Summary: You transferred to Briar U to become a ghost, desperate to outrun your controlling ex. When your past finally catches up to you in the middle of a lecture hall, Dean Di Laurentis makes one thing perfectly clear: you are under his protection now.
Hurt/Comfort
Warnings: not proofread yet, probably shitty because I haven't written anything in months, mentions of toxic/controlling relationships, stalking, anxiety, graphic violence, Protective!Dean in full force
A/N: I don't know how good it is because it's been a while since i've last written something and tbh I didn't finish the first season, only read the books 5 times. But I hope you like it and after my finals I will be back with more fics. You can totally spam my box with requests if you's like. But I won't be writing anything for like 3 whole weeks. I am so stressed I can't even exist. Anyway. Feedback is much appreciated. Take care of yourselves and lots of love! What do we think of a part 2?
Words: 2.6k
Requested here!
The booth at Malone’s was designed to comfortably fit six people. Currently, it held four massive hockey players, Hannah, and you. Which meant you were practically sitting in Dean Di Laurentis’s lap.
Not that he was complaining.
"I’m just saying," John Logan argued from across the sticky table, pointing a french fry at Tucker, "if you actually passed the puck instead of trying to be the hero, we would’ve scored in the second period."
"I was open!" Tucker shot back. "You’re just blind, Johnny!"
Garrett Graham, wedged next to them, rolled his eyes and stole a sip of Hannah’s beer. "You’re both idiots. Just drink."
You tuned out the hockey talk, mostly because Dean’s fingers were currently drawing lazy, distracting circles on the denim of your jeans, right at your knee.
When you transferred to Briar to escape the wreckage of your last relationship, your plan was simple: keep your head down, go to class, and stay invisible. You didn't plan on meeting Dean Di Laurentis. You definitely didn't plan on sleeping with him.
Twice.
The problem? The sex was mind-blowing, and Dean was shockingly attentive, which meant you had to pull the emergency brake. Two hookups could be written off as a fluke. Three times was a pattern. Three times meant you were knocking on the door of a relationship, and you didn't do boyfriends anymore. Not after the suffocating mess you’d left behind in your hometown.
You’d drawn a hard line.
Dean, however, treated that line like a mild suggestion.
"I'm going to grab another round before Logan and Tuck start throwing punches," Hannah announced, sliding out of the booth. "Don't kill each other."
"You're ignoring me," Dean murmured. He dropped his arm over the back of the booth behind your head, leaning in so close you could smell his expensive cologne mixed with draft beer.
"I'm listening to Logan and Tuck," you replied, keeping your eyes on your cup. "It’s very educational."
"I can think of better things to do than listen to Logan." Dean's voice dropped to that low, raspy pitch he knew exactly how to use. His thumb dragged a fraction higher on your thigh."You're wearing that perfume again," he murmured, a sound that completely bypassed your brain and went straight to your stomach.
"Shut up, Di Laurentis," you shot back, taking a desperate sip of your drink.
"I know you have this ridiculous rule about a third time meaning we're suddenly married, but come on, beautiful," he chuckled, his breath ghosting over your jaw. " You can’t stop thinking about it either. I promise I’ll make you forget why you ever made that rule in the first place."
"Read my lips, Di Laurentis," you said, turning your head just enough to give him a flat look. "We are done."
He just smirked, his thumb pressing a little firmer against your thigh. "Liar."
You opened your mouth to tell him his ego was writing checks his charm couldn't cash, but Hannah suddenly slid back into the booth, thumping a heavy plastic pitcher onto the table.
"Malone's is officially a zoo," she announced, dropping into the space next to Garrett. She wiped condensation off her hands, then paused, her eyes darting over to you. "Hey, did you tell someone we were coming here?"
You frowned. "No. Why?"
"Because some guy just stopped me by the bar," Hannah said, her brow furrowed. "Tall, dark hair, preppy polo shirt. He had this crazy intense look on his face. He asked if I knew a Y/N who just transferred here. I told him no, but... It gave me the creeps, honestly."
The buzz from the vodka evaporated.
Your stomach did a horrific, Olympic-level flip. It was an instant, violent spike of adrenaline. A cold sweat broke out across the back of your neck, and suddenly the loud, chaotic noise of the bar felt like it was pressing against your eardrums.
He’s here.
You stared at the condensation pooling on the wooden table, your brain short-circuiting.
Beside you, Dean completely misread the situation. He thought you were just giving him the silent treatment. He leaned his weight against you, his chest pressing into your shoulder.
"Come on, beautiful," Dean coaxed, his voice dropping right into your ear. "Stop playing hard to get. Let's get out of here."
The feeling of being boxed into the booth suddenly shifted from annoying to terrifying. You felt trapped.
You snapped your head up to tell Dean to back the hell off, your heart hammering against your ribs. But as you looked past him, your eyes landed on the front entrance.
Standing by the bouncer, looking exactly like the entitled prick he was, was your ex-boyfriend.
Your breath caught in your throat. Fight or flight kicked in, and your body chose flight.
You didn't care about looking cool, and you didn't care about explaining yourself. You just needed to get out of his line of sight before he spotted you.
You shoved Dean’s arm away and scrambled to get your feet under you.
"Move," you choked out.
Dean looked startled. "Whoa, hey, what—"
"Dean, let me out!" you snapped, practically climbing over his knees. You abandoned your jacket, hit the sticky floor, and bolted toward the back hallway. You pushed past a group of frat guys and burst through the heavy metal door into the freezing alleyway.
A second later, the heavy door swung open again. You heard Garrett swearing under his breath, followed by Hannah’s worried voice.
The night was officially over.
The heavy front door of the house slammed shut, cutting off the biting wind.
Garrett took one look at you—at the way your arms were wrapped tightly around your ribs, your face completely bloodless—and didn't ask a single question.
"Upstairs. Now," he muttered, shoving Logan and Tucker down the hall before they could open their mouths.
Hannah hesitated, giving you a tight, worried smile, before following Garrett's lead.
You walked straight into the kitchen on autopilot, grabbing the edge of the marble island to keep your knees from buckling. You were shaking like a leaf, and it definitely wasn't the weather.
Footsteps squeaked against the hardwood floor.
Dean walked into the kitchen and stopped a good five feet away, leaning his hip against the opposite counter.
The silence stretched, thick and suffocating.
"I’m an ass," Dean said.
His voice was flat, totally stripped of its usual lazy drawl. You looked up. He was running a hand through his blond hair, his jaw tight, looking genuinely stressed.
"Dean—"
"No, let me finish," he interrupted, holding up a hand. "I'm an idiot. I completely misread that," Dean dragged a hand down his face, dropping his gaze to the floor. "We had a deal—you said two times was it, and I kept pushing. I crowded you in that booth, and you looked like you were suffocating. I crossed a line, and I’m sorry."
You let out an exhausted breath. Dean Di Laurentis—actual playboy extraordinaire—was standing in his kitchen apologizing because he thought his flirting had sent you into a panic attack.
"Dean," you said softly, your voice shaking. "It wasn't you."
His brow furrowed, his hazel eyes snapping up to meet yours. "What are you talking about? You couldn't get out of that booth fast enough."
"I wasn't running from you," you admitted, hugging yourself tighter. "I panicked because of what Hannah said. And because when I snapped my head up to tell you to back off... I saw someone."
Dean went perfectly still. The confusion on his face lingered for a split second before sharpening into intense focus. "Saw who?"
"My ex-boyfriend." The words tasted like ash. "The guy I transferred here to get away from."
Dean didn't move. "He was at Malone's?"
You nodded, a humiliating tear spilling over your lashes. "I didn't move to Briar for a fresh start. I came here because I was running away from him."
Dean stayed quiet, letting you set the pace. He didn't pace the room, and he didn't raise his voice.
"He didn't hit me," you said, your voice cracking. "I know people always assume that's what it takes to run. But he just... he owned me. If we had an argument, he would literally stand in front of the door so I couldn't leave the room until I gave in and apologized. He alienated my friends. He made me feel like I was crazy for wanting to exist outside of his control. By the time I finally packed my car and left, I felt like a ghost."
You wiped angrily at your cheek, staring at the marble counter. "I moved here to be invisible. I thought I was safe. And he was standing right there by the bouncers."
The air in the kitchen completely changed.
The guilt that had been weighing Dean down evaporated, swallowed up by a profound, heavy stillness. You could see the exact moment the pieces clicked together in his head—the realization of why you hated feeling cornered, why you were so fiercely independent, why you put up so many walls.
Dean was a hockey player; he had a temper. You could see the anger flare in his eyes, dark and sharp, but he brutally forced it down. He seemed to understand, instinctively, that you didn't need to see another man lose his temper right now.
"Okay," Dean said softly. His voice was incredibly calm, level, and steady. "Did he see you?"
You shook your head, "I... I don't think so."
"Good." He took a slow, deliberate step forward, keeping his hands visible and his body language completely relaxed. "He doesn't know where you live. He doesn't know who you're with."
Dean slowly reached out. He just offered his hand, palm up, resting it on the marble counter between you. An invitation, not a demand.
You stared at his large, calloused hand for a second before slowly sliding yours into it. His fingers immediately wrapped around yours in a warm, solid grip.
"I know we have an arrangement," Dean said, his thumb brushing a slow, rhythmic circle over your knuckles to help ground you. "You call your own shots. I respect that."
He paused, making sure you were looking him in the eye.
"But you are my friend," Dean continued, "And you are standing in my house. Which means you are officially under my protection. I don't care how annoying this guy is. He doesn't get to breathe the same air as you."
The quiet, absolute certainty in his voice did more to calm your racing heart than any loud threat ever could. He wasn't posturing for his own ego; he was just stating a fact.
A small, surprised laugh escaped you. "You're going to act like my bodyguard now, Di Laurentis?"
A faint, familiar smirk finally touched the corner of Dean's mouth, though his eyes remained entirely serious. "Somebody has to keep the country club rejects away from you. Besides, Garrett would kill me if I let a guy in a polo shirt terrorize our house."
It had been four days since Malone’s, and you were almost convinced you were safe.
You were sitting in your Tuesday morning Psychology lecture, tucked into your usual seats near the back. Dean slouched next to you, his long legs stretched out into the aisle. He tapped his pen rhythmically against his notebook while the professor droned on about cognitive dissonance.
The heavy doors at the front of the lecture hall swung open.
A guy walked in and handed a slip of paper to the professor. A transfer student.
One look at the arrogant set of his shoulders, the dark hair, and the expensive preppy sweater sent all the blood rushing out of your head. The air vanished from your lungs. You shrank back against your plastic chair, your hands immediately curling into tight fists in your lap as a cold sweat broke out across your skin.
He had actually enrolled at Briar.
Beside you, Dean felt the violent shift in your posture. The tapping stopped. "Hey," he whispered. "What is it?"
You gave a tiny, almost imperceptible shake of your head, keeping your eyes fixed on the front of the room.
Dean followed your line of sight. He studied the new guy finding a seat three rows down. The pieces clicked together instantly in Dean's head—the preppy clothes, the dark hair, and the sheer terror radiating off you. He recognized the guy from the door at Malone's.
Dean sat up straight, locking his jaw into a hard, rigid line. For the remaining forty minutes of the lecture, he remained terrifyingly still, his eyes burning a hole into the back of your ex's head.
"Class dismissed," the professor finally announced, snapping his laptop shut and briskly walking out the side door.
The hall erupted into the chaotic noise of zippers, scraping chairs, and overlapping conversations. You shoved your notebook into your backpack with shaking hands, desperate to blend into the crowd and escape through the back doors before he spotted you.
But your ex was already turning around. His eyes locked onto yours.
That familiar, entitled smirk crawled onto his face. He grabbed his bag and marched up the stairs, heading straight for your row.
Dean stood up. He slung his backpack over his left shoulder and stepped smoothly out of your row, planting his massive, athlete frame directly in the middle of the aisle to block the stairs.
Your ex stopped a few steps below him, letting out an annoyed sigh. "Excuse me, buddy. You're in the way."
Dean held his ground, staring down at him with a look of cold, absolute apathy.
Your ex scoffed, his ego flaring up. "Hey, deaf guy. Move. I need to talk to my girlfriend."
Dean dropped his backpack, shifted his weight, and threw a brutal, devastating right hook.
The sickening crack of Dean's knuckles connecting with bone echoed sharply in the thinning lecture hall.
The force of the punch lifted your ex entirely off his feet. He flew backward, crashing hard into a wooden desk before crumpling to the linoleum floor in a heap. A few remaining students gasped, freezing in their tracks. Nobody dared to intervene.
Your ex groaned, rolling onto his side. He clutched his face, blood instantly pouring from his shattered nose and dripping onto his pristine sweater. He looked up at Dean, his eyes wide with genuine shock and pain.
"What the hell?!" your ex yelled, his voice thick and nasally. He scrambled backward against the desks, staring at Dean like he was a monster. "What the hell was that for?! I don't even know you!"
Dean stood over him, breathing evenly, casually rolling his shoulders. He flexed his right hand once, his eyes dark and completely devoid of mercy.
"You know why," Dean said. His voice was deathly quiet, carrying a promise of so much worse if the guy ever tried to get up.
Dean held his gaze for three agonizing seconds, making sure the message was received loud and clear. Your ex stayed frozen on the floor, too terrified to reach for his fallen bag.
Satisfied, Dean smoothly bent down and picked up his backpack by the strap. The cold, lethal hockey player vanished in a fraction of a second as he turned back to you.
His hazel eyes softened instantly. He stepped back into your row, gently placing his uninjured hand on the small of your back.
"Come on," Dean murmured, his voice warm and perfectly calm, acting as if he hadn't just committed assault in front of a dozen witnesses. "Let's go get some lunch."
as someone who LOVES the off campus and briar u book series, i really have so very little criticism for the tv series! they’ve managed to preserve the essence of each character and the actors embody them so well!!
couldn’t agree more. i remember reading the books a bit ago but watching the show makes me want to give them a go again
The makers of Kinktober 2025 are back again with a brand new list! The graphics are once again created by latte-cucumber. Check out our AO3 collection, or keep reading for more information.
More information
Kinktober is a kinky October prompt challenge that’s been running in one form or another since 2016. There are three prompts for each day in October, and the challenge is to use one (or more!) of the prompts to create something for that day. If you don’t want to use any of the three daily prompts, you can swap them out for the bonus prompts at the bottom of the prompt list.
If you have any questions, check our FAQs. Unfortunately, due to personal commitments, we won't be opening our askbox for questions this year. We've made it as rules-light as possible, though, so if your question is "Can I do this?", the answer is almost certainly yes!
all my garrett graham fics, one shots, blurbs & extras gathered in one place.
one shots –
❄︎ one drink limit
garrett tries to keep his drunk girlfriend hydrated, upright, and away from kitchen counters.
❄︎ secret mission
a secret hookup with garrett graham turns into four close calls, one locker room scandal, and feelings neither of them are hiding very well.
❄︎ full immersion
a random class assignment sends garrett to celibacy club.
❄︎ chain reaction
four times garrett’s chain causes problems, and one very smug hockey captain pretends he isn’t loving every second of it.
❄︎ house law
dean’s ex was meant to be off-limits. garrett has several problems with that.
❄︎ dedicated student
garrett graham is very good at hockey, very bad at asking awkward questions, and unfortunately excellent at following instructions.
blurbs –
❄︎ hydration police
garrett's girlfriend is drunk, freezing, and extremely loyal.
❄︎ good first impression
garrett graham shows up with sex on his mind and gets introduced to a six-month-old in a duck onesie instead.
❄︎ team effort
everyone keeps asking for too much. garrett has a very simple solution.
❄︎ drunk romance
after a party, garrett is drunk, clingy, and very committed to proving that sloppy kisses count as romance.
❄︎ bossy hockey bitch
garrett graham can ignore almost anything at practice. a low glucose alert from dexcom is not one of them.
❄︎ continuity of care
a suspicious number of shoulder checks leads garrett to finally ask for dinner.
❄︎ america's sweetheart
garrett wins gold, finds america’s sweetheart in the olympic village, and decides patience deserves a reward.
❄︎ tiny idiot
after an embarrassing moment in class, garrett offers comfort, food, and academic vengeance in equal measure.
𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞!
taglist –
to be notified when i post new fics, follow @kooksandpearls-library and turn on notifications! i no longer use a taglist for garrett fics.
[did someone say they wanted hate sex with Gaz and former bully!Reader]
***
“Oh my God,” your friend hissed, elbowing you so hard you nearly spilled your drink. “Is that Kyle Garrick?”
You hadn’t planned on coming back to your shitty little hometown.
A messy breakup and your mum’s sixtieth had dragged you home for a couple of weeks, back to the same creaky house, the same faded wallpaper in your old bedroom, the same feeling that nothing and everything had changed. Boredom and half a bottle of cheap wine on a Friday night were what finally pushed you out the door and into the local pub when your friend suddenly elbowed you.
You turned and the floor dropped out from under you.
He was at the bar, back half turned, one elbow resting on the scarred wood. Broad shoulders. Narrow waist. Jeans that actually fit an ass instead of hanging off nothing. The faded black henley stretched across muscle that hadn’t existed when he was seventeen. Short hair, military fade growing out on top. When he glanced sideways to answer the bartender, you caught the clean line of his jaw, the straight nose, the mouth.
No glasses. No acne. No wonky teeth flashing metal every time he spoke.
Kyle fucking Garrick.
The same boy whose glasses you used to rip off his face in the middle of the hallway and hold above your head while your friends laughed. The same lanky kid you’d nicknamed Gaz the Spaz until even the teachers stopped correcting it. The same boy you’d cornered after school one day and made repeat “I’m a worthless loser who will never get laid” three times while you filmed it on your shitty flip phone.
You’d heard he enlisted one summer and laughed, “They’ll either kick him out for being a pussy or he’ll die in some shithole and do the world a favour.”
He felt your stare now. Turned slowly.
Recognition hit first. Then something colder, sharper, older. His eyes, dark, dragged over you and something in your cunt clenched tight.
You should have stayed in the booth.
Instead you slid out, heart hammering, and walked over on unsteady legs. The cheap wine was already buzzing warm behind your ribs, making everything feel a little too bright, a little too loud.
“Kyle,” you said when you reached him, aiming for casual and missing by a mile. Your voice came out breathy. “Wow. You look… different.”
You don’t remember exactly how the rest of the night unfolded, not really.
One drink became three. Then four. Your friends eventually peeled off, leaving you at the bar with him. He stayed sober, nursing the same pint for hours, watching you get looser and louder in that old familiar way that used to feel like power and now just felt pathetic next to him.
He just sipped his drink and looked at you with those calm, dark eyes until your stomach twisted and your thighs pressed together under the bar.
At some point his hand settled on your lower back, warm and heavy in a way that made your drunk brain short circuit, universal sign for your coming home with me.
Now the front door of your parents house clicks shut behind you and the world narrows to this:
You’re on your hands and knees over the arm of the old floral couch in the living room, skirt shoved up around your waist, panties gone, and Kyle Garrick buried to the hilt inside your cunt.
No preamble. No slow build. One second you’re stumbling through the door on drunk legs, the next he has you bent, shoving his cock in with one long, brutal thrust that punched the air out of your lungs.
“Fuck- Kyle!”
“Gaz,” he corrects, voice low and perfectly controlled. One big hand presses between your shoulder blades, pinning your chest to the couch arm while the other grips your hip hard enough to bruise. He’s still fully dressed, jeans open just enough, henley rucked up, while you’re half stripped and already drooling onto the faded floral fabric. “And you’re going to stay right here and take every inch you said no one would ever want.”
He pulls almost all the way out and slams back in. The wet sound is loud from the very first thrust. You’re soaked- humiliatingly, traitorously soaked- and every stroke makes it worse. Cream coats his cock and starts dripping down your thighs in shiny streaks that catch the low lamplight.
Your mind is fuzzy with wine, thoughts slipping and sliding, but the memories rise anyway, uninvited, triggered by every deep, punishing thrust.
Sticking your foot out as he walked past carrying his books. He went down hard, papers scattering everywhere, knees and palms scraping the dirty floor.
Thrust.
“Look at Gaz crawling for it like the dog he is- bet that’s the closest he’s ever got to a bitch.”
Thrust. Harder.
His dark eyes dragging over youes at the bar. “Didn’t expect to see the girl who told the whole school during lunch I had a micro dick…”
He fucks you like he’s been waiting ten years for this exact moment, almost cruel in the way he angles his hips to grind against the soft spongy spot inside you most men can’t reach, the one that makes your vision blur.
Your mouth falls open. Spit floods out, soaking the cushion under your cheek in a steady, shiny pool. You can’t close it. Can’t stop the little broken sounds spilling out every time he bottoms out.
“Listen to that,” he murmurs, calm as anything, like he’s not currently rearranging your insides. “Your cunt’s drooling for me. Just like it used to when you’d stare at me after you finished humiliating me in front of everyone.”
Another memory surfaces, sharp and vicious, dragged up by the stretch of his cock and the steady grind of his hips:
Frog dissection day, voice loud and carrying in the middle of lab, suggesting to the entire class that Gaz was probably going to smuggle one of the frogs home so he could fuck it, “because that’s the only pussy he’ll ever get in his miserable life.” The whole room erupted. People started making wet, disgusting noises every time he walked past for weeks.
Gaz’s hips snap forward harder on the echo of that laughter, burying himself so deep your knees slip on the rug.
“You made sure everyone knew exactly what you thought I deserved,” he says, voice still so fucking calm it makes your skin crawl. “Told the whole class the freak could only get off with something dead and cold. And now here you are: drunk and bent over like a cheap slut for the same loser. Funny how that works, isn’t it?”
You shake your head, but your body betrays you, hips pushing back to meet his thrusts, cunt fluttering and gushing around him with every stroke, running down your thighs in messy rivulets. Your mouth is a wreck, spit pouring freely, soaking the cushion until it’s dark and wet under your face.
“Don’t lie to yourself,” he continues, almost conversational, one hand sliding from your hip to reach under you and rub tight circles over your clit while he keeps pounding. “You bullied me because you were obsessed with me. That’s why your cunt’s sobbing all over my cock right now. Couldn’t stay away even after ten years. Couldn’t stop thinking about the freak you tried to bury.”
A fresh wave of memory hits, triggered by the way his fingers are working your clit in perfect counterpoint to his thrusts and the low, satisfied sound he makes when you clench around him:
The week you decided the entire school would blank him. No one was allowed to speak to him, sit with him, or even look at him. Told everyone it was a “social experiment” to see how long he would last before he cracked. He ate lunch alone every single day. Raised his hand in class and got ignored. Walked the corridors while people deliberately ran into him like he was invisible.
Gaz leans over your back, chest pressing you down harder, lips right against your ear.
“Say it,” he murmurs, almost sweet. “Say ‘Thank you, Gaz, for fucking trash like me.’”
You choke on a moan, drunk and wrecked and so fucking full. “Th-thank you- Gaz- for fucking trash line me- ”
“Good girl.” He rewards you with a few slower, deeper rolls of his hips that make your eyes roll back. “Now show me how sorry you really are.”
Your orgasm rips through you without warning: violent, humiliating, unstoppable. Your cunt clamps down hard, gushing fresh wetness around his cock, more cream flooding out and dripping down your thighs in thick, shiny trails. Your mouth falls open wider and you drool, a long continuous moan muffled in the soaked cushion while you shake and sob through it.
He doesn’t stop. Fucks you straight through it, calm and relentless, grinding deep every time your walls flutter.
When the aftershocks finally ease he flips you onto your back on the couch without pulling out, hooking your legs over his shoulders and folding you nearly in half. The new angle punches a broken sound out of you. Your head lolls, mouth still open and drooling down your cheek and into your hair.
“Now you can watch,” he says, dark eyes locked on yours as he starts moving again. “Watch the loser you tried to destroy ruin you.”
Every thrust is deep and deliberate, cunt making filthy wet sounds every time he pulls back. More of your cream and his pre leaks out, soaking the couch beneath you.
“You’re going to cum again,” he tells you, voice low and certain. “And when you do, you’re going to thank me for it. Because deep down you always knew this was how it would end. The guy you tortured finally putting you in your place.”
Your second orgasm builds terrifyingly fast under the relentless pressure and the psychological assault. When it hits you wail, cunt pulsing and drooling fresh cream down his shaft, eyes rolling, spit leaking down your chin.
Gaz watches you fall apart with dark, satisfied eyes.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Drool for me. Both ends. Just like I used to imagine when I was jerking off to the thought of ruining you one day.”
He reaches down, wipes the spit from your cunt with his thumb, and pushes the digit between your lips.
“Suck. Taste how pathetic you are.”
You do, eyes glassy, sucking your own juices off his thumb while he keeps fucking you.
He pulls his thumb free after a moment and grips your throat lightly, leaning down until his forehead touches yours.
“I’m not done with you,” he says softly, almost tenderly, while his hips never stop moving. “Not even close. You owe me years of apologies. And I’m going to fuck every single one of them out of this lying little cunt until you’re too wrecked to remember your own name.”
guys i swear i didnt just fall off and ghost you all.
i went in for a completely routine OB appointment and ended up having my baby! he was so big i had to have a c-section which was the most terrifying experience of my life but the aftermath of it has been the most rewarding thing ever.
i’m still healing and learning my new routine but more updates are soon to come.
please feel free to leave requests in my inbox, been feeling newly creative since being postpartum and writing has been helping combat the possibility of catching the baby blues🩵
hi!! I have this little idea (if you’re okay with that) of reader being cassian or azriel’s sister who has a thing for rhysand, and growing up she would always want to spend time with them but they would always just leave her chasing behind them because they’re doing “boy stuff”. Fast forward, they’re all grown up and Rhysand sees that her friend group treated her badly and they keep making plans without her and he goes all protective over her and realizes he has feelings for her
Background Noise
pairing: rhysand x reader
warnings: angst but there’s plenty of fluff sprinkled in too for my softies, swearing, mean!az :( but it’s okay bc we have rhys to comfort us, bullying, drama, takes place before UTM, left the ending open for potential for a pt.2 but who knows
—
Solitude and you had become fast friends.
You were used to being left alone.
Familiar with being the one waving goodbye as your brother and his friends disappeared off for hours and days and weeks at a time to explore—to live.
They’d always return with scrapes and bruises, new tattoos and tales to tell, bright smiles and inside jokes shared amongst each other while you silently tended to their wounds. Surviving vicariously through their thorough reenactments and the occasional mental projection from the heir of the Night Court. “Sounds like quite the adventure,” You’d murmur softly, carefully stitching the gash on Rhysand’s calf. “I’m almost jealous.”
“Jealous of what?” Cassian questions as if they were the most absurd words you’d ever spoken. “You have plenty of friends.”
“Right.” You can’t find the courage to delve any further for if they’d bothered to prod a little more; to actually ask for details about these so called ‘friends’, they’d realize you’d been lying through your teeth. Any attempts made always leaves you feeling dejected. Too used to being the butt of all their jokes. The object used as their punching bag on bad days; pushing you in mud, the horrible names, the awful rumors they spread at your expense.
No one wants to be friends with a dud.
A bastard born, rejected from not only her father and hometown but your brother too. You couldn’t even recall the last time Azriel had regarded you as anything more than a nuisance—his face morphing into a sneer at the very sight of you, all happiness suddenly leeched from his features the second you come into frame.
You learn to adapt.
Squeezing your presence down into the tiniest of boxes. Making hushed promises to whoever will listen that you’ll be good. Swearing in every language you know that no one will even notice you’re there as long as they just allow you to be around them. Praying to the God above for forgiveness of your faults, to cleanse you of whatever stains your soul so profoundly that not a single person dares enter your orbit.
“Speaking of which, why aren’t you out with them?” Azriel questions, his voice void of warmth and you freeze like a doe under a hunters stare.
“If she leaves then who else is going to play nurse?” Rhys’ leg is crossed over his knee, his teasing just as casual as his body language and gratefulness seeps from every pore when you quickly glance up at him, muscles unlocking from their rigidity.
“I’d rather suffer.”
Cassian lets out a noise, displeasure evident in the cutting glare he throws Azriel’s way but he remains sat, spine sinking into the soft couch cushions as he waits in line for you to dress his wounds. “Speak for yourself, asshole.” Wings rustle behind him, raised tall and taut against his back. “She’s got the softest hands around.”
“Can’t imagine where she got it from—certainly not her father that’s for sure.”
Another verbal assault thrown your way with no mercy for the fact that you were unarmed. No armor or weapons to defend yourself with; constantly bashed for inheriting the features of a male too cruel to croon soothing words to his offspring.
You try to understand, attempt to relate to the anger Azriel harbors; reasoning with yourself that his ire is warranted because he’d been burned, his scars visible—a permanent reminder of the endless cruelties of his childhood. From half-brothers raised with hate in their hearts and plenty of hurt to spread around.
Perhaps, that’s why he ignores your trauma for it’s not as obvious as his own.
Out of sight, out of mind, right?
“Running a bit low on that, aren’t you?” Rhysand’s cadence cuts through the fog of your brain, saving the day yet again and giving you an out. An opening to run away from the verbal onslaught Azriel rains down like hellfire.
The healing salve you hold is filled to the brim, the safety seal still stamped in place but you nod along anyway. Rhys takes in your every move, watches how you eat every hit Az throws as if you truly believe you deserve it. Your steps are silent, ghostly, reminiscent of an out of body experience. Distantly nodding. The sequestered way you gather your medical kit and all but disappear like a puff of smoke in the breeze.
He waits until he’s sure you’re gone, the front door closing so silently he wouldn’t have noticed you’d left if it weren’t for the click of the lock sliding in place. “Your mother never taught you that if you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all?”
“Oh, get over your stupid crush already,” Azriel grumbles. “She doesn’t need you running to her rescue everytime someone says anything you don’t agree with.”
Rhys doesn’t deny it, never tries to hide it—his infatuation with you. The lingering glances. Always including you in conversations. Trinkets and gifts collected on outings with your bashful face in mind. Anything to get you to smile. To break you out of your shell and sometimes it works. Until Azriel opens his stupid mouth and your shoulders cave in, snuffing out the embers of light within until it has your head bowing and mouth pursed into a firm line. “You’re right,” Rhysand stands at attention, a distant throb aching in one leg from his newly tended injury. “That should be your job.”
“You don’t get it.”
“No, I don’t.” His octave raises, anger urging the slip on his restraint to loosen. To release some of that power he always keeps a leash on. “She’s your sister, she lived through the same awful things that you did—if not worse and while you got to be freed of your anguish, you subject her to more.”
“Seriously Rhys, shut up.”
He doesn’t, refuses to even. Flame has touched gas and the reaction is explosive. “You blame her for looking like her father but by the Mother—one could say you act like him.”
The room goes still. Azriel’s face morphing from annoyance to anger. Fists ball up at his sides, nose twitching with rage as Rhys’ words hit their target with expert-level accuracy. “Take that back.”
“No, I won’t. It’s the truth.”
Shadows fill the room, expanding and growing. Blocking out the light from the windows and covering the walls in a thick layer of sentient obsidian. Power crackles with life, tensions so strong it emits its own oud.
It’s no surprise when the fight breaks out. Glowing blue combatting against a magic so violent it sends the skies rumbling.
Cassian doesn’t even bother intervening, simply moving valuables within reach out of the way before settling further into the couch as the throb of his wound aches as it waits for his turn of your healing touch. He watches almost bored-like, humming when Rhysand lands a perfect punch or cheering when Azriel dodges in a stealthy maneuver they’d been practicing for weeks.
It’s never taken too seriously, males being males. Their testosterone being burned through with physical violence and blood spilled but something seems more serious than normal when Rhys actually uses the power he usually keeps leached, his reach bending Az to his will, shoving him down to his knees. An arm is bracketed around the shadowsingers neck, blood dripping down his nose and staining a straight set of teeth as Rhys sneers in his ear. “Stop being such a prick to her. She’s hasn’t done anything wrong.”
Azriel struggled against the hold, shadows tugging at Rhys’ shoulders, wrapping around his neck, binding around limbs until both of them are red in the face with veins popping from the thin skin of their necks. “Yeah, nothing except for existing.”
“Stupid, foolish, cruel male you are. It’s like he’s standing right before me.”
Another sensitive nerve plucked and a renewed sense of urgency surges through Azriel’s body. Syphons glow as he breaks free from the hold, punches and kicks are thrown, bodies tossed into walls and tables until wood splinters and plaster crumbles to dust. “I am nothing like him.”
“With all that hate in your heart?” Rhys’s words come out heavy, teeth gritted and blood dripping from the corner of his mouth. Even then, he refuses to back down. “Might as well be twins.”
“Alright,” Cassian interjects, refusing to stand between them and their quarrel to avoid catching stray knuckles but the way Azriel’s face crumples as the hostilities is enough to initiate a ceisefire. “Maybe it’s time to calm down, she’ll be back any second.”
His hands are still clenched at his sides, knuckles split and blood already crusting over thanks to fae’s advanced healing but the rage doesn’t dissipate from Rhysand’s body—it only transforms. Locks itself away at the mention of you in order to spare you of getting singed by the aftermath of his burning ire.
He and Azriel dance around the other, this odd tension existing between them as they attempt to let this go; to diffuse the conflict—to pretend like nothing ever happened in the first place.
It doesn’t work.
Especially when rage bleeds into worry when you don’t return for an hour. Two. Three. The time tick, tick, ticks away without a single inclination on when you’d come sneaking through the entrance.
“Maybe we should go look for her?”
“Maybe she’s finally getting the hint and following her own friends around instead of mine.”
Cassian rolls his eyes, Rhys scoffs, but neither of them get to say anything more when the front door opens and slams shut.
It’s so unlike you, drawing such attention to yourself and all three heads snap in your direction just for eyes to widen and mouths to gape open like fishes out of water because you don’t return the way you left.
“What the fuck?” Azriel’s usual contempt fades instantly at the sight of you. An unfamiliar protectiveness blooms when acknowledging the tears streaming down your face and the soaking wet hair dripping fat drops onto the hardwood floor. Every inch of you is covered in goosebumps and if it weren’t for the arms crossed over your chest, you’d have flashed the whole room. “Where the hell are your clothes?”
You can’t even form a single word as you stand there in nothing but your underwear, shaking like a flag in the wind, chest heaving as the panic amplifies; embarrassment growing even deeper and your brothers heart absolutely drops to his stomach at the sob that cleaves through you. Turning on the ball of your heels, you’re off; bare feet smacking against polished floors in your hurry to run away.
To find safety.
Rhys is the first to take action, taking the stairs two—three at a time until he’s going so fast he slips against the imported rugs that run through the length of the hallway. He’s just barely reached the door to your room when it slams shut in his face, rich mahogany holding sturdy against his fists when the lock twists with a distinctive click. “Who did this?” He demands, knocking and smacking the palms of his hands against it so hard it rattles. “Did they touch you?”
“Leave me alone.” The words are like a whine, drawn out and laced in agony. Every syllable trembles, wet with raw anguish and utter humiliation.
It makes him sick, curdles the food in his belly. Triggers instincts deep rooted in his Illyrian blood until every inch of him vibrates with the need to avenge. To cause equal or greater torment upon whoever dared lay their hands on you and rob you of the little security you’d had. “I swear I will the second you just tell me who did this to you. Darling, please just let me in.”
Azriel and Cassian are steps behind him, certain that if anyone could lure the truth from you it’s Rhysand but the door doesn’t budge. Minutes pass and you can’t be heard anymore, harsh sobs shifting to thick sniffles until complete silence fills the space.
Somehow, that’s more unsettling than hearing you cry.
The spymaster steps forward, allowing his sentient shadows to slink ahead, teasing at the seam of your door until they slip through like a cool breeze seeping through the gaps of windowpanes. What they find is heartbreaking, at first all they detect is a seemingly empty room before they catch onto a slight crack on the closet door. You’re curled inside, knees tucked to your chin with a robe secured around your body and silent tears drawing silver tracks down the curve of your cheeks.
You’re stuck in your own world, a victim of constant torment; eyes distant as you rock and rock in attempts to self soothe.
Shadows creep closer, their cool touch just barely grazing your ankle before you detect their presence. Fingers angrily wipe away the evidence of your sorrow, limbs curling further into yourself as you sneer at the extension of the brother that makes it his life’s mission to make you smaller—to prove you have no worth. “If you’re here to humiliate me some more, don’t bother. I’ve had enough for one day so you can go find someone else to use as your personal punching bag.”
They flinch at the truth, recoiling back at a tone you never take with them—with anyone. Perhaps that’s Azriel’s fault too and that guilt weighs heavy in his chest to the point where he can’t even utter a word to his hovering friends, only mustering up the ability to unlock the door as his shadows quietly retreat.
Your brother doesn’t enter though. Instead, he urges Rhysand along, pleading with his eyes for him to fix the things that Azriel broke.
Rhys jumps at the opportunity, entering without hesitation and closing the door behind him. Every step is measured, calculated; carefully intruding into your space and taking up surveillance until he finds you curled inside your wardrobe. It makes him ache in the worst way, reminds him of the little boy he’d first befriended who’d been used to being shoved into darkness, locked away from light for hours and days and weeks until their cruel father deigned him access to a sliver of sunshine. Rhys has to swallow down the emotion that clogs his throat, the closet door opening with a little squeak, the final stages of sunsets copper glow providing just enough warm light to cast over your form. “Oh darling,” He croons ever so softly, brows knitted in sadness when violet eyes rest on you.
He moves slowly, as if trying not to startle a skittish animal. Fingers brush hair from your face, tucking damp strands behind your ear and coaxing the length of it behind your shoulder. Your gaze is downcast, eyes red-rimmed and nose pink from the constant rubbing and sniffling.
You don’t fight his touch, barely register it, head subconsciously tucking into the safety of his neck when he lifts you from your hiding space with ease. He smells of outside, lingering traces of wind and earth, faint touches of his body wash and that light, citrusy cologne he refuses to admit he enjoys over the more manly options loitered on his desk. “I don’t need your pity.” The words crack on their way out, your breath tickling the line of his collarbone and yet you still don’t shuffle away when Rhys kicks off his shoes and sits on your bed. He tucks you both under the covers, keeps his arms wrapped around you and begins running his fingers through your hair, tracing lines down the slope of your shoulder and the length of your back. Slow, soothing motions that send shivers along your spine and goosebumps along your flesh.
“I have no pity to give you.” He holds you close, desperately grasping onto every second he can in your bed—your space. Smelling your sheets. Sinking into the girlish softness of your pillows and silently cataloging the books you keep stacked on your bedside table. “Only rage for whoever dared put their hands on you in the first place.”
“It’s not a good look for a High Lord to take out personal vendettas out on his citizens.”
“I’m more than willing to desecrate my image for your sake. You deserve to feel safe. You’re entitled to take up space.”
The frown that creases the corner of your mouth broadcasts the physical way you deny his words. Fresh tears well in your waterline, eyes pinching shut as you attempt to hide your hurt. Rhys doesn’t let you, a thumb swiping along the thin skin under your eye to collect salty saline. “That’s not true. All I seem to do is make things worse. My presence—my existence. Even when I attempt to blend in, to be quiet, to not be seen or heard; I mean, don’t think I don’t notice the strain between you and my brother every time you stand up for me. Each kind thing you’ve ever done for me, you’ve been given such grief over and that’s not fair to you.” You suck in a deep breath, knees tucking in closer, nudging against the strong bone of Rhysand’s ribs. “I’ve been thinking of moving back home with my mom.”
“What? No. This is your home.”
“Yeah, right.” You fiddle with the hem of his shirt, nail running over the stitching, stopping yourself before you snag a fray free. Knuckles graze at the bare skin of his abdomen, muscles tensing and flexing at the touch and you’re quick to retract your touch, a blush heating up the length of your neck. “No one here likes me. I have no friends. No family. No love to tie me to this town—leaving before it’s too late is the most logical choice.”
The High Lord goes quiet, teeth clenching, jaw ticking as he fights a battle within. Confess his feelings or scare you off.
Confess.
Or watch you flee.
His heart hammers against his chest, loud enough for you to hear the steady rhythm pressed against your ear. His tongue wets his lips, gaze dipping down to memorize the slope of your nose and the dip of your cupids bow. For too long he remains silent, contemplating; memorizing the softness of your cheeks and the smell of your perfume that clings to the sheets—to you. “Sleep on it.” Rhys tucks you in closer, buries his nose in the crown of your hair and forces the notes of dates and vanilla to permanently fuse themselves in his sinuses. “We’ll talk more about it in the morning.”
You hum in agreement, the exhaustion of the day weighing heavy on your bones and coupled with the unconditional comfort that Rhysand provides, you’re asleep in no time.
He lingers longer than he should, long enough to miss dinner and for the clock to chime at midnight.
You don’t even flinch when he shifts away, too deep in sleep to notice him softly leaving you to your own sheets and the phantom warmth he provided.
He exits like smoke but the moment your door closes Rhys can’t hide his panic, can’t conceal the anger when he charges through the hallway like a bull on a mission until he finds Azriel lurking in the shadows. He barely realizes he’s gripped him by the fabric of his shirt and shoved him against the wall until the thud of weights impact reaches his eardrums. “You fix this,” He commands, hazel battling a deep violet. “Say or do whatever you need to in order to make things right with you and your sister. I swear to the Mother, if she does this, if she leaves because of you,” The syllables seethe through gritted teeth, nose scrunched in a snarl so sharp it borders on animalistic—beastly. “If she leaves because of you, considered yourself fired from your post. Banished from your duties. Exiled from the city you love so much. If she leaves, be prepared to leave with her.”
“You’re bluffing.”
“Try me, brother.” Rhys shoves him further into the wall, so hard the wood paneling creaks under the strain, so hard that cracks form along the very foundation. “I love her more than I care to coddle your fragile ego. Do the right thing or find a new home—find a new family.”
“Rhys.”
“I will choose her,” He confesses, his heart pouring out on a platter and seeping into the rug below. “She belongs to me, brother. If you don’t fix this, I will choose her over you.”
AHHHHHHHHHH That story was something else bestie, your SLAYED 💕💕💕💕
Reader is better than me tho because if I found out he slept with Nesta, I would've kicked him to the curb no questions asked
trust me if there wasn’t a mating bond involved in the equation, i swear she would’ve woohoo’d with tarquin on cassian’s bed as revenge.
but for once i didn’t wanna be the vindictive reader and go lower since so many people requested a happy ending and idk how she could’ve come back from getting her cheeks clapped in her exes bed 😬
either way, i’m so happy you enjoyed, hugs n kisses 💋
Will there be a part 3? I need her to wake up in the morning and regret it/make him work for it fr 💕💕💕
love this idea but absolutely not 😭
i fear this may be too angsty for me, i WILL take it too far and all of a sudden we’re hunting down witches deep in the Middle for a spell to break mating bonds then spending the rest of our lives a shell of a human being, destroying love for yourself and any other parties involved.
plus, the majority desired angst to fluff but feel free to let ur imagination roam on how you would’ve liked it to go🩷🩵
