Can I Bring You Home for Christmas?
A fake dating Scarian college AU
Grian leaned down again, drawn by the warmth of Scar’s chest, by how steady he felt beneath him. Their foreheads brushed, noses nearly touching. The contact sent another shiver through him, and this time the sound that escaped Grian’s throat was unmistakable—soft, breathy, unguarded.
Not frozen—controlled. His shoulders rose and fell once in a measured breath, and when he spoke again, his voice was careful, almost deliberate. “Remember,” he murmured, close enough that Grian felt the words more than heard them, “you don’t have to hold back.”
Grian swallowed, cheeks burning, but nodded anyway. He shifted unconsciously, settling more comfortably, and Scar’s hands tightened just a fraction at his waist, like he was bracing himself against something.
He was too busy noticing how warm Scar felt beneath him, how easy it suddenly seemed to stay right here, how every sound he made felt louder in the quiet space of the room. Too busy convincing himself that this fluttering, this buzzing heat under his ribs, was just the alcohol.
Grian shifted again without really thinking about it.
It wasn’t a bold movement—just a small, restless adjustment as he tried to get comfortable, knees tightening slightly at Scar’s sides, weight settling more fully into Scar’s lap. The motion was slow, absent-minded, driven by nerves and proximity rather than intent.
The effect, unfortunately, was immediate.
Scar’s breath hitched—not loud, not obvious, but different enough that it registered as a change in the air between them. His hands, still braced at Grian’s waist, flexed instinctively, fingers pressing in as if to steady them both. He didn’t pull Grian away. Didn’t push him back. “Ahh.” Scar breathed out softly.
Grian, blissfully unaware, leaned down again, forehead brushing Scar’s. He laughed softly under his breath, the sound loose and warm. “This is… surprisingly convincing,” he murmured, like he was making an academic observation rather than sitting straddled in Scar’s lap in a darkened room.
Scar let out a quiet, careful exhale through his nose. “You could say that.”
Grian shifted again—another small movement, a thoughtless roll of his hips as he resettled. The bed creaked faintly beneath them, the sound sharp in the hush. Grian froze for half a second, then relaxed, deciding it was probably fine. If anything, it helped the illusion.
Scar, on the other hand, went very still.
His jaw tightened, eyes closing briefly as he took a slow breath, hands remaining firmly—but respectfully—at Grian’s sides. When he spoke again, his voice was even, almost too controlled. “Hey,” he said gently, breathlessly, “maybe— maybe don’t move like that.”
Grian blinked. “Oh—sorry.” He flushed, immediately trying to still himself, hands pressing into Scar’s shoulders for balance. “Did I—?”
Before Scar could answer—
https://archiveofourown.org/works/77244221/chapters/204144326
