understand.

Wait.

Did he just leave his game? Just to talk?

“Stop,” he said when he reached me, breathing hard. “Please, stop.”

I looked at him. I tried to make my face say nothing. I tried to be a wall. I swear.

“Logan.” My voice sounded calmer than I felt. That was the only miracle of the night. “Seriously, you don’t have to do this. You don’t have to apologize or explain anything, okay? It was me. I misread things, I was stupid, and—” I swallowed. “And when you told me about Hannah and I felt this bad, that was my problem. Not yours. So really, seriously, you can go back inside and—”

“For God’s sake, shut up.”

I blinked.

“Excuse me?”

“Shut up.” He didn’t say it cruelly. He said it with something like desperation, jaw tight, eyes bright, rain running down his face like it didn’t exist. “Don’t regret anything. Please. Don’t.”

“Logan, I just—”

“I realized too late that she wasn’t you.” His skin was wet from the rain too (obviously), and one drop hung from the tip of his nose, about to fall. His brown eyes traced my face, moving over my eyes, my cheeks, and my mouth, before he said in a hoarse voice:

“I ruined everything.” He ran a hand through his soaked hair, a nervous, desperate gesture, like he didn’t know what to do with his own body. “I didn’t want Hannah. I never did. I just wanted someone to love, someone to spend the rest of my days with, and I was such an incredibly idiot, so completely blind, that I didn’t realize the person I actually loved was standing right in front of me.”

“Logan, stop—”

“It’s you.”

Oh God. My heart stopped. Literally. I swear it stopped.

“Stop—”

“And if your feelings are still the same, if you still love me, then right now—” his voice cracked a little there, just a little, but I heard it, I heard it clearly over the rain—“right now I’m telling you I want to spend the eight thousand seven hundred and sixty hours, the five hundred and twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes of every one of the three hundred and sixty-five days with you.”

The rain was starting to get heavier. The parking lot lights became orange and white spots behind him and I didn’t know if what was running down my cheeks was water or tears and honestly it didn’t matter anymore because no one was going to notice anyway.

“Don’t pity me,” I said, and my voice was no longer calm. “Don’t. You don’t have to—” I bit my lip. I was nervous, mostly because I really wanted to tell him how I felt and what I wanted. I took a deep breath and he cut me off instantly.

“Every single one,” he continued, like he hadn’t heard me, or like he had heard me perfectly and decided to ignore it. “No exceptions. No conditions. If I stay quiet, if I let another day go by without telling you that you’re the only thing that has made constant sense, I’m going to spend the rest of my life unable to forgive myself.”

“Stop, Logan, seriously, stop—”

“And I’m not going to let you give this story that ending.”

He took one step closer. Just one. But I felt it in my chest like he had closed miles.

“Nor will I allow myself to give our story an ending.” His voice had something broken and something completely certain at the same time and I didn’t understand how those two things could coexist. “A story that hasn’t even begun and that I’m already anxious to know the next chapter of. I’d rather die tomorrow knowing I loved you than live a hundred years wondering what it would’ve been like to be with you.”

I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.

“Even it would be an honor if you broke my heart. Over and over, as many times as it took. Because even broken, even in pieces—” he paused and looked at me, and in his eyes there was something I had never seen before, something I recognized because it was exactly what I had felt all these months—“my heart would come back to you. Thirsty. Without conditions. Without holding anything back.”

My hands were shaking.

“I’ve always been a better person when I’m near you.” He said that lower, almost to himself, and it was what hurt me the most because I believed him. I believed him without wanting to. “And that’s something I haven’t told anyone until now. Because my heart is yours. Not from today. From way before I had the courage to admit it.”

He closed the last few feet between us.

“Forgive me. I’m asking you please.”

I shook my head. I tried to articulate something coherent.

“Don’t… don’t do this to me.” It came out broken, fuck. “Don’t do this to me now that I had already… that I had already…”

“What do you want me to do?” he cut in, and there was something urgent in his voice, something bordering on a plea. “Do you want me to pull the fucking moon down for you? I’ll become an astronaut for you. Tell me. Tell me what you want and I’ll do it. I’ll do anything.”

The rain pounded my shoulders.

“But I love you,” he said. “And that’s not going to change.”

I don’t know how long I stood there without saying anything. It could have been ten seconds or ten years and neither would have surprised me. I only heard the rain and my own breathing and the beating of something I had been trying to kill for weeks by ignoring it.

It was still there.

Stubborn. Damn stubborn heart. Damn body that doesn’t listen. Damn it.

I threw myself at him, wrapped both arms around his neck, and pressed my lips to his. The smell of his cologne mixed with the rain and completely intoxicated me. John froze for a second, motionless while my mouth was pressed against his. I thought, too late, that maybe he didn’t.

Shut up. He literally just bared his heart to you.

But then, as if lightning had struck him, John took a breath and cupped my face with his hands. He was kissing me back. I was kissing John Logan and he was kissing me. I went from being scared and breathless to a fire burning inside me in an instant.

John tilted his head and kissed me the way John was supposed to kiss—wild, and sweet, and entirely too confident in himself, all at the same time. He knew exactly what he was doing when his big hands slid into my hair, but it was the shudder in his breath and the slight tremble in his hands that drove me crazy. The fact that he had lost control as much as I had.

John pulled me even closer until we were pressed together, chest to chest. For the first time in my life, I understood why people said they could forget where they were, and he gave me a little bite on my lower lip, and then I touched his face, felt the rigid solidity of his jaw, and he kissed me like it was his job and he wanted a raise. He made a sound when I sank my fingers into his hair, like he liked it, and I wished it would keep raining like this forever, and never stop. Until he said my name, until he whispered it against my lips three times, I didn’t come back to reality.

“Huh?”

I opened my eyes, but my vision was unfocused.

Logan laughed. Softly, with his forehead almost resting against mine, his thumbs still on my cheeks, he laughed in that way of his that crinkled his eyes and that I had secretly collected for months like they were worth something.

They were. God, how much they were worth.

“Your name,” he said, his voice still hoarse. “I was calling you by your name.”

“Yeah.” I blinked. “I know. It’s just…”

“What?”

I looked at him. With his hair completely soaked and stuck to his forehead and that expression on his face I had never seen and now couldn’t stop looking at. The rain kept falling on both of us with that absolute indifference water has, that doesn’t distinguish between the most important moment of your life and any other Tuesday.

I opened my mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

“Look,” I said, “I’m not… I mean, I’m not good at this. At saying things. The important things, I mean, the ones that really…” I made a vague gesture with my hand that meant nothing concrete. “You just told me a bunch of really big things and I’ve spent weeks convinced that this was all in my head and that you didn’t… that there was nothing and…” I breathed. “And right now my brain is completely fried and the words aren’t coming out in the right order.”

Logan didn’t say anything. He just looked at me.

“But I love you,” I blurted out, all at once, without elegance, without the firm voice I would have wanted. “I mean, I love you a lot. Too much, probably. For longer than I think is smart to admit out loud. And I tried to let it go, I really did, but it turns out I’m pretty bad at letting go of things that matter to me and you matter to me an amount that frankly seems excessive for my own well-being and—”

“Hey,” Logan said.

“What?

“Shut up.”

And he kissed me again. And for the first time I was glad I had parked Janis so far away.

.

.

.

@itzzgillianj27 @thewiselionesss @solapeachtea @itmekelpy @pinkpantheris @matt-murdockk @elyntiasblog @ilovesharry @historygeekqueen @itsalltaken @stilinskisensation @brianna28483 @royialsls @sweeetscandal @dina2223 @hteusefam @uwannalovemern @ch3ska0 @girlbossforever

[severedlamb]

hmmm thinking of ur biting threat which has inspired me… what if reader leaves bite marks and scratches on rafe. how would he react to comments like “did you get into a fight with a shark/bear” when he takes his shirt off at the gym

RAFE LOVES IT WHEN YOU MARK HIM !

rafe was obsessed with you leaving your scratches and bites all over his body, he loved being reminded of the things that the two of you did together.

"jesus christ, what the fuck happened to your back? did you get into a fight with a bear?" topped asked, hand on his chin and a stunned expression on his face.

rafe's eyebrows scrunched in confusion, not knowing what this idiot was talking about, as per usual.

he managed to turn his neck and look in the mirror that was behind him, and sure enough there were deep scratches that started at his shoulder blades and ended at the bottom of his back.

he huffed out a laugh and shook his head in disbelief, "that's my fuckin' girl" he murmued under his breath.

an weird sense of pride filled his body, seeing your marks on him would always bring this reaction.

knowing you as well as he did, rafe assumed that you were a little rougher, knowing that he was going to the gym in the morning and would therefore be taking his top off.

pulling himself out of the trance he was currently swept up in, he looked up to topper who was still staring at him.

rafe casually shrugged his shoulders, "don't know how that happened"

someone else laughed and chimed in, "bet it was his girl, she always did look wild"

the weight that rafe had just picked up fell back to the floor, causing everyone to fall quiet, hushed "oooh's" going around the group.

topper hesitantly put his hand on rafe's shoulder, "just ignore him, man"

rafe nodded and tilted his head towards the exit, "fuck off before i break your neck" he grunted, sighing as he moved back to the weights.

he wasn't wrong though, you really were wild.

[miiroki]

𝐀𝐬 𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧, 𝐒𝐨 𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐭 ┅ 𝖸𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝖾! 𝖵𝖺𝗅𝖺𝗋𝗋 𝖳𝖺𝗋𝗀𝖺𝗋𝗒𝖾𝗇 & 𝖱𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋

𝘐𝘯 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘩 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘭𝘺 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘩𝘶𝘴𝘣𝘢𝘯𝘥, 𝘗𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘝𝘢𝘭𝘢𝘳𝘳, 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘰𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘻𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘶𝘵𝘩𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘭𝘺 𝘣𝘶𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶. 𝘖𝘳 𝘝𝘢𝘭𝘢𝘳𝘳’𝘴 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘢𝘯𝘦.

﹙𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭﹚

TW: blood, gore? And descriptions of killing

NOTE: she’s baaaaaaackkkkkk. This might be my favourite au yet!

From the high, arched window of the Red Keep’s inner courtyard, the world looked like a beautifully painted tapestry. Down below, Prince Valarr Targaryen was performing his finest role: the Perfect Prince.

You watched him charm a cluster of noble ladies, his chestnut hair catching the afternoon sun, making it look almost bronze. His laughter light and musical. He was the hope of the realm, the beloved grandson of King Daeron II, polite to a fault and graceful beyond measure.

But you knew better than the mindless flock. You knew the weight of his hands, and the darkness that lived just beneath that lovely porcelain smile

Valarr had been the first of your cousins to hold you when you were born. While your own father, Maekar, had been away doing whatever it is he does, Valarr had cradled you as a babe. You grew up wrapped in his shadow. When you were children, the others thought he was simply being a doting older cousin. Though they would never see the things he brought you in the secret, shaded corners of the Godswood.

He would press wild roses into your palms, followed by sticky honey sweets, and then, with the very same gentle hands, he would present you with a dead lizard, its neck cleanly snapped, or a small bird with its eyes meticulously plucked out.

"For my little star," he would whisper, his two-toned eyes glassy, and entirely devoid of the warmth he showed the rest of the court. "Beautiful things for a beautiful girl."

You had found it strange, even unsettling, but a child’s love is a malleable thing. You grew to accept his macabre gifts alongside his affection. You loved him after all. You always had.

Down in the courtyard, Valarr suddenly tilted his head up. As if sensing your gaze, his eyes locked onto your window. The charming, raucous smile he gave the ladies vanished for a fraction of a second, replaced by a look of hunger that sent a shiver straight down your spine. Then, with a blink, the prince was back, bowing to his admirers.

"You spend too much time in his pocket," your brother Aerion spat later that evening, swirling his wine. "It’s uncouth. You are a maiden grown now, sister. People talk."

"He is our cousin, Aerion," you replied softly, keeping your eyes on your embroidery.

"He is a man," Daeron muttered from the corner, surprisingly sober for once. "And Valarr dotes on you like a dog with a bone. Father says it ends now. You are to be married soon."

The needle pricked your finger. A single drop of blood bloomed on the white fabric.

Your father, Maekar, had finally arranged it. By the end of the summer, you were to wed the son of the Lord of Casterly Rock. A young Lannister. He was your age, a master of poetry and song, gentle and perfectly amiable.

You had met him once; he was perfectly fine. Not cruel, not abusive (which was rare). You had resigned yourself to your fate: you would marry him, give him a few golden-haired heirs, and live out your days in the warm stone of the West.

But the thought of leaving King’s Landing—of leaving him—felt like a slow choking.

That night, you slipped away into the dark woods on the edge of the kingswood, your favorite childhood hiding spot. The canopy blocked out the moonlight, leaving the forest thick, black, and suffocating.

"You shouldn't be out here alone, little star."

Valarr materialized from the shadows, stepping so silently he might have been a ghost. He wore a dark riding cloak, his eyes gleaming in the dark.

You didn't hold back. The tears spilled over your cheeks as you confessed your woes, weeping over the impending summer wedding, the Lannister boy, and the terrifying reality of being sent away to Casterly Rock.

A dragon caged is what you were.

Valarr listened in chilling silence. He didn't dare interrupt. He only stepped closer, lifting a gloved hand to brush the hair from your face. He leaned down, his lips pressed against your eyelids, gently kissing your tears away. His skin was unnaturally warm.

"Do not weep, please. You know I hate to see you cry." Valarr murmured against your skin, his voice a low, rhythmic purr that made your heart hammer against your ribs. "Do not worry your little heart out, sweet girl. Valarr will fix everything. I always takes care of my own."

Three days later, the news arrived from the Westerlands.

The young Lannister heir had fallen suddenly, violently ill. The maesters claimed it was a sudden, tragic season’s illness—a racking fever that caused him to bleed from his nose and ears until his heart simply quit. He was dead within forty-eight hours.

The court plunged into mourning for the alliance that could have been. You wore black and offered your condolences, but deep in your chest, a dark, wicked spark of joy ignited.

Heavens above knew you weren't sad. If anything, you were relieved.

That very night, you were startled awake. A heavy hand clamped gently over your mouth.

You gasped, eyes flying open to see Valarr leaning over your bed. The moonlight cut across his face, illuminating a wild, ecstatic grin. He smelled of sweat, leather, and something metallic.

"Dress quickly," he whispered, his fingers lingering on your lips before pulling away. "The horses are saddled. Let us ride in the dark. I know how much you have missed it."

You didn't ask questions. You followed him into the night, the wind howling in your ears as you rode side-by-side, his laughter echoing through the trees like a madman's song.

—

A year later, your father tried again. A Tyrell cousin. A handsome boy who promised you a garden of winter roses.

You found yourself weeping in the woods yet again. And again did Valarr kiss your tears dry.

Two weeks later, the Tyrell boy suffered a horrific fall from his horse during a hunt, his neck snapped cleanly in two—much like the lizards Valarr used to bring you.

Then came a Bracken. A sudden, fatal choking fit on a piece of venison during a feast.

Every time a match was made, you would cry, Valarr would promise to "fix it," and the stranger would vanish from the earth, leaving you blissfully unbetrothed. The court began to whisper that you were cursed, a black widow before you could even reach the altar.

Your father grew frustrated, and your brothers suspicious.

Sitting at your window, you watched Valarr down below. He was laughing with the Kingsguard, the picture of chivalry and royal grace. But you knew what lay beneath the velvet and silver. He was a monster wearing the crown of a prince.

And as he turned his head, catching your gaze yet again from the high window, he offered you a small nod. A sort of silent promise that no one else would ever dare to claim what was his.

A cold dread pooled in your stomach, but as you looked at your perfect, terrifying cousin, you couldn't help but smile back.

—

The tension at the family supper had been thick enough to cut with a dagger, but it wasn't until the servants began clearing the heavy silver platters that the true shift occurred.

Your uncle, Prince Baelor Breakspear—the Hand of the King and the heir to the Iron Throne—stood up and caught your eye. With a gentle but firm nod, he gestured toward the quiet privacy of the adjacent council chamber. "A word, niece," he said softly.

Before you could even push your chair back, a shadow fell over you. Valarr was already on his feet, his hand instinctively dropping to the back of your chair, his eyes darting sharply between you and his father. "I will accompany her," Valarr said, his voice smooth, but carrying that underlying, rigid edge you knew all too well.

Baelor placed a heavy, warning hand on his son’s shoulder. "No, Valarr. This conversation is meant for her ears alone. Remain here."

Valarr’s jaw tightened. For a fraction of a second, the polite, obedient prince vanished, replaced by the dangerous, volatile thing that lived beneath his skin. His grip on your chair turned so white his knuckles popped. But he forced a tight, agreeable smile. Leaning down under the pretense of adjusting your cloak, his lips brushed the shell of your ear, his breath ragged.

"I will be right outside the door," he whispered, a low vibration. "If he makes you uneasy, if you feel even a flicker of fright, you call for me. I am right here."

When you stepped into the chamber, Baelor closed the heavy oak door, shutting Valarr out. The Hand of the King looked tired, but his eyes were filled with a profound, paternal kindness as he took your hands gingerly in his own.

"It has come to my attention," Baelor began, his voice echoing in the quiet room, "that Valarr has been systematically refusing courting visitors of all kinds. Highborn ladies from the Reach, the Westerlands, the Vale... he turns them all away. He finally came to me, niece. He made his intentions entirely clear. He wishes to marry you."

A sudden, fierce flush crawled up your neck, burning your cheeks. Your heart hammered against your ribs like a trapped bird, and suddenly you couldn’t meet your uncle’s gaze any longer.

Baelor sighed, squeezing your hands. "To be the wife of the future king... it is not an easy task, sweet girl. The court is a nest of vipers, and the crown is heavy. But I love my son, and I care deeply for you. If you love him, and if you are willing to take on this burden... I will allow it. I will speak to your father, and let the two of you marry."

You could barely think straight. The blood rushed to your ears, a dizzying, intoxicating wave of pure relief and euphoria. The nightmare of being shipped off to a stranger, of being torn away from Valarr’s dark, protective embrace—it was gone. Erased with a single sentence.

"Yes," you breathed, the word slipping out before he could even finish. "Yes, Uncle. More than anything."

—

Suddenly, the grim, oppressive walls of the Red Keep seemed to glow with a brilliant, blinding light. The news of the betrothal swept through the castle, and with it, a profound shift in the young prince. Valarr was absolutely beaming, a radiant, blinding sun that left the court in awe.

He had started to permanently attached himself to your side.

Every morning brought new treasures to your chambers. Rare Myrish lace, ropes of perfect pearls, silks dyed the color of dragon’s blood, and baskets of your favorite honey sweets.

When he had been forced to court other ladies in the past, he had been a model of polite etiquette. But with you? It was a far cry from his past behaviour. It was entirely transparent to the entire court who his favorite girl was.

He doted on you, brushed your hair, kissed your knuckles in front of lords and smallfolk alike, and you absolutely lavished in it. You felt entirely safe, wrapped in the golden bubble of his obsessive devotion.

But outside your little bubble, the shadows were growing longer.

"They say the young Crakehall boy was found in the harbor," Aerion muttered around a mouthful of roasted boar, his eyes glittering with a malicious, drunken amusement. "Bloated like a toad. And that Mooton heir who dared to send her a poem last moon? Disappeared from his inn. Not a trace left but a puddle of blood on the floorboards."

The laughter around the supper table died down slightly. Your father, Maekar, frowned deeply into his wine cup.

"It’s a curse," Daeron hiccuped, slurring his words. "Any man who so much as looks at our sweet sister ends up feeding the crows."

Aerion leaned forward, his eyes locking onto Valarr, who was sitting right beside you, calmly cutting a piece of meat on your plate for you. "I have a theory," Aerion sneered, his voice dripping with mock secrecy. "I think our dear cousin Valarr doesn't sleep at all. I think he turns into a demon dragon at night. He flies out the window, hunts down every single one of her past suitors, and tears them to pieces in the dark."

The table erupted into jests and uneasy laughter. Even Baelor offered a amused shake of his head at his nephew's wild imagination. Valarr chuckled softly, a light, aristocratic sound, and popped a piece of perfectly cut meat into your mouth. "A demon dragon, Aerion? You cut me deep. I prefer a quiet night's rest."

You chewed slowly, the food turning to mush in your mouth.

Everyone else was laughing, treating it as one of Aerion's cruel jests. But as you looked down at Valarr’s hands—the beautiful, pale hands currently pouring you a cup of sweet arbor gold—you noticed a faint, missed trace of dark, dried crimson buried deep beneath his fingernail.

He wasn't a demon dragon. He was just a man in love.

—

The night before the royal wedding, the Red Keep was suffocating. The castle was bursting at the seams with lords and ladies from every corner of the Seven Kingdoms, the air thick with the scent of roasted meats, heavy perfumes, and a manic, festive energy.

But inside your bedchambers, the air was cold, and your chest felt tightly bound. Anxiety, sharp and relentless, clawed at your throat. You couldn't breathe. You couldn't sit still.

A faint click broke the silence of the room. From the hidden passage behind the tapestry, a shadow stepped out.

Valarr slipped into the room, locking the heavy door behind him. He looked exhausted, yet his eyes blazed with a desperate, frantic hunger the moment they landed on you.

"I couldn't stay away, little star," he murmured, rushing to your side and wrapping his arms around your waist, pulling you against his chest. "Tomorrow will be madness. The septons, the feasts, the crowds... I won't be able to look at you, not truly, until the vows are said. I couldn't stand a whole day without seeing you."

He smiled, a soft, boyish thing, and began to untie his tunic. He had already announced his intention to sleep in your quarters, promising to slip back out through the hidden tunnel before your handmaidens arrived at dawn. He unlaced the fine velvet, slipping his arms out. Valarr always preferred to sleep bare-chested, his skin naturally radiating a strange, feverish heat.

But as the fabric fell away, a flash of jagged, angry red caught your eye.

Across his forearm was a deep, raw gash, the edges poorly bound and weeping slightly. Your breath hitched. "Valarr... what is that? What happened to your arm?"

He didn't even look down at it. He merely offered a dismissive, airy chuckle, pulling you toward the massive four-post bed. "Nothing to worry your beautiful head over, my love. A minor mishap during a late-night ride through the woods. A stray branch. It’s nothing serious, I promise."

You wanted to believe him, but the image of the trace of blood under his fingernails from days ago flashed through your mind. Still, you let him pull you down into the feather mattress. He wrapped his long arms around you, pulling your back against his chest, his chin resting in your hair. It was a position you had found comfort in a thousand times before.

But tonight, the comfort wouldn't come.

Your mind was a roaring storm. You shifted to the left. You turned to the right. Your legs twitched under the heavy furs. Every time you tried to close your eyes, your heart hammered against your ribs.

Valarr endured the relentless squirming for an hour, his grip tightening slightly each time you moved, until finally, he shifted. He leaned over you, his hair falling like a curtain around your face, blocking out the rest of the dark room. His eyes were wide, swirling with worry.

"What is it?" he whispered, his voice frantic, his fingers tracing your jawline almost too hard. "Why are you so worried, little star? Tell me. Is it the wedding? Is it the crowd? Are you afraid of tomorrow? Tell me who is upsetting you. Give me a name."

"I... I don't know, Valarr," you stammered, your voice trembling. "I don't know why. I just can't calm down. My chest... it won't stop hurting."

Valarr stared down at you, his pupils dilated so wide his eyes looked almost black. He seemed to be searching your face for a script, an answer, until suddenly, a spark of absolute madness lit up his features. It was as if a brilliant, terrible idea had just struck him.

"Ah," he breathed, a breathless, ecstatic smile breaking across his face. "I know. I know what will fix it. Wait here."

He scrambled off the bed, his bare chest gleaming in the moonlight. He rushed over to his leather satchel resting on the table, digging inside until he pulled out a small, heavy iron ice box. It was the kind maesters used to transport delicate, volatile medicines. He brought it back to the bed, setting it right in front of you on the silk sheets.

You shuffled closer to the edge, your legs swinging over the edge of the bed.

"Open it," he whispered, his breath coming in short, excited pants. "Open it, my love. See what I brought you."

With trembling fingers, you reached out and popped the heavy iron latch. You lifted the lid.

The smell of copper and frost hit your nose instantly. Resting on a bed of melting ice was a jagged, horrific mass of raw flesh. A human heart, freshly carved, the vessels severed and frozen in dark, coagulated crimson.

A gasp caught in your throat. Panic flared in your veins—it was a visceral, terrifying sight. But years of growing up by Aerion and Valarr’s side had taught you how to master your face. You forced your expression to remain perfectly still, staring at the gory offering.

Valarr didn't wait for a reaction. He slid off the bed, sinking to his knees on the floorboards right before you. He reached into the box with his bare hands, lifting the heavy, cold heart out of the ice. Dark, melting blood spilled over his knuckles, dripping onto his pristine white linen riding pants, staining the fabric a horrific, deep scarlet.

"Do you see it?" Valarr looked up at you from the floor, his face completely unhinged, flushed with a manic, intoxicating adoration. He looked like a madman, a beautiful, terrifying creature entirely consumed by a holy fervor. "I did this for you. I’ve always done this for you. That Lannister boy? The Tyrell? The Bracken? Every single one of those pathetic, sniveling lords who dared to look at you, who dared to think they could take you away from me? I rid you of them."

He pressed the bloody heart closer to his chest, his hands entirely coated in the thick, crimson fluid.

"They didn't deserve you," he hissed, his voice a ragged, breathless purr. "They didn't know how to worship you. They bothered you! I saw how you cried in the woods. I saw how their names made you weep. I couldn't let them breathe the same air as you. This one—this is the Crakehall boy. The last one who dared to eye you at the feast. I tore it right out of him, little star. For you. Everything I do, every drop of blood I spill, it is an altar built for you."

He leaned his head against your knee, staining your nightgown with blood, looking up at you with the glassy, devoted eyes of a dog begging for approval.

He was completely, and utterly insane. He was a monster who had painted the Red Keep red just to keep you smiling.

And as you sat there, looking down at your blood-soaked, crazed prince kneeling at your feet, the cold anxiety in your chest suddenly vanished.

In its place, a strange, dark heat began to bloom deep in your stomach. A wicked, thrilling shiver ran down your spine.

Everyone else in the world was fickle, bound by duty, laws, and fleeting emotions. But your Valarr? He would butcher the entire realm if you asked him to. He would tear the stars from the sky and drown the world in blood just to keep your heart beating fast. He was completely, dangerously, and entirely yours.

It was terrifying. It was unnerving.

And, faiths help you, it was the most intoxicating thing you had ever felt.

A slow, dark smile crept onto your lips. You reached down, ignoring the wet, sticky crimson, and cupped his cheek, tilting his beautiful, mad face up to yours. "You did all that for me, Valarr?" you whispered.

Valarr leaned heavily into your bloody palm, a soft, pathetic whimper of pure ecstasy escaping his throat. "Anything," he gasped, his eyes locking onto yours with a terrifyingly beautiful devotion. "Anything for my queen."

—

The night was alive.

The Great Hall of the Red Keep was a roaring ocean of noise, gold, and crimson. The wedding feast had bled deep into the small hours of the night, and the celebrations showed no signs of slowing down. Bards plucked frantically at their lutes, lords roared with drunken laughter, and the wine flowed like a river.

Yet, amidst the swirling crowd of dancers and well-wishers, the space beside you on the high dais sat entirely empty.

Your dear husband was nowhere to be found.

You had sat through a dozen toasts, your smile perfectly fixed, but the dark heat in your stomach from the night before was burning.

After questioning a handful of oblivious guests, you slipped away from the high table, cornering a tense Gold Cloak near the threshold of the hall. He stammered, bowing low, before admitting he had seen Prince Valarr slip down the quiet, left corridor moments ago.

You followed the path away from the noise, the music of the feast fading into a dull, rhythmic thumping against the stone walls. The corridor grew darker, lit only by flickering wall sconces. Then, you saw it. A dark, wet droplet on the cold stone. Then another. A small, smeared trail of crimson leading toward a secluded alcove.

You stepped around the corner and found him.

Valarr stood over a crumpled form, his chest heaving. The magnificent, pristine white wedding robes he had taken his vows in were now utterly ruined, drenched in deep, sickening red. His face, usually so clean and perfect, was splattered with a fresh coat of it, and his hands were stained entirely to the wrists. He was a vision of absolute butchery.

Hearing your soft footsteps, Valarr snapped his head around, his eyes wide and wild. The moment he recognized you, a flash of pure panic crossed his features—not because he had been caught, but for you.

"No, no, little star, don't step any closer," he breathed frantically, holding his sticky, red hands out to keep you back. "Your dress. Look at your dress. It’s too beautiful to ruin. Stay back, my love."

You looked down at your lavish, white-and-silver wedding gown, then up at him. A slow, dark thrill thrummed through your veins. Instead of retreating, you took a deliberate step forward, your delicate silk slippers stepping right over the fresh, cooling corpse of whatever unfortunate lord had dared to slight you tonight.

You reached out, entirely ignoring his warnings, and cupped his blood-splattered face in your hands. The copper smell was thick and suffocating, but you only leaned closer, a soft, scolding coo escaping your lips.

"Oh, Valarr," you sighed, tracing his cheekbone with your thumb, smearing the wet crimson across his pale skin. "Look at you. What am I to do with you? You are entirely drenched in blood. I still wanted to dance to so many more songs tonight, but you’ve gone and made a mess of yourself before the feast is even over. You must clean up first, my sweet prince."

Valarr stared at you, his breath hitching. Hearing your gentle, unbothered voice, seeing the utter lack of fear in your eyes, drove him into a state of pure, ecstatic delirium. A ragged, broken whine escaped his throat.

"My queen," he gasped. He seized your hands—instantly coating your fingers in the dead man's blood—and pulled you fiercely against him.

He kissed you. It was a feverish, desperate, and bruising thing. His lips parted yours, and the sharp, metallic taste of iron flooded your mouth, thick and overwhelming.

He kissed you until you were breathless, his face sliding against yours, deliberately coating the bottom half of your jaw and cheeks in the warm, wet blood of his latest victim. It was a horrific branding, and it made your head spin with an intoxicating rush.

When he finally broke away, panting, he looked down at your blood-stained face and laughed—a sound of pure, unadulterated worship.

"We will dance later," he whispered, his eyes gleaming with a dangerous, possessive light. "We will dance for the rest of our lives."

With a sudden movement, Valarr grabbed the edge of the dead lord’s fine velvet doublet, quickly wiping the excess wetness from his own palms and yours. Before you could even protest, he swept you off your feet, lifting you effortlessly into his arms.

He didn't take you back to the Great Hall. Instead, he moved through the shadows of the Red Keep like a ghost, slipping past the distracted guards with the movements of a predator.

He carried you through the winding corridors, straight to your new, shared royal quarters, kicking the heavy oak doors shut and barring them from the inside.

"Valarr, wait," you breathless murmured against his neck as he set you down on the edge of the massive bed. "The feast... the guests will notice we are gone. I wanted my dances."

"Let them wonder," Valarr growled softly, descending upon you like a shadow. His hands, still stained a faint pink, pinned your wrists to the mattress, trapping you beneath his heavy, feverish frame. "The realm had you for the afternoon, little star. But now the night and its stars belongs to me."

Despite your playful pleas and teasing pouts about the missed music, you never did make it back to the celebrations. Valarr kept you entirely hostage within the confines of those silk sheets for the rest of the wedding night, claiming every inch of you.

[atlas-of-a-human-soul]

Wildest dreams Masterlist

Summary: Imprinting on his high school crush who hated him was the last thing Paul expected to happen as he’s nearing his thirties. But what truly unnerves him is the sequence of their future he sees - unlike his pack brothers, Paul doesn’t see a happy ending.

Keep reading

[goldsainz]

# GARRETT GRAHAM — THE RESERVATION !

MASTERLIST !

001. SUMMARY !

✶ you make garrett believe he forgot about date night.

002. WARNINGS !

✶ garrett calls you ‘honey’. another old tiktok trend.

word count : 1,6k

gif by @clary-jace

Garrett was staying at your dorm after a long day of hockey practice.

It was one of your favourite routines. He’d show up exhausted, his hair still slightly damp from a post-practice shower, and immediately collapse onto your bed beside you. The two of you would curl up together, pick a movie, and inevitably end up falling asleep halfway through it. Between your classes and his practices, you were usually both too tired to make it to the credits.

But today, you had a different idea.

Today, you had let boredom take the reins and found yourself influenced by a viral trend.

Your boyfriend was one of the most attentive men on the planet. In fact, you’d go as far as to say he was the most attentive. Which meant him forgetting about date night was simply impossible.

If Garrett made a commitment to you, he followed through. Every single time.

Sometimes, it was honestly a little annoying how attentive he could be, because he remembered everything.

The day you first kissed. The first time you said “I love you”. Even the exact moment you stole one of his hoodies and never gave it back.

You weren’t sure if he kept some secret list hidden somewhere or if an entire section of his brain had simply been taken over by thoughts of you, but one thing was certain: if there was a date night planned, Garrett Graham would remember it.

Which was exactly why it would be so funny to convince him he’d forgotten one.

You could already picture the confusion and disbelief on his face. The way he’d rack his brain trying to figure out how he could have possibly let something like that slip his mind.

A few minutes later, a knock sounded at your door.

You quickly adjusted the black dress you were wearing—far too formal for the quiet movie night you’d originally planned with Garrett—and crossed the room to answer it.

The second you opened the door, a smile tugged at your lips.

Your boyfriend stood there, bag slung over one shoulder, looking unfairly handsome for someone who had just spent hours getting checked into boards by grown men.

Almost immediately, his brows drew together as his gaze swept over your dress. But before he could ask any questions, you rose onto your toes and pressed a soft kiss to his lips.

The effect was immediate.

His bag slipped from his shoulder and hit the floor with a dull thud as one hand found the small of your back, pulling you closer. He kissed you back without hesitation, already melting into the familiar greeting.

When you finally pulled away, you tilted your head.

“Is that what you’re wearing?”

Garrett blinked, then he looked down at himself. Gray sweatpants and a black hoodie. Standard post-practice attire.

“Uh... yeah?” He said slowly. “Why?”

You arranged your features into the best combination of confusion and disappointment you could manage. “Did you forget?”

His frown deepened as he stepped inside, shutting the door behind him and shrugging off his hoodie. Beneath it was the black compression shirt he always wore after practice.

A criminal piece of clothing, in your humble opinion.

The fabric stretched across his shoulders and arms far too well, making it significantly harder to stay focused on your prank. For a brief moment, you considered abandoning the whole thing altogether in favour of admiring your boyfriend.

Unfortunately for Garrett, you were committed to the bit.

“Forget what, honey?”

His eyes drifted around your dorm room, taking in details automatically. From the makeup bag spread across your vanity, to the leather jacket draped over your desk chair that looked suspiciously similar to the one currently missing from his closet.

Then his attention returned to you.

“Our date?” You said, tilting your head as if he was the one being ridiculous. Which was especially unfair considering you had invented this entire situation purely for your own entertainment.

You watched him go completely still for a second. 

Then, very slowly, he repeated, “...Our date?”

“Yeah.” You smiled brightly. “I’m really excited. You picked a good spot.”

“I did?”

The uncertainty in his voice nearly made you break. He bent down to grab his phone from his bag before sitting on the edge of your bed.

“Yeah,” you said casually, settling onto your desk chair in front of your makeshift vanity. “You didn’t really forget, did you?”

“No. No...” He shook his head, already scrolling through his phone. “Just checking our reservation.”

You bit the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from laughing.

“I’m so glad you picked that restaurant. We haven’t been there in forever, and their food is amazing.”

Continuing your performance, you grabbed your mascara and began applying it as if this conversation were completely normal.

Across the room, Garrett was staring at his phone with the concentration of a man trying to defuse a bomb.

“What did you…” He lowered the phone and cleared his throat. “What did you order last time?”

“We ordered a bunch of things to share, remember?”

He hummed, the sound coming out noticeably higher-pitched than usual.

To be fair, it wasn’t an incredibly descriptive answer. Garrett’s appetite was enormous thanks to hockey, and you could never decide what looked best on a menu. Most date nights ended with the two of you ordering half the restaurant and splitting everything between yourselves.

Still, you could practically see him filing the information away, desperately trying to determine whether this was a real memory he’d somehow lost or one you were creating in real time. 

“You’ve been looking forward to this for a while, huh?”

“Mhm.”

His eyes narrowed slightly.

“Do you remember the last time we went?”

“Not really, no.” You unscrewed your lip gloss and began applying it. “But it’s been a while.”

“Huh.” A few seconds passed, then he asked, “And I can’t wear what I’m wearing right now?”

“Garrett, you planned this date.” You turned in your chair to look at him. “You specifically told me to dress semi-formal.”

“Yeah, obviously. I know.” The immediate response was reassuring, but the lingering frown wasn’t. “Just checking,” he added quickly. “Keeping you on your toes and all that.”

You stared at him and he stared right back, attempting what was perhaps the worst act of confidence you'd ever seen.

“Sure…” you said slowly, fighting to keep a laugh from escaping.

Garrett nodded once, as if he’d successfully recovered the situation, immediately grabbing his phone again. Apparently, whatever fictional reservation he was searching for had yet to reveal itself.

“Are you excited?” You asked innocently. “Because from where I’m sitting, you don’t exactly look excited for our date night.”

His head snapped up. 

“What? I’m so excited.”

Before you could respond, he pushed himself off the bed and crossed the room, coming to stand behind your chair.

“Honey,” he said, resting his hands on your shoulders, “This is going to be the best date of your life.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, really.” The answer came in the most ‘duh’ tone imaginable.

As if the very suggestion that he wouldn't be excited to take you on a date was completely absurd. As if he hadn’t spent the last ten minutes conducting a full-scale investigation into a restaurant that didn't exist.

You bit the inside of your cheek.

At that point, you decided it was probably best to abandon the prank before things escalated any further. Because now Garrett Graham had something to prove.

And knowing your boyfriend, that was a dangerous thing.

Another five minutes and he’d probably be making dinner reservations, buying flowers, and somehow chartering a helicopter just to demonstrate that he was, in fact, capable of pulling off the best date night of your life on a moment's notice.

“It's just…” You rose from your chair and turned to face him, leaving only a few inches between you. Tilting your head back, you met his gaze. “How can you be excited for a date that doesn't exist?”

For a second, Garrett simply stared at you, and then you watched the realization hit in real time. Confusion flashed across his face first, followed quickly by suspicion, before finally settling into understanding as all the pieces clicked into place and he realized exactly what you’d been doing.

His eyes narrowed at the burst of laughter that spilled from your lips.

“Baby, there’s no date,” you admitted, burying your face against his chest as you wrapped your arms around his waist. Looking up at him, you were immediately met with the most offended expression you’d ever seen on your boyfriend.

His mouth opened, then closed again as he searched for a response. For a moment, it looked like he was about to launch into an argument, but instead he simply shook his head, pulled you closer, and wrapped his arms around you.

“There can be, though.”

Another laugh escaped you.

“It’s okay. It was just a prank.”

“Yeah, but you’re already dressed up for that fake date, so…”

“So?” You prompted.

“I’m taking you out.”

You blinked. “Oh, really?”

“Yup.” 

The answer came without a second of hesitation. Still holding onto you with one arm, he reached over and grabbed the leather jacket hanging from your chair, along with his bag.

“Let’s go,” he said matter-of-factly. “We’ll stop by my place so I can change, and then we can go to that place you’ve been wanting to try.”

You huffed out a laugh.

“There is no place, Garrett.”

“Then make one up.” He slung his bag over his shoulder and pointed at you. “You’re the one who invented an entire date night. Surely you can invent a restaurant, too.”

You laughed again as he reached for your hand.

Somehow, despite being the one who’d gotten pranked, your boyfriend had still found a way to turn it into an actual date.

Which, admittedly, was a very Garrett Graham thing to do.

NOTE : listened to ‘girls’ by kid laroi basically on loop while writing this. also, tell me if these tiktok trend pranks are something you guys like and want to see more of! (and tell me which pranks you’d like to read…). let’s wake up the garrett graham is the boyfriendest boyfriend agenda.

[lovelytsunoda]

DANCING WITH MYSELF | Dean Di Laurentis

Summary: In danger of failing his music history class, Dean turns to the one person who can help- Briar University’s resident rock n roll nerd.

Pairing: Dean Di Laurentis x Music Nerd!Reader

Warnings: I’m not kidding when I say reader is a massive nerd, awkward Dean, talk of depression and death of a grandparent,

Author’s Notes: I’m so sorry I’m about to unleash fourteen years worth of random music knowledge on the internet-

Dean didn’t know how he got there. If anybody had asked him, he knew he wouldn’t have an answer. He could see her behind the desk, flared jeans making her legs look long and majestic, the overhead lights bouncing off her glasses. Punk music played loudly in the background, something he recognized from Garrett’s training mix.

Logan’s words echoed in his head. He’d thought music history was going to be an easy credit. Something to keep his average up and keep him on the ice. Now, halfway through the semester and on the verge of failing, he was embarrassed to admit that he couldn’t tell the difference between Led Zepplin and The Rolling Stones. Logan, who had taken the same class one semester prior, had offered Dean the solution on a silver platter.

“You need to go down to Play It Twice and ask YN YLN for help. She was in that class with me last semester, and I’m telling you Dean, she’s a fucking genius. Aced every assignment. What that girl knows about Oasis could fill a bible.”

And so here he was, awkwardly flicking through a rack of seventies rock records while he tried to figure out what the hell it was he was doing here.

“Can I help you?”

Dean turned around, awkwardly holding a copy of Never Mind the Bollocks, Here’s the Sex Pistols. The girl from behind the counter was standing next to him, thumbing through a stack of CD’s until she settled on something by a band called Smash Mouth.

Finally, a band name that Dean recognized.

“You work here?”

She chuckled. “I’m the manger. YN. So, what can I do to help the great Dean Di Laurentis?”

Dean sighed, slipping the vinyl back into the wooden crate he had gotten it from. “I need help with this music history paper. John Logan took the class with you last semester and told me you know more about this stuff than anybody else.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You’re failing music history? It’s not even a real course, Di Laurentis.”

“I’m desperate.” He pleaded. “If I fail this class, I can’t play. I’ll do anything.”

“Who wrote Interstate Love Song?”

Dean gaped, searching his brain for an answer. Not even the right answer, just something he could spit out so this beautiful girl in a Sex Pistols shirt didn’t think he was stupid.

“Led Zepplin?”

“Wrong, it’s the Stone Temple Pilots. What band was at the head of the British Invasion?”

This one, Dean thought he might know. “The Beatles?”

She sighed, tapping her fingers on the plastic CD case. “Technically, you got that one right. But I hate the Beatles. I consider The Who to be the leaders of that movement, but I was raised by a dad whose favourite song was Baba O’Riley. Name one Smash Mouth song that wasn’t in Shrek.”

“Accidentally In Love!”

“That’s by Counting Crows and it’s in Shrek 2.” She dropped the CD back into the pile, grabbing a lanyard from her back pocket. Dean expected her to be looking at him with disappointment, but instead she looked excited. “Follow me. You’ve got a lot to learn, Mr. Hockey Player.”

She unlocked a door with a massive poster of Debbie Harry on it, leading Dean down a flight of stairs and into a spacious room filled with floor to ceiling shelves lined with records.

“This is my personal collection. I live in student housing, so it’s hard to have a proper setup.”

Dean looked at the shelves in awe, all the vinyl sleeves perfectly alphabetized and organized be genre. The collection must have taken years to build. But what he noticed most was the way her eyes lit up as she grabbed a plastic step stool, reaching onto a top shelf to pull down a thick pink binder.

“What assignment are you guys on? It’s the independent study paper, right? I did mine on the life and death of Micheal Hutchence, and how he would still be alive if he had never broken up with Kylie Minogue.”

“How the hell are those two things connected?”

“If he had never broken up with Kylie, he wouldn’t have met Helena and then he wouldn’t have been in the wrong place at the wrong time and been knocked unconscious by a taxi driver causing irreversible brain damage.” She said matter of factly, dragging a bean and chair over to her stereo. “So, what’s your topic?”

Dean shrugged, lamely moving to sit next to her on the bean bag. “I don’t have one. I’m hopeless. I couldn’t tell you the difference between Robert Plant and Robert Palmer. I failed the paper on the cultural importance of the Britpop movement.”

YN smiled, leading through the binder. Dean could see that it was filled with old essays, each one brandishing a grade in the high nineties. “Ah, yes. My paper focused on the feud between Oasis and Blur. Fun times.”

“I thought Blur wrote Wonderwall.” Dean admitted.

“God, you need more help than I thought. What decade do you like the most? Seventies, eighties, nineties?”

“Nineties, I guess.” Dean shrugged. His listening mostly consisted of heavy workout playlists on Spotify. He knew AC/DC’s discography inside and out, but nothing about the people who wrote it or the time in which it was written.

“Good choice.” She got to her feet, moving towards a rack of CD cases. “We’ve got grunge: Stone Temple Pilots, Pearl Jam, Soundgarden.”

Dean perked up. “I know Pearl Jam! One of my housemates is always singing their songs when he’s in the shower.”

She smiled at him, tossing her hair over her shoulder. Dean got a peek at a seductive streak of cherry red running through the back of her curls, and he felt the back of his neck go hot. “Good, so you can name some of their songs! You could do your paper on Eddie Vedder. Or, you have your stoner rock and ska: Sublime, Smash Mouth, Sugar Ray. There’s Britpop, and Madchester, and whatever the hell House of Pain had going on.”

At this point, Dean had zoned out, focusing less on what she was saying and more the passion in her voice, and the animated way in which she spoke about Chris Cornell as she placed albums down in front of him.

“Pick one, and we’ll go from there.”

He looked at the array of artwork placed in front of him, at a loss as he was forced to blindly pick something. He tried to remember the genres that she had sorted them into as he pointed at a record at random.

“This one. It speaks to me.”

“Superunknown. Soundgarden’s best work. If you like this, you’ll love Audioslave.” She picked up the CD, messing with a few buttons on the stereo as the familiar opening bars started to fill the room.

Dean smiled, bobbing his head. He recognized the song as something Tucker had played while he was washing his truck in the driveway, his booming voice carrying before Logan had doused him with water and told him to shut up. “I know this one!”

“Everybody knows Black Hole Sun. Most people think it’s an allegory for depression. Cornell wanted to keep the meaning vague, so that it could be whatever someone needed it to be. The song is all about mood and tension. Even without the lyrics, you’d still be able to paint that picture. He composed it by whistling into a dictophone.”

Dean was entranced. Not just but the ominous guitar music booming on behind him, but by the woman sitting next to him. She spoke with such passion and conviction, and it was clear that the subject meant a lot to her. Dean wasn’t stupid- he knew about what had happened to Chris Cornell, but somehow he hadn’t put the dots together that the same man had written the desperate ballad that he was listening to now.

He also knew that people who felt a connection to this kind of music usually had things they preferred to keep in their pasts. Things that music had helped them get through.

“What’s your favourite band?” Dean blurted as the song reached its climax. “Obviously all of this is important to you.”

She bit her lip, twisting one of the bracelets on her wrist before answering. “My Chemical Romance. One of their most famous songs, it’s called Helena, and Gerard Way wrote it after his grandmother died. I was really depressed after I lost my gran, and without that song, I don’t think I could have gotten through it. She had practically raised me since my parents both worked full time.” As the album transitioned to the next track, she rifled through her binder, unclipping a sheaf of notes. “Grunge was one of my favourite units to study. My oral presentation on the Death of Kurt Cobain got a standing ovation.”

She beamed when she passed Dean the notes, and Dean felt his chest constrict. He wanted to see that smile more often.

“Come back tomorrow and we can tackle the eighties: hair metal and new wave.”

Despite himself, Dean found that he was excited to go back to Play It Twice. So much so that he showed up early the next morning, before the shop had even opened. He stood outside like a weirdo, watching through the display case as YN danced behind the desk, the skirt of her dress swaying around her calves as she cleaned the records stacked next to her. He could hear the music rattling the windows- something with a heavy synthesizer beat.

He almost regretted knocking on the window and asking to be let in, but it was worth it for the cute little jump of surprise that she made at the sound.

“Di Laurentis.” She coughed as she opened the glass door. “You’re early.”

“What’s playing?” Dean asked, leaning in the doorway. He towered over her, and he hoped it was in a way that made him seem sexy and not intimidating. “I like the way it sounds.”

“New Order. Formed from the wreckage of Joy Division after Ian Curtis died.”

Dean grinned, stepping inside the store. “I bet it’s much more fun to dance to than Soundgarden.”

Her eyes widened as Dean reached for her hand, not giving her much choice as he pulled her into a dance.

He didn’t know if he had ever smiled as much as he had when he twirled her a few times, comically dipping her to the music that played in the background. Her smile and laughter were infectious, and he knew he needed more.

As Alanis Morissette would have said, Dean Di Laurentis was falling head over feet.

She stumbled, tripping over the toe of her tennis shoe and falling into the counter behind her. Dean rushed to catch her, his strong and athletic frame caging her against a bin of reggae records.

“You okay?” He asked, voice dropping a few octaves.

She nodded, swallowing before she answered “Yeah, I’m good.”

and yet neither of them moved. Dean was breathing heavily, his eyes searching hers for any hint of the same want that he felt.

Behind them, the door to the storeroom flew open.

“YN!” A voice called. “Can I get your help with something?”

The trance was broken, disappointment flicking across her face as she pushed Dean away. “Yeah! I’ll be there in a second!”

She bent down to grab a milk crate of discount vinyl, using he shoulder to push the storeroom door open. In spite of the large sign that read ‘employee’s only’, Dean followed her through to the back. “How do you know all this stuff about music? It’s impressive.”

She turned to face him, ponytail swinging with the motion. “I was a lonely kid.” She shrugged “learning this stuff made me feel like all the time I spent alone had a purpose.”

It was during their lesson on power ballads, which ended with both of them shouting Wanted Dead or Alive at the top of their lungs, that the idea for his paper finally came to him. He was more devoted to that paper than anyone in the hockey house had ever seen. He’d set up at the dining room table, and most of the guys hadn’t even realized that he was there until he blurted:

“Hey Tucker, why is Pearl Jam your favourite band?”

Three days later, he ran straight from class to Play It Twice, praying that she was working. Dean didn’t initially see her when he first burst through the front doors. The young man at the front desk raised his eyebrows at red-faced Dean, who was about to turn around and leave when he saw YN appear from behind the Debbie Harry poster.

“Dean?” She smiled softly. “You’re early. My lesson plan isn’t set up yet.”

Wordlessly, he reached into his backpack to grab the printed first draft of his paper. Two beers and four Red Bulls later, he’s certain that it’s the best, most heartfelt assignment he will ever complete. She took it from the hockey player, eyes widening when he reads the title.

Hard Rock Songs, and the Stories of the People Who Love Them.

“You finished your paper?” She looked up at him, chest tight as she knew that the hours spent in the record store basement with Dean Di Laurentis were almost over.

Dena nodded. “I wanted you to be the first one to read it.”

She read through the first page, entranced at Dean’s use of words. The way he recounted a story from John Tucker’s childhood about singing Better Man while working on the farm with his dad.

A story about how Garrett Graham always thinks about the very first game he ever won at Briar when he hears Nothing But A Good Time.

And about how New Order always makes him think about dancing with the most beautiful girl that Dean Di Laurentis has ever seen, even though New Order isn’t considered hard rock, and shouldn’t be even mentioned in his paper.

“Dean,” she laughed, handing the paper back. “This is fantastic. You’re going to do amazing. You’ll be back on the ice in no time.”

For the first time since he’d started talking to girls, Dean found himself almost too shy to speak. He scratched the back of his neck, staring down at his feet.

“I was wondering.” He began. “You did such a fantastic job tutoring me for this class, and I was just wondering if maybe you wanted to let me take you out to dinner?”

she laughed, crossing her arms across her chest. “You mean like a date?”

“Do you want it to be a date?” Dean scrambled to cover up his mistake. “It doesn’t need to be-“

“Yes. I’ll go on a date with you. Pick me up at seven?”

Dean’s smile absolutely glowed, his cheeks reddening. “Yeah, sounds like a date.”