pairing – garrett graham x nursing student!reader
summary – a bad loss, a worse party, and garrett finding out exactly what kind of man used to make someone he cares about feel small.
warnings – angst, emotional abuse references, slut-shaming, public humiliation, violence, physical fight, blood, strong language
notes from me – i promised garrett would find out about her ex! based on this ask, thank u babe!
word count – 6.5k
navigation – masterlist |
The party is technically still a party, in the way a body is technically still alive when it’s lying very still and making everyone else uncomfortable. There’s music coming from the living room speakers, and the kitchen is full, and someone has already knocked over half a case of beer near the back door, but the usual post-game buzz hasn’t properly taken.
The loss has followed the boys home like bad weather, clinging to the sharp set of Garrett’s jaw and the bruise darkening near Logan’s cheekbone and the way Dean keeps drinking. Even Tucker, who can usually make a room feel less like it wants to bite itself, has been standing at the counter for ten minutes making tiny sandwiches with the grim focus of a man assembling evidence.
“Don’t call them tiny sandwiches,” Tucker says, responding to something Logan had said that she'd missed. “They’re dippables.”
There's a beat of silence so beautiful and complete that she almost respects the universe for giving it to them.
Then Dean says, “I’m sorry, what the fuck did you just call them?”
Garrett laughs behind her, low and warm against the back of her shoulder, and the sound loosens something in her chest that had been sitting there since she spotted Nathan by the beer pong table twenty minutes ago.
Garrett’s sitting on the kitchen counter behind her, one knee hooked loosely at either side of her hips while she stands between his legs with her back tipped into him like it happened by accident and not because his hand found her waist three seconds after she walked in and kept her there.
He has a beer in one hand and the other at the back of her neck, thumb moving in slow, absent circles over the tender place where her shoulder meets her spine, like he’s decided her body is something he can keep track of without looking at it.
“They’re sandwiches, Tuck,” Logan says, leaning one hip against the island and reaching for one.
Tucker smacks his hand away. “They’re meant to be dipped. That’s the point.”
“In what?” she asks, because she loves Tucker and because she is weak.
Tucker brightens at her like he’s finally found a reasonable member of the group. “There’s au jus.”
Dean’s face twists. “There’s what?”
“Au jus,” Tucker repeats.
Garrett’s thumb pauses at the back of her neck. “Bro, did you make a French dip sandwich and then cut it into little slutty rectangles?”
She chokes on a laugh, and Tucker points at her with immediate betrayal. “Not you too. Don’t stoop to their level.”
“I’m sorry,” she says, not sounding sorry at all. “Little slutty rectangles was actually a strong contribution.”
“Unbelievable,” Tucker mutters, turning back to his plate with the wounded dignity of someone surrounded by people too stupid to appreciate innovation. “Fine. None for any of you.”
Logan already has one halfway to his mouth. “Too late.”
It should be enough. This, Garrett’s knee warm against her thigh, Tucker in front of them with a plate of sandwiches he has emotionally overinvested in, Dean loose-limbed and loud, Logan eating in a way that suggests he has never once feared choking.
It should be enough to keep her here, properly here, in the kitchen with the counter digging lightly into Garrett’s palm beside her hip and the whole house smelling like beer and aftershave and cheap chips and winter cold.
But every so often, her body remembers Nathan’s in the house. A quiet tightening under her skin whenever his voice comes close enough to recognise. The back of her throat going dry for half a second. Her stomach making one slow, unpleasant turn when she catches sight of him leaning in too close to some girl near the living room archway, smiling with that exact mouth he used to make her feel stupid for needing anything.
She’s over him. She knows that. She has done the therapy-adjacent late-night self-reflection, the crying in the shower, the deleting screenshots, the learning how to take a compliment without waiting for it to become a trap. She's rebuilt too many little pieces of herself to mistake disgust for longing.
Still. Seeing him makes her feel like she needs to wash her hands.
Garrett’s thumb presses a little more firmly into the back of her neck, and she realises, with a small, guilty jolt, that she’s gone still.
“Still sore from yesterday?” he murmurs, his mouth brushing the bare curve of her shoulder because her top has slipped slightly and because Garrett’s incapable of seeing available skin without acting like it exists for him personally.
She nods, letting the answer be easy because that’s what he’s asking about and because she would rather talk about a pulled shoulder than the way Nathan’s laugh keeps snagging at the edge of the room. “A little.”
Garrett’s hand shifts, fingers sliding beneath her hair to rub slow circles into the muscle. It hurts enough to make her inhale and feels good enough to make her want to lean back harder. “There?”
“Mhm.”
Dean watches the movement with narrowed eyes. “Are we witnessing foreplay or physiotherapy?”
“Could be both,” Garrett says.
“Clinical dual-purpose,” she adds, and Logan snorts hard enough to cough.
Tucker, because he’s the only person in the room with any decency, points a sandwich knife at all of them. “Can one kitchen interaction in this house not become sexual?”
“No,” Dean says immediately.
“No,” Logan agrees.
Garrett leans down and kisses the top of her shoulder, his grin pressing briefly into her skin. “Probably not.”
She laughs, and for one second it works. The room warms properly around her. Garrett’s body is solid behind her, his hand large and careful on her neck, and Nathan’s a thing somewhere else. A bad smell through a window. A person she used to know badly. Nothing more. Then he walks into the kitchen.
Nathan comes in with one of his friends behind him, shoulder first through the crowd, laughing at something already, like the house belongs to him because he’s decided to move through it. He looks the same in a way that feels almost rude.
Same neat hair. Same watch he used to tap when she was late, even if late meant she'd stayed back on placement because someone coded and she couldn’t exactly tell a dying man to hurry up. Same pale blue button-down that probably took more effort than it wanted to admit. His eyes flick over the kitchen and land on her. Garrett’s hand stops moving.
It’s so quick she nearly misses it. Nathan’s gaze dips to where she’s standing between Garrett’s knees, to Garrett’s hand on her neck, to the easy, intimate line of her body leaning back into his. His mouth twitches.
She hates that she knows that twitch. He turns toward his friend as they pass the island, heading for the sink where half the drinks are buried in ice, and coughs something under his breath. Enough that it could be denied, just enough that the words are meant to land like spit without the inconvenience of accountability.
Dean hears something. She knows because the lazy angle of his body changes at once, his spine straightening, one hand dropping from the counter. “What’d you say, man?”
The kitchen thins in a way no one else seems to notice at first. Tucker looks up from the sandwiches. Logan’s chewing slows. Garrett’s fingers spread over the back of her neck.
Nathan looks back at Dean like he’s surprised to be addressed, which is rich, considering Nathan’s whole personality is built on saying things softly enough to make other people look crazy for reacting. “Nah, man. Nothing.”
Dean’s face goes very calm. It’s a bad calm. A Dean calm that belongs right before some guy at Malone’s realises he’s miscalculated the pretty one. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Nathan says, lifting both hands, one beer bottle hanging loose from his fingers. “Just grabbing a drink.”
Dean nods once. “Get the fuck outta my kitchen.”
Nathan’s friend mutters something, but Nathan only gives a thin little smile, the one that always used to make her stomach drop because it meant he would punish her later for something he had started. “All good,” he says, and backs out with the beer.
For a second, nobody speaks. The music from the living room fills the space badly. Someone yells at the TV even though the TV is only playing a muted sports recap. Garrett’s hand has moved from her neck to her waist, his arm coming around her middle like he’s pulled her back without thinking.
“What was that about?” Logan asks, eyes still on the doorway.
Dean looks at her for half a second, not long enough to make it obvious to everyone, but long enough that she knows. Long enough that something sour and hot slides down the back of her throat.
He heard. Maybe not all of it, but enough. Dean, who jokes like breathing is optional, looks at her like he’s measuring whether to tell Garrett and deciding, maybe, that detonating him in the kitchen is not the right play.
“Nothing,” Dean says, taking a drink and looking away first. “All good.”
It isn’t, but she lets him have the lie. Garrett’s chin lowers slightly, his mouth close to her ear. “You okay?”
She makes herself nod before her body can make a whole production out of it. “Yeah. Shoulder’s just being annoying.”
Garrett doesn’t believe her. She can feel that in the way his hand settles more securely over her stomach, palm warm through her top. But he lets it go for now, kissing her shoulder again, once, slower this time. “Same as yesterday?”
“Yeah.”
Logan blinks, grateful for the normal subject or maybe just willing to accept the one she hands them. “What’d you do?”
“Oh, uh.” She clears her throat and reaches for one of Tucker’s sandwiches mostly so her hand has a task. “Patient came in unconscious yesterday. We were shifting him from the gurney to the bed when he started waking up, and he moved weird, and I kind of caught the weight wrong.” She lifts one shoulder, immediately regrets it, and makes a face. “Tweaked it a little. It’s fine. Just stiff.”
“Jesus,” Tucker says, concern creasing his forehead. “You okay?”
“Yeah, genuinely. Nothing compared to you guys throwing yourselves into walls.”
“Hey,” Logan says. “We get scholarships for that.”
Garrett’s thumb resumes the slow work at her shoulder, but his body hasn’t relaxed behind her. His beer sits forgotten beside him on the counter now, sweating into a little ring. “You should’ve told me.”
“I did tell you.”
“After I noticed.”
“That still counts.”
“It counts less.”
She tips her head back against his chest to look up at him, forcing the corner of her mouth to lift because the alternative feels like letting Nathan keep something. “Are you going to be difficult about a stiff shoulder?”
Garrett looks down at her, jaw still tight, eyes too attentive. “I’m good at difficult.”
Dean makes a disgusted sound. “God, you two are nauseating.”
“You’re just jealous nobody wants to stand between your knees while you threaten medical neglect,” Logan says.
Dean crosses his arms. “Plenty of people want to stand between my knees.”
“Name two.”
“Your mom, for one.”
Logan throws a piece of bread at him. Tucker yells about waste. Garrett laughs against her hair, and she lets herself be folded back into the noise because the kitchen moves on around her, because Nathan is gone, because for a while that's enough.
The night loosens by degrees without ever becoming good. People keep drinking. The music gets louder as if volume can correct a bad final score. The boys split apart eventually, pulled into different conversations and arguments and games she doesn’t track.
Garrett disappears toward the back porch with Logan and two guys from the team, his hand sliding off her waist only after he bends to murmur, “Come find me if your shoulder gets worse,” which makes Dean make such a vile kissing sound that Garrett shoves him on the way past.
She ends up in the living room with two girls from anatomy and one from her clinical group, talking about a professor who pronounces duodenum differently every lecture like he’s trying to keep them on their toes.
It helps. It really does. The room is warm and crowded, and someone has shoved a drink into her hand that she keeps forgetting to drink, and for ten full minutes she is almost normal.
Then Garrett’s voice cuts through the house. “The fuck did you just say to me?”
The conversation around her falters. Her head turns before she’s fully processed why her stomach has dropped. Garrett’s near the archway between the living room and hall, shoulders squared, one hand fisted at his side, the other pushing Nathan back by the chest hard enough that Nathan stumbles into someone behind him. Logan’s two steps away, already moving. Dean, by the couch, goes still in a way that makes the whole room feel suddenly smaller.
Nathan laughs. He’s drunk enough now that the edges of him are sloppy, his face flushed, hair falling out of its careful shape. “I’m just saying, bro. She’s fucking insane. You haven’t gotten to the part where she has a nervous breakdown every time–”
Garrett shoves him again. Harder. “Say that shit again.”
A low sound moves through the room, like everyone’s inhaled at once and forgotten the exhale.
“Garrett,” she says, but it disappears under the music and the blood rushing in her ears.
Nathan’s eyes flick past Garrett and land on her. It’s awful, how bright he gets when he sees her watching. Like this is what he wanted. Like all the soft, careful little comments, all the rumours, all the muttered half-words in kitchens and hallways and under his breath, had been leading toward the moment he could drag her into the middle of a room and make her feel sixteen inches tall again.
“There she is,” Nathan says, spreading his arms slightly. “Slut of the hour. Been wanting to talk to you.”
Her fingers go cold around her cup. Garrett turns his head just enough to see her face, and whatever is left of his restraint thins to a thread.
Nathan either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. His smile pulls wider. “Hey, Graham, does she do that thing when she sucks yo–”
Garrett hits him before the sentence finishes.
The sound is horrible. Clean and thick and immediate, Garrett’s fist catching Nathan square in the jaw with enough force to snap his head sideways and send his beer flying out of his hand.
For one suspended second, everyone freezes. Then Nathan’s friend lunges, Dean moves like someone released him from a leash, and the whole living room comes apart.
Dean catches Nathan’s friend by the shirt and drives him backward into the wall with a crash that knocks a picture frame crooked. Someone screams. Someone else yells, “Oh shit!” like they’re at a sporting event instead of watching a felony assemble itself in real time.
Nathan swings wildly and catches Garrett’s shoulder, but Garrett barely seems to feel it. He shoves him back over the coffee table, follows him down, and the next punch lands against Nathan’s cheek. Then another. And another.
For half a second, some ugly, honest part of her likes it. It flares through her so fast she feels sick with it, hot and vindictive and horribly human. Nathan on the floor, finally not smiling. Nathan with his mouth split instead of using it. Nathan taking one clean consequence after months of turning her name into something dirty in other people’s mouths.
Then Garrett’s knuckles hit him again, and the thought snaps in half.
“Garrett!” She pushes forward, but the room is bodies and arms and spilled beer. “Garrett, stop!”
He doesn’t hear her. Or he hears and can’t get to it. His face isn’t the face from the kitchen, not the boy with his thumb at her shoulder and his beer forgotten beside him. His jaw is locked, eyes bright and empty with rage, every line of him driven toward the next punch like the world has narrowed to Nathan’s face and the words he almost got to finish.
This could be bad. The thought arrives clinical and brutal. His draft. The team. The school. Coach. Phil. The Bruins. Everything people are already waiting to hold against him because men like Garrett are allowed to be violent on the ice only when someone else is keeping score.
“Logan,” she says, grabbing his sleeve as he passes. Her voice cracks around the urgency of it. “Get him off!”
Logan looks at her once, then at Garrett, and whatever he sees makes his face go grim. “G!” He moves in fast, Tucker right behind him, both of them grabbing Garrett under the arms and around the shoulders. “Walk it off, man. Come on.”
Garrett bucks against them so hard Tucker swears, Garrett's elbow catching him in the ribs. “Did you hear him?” Garrett snaps, voice wrecked and furious. “You didn’t– did you fucking hear what he said?”
“I heard,” Logan says, jaw tight, hauling him back with everything he has. “I heard, okay? But you gotta walk it off.”
“He’s a piece of shit!”
“I know.”
“You didn’t hear what he said before–”
“I know,” Logan says again, sharper now, because Garrett’s still trying to surge forward and Nathan is coughing blood onto the carpet and Dean’s being dragged off Nathan’s friend by two defensemen who look like they’re not having a great time either. “Garrett. Look at me. You’re done. You hear me? You’re done.”
Garrett’s eyes cut to her.
The whole room seems to tilt around that look. He’s breathing hard, chest heaving, curls falling into his eyes, blood on his knuckles that might not be his. The rage is still there, hot and awful, but underneath it something else flickers when he finds her standing in the middle of the room with her cup still in her hand and her shoulder drawn too high and her mouth slightly open like she’s forgotten what shape to make.
For a second, he looks almost scared. Then Nathan groans from the floor, and Garrett surges again.
“Upstairs,” Tucker says, voice tight. “Get him upstairs.”
Dean, still red-faced and furious, points at Nathan from across the room while Beau keeps a hand on his chest. “Get that fucker out of my house.”
“Dean,” Logan snaps.
“No, get him the fuck out.”
Garrett’s shoved toward the stairs more than guided, Logan at his shoulder, Tucker at his back, both of them talking low and fast. Garrett keeps looking back. Not at Nathan now, at her. Like he can’t decide whether leaving her downstairs is another thing to be angry about.
She can’t move immediately. For three, maybe four seconds, she stands there while the room reorganises itself around the damage. Nathan’s friend is yelling. Dean’s yelling louder. Someone is crouching beside Nathan, asking if he can open his mouth, which makes her student nurse brain twitch with absurd, unwanted competence.
The girls from anatomy are around her suddenly, one hand touching her elbow, another voice saying, “Hey, are you okay?” in that careful way people speak when they realise they’ve walked into someone else’s history without a map.
She looks at Nathan on the floor. There’s blood at the corner of his mouth. His eye is already swelling. He looks smaller than he used to. Or maybe he was always this size and she had just been made to feel so much smaller beside him that she forgot how to judge distance properly.
He turns his head slightly, makes eye contact with her and spits red onto the carpet. “Crazy bitch,” he mutters.
The girl beside her inhales sharply. Something in her goes very still, a clean little line drawn through the middle of her body.
She sets her cup down on the nearest shelf because her hand’s shaking now and she doesn’t want anyone to mistake that for weakness. Then she steps around the coffee table, careful of the broken glass, careful of the beer soaking into the rug, and looks down at him. Nathan’s eyes lift to hers, dazed and hateful.
“You need to leave,” she says. Her voice is quieter than she expects. It works anyway.
Nathan laughs, or tries to. It comes out wet. “Yeah? Gonna get your boyfriend to hit me again?”
“No,” she says. “I’m going to go check on him. You can bleed on someone else’s fucking floor.”
For once, Nathan has nothing ready. His mouth opens, then shuts, and the silence that follows is so much better than anything she could have made him say. She turns before he can recover.
The stairs feel longer than usual. Her legs are steady until she reaches the landing, and then they’re not, a little, the adrenaline making her knees feel too loose under her. She hears Garrett before she sees him, voice rough behind his bedroom door.
“I’m fine.”
Logan’s answer is immediate. “You’re not fine.”
“I said I’m fine.”
“And I said you just tried to turn her ex into ground beef in our living room, so maybe I'm not over the moon about leaving you alone right now.”
She pushes the door open.
Garrett’s standing near the bed with Tucker in front of him and Logan by the door like he’s prepared to physically block an exit. Garrett’s right hand is bleeding across the knuckles. His shoulder is tense under his shirt. His face is flushed, jaw still working like he's chewing through the last of the fight.
All three boys look at her when she steps in. Garrett’s expression changes first. “Baby,” he says, and the word comes out rough enough that it almost undoes her.
Logan looks between them, then exhales. “We’ll be outside.”
Garrett’s head snaps toward him. “No, you don’t have to–”
“Yes, we do,” Tucker says gently. “Bathroom’s across the hall if you need first aid stuff.”
“I know where the bathroom is,” she says automatically.
Tucker gives her a tiny, exhausted smile. “Right. Yeah. Sorry.”
Then they’re gone, the door clicking shut behind them and leaving the room suddenly too quiet around her and Garrett.
For a second, neither of them moves. The music downstairs is muffled now, mostly bass and shouting. Garrett stands by the bed with blood drying over his knuckles, chest still rising too fast, looking at her like he expects her to take one good look and leave.
She hates that. She hates that the anger is already curdling into fear in his face. “Sit down,” she says.
His mouth twists. “Are you okay?”
“Sit down, Garrett.”
He does, because her voice has gone into the place it goes when she has no interest in negotiating with hockey players, concussed or otherwise. He sits on the edge of the bed, elbows braced on his knees, hand held awkwardly in front of him like he has only just remembered it exists.
She crosses to him and takes it carefully. His fingers twitch once, like he almost pulls away. She doesn’t let him.
“You’re bleeding,” she says, because it's easier to start with what her hands know how to fix.
“It’s not mine.”
“Some of it is.”
Garrett looks down at their hands, then away. “Did he touch you?”
“No.”
“Did he say anything else to you?”
She sighs softly. “Garrett.”
His eyes snap back. “Did he?”
She looks at him for a second, at the fury trying to relight itself because it's easier than whatever else is waiting in the room. “Not anything that matters.”
“All of it fucking matters.”
The answer lands hard enough that she has to look down at his hand. The skin over two knuckles is split, red and swelling.
She runs her thumb lightly around the edge of it, not over the broken skin, and Garrett sucks in a breath through his teeth. “That hurt?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
His mouth almost moves. Almost. It doesn’t make it to a smile.
She goes to the bathroom and comes back with the little first aid box she’s now reorganised three times. Garrett stays where she left him, which feels like a miracle or a warning. When she sits beside him on the bed, close enough that her knee touches his thigh, his eyes stay on her face.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
She pauses with an antiseptic wipe halfway open.
Garrett swallows, throat working hard. “I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t have– fuck, I know. I know it was bad. I know what that looked like.”
She sets the wipe down unopened for a second. “What do you think it looked like?”
His laugh is short and ugly. “Like exactly what everyone thinks I am when I get pissed off.”
The room shifts around the words. Phil’s shadow under Garrett’s skin, waiting for any evidence it can use.
She turns toward him fully. “No.”
“You didn’t see my face.”
“I did.”
“No, you didn’t.” His voice cracks with frustration. “You saw after. You didn’t see what I– I couldn’t stop. I heard him say that shit about you, and I couldn’t stop. I– I blacked out. I wanted to fucking kill him.”
She doesn’t flinch. That feels important, so she makes sure of it. She sits there with his bleeding hand in hers and the open first aid box on the bed and makes herself stay steady, because Garrett is watching for fear like his life depends on finding it before it finds him.
“You stopped,” she says.
His eyes flash. “Because Logan dragged me off.”
“And because you let him.”
Garrett looks away, jaw clenching.
She picks up the wipe again and tears the packet open. “This is going to sting.”
“I don’t care.”
“I know. I’m saying it anyway.”
She cleans his knuckles carefully. Garrett hisses once and then has the audacity to pretend he didn’t, staring at the wall like the wall has asked him to perform masculinity.
She would make fun of him on any other night. On this one, she only holds his hand more securely and works the dried blood from the torn skin until she can see what belongs to him and what doesn’t.
“He was shitty,” she says, after the silence has stretched too thin.
Garrett’s breathing changes.
She keeps her eyes on his hand. “Not just, like, bad breakup shitty. He was… he made everything feel really small.” Her thumb steadies the back of Garrett’s hand when his fingers start to curl. “Me, mostly. The things I liked. The way I talked. What I wore. Who I spoke to. If I cried, I was manipulative. If I didn’t cry, I was cold. If I needed reassurance, I was needy. If I pulled away, I was punishing him. It was always something. And then after we broke up, he started saying things because he knew I hated making scenes enough that I wouldn’t correct him.”
Garrett’s face has gone dangerously still.
She glances up. “Do not go back downstairs.”
“I’m not.”
“You look like you’re planning an escape route.”
His eyes flick to hers, and she can see the exact moment the anger gives way to something worse, something softer and more helpless.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks.
It could sound accusing from anyone else. From him it just sounds hurt.
She folds the wipe into a small square because her hands need something to do. “Because I didn’t want to bring him into this.”
Garrett’s brow creases. “Into what?”
She looks at him then, and the room gets too warm and too quiet all at once. His hand is still in hers. His knees are still angled toward her. There’s blood on the wipe, music through the floor, and a fight downstairs with her name at the centre of it.
Whatever this is has been refusing a name for weeks, living in Garrett’s bed and his kitchen and the passenger seat of his car, wearing his hoodies and eating his pizza and saying I’m not your girlfriend with his thumb tucked into her waistband.
“This,” she says.
Garrett’s face shifts, small and aching.
She looks back at his hand because it is safer. “I didn’t want to feel like I was handing him proof. Like he still mattered enough to affect something good. And I didn’t want you to look at me differently.”
“Baby,” Garrett says, rough.
“I know that’s stupid.”
“It’s not.”
“I’m over him.”
“I know.”
“No, I am.” She says it too quickly, then has to stop and take a breath because her chest has gone tight in a way she resents. “I am. I don’t want him. I don’t miss him. I don’t even care what he thinks of me anymore, not really. But seeing him still makes my skin feel weird. Like I’m waiting to be corrected.”
Garrett closes his eyes.
She tapes gauze over his knuckles with more care than is probably necessary. “And then you hit him, and part of me was like… good.” Her mouth twists with the honesty. “Which is not a very healing, future-healthcare-professional reaction.”
Garrett gives a broken little huff. “I don’t think healthcare professionals have to be saints.”
“No?”
“No.” His hand turns carefully under hers, catching her fingers. “Especially not when some asshole calls them that in my living room.”
She studies his face. “You can’t do that again.”
“I know.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
“No, Garrett.” Her voice firms, not loud, but enough that his eyes stay on hers. “He’s not worth your team. He’s not worth hockey. He’s not worth giving anyone a reason to say you’re out of control.”
Something painful crosses his face.
She softens immediately, her thumb moving once over the edge of the tape. “And he’s not worth making you feel like this.”
Garrett looks down at their hands. “I scared you.”
“No.”
His jaw tightens. “Don’t lie to make me feel better.”
“I’m not.” She shifts closer, her knee pressing more firmly into his thigh. “You didn’t scare me. The situation scared me. What could happen to you scared me. The way you looked at me after scared me because you looked like you thought I was going to run.”
Garrett doesn’t answer.
She reaches up with her free hand and turns his face gently toward hers. He lets her, but barely, his eyes dark and wet in a way that makes her chest hurt. “You didn’t make me afraid of you.”
His breath leaves him unevenly.
“I was afraid for you,” she says. “That’s different.”
Garrett’s eyes close for half a second under her hand. When they open again, the fight has drained out of him enough to leave the tired underneath. He leans forward slowly, like he's giving her time to move away even now, and rests his forehead against her shoulder.
She brings her hand to the back of his head immediately. His curls are warm under her fingers, damp at the roots from the party heat and whatever adrenaline is still burning out of him. His good hand comes around her waist. Proof, maybe. Or asking for it.
“I’m sorry,” he says again, muffled against her shirt.
“I know.”
“I just heard him and I–”
“I know.”
“He doesn’t get to talk about you like that.”
Her throat tightens. She turns her face into his hair for a second and lets herself breathe him in, the beer and soap and sweat and Garrett underneath it all, so familiar now it makes something in her ache. “No,” she says quietly. “He doesn’t.”
Garrett’s arm tightens around her, then loosens at once like he’s checking himself. She hates that too, so she shifts closer until he can’t mistake it, one hand sliding down to his shoulder, her cheek resting against his temple.
“You can hold me,” she murmurs.
He goes still.
“I’ll tell you if it’s too much.”
A breath shudders out of him. Then he pulls her in properly, both arms around her now, careful of his taped hand but tight enough that she can feel the last of the tremor in him. It’s not the confident, lazy hold from the kitchen.
It’s not the smug arm around her waist in front of some guy he’s trying to intimidate. It’s messy and tired and a little desperate, his face tucked against her neck like he can’t look at her while needing her this much.
She lets him. More than that, she holds him back. Downstairs, someone shouts. Dean, probably. Then Logan’s voice cuts through, sharp and managerial, which means the cleanup has reached the stage where property damage is being assessed by people who have no business assessing anything.
Garrett lifts his head slightly. “Is he still here?”
“No. Dean was having him removed from the premises with… enthusiasm.”
Garrett’s mouth twitches against her shoulder. “Good.”
“Dean also fought his friend.”
“Yeah, I saw.”
“Really committed to the bit.”
“Dean likes a group project.”
She laughs before she can stop it. It comes out small and shaky, but it’s real, and Garrett pulls back just enough to look at her like the sound has physically touched something in him.
There’s blood near his collar, a bruise starting along his jaw that she hadn’t noticed before, and his eyes are still too bright. He looks wrecked. He looks guilty. He looks like the boy from the kitchen and the man from the fight and something younger underneath both, waiting to see whether the room will stay safe.
She brushes her thumb lightly over the unbruised side of his jaw. “You’re an idiot.”
His mouth moves. “Yeah.”
“A huge idiot.”
“I know.”
“With terrible emotional regulation.”
That finally gets the edge of a smile, weak but there. “Coming from the girl who diagnoses herself with being hungry instead of sad.”
“That’s a valid nursing assessment.”
“It’s not.”
“It absolutely is. Half of this house is one snack away from psychiatric stability.”
Garrett huffs, and the sound loosens the room by an inch. His hand lifts to her waist, thumb rubbing once through the fabric in the same absent pattern from earlier, like his body remembers tenderness even when his head is still catching up.
“I should’ve asked you,” he says after a moment. “About him. Before.”
She shakes her head. “You didn’t know there was anything to ask.”
“I knew you got weird when his name came up.”
“I get weird when people say wound vac too.”
“That’s different.”
“It’s a gross phrase.”
His eyes stay on her, too serious for the joke to fully land. “I’m sorry you had to deal with him alone.”
She swallows. “I’m not alone now.”
Garrett’s face changes so fast she nearly looks away. The words sit between them, too plain, too close to something they have both been circling with sex and rides to placement and coffee in his kitchen and sleeping pressed together like denial is a blanket they can share.
He touches her chin, careful with his taped fingers. “No,” he says quietly. “You’re not.”
Her chest aches. She wants to make a joke. She wants to say something about him being concussed by his own fist or reckless in a way that should be charted. Instead she leans in and kisses him.
It’s soft because his lip is split a little and his jaw is sore and the whole night has been too sharp already. Garrett makes a sound against her mouth, one hand sliding to the back of her neck like he wants to keep her there and is still remembering to ask.
She lets the answer be in the way she moves closer, in the way her hand settles over his chest, in the way she kisses him again when he starts to pull back.
When they separate, his forehead stays against hers.
“I’m still mad,” he whispers.
“I know.”
“I want to go downstairs and kick him again.”
“He’s gone.”
“I can find him.”
She gives him a look.
Garrett exhales, eyes closing. “Kidding.”
“No, you’re not.”
“No,” he admits. “But I won’t.”
“Good.”
His thumb moves once beneath her jaw. “You staying?”
She pulls back enough to look at him. “After that? I kind of have to. Someone should monitor you for post-fight stupidity.”
“That a real condition?”
“In this house? Endemic.”
He smiles properly then, real enough that something unclenches behind her ribs. She reaches for his hand again and checks the tape, pressing the edge down where it has started to lift.
Garrett watches her do it. “You’re really okay?”
She pauses, because the easy answer is there. Fine. Good fine. The one they both know how to use when the room is too full.
Then she thinks of Nathan on the floor, small and bleeding and still trying to make her feel dirty from beneath Garrett’s bloodied knuckles.
She thinks of the kitchen, Tucker’s dippables, Dean’s sudden calm, Logan dragging Garrett back because he understood the stakes before Garrett could. She thinks of Garrett’s face after, terrified of himself in a way he has never made her feel of him.
“I’m… a little grossed out,” she says. “And tired. And I probably want to shower even though he didn’t touch me, which is annoying.”
Garrett’s eyes soften painfully.
“But I’m okay,” she says, because this part is true too. “I think I’m okay.”
He nods slowly. “Okay.”
“And you’re going to sit here for a minute before you go anywhere near stairs.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And you’re going to ice your hand.”
His brows pull together. “I just beat the shit out of a guy for you and now you’re giving me homework?”
“You beat the shit out of a guy for yourself too, Graham. Don’t get noble.”
His mouth opens, then closes. “Fair.”
“Thank you.”
He looks at her for a beat, then his mouth tilts faintly. “You’re kind of scary when you’re right.”
“I’m almost always right. You’re just new here.”
Garrett laughs, and it hurts him. She knows because his face twitches and his hand comes up toward his ribs like he can somehow protect every sore part at once.
She clicks her tongue before she can help it. “See? Post-fight stupidity.”
“I’m fine.”
She stares at him.
He sighs. “Manageable.”
“Better.”
Garrett reaches for her before she can get up fully for ice, catching her gently around the waist and pulling her back between his knees, echoing the kitchen without the noise, without the party version of themselves, without Nathan’s eyes from across the room.
His forehead drops to her stomach for a second, arms around her hips. She stills, then brings both hands to his hair. “I’ve got you,” she murmurs, because it’s the only thing that fits.
Garrett’s grip tightens once. Then, so quiet she almost misses it under the bass downstairs, he says, “I’ve got you too.”
to be notified when i post new fics, follow @kooksandpearls-library and turn on notifications! i no longer use a taglist for garrett fics.
when garrett dares you to sneak into the locker room after practice, you’re eager to show him that you’re up to the challenge
cw: 18+ mdni, smut, voyeurism, sexual bets + dares, blowjob, deep throating, ball worship, cum play + eating, taunting/teasing, mention of oral f!receiving, mixed pov, reader has breasts that jiggle (words: +2.7k) based on this ask requesting some locker room action ⊹ ࣪ ˖
While the rest of his teammates headed off the ice to hit the showers after a grueling evening practice, Garrett informed them he was going to stick around late to run drills and talk strategy with Coach Jensen in preparation for their upcoming game.
It was a decision that didn’t strike any of the other players as unusual or even remotely suspicious—in his position as captain, Garrett always went above and beyond in his efforts for the team.
By the time the remaining stragglers had gathered their things and headed outside to their cars, it was already getting late, and the near-empty arena had descended into an almost eerie silence.
Once the coast was clear, you slipped out of your hiding place in the green room then quickly made your way through the building by memory, footsteps echoing in the empty hallways as you headed to your destination.
The air in the men’s dressing room hung heavy with steam and the faint scent of lingering cologne as you shrugged off your shirt and stepped out of your jeans, safely stowing them away in one of the nearby empty lockers.
Ignoring the anxious butterflies that fluttered in your stomach, you tiptoed past the benches and player’s lockers, following the muted sound of running water in the distance. As you rounded the corner to enter the showers, you held your breath, unsure of what might await you on the other side. But all of your nervousness melted away in an instant when you beheld the glorious sight of the naked man before you.
Garrett’s back was turned—body wet, slick and shining. Each toned facet of his muscular form flexing in unison and accentuated by the stark overhead light.
Unaware of your presence, he hummed a quiet tune to himself as he lathered his body with soap—the sudsy rivulets trailing down over the well-defined pecs and abs that tapered to a chiseled v-line, perfect for tracing with your tongue.
When he turned to the side, his thick cock bobbed with the motion, impressive even in its semi-erect state. Mouth parted in wonder, you couldn’t tear your eyes from how it swayed above the heavy balls that were framed by neatly trimmed thatch of dark hair.
It was as if his body was a feast on display and you were starving, your insatiable eyes unsure of where to look first.
Eventually he turned around to face you, head tilted back to use both hands to rinse his hair, the action drawing your gaze to biceps that looked like they’d been sculpted by the hands of the gods themselves.
Suddenly you were overwhelmed with visions of falling to your knees under the streamy spray and worshipping him the way a true work of art deserved.
As if reading your mind, a cocky smile graced his lips when he opened his eyes and caught you staring. “Well, well. Look who’s here.”
He didn’t seem fazed at all by your presence, standing proudly before you without an ounce of shame. In contrast, your cheeks started to burn when you caught his eagle eyes darting down to where you’d clenched your thighs together in an effort to lessen the growing ache between them.
Regaining some of your composure, you raised an eyebrow and shrugged. “Guess this means I win.”
When you’d been texting each other the night before, he’d bet that you wouldn’t have the guts to sneak into the locker room showers to hook up after practice—a risky proposal that you’d taken some time to consider. Of course, all of the prodding and teasing that followed had only made you more determined to prove him wrong—something that was par for the course in your relationship with Garrett.
Since meeting each other a few months prior in one of your shared classes, sparks had flown between you and the flirty star athlete who was known on campus as an unapologetic Casanova. You’d started out comparing your scores on tests and assignments, trying to outdo each other’s grades. But it hadn’t taken long before you, and your competitiveness, had made its way to the bedroom.
Even though your feelings for Garrett grew stronger every day, you knew that to him it was all just a game. Which you told yourself was fine as long you were having fun.
And oh, what fun you had.
As lovers, the two of you were perfectly matched in every way, but as competitors, you were even better. And there was no way in hell you were going to back down from one of his challenges—especially not one with such a tantalizing prize.
As you took a step closer, he drank in the sight of the black sheer lace bra and panties you’d recently purchased in his favorite color. A racy set that fit your body like a glove.
“Didn’t see you in the stands. Figured maybe you chickened out,” he teased, eyes flashing with mischievous fire. He loved nothing more than to rile you up and get you going.
You scoffed at him, “Not a chance. What kind of pussy do you take me for, Graham?”
Chuckling at your crude response, he let a hand run down his glistening chest, a smug grin overtaking his face as he watched your eyes follow its path.
He took another step closer, face mere inches from yours. Full lips so close you could almost taste them. “You kiss your dates with that mouth?”
Biting down on your lower lip, you shook your head. “Not exactly.”
Then taking that as your cue, you sank down onto your knees on the wet floor before his feet. Grinning up at him, you bounced back on the balls of your heels to make your breasts jiggle in the delicate lace cups.
“You like my new bra, Garrett? I wore it just for you.”
Wet curls fell into his face as he watched the soft motion of your tits beneath the sheer material. “Yeah, you gonna take it off for me too?”
Smiling, you reached behind your back to undo the clasp then let the straps slowly drape down your shoulders. He wet his lips with the tip of his tongue as he watched your breasts bounce free of the cups, nipples stiffening to firm peaks despite the humid air of the shower.
“You’re so fucking hot,” he murmured in approval as you shuffled a bit closer on your knees. From your position on the floor, he looked like a giant towering over you with his broad shoulders and thick muscular thighs covered in a soft dusting of dark hair.
Running your hands from his calves up to his thighs, you let the sharp tips of your nails sink into the flesh just a little. Just enough to make him groan out loud.
“Can I have my prize, now?” you implored in a cloyingly sweet voice while batting your lashes in the way that always got you what you wanted. “I won the bet, so it’s only fair.”
With his dark gaze locked on yours, he reached down to give himself a few lazy strokes. “Yeah? You think you can take it?”
In response, you opened your mouth and stuck out your tongue so that he could tap the head of his cock against the warm muscle. He was already hard and oh so pretty—longer than average with a thick and veiny girth that landed heavy on your tongue with a satisfying weight.
With a whimper of impatience, you reached up to replace his hand with yours. His cock was still slick and wet from the shower so your palm glided with ease as you stroked him a few times with a practiced flick of your wrist. You grinned to yourself when his hips jerked slightly to chase the slow thrust of your hand.
“Look at me,” he commanded in a soft voice and you obeyed, tilting your head back to gaze up at him with wide eyes already blown out and glassy with desire.
Leaning forward, you pressed a few soft kisses to his leaking tip as you stroked him, licking your lips and humming in satisfaction at the salty tang of his precum. Then he inhaled a sharp intake of breath as you flattened your tongue and proceeded to lick him slowly from base to tip, tracing a path along the thick vein on the underside of his shaft.
“Oh fuck—” he groaned, spreading his feet slightly wider apart to broaden his stance and keep his balance.
Spurred on by his reaction, you leaned in to wrap your glossy lips around him, hollowing out your cheeks to take him as deep as you could into your eager mouth. Soon you found a steady rhythm, slowly swirling your tongue around the ridges of his head then bobbing up and down his length, using your hand to stroke whatever you couldn’t swallow.
Garrett stared down at you, breath ragged and uneven, mesmerized by the sight of your pretty lips stretched so tight around his cock. The powerful muscles of his buttocks clenched and flexed as he fought to hold himself back from spilling into your mouth right away and ending things too soon.
He reached down to rest a hand on the top of your head, the gentle weight guiding you further onto his length. At one point his hips jerked slightly and when his tip hit the back of your throat, you gagged and pulled off, leaving you panting and out of breath.
Garrett looked down, tutting his tongue at the tears streaming down your cheeks.
“What’s the matter, can’t take it all?” he taunted from above as you narrowed your eyes at him and huffed with frustration, once again determined to prove him wrong.
In an effort to take him deeper than before, you gripped onto his thighs as you slowly worked him into your mouth and throat, inch by inch, until your nose was nestled in the soft hair at his base.
The soft masculine scent of his natural musk and soap filled your senses as he let out a low grunt of approval, watching himself slowly disappear in your warm, wet mouth. When he spotted the buildup of tears threatening your lash line, he reached down and swiped a tender thumb along your cheek. “Yeah, that’s it, baby. Doing so good.”
Even though he’d had his share of girls down on their knees for him in the past, no one had ever made him feel as good as you in that moment. In fact, if he was being honest with himself, no one else could ever compare to you—which was probably why he hadn’t fooled around with anyone else in months.
The dares and bets between the two of you were fun and kept things exciting, but after spending so much time together, the challenge of winning your heart had become his most coveted prize.
What had started out as just a game with the cute girl from his class had soon become an all-consuming obsession. Every time you left his bed, it was getting harder for him to wait until the next time he could get you alone. He’d never done the relationship thing before, but he wanted to try it with you—if you were interested. Most girls who pursued him weren’t looking for anything more than a one-time fling.
He’d been waiting for the right occasion to tell you how he felt, nervous about exposing his heart to someone for the very first time. Of course, having you down on your knees worshipping his cock in the meantime was more than fine by him.
Using your free hand, you reached up to gently caress his balls, rolling the soft globes in your palm as he choked out a moan, throwing his head back and raking a hand through his wet curls.
“Oh god—keep doing that,” he breathed.
You pulled off his length with a slick pop, still stroking him with your hand while you let your tongue tease and lick his sensitive balls. Sucking them into your mouth, you felt his cock throb in your palm as the combined sensations rapidly pushed him to the edge.
“I’m gonna cum,” he warned. “Where do you want me?”
You debated for a moment before releasing him from your grasp and sitting back on your heels with a coy smile.
“Want you to cum on my tits,” you purred, bringing your hands up to pinch and squeeze your nipples. “Think you can do that for me, Graham?”
He grinned, face flushed and eyes dark as he reached down to grasp himself.
“Fuck yeah,” he grunted. His cock was still slick and shiny with your saliva and his strokes became faster and more uneven with each thrust of his fist, increasing in desperation as he stared down at you.
“Oh shit—” he groaned just before he came undone, painting your chin, neck and chest with hot ropes of his pearly cum. Extending your tongue, you tried to catch whatever stray drops you could and then licked your lips clean, reveling in his taste.
Once he was finished, he stood back and sighed with satisfaction as he gazed down at the sight of you kneeling before him covered in his cum.
“Holy shit,” he murmured in a hoarse, almost-whisper. “You look so hot like that.”
You giggled, swiping a finger down between your breasts to gather some of his cum to bring it up to your lips. “Do you always make such a big mess of all your bunnies, Garrett? Or am I special?”
Your comment gave him pause as he attempted to catch his breath. “Wait—what?”
He could hardly believe what he’d just heard. Did you really think that was all he thought of you? That you were just some random puck bunny who meant nothing him?
Even though you had clearly been teasing him with your comment, he could sense the vulnerability behind your smile as it faltered for a second. His thoughts started to spin out of control, aware that he needed let you know how he really felt.
As you stood up to rinse yourself off in the shower, he followed to join you under the hot water, using the opportunity to work your panties down over your hips, leaving them in a pile of black lace on the floor.
“Need you,” he breathed against your lips, pushing you back against the wall with an urgency that surprised you. One of his large hands tilted your chin so he could capture your lips, while the other traced down your side, pulling you closer. “Need you so bad.”
His still firm cock pressed hot against your skin as he held onto you so tight that it almost felt as if he was worried you might float away.
“Garrett!” You giggled. “You just…um, is that even possible?”
“Just give me like ten minutes and I can go again,” he panted against your lips with a cocky smile.
“Ten minutes, hmm?” You smiled wrapping your arms around his slippery waist as warm water rained down on your entangled bodies. “And what are going to do until then?”
In response, he stepped back and gave you a devilish smirk before dropping to his knees. Then reaching for one of your legs, he helped you lift it over his shoulder while his other hand helped keep you balanced against the wall.
He pressed a soft kiss to the inside of your knee before looking up at you.
“Hmm…what to do,” he pondered, pretending to be deep in thought as he started to kiss a slow path along your inner thigh. “I guess I’ll eat my girlfriend’s pussy, if that’s ok with her?”
Your eyes widened in disbelief as the soft smacking of his lips left delicious tingles on your skin, the pleasant sensation still not enough to distract you from what he’d just said.
“Your girlfriend?” Your heart skipped a beat as you looked down at him with your eyebrows drawn together in surprise.
His smile was almost bashful as he gazed up at you, warm eyes filled with naked adoration. “Yeah, but only if you think you’re up to the challenge?”
a/n: i don’t know about you, but i am ready 😮💨 put me in coach!! 🫡
summary: you haven’t talked to garrett or anyone else since he denied being in love with you. you’re eventually forced together by dean and have no choice but to figure it out.
warnings: fluff. angst. suggestive content.
it had been a couple of weeks since you last talked to garrett or any of the other guys. the truth bomb that dean dropped causing a strenuous rift between the two of you.
time felt like it had moved slowly since then, every day dragging it’s feet as though it was never going to end.
you still saw him floating around campus, the muscle in his jaw ticking whenever his eyes landed on you.
what did he have to be upset about? you were the one who got demoted to something even less than casual . . . whatever that was.
sighing, you slammed your textbook shut, resisting the urge to roll your eyes when everyone in the library shushed you.
they were acting as though you had just opened your mouth and screamed from the top of your lungs.
glancing around, your eyes narrowed when they spotted the big mouthed gossip that had outed his own best friend loitering in one of the aisles.
dean didn’t exactly seem like the type to even know what a book was, nevermind actually read one.
as if he could sense your eyes on him, he turned around, his expression changing to one you couldn’t quite decipher.
“please don’t come over here” you repeated to yourself almost silently, crossing your fingers under the table as if it was an absolute solution.
dean hesitated for a moment before rolling his eyes, pushing off the bookshelf as he headed in your direction.
“shit” you cursed, regretting your choice to study in the library instead of your isolated dorm room.
he tutted at you and shook his head, “i heard that, and here’s me thinking you were a lady”
you scoffed at him, “jesus, you’d know all about the ladies wouldn’t you? manwhore”
he perked up, grinning brightly as he sat down across from you, “thanks, gorgeous”
oh, did he think that was a compliment-
gritting your teeth, you clicked on the end of your pen in annoyance, “is there something you wanted? other than to piss me off, of course”
dean looked around the library and gestured for you to lean in closer.
you happily obliged so you could get this over with, resting your arms on the table and leaning in closer.
“you need to fix whatever high-school drama you have going on with g. i shouldn’t even be talking to you about this shit but we need our captain back” dean whispered, acting like someone could be spying on the two of you.
you were about to tell dean to mind his own business, but the sound of someone clearing their throat made you jump back in your chair.
the two of you turned your heads towards the sound, a beat of awkward silence now circling the room.
garrett graham was standing at the end of your table, and he looked pissed.
of course garrett was here right now! you had never even seen these idiots in the library before, and now you suddenly you couldn’t escape them.
it felt like someone was sat behind a big screen, laughing and pointing at you as if this was some sort of joke.
“can we help you?” dean says, trying to fight the mischievous grin that was forming on his face.
garrett looked between the two of you in annoyance, “what do you mean can we help you? why the fuck are you huddled together”
this whole interaction felt like a bad case of déjà vu, feeling a little too similar to the events of the last time all three of you were together.
you shrugged, “we were just having a chat, no need to get your panties in a twist”
dean snorted loudly, getting up and offering his empty seat to garrett who was still stood there with his arms crossed.
“i’ll leave you to talk and for fuck sake graham, be a man for once” dean says, patting garrett on the back before pushing the library doors open, winking at the two of you as he left.
garrett looked tired - he had dark circles under his eyes, his brown hair was a mess, and he had a face full of stubble which told you he hadn’t bothered to shave in a while.
pursing your lips, you tapped your pen against the stack of papers in front of you and waited for him to stop standing there like an idiot.
garrett eventually gave in, taking his jacket off and slinging it over the back of the chair as he sat down.
his tall frame made the chair look small, leaning back with his arms behind his head and his knees apart.
the way his muscles bulged through the thin material of his plain white t-shirt had you distracted, not even registering the words he was saying.
“and yeah, allie and dean slept together last night” he says, trying to pull your from your perverted daydreaming.
“that is the biggest lie i have ever heard! you could’ve picked something more believable” you huffed, slightly annoyed that his tactics worked.
garrett shrugged and his lips tilted up in a smug smile, “yeah, no shit - but it worked didn’t it?”
“ugh, whatever. are we going to talk about the elephant in the room or not?” you asked, feeling impatience start to creep in, wrapping around your mind like poison ivy.
he dragged his hands down his face like he was feeling the same impatience, “i don’t know what else there is to say”
unbelievable.
one minute garrett was supposedly “in love” with you and the next minute he was saying that you had been around “too much” lately.
there was plenty to say, you were just trying to remember a library was not the place to start anything more heated than a light discussion.
”do you love me, garrett?” you asked outright, not caring whether his answer was yes or no - you just wanted the truth for once.
“you can’t just ask someone if they love you” garrett exclaimed, throwing his hands up in frustration.
the air turned colder as the seconds ticked by, almost as if nature could feel the thick tension too.
“it’s a simple-“, “it is not a simple question at all and don’t pretend like it is” garrett says, cutting you off.
the people sat at the table next to you shushed the two of you.
“goddamnit, we’re having a conversation. if you don’t like it, fuck off” garrett whisper shouted in their direction, staring them dead in the eye.
they murmured amongst themselves before getting up and pushing their chairs in, heading for the exit.
he pushed his brown curls away from his face as he tried to find the right words to say, “look, i know i like spending time with you. my friends clearly seem to like you too which is the biggest achievement of all”
he huffed out a sigh of amusement and disbelief as he continued, “dean and his big fucking mouth”
you nodded in agreement, “dean and his big fucking mouth”
he gave you that dimpled smile that could melt icebergs as well as hearts, “you’re the first person i’ve wanted more than sex with. i just don’t know what that means yet” garrett admitted.
“uh, thanks?” you say.
he rolled his eyes dramatically, “you know what i mean”
you did know what he meant, he just had a very garrett graham way of saying it.
and although it felt like garrett still wasn’t telling you the whole story, it wasn’t up to your or dean to force it out of him.
“how about you take me on a date first before you kill me with these panty dropping declarations?” you say, wanting to lighten the mood, tired of the darkness that’s been following you like a shadow lately.
this caught his attention, “jesus, don’t talk about panties right now” he groaned, his mind going somewhere else, just like a typical man.
”or what?” you say, tilting your head in defiance as you looked up at him through your lashes.
he grabbed your hand that was flat against the wooden table, pulling you up and guiding you round until you were stood in front of him.
your ass was perched on the edge of the table and garrett placed his hands on your thighs, pulling them open so he could slot his body between them.
he fit perfectly, like he was made to fill any empty spaces you created.
garrett pulled you towards him and you landed on his lap, a squeal escaping your mouth at the unexpected move.
his gaze landed on your lips, a gruff groan leaving his mouth when your tongue darted out to wet them.
“fuck it” garrett said, hand wrapping around the back of your next as he pulled you in for a breathtaking kiss.
his other hand slid up the back of your t-shirt, his warm skin against your own feeling euphoric after going so long without touching him.
you could feel his arousal, the loose basketball shorts he was wearing doing nothing to conceal what he was feeling for you right now.
you were so wrapped up in each other that you didn’t hear the door creak open.
“damn, y/n. i didn’t know you had it in you” dean says, arms crossed as he leaned against the doorframe.
garrett’s hands slipped from your body as your heads simultaneously whipped to the side at the sound of deans voice.
“what the fuck?” you both say at the same time.
“when i said sort it out, this wasn’t exactly what i meant” dean whistled humourously, his watchful gaze full of heat.
garrett reached around you to grab one of your books from the table and threw it in deans direction, “why are you lurking like a fucking pervert, dude?
the book was just short of hitting dean, much to garrett’s annoyance.
“some of us have exams to study for, g. whatever, i’ll just come back later and leave you lovebirds to it” dean says, voice laced with mock sadness.
as if. everyone knew dean didn’t study, he just wrote what he thought was right and prayed for the best.
garrett closed his eyes and took a deep breath, looking like he was ready to chase dean out of the door himself.
“wrap it before you tap it, graham! i’m not ready to be an uncle yet” dean says, not turning back around as he headed out of the door, leaving you alone with garrett once again.
you rested your head on garrett’s shoulder, your body shaking with laughter at the blonde hair menace who always had the worst timing in the world.
when you were finally out of laughter, you pulled back and nodded at garrett to which he nodded back, coming to a mutual understanding without even having to say anything.
“hey, and no more secret meetings with dilaurentis because he’ll end up corrupting you with his bullshit. deal?”
“deal” you murmured in agreement.
this was a temporary resolution, but it wasn’t like love was the first thing on your mind either considering you hadn’t even been out with garrett off campus yet.
although, a date with a man known for one night stands was as close to love as you could get. for now at least.
(or: John Logan can't look away when he sees you making out in Garrett Graham's lap.)
💭
He didn't mean to see, really.
It was an accident, a split second where he had looked on the wrong side of the corridor while walking to his room. His mind was elsewhere and a bit clouded from working three small jobs around the dormitories after a hard morning training.
And honestly, fuck Garrett for not closing the damn door, John was living here too!
He was used to involuntarily seeing Dean's hookups - because this was Dean - but usually, Garrett was usually more private. Especially when it came to you.
You, on the other side of Garrett's door, only visible through the small gap it left open for John's eyes. A flash of soft pink and a breathy moans and John's legs came to a stop as if he had forgotten how to move them forward.
His breath hitched at the same time as yours did. He only saw your smooth back like this, the way your hips rolled into Garrett's body, his one hand wandering over your body and making you shiver.
The other hand drew back from between your thighs, coming away wet and John thought he was going to die right there in the middle of the damn corridor when Garrett feeds his glistening fingers to your kiss-bruised lips.
John realized only he was hard as a rock when you whimpered around Garrett's fingers, growing desperate, and he took a step back as if he had burned himself on the sound of you.
Fuck.
"Taste good?" Garrett asked with a soft grin and you hummed in answer, the wet spot on your baby pink lingerie everything John was able to comprehend at this moment. "We gotta be quiet, okay? The guys are here somewhere."
You laughed breathlessly and John's heart hurt.
In that moment, as he stood outside in the darkness and you were warm and wet and all happy in Garrett's lap, the overwhelming knowledge of you not being his, became so much he could barely breathe.
Something snapped inside of him and he rushed into his room, followed by your giggles and Garrett's cut-off groan as the sheets rustled.
pairing – garrett graham x reader
summary – a secret hookup with garrett graham turns into four close calls, one locker room scandal, and feelings neither of them are hiding very well.
warnings – 18+, smut, alcohol, jealousy, secret hookups, hockey violence/injuries, swearing.
notes from me – thank u for the request, anon!! this was so cute i got carried away lol <3
word count – 9.4k
navigation – masterlist
The thing about keeping Garrett Graham a secret was that Garrett Graham was, in almost every available category, a terrible secret.
He was too tall for it, for one. Too broad. Too recognisable from the back, from the shoulders, from the mess of dark curls and the stupid confident way he moved through a room like gravity had signed some private agreement to make him look good from every angle.
He was also, tragically, friendly. Friendly in that Garrett-specific way that meant everybody on campus felt like they knew him well enough to yell his name across a party, slap his shoulder at Malone’s, stop him in the hall to talk about last night’s game or next week’s line-up or whatever else men said to one another when they wanted to bask briefly in proximity to a local legend and pretend it was a conversation.
And she wasn't exactly anonymous either. Not anymore. Not after Dean.
Dean Di Laurentis, who had never been her boyfriend, which was a legal technicality he clung to with the same lazy confidence he seemed to apply to everything else in his life.
Dean had been a mistake with good hair and a trust fund. A mistake with a grin. A mistake that had lasted a few times longer than it should have because he was pretty and shameless and very good at looking at a girl like he had personally invented bad decisions and would be thrilled to walk her through the beginner course.
But Dean wasn't a girlfriend kind of guy. Dean was Six Flags. You rode the ride, screamed once or twice, maybe bought the photo after, and then got off.
She knew that. She had known that then, technically.
Dean had a way of appearing in her life at the least dignified possible moments looking pleased with himself, and she had a way of refusing to let him be pleased without penalty.
Like the time she found him coming out of a women’s bathroom stall at Malone’s with a girl in a denim skirt. She had been washing her hands at the sink, glanced up in the mirror, taken in his flushed face, his rumpled shirt, the girl fixing her hair behind him, and said, “Hi, whore,” with the flat calm of someone greeting a neighbour at the mailbox.
Dean, because shame had never successfully attached itself to his nervous system, had only chuckled and leaned one shoulder against the stall door. “Hey.”
That was the whole thing. Mostly joking. Mostly old bruised pride dressed up in insults because that was easier than admitting he had maybe gotten under her skin for a minute and then left muddy footprints on his way back out.
Garrett wasn't supposed to be part of that. Garrett had happened after a party, which was already a bad sign because nothing good ever began at two in the morning in a hockey house kitchen with tequila and Dean singing the wrong words to a song everybody else knew.
It had been loud and hot and stupid, the whole house sticky with beer and laughter and bodies pressed into doorways. She had ended up outside on the back steps because the kitchen had started spinning, and Garrett had come out five minutes later with two waters and an expression that suggested he was trying very hard not to ask whether she was going to puke on his sneakers.
He had sat down beside her instead.
Garrett had looked at her sideways when she laughed at one of his jokes, and something in his face had changed. Garrett’s face was a practiced thing, mostly grin and charm and captain-boy confidence, but this had slipped underneath it. A quiet little interest. A flicker. Like he had found something he wanted to pay attention to and was already annoyed about it.
Then, later, in the upstairs hallway, she had been trying to find the bathroom and he had been trying to find Logan, because Logan had stolen his phone to send a voice note to Coach that began with “hypothetically, if a man loved hockey but hated cardio,” and somehow Garrett’s hand had ended up on her waist. Warm through her shirt. Steadying her when someone shoved past in the hall.
“Careful,” he had said, close to her ear.
She had turned her head, too drunk to be clever and too annoyed by how good he smelled to be normal. “I’m always careful.”
Garrett’s eyes had dropped to her mouth for half a second, then lifted again with that awful amused heat. “Uh huh.”
The first kiss had been an accident. His room had been closer than the bathroom. His door had shut behind them. His mouth had been warm and confident and so immediately, horribly good that she had pulled back after ten seconds just to stare at him like that might make the situation less offensive.
Garrett had grinned down at her, lips a little swollen already, one hand still at her waist. “What?”
“You kiss like you know you’re good at it.”
He’d shrugged. “I am good at it.”
“That’s a disgusting thing to say.”
“Wasn’t really a denial, though.”
She had meant to hate that. Truly. She had tried.
The first time they almost got caught, she was riding him with her hands braced on his chest and Garrett’s mouth at her throat, and the only thought in her head was a soft, stunned, repeated oh that seemed to have lost all connection to language.
His room was too warm despite the window cracked open behind the desk, the cold night air barely managing to move through the heat they had made under the sheets. The lamp was off. Some blue-white spill from the streetlight outside cut through the blinds in thin, broken lines over the wall and across Garrett’s shoulder.
His chain had slipped sideways against his collarbone. His hair was a wreck from her fingers. His mouth was open against her neck, kissing up under her jaw with the kind of lazy, devastating precision that made her thighs shake around him before she could stop them.
“Garrett,” she breathed, and then immediately louder, because his hands had shifted to her hips and guided her down harder. “Oh my God.”
His hand flew up before the sound had fully escaped, palm covering her mouth, his other hand tightening at her waist. “Jesus, baby,” he said, voice low and rough and entirely too amused for a man currently participating in the same crime. “You trying to get me murdered?”
She made a muffled noise against his hand that was meant to be a curse and came out humiliatingly close to a whimper. Garrett’s grin flashed in the dark, teeth catching briefly, eyes bright and smug and so pleased with himself she nearly hated him. Nearly.
It was hard to maintain moral outrage when his thumb was pressed lightly against her cheek and his hips were still moving, slow and deep and mean in the way only a man with a scoreboard in his soul could be mean.
“There we go,” he murmured, kissing the side of her jaw while his palm stayed over her mouth. “Can’t be announcing it to the whole house, right?”
She glared down at him, or tried to. It probably lost some effect when her eyes fluttered halfway shut because he lifted his hips again and hit exactly the wrong place, which was to say exactly the right one.
Garrett laughed under his breath, quiet and filthy with satisfaction. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”
She bit the inside of his palm.
His brows shot up. “Oh, we’re biting now?”
She nodded against his hand with as much dignity as a girl could manage while naked on top of him and very actively losing a fight against her own volume.
“Cool,” he whispered. “Very healthy. Super mature.”
She would have laughed if she had any air left. Instead her body gave her away again, a soft, trapped sound catching under his palm as he sat up suddenly, changing the angle and dragging her with him until she was pressed chest-to-chest with him, knees bracketing his hips, his mouth at her ear.
“Shh,” he said, but the edge of laughter in it ruined the authority.
He was enjoying this too much. Enjoying her like this, messy and desperate and trying very hard to be quiet because if anybody found out she was in Garrett Graham’s room, in Garrett Graham’s bed, after Dean Di Laurentis had spent the better part of the semester behaving like her eventual return to his mattress was a scheduling issue rather than a question, the whole house would become unbearable overnight.
Then the hallway floor creaked. Both of them froze. Him still inside her, both still overheated, still breathing too hard into the tiny space between them. Garrett’s hand stayed clamped gently over her mouth. Her fingers dug into his shoulders. His eyes lifted toward the door, and in the blue-dark she watched every cocky line in his face vanish into immediate, sharp focus.
Outside, Logan’s voice drifted close enough to curdle the air. “Yo– Dean. Is that who I think it is in there?”
Her stomach dropped so fast it was almost physical. Garrett’s eyes snapped back to hers.
For one suspended, insane second, they only stared at each other. She could feel his heartbeat hard against her chest. Could feel where they were still joined, which her body had the absolutely perverse audacity to notice in detail despite the fact that John Logan was currently holding a one-man investigation outside the door. Garrett’s hand loosened slightly over her mouth. Her lips parted against his palm. He held his finger up to his own lips, and she had nodded quickly.
He reached blindly toward the bedside table with one hand, the motion chaotic and deeply unathletic for a man who made a living looking graceful under pressure.
His fingers knocked something over. A bottle cap, maybe. His watch. A textbook hit the floor with a soft thud. She bit down on a laugh before it could get out, which was dangerous because laughter at that moment felt like shaking a soda bottle with the cap still on.
Garrett found his phone at last, thumb flying over the screen. For half a second there was nothing. Then the speaker on his dresser exploded to life with Cherry Pie so loud the whole room seemed to jump.
She slapped both hands over her own mouth now, eyes wide, shoulders shaking immediately with silent laughter. Garrett stared at the ceiling like he could not believe this was the solution his brain had selected and was, worse, proud of himself anyway.
In the hallway, Logan went silent. Then he burst out laughing. “Oh shit– sorry, G! Guess not!”
A second later Dean’s voice, farther away and deeply suspicious, called, “What?”
“Nothin’, man,” Logan said, still laughing. “Keep walking.”
Footsteps retreated. The music kept blaring. Garrett turned it down with the ferocious speed of a man who had made his point and no longer wanted Warrant narrating his sex life. The second the volume dropped, she folded forward into Garrett’s shoulder and started laughing for real, breathless and helpless, her whole body shaking against his.
Garrett’s arms closed around her automatically. Then he started laughing too, quiet and disbelieving into her hair. “Fuck.”
She lifted her head, face hot, eyes watering, and whispered, “Cherry Pie?”
“It was the first thing that came up.”
“You panic-played Cherry Pie?”
He huffed out a laugh. “It worked.”
“That’s not the same as being good.”
“It worked,” he repeated, grinning now, smugness returning by the inch because survival had restored him. His hands slid to her hips again, warm and possessive and much too confident. “And for the record, if Logan thinks you’re in Dean’s room right now, I might throw myself out the window.”
She pressed her lips together, trying and failing not to smile. “Jealous?”
Garrett’s eyes narrowed. “Careful.”
The word landed low in her stomach. Warm and bright and stupid. She leaned down and kissed him before he could see too much of it on her face, and he kissed her back still smiling, still breathing laughter into her mouth, both of them a little shaky now for a different reason.
“Too close,” she murmured against him.
“Yeah,” Garrett said, one hand coming up to the back of her neck, holding her there. “Maybe stop trying to wake the neighbours.”
“You’re the one playing stripper music at full volume.”
“Because you’re loud.”
“Because you’re annoying.”
His grin was all teeth in the dark. “Baby, just before? That wasn't an annoyed sound.”
She shoved at his chest, and he fell back on the mattress easily, gesturing for her to come closer with two fingers. The stupid warmth of it made her go quiet in a way that was much more dangerous than the moaning had been.
The second time they almost got caught, she was drunk enough that focusing on standing upright had become a full-body project.
The house belonged to some guy from one of Dean’s classes, or maybe one of Logan’s, or maybe no one knew and they had all simply agreed to occupy it until dawn. It smelled like beer, perfume, damp coats, and the kind of carpet that had seen too much and forgiven nothing.
She stood in the upstairs hallway with one shoulder against the wall, phone in hand, trying to read the same text from Garrett for the third time.
Garrett: You good?
It was a simple question. Easy. Very Garrett, actually. Casual on the surface, but sent because he had been watching her across the room ten minutes ago with that narrowed captain look he got whenever she reached the stage of drunk where her smile became too slow and her balance became hypothetical.
She typed, yes.
Then deleted it because the letters looked suspicious.
Then typed, yed.
Then stared at that for a long time.
Beside her, a cluster of girls in tiny tops and hockey-adjacent enthusiasm had been having one of those conversations that floated around the party like perfume: who was hot, who was overrated, who was secretly huge, who had commitment issues so severe they should probably be peer-reviewed.
She ignored it for as long as she could because she had bigger concerns, namely that if the bathroom door did not open in the next thirty seconds she was going to have to start making decisions about where else she could throw up.
Then one of them said Garrett’s name. Her eyes lifted off her phone before she could stop them.
The girl speaking was blonde, glossy in a way that seemed expensive even if nothing she was wearing necessarily was, with a little white top and the high, pleased expression of someone enjoying the sound of her own anecdote.
“No, I’m serious,” she was saying, one hand pressed to her chest like she was giving testimony. “Last night was the best night ever. Like, Garrett knows what he’s doing. He made me come, like, three times.”
The hallway did a small, drunken tilt.
The problem wasn't even jealousy at first, not properly. The problem was logistics. Garrett had been in her room last night. Garrett had been in her bed last night, sprawled diagonally like he owned both the mattress and several surrounding counties, one arm hooked around her waist while she tried to sleep and he mumbled something into her hair about setting an alarm for practice.
Garrett had stolen half her blanket and then looked offended when she kicked him in the shin. Garrett had kissed the back of her shoulder at five in the morning before climbing out of bed, half-dressed in the dark, whispering, “Go back to sleep, baby,” like he had any right to sound that soft before sunrise.
So unless Garrett had discovered cloning between midnight and breakfast, the blonde girl was lying.
The girl noticed her staring, because drunken staring was rarely subtle and this particular stare had been delivered with the blank intensity of a haunted doll.
The blonde’s smile faltered into something confused but still sweet, which was somehow worse. “Um… hi, babe. You okay?”
Another girl beside her leaned in slightly, brows lifting. “Did you need some water?”
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Her phone was still in her hand, Garrett’s unanswered text glowing uselessly against her palm.
“You weren’t with Garrett last night,” she said.
The sentence came out too clear. Too certain. Sober-sounding, even, which was deeply unfair given the fact that her inner ear was currently behaving like a loose shopping trolley.
The blonde blinked. “What?”
“You weren’t with Garrett last night.” She frowned, genuinely trying to make the pieces fit and failing so hard that social caution had gone missing in the wreckage. “Why are you lying?”
The air around the bathroom line shifted. A couple of girls looked over. Someone’s mouth dropped open a tiny bit. The blonde’s face did that quick, ugly thing people’s faces did when embarrassment arrived and pride immediately tried to tackle it before it spread.
“And how would you know?” she asked, voice sharpening with a laugh around the edges. “Are you, like, his secretary?”
Her drunk brain, slow but not entirely dead, caught up with the fact that she was standing in a hallway full of girls, defending Garrett Graham’s whereabouts during the exact hours he had spent in her bed, while actively participating in a secret that depended on not doing that.
Her mouth opened. Nothing came out. The blonde’s brows rose.
“I– uh.” She looked down at her phone like it might offer legal counsel. Garrett’s text still sat there, accusatory and simple. “Never mind. Actually.”
Then she stepped out of the bathroom line. There was a slight shoulder bump with the wall and a near-collision with a guy carrying two beers, but she made it away from the girls and around the corner with most of her dignity still technically attached.
Her heart was thudding stupidly hard for a hallway interaction, heat crawling up her throat and into her cheeks. Not jealousy, she told herself. She was just offended by misinformation. Academically. On principle. People should not be allowed to lie.
Her phone buzzed again as she reached the top of the stairs.
Garrett: Seriously. Where are you?
She stared at it for a second, then typed, need bathroom.
Then, after a pause, added, girls are liars.
His response came almost immediately.
Garrett: What
She squinted at the screen.
Garrett: Baby where are you
The baby landed warm even through the alcohol, which was annoying. She looked back over her shoulder toward the hallway, where the bathroom line and the blonde and the whole stupid conversation still existed. Then she started down the stairs, one hand on the railing, the phone clutched in the other, already scanning the crowd below for Garrett’s dark curls and the broad, familiar shape of him.
She found him near the kitchen archway, and he was already looking for her. He caught sight of her halfway down the stairs, and his face shifted at once, amusement and concern colliding so fast that neither won cleanly. He moved through the crowd before she even reached the bottom, one hand lifting to her elbow as she stepped off the last stair.
“Hey,” he said, ducking close so she could hear him. “You okay?”
She looked up at him very seriously. “You were in my room last night.”
Garrett paused. His eyes moved over her face, then over the stairs behind her, then back down. “Yeah.”
“Like the whole night.”
His mouth twitched. “Most of it, yeah.”
“So that girl is a liar.”
A slow understanding dawned across his face. Then, because he was Garrett and therefore terrible, he started to smile. “What girl?”
She jabbed a finger somewhere upward. “The blonde. She said you made her come three times.”
His brows jumped. “Did I?”
“Garrett.”
“What? I feel like I’d remember.”
She crossed her arms. “She was lying.”
“Sounds like it.”
“She looked me in the face and lied.”
Garrett’s hand slid from her elbow to her waist, steadying her when she swayed half an inch in outrage. “You say anything?”
She stared at him.
His eyes narrowed, still smiling but sharper now. “What did you say?”
“Nothing.”
“Baby,” he whispered.
“I said she wasn’t with you last night.”
Garrett closed his eyes for one second. Just one. When he opened them again, he looked like he was fighting for his life against laughter. “Right.”
“She asked how I knew.”
“Okay.”
“And then I left.”
“Good call.”
“I almost said because you were with me.”
His grin did something helpless then, softer under the smugness, like the idea pleased him before he had time to make it a joke. “Yeah?”
She frowned at him. “Don’t look happy. I nearly compromised the mission.”
“The mission?”
“Our secrecy mission.”
“Our secrecy mission isn’t going great if you’re interrogating women in bathroom lines about my location.”
“She started it.”
“Sure.”
“She did,” she whined, dragging the second word out.
“I believe you.” He didn’t, not entirely. Or maybe he did and was simply enjoying himself too much to be decent about it. His hand squeezed once at her waist, warm and grounding. “You still need to pee?”
Her face fell. “Yes.”
Garrett’s mouth twitched again. “Come on. There’s a bathroom downstairs.”
“You know that?”
“I’m observant.”
“You’re a slut.”
“I’m helpful.” He leaned in, his lips brushing her ear, voice dropping into that low teasing register that made her stomach flip despite the fact that she was seconds away from becoming a medical emergency. “And for the record, next time I make you come three times, I’m expecting a better cover story than that.”
She turned her head slowly to glare at him. Garrett looked deeply pleased with himself.
The third time they almost got caught, she was in the hockey house kitchen at three in the morning wearing Garrett’s t-shirt with absolutely no plan.
It was after a loss, which meant the whole house had gone strange and heavy by midnight. The kind of subdued where the TV stayed on without anyone really watching it and the boys drank beer not to party but to have something to do with their hands.
Garrett had barely spoken when he came out of the locker room earlier, jaw tight, lip split, a bruise already blooming near his cheekbone, that restless, furious energy still moving under his skin like the game had not fully let go of him.
She hadn’t been supposed to come over. That was the rule. One of the rules. There were several now, apparently, all of them made by two people with a strong shared interest in pretending they had control over anything.
No arriving together. No leaving together. No obvious texts when the guys were around. No sitting too close at parties. No looking at each other for too long in kitchens, which was quickly becoming the hardest one because Garrett Graham had a deeply inconvenient face and an even more inconvenient habit of watching her mouth when she was trying to speak.
And definitely no sneaking into his room after midnight through the window like a raccoon because he’d lost a hockey game and she wanted to crawl into bed with him.
So, naturally, she had done exactly that. Garrett’s window wasn't as easy to access as she had expected it to be.
She had nearly died twice, scraped her knee on the siding, and whispered, “This is so stupid,” to herself with feeling before finally pushing the window up and tumbling into his room with all the grace of a bag of laundry.
Garrett had been lying on his bed in the dark, shirtless, one arm over his face. He hadn’t even startled properly. He had just shifted the arm enough to look at her, eyes bleary and bruised with exhaustion, and said, “Baby, what the fuck.”
“I’m being supportive.”
“You broke into my room.”
“I prefer… entered creatively.”
He had stared at her for another second, then lifted the edge of the blanket.
For all the jokes, all the swagger, all the please-don’t-call-this-what-it-is of him, he made room for her too easily. Like his body knew before the rest of him had finished filing objections. She crawled in beside him, careful of his ribs and the angry bruise darkening along one side of his stomach, and he rolled toward her with a wince he tried to hide and a hand that found her hip immediately under the blanket.
“Hi,” he had murmured after a while, lips brushing her hair.
She had smiled into his chest. “Hi.”
Now, hours later, she woke up with her mouth dry enough to qualify as an emergency and Garrett’s arm heavy across her middle.
The room was dark and cold around the edges, the cracked window letting in a thin stream of winter air that made the discarded clothes on the floor look like shadows. Garrett was dead asleep behind her, breathing rough through his nose, body warm and heavy and completely gone in the way only athletes after a bad game seemed capable of being.
One of his hands was tucked under the hem of the shirt she’d stolen off his floor. She swallowed once. Painfully. Then again. Still bad.
She shifted carefully. Garrett grunted and tightened his arm, which would have been sweet if it had not also trapped her in a dehydrated prison.
“Baby,” she whispered.
Nothing.
“Garrett.”
A deeper grunt this time. His face pressed into the back of her neck.
“Baby,” she tried again, softer. “Can you get me water?”
Garrett’s answer was a long, sleep-mangled sound that might have been English in a previous life. She waited.
“Garrett. Please. I’m really thirsty.”
“No,” he mumbled into her hair.
She turned her head as much as she could. “No?”
“M’sleep.”
“You’re talking.”
“Sleep talking.”
She groaned softly. “You’re the worst.”
“Mm.”
She lay there for another thirty seconds, hoping thirst might pass. It did not. Eventually she eased his arm off her waist inch by inch, freezing every time he made a noise, and rolled over to look at him properly.
The sight softened her irritation before she could defend against it. His face was turned toward her on the pillow, hair falling messily over his forehead, lashes low against his cheek. The split in his lip had dried dark at one corner. The bruise near his ribs looked ugly, even in the low light. Another mark curved along his stomach where he’d been slammed into the boards hard enough that the crowd had made a single collective ooooh.
He wasn't getting up. She sighed and climbed out of bed.
The floorboards were cold under her bare feet. Garrett’s t-shirt hit high on her thighs, soft and oversized and smelling like detergent and him. She paused at the door, listening. The house had finally gone mostly quiet. No TV. No shouting. No Dean wandering around half-drunk asking philosophical questions about hot girls and mortality. Only the hum of the fridge downstairs and the occasional tick of the heating.
She slipped into the hall and padded down the stairs, one hand trailing lightly along the wall because the dark made everything look unfamiliar. The kitchen waited at the bottom, dim and blue with moonlight through the window over the sink. Someone had left a pizza box open on the counter. There were three empty beer bottles near the stove and a hoodie slung over one of the chairs. The house smelled like stale chips, laundry, and the faint metallic cold of nighttime.
She found a glass in the cabinet after opening the wrong one twice, filled it at the sink, and drank half of it in one go with her eyes closed.
Then the light snapped on. She spun around so fast water sloshed over her hand.
Tucker stood in the doorway in sweatpants and a faded t-shirt, one hand still on the light switch, hair flattened on one side from sleep. He blinked at her. She blinked back.
For one full second, neither of them moved.
Then Tucker looked at the oversized shirt. Her bare legs. The glass in her hand. The stairs behind her.
“Well,” he said slowly. “Shit.”
Her stomach dropped.
“No,” she said immediately. “Please don’t–”
Tucker rubbed one hand over his face, looking more tired than scandalised. “Damn. I owe Logan ten bucks.”
That derailed her panic so thoroughly that she stared at him. “What?”
He gave her a sympathetic look that somehow made everything worse. “I can’t believe you slept with him again.”
Her mouth opened. Closed. The silence that followed wasn't her best work.
Tucker’s brows lifted. “Dean? Obviously?”
Oh.
The relief arrived so hard it nearly made her dizzy, followed immediately by the horrible understanding that she now had to let Tucker think she had climbed out of Dean’s bed at three in the morning. Her brain, which had been half-asleep and mostly water-focused three minutes ago, scrambled for purchase.
“Right,” she said, too quickly. “Yeah. Dean. Obviously.”
Tucker’s expression softened in a way that made guilt stab straight through the middle of her chest. “Oh. Uh. Sorry. I didn’t mean to make it weird.”
“No, it’s–” She swallowed, clutching the glass with both hands. God bless darkness. God bless Tucker being half-asleep. God bless the fact that Dean’s entire personality was plausible cover for almost any bad decision within a thirty-foot radius. “Please don’t say anything.”
Tucker frowned. “I won’t.”
“No, seriously. Please.” She made her eyes wide because she could, because she had been underestimated by men before and did occasionally enjoy the practical benefits. “It’s so embarrassing. I wasn’t going to. I don’t even know why I– God.” She looked down, shook her head, and gave a small, miserable laugh that deserved an award from whatever committee evaluated female deception in shared kitchens. “Please don’t tell Logan. Or anyone. Especially Dean. Actually, fuck, especially Dean.”
Tucker, who possessed the inconvenient decency of a man who hated watching people feel bad, visibly faltered. “Hey. No, yeah. Totally. Your secret’s safe with me.”
She nodded, still performing devastated shame with one hand wrapped around a stolen water glass. “Thank you.”
“Do you… need anything?”
The kindness almost killed her. “No. I’m good. Just water.”
“Okay.”
Another awkward beat passed. Then Tucker stepped aside from the doorway with the solemn discomfort of someone allowing a ghost to pass through. “Night.”
“Night,” she whispered, and scurried toward the stairs with the glass held carefully against her chest.
She didn’t breathe properly until Garrett’s door shut behind her.
He was still asleep when she climbed back into bed. Useless. Beautiful, bruised, useless man. She set the glass on his nightstand and stared at him for a second in the dark, still buzzing with adrenaline. Then she smacked his shoulder.
Garrett flinched awake with a strangled noise, eyes half-opening. “What– fuck– what?”
“Tucker caught me downstairs.”
That woke him a little more. “What?”
“He thinks I slept with Dean.”
Garrett went very still. Then his face did something fascinating in the dark. Sleep disappeared. Pain disappeared. Every exhausted, post-game softness sharpened into offended disbelief. “He thinks you what?”
“I had to go with it!”
“You had to?”
“Yes, Garrett, because the alternative was saying actually I’m sneaking out of Garrett’s room after cuddling with him because we’re both very normal and secretive and weird.”
He pushed himself up on one elbow, immediately winced, then tried to pretend he hadn’t. “Why the fuck would he think Dean?”
“Because of Dean!”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s kind of the whole answer.” She climbed back under the blanket, still whispering harshly. “You wouldn’t get me water.”
“I was asleep.”
“So I went downstairs and got caught and had to improvise.”
Garrett stared at her, jaw working. Even bruised and half-dead, he managed to look jealous in a way that made her want to laugh and kiss him and maybe shove him a little. “Tucker thinks you left Dean’s room wearing my shirt?”
“I don’t think he was doing t-shirt analysis at three in the morning.”
Garrett dropped back against the pillow with a quiet, pained groan, one hand dragging over his face. “Great.”
She settled beside him, taking a long, triumphant sip of water. “Your fault.”
“My fault?”
“Yes.”
“For being asleep after getting hit, like, forty times tonight,” he said, eyes wide in the dark. Then he groaned. “Fuckin’– Dean?”
She smiled despite herself. “You’re jealous.”
“I’m not jealous.” He was very obviously jealous. His arm came around her waist and tugged her closer with enough care not to hurt himself but enough insistence to make the point. “I just don’t love Tucker thinking you’re sneaking out of Dean’s bed.”
“Technically, he thinks I’m sneaking out of Dean’s bed and deeply ashamed.”
Garrett made a noise of disgust. “Jesus.”
She pressed her face into his shoulder to hide her smile. “Poor Tucker was very sweet.”
“I don’t want to hear about sweet Tucker right now.”
“You’re so easy.”
“I’m injured.”
“You’re possessive.”
He was quiet for half a second. Then, low against her hair, “Maybe don’t make me hear Dean’s name when you’re in my bed.”
She lifted her head. In the dark, Garrett’s expression was harder to read, but she could feel him looking at her. Could feel the tension under the joke, under the jealousy, under the secret they kept pretending was only fun because fun was easier than looking directly at whatever else had started living between them.
“Okay,” she whispered.
His hand moved under the shirt, warm at her back. “Okay?”
“Yeah.” She nudged her nose against his jaw, soft. “No Dean.”
His breath left him slowly. “Good.”
“You still should’ve gotten me water.”
“Go to sleep.”
“You’re mean.”
“You broke into my room.”
“You let me in.”
“Mm,” Garrett murmured, already pulling her closer, careful around his ribs, his mouth brushing her forehead. “I know.”
The fourth time they almost got caught, Garrett took her on a date three towns over and still somehow managed to know someone there.
It was a cute restaurant. Cute in a way that made both of them a little awkward for the first ten minutes because hooking up in secret at parties and sneaking through windows had not prepared either of them for menus with seasonal specials and candles in little glass holders.
The place sat on a narrow street with string lights outside and fogged windows and a hostess who smiled at Garrett for two seconds too long before noticing the girl beside him and recalibrating. Garrett noticed the recalibration. His mouth twitched as they followed the hostess toward a booth in the back.
“Don’t,” she muttered.
“I didn’t say anything.”
She crossed her arms. “You were about to.”
“I was gonna say the soup smells good.”
“You were not.”
Garrett laughed, warm and low, and slid into the booth beside her instead of across from her without asking. They were far enough from Briar that no one should have known them, tucked into the back corner of a restaurant full of older couples and small groups and a table of women laughing over wine near the bar.
It made the whole thing feel suspended, like they’d stepped out of the rules for a few hours and could sit too close without having to perform distance for anyone.
His thigh pressed against hers under the table. Their shoulders brushed every time one of them moved. Garrett kept stealing fries off her plate even though he’d ordered his own, and she kept pretending to be offended while pushing the plate half an inch closer because dignity had left with the appetizer.
At some point his hand found hers on the booth seat between them. His fingers sliding over hers, playing with them idly while he told her about a freshman on the team who had tried to tape his stick with what Logan called the confidence of a man raised by wolves.
She laughed into her drink, and Garrett looked at her in a way that made the restaurant feel suddenly much smaller.
“What?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
“No, you’re doing the face.”
His thumb moved over her knuckles. “Just like hearing you laugh.”
That shut her up immediately. Garrett’s eyes flickered over her face, and she hated him for noticing the way the words landed. Hated him more for softening instead of making a joke out of it. For a second they just sat there, fingers tangled on the seat between them, candlelight catching along the edge of his jaw and the chain at his throat, his knee warm against hers.
Then she looked down at the table because she had limits. “That was gross.”
“Yeah?”
“You should be embarrassed.”
He sucked at his teeth gently. “I’m not.”
“No. I know. That’s one of your worst qualities.”
He grinned and lifted her hand, pressing a quick kiss to the back of it. “Top five, maybe.”
She was smiling despite herself, leaning in closer, when a voice came from the side of the booth.
“Graham?”
Garrett’s hand froze around hers. A tiny, immediate stillness that went through him faster than any expression on his face could catch. His smile stayed in place when he looked up, but she felt the change in his body first. The slight tightening at his shoulder. The way his hand shifted off hers and came to rest on his own thigh. The casual posture assembling itself a second too late to be real.
A guy stood at the end of the booth, tall and broad, with the unmistakable haircut of a hockey player and a jacket with Eastwood stitched over the chest. Recognition hit Garrett’s face, then something flatter underneath it.
“Parker,” Garrett said, easy enough if you weren’t pressed against him and listening to the mechanics of the lie. “What’s up, man?”
The Eastwood player grinned and held out a hand. Garrett slid out of the booth halfway to shake it, and she sank approximately two inches lower in the seat.
Which was stupid. Very stupid. If she wanted to avoid notice, shrinking into the booth like a child hiding from a substitute teacher wasn't a subtle approach. But the whole night had gone bright and hot behind her ears. She took an intense interest in the remaining fries on her plate and prayed for invisibility.
No such luck. Parker’s eyes flicked to her with polite curiosity. The interest of someone who had stumbled into a scene and wanted to know the category. Date? Hookup? Cousin? Hostage?
Garrett, because his life was apparently a sport in all directions, stood in front of the booth with one hand settling briefly on his hip before moving up to scratch along his jaw.
Nervous.
She noticed it instantly. Garrett Graham didn’t usually look nervous. He looked cocky, amused, focused, pissed off, hungry, occasionally concussed, but not nervous. Yet there he was, smiling and doing all the tiny, useless things his body did when he wanted to seem casual too badly: thumb brushing under his nose, hand dragging through his curls, weight shifting onto one foot and then back again.
“What are you doing out here?” Parker asked.
Garrett shrugged. “Dinner.”
“Yeah, no shit.” Parker laughed, looking around. “Didn’t expect to see you this far out.”
“Had to get off campus for a minute.”
The sentence was true enough to pass. It made something soft and stupid open in her chest, because Garrett had wanted to get off campus with her. Not to hook up quickly before someone knocked. Not to drag her upstairs at a party. Dinner. A booth. His fingers playing with hers beside the cushion. The whole quiet normal shape of it.
Parker’s gaze flicked to her again. Garrett saw it and shifted half a step, not blocking her, but angling himself between the attention and her face in a way that made her want to press her forehead to the table.
“This is–” Garrett started, and then stopped.
Her heart gave one hard kick, because there was no good ending there. This is my friend sounded insane. This is the girl I’m sleeping with sounded worse. This is the girl Dean hooked up with and now I am secretly, catastrophically gone for sounded accurate but logistically challenging.
So Garrett, genius athlete, captain of the Briar men’s hockey team, man with a GPA that proved his brain did occasionally participate, did the only thing available. He smiled wider and said, “We’re just eating.”
She closed her eyes.
Parker blinked once, then, mercifully, either understood enough to leave it alone or decided he didn’t care. “Cool, cool. Good to see you, bro.” He clapped Garrett once on the shoulder. “See you on the ice.”
Garrett’s grin sharpened into something more familiar. “Looking forward to it.”
“Yeah, I bet.”
They did the aggressive male handshake thing again, all knuckles and shoulder tension and mutual threat disguised as friendliness, then Parker left toward the bar.
Garrett stood for one second after he was gone, watching him go. Then he slid back into the booth beside her, and both of them sat completely still.
She stared at the table. Garrett stared straight ahead. Then, at exactly the same time, they both exhaled.
“Jesus Christ,” she whispered.
“Yeah,” Garrett said. “That was– yeah.”
She turned her head slowly. “We’re just eating?”
His jaw tightened. “I panicked. What was I supposed to say?”
“I don’t know, Garrett. Fuck.”
His hand found hers again, but this time under the table, fingers lacing through hers with a little more urgency than before. “Too close?”
She looked down at their joined hands. His thumb was moving over hers, once, twice, like he was calming himself as much as her. “Way too close.”
“Yeah.”
“And you were nervous.”
He scoffed and shook his head once. “I wasn't nervous.”
“You scratched your jaw like nine times.”
“My jaw itched.”
Her eyebrows raised. “And your nose?”
“Itched too,” he shrugged.
“And your hair?”
“Whole body’s falling apart, apparently.”
She huffed a laugh, and his hand tightened around hers. When she looked up, he was watching her with that softer thing again. The thing that kept sneaking in around the edges of their jokes and making them both go quiet.
“Hey,” he said, lower. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For making it weird.”
“It is weird.”
“Yeah.” His mouth pulled at one corner. “But I like this weird.”
The warmth hit so hard she had to look away toward the candle. “You can’t say stuff like that after calling me an eating companion.”
“I didn’t call you that.”
“You kinda did.”
Garrett laughed, then leaned in and kissed her temple because out of town meant he could do that. Could sit beside her in a booth and kiss her hair and hold her hand under the table and look at her like the secret was starting to bother him not because he wanted out of it, but because he wanted out of the hiding part.
She let herself lean into him for half a second. Just half.
The fifth time, the time they were finally caught, she didn’t think at all, and that was probably why it happened.
Afterward, she would be able to admit there had been options. Reasonable options. Normal options. She could have waited outside the locker room like other people did. She could have texted him. She could have asked Logan if Garrett was okay, which would have been embarrassing but survivable.
She could have done any number of things that didn’t involve slipping past the edge of the crowd after the game and walking straight into the tunnel like she had a right to be there.
But Garrett had been wrong all night. He had played well in flashes because Garrett Graham could probably play well during a natural disaster if someone gave him skates and a reason. But there had been something jagged in him from the first period.
Too sharp on the checks. Too quick to shove back. Mouthguard hanging between his teeth while he stared down some Eastwood winger with a look on his face that made her hands go cold around the railing.
He got sent off twice. Once for roughing, once for a fight that started so fast the crowd seemed to notice it only after Garrett already had a fist tangled in someone’s jersey. The second time, even Coach looked furious in that controlled way that made grown men behave like children caught setting fires.
She watched Garrett in the box with his jaw clenched and blood bright at the corner of his mouth, his chest rising hard under the pads, eyes fixed somewhere across the ice but not really on it.
Logan skated by once and said something. Garrett didn’t smile. Didn’t chirp back. Didn’t do any of the things he usually did to make violence look like part of the game and not something older moving through him.
So after the final buzzer, after Briar won, despite Garrett trying to personally fistfight the entire opposing roster, after the crowd started spilling into the aisles and everyone around her buzzed with post-game noise, she moved.
The tunnel was colder than the stands, all concrete and rubber matting and the damp, metallic smell of hockey gear. Voices echoed from the locker room ahead, overlapping male noise and equipment hitting benches and someone laughing too loudly in that exhausted post-adrenaline way.
She slipped past a staff member who was too busy looking at a clipboard to care, turned the corner, and found Garrett standing alone near the wall.
He was still in most of his gear. Helmet off. Gloves gone. Hair damp and flattened at the sides, curls sticking up where he had run his hands through them. His head hung forward, both palms braced on his knees like he was trying to breathe the game out of himself and failing. Blood had dried at his lip again. His jaw worked once. Twice. The tendons in his neck stood out under the harsh tunnel light.
Her chest tightened so fast it hurt. “Garrett.”
His head snapped up. The second he saw her, everything in his face changed. He came back by inches, like her voice had reached into whatever ugly room he was in and opened a door.
“Hi,” he said, breathless, already straightening. Then again, rougher, like the first one had not been enough. “Hey.”
She closed the space before either of them had time to remember they weren’t supposed to do this where people could walk by.
“Hey.” Her hands went to his face immediately, careful around the split lip, thumbs brushing at the damp edges of his cheeks. “You good? What happened?”
Garrett let out a breath, eyes closing. His hands came up to cover hers for one second, pressing them harder to his face like he needed the contact more than he wanted to admit. “M’fine.”
“No, you’re not.”
His chest was still moving hard, the pads making him look even bigger, all post-game heat and sweat and the raw leftover violence of whatever had been eating at him on the ice. She slid one hand up into his hair, fingers pushing through the damp curls at his temple. His exhale shook.
“You alright?” she asked again, softer now.
He nodded, but it was a bad nod. A nod made out of stubbornness and breath and the fact that he had no idea what to do with her looking at him like this in a tunnel. His jaw shifted. His eyes opened, finding hers, and whatever he saw there made his whole face pull tight for half a second.
“Baby,” he murmured.
That did it. Here, in the tunnel, with the locker room noise around the corner and blood on his mouth and his breathing still rough from whatever fight he had nearly brought home from the ice, the word hit somewhere deeper.
She rose onto her toes and kissed him. It was meant to be small, it really was. A check-in. A reassurance. A brief press of her mouth to his.
Garrett made a low sound the second her lips touched his, and then his arms were around her waist, pulling her in properly, pads and all, crushing the space between them like he’d been waiting the whole night for something solid enough to hold.
The kiss turned immediately. His mouth opened under hers, hungry and rough and not careful enough at first, then careful all at once when she brushed his split lip and he hissed softly into her mouth.
She pulled back half an inch. “Sorry.”
“Don’t care,” he said, and kissed her again.
Everything from the game poured into it. The hits. The fights. The awful, tight look in his eyes from the penalty box. Her hands cold on the railing. The secret they’d been carrying around like something light when it had gotten heavier every time he looked at her across a room and didn’t come closer. Garrett’s fingers dug into her waist. Hers stayed in his hair, tugging lightly. He kissed like he was trying to get back into his own body through her mouth. And she let him.
Then someone behind them said, “Ohhhh shit.”
They broke apart so fast it was almost violent. Logan stood ten feet away with a towel slung around his neck, hair wet, mouth open in the kind of delighted grin usually reserved for a successful prank or Tucker injuring himself in a deeply avoidable way.
His eyes moved from Garrett’s arms around her waist, to her hands still caught in Garrett’s hair, to Garrett’s swollen mouth, and then back again. For one second, no one spoke.
Garrett’s arms didn’t leave her waist. She noticed that through the panic, through the sudden rush of heat to her face, through the knowledge that the entire delicate architecture of their secrecy had just been bodychecked into open air by John Logan and his shit-eating grin.
Garrett kept holding her.
Logan’s grin widened. “Was comin’ to check on the captain, but… shit.” He lifted both hands, backing away already, eyes bright with the kind of joy that meant the locker room was about to become a crime scene. “Guess he’s alright.”
“Logan,” Garrett said, low warning.
Logan only pointed at him, walking backward. “Nope. No. Don’t Logan me. You have been weird as fuck for weeks, man.”
Her stomach dropped and flipped at the same time.
Garrett’s jaw tightened. “Don’t–”
But Logan had already turned toward the locker room, voice rising with unholy glee. “You’ll never fucking guess what I just saw!”
The sound that came from the locker room was immediate. A burst of voices. Dean’s laugh cutting through first, bright and vicious. Tucker saying something too low to catch. Someone yelling, “What?” and Logan answering with, “Graham!” in the tone of a man unveiling evidence at trial.
She closed her eyes. Garrett dropped his forehead to hers.
For a second, neither of them moved. His breath was warm against her mouth, still uneven. Her hands had slipped from his hair to the sides of his neck. His gear pressed awkwardly against her chest.
Somewhere around the corner, the locker room erupted again, Dean’s voice now unmistakable. “No fucking way!”
Garrett exhaled, eyes closing. “Fuck.”
She huffed, because there was nothing else to do. A laugh, almost. A sigh. The sound of a girl watching the secret blow up and realising, somewhere under the horror, that she wasn't as upset as she should be.
“Yeah,” she whispered. “Fuck.”
His hands flexed at her waist. He didn’t move back.
This was the moment he could step away. Where he could put space between them and run a hand through his hair and say something easy, something Garrett-shaped and evasive, something that made the kiss look smaller than it was.
He could make it a joke before anyone else did. He could hide behind Logan’s big mouth and Dean’s inevitable commentary and the whole familiar machinery of the hockey house turning one private thing into public entertainment.
Instead he stayed with his forehead against hers, breathing hard, thumbs pressing into her waist through her coat.
Then Dean appeared around the corner, because the universe couldn’t let them have more than three seconds without sending in a rich boy with terrible timing.
He leaned one shoulder against the wall, grinning like Christmas had come early and wearing only half his gear. Logan popped up behind him, still delighted. Tucker stood a few steps back with his arms folded, looking resigned and not remotely surprised.
Dean’s eyes flicked over the two of them, still pressed together, Garrett’s hands still on her waist. His grin turned wicked. “Well, well, well.”
She groaned. “Don’t.”
“Oh, sweetheart,” Dean said, hand over his heart. “I would never.”
“You absolutely would.”
“I absolutely will,” he corrected. His eyes slid to Garrett, bright with evil. “Graham. Buddy. Pal. Teammate. You’ve been sneaking around with my ex?”
“She’s not your ex,” Garrett said immediately.
Dean’s grin widened. “Oh, interesting. Strong feelings from the captain.”
“She’s not,” Garrett repeated, jaw tightening.
She shouldn’t have enjoyed that. She did anyway.
Dean’s gaze moved to her, faux-wounded. “I thought we had something beautiful.”
“You were sleeping with six other girls while sleeping with me. You’re a pig.”
Logan made a strangled sound. Tucker’s mouth twitched.
Dean pointed at her. “See? This is why I missed you.”
Garrett’s hand tightened at her waist. “Dean.”
“Oh, relax.” Dean lifted both hands, but he was still grinning. “I’m not poaching. I have respect.”
Logan leaned around Dean, eyes shining. “So how long?”
“Nope,” Garrett said.
“How long?” Logan repeated, louder.
She looked at Garrett. Garrett looked at her. For one brief, stupid second they both seemed to consider lying. It was a beautiful instinct, really. Loyal to the end. Completely useless now that Garrett’s mouth was visibly swollen from kissing her and his hands had still not left her body.
“Three weeks,” she said.
Garrett’s head snapped toward her.
“What?” she said. “He was going to keep asking.”
Logan’s mouth dropped open. Dean shouted, “Three weeks?” Tucker just closed his eyes, nodding once to himself.
“I knew something was up,” Tucker said.
Garrett looked at him sharply. “You did not.”
Tucker opened his eyes. “She came downstairs for water in your shirt and let me think she’d slept with Dean.”
Dean turned slowly. “I’m sorry, what?”
She winced. “That was strategic.”
“You were in my house,” Dean said, pointing at himself, “using me as a slutty decoy?”
“Yes.”
Dean looked moved. “Honoured.”
Garrett made a sound under his breath. “Jesus Christ.”
Logan clapped Dean on the shoulder. “Come on. Let the lovebirds emotionally process before Coach catches Garrett making out in a tunnel like a freshman.”
Garrett finally looked over. “Dude.”
“What? That was supportive.”
Dean pointed at her as Logan started dragging him backward. “We’re talking later. I have questions. Boundary-respecting questions, but questions.”
“No, we’re not,” she called back.
“We absolutely are.”
Tucker gave her a small, sympathetic nod as he turned. “Congratulations. And good luck.”
“Thanks,” she said, because honestly that seemed appropriate.
The three of them disappeared back toward the locker room, taking the noise with them in pieces. Logan already yelling something that sounded like, “Three weeks, boys!” Dean making wounded noises. Tucker telling someone to put on pants.
Garrett laughed, low and real, and the sound loosened the last tight thing still sitting under her ribs. She looked up at him, at the bruise on his cheek and the split in his mouth and the ridiculous, beautiful, inconvenient boy who had somehow gone from secret bad idea to the person she walked into tunnels for without thinking.
“So,” she said, brushing her thumb carefully under the cut at his lip. “Guess we’re blown.”
His grin came back slowly, cocky at the edges and warm all the way through. “Yeah.”
“And you still have to explain why you were trying to fight half of Eastwood tonight.”
The grin faded by a fraction, but he didn’t look away. “Later?”
She studied him for a second, then nodded. “Later.”
His arms tightened. “Okay.”
“Okay.”
Then Garrett kissed her again, because being exposed to the entire hockey house hadn’t cured him of bad timing. She kissed him back anyway, smiling into it when the locker room erupted once more at whatever Logan had just announced.
This time, when Garrett’s hand slid openly to the small of her back and held her there, neither of them moved away.
❧ When you started working at Silver Springs, you couldn’t help but have a wondering eye for your boss’ henchman, Bishop. He couldn’t help but feel the same way.
Bishop would never say it out loud. But you would. The two of you were getting closer.
After he dropped you off, you couldn’t stop thinking about him. You still weren’t sure if getting to know Bishop would lead to you feeling a proper protection where you worked or a relationship with a man you would never imagine developing feelings for.
Bishop didn’t want to overthink anything, he overstepped a line he shouldn’t have even touched in the beginning. You were very nice and kind as a person, never put up a fight unlike Angel or insurance troubles like Magick. To him, you were perfect. You were the last thing he would see before going to sleep and the first thing he thought of when he woke up. It’s like you were a drug to him, he knew he shouldn’t keep doing it, but he did, it made him feel good.
Some weeks passed where you would do things differently. You started to pay attention the days Bishop would come to the club, with Alamo or alone. You bought brand new lingerie, two pieces and bikinis in all colors and designs. Three new heels and an ankle bracelet Tish gave you because it wasn’t her style. When you would perform you made sure you did everything correct, not a single mistake. You were flirtier with the customers, nicer with the bartenders, overall you were going for employee of the month.
Bishop could’ve cared less, at least he wanted to.
He was growing impatient; you were driving him crazy. He would subtly see your performances in the club, looking away if you made eye contact. He would also see the men that asked you for dances on the booths, feeling his heartbeat faster when they would grope your tits and waist, made you move how they would want to as if you were a toy. He hated it when they spanked you when you walked by, all the time. Seeing those hands grab the fat of your butt just filled him with rage. But it’s not like he couldn’t do something about it. You weren’t his. At least not yet.
꧂
Thursday afternoon, Bishop was at Alamo’s mansion in his usual corner while he had a meeting with Big Eddy, G in a corner counting some money. “Honestly this a real good line up of girls we’ve had in a while.” Alamo’s desk was splattered with photos of the dancers from Silver Slipper, including you. “This one a real winner.” Alamo raised your photo, a picture of you smiling with an orange bikini, facing it to Bishop, “I bet this bunny loves to bounce bounce bounce!” Alamo erupted with laughter.
Fucking pig, Bishop thought to himself.
“She’s been good, I’ve had guys tell me they’d pay the double to get a section with her.” Big Eddy talked while taking some notes. “Bishop suggested to have her do more dances with the snake, maybe by the end of the month.” Alamo answered taping a photo of Tish. “She need a boob job.” He muttered.
“Should check if she’d be good doing a private, like a test run.” G spoke up, “And why the fuck would I do that?” Alamo asked, thrown off at G’s request. “Listen, I’m not gonna throw none of the girls under the bus, but some of these hoes just don’t got the love in when it comes to doing private dances. No coordination, no charisma...Magick is the less that gets asked that’s all I’m going to say.” G responded, his last sentence being the quickest to push out. “I won’t mind checking on Bunny tonight.” Alamo chuckled, “I’ll check on her real good.”
Bishop really didn’t want to interfere, he wanted to promise himself that you were nothing but another dancer. It was known that Alamo would take advantage of these women, he was practically a pimp. But the back of Bishop’s head kept telling himself that you were different, you were worth something.
“You’ve said that with each dancer, you only end up fucking them.” Bishop said with that monotone voice of his, making the three men look to him, Alamo visually angry. “And what the fuck do you want to mean by that?” “We test the girls for the public, not for us. Not every man that comes in the club is coming for a fuck, some just simply want a private dance.”
And everyone knew Bishop’s point was right. Alamo would do it based off his own personal interests, not for the public, which is why G suggested to really test the girls out. Alamo grunted, not having a comeback or an excuse for Bishop’s observation. “Let’s have her do a private with you then.” Alamo faced to G, who started laughing at Alamo’s demand.
“Nahh— have Bishop do it, she’s got a little crush on him.” Bishop’s heart dropped, looking directly at G, “Does not.” “Does too! She always bats her eyes in such a way, changes the tone of her voice, she’ll be like— Hello Bishop, how you doing?” G mimicked you, having Alamo and Big Eddy laugh with him.
“Bunny with a little crush, she’s adorable.” Big Eddy said wiping a tear out his eye. “I don’t wish to receive a private dance from Lola.” Bishop replied, he knew it wouldn’t be the right thing to do, especially when he’s trying to push down the emotions, he’s had building up for you. “It was your idea, B. Put it to the test, or we can go back my way.” Alamo responded, standing up fixing his attires.
“Make Tish, get earlier than usual to talk about driving her for a boob job, and tell Lola Bunny she’s doing a private dance.” Alamo assigned Big Eddy while making his way out, “Bishop, call that bitch Laurie to do some orders for a party I’m planning soon.” Alamo added before heading out. Bishop took a deep sigh, glaring at G who was still quietly giggling, then looking to Eddy, who held your picture towards him. “10:30, be there or be square.”
꧂
“Could it be his birthday?” “That man is not a Aries, Tish.” All the girls were surrounded by the board, you included. On your schedule it was written quite big, ‘PRIVATE: BISHOP 10:30PM’ and you had no idea why, but it wasn’t that you weren’t excited. “Y por qué yo tengo nada? The fuck?” Magick scoffed, her schedule being just one performance at 9pm. “At least you can just relax around.” Midnight, one of the dancers, laughed, her hand resting on your shoulder, she taps it. “Damn, Lola the chosen one this month.” You laughed, hiding your nerves, “I don’t know why.” You softly answered.
“And why Bishop? Is he like retiring?” Angel asked from her seat, counting money. “Nadie sabe, Eddy’s stupid anyways.” Magick said, clearly upset that her schedule was so clear. Tish walked in, stepping hard on the floor, “I’m getting my boobs done.” The room erupted with squeals and cheers, Angel standing up to hug her. “Yeah, yeah say your goodbyes cause this girl going to Mexico.” Big Eddy said, making his way to the office before being stopped by a whistle from Magick.
“What’s this schedule? You hate me? Why the fuck is your Babadook friend getting a private? Para qué?” “You talk too much.” He muttered resting on his office doorway. “We doing a new thing, gonna test out how you girls do on private dances.” Big Eddy explained, for once having many of the girls’ attention. “This just a draft, Bishop doing it cause Alamo nor G available tonight. Lola was our pick.” “Lola can dance on a stick, and it would even have more emotion than that man.” Angel said, having the girls giggle.
You hadn’t said anything. You were trying to place if it had something to do with the conversation you had with Bishop at the diner. “Y’all barely know this fool.” Eddy spoke, “Do you even know this fool?” Magick mimicked, still very, very pissed. Big Eddy just grumbled, taking a quick look at the girls before going to his desk, “No bullshit tonight.” He yells.
You sat at your chair looking at your reflection. Your pupils were huge, you could see goosebumps forming on your arms, your heartbeat so loud it was coming out your ears. “You’ve done privates before, right?” Angel asked you. You sure had, it wouldn’t be professional of a strip club to not serve that in their job. “Here and there, extra money with some blowjobs or handjobs.” You weren’t proud, but money was needed on some certain nights at your old place.
But Silver Slipper was different, you felt like a princess. And tonight, you could prove that you were an outstanding dancer, not just for everyone, but for Bishop.
꧂
Bishop rarely drank, like ever. Only at his house or surrounded by his close peers. But tonight, he needed to not let anything get to him, especially you. Sitting on the bar, Tylenol in hand, he shoved it down his mouth, followed by an Old fashioned. “You acting like a hippopotamus giving you a dance.” G was beside him, having a cold whiskey and eating peanuts. “I do not know what she wants from me.” Bishop said, looking down at his drink.
“She’s beautiful though.” G looked around the club, looking at Bishop, he whispered, “You should find out how tight that pussy is.” Bishop shoved G off him, hearing his cackles grow loud. Settling down, G patted his shoulder getting off his sit. “What’s up, doc...here come the girl of the night.” G walked away, making Bishop turn around, looking for you. And you were hard to miss.
Flirting with a table, you stood proudly in your red glitter six-inch heels, a blood red lingerie set, the side of your panties being this decorative golden chains. Your bra was fully bedazzled accompanied with fringe, the lights of the club making you shine with every movement. You had gemstones on your eyes with a light gold eyeshadow. A red lip. You were unbelievable to Bishop, a walking angel from the sky.
Accepting the money from the man you were talking to on top of your bra, you made your way to Bishop, who was already looking at you, standing by the entry. You focused on his wardrobe, a white button up with stripes paired with a dark red tie, dark brown pants, and dark blue trench coat. As always, he carried his prayer beads, he never let go of them. Finally, the two of you were face to face. It almost felt like it was just the two of you in the whole world.
“Bishop.”
“Lola Bunny.”
“Are you ready for me?”
“It’s 10:27.”
“I won’t charge the extra minutes.”
“…Lead the way.”
꧂
The private rooms were all different, for different usages. You led Bishop to your assigned room. It was spacious, a pole in the center with a small platform. In front of the pole was a couch pushed against the wall that was a mirror. A mini bar facing the left side of the room, another couch on the right side.
You turned to Bishop, the biggest smile on your face. “I’ll make you a drink!” Heels clacking their way to make him a drink. Bishop didn’t say anything, instead he placed his beads on the doorknob, and took one of the chairs from the corner, dragging it till he reached the security camera. Placing himself on top, he took the tape he had out of his pocket, biting a piece of tape, he covered the camera. He wasn’t going to let Big Eddy see this humiliation ritual they did to him.
“What are you doing?” You hadn’t turned your head, making him a vodka soda, a vodka cranberry for you. “Don’t worry about it.” He replied, dragging the chair back to its place. Feeling his presence on your left, you looked at him, you were practically the same height with the help of your heels. Holding both drinks in your hands, you kept that sweet smile. “You smell good.” “Make it quick.” Bishop replied, grabbing his drink, and making his way to the couch. You rolled your eyes, taking a quick chug of your drink, you made your way to the platform, squatting down to the speaker.
Bishop took off his coat, taking his gun from his back, he unloaded it and placed it on the small coffee table in front of him. “Would you like grade this?” You asked from the stage, holding onto the pole. “Yes,” He crossed hands between his legs, “just dance like you do outside, Bunny.” You cleared your throat, a quick nod to yourself. Showtime.
You were a true masterpiece when it came to pole dancing. You displayed all the techniques you knew with your performance; every step was perfect with the beat of the music, Bishop was engaged. He watched your every move, not a single mistake. He barely blanked every time you twirled around the pole, your knees hooked to the back of the pole, you looked so care free. Bishop wanted to ignore the erection he has growing between his legs. He was too grown to be getting a boner from a pole dance.
“Are you enjoying it?” You asked, so innocently, as if you weren’t dancing barely dressed with a pole with a Rihanna playlist playing all for him. “I am.” “You’re such a liar.” You mumbled, sitting on the edge of the stage. It was Bishop, what was he even going to do with your performance? “Is that all?” He asked, you shrugged, getting shy out of nowhere, looking down. “This is the part I give you a lap dance.” You looked up; Bishop hadn’t moved a muscle. He straightens his back, “I’m not stopping you.” You felt your cunt flutter, you were actually doing this.
You stood up, getting a glance of yourself though the mirror. Strutting your way to Bishop, it’s like your footsteps got louder, your breathing got shorter. Shaky but firm hands grasped on Bishop’s shoulders, straddling him. He slowly dragged his hands to your hips, making you shudder at the touch of his cold hands in your warm body. You moved your hips in slow circles, moving your hands to his chest. Bishop couldn’t believe he was letting this happen. Feeling your cunt through his crotch was heaven, he wants to believe this is the closest the two of you will get on an intimate level.
“I can feel you.” You whispered so low, so low Bishop almost didn’t catch what you said. But you both knew; you both knew Bishop’s cock was poking hard through his pants. “Don’t get excited.” Bishop whispered back, looking up when he heard you giggle. “I shouldn’t get excited? You and your bud—” You pressed down harder, making his breath hitch, “...would be leaving me alone.” You have no idea what came over you, you felt like you were on top of the world.
Moving your hands on top of Bishop’s, you leaned to his face your mouth grazing his, “You wanna see them, B?” Bishop didn’t even have time to analyze what you asked him. He did see how your hands reached for the center of your bra, a quick clasp and you were taking your top off. Bishop couldn’t hear his thoughts to this point, everything was happening so fast.
He moved his hands to your abdomen, his eyes not leaving your now exposed breasts, nipples perked up because of how cold the room was. God you were so beautiful. “You’re doing really good.” Bishop said, trying to remember this was overall a test, that he wasn’t feeling any type of pleasure from this. “Yeah, I’d figured.” You stood briefly, not a single moment had Bishop’s hands left your body.
You sat back down, having your back facing him, sitting directly on his growing erection. It didn’t even feel like you were doing a lap dance anymore. You grabbed his knees spreading them even more, having your butt grind right against him. “Fuck—” Bishop muttered under his breath, hoping you didn’t hear him. You were creating a friction in such an intense way, he couldn’t keep his eyes away from you.
And then you moaned, that’s when Bishop realized how your movement changed from a sensual dance to you grinding yourself against his cock, chasing pleasure. A professional act would’ve been for Bishop to tap out, hand you his money, thank you for the dance and leave. But Bishop also knew he had time left, and that testing out your private dance was the only thing Alamo had asked him to do for the Thursday night.
Would it hurt to add more fuel to the fire?
He sat up, and pulled you closer, having you gasp. “Bishop—” “Don’t freak out and I won’t freak out.” He whispered against your ear. It felt like a movie, a very soft porno movie if you will. Bishop’s right hand made its way to your panties, going upward until it connected to your right boob, instantly you placed your hand on top of his. “Would you let this to happen?” He asked so slowly, making his left hand make the same movement, your hand following.
With Bishop’s hands on top of your breasts, you were still grinding on top of him, not once did you think about stopping. “I don’t know...” You whimpered, “it- it feels good.” “I know baby.” Bishop said. Baby. He had never called you that, your heart was fluttering. “You haven’t answered.” Bishop placed a light kiss on your shoulder. You knew his question was about the men you would dance to if you did private dances, if you’d allowed them to place you in such a vulnerable position like the one you were in right now.
“Nu uh...” You answered, fastening your movements. “No? Then why are you doing it, Bunny?” Bishop kept leaving small kisses all over your shoulders and neck. You were so lost in the feeling of your grinds that made your clit bump against Bishop, you hadn’t noticed how he traced his hand down to your panties, this time making his fingers go inside you. You gasped loud when you felt him on your cunt, lightly placing his fingers, doing the smallest circles since the movement of your hips were already giving you that pleasurable sensation. Two of his fingers made his way inside your tight cunt.
“Bunny…” Bishop spread his fingers slightly, ignoring your whimpers. “You’re so wet...who let you get this wet?” Whimpers and moans were the only thing coming out of your mouth. You turned your head back, facing Bishop. With little patience inside your body, you finally crashed your lips against his. And it felt so fucking good.
Bishop was fingering you, slowly dragging them to your clit, he would then grope your boob and kiss you, swallowing all your moans and whimpers with his mouth. You couldn’t stop pushing back against him, you were practically begging for Bishop to push you to the couch, pull your panties and shove his cock inside of you and destroy you.
A loud bang was heard from outside the room. You wanted to gasp— you did gasp, but Bishop was quicker to put his hand over your mouth. The two of you stayed still, in this very intimate position, waiting to see of something was to occur. Hearing yells and ruckus outside, you whimpered, making your hips circle on top of Bishop again.
“Bunny…” Bishop whispered in a tone that was telling you ‘We should stop’, yet, his fingers were still rubbing your folds, and you were getting so close. “Please B…I don’t want you to stop.” You whimpered going faster than before. He groaned, placing a hand on your hip, he kept the your clit with his other hand.
“Can’t believe you’re letting me do this.” He whispered, “You know Alamo could kill me if he saw what you’re letting me do to you?” You moaned, feeling your climax get closer. “He’d be furious to know I got to you first, that you’d be this easy to break.” You felt it just then, your coil snapping. You had no idea how to react with the combination of Bishop’s words and his quick fingers on your cunt.
“Bishop—!” You moaned while you came, his free hand quickly covering your mouth. Even though the room was soundproof, you were quite loud. I mean who are you to blame? He was working unforgettable movements and the last time a guy made you cum must’ve been ages ago. Your moans turned into whimpers, turned into deep breaths. It hits you now, it hits you hard. Bishop made you cum, on his lap, while you were supposed to just give him a lap dance. What the actual fuck?
Bishop moved quicker than you, pushing you out his lap, he stayed still for a moment. Looking down at his hands, one covered in the wetness of your orgasm and the other one with slight lipstick marks from your mouth. He turned to look at you, bare chest heaving and that scared look you always tend to give him. Like a person that was caught doing something wrong. “Get dressed.” Bishop stood up, throwing your bra at you while he put his gun and coat back on.
You were still processing basically everything, but you knew Bishop wasn’t going to pillow talk you from just fingering you. Once the two of you got dressed, he made his way to the door, taking his prayer beads in hand, you behind. “What are you gonna tell Alamo?” You finally spoke up, before he could get his hand to open the door. He slowly turned to you, a look in his face that told you he didn’t have time for this. But he wanted to tell you, he wanted to just talk to you and stay with you for the rest of the night.
“Go make money, Lola.” Was all he said.
But you couldn’t just accept that, like you really couldn’t accept that. You knew these feelings weren’t just some tension you and Bishop were building up. You know this had to be something more. It’s why you the moment he reached to the doorknob, you put your hand on his, and leaned in to kiss him. Your soft lips crashed against Bishop, and that’s when he kissed back. Grazing his fingers slightly at your stomach, he pushed you against the door so softly.
You pull away, looking for a new expression. Bishop’s eyes had softened, looking more tender at you. “I think you’re gonna be a problem for me.” He whispered. The door opens making you walk backwards till you got outside. “I’ll make sure I won’t be complicated, B.” You smiled. Bishop’s name was being called out there, God knows for how long. Slowly he made his way out, his eyes never leaving yours. Standing alone you felt like coming back from a roller coaster.
summary: He’d been patient. So had you. But patience has its limits, and tonight was a gala dress, an award, and a decision that had been a long time coming. Based on this request.
content warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors DNI, explicit (read responsibly), pet names (no y/n), possessive!garrett, relationship, mild swearing, sexual tension, first time
notes: loosely edited, sorry about any typos. got a bit carried away because garrett graham in a suit has me feral. comments & requests encouraged xx.
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Garrett Graham didn’t do attachment during hockey season, and to him hockey season was year round. You didn’t do flings. You were a relationship kind of girl.
Briar U’s campus isn’t big enough to avoid fellow athletes, especially ones you shared classes with. Frat parties, football parties, the dining hall, lecture halls, Malones, pep rallies. If you went a full day without running into him it was a miracle. He’d nod and smirk in that way attractive guys do when they have a little too much confidence. The type of ego that makes you want to put them in their place, but somehow makes them just a bit hotter at the same time.
It was never meant to become anything. You’d been paired up for a class project, but homework turned into library study sessions, study sessions turned into dinner, dinner turned into hanging out and eventually into something more. Somehow that cocky, curly haired hockey player became your boyfriend. The very best part of your day. The sweetest guy who remembered your coffee order and always had snacks on hand because you’d get lost studying and forget to eat.
You weren’t hiding your virginity. It just wasn’t something you’d ever really thought about, because waiting had never been the plan. But here you were at 21, in college, dating a D1 hockey player with arguably too much experience.
It wasn’t supposed to be a big deal, but you knew Garrett was nervous. He didn’t want to overwhelm you. So you kept waiting for a moment that felt special enough, unsure if the right moment would ever present itself.
The athletic award gala night probably wouldn’t have been your first choice, but you were done waiting. Coach Jensen had Garrett and the boys running around doing last minute errands, so you’d taken advantage of the quiet and taken over Garrett’s room to get ready. An everything shower, a fresh blow out, and makeup done exactly how you liked it. You felt like the prettiest version of yourself, and you hadn’t even put on your dress yet. Still waiting for Garrett to zip you up.
You heard the door open and the boys loudly tramp up the stairs, feeling extra glad that Garrett had called dibs on the primary bedroom with an ensuite. The thought of sharing a bathroom with Dean, Logan and Tucker made you wince. “Hi baby,” Garrett said, grinning as he made his way into his room, eyes widening as he took you in. “Woah,” he huffed, running a hand over his face. You smiled at him, knowing all your effort had had the desired effect. “Hi baby, you need to shower. We have to leave in 40 minutes,” you said, kissing him softly. Garrett, still looking a bit dazed, walked backwards to his bathroom not taking his eyes off you, muttering “thank god for cold showers” under his breath. Smirking, you looked at your gorgeous sweaty boyfriend and called after him, “I need you to zip me up when you’re done in there.” You heard a sharp breath and then “she’s trying to kill me” before the bathroom door clicked shut, making you giggle. He hadn’t seen anything yet.
Zipping up was a generous term for the dress you’d chosen. The strings tying it together were thin and crossed, showing off your back. You’d chosen black to match him, because he was always in black. You slipped into it just as Garrett came out of the bathroom, stopping him in his tracks. He groaned, looking at the ceiling. “Fuck me.” His eyes met yours in the mirror, gaze dark as he took you in, running a rough hand through his hair. You stifled your smile and turned to look at him over your shoulder. “Need your help tying this please baby.” Garrett walked toward you, towel wrapped low around his hips, slow and almost predatory. His hands trailed your spine before taking the thin straps from you. He groaned, bending down to press a kiss to your shoulder before pulling you back into him. “Do we have to go?” he whined, playing with the strings. You turned slightly. “Baby, I did not spend all this time getting ready to hang out in your bedroom.” His smile turned wolfish. “I promise I’ll make it worth it if we stay.” “You wanted to wait, so be a good boy and wait,” you said, patting his shoulder. He tried to shake off your comment, regretting every missed opportunity a little extra as he continued playing with the strings at your back. “Now tie me up or I’ll go ask Dean,” you said, turning back to face the mirror. Garrett pulled you back by your hips. “Don’t you dare,” he said, and tied the strings together. Smirking, you turned and patted him on the chest. “Get dressed baby, we have to go soon.”
Garrett’s heated frustration was evident as he mumbled something about galas being stupid. You watched as he put on his suit, and it really wasn’t fair how beautiful he was. So tall and muscular, every hour of training paid off and then some. “Take a picture baby, it’ll last longer,” he smirked at you over his shoulder. Rolling your eyes, you grabbed your heels and perched on the edge of the bed. “Help please,” you said, holding them out. Garrett let out a frustrated noise. “You’re doing this on purpose,” he accused, but he took the heels out of your hand and knelt in front of you anyway. His rough hands slid down your calf and lifted your foot, sliding it into the strappy heel. He looked up at you with those smoldering eyes and what a sight he made. “You’re trying to kill me aren’t you?” “But what a way to go,” you laughed. He rested his head on your knee for a moment, took a sharp breath, then slid on your other heel and stood, holding out his hand. You took it and he pulled you into a searing kiss. “We have to go now or we’re never leaving this bedroom,” he said, tugging you out the door.
Dean, Allie and Tucker were already downstairs. Logan’s door swung open just as you and Garrett stepped into the hallway, and he let out a low whistle. “Jesus Christ, are you trying to kill our captain?” You laughed as Garrett glared at him and mumbled something to his best friend about keeping his eyes and his thoughts to himself. You made it downstairs to find Dean smirking at Garrett the second he saw you. He’d been home when you and Allie had picked out your dresses. “Yup, that’ll do it babydoll,” he winked at you pointedly. Garrett was still grumbling but hadn’t taken his hands off you. “Okay, everyone keep it in your pants. We needed to leave ten minutes ago,” Allie scolded, waving everyone toward the door. Dean was driving since he had the biggest car. Garrett helped you into the car and leaned in close, pressing his lips behind your ear. “Last chance to change your mind baby.” “In your dreams, baby,” you replied. “You would like my dreams,” he said pointedly, climbing in next to you.
Garrett and the boys were pulled away as soon as you arrived. Briar’s alumni were incredibly invested in the team, and always extra chatty when the alcohol was flowing. The university had spared no expense. Soft lights, flowers, team colours, an abundance of food and open bars, no detail missed. That night was perfect. Garrett was in the running for the Hobey Baker Award, the favourite to win after leading his team to the Frozen Four two years in a row. His commitment to hockey, to his team, was just one of the many things that drew you to him. Coach Jensen had the team circulating the room, chatting with alumni before dinner, and you kept catching Garrett’s eye as he moved through the crowd. Early in the evening it was just him winking when he caught you staring, mouthing “hi beautiful” from across the room when he was too far away to reach you. But as the night wore on something shifted. You’d be mid conversation with someone and feel the weight of his gaze before you even looked up, always finding him watching you from wherever he’d been pulled to. He never looked away when you caught him. You weren’t sure if it was the dress, the night, or just him, but there was something about seeing Garrett Graham in his element, easy and confident in a room full of people who admired him, that made it very hard to look anywhere else. There was just something about a hockey player in a suit.
He’d made an effort to find you all night, whether it was loaded glances from across the room or his hand briefly at the small of your back before being pulled away to talk to someone else. By the time dinner started, you missed him. Everyone loved Garrett, every person who spoke to him captivated by his easy confidence and his passion for the game. “Finally,” he said, dropping into the seat next to you and pulling your chair closer. “Hi baby,” he murmured, gently tilting your chin up to kiss you. You melted into him. He rested his forehead against yours, eyes hooded. “Didn’t like not having you close to me. Especially when you look like that.” You stroked his jaw lightly. “I missed you too.” His hand moved up to twirl the strand of hair framing your face. “When can we leave?” “After your award, superstar,” you smiled. His thumb traced slow circles on your knee under the table as dinner was served, and you felt your breath hitch, very glad that the tablecloth hid exactly how distracting he was being.
“Aight, tone it down lovebirds. Some of us are trying to eat,” Logan chirped from across the table. Garrett sucked in a harsh breath and glared at him. “Bro, let me kiss my girlfriend in peace. I’ve spent all night away from her.” “G, it’s been two hours. How do you survive away games?” “I don’t.” You tried to give him a quick chaste kiss but he pulled you in, sinking his teeth into your bottom lip before soothing it with his tongue. A small moan escaped before you could stop it and Garrett swallowed it, smirking against your mouth. “Behave,” you chided. He looked down at your dress then back to your face. “You first, baby.”
He won. Of course he did. No one loved hockey like Garrett Graham. But when they called his name he wasn’t paying attention. He was looking at you. Amidst all the noise and celebrations, his eyes never strayed from yours. God, you loved him. The boys had to clap his shoulders to break the spell, but he didn’t leave without pulling you into a deep kiss first. “Don’t get comfortable baby, we’re leaving soon,” he promised against your mouth. You watched him walk to the stage, that promise settling somewhere low and warm. Even as he accepted the award, he found your eyes in the crowd. Allie nudged you. “I think he’s done waiting babe,” she laughed. Your cheeks heated. You couldn’t deny it. Everyone at the table was picking up on the way Garrett was looking at you, and the way you were looking back.
As much as you both wanted to leave, there was no way Garrett was getting out of the next hour. All you could do was wait, stealing glances between conversations, trying to pay attention when people spoke to you and failing completely. “Babydoll, that man has not heard a single word anyone has said to him all night,” Dean laughed. You blushed. Before you could respond Logan chimed in, “You guys have the house to yourselves tonight, I’m going to Grace’s. Not trying to hear you both all night.” The blush deepened. “You guys suck,” you muttered, hiding your face in your champagne glass.
You felt the shift in energy before you even saw him. Garrett appeared through the crowd, striding toward you with quiet purpose, and held out his hand. “Let’s go baby.” “Don’t you have to stay a little longer?” you asked. “No. I want to go home,” he said, his gaze steady and intense. The boys cheered as you left, deepening your blush all the way to the door. The second you were outside Garrett had you spun around and against the wall before you could take a breath. His mouth found yours immediately, urgent in a way that made your head swim. “Couldn’t concentrate on a single thing tonight,” he murmured against your mouth. “Might have to put you in a turtleneck at the next one.” He rested his forehead on yours, both of you catching your breath. “Why didn’t I drive? I should have driven,” he said, pulling out his phone to order a car. You giggled. Garrett looked at you, pupils blown, lips a little swollen, hair slightly undone. He narrowed his eyes. “I can’t wait to see you undone baby.”
The ride was short but the air was thick with need. Garrett peppered kisses along your neck and jaw while you tried not to moan. You slid your hand up his thigh and he let out a jagged breath. “Fuck baby, I’m barely holding on.” Tonight was actually happening. The thought settled somewhere quiet underneath the wanting, warm and certain. You didn’t care you were in a car, every coherent thought long gone.
After the longest ten minute drive you finally pulled up to the house. Garrett had the door open and was pulling you out before you could blink. His pace urgent and demanding, you stumbled a little in your heels so he grabbed you with one arm and carried you the rest of the way, stealing kisses. He set you down at the door, trying the doorknob, fumbling with his keys. “The one time Logan remembers to lock the door,” he cursed under his breath. “Patience baby,” you giggled. “I’ve been patient baby, I’m not waiting anymore,” his voice lower and rougher than usual. Heat bloomed through you. You didn’t want to wait anymore either.
Finally inside, Garrett had you pressed against the door, impossibly close, pupils blown wide before pressing a searing kiss to your already swollen lips. Desperate gasps left your lips and he took the opportunity to slide his tongue against yours before lifting you up, your legs wrapping around his waist, you moved against him slowly, still finding your footing. “Fuck, baby. Are you sure you want this?” he gasped, pulling back, looking completely unraveled. The moment so him — despite his desperation you knew that if you even hesitated, Garrett would have carried you upstairs and cuddled you to sleep, always making sure you were comfortable first. That knowledge, more than anything else tonight, was what made you sure. “Yes Garrett, take me upstairs.”
Garrett’s rough hands skimmed the exposed sides of your breasts. “Fuck this dress. You can’t wear this again baby, I can’t think when you’re wearing it.” “Might have to wear it more often, if it makes you like this,” you giggled, appreciating the way his eyes raked over your skin. “You always have me like this,” he muttered, kissing the spot between your neck and jaw that made your knees go weak. Pulling him in by his belt loop, your hands fumbled to unbutton his dress shirt, his jacket long gone, probably somewhere on the stairs in the race back to his room. His nimble fingers finding the ties at your lower back, quickly unlacing them. Moving slowly toward the bed, you took in the sight of his broad shoulders, the deep indentations of his abs, the v-lines of his hips disappearing into his dress pants. He let out a throaty moan as your dress slid to your hips, exposing your breasts. He unbuttoned his pants, shoving them down his legs before stalking toward you and pulling your dress down further. He faltered, taking in your lack of underwear, letting out an accusatory groan. “Baby, were you like this all night?” “It’s a silk dress baby, I didn’t want lines,” you shrugged, knowing your ulterior motives had had their desired reaction. His head fell back as he tried to regain any sense of composure before giving up entirely. “Fuck, you’re perfect.” He moved both of you to the bed, slowing the desperate touches, silently checking in with you. The heat curling low in your stomach, you pulled his mouth back to yours, his grip tightening around you instinctively. Everything about him was perfect, but the way he was looking at you made you grateful you’d waited until now.
Until him.
Your head tipped back with a soft whimper as Garrett’s hands and mouth explored your body. “Don’t worry baby, I’ll take care of you,” his mouth trailing slowly down your body. Your hips moved toward him unconsciously and his hands tightened against you, stopping you from grinding against him while you felt his hard length resting against you. A cocky smirk spread across his lips. “Patience baby.” Your exasperated groan only seemed to please him more. “Please Garrett,” you whimpered desperately, the sound of his name on your lips making his eyes darken and breaking his resolve. One of his hands slid down further, fingers brushing teasingly against the aching heat between your thighs, deliberately soft, avoiding the friction you desperately craved. Unable to withstand his teasing any longer, you let out a sharp breath and grabbed his hand, pulling it to where you needed him most.
“This where you need me baby? Show me what you want,” he murmured, his other hand sliding up your body, rolling your nipple under his thumb. Urgent desperate moans left your lips as your hips ground against his fingers. “Fuck baby, you feel so perfect,” he breathed. The veins in his forearm flexed as he slid a finger inside you. “More, Garrett please,” you begged, as he slowly worked his hand, the pleasure building as he added a second finger. “Let me hear you baby,” Garrett’s voice rough, his eyes dark with need as he kept moving, his other hand rubbing tight circles against your swollen clit. Your legs fell open further for him. He watched as you bit into your bottom lip, gnawing at the soft flesh, feeling the pressure build. “I want to hear you, be loud for me baby,” he demanded, not wanting you to hold back. Now that he finally had you bare he wanted you completely undone, moans reverberating off the walls. His lips found yours, the faint taste of beer on his tongue mixed with the sweet mint of his favourite gum. A soft cry left your lips as his fingers curled to that perfect spot inside you, building more and more friction. “Let go for me baby,” he purred, as you watched him with wild eyes, your whole body tensing before your release crashed through you.
“Such a good girl,” Garrett rasped, eyes smouldering, before he licked a slow stripe up his fingers. He moved down the bed until his breath hit your sensitive skin. “Look how good you were for me baby,” he groaned. “I need to know what you taste like.” Your breath caught as his tongue pressed against you, teasing and tasting every inch of you. His hands forced your legs wider as he lapped at your clit. “So fucking sweet baby,” he mumbled as you rocked your hips into his mouth, a soft moan leaving your lips. Your fingers tangled into his curly hair, pulling him closer as he sucked your clit, rolling over the swollen bud with his tongue. “Worth the wait baby?” he hummed, a deep sound from the back of his throat as he slowed his unrelenting mouth. “Don’t stop” you moaned, tugging on his soft curls. “I’m taking that as a yes,” Garrett smirked, enjoying your roughness.
Your thighs were damp and you could see your desire painted across his lips as he looked up at you. Wildly sinful. He dropped his mouth back to you, slipping his tongue inside as his hand worked tight circles into your clit. With one hand tangled in his hair and one fisting the sheets beneath you, your thighs began to shake and he pulled you further into him. “Fuck, too much baby,” you breathed, nerve endings fraying, body trembling, toes curled as he kept going. He pressed on every pleasure point, his eyes closed and face flushed, focused entirely on pushing you over the edge. Pure pleasure broke through and your back arched, stomach tensing as the orgasm rolled through you. His hand squeezed your thigh as you came, your lips only able to form his name, over and over again. The bed creaked as he dropped down beside you and you both lay there catching your breath. You turned your head to face him on the pillow.
“We can stop here tonight if it’s too much, baby,” he murmured, eyes never leaving yours. He was so gentle with you but you didn’t want to stop. Your fingers trailed down his tensing abs before curling around the elastic band of his briefs, eyes taking in the sight of him. Garrett’s eyes were glazed over, watching you take in the sight of him, his breaths short, cheeks flushing as you gently ran your nails over him, a throaty moan leaving his lips. His hips shifted as you moved to pull down his briefs, his cock lying thick and hard against his abdomen, flushed and pink, tip slick with precum. He spread his legs wider, readjusting so you had a better angle. He watched as your small hands moved to wrap around him, twitching in anticipation.
Slowly stroking your hand along his length, you appreciated the way your gentle touch had him completely undone. Gaining confidence, you leaned down and dragged your tongue along the prominent vein on the underside of his shaft. Garrett’s hips bucked involuntarily. “Sorry baby,” he apologised, eyes hooded with desire, his hand stroking your head gently. You knew he was holding himself back so he wouldn’t hurt you but you wanted to make him feel good. It took you a moment to find your rhythm, silently grateful that your friends had overshared their sexual escapades over the years. Saliva spilled from the corner of your mouth as you worked over his girth, breath catching as you wrapped your lips around the head. “So good baby…oh fuck, fuck…come here baby,” he groaned, pulling you up to his chest. His voice a desperate plea, tinged with something like regret, like it took every bit of his strength to say it. He pulled you into a deep kiss. “Perfect. My perfect girl.”
Garrett’s chest heaved as he tried to catch his breath. You ran your fingers in small circles across his chest, proud of the effect you had on him. “You’re trouble,” he smiled at you before rolling over and grabbing a condom from his nightstand. He ripped the gold foil open with his teeth, reaching down to stroke himself, but you beat him to it, your hand wrapping around his girth. He moaned as he slid the condom on, wrapping a hand around yours to make sure it was secure. Trailing kisses along your jaw, his eyes filled with affection as he looked at you, giving you every chance to pull away if that was what you wanted. Wrapping a hand in his soft curls, you pulled him into a deep kiss, arching into him, whimpering with want. Garrett took hold of himself, running slowly through your folds, groaning with you as the tip brushed your clit before sliding back to your entrance. Gently he traced your entrance before pulling back, the tip of him slick with your arousal. Your breath caught as he slowly sank into you, your body surging with the overwhelming rush of friction as he settled all the way to the hilt. The stretch wasn’t painful, but the friction knocked the breath out of your lungs. “This okay?” Garrett asked, stilling himself, one hand moving to rub slow circles into your clit as you clenched around him. You whimpered in pleasure, flexing your walls around him, enjoying feeling him so deep inside you.
“Baby, you’re making it very hard for me to go slow with you,” his breath caught, forehead resting against yours. “Who asked for that?” you blinked at him innocently, rocking your hips into his. Garrett’s eyes shut. “Baby,” he warned, voice raspy with need, the warmth in your stomach pooling at the sound of it. Your hands reached for his face, pulling him into a deep kiss as you continued to move your hips against his. His mouth found your neck and sucked hard as he began to move. Your back arched off the mattress, the feeling of him inside you and against your neck overwhelming your senses. Whispered pleas, a blur of moans and panting. You ground into him as he pumped his hips into yours, your legs wrapping around him, heels pressed into his back, nails dragging down his spine trying to pull him closer, deeper. The sensation drawing a deep groan from him as he snapped his hips into yours with enough force to rattle the headboard. He felt so deep inside you. “Please Garrett,” you gasped, mouth open, taking in his flushed face and unruly curls as his grip tightened around your hips. Your mind fogged with pleasure, skin slick with sweat as he moved harder. You clenched around him, like a cord snapping, coming undone. Pleasure rolled through you. “Garrett,” you moaned and his head dropped to your neck, mumbling soft curses as he pushed you through your orgasm, his body tensing as he tried to hold off his own release before his hips stuttered and he said your name like a prayer, over and over. His heavy breaths painted your skin as your orgasm continued to flood through you, thighs still trembling. He pulled out slowly, both of you hissing at the loss of warmth. “Fuck baby,” his eyes trailed over you. “So fucking perfect for me,” his hands running through his dishevelled curls. “Why did we wait so long?” you smiled softly. Garrett smirked. “No idea baby. But it was worth the wait” he said, leaning in to kiss you.
“Don’t move,” Garrett said softly, glancing back at you over his shoulder as he walked to the bathroom. The sound of the tap carried through the quiet room. He returned a few minutes later with a warm damp towel, and something about the sight of him padding back across the room toward you made your chest ache in the best way. You propped yourself up on your elbows as he came over and gently cleaned you up. You hissed at the first contact but the warmth of it felt good against your skin. The quiet tenderness of it, so gentle and unhurried, made your chest ache in a way you hadn’t expected. “All cleaned up,” Garrett smiled softly, tossing the towel into his hamper before climbing back into bed and pulling the blankets up around you both.
He tucked you into his side and for a moment neither of you said anything, just the quiet of the room and his heartbeat under your ear. “Hi baby,” you smiled up at him. “I love you,” he said, the vulnerability of it shining quietly in his eyes. “I love you too,” you said softly, and you meant it in a way that felt new, like the words carried a little more weight than they had before tonight. The new closeness between you settled warmly around you both. He pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “I vote you only wear that dress in my room from now on,” he laughed. “In your dreams, Graham,” you giggled. “That’s exactly what I’ll be dreaming about,” he winked, pulling you closer.
Summary: You're convinced that Tucker's annoyed by you and hates your guts. As it turns out, you couldn't have been more wrong. Based on this request.
Warnings: none! Just some fluffy goodness with our criminally underrated guy, John Tucker. Unedited, 2k words. fem!reader
You and John Tucker are what people would say to be polar opposites.
You’re carefree and go with the flow, while he’s attentive and meticulous. He plans events and schedules parties, while you show up with a six pack of alcohol and hopes of having a good time. He’s a sweetheart, yet more shy and anxiety-ridden, while you’re outgoing and able to chat with just about anyone.
Technically, the two of you shouldn’t mix well, but you’ve always secretly hoped so badly that somehow you could.
You’d just finished telling the group surrounding you in the quad a joke, and everyone was laughing. Well, everyone except Tucker, that is.
He had his hands stuck in his jean pockets, looking around at anyone and everything besides you. Your heart stopped momentarily, smile immediately slipping from your lips and shoulders dropping slightly.
“Damn, Y/N, that was a killer!” Dean praised, clapping you on the shoulder.
“I agree.” Allie chimed in. “You always know just how to make us laugh when we need it.”
“Oh, thanks! What can I say, in another life I was a stand-up comedian, I’m sure of it.” Your conversation continued with the group, but you couldn’t help your eyes from straying over to Tucker every second. He still hadn’t met your gaze once.
You’re being really annoying again. Stop talking before everyone gets sick of you. Tucker hates it when you ramble. Just let other people take the lead and shut up for a bit.
“Hey, are you heading to the fair tonight?” Hannah asked you. “It’s only in town this weekend. Garrett and I were going to go for a bit if you wanted to stop by.”
You pondered the idea for a second, before suddenly remembering there was one big flaw in the idea of attending. “Maybe. Logan’s got my car in the shop though, so I’d have to walk there.”
“Tucker will take you! He doesn’t have anything going on. You guys can take my truck. Grace and I won’t be going until tomorrow night.” Logan told you, looking over at Tucker with what seemed to be a shit eating grin.
Tucker snapped his head in Logan’s direction, shooting him a glare. “Oh, uh, actually, I have to make those appetizers for the party on Sunday.” He rambled, now facing entirely away from you. “What kind of host would I be if I left my guests hungry?”
He was lying and you knew it. Garrett had told you days prior that Tucker had spent the first few days of the week going crazy in the kitchen, getting all the food prepared and ready to go.
Feeling defeated and forlorn, you sighed, letting out a meek, “I get it. Listen, I’ve gotta go; I’ll see you guys later.” You turned on your heel, speedwalking towards your next class while hiding the tears of frustration welling in your eyes. Some of your friends called out their goodbyes, to which you held up a hand weakly behind you as a form of waving.
If you had stayed even a minute longer, you might’ve caught Dean’s “Really, man? ‘Appetizers’? When are you finally going to get the balls to ask her out?” Followed by Tucker’s “I know, man! I got nervous! I want to ask her out the right way.” “That was the right way right fucking there, genius.”
Instead, you sank into your seat in the classroom, heart hurting at the presumed fact that you were just too much for him to be able to love.
(Unknown Number); Hey, it’s Tucker!
(Unknown Number): Sorry for the random texts. Hannah gave me your number so I could talk to you. Hope that’s okay.
(Unknown Number): Anyway, I ended up finishing the appetizers way sooner than expected, and I was wondering if you wanted to go to the fair with me? I can pick you up.
(Unknown Number): No pressure, though, obviously
y/n: oh hey, Tuck! absolutely! you can pick me up around 6 if you want.
Tucker :): Great! Looking forward to it.
You could burn a hole through your carpet with how much you were pacing back and forth. Your heart was racing, nervous enough that you could feel the sweat in your palms.
You couldn’t stop the nagging voice in the back of your head from wondering if he was only doing this out of pity for you. After all, he’d shown almost no interest in you until an hour ago, never fully having a conversation together or connecting on a deeper level.
Two polite knocks at your door had you running to turn the knob, stopping yourself just short of it. Play it cool, he won’t like it if you’re hyper.
Taking a deep breath, you opened the door to Tucker standing there with a bouquet of pink roses clutched tightly in one hand.
“Hey,” He greeted, outstretching his arm in your direction. “These are for you. I know you probably think it’s weird I got you pink roses, but they signal admiration and I wanted to make sure you know how much I admire you. If you don’t like them I can probably go buy some red-“
“Tucker.” You cut off his nervous rambling with a reassuring smile. “I love them. You really didn’t have to do that.”
Where was the Tucker from this morning who wouldn’t even glance in your direction? Who you’d barely spoken more than a few sentences with at a time?
You decided you really liked this version of him. Maybe you were wrong about him thinking you were a nuisance.
“Oh, don’t be silly. Of course I did. I’m taking one of the most gorgeous girls on campus to the fair with me, which has just made my entire year, by the way.”
You moved in the direction of your kitchen, pulling down the one vase your friend had gifted you (“You never know when a hot guy will swoop in and try to win you over with flowers!”) and setting the roses inside.
“Should we get going then?”
“Of course. After you, my lady.” He gestured toward the door, hand settling on your lower back as the two of you exited your dorm. He grabbed every single door for you on the way out, even stepping ahead of you to open and close your passenger door of Logan’s truck.
“I was taught to mind my manners.” The sheepish grin that accompanied his statement only made your heart flutter even worse. “When you’re out with a pretty lady, she shouldn’t have to lift a finger. At least not with me.”
The entire drive to the fair, he kept glancing in your direction, as if he couldn’t believe you were in the truck with him. His hands twitched as if he were trying to restrain himself from reaching out to touch you; not that you would’ve minded regardless.
As he pulled into a parking spot on the lawn just outside of the fair, you glanced at each other simultaneously, sharing a nervous, sweet smile before he hopped out to come open your door for you.
A part of you still couldn’t wrap your head around the fact that everything had changed so fast between the two of you. Just this morning you were convinced he hated you, and now you almost thought the exact opposite. You bumped shoulders as you walked side by side, sharing easy conversations and sharing excited looks.
“Hey, look who decided to join the party!” Garrett called from his spot on one of the picnic tables next to Hannah. “What took you so long?”
“Had to finish my appetizers, remember?” Tucker responded, waiting until you sat on the bench opposite the other couple before sitting down himself.
“Yeah, if by appetizers you mean pacing in front of your mirror for hours trying to make sure everything’s perfect for your crush…”
“Alright, that’s enough.” Hannah chided, whacking Garrett on the arm and receiving an exaggeratedhuff in response. “Now, who wants to go on some rides before it gets too late?”
The four of you spent the next two hours riding everything you possibly could. Tucker tried to casually throw his arm around your side of the Himalaya ride, which ended up with you being pressed tightly to him as it spun faster in circles. The same could be said for the zipper, except he grabbed your hand that time and held it even after you’d gotten off.
You tried to ignore the butterflies every time he became affectionate with you, or the way you’d feel warm inside every time he gave you a soft look, but trying to hold down your feelings was useless.
Eventually, you ended up at the Ferris wheel. Hannah and Garrett had hopped on the cart before yours, sending you a secret thumbs up while smiling and him giving Tucker a wink.
As your cart ascended the wheel, you decided that now would be as good of a time as ever to get your feelings out into the open.
“You know, I thought you hated me until tonight.”
He almost choked on his own spit, stuttering out a “W-what? How could you think that?”
“Yeah, I really did. I figured you were annoyed by how much I talk and stuff. You never looked my way before now and treated me like I had the plague or something.” You shrugged. “I would’ve understood either way. I know I can be a bit much sometimes.”
He reached forward on instinct, taking your hands and grasping them in his own.
“Hey, no, don’t talk about yourself that way. You’re not a bit much whatsoever. If I’m being honest here, I’ve been too nervous to talk to you because to me, you’re perfect.”
It was your turn to be shocked, stuttering out a huh? of your own.
“Sweetheart, I’m sorry I’ve been so distant. I shouldn’t have made you feel annoying, that’s completely my fault and I’ll spend the rest of my days trying to prove to you that you’re truly my dream girl. I’m so far gone for you that it turned into a running joke between the guys, making jabs at me for not asking you out any chance I could. I’m head over heels in love with you and I’m ready for the whole world to know it.”
He inched closer to you in the cart, moving to your side and cupping your face in his hands.
“Will you let me make it up to you somehow? I’ll do anything, baby. Just say the word and it’s yours. Everything within me is yours for the taking.” He laughed softly. “Well, everything besides my heart. That was already yours from the beginning.”
“Well, I could think of something…” you teased.
“Name it, baby. I’ll do it.”
“Can you please just kiss me already?”
His smile grew impossibly wider, nodding before leaning in to join your lips in a kiss that left you breathless and aching for more.
Hannah and Garrett leaned down from the cart above you, trying to maneuver themselves to be able to see what was happening between the two of you.
“Ouch, that’s my foot you’re you stepping on!” Garrett hissed.
“Shush! I need to see what’s happening!”
“I knew letting you plan this scheme would be a bad idea.”
“You take that back right now! Look, it really worked! They’re kissing!”
Hannah held her phone dangerously far outside of the cart, trying to catch a shot of your special moment. She squealed louder than she should have upon seeing you two locked in a sweet, passionate embrace, snapping a picture and sending it to the group chat that had everyone besides the two of you in it.
Han Han: (image attachment)
Safe to say Operation: Tucker’s in Love was a huge success <3
<3
a/n: i'm obsessed :') likes, comments, and reblogs are all appreciated as always. hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I did writing it!
she looks so perfect (part 6) - john logan x reader
summary: john logan was your best friend and the guys, allie, and hannah were your family. everyone knows that you had liked logan for forever but you knew that he didn't feel the same way about you. logan was with grace and you respected it. you couldn't even hate her for it - she's perfect and she's perfect for him. it's okay though, your family's got you. but things spiralled, and grace was harmed in the middle and you felt so awful about it.
Series: Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5
warnings: sad, angst, sad logan, sad grace, hard truths
author's note: lols forget logan, just kidding (somewhat) they should kiss!!! but - girls gotta stick together !!! how are u liking the series so far??? What are your favourite parts??? Lmk :)
Your hand shook as it hovered over the wood of Grace’s sophomore apartment door, trembling. You had asked a few times over the last few weeks, Hannah and Allie to tell you how Grace was doing but they didn't want you to feel bad. For someone who was in so much pain, you worried about Grace more than yourself.
You held your breath out in the hall of Grace's apartment. You shut your eyes. This is a bad idea. Garrett’s words echoed in your head like a warning siren: “Don’t be a fucking idiot okay—you know she doesn't want to see you. I'm not trying to make you feel bad. It's just not a good idea, got it?.” He was trying to protect you. He was trying to protect everyone, because that’s what Garrett Graham did when his friends started spinning out of control. You glared at him as he scolded you after you had shared your plan to try to fix things - and you just wanted to make sure Grace was okay.
You and Logan weren't speaking. You avoided him and there was no real conversation since the day at Malone's after he walked out. He had texted a few times, Hannah and Allie had told you about his fight about you, in the backyard with Garrett. This has been the longest you both have had not spoken in all time of knowing, if you don't count the time that you had a persistent sore throat for 2 weeks straight last winter - but nothing like this. This felt like you'd never speak to him again - and you regretted the way you spoke to him in Malone's that day. If you had acted normal, pushing down your feelings and if you hadn't caused this all to ripple - none of this would have been happening.
The silence between you and Logan was a vast, and felt almost irreconcilable. How do you ever recover from something like this? How could you face anyone after you indirectly were the reason the kindest, sweetest girl was crushed by your lack of boundaries and your blurred lines with Logan? You were grieving him, it felt like a death. You couldn't sleep or eat. You're lucky that you had only had two finals left when all this erupted. You were mourning the loss of the person who always saw the goodness in you when you could had lived like you didn't value your life, he knew you better than anyone, who couldn’t let you go until the universe forced his hand.
But as much as your heart felt physical, literal pain, Grace’s was the one that have every right to feel this way - way more than you. Logan had been hers. He belonged to her, and she had been caught in the middle as unfortunate collateral damage, unspoken entanglement - that none of you knew was even happening until that day - that she never asked or ever would agree to be a part of.
Holding the painkillers, electrolytes and tea packets in the small bin holding them - you had brought them for Grace, not as a peace offering but these were the things helping you so you extended it to her too - just in case. Taking a sharp breath before you could lose your nerve, you gently knocked.
The silence that followed was heavy. For a second, you thought she might ignore it. But then came the soft click of a lock, and the door creaked open, with Grace peering out from behind, almost hiding.
She looked fragile. Her usual bright energy was dimmed, her eyes slightly puffy, wearing an oversized sweatshirt that you painfully recognized as Logan’s. When she saw you, her expression didn't harden into anger. It just... fell. She starred at you for a second, like it was dream like - like there would be no way you were standing at her door right now.
"Y/N," she breathed, "Hi," her voice small. "W-what are you doing here?"
"Sorry - Garrett told me not to bother you and I probably shouldn't be here right now but I just needed to say some things to you. S-sorry, I can-I can leave"you said quickly, your throat tight. "I know you don't want to see me-" you whispered painfully. "I just-" There was no malice in her eyes, just a profound, exhausting sadness. "That's-it's okay, I don't not want to see you," she said opening up the door a bit more, a bit more relaxed. She looked up at you with almost hopeful glassy grey-blue eyes.
"Oh," you said surprised. Your shoulders relaxing for a second. You didn't expect her to say that. "Well, I need you to hear this, Grace." You took a breath. "I'm not saying this because I want to fix any of it because I know I can't. But I just need you to know that you are so incredibly special, Grace," you were so genuine, you just needed her to hear it.
"You're- you're a good person, Grace. You're kind, funny, the prettiest person I have ever seen honestly. Everything about you. You are just so special. You are not broken, there's nothing wrong with you, there's nothing about you that isn't good enough," your eyes pleaded that she heard you with an earnest tone in your weak voice.
"It was never your fault. None of this was because of you, and I'm really sorry you're hurting. I wish I could take it away. It's my fault, I should have been clear with my boundaries - I tried to distance myself and I already stepped away when I could. I-I should have been clearer. It wasn't fair to you. I just need you to know that you didn't deserve any of this and you can hate me if you want-"
"I don't-" Grace interrupted you, "I don't hate you, y/n...It's not your fault," Even when she was suffering she was gracious and kind.
You took a small quiet breath, stepping back to give her space.
"I just...I just wanted you to know that I think you're wonderful and that I am sorry," your voice stammered, her eyes welled up with glossy tears. "You deserve every good thing."
She looked up at you, her eyes searching your face. There was no hatred there—just the mutual, tragic understanding of two girls who had loved the same boy, both left bruised in his wake.
"Thank you, y/n/n," Grace whispered, her voice trembling but steadying, her using your nickname as a sign of the glimpse of girlhood you shared. She reached out to squeeze your hand in silent agreement that she indeed did not hate you, and actually still had kind care for you.
You gave a small smile with tears in your eyes.
"I’m not going to ," you said quietly. "I’m not going to keep being friends with Logan."
The words hung in the quiet apartment, heavy and absolute. Grace’s eyes widened slightly, a flicker of shock crossing her face. "Y/N... he's your best friend."
"And look what it did," you replied with a sad, final shake of your head. "It just hurts people, and it just wrecks things."
"...Y/N, you don't have to, I already knew." She sighed. "Knew what?" you were confused. "I already knew he loved you." You both were silent.
You didn't know what to say. "Wait. Sorry - this wasn't me trying to-I didn't-this wasn't me trying to make myself feel better to get your forgiveness or anything like that. I didn't mean to make it like that-" "No, y/n. It's okay. I know you."
"I already knew he loved you. He talked about you like you were the best part of his day. I knew he had written your exam days in his calendar because he knew you got anxious. I knew you were on his mind, most of the time - even when we were together, I know he said you were his family but I don't even think he let himself believe anything otherwise - I know he didn't do this on purpose," you nodded, trying to process what she had said, you didn't even know that he was in contact with your dad, or had your test dates written down, you didn't know he was doing a hundred little things - he never told you, he never took credit for any of it - it was like a reflex of his to take care of you.
"I know he never meant to hurt you, I haven't spoken to him at all - but I know he feels awful..." you weren't trying to defend him, but you both knew John Logan's heart - and he'd never intentionally harm the both of you. He'd never do that.
She nodded, almost letting out a small laugh, "Yeah, he's pretty stupid," you laughed too, "The worst."
You handed her your small care package, "Thanks for caring about me, y/n," as she held the box in her hands, you gave her a weak smile. "See you in the fall?" You said hopeful, that Grace would still want to be your friend after some time. She nodded, and you were turned to leave, "I'm visiting my mom in Paris again," she called out, "I'm leaving next week after my last final on Tuesday," you turned back, surprised she shared that - you were glad she got to go, she was a euro-sunkissed princess after all- just like you had exclaimed drunkenly to Garrett at the party a few weeks back.
"Hope it's wonderful. I know it's your favourite."
She reached out to grab your hand, stopping you from leaving, "You're allowed to love who you love, y/n," she blurted out all of a sudden as if she had wanted to say that the whole time. "You deserve the love you give to everyone else too. You're allowed to have good things too"
You didn't say anything. You just stared at her, shocked. She let go of your hand gently, and stepped back a bit, "See you in September, y/n," beginning closing the door, "See you...see you, Grace," as the door shut quietly in front of you.
You walked back to your apartment which was about 15 minutes away. Unsure of what just happened, like it was a psychedelic dream. She meant everything you said - you genuinely think that she deserves every good thing.
The insane thing was that, grace ivers - an angel of a person, thinks after all that you've done - deserved good things still.
summary 𓂃 when you admit you’ve never been on top before, dean decides there’s no better place to learn than his bed.
warnings 𓂃 18+ mdni, explicit smut, established relationship, insecurity, first time riding, protected sex, praise, dirty talk, boob play, clit stimulation, missionary, soft aftercare.
word count 𓂃 3,468.
── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──
You'd been pretending to watch the movie for at least fifteen minutes.
Dean had been doing a terrible job of pretending he wasn't staring at you for just as long.
It was a terrible performance on both sides, especially considering the laptop was still playing some action movie at the end of his bed, and neither of you could've named one thing that'd happened in the last ten minutes. You were tucked under his sheets in one of his old Briar shirts, the hem brushing soft against your thighs because your underwear was the only thing you'd bothered putting on after your shower, and Dean was lying beside you with one hand behind his head and the other low on your hip like he was trying very hard to act like a gentleman.
He was trying to behave, which was sweet, really, but not exactly successful.
"You're staring again," you murmured, not even bothering to look away from the screen.
Dean's thumb moved in a slow circle over your hip. "You're in my bed wearing my shirt. You can't really blame me."
"You gave it to me," you pointed out, like that was supposed to make him less smug about it.
"I know." Dean's mouth curved like he'd been waiting for you to say exactly that. "Great decision, honestly."
You rolled your eyes, but the smile breaking through kind of ruined the effect. "You're impossible."
"Yeah." Dean leaned in, his lips brushing your shoulder through the fabric of his shirt. "But you like me anyway."
"Sometimes," you said, though your smile made it sound a lot less convincing.
"Right now?" he asked, his voice dropping just enough to make your stomach flip.
You turned your head to answer, which was apparently all the invitation Dean needed, because then he was kissing you, slow and warm, one hand sliding up your side beneath the fabric like he'd planned the whole thing. It was easy to melt into Dean like that, a lot easier than you'd ever admit out loud. Dean kissed you like he knew exactly how much time he had, which apparently meant he had no problem spending it dragging every little sound out of you to see how much trouble it got him into.
His fingers slipped beneath the hem of the shirt, warm against your waist in a way that shouldn't have made you gasp as quickly as it did.
Dean smiled against your mouth, entirely too pleased with himself. "There she is."
"Don't start."
"I didn't even say anything."
"You were about to, and we both know it."
He laughed, low and entirely too pleased with himself, before rolling onto his back and tugging you over him like he already knew you'd follow. And you did, because apparently thinking was no longer part of the plan, one knee sliding across his hips until you were straddling his lap.
Then you froze beneath his hands, and Dean felt the change in you immediately.
His hands settled on your waist, thumbs brushing over your sides in a way that was soft enough to make your chest ache a little. "Hey."
You swallowed, suddenly very aware of the fact that you were in his lap with your thighs spread around his hips, his hard length pressing up beneath his sweatpants, and somehow his shirt still covering you didn't make you feel any less exposed.
"This feels like a lot of responsibility," you said, aiming for a joke and landing somewhere embarrassingly close to panic.
Dean's brow lifted like he wasn't sure whether to laugh or be concerned. "Responsibility?"
"I just..." You looked down, your fingers curling into the front of his shirt like that'd somehow make the words easier to get out. "I've never really done this before."
His expression softened, though that amused little spark in his eyes didn't go anywhere. "Been on top?"
Your cheeks warmed, which was annoying because Dean absolutely noticed. "Not really."
"Not really?" Dean repeated, thumbs still brushing over your waist like he was trying very hard not to look too pleased about that.
"Dean," you said, dragging his name out like a warning, even though the warmth in your cheeks made it pretty hard to sound threatening.
He smiled a little, his hands giving your hips a gentle squeeze like he'd decided to behave for once. "Okay. Not really."
"It's not a big deal," you said quickly, which was unfortunate because saying it that fast made it sound like it was definitely a big deal. "I just feel like I'd look stupid, or I wouldn't know what I was doing, and then you'd have to pretend it was hot, which is a very nice boyfriend thing to do, but also something I'd never emotionally recover from."
Dean stared at you for a beat, then laughed in this soft, disbelieving way that only made your face feel warmer. "Baby, I'm hard because you're sitting on my lap in my shirt. You could sneeze right now, and I'd find a way to be into it."
You blinked because, annoyingly enough, it had worked. "That was weirdly comforting."
"I'm great at comfort."
"You're absolutely not."
"I am when you're half-naked on top of me."
You tried to bite back a laugh, but it came out as this breathy little sound instead when Dean's hands guided your hips down, showing you exactly how slowly he wanted you to move over him. The pressure caught against your clit through your underwear, warm and steady enough to make your thighs tense before you could stop them.
Dean's eyes darkened like he'd felt the way your body reacted. "Does that feel good?"
You nodded, your thighs still tense beneath his hands.
His mouth curved. "Words, sweetheart."
"Yes," you breathed, because apparently that was the only word your brain had left to offer.
"There you go," Dean murmured, his voice soft enough to make your stomach flip.
The next kiss was messier, mostly because Dean kept guiding your hips over him like he had all the patience in the world, dragging it out until your underwear was damp, clinging to you, and making it pretty impossible to pretend you weren't affected. At first, the sounds you made were small and half-swallowed against his mouth, but Dean noticed every single one like he'd been waiting for them.
"Don't do that," he murmured.
You blinked at him. "Do what?"
"Hold back." His fingers tightened on your hips like he was making sure you couldn't pretend you didn't know what he meant. "I like hearing you."
Your stomach flipped, which was annoying because Dean absolutely felt it, and then he kissed you again until the friction dragged a moan out of you that you finally let him hear.
Dean groaned, as if he'd heard you'd done something terrible to his self-control.
That helped more than anything else could have.
By the time Dean had pushed his sweatpants down and rolled on a condom, your underwear was shoved to the side, your hands were planted on his chest, and the shirt was still hanging over you like a very pathetic attempt at feeling covered. Dean didn't try to take it off, which somehow made your chest feel tighter. He just held your hips, eyes fixed on your face as he guided himself through your wetness.
"Slow," he murmured. "Take your time."
You lowered yourself carefully, trying to take your time like he'd told you to, but your mouth still fell open the second the head of his cock pressed inside you. The stretch was familiar and different all at once, deeper like this, more intense because you were the one in control, which sounded nice in theory and felt a lot more terrifying with Dean watching your face like that. You sank inch by inch, trying very hard to look like you had any control over yourself, but the second he filled you, your fingers curled against his chest, and a shaky whimper slipped out before you could stop it.
Dean's jaw tightened. "Fuck."
You froze immediately. "Bad?"
His eyes snapped to yours as you'd just said something insane. "Are you joking?"
"You made a face."
"Yeah, baby, because you feel so good, I'm trying not to embarrass myself."
Your cheeks warmed, which was embarrassing enough on its own, but the praise still settled low in your stomach like your body had decided to enjoy it before you could overthink it.
"You're not just saying that?"
Dean's hands slid up your thighs, grounding you in a way that made it annoyingly hard to spiral. "Move once, sweetheart, and see if I sound like I'm lying."
So you did, moving slowly at first.
Your hips lifted, then sank back down, and Dean's head tipped against the pillow with this rough, helpless groan that made it pretty hard to believe he'd been lying about any of it.
"Oh," you breathed, and the second you moved again, it turned into something closer to a moan.
Dean's eyes opened, heavy and dark, like he'd been waiting for exactly that. "Yeah?"
"Feels good," you said, already sounding a little wrecked.
His hands squeezed your thighs. "Then keep going, sweetheart."
Your movements were awkward at first, mostly because your brain wouldn't shut up long enough to let your body figure it out, too busy worrying about the rhythm, whether you were doing enough, and whether you looked ridiculous hovering over him in his shirt with your thighs trembling.
Then Dean's hands tightened on your hips like he could feel you spiraling. "Stop thinking."
"I'm trying."
"No." His voice dropped, rough around the edges but still gentle. "You're trying to look good, which is insane, because you already do. Just move how you want."
The words hit harder than you'd expected, mostly because Dean sounded like he meant them, so you tried to believe him.
You rolled your hips instead of lifting so high, chasing the angle that made your clit catch against him every time you sank back down, and the moan that left you was loud enough to make Dean's cock twitch inside you like he was having a very hard time staying calm about it.
Your eyes flicked to his face, and Dean looked so wrecked that it made it pretty hard to keep worrying about whether you were doing it right.
His lips parted, jaw tense, and his hands kept flexing on your hips like Dean was having the world's hardest time remembering he'd told you to move how you wanted.
"You like this?" you asked, and even though your voice shook, it still came out bolder than before.
Dean laughed once, rough and breathless, as the question had actually offended him. "Like it?" His hips jerked up into you, dragging a gasp out of your mouth. "Baby, I'm trying not to lose my fucking mind."
That did something to you, mostly because Dean sounded like he meant it, and apparently, your body liked knowing you could mess him up that badly.
Your next movement was smoother, more confident, and the moan that came out of you wasn't even close to quiet, which Dean clearly noticed because his hands tightened on your hips immediately.
"Dean—fuck," you moaned, and the way his eyes darkened made it pretty clear he'd liked hearing his name like that.
"That's it," he murmured. "Let me hear you."
You rode him slowly at first, then a little faster once you realized your body had apparently figured out what your brain kept trying to overthink, your hands sliding up his chest as his shirt rode higher over your thighs. Your cunt was soaked around him, every movement making it easier, wetter, and a lot harder to feel shy about, especially when Dean looked down to watch where you were taking him and groaned as he'd just lost whatever was left of his self-control.
"God," he muttered, hands tightening on your hips. "You were worried about this?"
You tried to laugh, but it came out closer to a whimper when he helped you grind down harder. "Maybe."
Dean looked like that answer personally offended him. "You're killing me."
His fingers tugged at the hem of the shirt, and you slowed immediately, like your body had decided to panic before your brain could tell it not to.
Dean noticed immediately, because, of course, he did, his eyes lifting back to yours, as if taking the shirt off suddenly mattered a whole lot less than making sure you were okay. "Can I see you?"
Your stomach fluttered.
His hands rubbed up your thighs, warm and steady. "You can keep it on if you want."
You hesitated for only a second before lifting your arms, which felt a lot braver than it probably looked.
Dean pulled the shirt over your head and tossed it aside, leaving you in your bra and still moving over him like your body hadn't quite figured out whether to be nervous or proud. His eyes dragged over you slowly, and for once, Dean Di Laurentis had absolutely nothing to say.
That made your chest tighten, mostly because Dean looking at you like that was a lot harder to handle than any stupid comment he could've made. "What?"
His hands slid up your waist, warm and certain. "You're so fucking pretty."
Your breath caught the second his palms covered your breasts through your bra, thumbs brushing over your nipples beneath the thin fabric, and your rhythm faltered immediately, because apparently, Dean touching you there made moving and thinking at the same time impossible.
"Oh—Dean."
His mouth curved, entirely too pleased with himself. "No, don't stop."
"You're distracting me."
"Good." His thumbs circled again, making you clench around him like your body had decided to prove his point. "Keep riding me anyway."
You moaned louder this time, hips rolling as his hands played with your tits through your bra, and every touch made you stutter in a way Dean very clearly noticed. Every bit of praise made you wetter, every look on his face made you a little bolder, until the embarrassment started slipping away as your body had finally decided to stop fighting him.
"Tell me," he said, voice rough. "Tell me what feels good."
You swallowed, still moving over him because apparently stopping would've been the worst idea. "Your hands."
"Yeah?"
"And your cock." Your voice was breathless enough to be embarrassing, but you said it anyway, and Dean's eyes went so dark that it made the embarrassment feel worth it. "Feels good when I move like this."
You rolled your hips harder to show him, and Dean's head dropped back as you'd just ruined him on purpose.
"Fuck," he groaned. "Don't stop doing that."
Hearing Dean sound like that ruined something dangerous to your confidence, mostly because it was a lot harder to feel embarrassed when he sounded like he was the one barely holding it together.
Your hands moved behind your back, unclasping your bra before your brain could show up and ruin the moment. It slipped down your arms and fell somewhere between you, and Dean stared as you'd just done something genuinely unfair to his ability to breathe.
"Look at you," he breathed, and the way he said it made your whole body feel warm.
The words made your chest warm in a way you weren't sure what to do with.
Then his mouth was on you, lips closing around one nipple while his hand covered your other breast, and you cried out so quickly it would've been embarrassing if Dean hadn't groaned like it'd done something to him. Your fingers slid into his hair, hips moving faster now as pleasure started building low in your stomach.
"Dean, I'm—" Your voice fell apart into a whimper when his thumb found your clit, because apparently your body had no interest in letting you finish a sentence. "Oh my god, right there."
"There?" he asked, smug in a way that would've been annoying if he didn't sound so wrecked.
"Yes. Fuck, yes."
He rubbed slow circles over your clit while you rode him, his other hand on your hip and his mouth moving from your breast to your throat like he wasn't already making it impossible to focus. You were close, so close your thighs had started shaking, but the rhythm was getting harder to keep, your moans turning messier and needier as frustration tangled with the pleasure your body kept trying to chase.
Dean caught it instantly, like every little shift in your body was something he'd been waiting for.
"Come here," he murmured.
Before you could even think about arguing, Dean rolled you beneath him and pulled the sheets over both of you, settling between your thighs without slipping out like he'd decided you'd done enough thinking for one night. The new angle made you gasp, your legs wrapping around his waist as he pressed deeper.
Then Dean caught both your hands and laced your fingers together, pinning them above your head so gently it made your chest ache a little.
Dean kissed you, slow and messy, like he had every intention of making good on that promise. "Let me finish what you started."
"Please," you whispered, and it came out a lot needier than planned, which Dean absolutely noticed.
Dean's expression flickered. Then his hips started moving. Slow, deep, steady thrusts that had you moaning into the space between you, thighs locked around his waist, your hands crossed with his over your head. The sheets tangled around your legs, heat building under the blanket, his body heavy and warm over yours.
"You did so well," he murmured, his mouth brushing your jaw like he knew exactly how badly the praise was getting to you. "Looked so fucking good on top of me."
"Dean," you whimpered.
"I know." His hips rolled deeper, pulling your back into an arch. "I've got you."
His hand slipped between your bodies again, thumb finding your clit like he already knew exactly what you needed, and your whole body tightened around him.
"Oh—fuck, don't stop," you gasped, which was probably unnecessary considering Dean looked like stopping would've killed him.
He groaned anyway. "Wasn't planning on it."
The pleasure snapped through you suddenly, hot and sharp, and your moan broke against Dean's mouth as you came around him. Your thighs locked around his waist, fingers tightening in his above your head like you needed something to hold onto while your body shook beneath him.
Dean followed right after, his thrusts going uneven as he'd finally lost the last of his control, face buried in your neck as a rough groan broke out of him while he held you close and came.
For a while, neither of you moved, both of you too warm and tangled beneath the sheets to do anything other than breathe.
"You okay?" he asked softly.
You nodded, still trying to catch your breath. "Yeah."
His grin appeared slowly, which was never a good sign. "So."
"No."
"I didn't say anything."
"You were about to."
"I was just gonna say you're definitely not bad at being on top."
Your face warmed, and you turned it into the pillow like that might somehow save you. "You're so annoying."
"And you were so loud."
"Dean."
"I liked it," he said, kissing your cheek like he hadn't just made you want to disappear into the mattress. "A lot."
You tried to glare, but it came out pretty weak, especially when he slipped out carefully and disappeared to clean up like he hadn't just ruined your ability to function. When he came back, he helped clean you with a warm towel, gentle when your thighs twitched, before pulling his shirt back over your head as it belonged there.
"Putting me back in this?" you asked, glancing down at the shirt.
"Obviously." Dean climbed into bed beside you and pulled you into his chest, looking far too pleased with himself. "It's my new favorite thing now."
You laughed softly, settling against him while his arm wrapped around you like he had no plans of letting you go anytime soon.
For a minute, Dean only rubbed slow circles over your back like he was trying to make sure you'd fully melted into him. Then his voice came again, softer this time, though obviously still teasing because it was Dean.
"So..." His mouth brushed your hair, and you could hear the grin in his voice before he even finished. "You wanna do that again sometime?"
You pinched his side, which only made him laugh because apparently even that wasn't enough to make him less pleased with himself.
Dean laughed and pulled you closer, sounding far too pleased with himself for someone who'd just been pinched. "I'll take that as a yes."
Summary: You break up with Tucker because you are tired of being a secret, but when another guy hits on you at Malone's, he snaps and publicly claims you in front of his entire team.
Angst to fluff? But definitely Angst
Warnings: spoiler alert if you didn't read the books!, cursing, violence
A/N: Well, this would probably fit book Tucker rather than TV Show Tucker, buuuut. Truth is we didn't really see much of Tuck this season. Anyway, I hope you like it. Feedback is much appreciated! Take care of yourselves xx also, @airgoddess maybe you can enjoy this in the meantime
Words: 2.6k
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It was never supposed to be this fucking complicated.
John Tucker, Briar U's laidback forward was the kind of guy who took everything in stride. He had a heart of gold, infinite patience, and a Texas drawl that could melt the panties off a saint. But his life had recently become a massive, tangled wreck. Earlier in the year, a brief hookup with Sabrina James had resulted in an unexpected pregnancy. Tucker, being the thoroughly decent, stand-up guy he was, stepped up immediately, vowing to support Sabrina and the baby every step of the way.
But then, he fell in love with you.
Because of the fragile situation with Sabrina, you and Tucker had decided to keep your relationship off the radar. You didn’t want to add to her panic, nor did you want to deal with the relentless, vicious gossip of the Briar campus. But what started as a temporary protective measure had morphed into a heavy, suffocating weight. You were sick of hiding. Sick of slipping out the back door of the hockey house before his roommates could catch you doing the walk of shame. You were tired of feeling like a dirty little secret, and the brutal strain had caused a constant, underlying friction between you two.
Which led to the explosive argument in his bedroom just hours before the team’s victory party.
You were pacing the length of his floor, your arms crossed tightly over your chest, while he sat on the edge of his neatly made bed. He was watching you with those heavy-lidded, deep brown eyes, his large hands resting loosely on his spread knees. His unnatural stillness only fueled the anxious, clawing fire burning in your chest.
"I can't do this anymore, Tuck," you said, your voice trembling as you snatched your jacket off his desk chair. "I'm fucking done. We're done."
He went utterly, terrifyingly still.
"Come here, darlin'," Tucker commanded, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that usually turned your knees to absolute water.
"No." You zipped up your jacket with shaking fingers, refusing to look at him because you knew if you met his gaze, your resolve would snap in half. "I mean it this time. I am so fucking exhausted. I feel like a ghost in my own relationship."
Tucker pushed himself off the bed. His massive, muscular frame seemed to swallow the small space of the room as he stepped directly in front of his closed door, effectively trapping you inside. His dark auburn hair was a messy halo, and beneath his calm exterior, his warm brown eyes were flashing with a dangerous mix of panic and pure, unadulterated male stubbornness.
"We are not doing this, Y/N," he said slowly, his Texas drawl thick with absolute refusal. "We are not breaking up."
"I am the goddamn side piece in my own relationship!" you yelled, the frustration boiling over as hot tears finally spilled down your cheeks. "I know you have to be there for Sabrina and the baby. I want you to be there for them. You're a good man, Tuck, the best I know. But I can't be your hidden fuck-buddy anymore. I can't watch you rush out of the room to take her calls, or drop my hand the second we step outside because someone might see us. It hurts too much. It's tearing me apart."
A muscle feathered in his tight jaw. Tucker closed the distance between you in two long strides. You tried to step back, but his large, callused hands gripped your shoulders, hauling you gently but firmly against the hard wall of his chest. You were instantly grounded in his signature scent of sandalwood and citrus, a scent that felt so much like home it made a broken sob rip from your throat.
"You listen to me," he rasped, his voice vibrating against your collarbone as he lowered his head to look you dead in the eye. "You are not second place. You are never second place. You are everything to me."
"Tuck, please—"
"No, you're going to let me speak." He brought one of his large hands up to cup your cheek, his rough thumb catching a tear before it could fall. "I know it's hard. I know I'm asking a hell of a lot of you to wait for me to sort this mess out. I hate that I'm the goddamn reason you're crying right now. But I am a patient man, Y/N. I will wait out any storm to keep you."
You squeezed your eyes shut, shaking your head as you pressed your hands against his chest, trying to physically push away the one thing you wanted most in the world. Beneath your palms, his heart was hammering wildly against his ribs.
"You have to," you whispered, your voice cracking. "Go figure out your life. Be a dad. Do what you have to do without worrying about keeping me happy in the shadows."
You pulled out of his grip, intentionally ignoring the raw, devastated look that flashed across his handsome face. You reached around him, your hand wrapping tightly around the cool metal of the doorknob.
"I'm going to be at Malone's tonight," you said, your voice remarkably steady despite the fact that your heart was breaking into a million jagged pieces. "I promised Allie and Hannah I'd celebrate the win with them. But don't look for me, I need space."
You slipped past him, yanking the door open. You left him standing there in the middle of his bedroom, his jaw clenched tight and his broad chest heaving, his heart full of absolute, uncompromising refusal to accept that this was the end.
By the time you pushed your way into Malone's, your hands were still shaking.
And the absolute worst part of being best friends with Allie and Hannah? It meant you were automatically dragged into the Briar hockey team's inner circle.
They had commandeered the massive, wraparound leather booth in the back corner, and you were squished right into the middle of the loud, rowdy chaos. Garrett, Dean, Logan, and Fitzy were practically shouting over the music, toasting their shutout win and passing around pitchers of beer.
And sitting directly across the wooden table from you was John Tucker.
He hadn't said a single word since you sat down. He just sat rigidly on the cracked vinyl cushion, a half-empty bottle of Miller gripped in his large hand. For Tucker, the booming bass of the jukebox and the chaotic crowd seemed to fade entirely into white noise. The only thing in sharp focus was you. Every time you dared to glance up, those heavy-lidded, dark brown eyes were already locked on you, burning with a heavy, volatile intensity that made it impossible for you to draw a full breath.
You felt like you were bleeding out invisibly. You’d done it. You’d looked him in the eye, told him you were done being his dirty little secret, and walked away. Now, forced to sit so close to him, it felt like you’d carved out your own heart with a dull knife.
Hannah nudged your shoulder, shoving a shot of cheap tequila into your hand. "Drink up! You look like you're at a funeral, Y/N/N, not a party."
Allie leaned in over Dean's shoulder, her blonde hair catching the harsh neon light. "Seriously, what's going on with you? You've been miserable all week."
You forced a smile that didn't reach your eyes and downed the shot. The liquor clawed down your throat, "Just tired. Let's go dance."
You dragged them out of the booth and shoved your way onto the small, packed dance floor near the jukebox. The music was deafening, the heavy bass vibrating through the soles of your shoes and rattling your ribs. You squeezed your eyes shut, letting yourself get lost in the chaotic, grinding rhythm of the crowd. You laughed loudly with Allie and Hannah, desperately trying to project the image of a girl having the time of her life. But all you were really doing was trying to ignore the heavy, scorching gaze you could feel burning into your skin from across the room.
Tucker was watching you.
Usually, he was the anchor of his friend group—observant, laidback, the quiet guy who kept his head and his temper when everyone else lost theirs. Tonight, he felt like a coiled spring pulled back so tight it was about to snap.
Every breath he took felt like inhaling broken glass. You’d told him you were done. You’d looked at him with tears in your beautiful eyes and told him you couldn't be his second-place secret anymore. And the worst, most agonizing part? He knew you were absolutely right.
His eyes tracked your every movement through the strobe lights. You looked fucking breathtaking—flushed, wild, and utterly out of his reach—and he wasn't the only one who noticed.
A tall guy from the lacrosse team slid up behind you on the dance floor, his hands hovering dangerously close to your hips. Another guy, some frat bro in a backward cap, was trying to catch your eye, shouting some garbage pickup line over the loud music.
Tucker’s jaw locked so hard his teeth ground together. A dark, ugly possessiveness flared in his chest, incinerating every ounce of his southern patience.
They saw a beautiful, single girl looking to get wrecked and have a good time. They didn't know you belonged to him. They didn't know the soft, needy sounds you made when he sucked marks into your neck, or how perfectly your body bowed up to meet his. And it was his own damn fault they didn't know. He had kept you in the shadows to protect Sabrina's privacy and manage the baby drama, but in doing so, he had left you completely unprotected. He’d made you feel like you didn't matter. He'd practically served you up on a silver platter to every thirsty dirtbag in Malone's.
He watched, every thick muscle in his massive frame going violently tense, as the lacrosse player leaned in, his mouth entirely too close to your ear. Tucker saw you politely step back, your posture stiffening in clear discomfort, but the guy persisted. The asshole actually closed the distance again, flashing a cocky grin and reaching out to boldly wrap a hand around your waist.
That was it. Patience was officially dead.
Tucker’s grip on his beer bottle tightened until his knuckles turned stark white, the thick glass groaning dangerously under the pressure. With a harsh, ragged exhale, he slammed the bottle down on the sticky wooden table so hard the remaining liquid foamed over the top.
"Whoa, Tuck, where are you going?" Garrett asked, looking completely startled by the sudden, aggressive movement from the calmest guy on the roster.
Tucker didn't answer. He didn't even look at his captain. He was already moving, his broad shoulders cutting through the crowded bar, his dark eyes locked dead on the man touching what was his.
He parted the sweaty, grinding crowd like Moses parting the Red Sea, his massive frame shoving through the bodies without a single apology. The rational, endlessly patient part of his brain—the part that always played the long game, the part that had agreed to keep this relationship off the radar to deal with Sabrina's baby drama—was dead and buried.
Fuck the secret. Fuck the gossip. Tucker didn't care about the whispers, the rumors, or the stares that were bound to follow. He only cared about the fact that the woman he was completely, irrevocably in love with was slipping through his fingers, and half the bar was trying to swoop in and take his place.
You spun around, desperate to step away from the persistent lacrosse player whose hands were getting way too bold, but before you could tell the guy to back off, a blur of black and silver stepped into your line of vision.
You gasped as the lacrosse player was suddenly violently ripped away from you.
Tucker’s massive, callused hand was fisted in the collar of the guy’s shirt, lifting him nearly off his feet.
"Hey, what the hell, man?" the lacrosse player sputtered, throwing his hands up. He puffed out his chest, trying to look tough.
The words had barely left the guy's mouth before Tucker’s fist cracked across his jaw.
The sickening thud cut through the immediate vicinity of the dance floor. The lacrosse player stumbled backward, crashing into a nearby table and taking a couple of empty beer bottles down with him. The crowd gasped, forming an immediate, wide circle around you, but Tucker didn't even flinch. He stood over the groaning guy, his broad chest heaving, his fists clenched tight at his sides.
"Stay the fuck away from my girl," Tucker growled, his voice dropping to a low, lethal vibration.
The guy scrambled back, holding his bleeding jaw, and frantically nodded before disappearing into the crowd.
Tucker didn't spare him a second glance. He turned to you, the violence in his frame immediately shifting into a raw, desperate need. Large, familiar hands instantly gripped your hips, hauling you flush against his hard chest.
"Tuck—" you breathed, your heart doing a wild, violent somersault against your ribs.
"Mine," he murmured fiercely.
He pulled you seamlessly into the heavy rhythm of the music. His hands slid from your hips to trail possessively up your spine, sending a shiver of blistering heat straight to your core. He spun you around, pressing your back flat against his broad chest, his thick arms wrapping securely around your waist as he swayed with you.
He could feel you trembling, feel the exact moment the adrenaline bled out of your muscles and you melted against him. This was where you belonged. Not hiding in the shadows. Not sneaking out the back door of the hockey house. It was an undeniably intimate, blatantly sexual claim, loud and clear for the entire fucking bar to see.
Over by the booths, the reaction was instantaneous. Dean’s jaw practically unhinged, his drink freezing halfway to his mouth. Garrett actually choked on his beer, coughing violently while Logan thumped him on the back. Hannah and Allie exchanged wide-eyed, completely stunned looks. John Tucker, the quietest, most reserved guy on the roster, had just knocked a guy out and put on a very public, very unapologetic show.
Tucker spun you back around to face him, completely oblivious to the shocked stares of his teammates. He brought one hand up to cup your cheek, his rough thumb brushing over your trembling bottom lip, parting it slightly.
"I don't care who sees," Tucker said, his voice fierce, unwavering, and laced with absolute certainty. "I don't care how complicated it is. I am not hiding you anymore, Y/N. And I am sure as hell not letting you break up with me."
Before you could formulate a response—before your brain could even process the magnitude of what he had just done—he dipped his head and captured your lips in a searing, breathless kiss.
It wasn't a gentle, hidden kiss in the dark. It was a bold, desperate, world-stopping declaration. He kissed you like a starving man, his tongue parting your lips and claiming your mouth with a consuming, dominant heat that made your knees buckle. He caught your weight effortlessly, pulling your hips flush against the hard ridge of his arousal, showing his teammates, your friends, and everyone else in Malone's exactly who you belonged to.
When he finally pulled back, you were both breathless, your chests heaving together in the smoky air.
"You're my girl," he whispered fiercely, resting his forehead against yours. His brown eyes locked onto yours to make sure you understood every single word. "And nobody is going to steal you away from me."
Please use the correct tags for your oneshots. If I’m looking for Garrett Graham x Reader, I shouldn’t end up reading Dean Di Laurentis x Reader instead and vice versa. Misleading tags just to push your work is really annoying, and I’ve seen a lot of people doing this lately.
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