ros reblogs!

fic recs + secondary blog

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

Anyone and everyone CAN write. The world’s most skilled writer didn’t start off skilled. The key is that they practice hard by writing a lot.

As long as you write, you are practicing your craft and you are getting better at writing. But you will never get anywhere if you let AI write for you.

[railingsofsorrow]

john logan one shot based on the alchemy ready to be posteeeeedd

[rosreblogs]

here it is

[folkloure]

⭑.ᐟ tender loving care

john logan x reader

summary: reader gets a minor head injury when logan is not around and everyone jumps to help. core characters mentioned but mostly dean and allie. short fic, genuinely not as dramatic as the summary makes it sound like lol. requested!

Logan’s phone won’t stop buzzing on his backpocket as he’s elbows deep in Professor Walsh’s car engine. He grabs the rag over his shoulder and does his best in cleaning the oil from his fingers before fishing the phone out of his pocket, only to find a bunch of texts from Dean.

dean: before you say anything dean: it was an accident okay dean: and she really really wanted to play with us :(

That, followed by a picture of you laying down on their couch, ice pack over your forehead, is enough to make Logan mumble a stream of apologies to Professor Walsh, something akin to “sosorryigottagoseemygirlfriend” and a promise of checking his engine another day as he literally runs back home. 

He finds you in that very same resting place, except your head is on Allie’s lap while she holds the ice pack for you. Dean, who’s bandaging your ankle on the end of the couch, immediately stands up and walks over to Logan’s direction,

“Dude, I swear to god that it was an accident.”

Logan takes a look at you over Dean’s shoulder, “What the fuck happened?”

“Me and Garrett were playing soccer when she got here looking for you.” Dean starts talking, “Then she asked us if she could join and I obliged, of course, ‘cause– Well, I wouldn’t I? Can you imagine how misogynistic that sounds if–”

“Dean, get to the fucking point!”

“Right, sorry– She tripped on my foot while we were playing and hit her head. It wasn’t too bad, I managed to catch her. But–” Dean motions his head to you, awake and murmuring something to Allie neither the boys can hear. 

Logan moves in your direction, kneeling by the couch, “Hey, honey. How you feeling?”

You can’t see him, ice pack covering your eyes as well as your forehead. Still, your lips quiver up when you listen to his voice, “I’m good. They’re all being dramatic.”

He looks up at Allie, gesturing for him to take her place on the couch. Allie carefully holds your head as she moves from under you, letting his hands hold you instead before she let go. You lay your head on Logan’s thigh, nuzzling as he presses a gentle kiss on the corner of your mouth. There’s a small cut on your chin, covered by a pink band-aid. His hands move to your cheek, drawing circles as he caresses your face, “You hurt your chin?”

You hum, and Allie speaks up, “Her arms are a bit scratched too. But we already cleaned them, and Garrett is on his way to the rink with Hannah. He said you guys keep a full first aid kit in the locker room.”

Logan hums, “Did you eat anything?” he murmurs to you. 

“Tucker made me a smoothie.” You answer, then your hand moves to remove the ice pack. Logan sees a purple-tinted bump on your forehead, but your eyes are shiny and smiling, “Baby, I’m fine. Really. Don’t get too worried, handsome. Hannah and Allie patched me up, and Dean said he’s sorry a thousand times already.”

Your boyfriend looks up, watching Dean’s apologetic face turn into a pout. Logan rolls his eyes at him, a tiny smile on his lips as he feels disarmed. He’s a little ashamed now, being so ready to pick an argument with his friends a second ago for letting you get hurt, yet there you are, laying all pretty on his lap, tended and smiling as Logan’s heartstrings pull a little.

He gives you a grin, “Do you want paracetamol or something?”

Dean raises his hand and gives his most prideful look, “Already had her take one, boss.”

“Alright. You’re good, man.” Logan says before adjusting your ice pack back to its place, pressing a quick peck on your cheek, “And you keep icing your head, there’s a bump right under your hairline. Allie, take my place?”

You stir, “I can lay on the couch just fine by myself.”

“No, no. We’re keeping someone by your side for the next twenty four hours.” Allie says, already taking Logan’s seat, “We gotta make sure you don’t have a concussion and choke on your own vomit.”

“Geez,” you sneer, “So dramatic.”

He stands from the couch, moving in Dean’s direction, “And you are helping me make dinner,” he drops his arms over his friend’s shoulder, muttering, “Thanks for helping take care of her.”

Dean beams at his friend, “That was nothing. The least I could do for almost killing her, really.” He jokes, squeezing Logan’s shoulder, “She’s all yours now, dude. And I’d say a little TLC is much needed.”

He looks back at you, giggling with Allie on the couch, “I think she’s in good hands.”

“I meant for you.” Dean says, “I know you love when you get to fuss over her, you softie.”

“Well, yeah. Like you said,” Logan shrugs, “Who am I to deny some tender loving care over my oh so hurt and in need of care girlfriend?”

“I can hear that,” you shout from the couch.

“And I don’t hear you complaining, babe.”

notes: thank you for reading! requests are open! likes/reblogs/thoughts are appreciated! <3

john logan masterlist

[folkloure]

⭑.ᐟ on thin ice

john logan x reader

summary: figure skater!reader has some issues with her skating partner. logan gets protective over you. requested!

“Right here?”

You shift, “A little to the left, I think.” Logan moves the ice pack to your left, and you hum satisfied, “Yes, right there. Thank you.”

“No problem,” he says, hand adding a little pressure, “How did that even happen?”

“I don’t know. Moseley insisted on Hale lifting me again, but his grip just isn’t right,” you groan, the cold soothing your muscles, “I should’ve gone to single skating, you know? I could’ve been doing a fun routine to some hyperpop song instead of this bullshit situat–”

“Wait.” Logan interrupts you, hand on your hip to turn you over, a pained whimper from the extra pressure on your bruise coming out of your mouth. He winces, “I’m sorry, honey– Did you say he dropped you?” 

“Oh, yeah.” You say, resting your head on his pillow again, “Not the first time, too. He keeps dropping me.”

“I thought you said Moseley partnered you with a talented skater?”

Coach Moseley is nothing short of the best you could’ve asked for. A petite, dark-haired woman with a background of a former Olympics champion trained by a Russian ballet instructor and the perfect amount of short-temperedness to make her a perfect coach. It’s easy for you to have your full trust in her, even when she pairs you up with someone you don’t like. 

“He is talented.” you shrug, “Takes some time to build a solid routine, I guess. I’m sure we can both do better.”

Logan then moves a little closer, “Uh-huh. All I’m saying is, I’ve seen you do your routine hundreds of times. It’s perfect, every single one of them,” his voice gains a softer tone, “You have nothing to worry about.”

You sigh, murmuring a thank you once his attention goes back to icing your hip bruise.

—

You do, actually, have things to worry about.

“Moseley, you can’t possibly think he’s fit enough for that.” you whisper to your coach, “He can’t throw high enough! We’re still having issues with the triple twist.”

“You are having issues with your twists,” Hale says pointedly.

“Because you’re not giving me anything to work with!” You answer, raising your voice, “You can’t possibly expect me to give four twists with that height!”  

“You’re the one not doing the twists, my throw is perfectly fine!”

“Oh, you gotta be fucki—”

“Enough.” Moseley interjects, banging her hand on the acrylic pane, boom echoing around the ice. “Hale, she’s right, you gotta work on your throws. And you,” she turns her pointy finger in your direction, “Will be doing the quad twist, period.”

And with that, she leaves.

You run your hands over your face, sighing before turning to your partner, “Look, Hale, we don’t have to act like—”

“I don’t need a pep talk from you.” He cuts you off, “I need you to do better. Spin fucking faster, if you have to.”

—

Logan sits on the player’s benches, watching you start the routine over and over again with a whiny Hale by your side.

“Okay,” he hears you say to your partner, “We’re almost there. From the top.”

“Oh, my god.” Hale snaps, “We’re fine. You told me to work on my throws, fine, I did. You’re spinning just at the right time. We’re good.”

“We need practice, Hale.” You say, and Logan thinks you must be channeling the patience of a saint right now. “Now, from the top, please.”

He rolls his eyes before assuming position. You move to your side of the ice and start the routine, Logan’s eyes following, in awe of your clean moves. The bright blue of your sweater makes a nice contrast with the ice, and the way you spin makes your flowy skirt look like you’re flying. It's beautiful.

That is, of course, until Hale misses his throw, dropping you from over his head with a loud bang. 

“What the fuck, dude.” Logan shouts, quickly lacing his own boots and getting on the ice to help you, kneeling by your side, “Hey, slow down. Are you okay?”

You grunt as you sit up, hand over your back in a wince, “I’m fine. Just bad timing.”

Hale chuckles, murmuring, “Like always.”

Logan turns around, getting up from the floor, “What the fuck did you say?”

“I, uh–” Hale stammers, “I meant–”

“Because it seems like you’re being a pain in the ass about my girlfriend and I know damn well she is the one putting the effort here.”

“Well, you know how she is—” 

“Yes, I fucking do.” Logan moves closer to him, “And I don’t like seeing her going the extra mile just for you to do some shitty work and blame her for it. Get it together, man.”

Logan skates away from him, helping you get up from the floor. You don’t say anything to Hale, just offering him an icy look before leaving him behind. Logan carefully throws his arm over your shoulders, pulling you closer as you leave the rink, 

“You sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah, just wanna get some rest.” You look at him, smiling, “Thank you, by the way. You didn’t have to say all that.”

“I know it’s not my place.” He answers, “But Hale really was lacking. You know that, right? It wasn’t your fault.” You nod, “I think it’s time to talk with Coach Moseley. See if I can switch partners.”

“She’ll understand.” He says, plain and simple, “She likes you, and she trusts you. If you say you can’t work with him, she’ll take your side.”

“Yeah. I guess you’re right.”

Logan smiles at you, shaking your shoulders, “You know, some say I’m very good on the ice.” Logan says, a hint of humour in his voice, “Maybe I could be your partner.” 

You turn to face him, a smirk on his lips. You push his arm as you giggle, “Shut up. This isn’t The Cutting Edge.”

“What, you think I don’t have the moves? I can throw you up my head!”

You laugh at his ridiculousness, pulling him down and pressing a kiss on his lips, “I think I’d rather just have you bring me ice packs in bed. No offence.”

“None taken.” He says, kissing your cheek, “What’s The Cutting Edge, by the way?”

“Oh, god. You have to watch that.” You say, “Get the boys together, tell them we're having a movie night.”

notes: this is a ploy for me to get everyone into watching the cutting edge (1992). thank you for reading! requests are open! likes/reblogs/thoughts are appreciated! <3

john logan masterlist

[whorelaud]

THE BET – dean di laurentis ¡

summary your friends dare you to sext a random account on instagram, who so happens to be dean di laurentis, your worst enemy. despite hating the idea of it, you couldn't deny him, not when he's offering more than you're willing to take.

content SMAU, mature content, sexting, praise, use of pet names, cringe, enemies (but it's one sided), desperate dean, reader has an attitude, and likes being called a brat, lots of teasing, dirty talk with a side of humor 

a/n this is kinda rusty but i had sm fun writing it so i hope you guys enjoy reading it!! 

vibe rators 😈

al 🦭: alright we've come to a decision 

you: ... hello to you too

hans 🐢: hi my sweet angel

al 🦭: there's no time for greetings 

al 🦭: this is urgent business 

you: i'm scared

you: i don't like where this is going

you: what did you do al

al 🦭: actually me AND hans came to this decision 

hans 🐢: i'm only a tad bit involved 

hans 🐢: it was her plan

al 🦭: you suggested it?? 

hans 🐢: I DIDNT???? 

hans 🐢: i said it would be fun 

you: i should leave 

al 🦭: get back here. 

al 🦭: alright so 

al 🦭: do you remember the bet you lost at tucker's party?

you: i don't actually 

hans 🐢: look at her trying to escape... 

you: don't gang up on me 🙁

you: i thought you guys forgot about that

al 🦭: how could we

al 🦭: we finally get the chance to torture our precious pie

you: don't call me that 

hans 🐢: LMAOO 

al 🦭: as i was saying

al 🦭: me and hannah finally decided what we want you to do 

hans 🐢: why am i more nervous than her

hans 🐢: SPIT IT OUT ALREADY

al 🦭: alright man i was building up the suspense 

you: how about girls night and i treat you guys to the most delicious toe curling meals of your lives instead of whatever you have planned ☺️☺️

al 🦭: as tempting as that sounds... what we have is More fun

you: Fuck me. 

hans 🐢: i'd love to

you: i'm telling your bf

hans 🐢: hey :c

you: al baby can you please just tell me i'm dying to know

al 🦭: Fine...

al 🦭: okay so how does trolling some random guy online and making him think you're really into him and that he can get into your pants sound 

hans 🐢: okay now that you phrase it like this it definitely sounds cringe

you: Okay

you: no

you: i'm not doing that

al 🦭: WHY NOT

hans 🐢: it'll be fun hey...

you: are you guys crazy

you: why would i dm a random MAN that i'm into him. 

al 🦭: because men suck and they deserve to be humiliated 

hans 🐢: oh wow ❤️ 

hans 🐢: love that! 

you: no but seriously why would i do that

you: out of all the things i could've done why THAT

hans 🐢: because you're very anti love so weve decided to spice up your love life

you: sexting a random man online is going to spice up my love life huh

al 🦭: exactly 

you: do i ever have a choice here... 

hans 🐢: if you don't feel comfortable you don't have to do it bae

you: it's just really embarrassing 

you: but it's fine ig

al 🦭: FUCK YEAH

al 🦭: alright wait i'll grab his profile for you 

you: scary

hans 🐢: drumroll drumroll

al 🦭:

you: DI LAURENTIS???? 

hans 🐢: yeah...

you: oh FUCK no

you: we said a random man not fucking dean di laurentis

hans 🐢: AL I TOLD YOU IT WOULD BE A BAD IDEA

hans 🐢: y/n hates him

you: he's the bane of my existence. 

you: i'm not doing that

you: nope not even gonna entertain the idea of it 

al 🦭: oh come on

al 🦭: THATS WHAT MAKES IT MORE FUN

al 🦭: laugh in his face

hans 🐢: dean is actually very sweet why do you hate him so much 

you: he's a manwhore

you: he's fucked every girl on campus

you: + he's a DICK

you: i don't like him

you: on top of the embarrassment i have to shove compliments in his face???!!??

you: as if his ego needs it

hans 🐢: im giggling

hans 🐢: c'mon it's not that bad

hans 🐢: besides you'll be doing it from an anonymous account so he wont know it's you

al 🦭: PLS PLS PLS YN PLS 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺

you: get that ugly emoji off my screen god

you: i'm never ever ever ever ever everrrrrrrr doing anything like this ever again

you: only once

hans 🐢: ONLY ONCE

al 🦭: YES PLS

you: you guys are a little too excited about this

you: i need to avenge myself 

al 🦭: do that later

al 🦭: now go on and text him 

hans 🐢: keep us updated :3

you: i hate you both 

al 🦭: aw ☺️

al 🦭: luv you too 

────────

────────

vibe rators 😈

you: i'm so fucking screwed

────────

a/n AND THATS IT. this took me so long to fucking do and for WHAT also something is messed up in those ig pics but its too late to figure it out rn... all support is appreciated wahhh i hope this doesn't flops or i'll cry and repost tmr 😇😇

[rosreblogs]

I feel like the world doesn't suck when one of my favorite writers write for my current obsession. it's like life is this meme again:

[goldsainz]

# DEAN DI LAURENTIS — HIS JERSEY !

MASTERLIST !

001. SUMMARY !

✶ you’re officially dating dean, which means wearing his jersey to his hockey games and having him go crazy for it.

002. WARNINGS !

✶ suggestive comments and kissing (nothing too explict), dean calls you baby.

word count : 982

gif by @sophie-baek

You’ve been to Briar U hockey games before, but never wearing a player’s jersey.

In your mind, that had always been reserved for fans, girlfriends, and puck bunnies.

But things are different now. Now, after Dean Di Laurentis finally admitted he didn’t want your fling to stay just a fling, you find yourself sitting in the stands at a Briar vs. Harvard game with the number 66 stretched across your back.

You hadn’t told Dean about your choice of clothing, mostly because you wanted to see his reaction for yourself.

You wanted to watch the exact moment his eyes scanned the crowd between plays and landed on you, his girlfriend, in his oversized jersey.

Alongside you sat Hannah, Garrett Graham’s girlfriend, and Allie, her best friend and roommate. Since Hannah had been dating the team captain for months, she’d quickly become your go-to person for every random hockey question that popped into your head. Despite sometimes being just as lost as you.

When the players finally skated onto the ice, you immediately spotted Dean searching the stands.

His gaze flicked restlessly through the crowd, clearly looking for you.

And then he found you.

His entire face lit up so fast it almost made you laugh. But the expression only lasted a second before confusion pulled at his brows, like he couldn’t quite process what he was seeing. His eyes dropping to the oversized white and blue jersey hanging off your frame.

A slow, disbelieving grin spread across his face as he looked you up and down, realization settling in. Even from halfway across the arena, you could see the ego boost hit him in real time.

“Mine?” He mouthed, pointing at himself.

You only nodded, suddenly feeling shy under the intensity of his stare.

“Someone likes what they see,” Allie teased beside you, wiggling her eyebrows.

“Guess so,” you grinned, still unable to tear your gaze away from Dean as the team began preparing for puck drop.

The game itself turned out to be a fairly easy win for Briar University. Harvard managed to score first thanks to Jake Connelly in the opening period, but Garrett answered with two goals in the second.

Hannah absolutely lost her mind beside you, cheering so loudly you were pretty sure half the rink could hear her. You laughed and clapped right along with her.

Dean picked up an assist during the second goal, making you cheer loud enough that you were convinced he could pick your voice out from the crowd.

Apparently, he could. Because he then looked straight at you and blew you a kiss through the glass.

By the time the game ended, your cheeks hurt from smiling.

You waited outside the locker rooms with Hannah and Allie while the players showered and changed, the hallway buzzing with post-game energy and scattered conversations.

And then Dean walked out.

Black jeans hugged his legs, and a dark shirt stretched distractingly across his chest and arms. The fabric clung just enough to make your thoughts immediately inappropriate. You barely managed to maintain a shred of dignity.

Barely.

The second he spotted you, you practically launched yourself at him.

Dean caught you easily, laughing as your legs wrapped around his waist and your arms slid around his neck. You kissed him hard enough to make a few nearby players groan in annoyance.

“Took you long enough,” he muttered against your mouth.

That earned a loud whoop from Tucker and an immediate, “Get a room!” from Logan.

Neither of you paid them any attention.

“Hi,” you whispered against Dean’s lips, barely pulling away.

“Hi, baby,” he answered, voice rougher than before, damp hair still messy from the shower.

You kissed him one more time before finally letting him lower you back onto your feet.

The moment your sneakers hit the ground, he leaned down close to your ear. “Can I just say,” he murmured, “how hard it was to focus once I saw you wearing my jersey?”

“You like it?” You teased, turning slightly so he could see DI LAURENTIS stretched across your back.

“I love it,” he growled softly.

His hand slid to your lower back, pulling you flush against him before kissing you again, slower this time but somehow even more heated.

“Okay, lovebirds, time to go,” Garrett said, sounding both amused and deeply exhausted by the two of you.

“You’re just jealous,” Dean shot back immediately, sticking his tongue out at the team captain as he kept an arm securely around your waist while you walked beside him.

“I’m not.” As if to prove his point, Garrett leaned down and pressed a sweet kiss to Hannah Wells’s mouth.

“Ugh, get a room,” Your boyfriend groaned dramatically, rolling his eyes so hard it made you laugh.

“Rich coming from you,” Garrett deadpanned.

You snorted softly, resting your head against Dean’s bicep while the boys continued bickering like overgrown children.

“Malone’s?” Logan asked, already eager to celebrate the win.

“Sure,” Garrett agreed.

“We’ll catch up with you guys later,” Dean said casually, making you lift your head to look at him in confusion.

Tucker immediately shook his head. “You dirty dog.”

“What’s going on?” Hannah asked, glancing between the two of you.

You only shrugged, equally confused for approximately two seconds.

“Gotta take care of something,” Dean then looked down at you. And suddenly you understood exactly what he meant.

“Oh,” you said quietly, trying—and failing—to suppress your smile.

Logan barked out a laugh. “More like take care of someone, right?”

Dean threw him a pointed look that only made the others laugh harder.

“We’ll see you in, like, an hour,” you told them, attempting to sound innocent.

“An hour?” He murmured, his mouth brushing against your ear. “Baby, after seeing you in my jersey tonight, you’ve got way too much faith in me.” 

Your stomach flipped at the teasing edge in his voice.

“Two, minimum.”

NOTE : first off campus (dean) fic!!! please forgive me if there are any hockey errors, especially the whole waiting outside the locker room😭 i couldn’t get a conclusive answer from google if that was allowed or not, so in fanfic world it allowed! i have more dean fics on the way, so please sit tight 😼

[pucksandpower]

breaking point (part two)

Garrett Graham x Reader

Summary: Garrett is supposed to hate you by association. You’re dating his rival. You’re wearing the wrong colors. But he doesn’t look at you like you’re the enemy, he looks at you like he’s seeing something everyone else has learned to ignore. And when you run out of places to hide, his number is the only one you can think to call

Warnings: 18+ content, domestic violence, sexual assault, and trauma recovery

Read part one here

You wake up to sunlight streaming through unfamiliar curtains.

For a moment, you can’t remember where you are. The bed is too comfortable, the room too clean, the sheets smell wrong — not wrong, just different. Not like Cameron’s cologne and expensive detergent. Like something cleaner. Safer.

Then it all comes rushing back.

The napkin. The attack. Running through Boston in the freezing dark. Garrett’s voice on the phone, steady and sure. The apartment lobby. His car. This house.

You sit up slowly, every muscle in your body screaming in protest. Your throat feels like you swallowed glass. Your face throbs. When you catch sight of yourself in the mirror across the room, you barely recognize the person staring back.

The bruises are worse than you thought. Dark purple handprints wrap around your throat like a necklace. Your left cheek is swollen, a deep red-purple that’s going to turn black soon. There’s a split in your bottom lip you don’t remember getting.

You look like you went twelve rounds with a professional fighter.

You look like a victim.

The thought makes you want to throw up.

There’s a knock on the door — soft, hesitant.

“Y/N?” Garrett’s voice. “You awake?”

“Yeah.” Your voice comes out raspy, damaged.

“Can I come in?”

You pull the blanket up higher, suddenly aware you’re still in yesterday’s clothes. “Sure.”

The door opens and Garrett steps inside, carrying a tray. He’s showered and changed — different sweatpants, a clean t-shirt, hair still damp. He looks almost normal except for the dark circles under his eyes and the tension in his jaw.

“I brought breakfast,” he says. “Nothing fancy. Just toast and eggs and coffee. Tucker made it. He’s weirdly good at cooking for a guy who lives on protein shakes and beer.”

He sets the tray on the desk, and you see he wasn’t kidding. Scrambled eggs, buttered toast, a mug of coffee with cream. There’s even a glass of orange juice.

“You didn’t have to do this,” you say.

“I know.” Garrett leans against the desk, arms crossed. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I got hit by a truck.”

“Yeah. You look-” He stops himself. “Sorry. That came out wrong.”

“I know what I look like.”

There’s a long pause. Garrett’s looking at you with an expression you can’t quite read. Concern, maybe. Or pity. You’re not sure which is worse.

“I think you should go to the police,” he says finally.

Your stomach drops. “Garrett-”

“I know you’re scared. I know you think he’ll get away with it. But Y/N, look at yourself.” He gestures toward the mirror. “You have evidence. Documented injuries. That’s assault. That’s attempted murder.”

“His parents are lawyers-”

“I don’t give a shit if his parents are on the Supreme Court.” Garrett’s voice is hard. “What he did to you is a crime. You have rights. You have options.”

“And if he gets away with it? If they make me look crazy? If no one believes me?”

“Then at least you tried. At least there’s a record. At least the next time he does this — because there will be a next time, to you or someone else — there’s a paper trail.”

You want to argue. Want to explain all the reasons why this won’t work, why it’s pointless, why you should just disappear and hope Cameron forgets about you.

But Garrett’s looking at you with those dark eyes, and you can see the plea in them. The desperate need to do something, to fix this, to make it right.

“Will you come with me?” You ask quietly.

“Every step of the way.”

***

The police station smells like bad coffee and bureaucracy. You sit in a hard plastic chair in the waiting area, Garrett beside you, while an officer processes your intake paperwork.

“Someone will be with you shortly,” the desk sergeant says, barely looking up from his computer.

Shortly turns into twenty minutes. Then thirty. You’re about to suggest leaving when a female officer appears.

“Y/N Y/L/N?”

“That’s me.”

“I’m Officer Murphy. Come on back.”

She leads you and Garrett to a small interview room. It’s exactly like the ones on TV — gray walls, metal table, chairs that look designed to be uncomfortable. There’s a camera mounted in the corner.

“For documentation purposes,” Officer Murphy explains, following your gaze. “Everything we discuss will be recorded. Is that okay?”

You nod.

“I’m going to need verbal consent.”

“Yes. That’s okay.”

Officer Murphy sits across from you, pulls out a notepad. Garrett takes the chair beside you, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his body.

“So,” Officer Murphy begins. “You’re here to file a report about an assault?”

“Yes.”

“Can you tell me what happened? Start from the beginning.”

You take a breath. Try to organize the chaos of last night into something coherent.

“My boyfriend — Cameron Beck — he attacked me last night. At my dorm room.”

“What time was this?”

“Around eight PM, I think. Maybe a little after.”

Officer Murphy is writing everything down. “And what precipitated the attack?”

“He found a phone number in my bag. He thought I was cheating on him.”

“Were you?”

The question catches you off guard. “No. It was just—someone gave me their number and I kept it. That’s all.”

“Okay. So he found this number and then what?”

“He got angry. Started yelling. Threw my stuff everywhere. Then he-” Your voice catches. “He put his hands around my throat. Choked me until I couldn’t breathe.”

Officer Murphy’s expression doesn’t change. “Did you lose consciousness?”

“Almost. I thought I was going to die.”

“What happened next?”

“He let go for a second. Hit me. Across the face. Twice.” You point to your cheek. “Then he started choking me again.”

“How did you get away?”

“I kneed him. In the groin. He let go and I ran.”

“Where did you run to?”

“Just … ran. Down the street. I called for help.” You glance at Garrett. “He came and got me.”

Officer Murphy looks at Garrett for the first time. “And you are?”

“Garrett Graham. I’m-” He hesitates. “A friend. She called me and I picked her up.”

“You’re a student at BU as well?”

“No. Briar University.”

Something shifts in Officer Murphy’s expression. Recognition, maybe. “You play hockey.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And the boyfriend — Cameron Beck — he plays for BU?”

“Yes.”

Officer Murphy writes something in her notepad. You can’t see what.

“Okay, Y/N. I’m going to need to document your injuries. Is it alright if I take some photographs?”

Your stomach churns. “Do you have to?”

“It’s important for the case. Physical evidence of assault.”

You look at Garrett. He nods slightly, encouraging.

“Okay,” you whisper.

Officer Murphy pulls out a digital camera. “I’ll need you to remove your sweatshirt so we can see your throat and face clearly.”

With shaking hands, you pull off your sweatshirt. You’re wearing a tank top underneath, which means the bruises on your arms are visible too. The ones from before last night. The finger-shaped marks that have faded to yellow-green.

Officer Murphy’s jaw tightens. “How long has he been hurting you?”

“I don’t know. A while.”

“Months? Years?”

“About a year. It started small. Then got worse.”

“And you never reported it before?”

The judgment in the question makes you flinch. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I was scared. Because I thought I could fix it. Because he said no one would believe me.” Your voice rises. “Because I didn’t think it mattered.”

“It matters,” Officer Murphy says firmly. “It always matters.”

She starts taking photos. Flash after flash, documenting every bruise, every mark. Your throat from multiple angles. Your face. Your wrists. Your arms. You feel like a crime scene.

Which, you suppose, you are.

Garrett has gone completely still beside you. You can feel the tension radiating off him in waves.

“Alright,” Officer Murphy says finally, lowering the camera. “You can put your sweatshirt back on. I just need to get the rest of your statement.”

She asks you to walk through the entire relationship. When it started. When the abuse began. How often it happened. You try to remember specific incidents but they all blur together after a while. The time he threw your laptop across the room. The time he locked you in his apartment for two days. The time he pushed you down the stairs and then convinced everyone, including you, that you’d just tripped.

Officer Murphy writes it all down without comment.

Then she asks: “Did he ever sexually assault you?”

The room goes very quiet.

You can’t look at Garrett. Can’t bear to see his reaction.

“Yes,” you whisper.

“Can you describe what happened?”

“He would-” Your throat closes up. “He would force me. When I didn’t want to. When I said no.”

“How many times did this happen?”

“I don’t know. A lot. Too many to count.”

“Most recently?”

You close your eyes. “Yesterday morning. I woke up and he was already—he didn’t ask. He just-”

You can’t finish the sentence.

Beside you, Garrett makes a sound. Almost like a growl. When you glance over, his hands are clenched into fists so tight his knuckles have gone white. There’s something wet on his palms.

Blood.

His nails have cut into his skin.

“Garrett,” you whisper.

He doesn’t seem to hear you. His eyes are fixed on the table, jaw clenched so hard you can see the muscle jumping.

Officer Murphy notices too. “Mr. Graham, do you need to step outside?”

“I’m fine.” His voice is rough.

“You’re bleeding.”

Garrett looks down at his hands like he’s surprised to see them. Slowly, mechanically, he unclenches his fists. Crescent-shaped cuts mark his palms.

“I’m fine,” he says again.

Officer Murphy doesn’t look convinced, but she continues. “Y/N, I know this is difficult, but I need you to be as specific as possible about the sexual assaults. Dates, times, locations if you remember them.”

You do your best. You tell her about the times in his apartment. The time in his car. The time in a bathroom at a party when you were too drunk to consent. You tell her until the words stop meaning anything, until you’re just reciting facts like they happened to someone else.

Through it all, Garrett sits beside you, silent and bleeding.

When you’re finally done, Officer Murphy closes her notepad.

“Okay. This is what’s going to happen next. We’re going to issue a warrant for Cameron Beck’s arrest. Based on your statement and the photographic evidence, we have probable cause for assault, battery, strangulation, and sexual assault. Those are serious charges.”

“Will he go to jail?” You ask.

“That depends on a lot of factors. The DA will review the case and decide whether to prosecute. If they do, there will be a trial. You’ll have to testify.”

Your heart sinks. “I have to see him again?”

“In court, yes. But we’re also going to help you file for a restraining order. That means he can’t contact you, can’t come within a certain distance of you. If he violates it, he goes to jail immediately.”

“His parents are going to fight this,” you say. “They have money. Lawyers.”

“Let them fight. We have evidence. We have your testimony. And frankly, based on what you’ve described, this isn’t going to be a hard case to make.”

You want to believe her. Want to believe that for once, the system will work the way it’s supposed to.

But you’ve been disappointed so many times before.

“What do I do now?” You ask.

“Go home. Rest. We’ll contact you when we have more information. In the meantime, avoid any contact with Mr. Beck. If he tries to reach out, document everything and let us know immediately.”

“Okay.”

Officer Murphy stands, offers her hand. “You did the right thing, coming here. I know it doesn’t feel like it right now, but you’re incredibly brave.”

You shake her hand, but you don’t feel brave. You feel exhausted and broken and terrified of what comes next.

Garrett stands too, still favoring his bleeding palms. Officer Murphy notices.

“Mr. Graham, you should get those looked at.”

“They’re fine.”

“They’re not fine. There’s a first aid kit at the front desk.”

Garrett just nods, but you can tell he has no intention of doing anything about it.

You follow Officer Murphy out of the interview room, back through the station. At the front desk, she hands you a folder.

“Resources,” she explains. “Domestic violence hotlines, counseling services, legal aid. And my card. Call me anytime if you have questions or concerns.”

“Thank you.”

You walk out of the station into the gray February morning. The cold hits you like a slap. You don’t have a coat. You left everything at your dorm when you ran.

Everything except your phone and your life.

Garrett guides you toward his car with a hand that doesn’t quite touch your back. Protective but not possessive. It’s such a contrast to Cameron that you almost cry.

Once you’re both in the car, Garrett turns to face you. “Where do you want me to take you?”

You hesitate. “My dorm, I guess. My roommate should be back by now-”

“No.”

“What?”

“I’m not taking you back there. Not where he knows where to find you. Not where you’ll be alone.”

“Garrett, I can’t just hide forever-”

“I’m not saying forever. I’m saying until we know he’s been arrested. Until we know the restraining order is in place.” He starts the car. “You’re coming back to the house.”

“I can’t impose like that-”

“You’re not imposing. You’re surviving. There’s a difference.”

You want to argue. Want to insist you can take care of yourself. But the truth is, you’re terrified. Terrified Cameron will show up at your dorm. Terrified he’ll convince you to take him back again. Terrified of what he’ll do when he finds out you went to the police.

“Okay,” you say quietly.

Garrett drives back to his house in silence. His hands are tight on the steering wheel, and you can see the blood from his palms smearing the leather.

“You’re still bleeding,” you say.

“I know.”

“You should clean that.”

“I will.”

But he doesn’t sound like he cares. He sounds like he’s somewhere else entirely. Somewhere dark and violent.

When you pull up to the house, there are two other cars in the driveway. Garrett parks and turns to you.

“My roommates are home. They know you’re here — I told them last night. They’re cool, I promise. But if you want to go straight to the room and not deal with people, that’s fine too.”

“It’s their house. I should at least say hi.”

“You don’t owe them anything.”

“Still.”

You follow Garrett inside. The house looks different in daylight — messier but homier. There are hockey bags by the door, shoes scattered everywhere, a pile of mail on the hall table. It smells like coffee and something cooking.

“G, that you?” A voice calls from the kitchen.

“Yeah. And Y/N.”

Three guys emerge from the kitchen. You recognize one of them from Briar Hockey’s most recent post on Instagram — Logan, Garrett’s best friend. The other two you don’t know.

They all stop when they see you. You watch their expressions change as they take in your injuries — shock, anger, pity.

“Jesus,” one of them breathes. He’s auburn-haired, built like a tank. “He did that to you?”

You nod, unable to speak.

“I’m Tucker,” he says. “And when I see that motherfucker, I’m going to break every bone in his body.”

“Get in line,” Garrett mutters.

The third guy — tall, blond hair, kind eyes — steps forward. “I’m Dean. And you’re welcome to stay here as long as you need. Seriously.”

“I don’t want to be a burden-”

“You’re not.” Logan’s voice is firm. “Any friend of Garrett’s is a friend of ours. And anyone that piece of shit hurt automatically gets our protection.”

You’re overwhelmed suddenly. These boys — these strangers — are offering you sanctuary without hesitation. Without judgment. Without demanding anything in return.

“Thank you,” you manage.

“You hungry?” Tucker asks. “I made chicken noodle soup earlier this week.”

“I could eat,” you say.

“Good. Sit. I’ll heat it up.”

Garrett leads you to the dining table — a beat-up wooden thing that’s seen better days. You sit, and Garrett takes the chair beside you.

Logan grabs a first aid kit from under the sink. “Let me see your hands.”

“I’m fine,” Garrett says.

“You’re bleeding on my chair. Let me see your hands.”

Reluctantly, Garrett holds out his palms. The crescent-shaped cuts are deeper than you thought, still seeping blood.

“What the hell did you do?” Dean asks.

“Nothing.”

Logan starts cleaning the cuts with antiseptic. Garrett doesn’t even flinch.

“We went to the police this morning,” Garrett says. “She filed a report. They’re issuing a warrant for Beck’s arrest.”

The room goes quiet.

“Good,” Tucker says finally from the kitchen. “Fucking good.”

“Did they believe you?” Dean asks you.

“I think so. There’s evidence. Photos. My statement.”

“And if he tries to come near you?”

“Restraining order. But it takes time.”

“Until then, you stay here,” Logan says. It’s not a question. “We’ll make sure you get to your classes, get whatever you need from your dorm, whatever. But you don’t go anywhere alone.”

“I can’t ask you guys to do that-”

“You’re not asking. We’re offering.” Tucker brings over two bowls of soup, sets one in front of you. “Eat. You look like you haven’t eaten in days.”

He’s not wrong. You can’t remember the last real meal you had. You pick up the spoon, take a bite.

It’s delicious. Rich and warm and exactly what you need.

“This is really good,” you say.

“Told you.” Tucker grins. “Hockey and cooking. My only two skills.”

Despite everything, you almost smile.

Garrett’s still watching you with that intense expression. Like he’s memorizing every detail. Like he’s afraid if he looks away, you’ll disappear.

“You’re safe here,” he says quietly. “I know it doesn’t feel like it. I know you’re scared. But we’re not going to let anything happen to you.”

You look around the table at these four boys — these strangers who are treating you like family. Who are offering you protection without asking for anything in return. Who believe you, unconditionally.

“Why?” You ask. “Why are you all doing this?”

The boys exchange glances.

“Because it’s the right thing to do,” Logan says simply.

“Because that asshole deserves to rot,” Tucker adds.

“Because you deserve better,” Dean says.

Garrett doesn’t say anything. Just reaches over and squeezes your hand gently. Carefully. Like you’re something precious.

You squeeze back.

And for the first time since last night, you let yourself believe that maybe, just maybe, you’re going to be okay.

***

Three weeks feels like both an eternity and no time at all.

Garrett’s been counting down the days like a prisoner marking time on a cell wall. March 14th. The date he highlighted in his calendar. The date he’s been waiting for.

The date he’s going to make Cameron Beck pay.

He’s in the locker room now, lacing up his skates with mechanical precision. Around him, his teammates are going through their pre-game routines. Logan’s taping his stick. Tucker’s blasting music through his headphones. Dean’s doing some complicated stretching routine that looks like yoga.

Everyone knows what tonight is. What it means.

You filed charges. Cameron was arrested. And then, less than twenty-four hours later, he was released on bail. Fifty thousand dollars — pocket change to his parents. He walked out of that police station like nothing happened, posted some bullshit on Instagram about “false accusations,” and went right back to his life.

Including hockey.

Boston University’s administration reviewed the case. Looked at the evidence, the photos, your statement. And then decided that since Cameron hasn’t been convicted yet, he should be allowed to continue playing while awaiting trial.

Innocent until proven guilty, they said.

Never mind the handprint bruises on your throat. Never mind the records documenting your injuries. Never mind that you can barely sleep without having nightmares.

None of that matters to BU’s athletic department as much as their winning record.

Garrett’s jaw clenches so hard his teeth ache.

Coach Jensen appears in the doorway, clipboard in hand. “Alright, boys. Listen up.”

The room quiets.

“We all know what tonight is,” Coach says, his eyes scanning the team. “We all know who we’re playing. And I’m going to say this once: I don’t care about your personal feelings. I don’t care about drama. I care about hockey. You play clean, you play smart, you win the game. Got it?”

There’s a murmur of agreement.

Coach’s eyes land on Garrett. “Graham. My office. Now.”

Garrett stands, follows Coach down the hallway to his office. Coach closes the door behind them.

“Sit.”

Garrett sits.

Coach leans against his desk, arms crossed. “I know what you’re thinking.”

“Do you?”

“You’re thinking about that girl. About Beck. About what he did.”

Garrett doesn’t confirm or deny.

“I get it,” Coach continues. “I do. What happened to her is horrific. But Garrett, you’re the captain of this team. You’re a junior. You’re probably going to the NHL in a year. You can’t throw that away because you want revenge.”

“I’m not throwing anything away.”

“If you go after him tonight, you will be. You’ll get suspended. Maybe for the rest of the season. Maybe permanently. Is that really worth it?”

Garrett meets Coach’s eyes. “Yes.”

Coach sighs. “I can’t stop you. But I’m asking you to think about your team. About your future.”

“I have thought about it.” Garrett stands. “And I’ve made my decision.”

He walks back to the locker room. His teammates look up as he enters, reading his expression.

“Well?” Logan asks.

“Same as always. Play clean, win the game.”

“And are you going to play clean?” Tucker asks with a knowing smile.

Garrett doesn’t answer. Just pulls on his jersey — number 44, GRAHAM across the back in bold letters.

When it’s time to head to the tunnel, Garrett catches Coach Jensen’s eye one more time.

“Coach?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry.”

Coach’s brow furrows. “For what?”

“For the fact that the team will probably have to play without me for a few games.”

Coach opens his mouth to respond, but Garrett’s already moving down the tunnel. He can hear Coach calling after him, but the words don’t register. There’s only one thing on Garrett’s mind now.

The ice.

***

You’re sitting on Garrett’s bed, laptop balanced on your knees, streaming the game. You probably shouldn’t watch. Your therapist — the one the victim services advocate connected you with — said you should avoid triggers. And watching Cameron skate around like nothing happened, like he didn’t try to kill you, is definitely a trigger.

But you can’t help it.

You need to see this.

The arena is packed — a sold-out crowd for what the announcers are calling “one of the most anticipated matchups of the season.” Briar versus BU. First place versus second place in the conference standings.

They have no idea what else this game means.

The camera pans across the Briar bench. There’s Garrett, sitting between Logan and Tucker, face hard and focused. He looks dangerous. You’ve never seen him look like that before — like violence contained in a hockey uniform.

Then the camera cuts to the BU bench and your stomach drops.

Cameron.

He’s there. Number 14, sitting at the end of the bench, laughing at something one of his teammates said. Like this is just another game. Like he didn’t assault you. Like he didn’t rape you. Like he didn’t leave you so broken you still can’t look at yourself in the mirror without flinching.

The commentators are talking about him. About his stats, his performance this season, his NHL prospects. They mention, briefly, that he’s facing “personal legal issues” but don’t elaborate. Wouldn’t want to damage his reputation with something as trivial as the truth.

You feel sick.

The door opens and Beau, Dean’s best friend, pokes his head in. He promised the boys to keep an eye on you while they are at the game. “You okay?”

“Yeah.”

“You don’t look okay.” He comes in, sits on the edge of the bed. “You know you don’t have to watch this, right?”

“I know.”

“But you’re going to anyway.”

“I need to see it.”

Beau nods like he understands. “Want company?”

“Sure.”

He settles in beside you, close enough to be supportive but not so close it feels invasive. It’s something you’ve noticed about all the boys — they’re incredibly careful about your boundaries. They never touch you without asking. Never get too close. Never push.

It’s the opposite of Cameron in every way.

The puck drops.

***

Garrett’s never been a dirty player. He plays hard, plays physical, but he doesn’t cheap shot. Doesn’t go for injuries. Doesn’t use his stick as a weapon.

Tonight’s going to be different.

He’s skating his shift, focused on the puck, when he sees Beck coming up the ice. Their eyes meet across the neutral zone and Beck smirks. Actually fucking smirks at him.

Garrett’s vision goes red for a second, but he forces it down. Not yet. He needs to wait for the right moment. Can’t just jump him in the middle of open ice or the refs will toss him before he gets a chance to do real damage.

The first period is surprisingly restrained. Both teams feeling each other out, testing boundaries. Garrett gets a few good hits in — all legal, all clean — but nothing that satisfies the rage burning in his chest.

Logan scores midway through the first. Dean gets an assist. Briar’s up 1-0.

The period’s winding down — about three minutes left — when Garrett finds himself lined up against Beck for a faceoff in the defensive zone.

They’re at the dot, sticks ready, waiting for the ref to drop the puck.

Beck leans in close.

“Hey, Graham,” he says, voice low enough the ref can’t hear. “How’s my girl doing?”

Garrett’s stick tightens in his grip, but he doesn’t respond.

“She still staying at your place?” Beck continues, that smirk playing on his lips. “That’s cute. Playing house. But we both know she’ll come back to me eventually. She always does.”

The ref’s getting into position.

“She’s a good fuck though, right?” Beck’s voice drops to a whisper. “Tight. Eager. Especially when she cries.”

Something inside Garrett snaps.

The puck hasn’t even dropped yet when Garrett rips off his gloves and launches himself at Beck.

His first punch catches Beck square in the jaw. Beck’s head snaps back and he goes down hard, hitting the ice, but Garrett doesn’t stop. He’s on top of him, raining down punches with methodical precision. Face, ribs, face again.

Beck tries to cover up, tries to fight back, but Garrett’s bigger, stronger, and absolutely fucking furious.

“You piece of shit-” Punch. “You fucking coward-” Punch. “You think you can talk about her like that-” Punch.

Beck’s nose breaks with a satisfying crunch. Blood sprays across the ice.

The refs are shouting, trying to pull Garrett off, but he shrugs them away. Gets in two more solid hits before two refs manage to grab his arms and haul him backwards.

Garrett’s still trying to get at Beck, still ready to throw more punches, but the refs have him locked down.

Beck’s on the ice, face a bloody mess. His teammates are rushing over. The crowd is going absolutely insane — some people cheering, some people booing, everyone on their feet.

One ref is talking into his mic. “Number 44, Briar. Five-minute major for fighting. Game misconduct. You’re done.”

Garrett doesn’t argue. Doesn’t protest. Just skates toward the tunnel, ripping off his helmet.

The Briar bench erupts.

Every single player starts tapping their sticks against the boards. The sound echoes through the arena like thunder. It’s the hockey equivalent of a standing ovation.

Support. Solidarity.

They know why Garrett did it. And they’re backing him one hundred percent.

Coach Jensen is standing behind the bench, shaking his head, but even he’s fighting a smile.

As Garrett disappears into the tunnel, he catches one last glimpse of the ice. Beck’s sitting up now, holding his face, blood pouring through his fingers. His coach is yelling at the refs, demanding Garrett be suspended, banned, arrested.

Garrett doesn’t care.

It was worth it.

***

You watch the whole thing happen in real-time.

One second, they’re lined up for the faceoff. The next, Garrett’s on Cameron like a feral animal.

Beau jumps up beside you. “Holy shit!”

You can’t speak. Can’t breathe. You just watch as Garrett hits Cameron again and again and again. Watch as the refs try to pull him off. Watch as Cameron’s face turns into a bloody pulp.

The commentators are losing their minds.

“Absolutely vicious attack by Graham — completely unprovoked — this is going to be a lengthy suspension-”

But it wasn’t unprovoked. You know that. Something happened at that faceoff. Cameron said something. Did something. Pushed Garrett past his breaking point.

And Garrett responded.

For you.

The camera follows Garrett as he skates toward the tunnel. His face is set, determined, completely unrepentant. Blood — not his own — is splattered across his jersey.

Then the camera cuts to the Briar bench and you see it. Every player tapping their sticks. The sound might not come through clearly on the broadcast, but you know what it means.

They’re supporting him.

All of them.

“Did you see that?” Beau’s grinning. “The whole fucking bench. They all know.”

“Know what?”

“Why Garrett did it. They’re telling him they’ve got his back.”

Your throat feels tight. Your eyes are stinging.

Garrett just got himself ejected. Probably suspended for multiple games. Maybe even kicked off the team. And he did it for you. Because Cameron said something about you. Because he couldn’t let it slide.

The game continues. BU gets a five-minute power play because of the major penalty, but Briar’s penalty kill holds strong. Dean blocks three shots. Tucker strips the puck from a BU forward and clears it down the ice.

When the period finally ends, it’s still 1-0 Briar.

You close the laptop.

“You okay?” Beau asks.

“I don’t know.”

“That was pretty intense.”

“He did that for me.”

“Yeah. He did.”

“He’s going to get in so much trouble.”

“Probably.” Beau shrugs. “But Garrett doesn’t care. You should’ve seen him these past three weeks. He’s been counting down to this game like it was Christmas.”

“I need to-” You stand up. “I need to call him.”

“He’s probably in the locker room or getting reviewed by the league officials right now.”

“I don’t care. I need to talk to him.”

You grab your phone, pull up Garrett’s number. It rings four times before going to voicemail.

“Hey, it’s Garrett. No phones allowed on the ice. Leave a message.”

Beep.

“Hey, it’s me. I just—I saw what happened. What you did. And I-” Your voice cracks. “Thank you. I know that probably sounds crazy. I know you’re probably in trouble and I should feel bad about that but I just—thank you. For standing up for me. For not letting him get away with it. For everything.”

You pause, trying to find the right words.

“I’ll be here when you get back. We can talk then. Just be safe, okay?”

You hang up.

Beau’s watching you with a soft expression. “You care about him.”

It’s not a question.

“He saved my life,” you say.

“That’s not what I asked.”

You sit back down on the bed. “I don’t know what I feel. Everything’s so complicated and messed up and I’m barely holding myself together most days. But yeah. I care about him. How could I not?”

“He cares about you too. A lot. Like, a scary amount.”

“What do you mean?”

Beau hesitates. “He doesn’t really talk about his feelings. None of us do — we’re athletes, we’re emotionally constipated. But the way he is with you? I’ve never seen him like that with anyone. He’s protective to the point of obsession.”

“I don’t want to be his redemption project,” you say quietly.

“You’re not. Trust me. If you were, he’d be treating you like a victim. Like someone who needs to be saved. But he doesn’t do that. He treats you like a person. Like someone who deserves respect and autonomy and choice.” Beau stands, stretches. “Anyway. I’m going to make some popcorn. You want some?”

“Sure.”

He leaves and you’re alone with your thoughts.

You pull the laptop back open, reload the stream. The second period is underway. Briar’s still up 1-0. BU’s pressing hard, trying to tie it up, but Briar’s goalie is playing out of his mind.

The commentators are still talking about Garrett’s ejection.

“We’re hearing that Graham will face supplemental discipline from the league. Likely a multi-game suspension. Possibly more serious consequences given the severity of the attack.”

Good, you think viciously. Let them suspend him. Let them punish him. It was worth it.

You think about Cameron’s face. The blood. The way he looked genuinely scared for the first time since you’ve known him.

You should feel bad about that. Should feel guilty that you’re glad Garrett hurt him.

But you don’t.

You feel vindicated.

***

Garrett’s in Coach’s office when the game ends. Briar won 3-1. Logan got another goal in the second, and Tucker scored an empty-netter in the third.

But Garrett wasn’t there to see it.

“The league’s reviewing the footage,” Coach says, arms crossed. “They’re talking about a five-game suspension minimum. Maybe more.”

“Okay.”

“That’s it? Just okay?”

Garrett shrugs. “What do you want me to say? I knew what I was doing. I knew there would be consequences.”

“Did you know Beck is in the hospital?”

That gets Garrett’s attention. “What?”

“Broken nose, fractured orbital bone, possible concussion. They took him out on a stretcher.”

Garrett should feel bad about that. Should feel some kind of remorse.

He doesn’t.

“Good,” he says.

Coach’s expression hardens. “Garrett-”

“He did horrible things to her, Coach. Too many times to count. He strangled her until she thought she was going to die. He made her so scared she couldn’t even function. And BU let him keep playing because they care more about winning than doing the right thing.”

“So you decided to take justice into your own hands?”

“Yeah. I did.”

“That’s not your job.”

“Maybe not. But someone had to do it.”

Coach is quiet for a long moment. “What did he say to you?”

“What?”

“At the faceoff. Right before you hit him. What did he say?”

Garrett’s jaw tightens. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does if it pushed you that far.”

“He talked about her. About-” Garrett can’t repeat the words. Can’t make himself say them out loud. “It was disgusting. Disrespectful. And I wasn’t going to let him get away with it.”

Coach sighs, runs a hand through his hair. “You know I have to suspend you from training as well. Team policy.”

“I know.”

“You’re probably done for the season.”

“I know.”

“And you’re okay with that?”

Garrett meets Coach’s eyes. “I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”

Coach studies him for a long moment. Then, surprisingly, he smiles. “You’re a good kid, Graham. Stupid as hell sometimes, but good.”

“Does that mean you’re not kicking me off the team?”

“I should. But no. You’ll serve your suspension and then we’ll see where we are.” Coach stands. “Now get out of here. I’m sure you’ve got someone waiting for you.”

Garrett doesn’t need to be told twice.

He showers quickly, changes into his street clothes. His hands are sore — he definitely bruised his knuckles on Beck’s face — but it’s a good kind of pain. Satisfying.

His phone has seven missed calls and twice as many texts. Most from teammates, congratulating him. A few from reporters, asking for comment. One from his dad, which he deletes without reading.

And one voicemail from you.

He listens to it in his car, sitting in the parking lot.

Your voice is shaky but sincere. Thanking him. Telling him you’ll be there when he gets back.

Something in his chest loosens.

He starts the car and drives home.

When he walks through the door, the house is quiet. Beau’s on the couch, watching TV.

“She’s in your room,” Beau says without looking up.

Garrett takes the stairs two at a time.

His door is closed. He knocks softly.

“Come in.”

You’re sitting on his bed, laptop closed beside you. You look up when he enters and something in your expression makes Garrett’s breath catch.

“Hi,” you say.

“Hi.”

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Are you?”

“I watched the whole thing.”

“And?”

You stand, walk over to him. You’re close enough now that he can see the fading bruises on your throat, the shadows under your eyes.

“Thank you,” you say quietly.

“You already said that. In your message.”

“I know. But I wanted to say it to your face.” You reach out, hesitate, then gently take his hand. Look at his bruised knuckles. “Does it hurt?”

“No.”

“Liar.”

The smallest smile touches his lips. “Maybe a little.”

You hold his hand carefully, like it’s something precious. “You’re probably suspended.”

“Yeah.”

“For multiple games.”

“Probably.”

“Because of me.”

“Because of him,” Garrett corrects. “Because he’s a piece of shit who deserved to have his face rearranged.”

You look up at him, and there’s something in your eyes Garrett can’t quite read. Gratitude, maybe. Or something deeper.

“No one’s ever stood up for me like that before,” you say.

“They should have.”

“But they didn’t. You did.”

Garrett wants to close the distance between you. Wants to pull you into his arms and promise that he’ll always protect you, always fight for you, always be there.

But he doesn’t.

Because you’re not his to protect. Not really. You’re just someone he couldn’t walk away from. Someone he couldn’t save until you decided to save yourself.

“Get some sleep,” he says instead. “We can talk more in the morning.”

You nod, but you don’t let go of his hand.

“Garrett?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m glad it was you. That night. When I called. I’m glad it was you who answered.”

Something in Garrett’s chest cracks open.

“Me too,” he says.

You finally release his hand and he steps back into the hallway, closing the door behind him.

He leans against the wall, closes his eyes, and lets himself feel everything he’s been holding back for three weeks.

The rage. The fear. The overwhelming need to protect you.

And something else. Something he’s not ready to name yet.

But it’s there.

Growing stronger every day.

***

The suspension comes down two days after the game: four games for “excessive violence and intent to injure.”

Garrett doesn’t even blink.

Four games. That’s it. He was expecting worse — six, maybe eight. The fact that the league went relatively light on him suggests that maybe, just maybe, someone up there knows what Beck did. Knows why Garrett did what he did.

“Four games,” Logan says, reading the official statement on his phone. “That’s nothing.”

“Could’ve been worse,” Garrett replies, sprawled on the couch with an ice pack on his still-swollen knuckles.

“Could’ve been better. Could’ve been zero games and a medal.”

Tucker walks in from the kitchen, protein shake in hand. “Did you see the prospect rankings?”

“What about them?”

“You moved up.” Tucker grins. “Apparently scouts love a forward who can put up points and throw down when needed. The Bruins are talking about you even more now.”

Garrett sits up. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope. Check Twitter. Hockey analysts are going crazy. Half of them are calling you a thug, but the other half are saying you’re exactly what the league needs. A player with skill and grit.”

Dean appears in the doorway. “There’s already a highlight reel of the fight on YouTube. It’s got like two million views.”

“Jesus.”

“You’re famous, man. In the best and worst way possible.”

Garrett doesn’t care about fame. Doesn’t care about the projections or the highlight reels or what analysts think. He cares about one thing: that Beck is in the hospital with a face that looks like ground meat, and everyone knows why.

You appear at the top of the stairs, wearing one of Garrett’s old Briar Hockey hoodies that swallows you whole. You’ve been staying in his room for three weeks now, and the house has adjusted around you. The boys treat you like a little sister — protective, teasing, careful. It’s the safest you’ve felt in over a year.

“What’s all the noise about?” You ask.

“Garrett’s trending on Twitter,” Tucker announces.

“For the fight?”

“For being a badass, apparently.”

You come down the stairs, curl up on the couch next to Garrett. It’s become natural now, this casual proximity. He doesn’t flinch when you’re near. You don’t panic when he moves. It’s taken weeks to build this comfort, but it’s there.

“How are the knuckles?” You ask.

“Better. Still ugly.”

“Battle scars.”

“Something like that.”

Your phone buzzes. You pull it out, check the screen, and Garrett watches your expression change. The color drains from your face.

“What?” He asks immediately.

“The DA. The trial date got moved up.”

“To when?”

“Three weeks from now.” Your voice is shaky. “April seventh.”

Garrett does the math. That’s right after his suspension ends. Almost like fate scheduled it that way.

“You okay?” He asks.

“I don’t know. I thought I’d have more time to prepare.”

“You’ve been preparing for weeks. You’re ready.”

“Am I?” You look at him, and there’s real fear in your eyes. “What if I mess up? What if I freeze on the stand? What if his lawyers tear me apart?”

“Then I’ll be there to put you back together.”

It’s a promise. Simple and absolute.

You lean into him slightly, and Garrett puts his arm around your shoulders. The gesture is still new enough to feel significant. Still careful enough that either of you could pull away.

But neither of you do.

***

The three weeks pass in a blur of preparation.

The DA — a sharp woman named Katherine Doherty who looks like she could argue a case in her sleep — meets with you six times. Goes over your testimony, prepares you for cross-examination, teaches you how to stay calm under pressure.

“They’re going to try to discredit you,” she says during one session, Garrett sitting quietly in the corner. “They’re going to imply you’re lying, that you wanted it, that you’re just trying to ruin his life because you’re bitter about the breakup. And you cannot let them see you break.”

“How do I not break?” You ask. “How do I sit there and listen to them call me a liar and not fall apart?”

“You remember why you’re doing this. You remember that you’re not just fighting for yourself — you’re fighting for every woman he might hurt in the future. Every girl who might think she deserves to be treated like he treated you.”

Garrett watches you absorb this. Watches you straighten your spine, lift your chin.

“Okay,” you say. “I can do that.”

“I know you can.”

The night before the trial, you can’t sleep. Garrett finds you in the kitchen at 2 AM, making tea with shaking hands.

“Hey,” he says softly.

You jump, nearly dropping the mug. “God, you scared me.”

“Sorry. Couldn’t sleep either.”

“Tomorrow’s the day.”

“Yep.”

You pour hot water over the tea bag, watch it steep. “What if he gets away with it?”

“He won’t.”

“But what if he does? His parents hired the best lawyers in Boston. They’ve got money and connections and-”

“And you have the truth.” Garrett moves closer, takes the mug from your hands before you spill it. “You have evidence. You have photos. You have medical records. You have me.”

“You can’t testify. You weren’t there.”

“No, but I can sit in that courtroom and make sure you know you’re not alone.”

You look up at him, and in the dim kitchen light, Garrett can see the fear and determination warring in your expression.

“I’m terrified,” you whisper.

“I know.”

“But I’m also angry. I’m so angry at him for what he did. For what he took from me. And I want him to pay.”

“He will.”

“Promise?”

Garrett shouldn’t make promises he can’t keep. Shouldn’t guarantee an outcome that’s out of his control. But looking at you — brave and broken and desperately needing something to hold onto — he can’t help himself.

“I promise.”

***

The courthouse is exactly as imposing as you imagined. All marble and high ceilings and the kind of quiet that feels heavy.

You’re dressed in a simple navy dress that Katherine helped you pick out. Professional but not severe. Respectful but not apologetic. Your hair is pulled back. Your makeup is minimal.

Garrett’s beside you in a suit that looks uncomfortable on him. He’s a jeans and hoodie guy, but today he looks like he walked out of a magazine. Dark suit, crisp white shirt, tie that Logan had to help him knot.

“You look good,” you tell him as you wait outside the courtroom.

“I look like I’m going to a funeral.”

“And still very handsome.”

He manages a small smile. “You ready?”

“No. But let’s do this anyway.”

Katherine appears, all business in her sharp pantsuit. “Alright, let’s go over this one more time. You tell the truth. You stay calm. You don’t let his lawyer bait you into anger. Can you do that?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Remember, the evidence is on our side. The medical records, the photos, the police report. This isn’t a he-said-she-said. This is a he-said-she-said-and-she-has-proof.”

You nod, trying to absorb her confidence.

The courtroom doors open and you walk inside.

It’s smaller than you expected. Maybe forty seats in the gallery, half of them filled. You recognize some faces — your parents, who flew in from wherever they’ve been. Julie, who’s been your rock through all of this. Some of Garrett’s teammates.

And Cameron’s parents. Sitting in the front row, looking like they’re at a country club meeting instead of their son’s rape trial.

You don’t look at Cameron. Can’t. Not yet.

The bailiff calls the court to order and the judge — an older woman with gray hair and sharp eyes — takes her seat.

“The People versus Cameron Jameson Beck,” the bailiff announces. “Charges of rape in the first degree, assault in the second degree, and attempted murder.”

The words hang in the air like a death sentence.

The trial begins.

***

Garrett sits in the gallery, three rows back, and watches everything unfold.

The prosecution goes first. Katherine is methodical, building her case piece by piece. She presents the medical records — the photos of your bruises, the hospital documentation of your injuries. She presents the police report, Officer Murphy’s testimony about the state you were in when you came to the station.

She presents your Instagram, showing the jury the transformation from bright, happy student to hollow-eyed ghost.

Cameron’s lawyer — a smarmy guy named Robert Coburn who probably charges a thousand dollars an hour — objects to nearly everything. “Relevance, your honor.” “Speculation.” “Prejudicial.”

Most of his objections get overruled.

Then it’s time for your testimony.

You take the stand, right hand raised, and swear to tell the truth. Your voice is steady, but Garrett can see your hands shaking.

Katherine approaches with a gentle expression. “Can you state your name for the record?”

“Y/N Y/L/N.”

“And how old are you, Y/N?”

“Twenty.”

“And you’re a student at Boston University?”

“Yes. Junior. Journalism major.”

“Can you tell the jury how you met the defendant?”

You take a breath. “We met at a party. March of last year. He was charming. Funny. He asked me out and I said yes.”

“And when did the relationship turn abusive?”

“Gradually. It started with small things. Criticizing what I wore, who I talked to. Then it escalated. He’d grab my wrist too hard. Shove me. Call me names.”

“And did you tell anyone?”

“No. I thought I could fix it. Thought if I just tried harder, he’d go back to being the person I fell for.”

“When did the physical abuse become severe?”

“Last summer. He pushed me down a flight of stairs. Told everyone I tripped. I had bruises for weeks.”

Katherine presents photos. The jury studies them, and Garrett watches their faces shift from neutral to horrified.

“And the sexual assault. Can you describe what happened?”

This is the hard part. Garrett can see you steeling yourself.

“He would force me. When I said no, he’d do it anyway. He said I owed him. That it was my job as his girlfriend.”

“How many times did this occur?”

“I don’t know. Dozens. Maybe more.”

“And the incident on February nineteenth of this year. Can you describe that?”

You detail it all. The napkin. His rage. The choking. The fear that you were going to die.

By the time you finish, half the jury is crying.

Then it’s Coburn’s turn.

He stands, adjusts his expensive tie, and approaches you like a shark circling prey.

“Ms. Y/L/N, you claim my client raped you. Is that correct?”

“It’s not a claim. It’s a fact.”

“A fact. I see. And yet you never reported these alleged assaults until after you left him. Why is that?”

“I was scared.”

“Scared. Of what?”

“Of him. Of what he’d do if I told anyone.”

“But you told Mr. Graham, didn’t you?” Carlisle gestures toward Garrett. “A hockey player from a rival school. Isn’t it true that you were having an affair with Mr. Graham and fabricated these accusations to justify leaving my client?”

Garrett’s hands clench into fists.

“No,” you say firmly. “I never even met Garrett until the day before it happened. He saw Cameron hurting me after a game and tried to step in. And I didn’t fabricate anything, Cameron tried to kill me.”

“Allegedly tried to kill you.”

“There’s nothing alleged about it. He choked me until I blacked out.”

“Or perhaps you two had rough sex and you’re retroactively withdrawing consent because you regret it?”

Katherine jumps up. “Objection! Badgering the witness.”

“Sustained,” the judge says. “Mr. Coburn, watch yourself.”

But Coburn isn’t done. “You say my client raped you dozens of times. And yet you stayed with him. You continued to see him, to sleep in his bed, to appear with him publicly. Does that sound like the behavior of a rape victim?”

“Yes.” Your voice doesn’t waver. “It sounds exactly like the behavior of someone trapped in an abusive relationship. Someone who’s been manipulated and gaslit into thinking they deserve it.”

“Or someone who’s lying.”

“I’m not lying.”

“You expect this jury to believe that my client — a decorated student athlete with no prior criminal record — is a rapist and attempted murderer based solely on your word?”

“Based on my word and the medical evidence and the photos and the testimony of everyone who saw what he did to me.”

Coburn smiles. It’s not a nice smile. “No further questions.”

You step down from the stand and Garrett wants to go to you, wants to pull you into his arms and tell you how incredibly brave you are. But he stays seated, hands gripping the bench in front of him so hard his knuckles turn white.

The defense presents their case. It’s weak — character witnesses who talk about what a great guy Cameron is, how he volunteers and gets good grades and wouldn’t hurt a fly.

Cameron himself takes the stand. Denies everything. Claims you were the aggressive one, the unstable one. Says you threatened to ruin him if he ever left you.

It’s all bullshit and everyone in the courtroom knows it.

When both sides rest, the judge gives instructions to the jury. They file out to deliberate.

And then you wait.

***

Two hours feel like two years.

You’re in a conference room with Katherine, drinking terrible coffee and trying not to throw up.

Garrett’s there too, because they couldn’t make him leave. He sits beside you, not saying much, just being present.

“What if they don’t believe me?” You ask for the hundredth time.

“They will,” Katherine says.

“But what if they don’t?”

“Then we appeal. But they’re going to believe you, Y/N. The evidence is overwhelming.”

Your phone buzzes. It’s your mom, asking for updates. You ignore it. Can’t deal with her nervous energy on top of your own.

Garrett’s phone buzzes too. He checks it, smiles slightly.

“What?” You ask.

“Logan. He says if Beck walks, they’re going to handle it themselves.”

“That’s not helpful.”

“I think it’s sweet.”

Despite everything, you almost laugh.

There’s a knock on the door. The bailiff pokes his head in. “Jury’s back.”

Your stomach drops. “Already?”

“Quick verdicts are usually good for the prosecution,” Katherine says, standing. “Let’s go.”

You walk back into the courtroom on legs that feel like jelly. The gallery has filled up — more people heard about the verdict and came to watch.

Garrett takes his seat in the gallery. You sit at the prosecution table with Katherine.

The jury files in. You try to read their faces, but they’re all carefully neutral.

The judge addresses the foreperson. “Has the jury reached a verdict?”

“We have, your honor.”

“On the charge of rape in the first degree, how do you find?”

“We find the defendant guilty.”

The courtroom erupts. Cameron’s mother gasps. His father starts shouting. The judge bangs her gavel.

“On the charge of assault in the second degree, how do you find?”

“Guilty.”

“On the charge of attempted murder, how do you find?”

“Guilty.”

You can’t breathe. Can’t process. Guilty. Guilty on all counts.

The judge is talking about sentencing, but you can’t hear her over the roaring in your ears. You turn around, looking for Garrett, and find him already standing, pushing his way toward the railing that separates the gallery from the floor.

“Twenty-five years,” the judge announces. “With possibility of parole after twenty.”

Twenty-five years. Cameron won’t be out until he’s almost fifty.

Katherine is hugging you. Julie is cheering. You’re crying.

And then you’re moving, pushing past people, until you reach Garrett.

He meets you at the railing and you throw yourself at him. He catches you, arms wrapping around you, pulling you close.

“We did it,” you sob into his shoulder. “He’s going to prison.”

“You did it,” Garrett corrects, voice rough. “You were so fucking brave up there.”

“I was terrified.”

“But you did it anyway. That’s what brave means.”

You pull back just enough to look at him. His eyes are wet, you realize. Garrett Graham is crying.

“I’m so proud of you,” he whispers, tucking your head under his chin. “So goddamn proud.”

Behind you, bailiffs are handcuffing Cameron. Leading him away. He’s shouting something — probably threats, probably curses — but you don’t care. Can’t hear him over your own heartbeat.

You’re safe. Finally, truly safe.

You look up at Garrett and something shifts. Something clicks into place.

He’s looking at you with an expression you’ve seen before but never fully understood. Fierce and protective and something else. Something deeper.

“Garrett,” you whisper.

“Yeah?”

You don’t have words for what you’re feeling. Don’t know how to explain that this boy — this stranger who became your savior who became your friend — has somehow become everything.

So you don’t say anything.

You just reach up, cup his face in your hands, and kiss him.

For a second, he freezes. Surprised. Then his hands come up to cradle your face, gentle and careful, and he kisses you back.

It’s nothing like kissing Cameron. There’s no demand in it. No ownership. Just soft and sweet and full of promise.

When you finally pull apart, you’re both crying.

“Was that okay?” You ask, suddenly worried you misread everything.

“That was-” Garrett’s voice breaks. “Yeah. That was okay.”

Around you, the courtroom is clearing out. People are talking, crying, celebrating. But you and Garrett are in your own bubble.

His thumbs brush your cheekbones, wiping away tears. His touch is so gentle it makes your chest ache. You think about all the times Cameron grabbed your face — harsh, controlling, meant to intimidate. And then you think about this. About Garrett holding you like you’re something precious. Something worth protecting.

“Thank you,” you whisper. “For everything. For answering the phone that night. For believing me. For fighting for me.”

“You don’t have to thank me.”

“I do. Because you didn’t have to do any of it. You could’ve walked away. But you didn’t.”

“I couldn’t.” Garrett’s forehead touches yours. “Not from you.”

Katherine appears beside you, tactfully clearing her throat. “Sorry to interrupt, but there’s some paperwork we need to go over. And the press is outside — they’re going to want a statement.”

You take a shaky breath. “Can Garrett come?”

“Of course.”

You don’t let go of Garrett’s hand as you follow Katherine to another conference room. Don’t let go as she explains the next steps — the appeals process that Cameron will probably pursue, the restraining order that’s now permanent, the victim services available to you.

Don’t let go as you walk outside and face the cameras.

You read a prepared statement that Katherine helped you write. About believing survivors. About holding abusers accountable. About how justice, while imperfect, still matters.

The whole time, Garrett stands beside you. Not in front of you, not behind you. Beside you.

When it’s finally over, when you’re back in Garrett’s car heading home, you let yourself feel it. All of it. The relief and the grief and the rage and the hope.

“I can’t believe it’s over,” you say.

“It’s not over,” Garrett replies. “He’ll appeal. There will be more legal stuff. More healing you have to do.”

“But the worst part is over.”

“Yeah. The worst part is over.”

You look at him — really look at him. This boy who became a man in your eyes. Who taught you that not all strength is violent. That protection doesn’t mean possession.

“What happens now?” You ask.

“What do you want to happen?”

“I don’t know. I just know I want you in it. Whatever it is.”

Garrett reaches over, takes your hand. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

And for the first time in over a year, you believe that someone’s promise to you actually means something.

You believe in tomorrow.

You believe in healing.

You believe in love — the real kind. The kind that doesn’t hurt.

As Garrett drives you home, your hand in his, you think about that girl in the old Instagram photos. The bright, ambitious journalism student who wanted to change the world.

She’s not gone.

She’s been sleeping. Waiting. Healing.

And now, finally, she’s ready to wake up.

***

One year later.

You’re standing on the sidelines of Agganis Arena, camera crew behind you, microphone in hand, and you’ve never felt more alive.

The scoreboard reads 4-2, Briar. Opening game of the season, and your alma mater just got demolished by your boyfriend’s team. You should probably feel some kind of loyalty conflict, but honestly? You’re just happy to be here.

Happy to be doing what you love.

Happy to be yourself again.

“Alright, Y/N, we’re live in thirty seconds,” your producer says through your earpiece.

You smooth down your blazer — BU red and white, professional but not stuffy — and check your notes one more time. Post-game interview with Briar’s captain and star center, who just scored a hat trick.

Who also happens to be the love of your life, but you’re trying to keep it professional.

“And we’re live in five, four, three …” The producer counts down with his fingers, then points at you.

You smile at the camera. “I’m here with Garrett Graham, captain of the Briar University hockey team, who just led his team to a dominant 4-2 victory over Boston University in tonight’s season opener. Garrett, congratulations on the win.”

Garrett’s in his full gear minus his helmet, hair damp with sweat, face flushed from exertion. He looks good. Unfairly good. But you keep your expression neutral, professional.

“Thanks, Y/N,” he says, and there’s the tiniest hint of a smile playing at his lips. “Feels great to start the season with a W.”

“You had three goals tonight. Walk me through that second one — the wraparound. That was pretty spectacular.”

“Yeah, I mean, their goalie was cheating to the far post, so I saw an opening and just tried to jam it in. Got lucky.”

“Lucky?” You raise an eyebrow. “That was pure skill and you know it.”

Now he’s definitely smiling. “Well, I’ve had some good coaching. Great teammates. It’s a team effort.”

“Speaking of team effort, this is your senior year. How does it feel knowing this is your last season playing college hockey?”

Something shifts in Garrett’s expression. Gets more serious. “It’s bittersweet, you know? I love this team. Love this school. But I’m also excited for what’s next.”

You consult your notes, but you’ve memorized these questions. Did the research like you do for every interview. The fact that you also know Garrett’s favorite breakfast order and the way he likes his coffee doesn’t matter right now. Right now, you’re a journalist doing your job.

“Your team has high expectations this year,” you continue. “Returning most of your starters, strong recruiting class. Do you think Briar can make a run at the national championship?”

“I think we’ve got the talent and the drive. We’ve been working our asses off—sorry, can I say that on air?”

You fight back a smile. “We’re cable. You’re fine.”

“Well, we’ve been working really hard in the off-season. Everyone’s bought in. Everyone wants it. So yeah, I think we’ve got a real shot.”

“And what about you personally? Any individual goals for the season?”

Garrett looks directly at the camera. “Honestly? I just want to make the most of it. Enjoy every game. Play for my teammates. And hopefully leave Briar better than I found it.”

It’s a perfect answer. Humble but confident. Team-oriented but ambitious.

You should wrap up the interview. Move on to the next player. But there’s something in Garrett’s eyes — a warmth, a familiarity — that makes you relax slightly.

“So,” you say, going slightly off-script. “Three goals on opening night. That’s got to feel pretty good, especially against BU.”

“Oh, especially against BU,” Garrett agrees, and now he’s definitely teasing. “No offense to your school.”

“Some taken. We did make it competitive for two periods.”

“You did. That third period though …” He makes a yikes face.

“Okay, rude.”

“I’m just stating facts. As a journalist, I thought you’d appreciate factual accuracy.”

You bite back a laugh. “I appreciate winning more.”

“Well, you’re dating a Briar guy now, so technically you did win tonight.”

Your producer is probably having a heart attack in the truck, but you can’t help it. You grin. “I suppose that’s true.”

“Plus I scored three goals. You should be very impressed.”

“Oh, should I?”

“Definitely. I expect appropriate celebration later.”

You feel your cheeks heat up. “Garrett, we’re on camera.”

“I know.” He’s absolutely shameless, that smile widening. “Just keeping things interesting for the viewers.”

“You’re impossible.”

“You love it.”

And okay, you do. You love this — the easy banter, the way he can make you laugh even in the middle of a professional interview, the way he looks at you like you’re the only person in the arena.

“Alright, I think that’s probably enough for tonight,” you say, trying to regain some semblance of professionalism. “Garrett Graham, congratulations again on the win. Best of luck for the rest of the season.”

“Thanks for having me.”

He starts to walk away, then turns back. Before you can react, he’s leaning in and kissing you — quick and sweet but definitely not professional — right there on camera.

When he pulls back, you’re frozen, face burning, completely flustered.

“See you at home,” he says with a wink, then jogs off toward the locker room.

You turn back to the camera, trying to compose yourself. Your producer is definitely going to kill you, but you can hear him laughing through your earpiece.

“And that’s … that’s the post-game report from Agganis Arena,” you manage. “Back to you in the studio.”

The camera light goes off and you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

Your producer appears, shaking his head but grinning. “Well, that’s going viral.”

“I’m so sorry-”

“Are you kidding? That was gold. Adorable, authentic, exactly the kind of content people eat up.” He claps you on the shoulder. “Great job tonight, Y/N. Really great work.”

You pack up your gear, still blushing, and check your phone. There’s already a text from Julie: OMG I SAW THAT. YOU AND GARRETT ARE DISGUSTINGLY CUTE.

Then one from Logan: G’s getting chirped so hard in the locker room right now. Worth it though.

Then one from your mom: Sweetie, you looked wonderful! Very professional! Well, mostly professional 😊

You’re laughing as you head out to the parking lot. Your car is parked next to Garrett’s truck — you drove separately since you had to be here early for setup, but you’ll both end up at the same place.

Home.

It still feels surreal sometimes. That you’re here. That you’re happy. That you wake up every morning next to someone who treats you like you’re precious.

You drive home on autopilot, your mind replaying the interview. The way Garrett looked at you. The easy chemistry between you. The kiss that’s probably being GIF’d and memed as you drive.

When you pull into the driveway, his truck is already there. Lights are on in the living room.

You let yourself in — still a small thrill every time, having a key, being welcome, being home — and find Garrett on the couch, showered and changed into sweatpants and a Briar t-shirt.

“Hey, superstar,” you say, dropping your bag by the door.

He looks up, grins. “Hey, yourself. How’d the rest of the interviews go?”

“Fine. Though none of them involved impromptu kisses.”

“I couldn’t help it. You looked too good.”

You flop down beside him, and he immediately pulls you into his side. It’s automatic now, this casual affection. So different from the careful distance you maintained those first few months.

“You’re going to get me in trouble,” you say, but there’s no heat in it.

“With who? Your producer loved it.”

“With my professional reputation.”

“Your professional reputation is that you’re a talented journalist who asks great questions and happens to be dating the extremely handsome captain of Briar’s hockey team.”

“Extremely handsome? Really?”

“I’m just reporting the facts.”

You laugh, tilting your head up to look at him. “You played really well tonight.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. That second goal was beautiful. And the assist to Logan — perfect pass.”

“Are you analyzing my game?”

“I’m a sports journalist. It’s literally my job.”

Garrett’s expression softens. “You know what I love about you?”

“My devastating good looks?”

“Well, yes. But also that you never stopped chasing your dreams. Even after everything. You could’ve given up on journalism, on sports media, on everything. But you didn’t.”

You think about that. About the girl you were a year ago — broken, terrified, barely functional. About the slow, painful process of putting yourself back together. The therapy sessions. The nightmares that still happen sometimes. The moments of panic when someone moves too fast or raises their voice.

But also about the victories. Getting back on camera. Doing your first post-game interview. Continuing with your journalism degree. Landing the job with BU’s sports network.

Coming home to Garrett and feeling safe.

“I had help,” you say quietly.

“You did the work.”

“We did the work.”

Because it hasn’t been just you. Garrett’s been there for every step. Patient when you couldn’t be touched. Understanding when you had nightmares. Gentle when you needed gentleness and strong when you needed strength.

He’s been to therapy himself — dealing with his own trauma, his own guilt about his mother. Learning how to be supportive without being controlling. How to protect without possessing.

You’ve healed together.

“Come here,” Garrett says, pulling you fully into his lap. You go willingly, straddling him, your hands on his shoulders.

“Hi,” you whisper.

“Hi.”

He kisses you properly this time. Not the quick peck from the arena, but slow and deep and full of promise. His hands settle on your waist, thumbs rubbing gentle circles through your shirt.

When you break apart, you’re both breathing harder.

“I’m really proud of you,” he says. “For tonight. For everything. You were amazing out there.”

“It was just an interview.”

“It wasn’t just anything. You stood on that sideline in the arena where he used to play and you did your job like the professional you are. That takes guts.”

You hadn’t thought about it that way. Hadn’t consciously registered that you were in BU’s arena doing what you love without fear.

“He’s in prison,” you say. It’s a fact you remind yourself of sometimes. When the anxiety creeps in. When you wonder if he’ll somehow find you. “He can’t hurt me anymore.”

“He can’t hurt you anymore,” Garrett agrees. “And even if he could, he’d have to go through me first.”

“My fierce protector.”

“Always.”

You kiss him again, and this time it’s different. Deeper. More urgent. His hands slide under your shirt, warm against your skin, and you arch into the touch.

“Bedroom?” He murmurs against your lips.

“Bedroom,” you agree.

He stands, lifting you easily, and you wrap your legs around his waist. He carries you upstairs — something that should be cheesy but somehow isn’t, not with him — and lays you gently on the bed.

The first time you slept together, four months ago, you cried. Not from pain or fear, but from the overwhelming realization that intimacy could be tender. That sex could be about connection instead of control.

Garrett held you through it, whispered that you were safe, that you could stop anytime, that he loved you.

You don’t cry anymore. Now it’s just … good. Better than good. Amazing.

He takes his time with you now, kissing down your neck, your collarbone. His hands are reverent as he removes your clothes, piece by piece, checking in with every new touch.

“This okay?”

“Yes.”

“And this?”

“Yes.”

It’s something he always does. Always asks. Even a year into your relationship, even though you’ve done this dozens of times, he never assumes. Never takes.

Only gives.

He kisses the spot on your throat where Cameron’s handprints used to be. The bruises are long gone, but the memory lingers. Garrett knows this. Treats these places with extra care. Extra tenderness.

“Beautiful,” he whispers against your skin. “So fucking beautiful.”

You pull him up to kiss him properly, to tell him without words how much he means to you. How much this means.

Hours later, you’re both exhausted and sated, tangled together in the sheets. Your head is on his chest, his arm around you, fingers drawing idle patterns on your shoulder.

“What are you thinking about?” He asks.

“How different everything is.”

“Good different or bad different?”

“The best different.” You tilt your head to look at him. “A year ago, I couldn’t imagine being happy again. Couldn’t imagine feeling safe or loved or … whole.”

“And now?”

“Now I can’t imagine anything else.”

Garrett’s quiet for a moment. “I love you. You know that, right?”

“I know. I love you too.”

“I’m going to marry you someday.”

It’s not a proposal — just a statement of fact. But it makes your heart skip anyway.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. When you’re ready. When we’re ready. But someday, I’m going to put a ring on your finger and spend the rest of my life making sure you never doubt how loved you are.”

You should probably be scared by that level of commitment. Should feel trapped or pressured or uncertain.

But you don’t.

You feel safe.

“Someday sounds good,” you whisper.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He kisses the top of your head, and you settle back against his chest. Listen to his heartbeat. Let yourself drift.

You think about the girl in those old Instagram photos. The one who was bright and ambitious and full of dreams. The one who thought she could change the world.

She’s still here. She’s been here all along, just waiting to be found again.

And she’s got so much left to do.

Stories to tell. Games to cover. A career to build. A life to live.

But for now, in this moment, wrapped in the arms of someone who sees all of her — the broken parts and the healing parts and the parts that were never damaged at all — she’s exactly where she needs to be.

“Garrett?” You murmur, half-asleep.

“Hmm?”

“Thank you for answering the phone that night.”

His arms tighten around you. “Thank you for calling.”

Outside, the world keeps spinning. Tomorrow will bring new challenges, new victories, new moments to navigate. But tonight, you’re safe and loved and whole.

And that’s more than enough.

That’s everything.

[stellasfictionalworld]

the world won't end.

dean di laurentis x fem!reader

​summary: in which dean takes care of his close friend as she lets loose, including bringing her home and suddenly everything clicks for him. 

cw: reader may have ocd, prescribed pills, very self-insert, bf material dean, drinking, slight nudity, fluff, angst (reader overthinks everything), sweet dean (i wrote this while listening to all of sombr's music)

​3k word count

Briar’s hockey team had won another game in their season. Closer to victory since they were set back to score zero. That’s how you ended up at the boys’ house party, drinking cider out of a can. The oversweet bubbles eased your mind. Your left hand's pointer finger smoothed over the same spot of the can as you half-heartedly laughed at a guy's story. This crypto bro was making you want to take a shot. His hair was slicked back to the point it looked oily. His shirt was wrinkled, and he wore a flannel that did not flatter him at all.

“Sorry,” you smiled sweetly, your eyes up at his. “I’m not interested in crypto or you, but have a good night,” you turned on your heels. Not wanting to relish in the moment. You ran your tongue over your teeth a few times before finding the island table. Many bottles of choice twinkled at you, red solo cups scattered, and somebody had done the liberty of laying out tin-wrapped condoms.

You took a deep breath before grabbing a fresh solo cup and dumping tequila. You drank, cringed, and washed it down with sweetness.

“Shit, that might’ve been two or three,” you spoke to yourself as your throat burned.

“Yeah, no shit,” Dean said from behind you. You already were smiling when you spun on your heels to look up at him. He wore a simple white iron-pressed shirt and black shorts. His perfectly white teeth cast down at you. His blue gemstone eyes flicked up and down. You caught the tiniest furrow in his brow when he watched your finger tap against the red solo cup. It melted away when you started to sway to the music. Sneakers squeaking against wood floors.  

“Can we dance?” you asked him, eyes sparkling under the disco light.

Dean chugged his drink and set it on the table. You quirked a brow at his eagerness as he wiped his mouth clean. His bicep flexed for a moment while you admired. He winked down at you, “Can’t waste the nectar from the gods,” he referenced Greek mythology.

Your eyebrows shot up, “You actually listen to me?” You were surprised. Referring to your latest ramble on the book you read recently. Suddenly, you were aware of his chest being a mere few inches away from you.

“I listen to everything that comes out of your mouth,” his head dipped down at you. Blonde strands of hair soaked in sweat stuck to the sides of his face. He smelled like salt and sandalwood. He held your gaze, your finger tapped against the cup, slowed, and you set it on the table. Your butt bumped against the island, and you swallowed thickly.

“Like how that Zeus guy is super weird,” his tone was serious. You snorted, and Dean cracked a smile. Your hands reached for his face, and then you brushed his hair back. Your fingers combed through his hair until you were happy with the look. It looked somewhat similar to the way he usually had it. When you were done, you pulled your hands back and wiped them on your shorts. You’d managed to silence Dean; he seemed to be holding his breath. His face was serious, maybe stunned.

“Are we dancing or do you want me to give you a book report?” you quipped, already reaching for his warm hand. You dragged him to the living room, which was lively. Dean let you drag him; you heard his laughter as you demanded that people move out of your way. Finally, there was space for you two, and you fucking danced.

Dean wouldn’t call your dance moves smooth when you were sober. However, when you were feeling the music and had enough to drink, holy fuck. You were made of water, the rhythm flowing through your body as if it were your calling. Your sparkly eye makeup flickered under the lights. Your hands smoothed over your revealing top, which didn’t leave much to the imagination. Then they slinked down your jean shorts, revealing the perfect shape of your ass. Then you threw your hands back in the air.  

Dean supported you through every move, matching your energy. He was your number one hype man, and Allie was your number one hype woman. However, Allie had caught the flu, and the woman had triple checked with Dean to supervise you. She mentioned you’d had a rough time recently and needed to let loose.

Dean wanted to press the issue, but bit his tongue. You and Allie were best friends, years of friendship built on shared experiences and trust. You’d only recently started a friendship with Dean, clearly drawing the fucking line in the sand that that’s what all you wanted. Out of respect, the man had to push away the thoughts of you that invaded his mind. They were very much PG-13, he might add.

He reminisced about the 2am pizza you brought to his window when he texted you that he couldn’t sleep. You both spoke in low voices as you ate on his bed. Your legs were swung over his. You were still wearing PJs, and he thought they looked cute on you. You rambled to him in between bites of cheese pizza.

“… and she’s just such a narcissist,” you complained about your peer. You’d willingly chosen this girl, Jessy, or was it Jessica? To be a partner in your research project, but turns out she was bat shit crazy.

“She’s the one who stole your friend Lilly's room key, right?” He tried to gather as much information about your personal life. You froze midbite and blinked at him like he’d grown two heads.

“You okay?” he asked, his free hand landing on top of your ankle. He held back a smile as your eyes fought not to look where he’d just touched. He was a bit of a tease still, but you never complained. Heat rose to your cheeks as you finished your bite.

“You remember Lily?” you asked, your childhood and current friend. You’d mentioned her once, over a month ago.

“Yeah, I remember," he shrugged like it was no big deal. Dean had what people called selective hearing. His noggin worked just fine, and he’d rather listen to you.

“Right, uh Lily…” you went back to rambling, the warmth in your cheeks stayed as his thumb ran circles over your ankle.

One empty pizza box later, and you two had fallen asleep on his bed. He was shirtless. You wore his soft blue sweater after freaking out over the tomato sauce on your shirt. He offered a shirt from his drawer, but you seemed more panicked.

“Germaphobe,” he teased before taking his sweater off for you. You trusted the material that smelled like him and laundry detergent. He still had shorts on; chivalry wasn’t entirely dead.

In the night, you two were drawn into each other's warmth. By the time you two woke up, you almost jolted out of bed. Dean was half awake, feeling cold as you scrambled out of bed. He didn’t entirely understand what was going on, eyes half lidded as you grabbed your things. You were in a hurry, but it wasn’t a school day, so he assumed you were late for something or it had to do with him. It was most likely the ladder. You never mentioned that morning, and it was the last time you spent the night with him. You’d still crawl into his room in the middle of the night, but would run back to your room before the sun rose.

Maybe Dean missed that. Maybe he wanted the best for you. Maybe he also wanted to be there to care for you and support you 24/7.

When you tumbled your way out of the house where the party was slowly dying, Dean followed quickly behind you. “You can crash here if it’s easier,” he said, a hand on your hip as he helped you down the wooden stairs.

“Nono, I’vegottagottahome,” your words slurred, but the meaning was clear.

“Yeah, no problem,” Dean said softly, “I’ve got you,” he said before hooking your legs under his arm and picking you up bridal style. You let out a hum of disapproval, but when you looked up at him, he almost missed his next step. Your hair was out of place, your face flushed, and you bit down on your bottom lip. Glittered eye makeup was smudged all over your face, making you look like some sort of fairy. Your eyes, which could only be described as fucking gorgeous, stared up at him like only he mattered. Dean’s chest tightened, and he reminded himself to breathe. You curled up against his chest as he decided to carry you home.

-

You continued your deep, shallow breaths until Dean slid the key into your door. You shifted under his arm, and he looked down at you. Your eyelashes were half coated in mascara, and you seemed to use all your strength to keep your eyes open.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he said, stepping into your dorm. It was still as he locked the door behind him. Dean flicked the light switch, and an orange glow came from the living room. He kicked off his shoes because you hated trailing dirt around the place. When he stepped towards your leather couch, he stopped. Dean’s jaw locked, realizing he’d never set foot in your dorm. You’d known each other for 6 months.

You avoided inviting people to your place as if it were the plague. Always talking your friends out of it or throwing in a distraction like you were hungry, so Malone’s it was. In which Dean would watch you triple-check that the staff didn’t put pickles in your burger. You’d dip French fries in ketchup with precise positioning, never getting it anywhere else. Dean learned to grab extra napkins, and when you’d get up to go to the bathroom, he’d double-check your purse had hand sanitizer. The day your hand sanitizer was out after dinner at Malone’s, you’d gone nonverbal. Again, you were a mega germaphobe and would freak if something didn’t go your way.

Dean now felt he had overstepped a boundary. You didn’t even have a roommate. He may have been the first person to ever step into your room. Okay, maybe that was dramatic. He set you down on the couch. You melted onto the red polished leather, sneakers dangling off the edge of the couch. Dean was quick to remove them, and he walked to the entrance to drop them off. All your shoes were neatly set on a shoe rack, so he set the current ones in his hands in an open spot. The blonde ran a hand through his hair, pulling on his brown roots. He grabbed his phone from his shorts. He could text Wellsy, right? They were close enough friends—

He heard shuffling and almost dropped his phone. His pulse quickened. The couch was empty. You were so drunk, he was worried you’d manage to hurt yourself somehow. Dink dink. Dean followed the sound to a bedroom he assumed was yours. He stopped at the door frame, watching you lazily take off your jewelry. You were slouched over your dresser that showcased all your jewelry. Dean was curious what silvers and golds he hadn’t seen you wear yet. He pushed the thought down when you turned around to meet his eyes.

You looked like a hot, drunken Jack Sparrow, if that made sense. You clumsily made your way to him, and Dean caught you in his arms. You smiled a little too eagerly; you knew he’d catch you. “Let’s get you to bed,” Dean said, hands gently wrapping around your shoulders.

“No, no, makeup off.” Your words weren’t slurred anymore, but you weren’t making perfect sentences.

“Okay,” Dean squeezed your shoulder gently, and you rested your hand on top of his. You then let go and ducked under his arm with a giggle. Dean rolled his eyes as you made a right to the bathroom. You kept the door cracked open, and he waited outside. His back pressed against the wall, intently listening for a misstep or gagging. Instead, he heard the shower turn on, and he whipped his head to the door.

“What the fuck,” he muttered. Dean peeked inside, and you were hidden behind the floral shower curtain. All your clothes sat in a pile on the bathroom tiles. Dean called our name, “You okay?” he asked.

“Yeah,” you said. Then your head popped out from behind the shower curtain. Water droplets fell down your hair onto the tiled floor. You smiled lazily, mascara melted under your eyes. “Could you grab my clothes? They’re on my bed,” you asked. Of course, Dean couldn’t say no, but he did feel like your servant at the moment.

“Of course, princess,” he bowed dramatically in your direction. It earned a giggle from you, and he did smile at that. Then you ducked behind the shower curtain, and Dean went to grab your things.

He turned on the light and placed your old clothes in a laundry basket. On the edge of your bed were neatly folded clothes. He checked that everything was there; apparently, all you needed was an old band t-shirt and underwear. The shower still ran, so he took the chance to look around your room. 

Your bed was on the side of the room, facing the door. To his right was your dresser, and beside it was your in-room closet. The room's closet was closed, and a long mirror with a golden frame was nailed to the wall. The dresser was made of old, chipped wood. On it sat a box of jewelry, a neat stack of Polaroids, and a multitude of different lotions. Some hand lotions, some big jars of it. He took note of your stock, reminding himself that your hand cream at his place was running low. 

Your hands were always dry, and you kept forgetting to moisturize. When you did remember, you’d run your fingers over your hands for a solid minute before being satisfied. He looked to his left, where your desk was, in front of the window with its curtains drawn. Your laptop, a couple of books, and pencils sat there. His knees bumped against the back of your office chair as he smiled softly at an array of literature piling up. A Greek mythology book caught his eye, and a bookmark was tucked in the middle.

Dean smiled like an idiot; he really enjoyed this far too much. Learning about you in ways that couldn’t be seen just by sitting in his room. His lips formed a thin line when his eyes settled on the orange pill bottle beside your pencil bag. He just stared at it. It wasn’t a big deal; your generation embraced mental health and supported each other. It really wasn’t a big deal. You didn’t owe him anything, but man, his hand gripped the top of the chair.

Your struggles suddenly became so obvious. He couldn’t believe seeing a pill bottle would open his eyes. He was an idiot.

-

You turned off the shower, looking over the curtain to find no sign of Dean or your clothes. You dried yourself before wrapping yourself in your towel. You stepped inside your room, and suddenly you felt sober. Dean stared at your bottle of pills that you took. The anxiety ripped from within your stomach. Your throat started to close up as you thought about how the world was going to end. This was it.

Dean turned his head in your direction, finally realizing you were there. His upper lip tugged upward, his smile gentle. More real. “Feel better?” he asked, your clothes still in his hand.

You blinked. This must have been a trick, right? How was he not freaking out? You expected him to just leave without a word. Your lips parted in shock as he just stood there looking pretty. Suddenly, a lightbulb went off in your head.

You laughed, and Dean’s eyebrows furrowed as he walked over to you. He put a hand on your dewy bare shoulder. “I’ll go get you some water,” he decided, unsure what he should be doing. “No, no,” you shook your head, smiling.

“I just remembered why I take those meds,” your eyes locked on him, “because I just thought you’d leave me because of them. My brain just comes up with stupid shit–” you started to ramble, suddenly a weight lifted off your shoulders.

“Hey,” Dean interrupted you, his finger hooking under your chin. He was inches away from your face, “I’d never leave you. I just want to help make things easier. You can have one of my drawers. Keep all your stuff there,” Dean went on, and oh god, he was so cute when he was serious and panicked. His eyebrows scrunched sweetly, and kissable lips formed a frown.

“Remind me to kiss you tomorrow,” you interrupted him, and he let out a strange nose. He just stared blankly at you, and you grabbed your clothes out of his hand. You dropped your towel behind him and started to dress.

“Fuck,” Dean said with his back turned to you. You watched his muscles tense under his shirt as he crossed his arms over his chest. “You mean it?” he glanced over his shoulder, seeing you dressed in a large t-shirt. You slipped on your underwear and caught his gaze. If you didn’t know any better, Dean De Laurentis was blushing because of you.

“Yeah,” your voice was smooth like honey, this was the most sure you’d ever felt in your life. “We can sleep together for now, though,” you said. Still feeling the alcohol in your system despite how good you felt.

“Yes!” Dean celebrated like some kid who’d won a prize.

“You’re a dork,” you rolled your eyes, slipping under your sheets.

“I’ve been called a lot worse,” Dean assured.

“Yeah, I’m sure, and I bet you liked it,” you responded as the bed sank when Dean got on the other side. Dean was surely ready to say something witty back, but your face hit his chest. His shirt reeked of sweat, beer, and sandalwood, but you didn’t care. The world didn’t end and Dean wasn’t going anywhere. 

[pennylanefics]

Mourning | D. D. L.

A/N: this is a fic i've had written for months but never did anything with, aside from read it myself here and there. but with the series coming out soon, i figured it'd be a good time to bring it to here! i have many things written for both him and garrett, so if anyone is interested, i can continue with those and post them! hope you enjoy <3

summary: while dean deals with the death of his best friend, you take charge to care for him in his time of need

word count: ~1.4k

warnings: talks of death, sad/depressed dean

“Dean, honey, the pizza and wings were delivered,” you quietly inform your boyfriend, stepping into his room a little. The only response you get is a short ‘hmph’ and he doesn’t move an inch from his position of laying on his stomach.

“You need to eat something,” you continued on, hoping he would get up at the concern in your voice. But he doesn’t.

Sighing softly, you step into his room and shut the door behind you, striding over to sit beside him on his bed. His body was still clad in the black formal clothes he wore, the energy to remove them completely diminished the second his body hit the sheets. You wore something similar, a black dress with some tights, the only acceptable type of outfit for a day like today.

Beau’s funeral took place earlier this morning, and while your lover had some time to prepare for it, it didn’t make it any less difficult. You were by his side the whole time, but it didn’t make it any easier hearing from his family and seeing the closed casket, being reminded of the painless yet horrific death he endured.

Now, because the day had drained him so much, he wanted to crash for the rest of the night, but you knew he needed to care for himself. Taking a seat on his bed, the mattress dips slightly with your weight, letting Dean know you’re here for him.

You rest your hand on the back of his head, gently threading through the blond locks that had been styled neatly, now ruined by him running his hands through it on the ride home. No words are said as you comfort your boyfriend, trying your best to soothe his broken soul.

“Keep doing that, please,” Dean’s voice is muffled with his face buried in the pillow, so you barely understand what he says.

“What was that?” Dean shifts his head a little so his mouth is now free, and he repeats what he said.

“Can you keep doing that?” He begs. Your heart aches at the pain in his voice, and all you can do is nod, quietly shushing him in hopes that the movement will ease his mind.

“Of course, baby,” you whisper.

So, the two of you sit there in his silent and dark room, comforting him in the face of his friend’s death, hoping that he won’t close you off and isolate himself like he did only a week ago.

A few minutes go by and there is a knock on the door, followed by Logan entering the room.  A somber expression remains on his face, two plates in his hand and two bottles of water balanced in his elbows.

You motion for him to set the items on the desk in the corner, mouthing a genuine ‘thank you’ to him before he quietly walks back out, the door clicking shut ever so gently. After about ten minutes, Dean still has yet to move, but the growl of your stomach is enough for you to speak up and ask him again.

“You wanna eat with me? Logan brought us some food,” you say, not yet removing your hand from his hair. To your surprise, he slowly sits up and wipes his face with his hands, nodding a little, though not quite meeting your eyes.

Standing, you step over to his dresser and grab the plates, bringing them back to the bed. This time, you sit with your legs crossed on the mattress as he sits against the headboard.

The two of you eat in silence, which was beginning to bother you, seeing as you despise mouth and chewing noises, so you try to make light conversation to fill the void.

“I heard Garrett is taking a trip to Maine, are you planning on going with him?” You had heard from Hannah that it was in the early stages of being planned, with no set date or time yet, but the guys were set on making it a couples trip with everyone.

“Dunno,” he mutters, swallowing the bite of pizza he had taken. He says nothing else, moving on to the lemon pepper wings next to the slices.

“Wellsy said they're hoping it to be a big group trip, so I could go with you,” you suggest, hoping that idea would get him more excited. But still, nothing.

You awkwardly sit and finish your food, taking drinks here and there to wash it down. Once both of your plates are empty, aside from the napkins used, you stand up and take both of them in your hands.

“I’ll be right back,” you murmur, trying your best to not show the fact that his closed-off mood is getting to you.

As you step into the kitchen, tears prickling your eyes and threatening to spill over, you keep your head down and look for the trash can. Though you are stopped in your tracks by none other than Logan, his hands grasping your shoulders to keep you from running.

“Come talk to me,” he insists, nodding his head towards his room. Your eyes flit back over to Dean’s room, hating that you were leaving him alone, but knowing you can’t escape John this time.

He shuts the door behind him and the second it closes, you burst into tears and fall into Logan’s arms.

“I don’t know what to do,” you cry into his shoulder. “I feel so helpless.”

“It’s alright to feel that way. Dean’s a hard nut to crack, I’ve known him for years and he’s always been like this. He doesn’t like other people dealing with his problems so he shuts everyone out. He hasn’t spoken to us either, so don’t be too worried about it being personal.”

Part of you feels a little more at ease with this knowledge, but it still hurts.

“I don’t know how to help him, Logan. I want to be there for him, but he won’t talk to me.”

“Give him time, that’s what he needs. He needs time to process this, to go through the stages of grief. All you need to do is reassure him that you’ll be there no matter what. Through thick and thin, through the nights of endless crying, all of it. He needs you more than anything, he’s just scared to admit it.”

You take in Logan’s words and your cries and shaking were finally starting to subside. The sound of the boisterous group outside of his room brings you back down to reality as well.

“Thanks, Logan. I appreciate it a ton. I love Dean more than anything and I hate seeing him so hurt.”

“I know you do, and he’s going to pull through, he’s Dean Di Laurentis for fuck sake.”

You chuckle softly and finally pull away from Logan, wiping your cheeks to rid the tears from your skin.

“Thank you. I should probably get back to him now.” With that, Logan opens the door for you and gives you a gentle and caring pat on the shoulder as you walk out.

You ignore the rest of the group and head straight to Dean’s room, who is finally sitting up in bed, now undressed, staring down at his phone. He locks it and sets it aside to welcome you back into his arms.

“Sorry, I was talking to Logan,” you say as you tuck into his side, hand resting on his warm, bare chest. 

He doesn’t respond, only kisses your head softly, resting his cheek in the place afterwards.

“You know you can open up to me,” you whisper after a few minutes of silence. You can feel Dean nod his head in agreement, but still, nothing comes out of his mouth. “I’m gonna be here for you through it all, I promise.”

He snuggles you closer to him, nuzzling his face in your neck and inhaling your scent.

“Thank you,” he murmurs into your skin, eyes fluttering shut and just enjoying the feel of being in your arms.

“I love you, Dean.”

“I love you,” he replies in the same tone of voice.

For the remainder of the night, you and Dean distract yourselves by watching some episodes of a TV show, neither of you moving from your spot, too caught up in the comfort you are providing one another, you more than him.

It’s tough going through losses, but having someone by your side makes it a hell of a lot easier.

[jjscrybaby]

jj maybank x fem!reader | hurt & comfort | (bad parents, mentions of weed, sad!reader, not written overly well bc i was sad)

this is depressing as hell i’m sorry… also very self indulgent. i’m an oversharer idc, the main reason i haven’t been posting a lot recently is because my home life isn’t going too well with my step dad, but at half 2 in the morning this is what my brain came up with to make myself feel better so enjoy

One thing the Pogues understood more than most was dysfunctional families. There was Kie, who’s parents cared more about their reputation than their daughter, John B, who’s mother had left when he was three and his dad was so invested in finding treasure it got him killed. Sarah’s family life made everyone’s heads spin, at this point it was a taboo subject that only came up once she’d had one too many cocktails, Pope was lucky to have parents that cared for him but there were still times he wasn’t happy at home.

JJ’s dad was the worst man you’d ever met, you may be biased because anyone treating your boyfriend like that would put them in your most hated book but everyone on the island could agree that Luke Maybank should never have become a father. Your family life was the same. Tragic, hurtful and heartbreaking. You and your mom used to be close, but after she met your step father things changed. She fell in love, you couldn’t blame her for that, what you could blame was the fact she’d allow a man to treat her child like a speck of dirt on his shoe. It was never physical, maybe that was why you were yet to tell JJ and the others just how badly it was effecting you; it didn’t seem necessary.

Everyday your closest friends would have to deal with the reminders of the parents they’d been stuck with. You didn’t want to be that person. The one that made it about themselves, the one that bummed everyone out.

You were trying to keep a brave face on, after the fifth argument of the week with the devil himself you’d stormed out of your house and made your way over to the Chateau. Tears brimmed your eyeline, and you knew even one joke-gone-wrong could send you into a ball on the floor. But you couldn’t stay in that house any longer, not with him and not with your spineless mother.

“There she is!” Sarah beamed as you rounded the corner of the Chateau, a strained smile on your face. You’d texted them to let them know you were coming, you felt you owed that at least.

“Hey,” you greeted, voice unnatural from the way you were holding in your tears.

JJ patted his knee, indicating for you to take a seat around the fire with the rest of them. You sat, his arm wrapping around your waist as he pressed a kiss to your cheek. “Hey, gorgeous.”

“Hi,” you murmured back, playing with a piece of his hair to try and distract yourself.

You didn’t speak much as the others carried on with their conversation, catching you up on the topic as they passed a joint around the circle. JJ offered it to you but you shook your head, you needed to have control over your body; over your mouth more like. The last thing you wanted to do was blurt out how miserable you were and ruin the atmosphere.

Slowly but surely, everyone but you and JJ retreated inside. Sarah could never handle her weed, she was already half asleep when John B picked her up to take her to bed. Kie was in one of her mellow moods, wanting to be away from everyone to think. Pope wasn’t quite as in a state as Sarah, but he’d decided he was ready for his own bed so he headed back home. That left just you and JJ, that was what you’d been dreading. If he had even an inkling something was going on, he’d be able to get it out of you. He had a way with words, especially when it came to the people he cared about.

“What made you change your mind ‘bout coming?” JJ asked, leaning back on the couch that you now sat beside him on.

“Can’t a girl miss her boyfriend?” You teased, making him smirk back at you.

“Always, baby. Just thought you and your mama were havin’ a movie night,” he explained. The topic made your jaw clench and your stomach drop. The reason for the argument tonight: you and your mom had planned to watch a movie together, something you hadn’t done in a weirdly long time, but of course your step dad had wanted to watch the tv. You’d tried to calmly explain that it was just a couple hours, all that had lead to was screaming and accusing.

“Yeah, uh, change of plans,” you croaked out, blinking rapidly to try and force the tears away.

His smirk faded as he looked at you, instantly noticing the water in your eyes and the way your smile looked like it was physically hurting your face. “Yeah? What happened?”

“Doesn’t matter. You want to go inside? I could do with a shower,” you sniffled, trying your hardest to change the subject.

“What’s going on?” JJ asked softly, hand coming up to cup your cheek. You closed your eyes, squeezing them shut tightly as you shook your head.

“It doesn’t matter,” you repeated.

“Clearly it does. C’mon, talk to me, please. You’re upset,” he murmured, moving closer. His other hand moved to your waist, stroking your skin softly.

You opened your eyes, the dam broke and tears began to roll down your cheeks. The worry in his eyes doubled as he saw you crying, hold on you tightening as he tried to wipe them away. “I hate it there,” you sobbed.

“Hey, hey, hate it where? Hate it where, baby?” He worried as you began to cry manically. He’d seen you cry countless times, but never like this. Never like you were in pain.

“My house. I feel like— like a stranger, like I don’t even belong there. It’s all his fault,” you admitted through your tears.

“Your step dad?” He asked quietly, connecting the dots in his head.

He’d been at your house before, he’d met your step dad, and he’d always been pleasant. But he was polite in a way that you knew it was fake, it was a show and JJ had worked that out from the first time they’d shook hands. His grip was too tight, his eyes bored even whilst he smiled. He’d always figured that it wasn’t like that for you, though. He just assumed it was an issue with him.

“He’s so mean to me,” you choked out. “I try my best, I do, I just want to get along but it’s like he’d rather die than see me as his kid.”

“Okay, alright, c’mere,” JJ coaxed, holding his arms out for you to crawl into. You didn’t need any convincing, already in his lap before his arms were fully extended. “I got you, okay? Take a breath, calm down. You’re safe, you’re alright.”

You sniffled into his shoulder, slowly but surely beginning to calm down and realise what you’d done. You’d shared. Surprisingly, it didn’t feel like the world was ending. It actually felt like a weight had been lifted off your shoulders and you could finally breathe for the first time in years.

“Should we go to bed? Hm?” He murmured, running his fingers soothingly through your hair.

“Okay,” you agreed quietly.

He stood up, lifting you with him into his arms as he kicked open the porch door and walked through the house to the spare bedroom that he called his own. He dropped you onto the bed, flicking on the lamp and closing the door. He didn’t say anything as he stripped down into his boxers and put his shirt over your head, climbing into bed beside you.

“You want to talk about it?” He asked, kissing the back of your neck.

“Maybe tomorrow,” you mumbled back, exhausted from the confession.

“Okay,” he agreed. “Is there a reason you ain’t brought this up before?”

“It’s— compared to what you and the others have been dealt in the parent region, it’s nothing. It’s stupid, really, I don’t even know why I’m so upset,” you explained. Both of you knew it wasn’t stupid, it didn’t matter what he did or didn’t do. No one deserves to feel unwanted in their own family.

“Don’t compare,” he murmured, rolling you over so you were facing him. “Just because someone’s broken their leg don’t mean your paper cut doesn’t hurt.”

You let out a tearful giggle, shaking your head at him. “That’s a stupid analogy.”

“Maybe,” he smiled back softly, happy he’d been able to see you smile even if just for a moment. “Doesn’t make it a lie. I don’t want you feelin’ like that at all, but I hate the fact you’ve been feeling it alone. And me, the Pogues, we’re your family. You’re always wanted here.”

“Thanks, JJ,” you whispered, eyes welling up once again. This time it wasn’t from the pain, it was from the fact you knew he was telling the truth.

“Go to sleep, baby. We’ll talk in the mornin’, over Kie’s blueberry pancakes,” he said, stroking your cheek. He leant forward and pressed a soft but firm kiss to your lips. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

It would always hurt that you weren’t ever going to feel whole in your own home, but at least you were lucky enough to have a second one. One that truly wanted you, no matter the circumstances.

[velarisdusk]

Night Watch

Azriel x Reader

word count: 400 content: [ a baby lol, Az being a great dad and an even greater husband/mate ] summary: Your baby is crying in the middle of the night (as they tend to do), but with Azriel, there's no need to stress. author's note: i wrote and found the pics for this in under an hour idk if there are typos, idk if yall fw this, idk if yall have baby fever the way i have baby fever rn (yes im ovulating shut up), and i Dont Care. you will take this and you will appreciate ripped dilf Az the way he deserves. based on this post, thanks to this ask ✦ . Masterlist . ✦

The faint sound of your baby’s cries tugged you from sleep, sharp enough to crack through your haze. You barely shifted, but the warmth of Azriel’s side of the bed was already gone.

The cries softened almost instantly, replaced by the quiet creak of floorboards down the hall. You waited, listening, and soon his voice drifted back to you—low, warm, and steady. The lullaby was unfamiliar, some half-remembered tune he must've learned long ago, the words barely more than a murmur. He wasn’t just soothing the baby; he was pouring every ounce of comfort he had into each note, like he could will peace into the air itself.

When the cries stopped, you expected him to come back to bed. Instead, you heard the soft shuffle of his footsteps pacing back and forth, rhythmic and slow. Curious, you dragged yourself out of bed, following the faint glow down the hall.

Azriel stood in the middle of the nursery, your baby cradled against his bare chest. His hair was a mess, falling over his forehead in dark, unruly strands. Those plaid pajama pants slung low on his hips, and the dim light carved out the hard lines of his back, shoulders, and wings as he swayed side to side. There was something about him in that moment—his strong frame, the quiet patience in his movements, the sheer devotion in the way he held your child—that left you breathless. Love swelled inside you, tangled with a heat that caught you off guard, fierce and undeniable.

He must’ve felt you watching because he glanced over his shoulder, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion but still warm. Wordlessly, he shifted the baby to one arm and crossed the room to you. He leaned down, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your forehead. His lips were warm, his breath brushing soft against your skin.

"I’ve got it," he murmured, voice rough from sleep.

You lingered for a moment, heart full, before padding back to bed. The scent of him clung to your pillow—cedar, smoke, and the faintest trace of milk from where the baby had nuzzled against his chest.

You drifted off to the distant sound of his voice, warm and steady as a heartbeat, letting the soft sound of his voice carry you back to sleep.

[kymawrites]

Home

a/n: some soft az for your monday. inspired by this request!

pairing: Azriel x Reader

content warnings: suggestive themes, soft!azriel

word count: 2.7k

synopsis: Leaving your family, leaving Azriel, for two whole months following Amarantha's reign of terror was harder than you anticipated. Azriel and you cling to each other upon your return.

my masterlist

~ ~ ~

It was hard to love a job that forced you away from your family for such a long period of time. It was hard to fall back into the role of a spy after you were locked away in the same city for half a century. It was even harder to leave your family so soon after you were all reunited, but Rhys was your friend, and your High Lord, who had sacrificed more than you could fathom. There was no question, no hesitation to do what he asked of you, even if your soul ached every day that passed for two excruciating months.

It was made even worse by what you found, by the information you had collected as you moved up and down the whole of Prythian. Rhys was worried about residual strongholds left behind from Amarantha, hidden efforts scattered across the courts that reported to Hybern. You all knew Hybern had to be behind the attack on the Cesere temple, it was what prompted Rhys to send you on this mission, but it was still disheartening to confirm those suspicions. It made you sick to find seed after seed of Hybern forces sprinkled across the courts, and having no one but the stars above you to confide in every night. 

Admittedly, the worst part of all was being away from Azriel. No contact with the male who had been your rock for the last fifty years was a new form of torture you didn’t think you could endure much longer. You missed him. Desperately.

When Rhys startled you awake that morning, the talons of his power gently caressing your mental shields, a mix of dread and relief flooded through you. At first you feared the worst, that something terrible had happened while you had been away from your family, isolated from everyone. Then you let him slip through your defenses, and he told you it was time to come home, his calm cadence soothing your mounting anxiety. 

You didn’t question him. You didn’t care, really, what had prompted him to bring you home. Maybe that made you selfish or a poor servant to your court, but all you could think about was seeing your family again. Seeing Azriel.

You threw what little belongings you had scattered around the small ramshackle cabin into your bag, breathing in deep as you zipped it shut. You glanced out the tiny window, taking in the snow covered lands of the Winter Court one last time before winnowing away.

~ ~ ~

“It’s concerning but not surprising,” Rhys sighed.

You nodded grimly, wishing you had better news to deliver. Cassian stood across the room, a frown on his face. You swallowed hard, anxiety creeping in the longer you stood here, waiting to see the male you had longed for every day the last two months.

You shifted a bit, folding your hands behind your back. Rhys and Cassian both clocked the nervous movement, and you avoided their gaze. “He will be here any moment,” Rhys said gently. 

You nodded slightly, cheeks heating in embarrassment. “I’m sorry—”

“Don’t,” Rhys said. “I’m sorry I asked you to do this. I shouldn’t have—” He stopped himself, shaking his head. “I’m sorry.”

You didn’t know what to make of his apology. You didn’t think you were owed one, really, but you saw the guilt swimming in Rhys’s eyes, so you nodded your acceptance. You were a bit confused, though, by his level of remorse.

You were going to question him, but the words died in your throat when you heard voices from the balcony, your heart racing at the sound of the voice your soul ached to hear.

Rhys and Cassian smiled softly, before a pretty brunette appeared in the living room, her steps faltering when she saw you. Her gaze flitted to Rhys, whose eyes were softer than you had ever seen on the male. He smiled at her, nodding.

A much more familiar face followed behind the female. His wings were splayed wide behind him, his shadows peeking out over his shoulders. They instantly swarmed over to you, making your heart flutter. His gaze snapped to you, his eyes wide.

You beamed at the male, rushing past the female and into his arms, the force of your body rocking him back a step. His arms instantly wrapped around your back, his face falling into the crook of your neck. “I missed you,” you rasped quietly, holding onto him for dear life.

“I missed you too,” he whispered, squeezing you a bit tighter.

Everything about this male gave you comfort. His touch, his voice, his scent—all of it soothed your aching soul, the loneliness you’ve endured for two months instantly erased once back in his arms.

You reluctantly pulled away, looking into his eyes that shined as he looked you over. “I didn’t know you were coming home today,” he said softly, voice tinged with awe. He shot a pointed glance at Rhys behind you, but your touch on his arm brought his eyes back to you.

His gaze immediately softened, and he pressed a light kiss to your forehead, your skin instantly heating. “Two months was far too long,” he murmured.

“Agreed,” you hummed, falling into his chest again.

~ ~ ~

“How long have you and Azriel been together?”

You coughed on your drink, spluttering a bit of wine onto the table. Cassian howled with laughter across from you, his own drinking sloshing a bit as he slammed it on the table. You glared at the male, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.

“I’m sorry,” Feyre said, looking sheepish. “Should I not have asked that?”

Cassian beat you to answering. “It’s a perfect question, Feyre.” He looked at you, his eyes glinting. “How long have you and Az been together, Y/N?”

“Shut up, Cassian,” you hissed. You turned to Feyre, cheeks burning. “We aren’t together.”

Her eyes widened. “Oh,” she said. “I just thought…”

“You and everyone else, Feyre,” Cassian lamented. You reached across the table to shove his shoulder.

“What is that supposed to mean?” you growled back.

“You know what it means.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Az and I are best friends,” you said to Feyre.

Cassian rolled his eyes. “You should have seen them the last fifty years. They clung to each other. It’s amazing that the b—”

“Cassian,” Rhys hummed, as he slid onto the bench next to him. “Be a bit more mindful of your words.”

Your jaw was clenched tight as you glared at the male. “The last fifty years were hell for all of us,” you said quietly.

Cassian's face fell. “I know,” he said softer. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”

You stayed quiet, a tense silence hanging over your table. Azriel appeared at your side, his brows furrowing at the obvious tension. Rhys glanced at him, and Azriel frowned before glaring at Cassian, who slouched a bit in his seat. Azriel slid in next to you on the bench, his hip pressing against yours as you scooted over to accommodate him.

He placed a warm hand on your thigh, leaning in close to your ear. “Are you okay?”

Goosebumps pebbled across your flesh, and you swallowed hard as you nodded, a bit dazed. He squeezed your thigh, pulling back a bit, but keeping his hand in place.

Chatter resumed around the table, and you subconsciously leaned into Azriel. “Do you want more to drink?” he asked quietly.

You shook your head, then rested it on Azriel’s shoulder. You could feel Feyre’s fleeting glances at the two of you, but you couldn’t really be bothered with reopening the earlier conversation.

“Do you want to go home?”

You hesitated, glancing at his full drink he had just bought. He pushed the glass toward Cassian, the Illyrian raising his brows slightly before taking it with a shrug. Azriel laced his fingers with yours, before sliding off the bench and pulling you with him. “We’re going to head home,” he told the rest of your friends.

You let him guide you through the sea of bodies crowding Rita’s, but you heard Feyre’s quiet musing as you walked away, “I’ve never seen him like that.”

“It’s only for her,” Rhys answered quietly.

Your cheeks burned at their conversation, knowing that they were right but also too scared to think about it too much. You caught a brief glimpse of Mor dancing in the throng of faeries, waving to her as Azriel pulled you out the door.

The cool air washed over your warm cheeks, and Azriel squeezed your hand. The two of you walked hand in hand down the glowing street of Velaris, the chatter from Rita’s slowly fading.

“Do you want to fly or winnow?” he asked, voice low, as if not to disturb the peaceful night around you.

“Fly,” you murmured.

He smiled slightly, then quickly scooped you up in his arms before taking off into the sky. You latched your arms around his neck, laughing into his chest. You let yourself relax into him, enjoying the view of the city beneath you, while you were held in the arms of the male who made this place feel like home.

“These last two months were really hard,” you admitted. Azriel glanced at you, clearly listening. You bit the inside of your cheek. “I knew it would be when I agreed to the mission, but—“ You shook your head. “Nothing could have prepared me for being away from you, not speaking to you, for so long,” you whispered.

Azriel took in a shaky breath. “It’s been hell without you,” he said, voice low. “Rhys never should have sent you on that mission.”

“I agreed, Az—”

“It doesn’t matter,” he huffed. “He never should have asked that of you.”

You didn’t really understand why he was so frustrated with Rhys. You hated being away from everyone, and it made you second guess any future solo missions that might last that long, but you didn’t blame Rhys. It was your job. Before Amarantha, you wouldn’t have even batted an eye.

Azriel suddenly dipped, gliding toward the already nearing balcony of the House of Wind. Your home. Gods did you miss it. If it had been your choice, you would have already been at home, in your own bed for the first night in far too long, but alas your friends wanted to celebrate your return.

Azriel landed gracefully on the balcony, gently setting you on your feet. You held onto his shoulder to stabilize yourself, his hands gently supporting you by your hips. You let yourself take in the vision of him in the moonlight, with stars glittering around him. His wings were stunning, his hair was soft and tousled by the wind, and his hazel eyes left you breathless.

You loved him. Every atom of your being loved him, and you hated it. You hated that he wasn’t truly yours, and yet you loved him. You wanted to hug him again. You wanted to kiss him. You wanted to tell him everything you felt for him, everything he meant to you after being your unwavering anchor for half a century. 

Instead, you stepped away, dropping your hand as he dropped his, and smiled half-heartedly. Instead, you said, “I can’t wait to sleep in my own bed again.”

~ ~ ~

You woke up in a bed that was definitely not your own, surrounded by a soft cedar scent that was infinitely more comforting than the cool jasmine air that normally wafted through your room. A warm weight pressed against your back, and a heavy arm rested against your front.

Your eyes flew open when you realized exactly where that arm rested, and who exactly that arm belonged to. Your shirt had hiked up in your sleep, and a tanned muscular arm littered with familiar ink and scars was pressed firmly against your bare skin, his palm practically cupping your bare breast.

You wriggled around to try to pull away, your heart racing at the intimate contact, but Azriel only pulled you to him tighter. His thumb absentmindedly brushed against the smooth skin of your breast, his face nuzzling into your neck. Your breath caught in your throat as his lips dragged against your skin. “What are you doing?” he mumbled sleepily.

You squirmed a bit more. “I need to get up.”

“No, you don’t,” he grumbled.

“Azriel,” you whined, feeling far too worked up for the crack of dawn. Your breath caught in your throat when your wiggling caused his hand to shift, his thumb grazing your nipple.

Azriel went still, then immediately dropped his hand to rest on your stomach. “I’m sorry,” he rasped, his hold loosening around you.

“It’s okay,” you said, inexplicably embarrassed.

“I didn’t realize,” he said, voice rough with sleep and regret.

You swallowed hard, mustering the courage to roll over and face him. His eyes were heavy with sleep, but apprehension was clear on his face. “It’s okay,” you said again, this time with a soft smile. It wasn’t the first time the two of you had found yourself in a compromising entanglement. Gods, maybe Cassian had a point last night with all his teasing.

Your eyes flicked down to the bare planes of his chest, the smooth skin pulled taut over sculpted muscle. A soft teasing smile graced your lips as you looked at him again. “Besides, I’ve shared a bed with you enough times to know you can’t keep your hands to yourself.” You softly brushed your finger against the inner membrane of his wing, a shudder running through him. He looked at you with wide eyes, and you shrugged innocently. “Tit for tat.”

Azriel let out a huff of laughter, rolling his eyes lazily. His cheeks were tinged pink though as he mumbled out, “That’s enough from you.” Then, he pulled you close to him again, this time by your hips, and you pressed your cheek against his chest. “Go back to sleep.”

~ ~ ~

“Do you think we’ll get to see Starfall next year?”

Azriel didn’t question how you knew he was there, only stepped out of the shadows to join you at the railing. His arm brushed yours as he leaned on the rail, looking down at your friends dancing, at the city of Velaris celebrating. “I don’t know,” he said quietly.

Anxiety bloomed in your chest. You knew war was coming. You knew disaster was lurking, waiting to strike, and selfishly, you wished this wasn’t your life. You wished it wasn’t your responsibility, your friends’ responsibility to absorb the brunt of that inevitable disaster. “Does it scare you?” you asked weakly.

“It does,” he admitted, emotion making his voice thick. “I need to tell you something.”

You turned to face him, his eyes illuminated by the spirits flying across the sky. “What is it?” you asked softly.

Azriel’s lips parted, but no words came out. He simply stared at you, something soft and tender swimming behind his eyes. You waited expectantly, your eyes lingering a second too long on his pink lips, before meeting his eyes again.

He cupped your face, his touch gentle as his eyes searched yours. You didn’t think you were breathing, and he stole whatever air you had left when he pressed his lips to yours. It was so gentle, so reverent, and yet you felt like you were levitating. Your soul left your body for a moment as Azriel kissed you, his own nerves made clear by the trembling in his fingers.

You reached up to rest your hand over his that was pressed to your cheek. He pulled away slowly, both of your chests heaving as you stared at each other. 

You broke the silence first, with an ineloquent confession, “I love you.”

Azriel’s eyes shined, his lips twitching upward. “That's what I wanted to tell you.”

You let out a laugh of surprise, leaning into him. His hands instinctively supported you by your waist, his lips spreading into a grin. “I love you,” he murmured.

You lifted onto your toes to press another fleeting kiss to his lips. You were in shock, and you felt absolutely giddy standing in front of this male you loved, this male who loved you.

You wrapped your arms around his waist, his own arms folding around your back. You rested your head on his chest, letting his heart beat calm the torrent of emotions whirling inside you. “Cassian is never going to let us hear the end of this.”

[illyrianbitch]

A Mother's Home

Pairing: Baby Daddy!Azriel x Pregnant Illyrian!Reader

Summary: You take a trip to Rosehall to meet Azriel's mother. The visit unearths more than you expected.

Warnings: slight angst, fluff, mommy issues, anxiety, emotional vulnerability, soft Azriel content, healing but make it complicated :D

Word Count: 4.1k

*Not fully proof-read. I'm posting it early so @itsswritten has her bedtime story <3

Universe Masterlist

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

You've gotten wistful lately.

Maybe it's the pregnancy. Maybe it's just the excuse you tell yourself. Either way, you're drowning in it—this constant state of longing, of memory folding in on itself. Every step you take, there's a past version of you falling into line beside you. Sometimes she's happy. Sometimes she's lonely.

Today, she is scared.

Terrified, really, as you prepare to meet Azriel's mother.

He'd brought it up so softly, when he'd asked. Said there was someone he wanted you to meet— someone who'd asked to meet you. There'd been something vulnerable flickering behind his eyes, something that made your chest feel too tight.

Everything in you screamed no. The mere idea unsettled you in a way so little does—made panic claw up your throat. But Azriel is your friend, and your friend had looked at you with such softness, such hope, that you heard yourself saying yes before you could think better of it.

He sensed it, though. The way you'd gone stiff. The unease probably written all over your face. You've never been good at hiding your expression.

"We don't have to," he'd said quickly. "If you're not comfortable, we don't—"

"It's fine." The words came out clipped. Defensive. You'd felt yourself closing off, going somewhere cold and passive. "Let's just get it over with, right?"

"Right," he'd said, as hurt washed through his features. Disappointment. It was gone seconds later, smoothed behind that careful mask of his.

You wanted to take it back, but you didn't know how.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

The trip is a blur because you spend it entirely in your head.

Azriel had offered you options—flying together, winnowing, him carrying you. You'd chosen winnowing even though it makes you nauseous, even though the disorientation is worse than the alternative.

You can't fly. Won't.

Azriel knows. He has to know, in that way he knows most things about you without asking. But he hasn't pushed. Hasn't probed about your wings or your heritage or any of the ugliness you keep locked away. Months into your friendship, and you're both still dancing around some wounds you don't talk about.

You're grateful for it, really. Pregnancy hormones would crack you wide open. You're not ready for that.

So you winnow, and the world goes sideways, and you spend the entire journey spiraling.

What if you say something wrong? What if she takes one look at you and sees exactly what you are—someone fundamentally unequipped for this, someone her son is stuck with? What if she doesn't like you? Worse—what if you don't like her?

After all, you've never quite liked mothers. The same way your mother never quite liked you. 

If this goes poorly, your friendship with Azriel shatters. You'll be doing this alone. You'll—

The door to the beautiful home opens, and everything stops.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

She's beautiful.

You don't get time to catalog details—the shape of her face, the color of her hair—because the second she sees Azriel, her entire expression breaks open.

You watch her take him in like he's the only thing in the world worth seeing.

"My sweet boy."

She pulls him down into her arms and he melts. There's no other word for it. The Shadowsinger, the Spymaster, the male who moves through the world like a weapon—he melts like a child coming home.

Something cracks in your chest.

You watch his wings curve around her instinctively, protective and seeking protection at once. Watch her hands run over his shoulders like she's checking for injuries she knows she'll find. Watch her kiss both his cheeks and cradle his face between her palms.

"Too thin," she murmurs, and you can just barely hear it. "You're too thin, my love."

"Mother—"

"And your shadows are restless, which means you're far too stressed—"

"Mother—"

"And you look exhausted. When did you last take a full night's rest?"

"Mother, please—"

She releases him, laughing softly, and her eyes find you.

She has Azriel's eyes.

No, that's not right. He has her eyes. Hazel and bright and alive, gleaming with something that looks dangerously close to joy.

You straighten on instinct. Shoulders back. Chin up. Wings tucked tight enough it almost starts to hurt. The posture of someone who's spent their entire life waiting to be found lacking.

There's a shift in her expression.

"None of that," she says, already moving toward you. "Please, sweetheart. None of that. You're not here to be inspected."

Your wings loosen slightly at the term of endearment. You don't remember telling them to.

You glance at Azriel—quick, assessing, looking for guidance you're not sure you'll find—and he's already watching you. His expression is soft in a way that makes you want to look away. Unguarded in a way you've never seen.

His mother stops in front of you.

Close. She's so close you can see the gold threaded through her eyes, the smile lines carved deep around her mouth. Evidence of laughter. Of happiness. Things you wouldn't have expected to find.

"Oh, look at you," she breathes.

Her hands reach for yours before you can prepare yourself, and her grip is strong. Her hands are scarred— just like yours. You wait for her to look closer and see all the ways you're wrong. All the ways you'll disappoint her.

Impossibly, her face simply softens further.

Ink appears at your shoulder, your newly named loyal tendril of shadow, brushing against your shirt as it drifts toward her.

"Come inside," she says, and she's already gently tugging you toward the door. "I've made far too much food—I always make too much when I'm nervous—"

"You're nervous?"

The words escape before you can stop them.

She laughs. It's bright and startled and real. "Terrified. My son brings home the mother of my grandchild and I'm supposed to be calm? Absolutely not."

Grandchild.

The word ricochets through your skull. Another connection forming in this family tree you've been trying to map in your head. Azriel and his mother. Your baby's grandmother.

Azriel's side of the tree sprawls wide—the entire Inner Circle, branches everywhere you look. Your side is mostly empty space. Just one name: Balthazar. And even he exists in the margins, undefined, complicated, a relationship that had changed fundamentally.

Your throat goes tight.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

The inside of her home makes something in you ache.

Books piled on every available surface. Herbs hanging from the rafters, dried and fragrant. A basket of yarn beside a leather chair that's been worn soft by years of use. The table is covered with food—bread and cheese and fruit and what looks like berry pie—and there's a fire crackling in the hearth, filling the space with warmth.

It smells like rosemary and woodsmoke and something else. Something you don't have a word for because you've never experienced it before.

Home, maybe. If you knew what that meant.

It's the same feeling you get walking into the River House, sitting down for dinner with the Inner Circle. Except this is different. More. Azriel's body language suggests he thinks so too—he's looser here, softer, like he can finally breathe.

Your childhood residence in Karasith had been pristine by camp standards. Pristine in the way a blade is pristine—functional, cold, sharp-edged. Your parents weren't sentimental people. Hard to be sentimental when there's no love to be sentimental about. It was simply a place to sleep and train and prepare for the next day. A roof over your head.

Never a home.

You'd learned to move through it like a ghost. Leaving no trace. Taking up no space.

Even now, your apartment in Velaris barely has signs of life. Nothing that really says you live there beyond the bare necessities— and recently: gifted books, and baskets that were once filled with Elain's delicacies.

You're still standing in the entryway, and now your hands are fidgeting— pulling at your sleeves, smoothing down the fabric. You force them still, but then you're shifting your weight instead, and gods, when did you become this person?

When you risk a glance at Azriel, he's watching you. There's amusement in his expression. Fondness, too. He's seeing something new and finding it endearing rather than pathetic.

It irritates you, just slightly. That he gets to witness this. That he's discovering this part of you—raw and anxious and completely out of your depth—while you're discovering this part of him. The doting son who melts into his mother's loving arms.

You're learning each other backwards. How grossly poetic, you think.

His mother is already talking, moving through the space with familiarity, and you find yourself following. Nodding along as she asks questions—about your journey, about how you're feeling, whether the nausea has improved, and if she can give you any recommendations for herbal aids.

She's asking about you, you realize, fondly. Not solely the babe you carry, or the situation her son has found himself in. You.

There's a version of you still standing by the door, though. You feel her, even as Azriel answers his mother's questions.

She's too scared to enter. Too desperate to be seen. She's waiting and holding her breath, expecting the worst.

But Azriel's mother is smiling at you like you're already family, and her hands are scarred like yours, and she's talking to you like you matter. You feel that ghost at the door start to soften.

Azriel watches you with an unbearably kind expression. He's seeing you vulnerable in a way you've never let yourself be. Not even Balthazar has seen this: a version of you, stripped of your mother's contempt.

Both you and Azriel are witnessing each other transform.

His mother says something that makes him laugh—really laugh—and you feel your mouth twitch. Almost a smile. Your hands are finally still.

The girl by the door takes one step forward, and welcomes the warmth of a home.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

Dinner goes well.

Better than well, actually. You enjoy the food more than you have in months, and you find yourself wondering if something made with a mother's love simply tastes better. If care can be an ingredient.

Azriel cleans up afterward, waving off your attempt to help. He kisses his mother's temple before disappearing into the kitchen, and she leans closer to you, asking more questions. About you, about Velaris, about things you don't know how to answer because no one's ever asked before.

It's embarrassing, how hollow some parts of you are.

You'd never realized it until now. So much time spent in survival mode—in a constant state of proving, fighting, winning—that there was so little time to discover anything else about yourself. In those rare moments of peace, those brief pockets where you could have grown into something more, you'd stayed small anyway.

Balthazar knew things about you, of course. A version of you that hadn't seen the public eye until Azriel. But even with him, you'd never flourished the way he did. The way others in Karasith did, despite everything.

You'd had the opportunity. You just—couldn't. Too afraid that if you became a full person with visible interests and preferences, it would hurt worse when you proved, once again, that even whole you weren't enough to keep. Easier to stay a base model. Easier to blame the hollowness on circumstance than admit you'd carved it out yourself as protection.

The living room is bathed in amber light now, the sun bleeding lower through wide windows that frame the forest beyond. Azriel left to help with something around the property—firewood, maybe, or repairs his mother mentioned needing—and she'd told you to make yourself comfortable while she brewed tea. Something to help with digestion, she'd said with a knowing smile.

The house fills with a new scent. Bergamot, maybe. Or sage. Balthazar would know—he'd cataloged every plant in Karasith by the time he was twelve, could identify them by scent alone. You'd never inherited skills like that. Too busy learning which parts of your body could take a hit. Where to place your feet in snow so you wouldn't slip during a fight.

You stand in the middle of the beautiful space, playing with the fabric at your stomach, twisting it between your fingers. Usually you'd look around—you're good at that, cataloging details, figuring people out through their possessions. But this feels different. More private. You don't want to seem like you're snooping, even though part of you desperately wants to understand her through the objects she's kept, the life she's built in this quiet place.

You're on your best behavior. Or trying to be. Less defensive now, at least, which is shameful to even count as progress.

Your eyes catch on things anyway. A stack of letters on the mantle, tied with kitchen twine. Pressed flowers in a simple frame. A carved wooden bird on the windowsill, worn smooth by years of handling. You drift toward the mantle without deciding to, drawn to those letters like a moth to a flame. You trace the edges with careful fingers, and your assigned tendril of shadow follows— Ink winding around the bundle with the familiarity of recognition.

You recognize the handwriting from all those notes and gift baskets left on your doorstep at the beginning of this—back when you were still convinced it was an elaborate performance of duty rather than genuine care. The memory tugs at something in your chest.

"They're Azriel's."

You jump hard enough that your shoulder twinges, yanking your hand back. Heat floods your face—caught like a child with her hand in something forbidden.

"I'm sorry," you say quickly. "I didn't mean to—"

His mother smiles, offering you a beautiful ceramic mug, steam curling gently from its contents. "Nothing to apologize for. I'd be curious too."

She approaches the mantle and sets down her own mug. Picks up the bundle of letters with both hands, reverent, and her whole face softens.

"Does he write a lot?" You ask.

"I think he gets bored on missions." Her laugh is soft, affectionate. "All that waiting around for someone who's never been particularly patient. Pushes him to write to his boring old mother."

There's humor in it, self-deprecating in that gentle way, but no actual hatred underneath. No self-contempt. You're so used to way Illyrian women refer to themselves with venom threaded through every word. But she says it like a joke. She knows Azriel writes because he wants to. Love has patched something in her. Mended the parts that Illyria tends to break.

Your chest constricts as you try to imagine it: Azriel, sitting still, thinking of his family as he waits.

His title of Spymaster is something you haven't thought much about, which feels like a failure now. You know the broad strokes, can imagine the rest, but you've never asked for details. Never thought about what it actually means—the waiting, the stillness required of someone whose mind never seems to stop. It's almost funny. Contradictory. A male who lives in constant motion forced into perfect patience.

All these versions of him you're discovering because you now share something so intimate. Your child.

"It must be hard," you say quietly. "Being away from him so often."

"It is." Something heavy crosses her face—guilt threaded through with old pain. "But circumstances taught me how to be apart from him. I'm grateful he makes the effort to visit as often as he does."

Her tone has gone somewhere else. You wonder if she has ghosts too. Versions of herself standing nearby, whispering about failures she can't undo. She hurts, centuries later, about what happened to him. What she couldn't prevent.

The stories you've heard. The details Azriel has slowly, carefully shared.

You'd done research in those early days after discovering you were pregnant. Snooped, if you're being honest. Asked around, listened to gossip, pieced together a picture of who Azriel was beyond the careful mask he shows you. What he survived. What was done to him.

What you might be getting yourself into.

"He really loves you," you say, and it comes out quieter than you intended.

She looks at you with those beautiful, soulful eyes, and says simply: "I love him."

So plain. So certain. It's the most obvious thing in the world.

She unties the twine and shuffles through the letters, then pulls one free and extends it toward you. You hesitate, brow furrowing. She just extends it further.

"This is one of my favorites."

Her words give you permission, somehow. You take it gently, setting your mug on the mantle as you unfold it. Azriel's writing is beautiful—long, heavy-handed script. Your eyes rake over how much he's written without taking in the words themselves. The image of his hands conjures in your mind. The small flexing he does sometimes, like they still ache.

A fighter in Karasith once got burned stumbling drunk near a fire pit. The skin on his leg had flayed, mobility destroyed for months. To have this kind of control with Azriel's hands—after what was done to them, after the deliberate cruelty—must have taken more than time and dedication.

It must have been agony to relearn.

Your eyes catch on the bottom of the page, where a small sketch sits. A bird perched in a tree, delicate and detailed. You run your fingers along it. The image of him rearranges itself in your mind. Another piece of the puzzle. The picture coming more into focus.

"The sketches are always my favorite part," she says.

"I didn't know he could draw."

She hums—the same exact cadence Azriel uses when he's thinking.

There's something achingly tender about it. Him, wherever he is on whatever mission, thinking of her. Taking the time.

"He'll tell you he can't, but he always has. Little details he notices that no one else sees." Her voice drops, goes soft. "I used to imagine he'd be an artist. In another life. If things had been different."

You're learning your friend through his mother's eyes. Watching these threads weave themselves somewhere deep in your bones. The love between them is more than you thought possible. To love a parent like this—openly, without resentment festering underneath. You'd seen glimpses with Nyx and Feyre and Rhysand, but seeing it in someone with centuries of life, someone who's had time for that love to sour and hasn't let it—it's different.

You'd always assumed parent-child relationships followed the same trajectory. That they curdled into disappointment when your parent inevitably failed you, when they proved themselves fallible and broken and not enough.

It gives you something dangerous. Hope. That maybe you're not cursed to repeat cycles. That even if you fail spectacularly, if you're just as mean and complicated as you are now, maybe Azriel will be enough. Maybe his capacity for gentleness will balance whatever sharpness you can't file down.

Your eyes drift back to the letter, catching on the final paragraph where his writing gets messier. Rushed or emotional, you can't tell which.

I've been thinking about what you told me. About how being alone and being lonely are different. You're right. As you always are, of course. I'm okay with being alone. But I think I'm starting to be lonely too, mother.

I miss you. I'll come visit soon.

Your nose burns. You blink hard against the pressure building behind your eyes and fold the letter carefully, hands steadier than you feel.

You extend it back with a tight smile, guilt threading through you. Words meant for her alone, and you've read them like they were yours to take. But when she accepts it, her smile is warm. Understanding. Like you haven't transgressed at all.

She returns the letter to its place and reties the twine with careful fingers. You use the moment to really look at her. Study her the way you wanted to when she first opened the door, before you got distracted watching her transform into a mother holding her son.

She's so beautiful.

And so undeniably Illyrian.

She has the same posture as you, the same height. The same ferocity when she talks. Her wings are lighter than Azriel's in both color and membrane thickness. Not as narrow as yours—Karasith bred the slimmest wings in all of Illyria—but close.

And they're damaged. You can see the scars, the places where the membrane didn't heal quite right. Each one has a story, you're sure. Hideous and cruel ones, the kind Illyria specializes in.

Yet she stands here looking so fondly at this stack of letters, this tangible proof of how loved she is by someone the rest of the world fears.

The realization hits you with frightening clarity: She is what you want to be.

Not just a mother capable of this kind of love, of making someone as unsociable and sharp as you feel at ease. But proof. Living proof that you can survive what Illyria does to you and stay soft anyway. That you can be strong without being cruel. That being Illyrian doesn't have to mean what your mother made it mean.

Everything you wanted your mother to be stands before you now. She survived and stayed kind. Raised a son who writes letters with birds drawn in the margins.

You can feel ghosts gathering in your chest. All those versions of yourself, assembling.

"Azriel tells me you're from Karasith," she says, as if she can sense where your mind has drifted.

Your chest locks. You pick up your mug again just to give your hands something to do. "I am."

"That's quite a distance. Do you miss it?"

Do you?

The training rings and the cold and Balthazar's rare smiles. The older women who'd sit in the morning sun with their wings spread, talking and laughing while their daughters braided each other's hair. Your mother walking past all of it without stopping, without looking, without ever seeing you standing there wanting so desperately to be included.

You're eight years old with a missing tooth, watching those women and writing letters to your mother in your head. I'm sorry. I'll be better. I want to be just like you. You'd rewrite them endlessly, trying to find the combination of words that might make her look at you the way those other mothers looked at their daughters.

Then you'd stopped. Started baring your teeth at the males instead, making yourself into something too dangerous to dismiss. If you couldn't be loved, you'd be useful. You'd be too sharp to throw away.

Balthazar had been the first one who didn't just snarl back. Who saw an ally instead of a threat.

"Yes," you say finally, and it surprises you that it's true. "Sometimes. I miss—there were these women. They'd sit outside in the mornings. Laughing. Their daughters would sit with them and—"

You wanted that so badly it felt like hunger. Wanted your mother to sit with them. Wanted her to make space for you beside her. Wanted her to braid your hair or touch your wings or just look at you.

You think about the mountains. The way the snow caught light. The particular quality of silence that only existed in that canyon. My heart aches for you, Karasith. For all that you could be.

"There's a lot of beauty back home," you finish quietly. "If you know where to look."

Azriel's mother nods like she understands. Maybe she does. Maybe being Illyrian comes with that—the ability to hold love and resentment for the same place simultaneously. To carry home in your chest like a wound that never fully heals.

She smiles, picks up her mug, and places her free hand on your bicep.

"Come," she says, and your memories drift back where they belong—some lonely corner in your mind. "Let's sit. I'll tell you all of Azriel's embarrassing stories before he comes back and stops me."

You follow her, and as you sink into the couch beside her, you think about all those versions of yourself you've been dragging through the world.

Maybe they weren't broken. Maybe they weren't too much or too loud or too wrong. Maybe they were just eight and desperate for attention. Twelve and learning to protect herself. Seventeen and lonely.

Maybe you can bury them gently in Karasith, where they belong. Mourn them properly.

Azriel's mother starts talking, laughter in her voice, and you find yourself smiling. Actually smiling.

The ghost at the door is next to you now. You can see her— wide eyed and curious, watching Azriel's mother with something like wonder. Something like love.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

AUTHORS NOTE: this part was actually so special to me. i wrote a lot of it after talking to my own momma about her life. honestverse reader u are so dear and special to me. i hope you guys love her just as much and that this chapter gets you a lil excited for the beautiful growth ahead of reader AND az

btw... im taking any suggestions for azriels mommas name, bc she ill be coming up more!! hehe

as always, thank you for reading xx your comments are always my fav <3 i’d love to know if you have any favorite parts 🫣

IMPORTANT: i won't be doing any more taglists! please follow me on my library blog and turn on notifs to be alerted when a new fic is posted! taglists age me 1000 years babies im so sorry i cannot do em anymore

permanent tag list (shall remain for now!) 🫶🏻

@rhysandorian @itsswritten  @lilah-asteria @georgiadixon  @glam-targaryen 

@cheneyq @darkbloodsly @yesiamthatwierd @azrielsbbg @evergreenlark 

@marina468 @azriels-human @book-obsessed124 @bubybubsters @starswholistenanddreamsanswered 

@feyretopia @azrielrot @justyouraveragekleemain @marigold-morelli  @mrsjna

@anarchiii @alittlelostalittlefound @melissat1254 @secretsicanthideanymore

@m4tthewmurd0ck @beardburnsupersoldiers @isnotwhatyourethinking @tothestarsandwhateverend @raginghellfire

@angel-graces-world-of-chaos @acoazlove @paradisebabey @inkedinshadows 

@paankhaleyaaar @curiosandcourioser @thisrandombitch @casiiopea2 @w0nderw0manly

@rottenroyalebooks @jurdanpotter @casiiopea2 @gamarancianne @weesablackbeak@booksaremyescapeworld @knoxic  @wynintheclouds @dacrethehalls  @louisa-harrier

[rosreblogs]

crying a lot at this chapter, it unburied something in me omfg

[velarisdusk]

Chapter 14 — Typing... (Part II)

series masterlist <- Chapter 13 ✦ Chapter 15 -> Coming Soon!! word count: 3681 author's note: idk abt yall but i know i sure love a mmc pov chapter

The shop was in its in-between state. 

Not quite open, not quite closed—just reset enough to breathe before the last client of the night. Fresh caps lined the tray in neat rows. Ink bottles sat capped and aligned. The sharp scent of antiseptic cut through the sweeter trace of orange-scented cleaner lingering in the air. Everything was ready. Waiting. 

Rhys stood near the front counter, hands braced against the edge. His focus kept slipping—catching on the hum of the lights, the tick of the wall clock, the dull ache between his shoulders. 

From the back room, the tattoo machine wound down, its buzz thinning to silence. A moment later, the door opened. Azriel stepped out, already pulling off his gloves. He checked the tray on the counter, adjusted one bottle by a fraction of an inch, then glanced at the schedule clipped beside the register. 

“What time’s your next one?” Rhys asked, glancing at the clock. Just past seven-thirty.

Azriel didn’t answer right away. His mouth tightened, just slightly. 

Rhys lifted a brow. “That bad?”

“Eight-fifteen,” Az said finally. 

Rhys looked up at him. “You hate late appointments.”

“I hate late appointments that aren’t worth my while,” Az corrected, arms crossing. “He’s only in town for two days. Dropped a deposit big enough to make me flexible.”

Rhys snorted. “So you’re subsidizing the AC with one guy’s bicep.”

“His back, actually.”

“Ah.” Rhys nodded. “High square footage. Smart investment.”

“That’s the hope.”

The back door opened again, and the earlier client stepped out, arm freshly wrapped, expression loose and unfocused in that post-adrenaline way. Rhys shifted aside.

Az glanced once, quick and evaluative, then nodded. “Follow the care instructions. Text me if anything looks off.”

Payment processed. Receipt printed. The rhythm completed. 

Rhys crossed to the worn leather bench along the wall and sat, forearms resting on his knees. The lights overhead buzzed faintly. 

His phone vibrated in his jacket pocket. He reached for it, thumb unconsciously tapping the notification. 

(Y/n): you said to lyk if i ever thought abt doing him again

Rhys blinked.

His stomach went still, then dropped, then did something that felt dangerously close to lifting.

The shop had settled into that low, mechanical hum. Az stood at the desk, tapping through the tablet with methodical focus, checking totals, clearing notifications, whatever else it was he did. Rhys watched for a second too long. The message glowed from his screen, sudden and stark and impossible to interpret cleanly. 

This could mean anything. 

And that was the problem—everything with her could mean anything. 

He sat up straighter without meaning to, shifting on the bench like posture might help him regain control of his thoughts. His fingers hovered above the screen.

She was allowed to text him. He’d said as much. He’d given her his personal phone number and told her it was okay. But he hadn't actually expected this. 

Not now. Not after how well she’d been doing. 

The last few weeks had shifted—subtly at first, then all at once. She’d been showing up early. Talking more. Dodging less. Letting herself be seen without immediately retreating behind humor or irritation or the arms crossed over her chest. And last session—just a few days ago—she’d laughed. Once. Soft and unguarded, like it surprised her as much as it did him. 

She’d smiled at him as she left. Not politely, not performatively. Just… genuinely. 

He’d thought about her more than he should have this week. Thought about the way she curled her sleeves over her knuckles when she got uncomfortable. The way she bit back a laugh when she made a joke and he didn’t catch it fast enough. The way she didn’t always let him in, but when she did—

God, when she did…

He was fond of her. That was the problem. He liked her. Liked her too much. 

Even in session, when he was being careful. Especially then. 

Maybe that was why his chest felt tight now. Why his eyes snagged on the word him, again and again, as if the repetition might dull its edge.  

you said to lyk if i ever thought abt doing him again

The phrasing was a mess. Casual, not the way she usually typed. But there was something else threaded through it. Something raw enough to tug at him even as he told himself not to pull. 

This didn’t read like a step forward. This read like a step sideways, into territory they were both supposed to avoid. 

Don’t read into it.

Too late.

Rhys: That was a general offer.

Rhys: But I’m listening.

The message marked as Delivered. Then Read. And then—

(Y/n): thinking abt doing it again

(Y/n): and dropping him again

(Y/n): in that order

His throat went dry. 

He stared at the screen, at the casual mess of it. Flirtatious in the way people got when they were a little lonely and wanted to be heard without admitting it outright. 

It was a joke. It had to be. Or a test. 

But it didn’t feel like a joke. Not entirely. 

The tone was crooked. Familiar. Like something real was hiding just beneath it. And maybe that was what made it dangerous. Because he knew that tone—had watched her speak in it. He’d seen her mouth curve around sharp little smiles like the one he could practically see now. He knew what she was like when she was deflecting—and when she wasn’t.

“What the fuck are you doing,” he muttered under his breath, pulse thudding low and hard. He swallowed hard, forcing the heat in his chest back down where it belonged. 

And typed instead—

Rhys: Dangerous habit.

He hit send. 

Her reply came almost immediately.

(Y/n): mm but fun tho

(Y/n): very fun actually

A soft breath slipped out of him before he could stop it. He tipped his head back against the wall, eyes closing for half a second.

She was joking.

Or venting. 

Or… flirting? 

Or nothing, Rhys.

Rhys: Is that your professional opinion?

The message sent. He locked the phone immediately, like that might keep it from burning a hole through his pocket.

Azriel reappeared from the back, wiping his hands on a rag. Rhys hadn’t even noticed him leave.

“You remember that guy last week?” Az said. “The one who wanted a tree ‘but make it angry’?”

Rhys blinked, dragged back into the room. “The same one who wanted to play his music on a speaker and cried during setup?”

“Yeah,” Az snorted. “Left me a review this morning. Five stars. No text. Just the tree emoji. Three times.”

Rhys smiled despite himself. “High praise.” 

“I’m framing it.”

Buzz.

Az dropped onto the stool across from him and cracked open a can from the mini fridge. It hissed, then went quiet.

“You ever think about picking it up?” Azriel asked casually.

Rhys raised a brow. “Tattoo work?”

“Yeah. You’ve got the hands for it. The patience. The intimidation factor.”

Buzz. 

Rhys scoffed. “Yeah, I’ll get right on abandoning the very expensive degrees.”

Buzz. 

“Hey, you’d be surprised how many failed lawyers are in this business.”

Rhys shook his head, smiling faintly. Az always made it sound plausible.

Buzz.

From the back room, a soft alert chimed. Az groaned. “Shit. I gotta go prep.”

“You love a guy with a Pinterest board.”

Buzz. 

Az waved him off, disappearing through the swinging door.

Alone again, Rhys let out a slow breath and unlocked his phone. 

(Y/n): god no we both kno im not a pro 

(Y/n): if i was a pro i wouldnt be here right

(Y/n): lol

(Y/n): but if i WERE a pro

(Y/n): my profesh opinion is i need to be supervised

His jaw tightened. A quiet spark lit in the center of his chest, catching on the word supervised like a wick.

His brain immediately offered ten different replies, and just as quickly vetoed nine, settling for the only one that wouldn’t get his license revoked. Barely.

Rhys: Lucky for you, I’m very good at that.

And then immediately regretted it.

It wasn’t what he meant. Or—it was, but—

No time to revise. Her reply came fast.

(Y/n): whats the goin rate for supervision these days

(Y/n): asking for a friend

Rhys closed his eyes for a brief, deliberate second. 

She was tipsy. That much was obvious now—he could see it in the looseness of her spelling, the run-on thoughts, the lack of cushioning with irony. Alcohol rarely gave new ideas, mostly made the old ones harder to ignore.

Still. She knew what she was doing.

She had to.

He opened his eyes and stared at the screen again, jaw tightening. He should slow this down. Redirect. Say something neutral. Something safe. Something that gently nudged the conversation back onto solid ground. 

Instead—

Rhys: Depends on the type.

The pause that followed stretched longer. Maybe she was rereading it. Maybe she was deciding whether she’d imagined the implication. Maybe she was smiling at her reflection in that bar’s bathroom mirror.  Maybe she was turning his words over, looking for something underneath. 

He definitely was.

(Y/n): omg theres TYPES now??

(Y/n): system is rigged

A soft huff of laughter slipped out of him before he could stop it. He pressed his lips together, shaking his head once.

Get a grip.

Rhys: We’re outside the system now.

Rhys: This is a specialty service.

The words sat there, glowing. Too smooth. Too easy. 

Another breath. His pulse was louder now, insistent. He hadn’t been this aware of his own body all day—of the weight of himself in the room, of the space between intention and action.

(Y/n): lmk if u ever need a reference

(Y/n): i know a girl

Rhys: Do I?

He knew even as he sent it that it sounded like something else. Something he shouldn’t be offering. 

(Y/n): as a matter of fact u do mhm

He stared at the message longer than necessary, mind filling in gaps it had no business filling. The mirror. The bathroom. The sharp fluorescent light flattening everything except her. The way her mouth might tilt at the corner when she typed things like this—half daring, half amused with herself. Bare arms. The line of her neck when she tilted her head. Legs crossed at the ankle, uncrossed again. Weight tipped into one hip. The soft column of her throat, skin warm and exposed where her collar dipped— 

He shouldn’t be picturing this.

He knew better.

Rhys: Have you been drinking?

The answer came quickly, as expected.

(Y/n): just a bitttt

(Y/n): just like

(Y/n): soft in the edges in the bathroom of this smelly bar

(Y/n): which sounds worse typed out tbh

(Y/n): ignore that

(Y/n): im not like. DRUNK

(Y/n): im sober enough to know this will be super embarrassing tomorrow

(Y/n): not sober enough to particularly care rn

He read the messages twice. 

Smiled once. 

Then stopped himself from smiling again.

This was where he was supposed to intervene. Grounding. Slowing. A reminder about tomorrow. About consequences.

Instead—

Rhys: Not my usual prescription, but if it’s working…

He winced internally the second it sent, gaze wandering to the darkened front windows of the shop.

Not my usual prescription was a lie of omission at best. Not the one he measured carefully and handed out with language about coping and sustainability and long-term outcomes. That version stayed neat—contained to paper, to plans, to things that could be tracked and justified. 

But he knew the other version all too well. Knew how easy it was to reach for something that softened the edges, blurred the noise, made a night feel survivable instead of endless. Knew the relief it offered—and how quietly it asked for more the next time. He understood the difference between using something and leaning on it, and how thin that line could get when you were tired enough. Or lonely enough. 

Buzz. 

(Y/n): its not not working

(Y/n): things are weird out there

(Y/n): weird with him

(Y/n): i feel like a balloon

Rhys: Untethered?

(Y/n): no like. full of air

(Y/n): like if someone poked me i’d fly away or burst

(Y/n): one of those

(Y/n): ugh ignore me this is why no one invites their therapist to drinks

The reply I don’t mind breaking precedent flashed fully formed—and vanished just as fast.  It startled him enough that he had to physically unclench his jaw.

Rhys: I’ll try not to take that personally.

(Y/n): u should

(Y/n): i’d absolutely invite u

(Y/n): but i’d only talk after 2.5 drinks so u cant judge me

Rhys: I’d still judge you.

Rhys: Quietly.

Her next reply took longer. He knew better than that. Judging wasn’t supposed to exist anywhere near his voice with her, not even as a joke. The word lingered anyway, heavier than he’d intended, and he found himself waiting, half-braced, because the pause that followed felt earned. He sat with it, jaw tight, reminding himself—too late—where the line was supposed to be. 

(Y/n): rude

Fuck. 

(Y/n): but fair ig

Relief flickered through him. He hated that it did. Some part of him had been craving consequence even in something this small—had wanted the discomfort, the correction, as if it would balance the scale. As if being checked might absolve him of the fact that he’d enjoyed the misstep at all. 

(Y/n): u ever get that thing

(Y/n): where ur not lonely but ur still like.

(Y/n): aware of being alone

He stared at the message—felt the weight of it. 

Rhys: Sometimes.

(Y/n): it’s annoying

(Y/n): anyway sorry lol idk why im texting u

Rhys leaned forward, elbows bracing against his thighs, spine straightening as something in him clicked into place. The teasing edge dulled, if only for the moment. The room came back into focus. Whatever else this conversation had been skirting, this was the part that mattered.

Rhys: You needed to.

Rhys: It’s allowed.

The pause that followed was longer still. 

(Y/n): do u ever miss things that weren’t even good for u

A muscle ticked in his jaw. He didn’t let himself think too long about that one. 

Rhys: More often than I’d like to admit.

(Y/n): mm

(Y/n): ok yeah maybe u do get it

(Y/n): stupid annoying therapist powers

Rhys: Occupational hazard.

A stretch of silence. He pictured her perched on the bathroom counter, lipstick worn thin, hair slipping loose, the strand that never stayed in place—the one he always had to remind himself not to tuck away in session. 

(Y/n): ugh

(Y/n): ok

(Y/n): i should go back

(Y/n): gwyn’s gonna think i fell in

Something in him resisted the idea of her leaving—an irrational, immediate reluctance he didn’t bother justifying—not because there was anything left to say, but because the conversation hadn’t finished settling in his chest yet. He felt it anyway, brief and bright, before forcing it back into its proper place, annoyed with himself for noticing it at all. 

Rhys: She’d probably come rescue you.

I’ll come rescue you, his mind supplied. 

(Y/n): yeah

(Y/n): she’s got a scary sixth sense for people avoiding social gatherings in bathrooms (always me)

The laugh slipped out of him before he could stop it—quiet, low, unguarded. Not the polite sound he used in session, not the careful exhale of amusement he curated. This one caught in his chest and surprised him with its ease. 

He leaned back against the bench, eyes closing for half a second as it faded. He could picture it too clearly: her laughing into the mirror, mouth tilted crooked with self-awareness. The idea that he might be the reason for a laugh like that someday sat warm and unsettling all at once. 

That was the problem. 

He was enjoying it. 

He cut the thought off sharply. 

(Y/n): ok really going now

(Y/n): thanks

(Y/n): for being nice i mean

(Y/n): and not like. therapist-y

Rhys: You’re welcome.

That should have been it. Really. 

Instead—

Rhys: You’re easier to talk to like this.

Rhys: You say what you mean.

Regret crept in immediately.

(Y/n): drunk?

Rhys: I thought you weren’t drunk.

(Y/n): ur right im not

(Y/n): like this how

Her question sat there, deceptively simple. Like this could mean a lot of things, and that was the problem. Not drunk, but close enough to it. Close enough that the careful editing was gone. The second-guessing. The habit of cushioning every truth with a joke or a shrug. 

Like this meant she wasn’t watching herself. 

Like this meant she was saying things as they occurred to her, not as she thought they were supposed to sound. 

His thumbs hovered over the screen, typed, then stopped. 

Less filtered.

No, too close to drunk. And she’d already decided she wasn’t. 

He deleted it and tried again. 

When you stop pretending you don’t know exactly what you’re doing, flashed into the draft box next. 

Worse. 

That sounded like an invitation. Like encouragement. Like he was enjoying this in a way he had no right to. All of those things were true, and that was reason enough not to send it. 

He exhaled, slow and deliberate, and stripped the thought down to the barest, safest version of the truth. 

Rhys: Informally

And he swore—he swore—he wasn’t hoping she’d text again after that.

But when she did, something in his chest tipped toward pleased—unearned, unprofessional, and impossible to pretend otherwise. 

(Y/n): lol ok informally it is

(Y/n): u should charge extra for informally

(Y/n): i’d pay it

(Y/n): god forbid we ever talk formally

(Y/n): id prob kms

(Y/n): not literally

(Y/n): poor choice of words

(Y/n): dont baker act me pls

The messages stacked one after another, casual and unfiltered and unmistakably her. Rhys read them once. Then again. Then a third time, slower, like pace might change the meaning.

Informally it is. 

That one lodged first. Not because it surprised him, but because it didn’t. Soft acceptance, easy agreement. No hesitation, no backpedaling. Just a smooth yes, as if she’d already decided this was where she wanted their relationship to live. 

You should charge extra for informally. 

That one landed lower. Warmer. It wasn’t the joke itself that did it, it was the framing. The way she turned it into a choice she was making, not a favor she was asking for. Like this version of him was something she wanted deliberately. Like she knew there was a difference, and she was opting in. 

He told himself not to read into that. 

I’d pay it. 

That was where he stalled. 

He read it once, then again, slower. There was nothing explicit there, nothing he could point to and say that’s the line. No heat, no demand, just certainty. Casual. Confident. Said like a given, like she wasn’t testing the water so much as assuming he was already wading in it with her. 

And that, more than anything, was what unsettled him. 

She wasn’t asking permission. She was assuming proximity, speaking as if the closeness had always existed, underneath, and was trusting him to meet her there or not. As if the risk wasn’t in saying it, but in pretending she hadn’t meant it. 

His chest tightened at that. Not with panic but with recognition, because part of him had already answered. 

God forbid we ever talk formally.

He huffed a quiet breath through his nose, shaking his head once. How close she was to the truth, to the fact that whatever this was, it hadn’t felt normal in a while. Or maybe she did. Maybe that was the joke. 

Then the spiral. It was messy, self-aware, half-apologetic in the way people got when they were thinking out loud. That was what finally did him in. Not the dark humor—he’d heard worse. It was the trust threaded through it. The initial assumption that he’d understand the joke, that he wouldn’t panic, that he’d let it land as it was meant to. She wasn’t asking for reassurance. She wasn’t even asking for absolution. 

She was just… talking to him. 

Rhys leaned back against the wall, phone loose in his hand now, thumb resting idly at the edge of the screen. The shop felt quieter all of a sudden, like the world had politely stepped back and given him a second he hadn’t asked for. His thoughts drifted—not forward, not to consequences or rules or tomorrow—but sideways, circling the way her messages felt rather than what they meant.

He liked the way she sounded like this. Liked the rhythm of her, the way her humor tangled with honesty when she wasn’t smoothing it down. Liked that she trusted him enough to be ridiculous and sharp and a little reckless all at once.

He was enjoying it.

Not in a reckless, out-of-control way. In a measured way. A contained way. The kind of enjoyment that came with awareness—I know exactly what I’m doing—and still didn’t stop.

His thumb lifted. Hovered.

A reply took shape almost immediately, something light, something that would meet her where she was without tipping too far. He typed it out, glanced at it, adjusted a word. Read it again. The corners of his mouth threatened something dangerous.

“Bro.”

Rhys froze. 

Azriel stood a few feet away now, arms crossed, head tilted just enough to be annoying. His gaze flicked from Rhys’s face to the phone still in his hand and back again, slow and assessing.

“Who’s got you smiling like that,” Az said, mouth twitching like he’d just been handed leverage. 

“Mind your business.”

He deleted the text.

I’ll spare us both the paperwork. Let’s call it informal supervision and leave it at that. 

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

<- Chapter 13 ✦ Chapter 15 -> Coming Soon!!

[zyafics]

KILDAREWATCH.COM | 04

MASTERLIST (SMAU)

Pairing — Ex-BSF!Rafe x Kook!Female Reader

Pairing II — Ex-BSF!Kook!JJ x Kook!Female Reader

Summary — You, JJ, and Rafe have been best friends since birth. But after an unexpected fallout, you all went your separate ways—with you deciding to leave the island altogether. Now, back for the summer alone, you decide to return to Kildare Watch, the exclusive social hub, and chat anonymously with strangers. However, you discover you're talking to one of your ex-best friends. The problem? You don't know which one.

Content — kook!jj au, sarah and rafe are twins!au, pogues and kooks are the same age!au, childhood friends to strangers/enemies to lovers, love triangle, anonymous chatroom!au

Navigation — Part 03 | Part 04 | Part 05

IMPORTANT INFO ABOUT TAGLIST AND UPDATES: if you want to be notified about all my fics and updates, follow @zyafics-library and turn on notifications! however, if you want to be added to this specific taglist, let me know (but to remain tagged, you must interact with the posts).

TAGLIST FOR KW.COM: @promiscuousg1rl / @itneverendshere / @inthelibrarybtw / @papercranesandinkstains / @krtsvig / @adoreeyou / @akobx / @mmaybanks / @dreamybabbyy / @psychocitylights / @mayanqueenxx / @atjlovverr / @saviorcomplexrry / @mckkenziee / @drewsswifeyy / @barnesboo1967 / @acidfeens / @justdamnpeachy / @zenznai / @fahiries / @freshsturniolo346 / @frankoceanluvr11 / @colbysbrocks / @jjasmiineee / @congratsloserr / @bradshawed / @rafecameronswifeyy / @rrosiitas / @onlyangelbloom / @blonded-fan / @darlingchronicles / @fieryghxul / @xhunnybbyx / @lilithblackkk / @jeonjungkaka / @justalittlesoobin / @judesgfirl / @chillgal135 / @vdotcom / @harryzcherry

[kissylec-deactivated20260201]

LOST AND FOUND — rafe cameron, 05

pairing . . . rafe cameron x routledge!reader in which . . . rafe cameron was a peculiar human being. he's grotesque, a kook, rude, but above all, he's your best friend, or at least he was. abruptly and without warning, he pushed you away, you'd love to understand why, since you were seventeen. but after many dead ends, you came to accept that maybe rafe didn't belong in your life, that he was just a thorn in your shoe and that he was just like all the kooks. or was he? ch warning .ᐟ . . . curse words, rafe being an ass, kook v.s pogue shenanigans

masterlist .ᐟ 𝜗𝜚 navigation .ᐟ

LOST AND FOUND. — 04 . 05 . 06

kissylec says . . . two chapters in a row now can you see how much i love u guys 🙄🙄

taglist . . . @drewstarkeyslover @ihydeja @imtalkinnonsense @rafes4 @luvrclub @jamesbeaufortismylife @hannieskzzz @freshsturniolo346 @yktayy9669 @yestardaysproblemm @angelicameron @malibuhearts @wtfisastiles @frankoceanluvr11 @popou61 @mrsdrewstarkeyy @drewsephswife @inthelibrarybtw @amterasuu @dreamybabbyy @rafesdrew @congratsloserr @vampiriito @angvl3tears @drewrry @drewsswifeyy @ltristessedureratoujours @yncoded @matildalittlefreak @icaqttt @sarakpalsd @wintercrows @mysticbby2009 @stoned-writer @vanessa-rafesgirl @princesspeaxhh @countryclubwhore @leclerc16s @africancracker @rafeysbabydoll @angeldiaryy

© KISSYLEC. 2025 — please do not plagiarize, repost, translate or claim any of my work as your own.

[rosreblogs]

"YOU ARE A KOGUE" IM DEADDDD

[bithewayellie]

lights down

rockstar!rafe cameron x actress!maybank!reader smau

COMPLETED

Growing up in totally different worlds, he'd never even heard her name. That is until she made a movie with his sister, leaving him begging for more. He couldn't help himself. She was like a siren, tugging the reigns, hopelessly dragging him under.

↪ chapter one ↪ chapter two ↪ chapter three ↪ chapter four ↪ chaper five ↪ chapter six ↪ chapter seven ↪ chapter eight ↪ chapter nine ↪ chapter ten ↪ chapter eleven ↪ chapter twelve ↪ chapter thirteen ↪ chapter fourteen ↪ chapter fifteen

i had so much fun reading the obx smau by @hunzzzzz and it inspired me to start a little something myself <3