i know in my heart (despite That Nickname in harvard) john marino would not be able to string a sentence together in front of a girl he's realllly into ...but don't worry, he'll make up for it later ;)
nsfw content below
you’re wedged on the battered couch in the middle of someone’s too-loud house party, half-drunk from the cheap vodka punch that’s bright red and staining the rim of your plastic cup, legs crossed and bouncing a little while you watch the swirl of strangers getting sloppier and sloppier, and your friend taps your shoulder like she’s got a secret worth telling and says she wants to introduce you to a guy she knows from college, he’s a hockey player, real quiet but apparently incredible in bed, they called him “the female orgasm”
you roll your eyes at the nickname but you’re intrigued because that’s an absolutely absurd thing to say about someone who’s blushing to the roots of his brown curls, standing behind her in a faded crewneck with a beer can dangling from long fingers, brown eyes darting anywhere but at you, jaw set so hard you can see the twitch in his cheek like he’s trying not to grind his teeth, cute nose, sharp jaw that could make a nun horny, and he’s got this tongue-tied energy like he’s choking on everything he wants to say
you say hi first, of course you do, he just nods, opens his mouth, shuts it again, clears his throat like it’s full of barbed wire, finally blurts “john” like it’s the hardest word in the world, voice raspy and low and you’re wet already, no reason except the way he looks at you when he thinks you’re not watching, pupils blown so wide they’re practically swallowing his eyes
your friend cackles, says “she’s single” and pats him on the shoulder like he’s a racehorse waiting for the gate to open, and he just stands there red as sin, swallowing, unable to respond except for this tiny exhale that sounds like he’s been holding his breath forever, but he doesn’t move away, doesn’t run, just stares at your mouth like he wants to crawl inside it
you don’t even remember how the rest happens, the music pulses and the world seems to tilt, one second you’re exchanging stupid stilted words and the next you’re pressed up against the wall in the darkened hallway, bodies crushed together, his big palms framing your face with surprising gentleness even as his mouth crashes onto yours like he’s starving, teeth scraping your lip until you gasp for him, his breath ragged in your mouth, fingers sliding down your neck and curling there, thumb pressing into your pulse as you moan right into him
he groans at that, a rough, strangled sound buried in your mouth, squeezing your throat just enough to make your cunt clench and you whine for him, embarrassingly desperate already, his hips grinding hard against yours while the party rages a room away, muffled bass rattling the walls as you writhe under his hands, clawing at his sweater, trying to pull him closer even though there’s no space left between you
he breaks the kiss, breathing like he’s been drowning, eyes locked on yours, words shredded from his voice as he mutters “need you” against your jaw, pressing wet open-mouthed kisses there while you pant, your fingers dragging up into his curls, tugging him closer, nails biting his scalp so he hisses, low and savage, and you feel him shiver against you
he doesn’t say much more, can’t, mouth too busy devouring every inch of your neck and collarbone he can reach, both of you staggering down the hall like you’re trying to merge into one person, bumping into the doorframe before tumbling into the spare bedroom in a tangle of limbs, the door slamming shut behind you as he pins you against it, hand tight on your throat again while he kisses you so deep you see sparks
you manage to gasp out “the bed,” and he freezes for half a breath like the word rebooted his brain, then nods, eyes flicking to the mattress covered in throw pillows, grabbing your hand with bruising force to drag you over, shoving you down into the pile like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever held, arranging the cushions around your back, tucking one under your head with this maddening care even as his fingers fumble at the button of your shorts
“want you comfy,” he mutters so quietly you almost miss it, voice shaking, fingers shaking, but the second the zipper gives he’s laser-focused, yanking them down your legs while you squirm, panties soaked through and sticking to your folds, embarrassing sticky string of slick clinging when he pulls them off, his eyes flicking there and going glassy with want
you bite your lip, trying to hide how wet you are but there’s no chance, he sees everything and he fucking growls, actual low sound in his chest, crawling onto the bed between your spread thighs, palms pushing your knees apart until you’re wide open for him, cunt gleaming in the dim light, twitching, little flutters making the slick smear across your inner thighs while you moan breathlessly for him
he just breathes there for a second, nose almost brushing your mound, inhaling deep like he wants to memorize your scent, whispering “fuckin' phenomenal....” voice cracking on the last word, fingers splayed on your hips to hold you down as you buck impatiently, whining his name in this ruined voice you don’t even recognize
his tongue hits you like a brand, hot and wet and firm, licking a broad stripe from your clit down to your entrance and back up, slow, savoring, making your hips jerk hard before he clamps them down, pinning you to the bed while he groans against your slit, the vibration making you squeal and tug at his hair, knees trembling against his shoulders
“stay still,” he rasps, voice shredded, muffled between your thighs as he licks you again, wetter, sloppier, circling your clit with maddening precision, teasing little flicks that make your hips twitch despite his grip, your cunt clenching hard enough you feel every flutter, every ripple, leaking slick onto the pillows while you moan and beg in choked, broken noises
he moves one hand, pressing a thick finger to your soaked entrance, sliding in slow as his tongue flattens on your clit, applying perfect pressure, curling his finger up to rake across that spot that makes your vision white out at the edges, your walls convulsing around him, sucking him in greedily as you cry out for him, voice high and shaking
“that’s it,” he murmurs against you, words smeared with spit and slick, “is that good?” sounding almost reverent before he seals his lips around your clit, sucking hard, tongue flicking lightning-quick, finger pumping inside you, stroking just right, and you lose it completely, voice ragged with your gasps and mewls, your cunt spasming around him in hungry little pulses, dripping down to his palm as he works you through it
he doesn’t let up, doesn’t stop to smirk or taunt, just locks in like he’s made to do this, another finger pushing in beside the first so you stretch open around him, gummy walls squeezing tight, squelching lewdly while he tongue-fucks your clit, breath blowing hot across your slick folds as you babble curses, his name, anything to make him keep going
your fingers claw at the pillows, knuckles white, back arching, thighs clamping around his ears but he just groans into your pussy, the sound vibrating through your entire core until you’re shaking, gasping like you’re about to cry, pleasure rolling over you in crushing waves that leave you limp and twitching, voice breaking on every pathetic whimper
and he only stops when you shove at his head weakly, legs quivering too hard to close around him, your entire cunt slick and messy, inner walls fluttering around nothing as you whimper and shake, his face wet with you, curls sticking to his forehead, brown eyes black with want, licking his lips slow as he drags himself up your body to kiss you messy and deep, letting you taste yourself while you pant into his mouth, boneless and ruined beneath him
john’s got you pinned face-down, your cheek pressed into the mattress, one of his hands splayed between your shoulder blades to keep you there. his other hand grips your hip hard enough to leave marks, his fingers digging into your skin as he drives into you over and over again. every thrust feels sharper, harder than the last, and your breath comes out in ragged, uneven gasps.
“there it is,” he grits out, his voice low and gravelly, almost lost in the sound of his hips slamming into yours. his cock angles just right, and the moment he finds it, the spot that makes your whole body jolt, he doesn’t let up. “thought i’d never fucking find it with the way you’re squirming all over me.”
you let out a sound—half a moan, half a desperate little cry—and his hand slides up, curling into the back of your neck, his thumb pressing into the nape just hard enough to make your head spin.
“oh, you like that?” he says, and it’s not a question, not really, because he can tell by the way you’re tightening up, your thighs trembling as you push back against him like you can’t help yourself. “fuck, you’re all over the place now. can’t even take it, huh?”
you can’t answer, can’t even string together a single word, your fingers twisting into the sheets as he keeps hitting that same spot, relentless. your whole body feels electric, like every nerve is lit up, and you can barely breathe, let alone think.
“yeah, that’s what i thought,” he mutters, leaning over you now, his chest pressing into your back. his lips brush your ear, his breath hot and uneven as he growls, “you’re gonna come like this, aren’t you? all messy and fucked up, with me buried so deep you can feel me in your fucking stomach.”
your whole body jerks at that, the words sending a shudder down your spine, and he chuckles darkly, his hips snapping against yours harder, faster, his grip tightening like he’s daring you to let go before he tells you to.
“can feel you clenching already,” he says, his voice dropping lower, rougher. “shit, you’re so fucking greedy. is that what you want? you want me to fuck it out of you? take you apart and leave you shaking?”
you can’t hold it back anymore, the pressure building so fast and sharp it’s impossible to fight, and when it crashes over you, you barely recognize the sound you make—a choked, wrecked cry that has him groaning into your ear.
“fuck, yeah,” he breathes, his hips grinding into you now, deep and slow like he’s drawing out every second of it, making sure you feel all of him. “that’s it. good girl. fuck, you’re perfect like this.”
i would like to thank you bc i went to bed reading your john marino blurbs and ended up having a dream that i was trying to wait up for him to come home one day to surprise him with lacy lingerie under a robe but fell asleep on the couch and he carried me to our bed and when he took the robe off he lost and whispered a little “oh, baby” and woke me up bc he was running his hands all over me and then he railed me 😌
nsfw blurb below - themes of somnophilia(basically just sexual touching while you are asleep, if u don't want to google)
john finds you slumped on the couch, your head tilted back against the cushions, lips parted with soft, steady breaths. the glow from the lamp casts shadows along your throat, the slow rise and fall of your chest beneath the loose folds of your robe teasing at what you had planned before sleep got the better of you.
he exhales, running a hand through his damp hair, his body aching from the game, from the adrenaline still pulsing faintly in his veins. he had been looking forward to this all night—coming home to you, feeling your hands on him, sinking into you until every last thought left his head.
but instead, he finds you like this, peaceful, unsuspecting, tempting as all fucking hell.
"jesus, baby," he murmurs, crouching down beside the couch, reaching out to brush his fingers over your cheek. the softness of your skin makes his stomach tighten. his fingertips trail lower, tracing the delicate line of your jaw, down to your throat, where he presses just lightly enough to feel your pulse jump beneath his touch. even in sleep, your body responds to him.
that does something wicked to him.
he sighs, shaking his head, but there’s no stopping himself now. sliding his arms beneath you, he lifts you effortlessly, your body warm and pliant against his. you make a little noise—just a tiny, breathy murmur as you nuzzle into his chest, and fuck if that doesn’t send heat straight to his cock.
his jaw clenches as he carries you to the bedroom, laying you down on the bed with deliberate care. you stir slightly, shifting against the sheets, your robe slipping open just enough to tease at what’s beneath.
and when he pulls it back—
“oh, baby...”
his voice is low, thick, rough with something almost reverent as his hands skim over your body, drinking in the sight of you sprawled out before him, wrapped in lace and sheer fabric that leaves fucking nothing to the imagination.
his fingers trace up your thigh, slow, exploring, until they ghost over the waistband of your panties. his touch is featherlight, but it sends the tiniest shudder through you. he watches, entranced, as goosebumps rise along your skin, your body shifting subtly beneath his hands.
he palms at your hips, thumbs rubbing small, lazy circles over the sensitive skin there, barely holding himself back from just tearing the delicate fabric away. instead, he lets himself enjoy this—taking his time, savoring the way you react to his touch even in sleep.
his hands roam, fingers sliding over the swell of your breasts, pressing into the soft flesh, rolling his thumbs over your nipples through the thin fabric. a sharp breath escapes you, your lashes fluttering just slightly. he hums, leaning down to brush his lips over the curve of your throat, dragging his teeth lightly over the spot he knows makes you shiver.
and oh, you do—your breath catching, your thighs pressing together just barely.
"that’s it, baby," he murmurs, one hand sliding down between your legs, tracing teasing patterns over the lace covering your pussy. even through the fabric, he can feel the heat of you, the dampness beginning to gather.
he chuckles, low and dark, pressing his fingers just a little firmer against you, watching the way your body reacts, the way your hips shift slightly, like you’re instinctively seeking more.
“fuck, you’re already so wet,” he groans, voice thick with need. his cock throbs at the realization, straining against his slacks, but he’s not rushing this. no, he’s going to take his time, revel in every little shudder, every tiny sound you make as you teeter between sleep and the slow, delicious pull of arousal.
he slides the fabric aside, just enough to dip a finger between your folds, gathering the slick there. he watches, fascinated, as your breath stutters, as your legs part just a little more.
he leans in, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear, his voice a low, gravelly whisper.
“wake up for me, baby.”
his finger circles your clit, gentle but insistent, and finally, finally, you let out the softest, sweetest moan.
envisioning some sweet passionate celebratory sex w/john marino after his first game back tn.
nsfw blurb below - p in v, silly lighthearted sex
john’s laugh cuts through the room, breathless and warm, as you plant your hands on his chest, grinding down on him like it’s a competition. “jesus christ, babe, you trying to break my back all over again?” he teases, his voice low and raspy, his grin lazy but full of affection.
you roll your eyes, but the way your body shifts on his cock, slow and deliberate now, is anything but dismissive. “you’re not that fragile,” you shoot back, though your smile betrays you. “you just survived ninety minutes of getting slammed into boards by dudes twice your size.”
“yeah, and my back held up because i wasn’t getting ridden like a bucking bronco,” he counters, his hands sliding up your thighs, squeezing at the soft curve of them. his fingers press into your skin just hard enough to make you shiver.
you lean forward, bracing yourself on his chest, and his eyes flicker down to where your bodies meet, his lips parting at the slick glide of you moving over him. “thought you’d be grateful,” you murmur, your voice playful as you dip your head to brush your lips against his.
“oh, i’m grateful,” he says, his voice dropping lower, his hands finding your hips now, holding you still. he grins up at you, his hair a mess of sweaty curls against the pillow. “just don’t wanna end up in traction again. you’d hate taking care of me, admit it.”
“please,” you scoff, shifting in his grip to circle your hips slowly, drawing a sharp inhale from him. “i’m the one who kept you sane while you were scratched, remember? who put up with your bitching about missing games?”
“and who rubbed my back every night,” he adds, his hands sliding up your sides, pushing your shirt—his shirt, technically—higher. his thumbs brush over your ribs, making you shiver. “which, by the way, was incredible. you missed your calling as a masseuse.”
“oh, shut up,” you laugh, but it turns into a gasp as he lifts his hips, meeting you halfway. you brace yourself on his chest, your nails dragging lightly over his skin, and he groans, his head tipping back against the pillows.
“fuck, you feel good,” he murmurs, his grip on your hips tightening as you start to move again, slow but steady, letting him fill you completely with every roll of your body. his eyes are half-lidded, glassy, but he’s still smiling, that soft, lopsided grin that makes your chest ache.
“you okay, old man?” you tease, leaning down to kiss along his jaw, nipping lightly at his stubble.
“i’m twenty-seven, not eighty,” he protests, but his voice hitches when you grind down harder, your teeth grazing his neck. “oh, fuck. okay, okay, maybe slow down a little.”
you pull back just enough to look at him, your brows raised. “john, if you tell me to take it easy one more time—”
“then what?” he cuts in, grinning even as his breath comes faster, his hands sliding up to cup your face. “you gonna punish me? ride me harder? really risk me snapping in two?”
“you’re the worst,” you mutter, but you’re laughing as you say it, your forehead pressed to his.
“but you love me,” he counters, his thumbs brushing over your cheeks. his eyes soften, that playful edge fading just enough to let something sweeter bleed through. “don’t you?”
“yeah,” you admit, your voice quieter now, but you keep moving, your rhythm slow and deliberate, every motion drawing a low, wrecked sound from his throat. “i do. even if you’re a huge pain in my ass.”
“good,” he murmurs, his hands sliding back down to grip your hips, guiding you as you move together. “’cause i’m fucking obsessed with you.”
the words send a flush through you, heat curling low in your belly, and you lean down to kiss him, slow and deep, swallowing the soft, broken moans he lets out against your lips. his hips start to lift again, meeting you halfway, and the way he fills you—stretching you, grounding you—makes you shudder.
“you’re mine,” he murmurs when you pull back for air, his voice rough but full of warmth, his eyes locked on yours. “you know that, right? no matter where i play, or what happens...you’re fucking it for me.”
your chest tightens at the sincerity in his voice, but before you can respond, he bucks his hips harder, drawing a startled moan from you. his grin returns, cocky and teasing.
“what’s wrong, babe? losing your train of thought?”
“shut up, john,” you gasp, your fingers curling against his chest as you start to move faster, determined to wipe that smug look off his face. his laugh melts into a groan, his hands gripping your hips tighter as you ride him harder, chasing the edge together.
“fuck,” he breathes, his voice shaky now, his grin faltering as his head tilts back again. “okay, maybe—maybe break me a little. just not too much.”
you laugh, leaning down to kiss him again, and this time, neither of you stops until the room is filled with the sound of tangled breaths, soft laughter, and the echoes of a celebration only the two of you get to share.
part of kinktober
kink; mutual masturbation
3383 words
warnings; 18 NSFW! masturbation (both f and m), explicit description of sex.
notes; ok guys this is my last kinktober I'm doing for a bit. just wanted to get caught up lolz. gonna add another because I'm ripping through these so fast so requests are open for that! literally any player/kink(within reasonable limits).
***
JOHN MARINO was never strong in the “toughing it out department.”
He was the type of kid, growing up, to cry when he scraped his knee, to throw a tantrum when he couldn’t go to bed later than nine. But as he grew, these things modeled after his mature, adult self–so now, he’d get pissy when he lost a hockey game, or whine to his physical therapist when his legs got sore.
There were also other things… but that was reserved for him and his own head. The man had needs, needs that involved him wrapping his hand around his cock during particularly lonely road trips or whenever you weren’t with him, squeezing his eyes shut, and trying to imagine the last time you got on your knees for him.
He felt pathetic. Even more so, when he would inevitably get close and start making little whimpers that he definitely did not want to be making and slap his free hand over his mouth as a result.
The point is: He would rather get a thousand paper cuts and bathe in lemon juice afterward than get caught jerking off.
John groaned, tossing his duffel bag to the side as he stepped into the darkened apartment. The place felt cold and empty without you in it, and that only heightened the gnawing frustration that had been building up inside him for the past week. He had been stuck with a roommate the entire trip, unable to get a single moment alone, and it had driven him mad.
He checked his phone, hoping you were already home, only to see your message: “Running errands! Be home soon! :)”
The disappointment hit him harder than he expected, his head falling back as he let out a low groan of frustration. He needed you. God, he needed you bad. The whole week had been torture. Every fleeting touch, every soft memory of your lips on his skin, your body beneath him—it was all he could think about.
And now, knowing you wouldn’t be home for a little while longer, something in him snapped.
His feet carried him toward the bedroom, his pulse racing as he shut the door behind him. The bed was still unmade from when you left, sheets tangled, pillows scattered, the faint scent of you still lingering in the air. That only made things worse. He could practically taste the last time you’d been together, the way your soft body had felt against his, the way you had gasped his name.
John didn’t waste any time.
He stripped down quickly, his clothes hitting the floor in a haphazard pile before he sprawled out on the bed. His cock was already hard, straining painfully against his boxers, and the moment he freed it, he let out a shaky breath, his hand wrapping around the base. The relief was instant but nowhere near enough.
He squeezed his eyes shut, his grip tight as he stroked himself slowly at first, trying to ease some of the pressure, but it wasn’t enough. Not after an entire week of being pent-up, of pretending not to be hard in the middle of the night, of biting his tongue when he could have sworn your voice was in his head, begging him to fuck you.
His hips bucked up involuntarily as he started pumping faster, the slick sounds filling the empty room, mixing with his heavy breaths and the soft groans slipping past his lips. He knew how pathetic he must look right now, sprawled out on the bed with his legs spread wide, one hand jerking himself off while the other fisted into the sheets beneath him. But he couldn’t help it.
His mind was flooded with images of you—your lips wrapped around him, the warmth of your mouth, the wet glide of your tongue as you took him deeper. He could almost hear the soft, needy moans you made when he held your head still and pushed in further, the way your eyes would flutter shut as you hollowed your cheeks, making it impossible for him to last.
A choked whimper escaped him, his body tensing as his hand worked faster, jerking himself roughly now, desperate to chase that feeling. He could feel it building, the tight coil in his gut ready to snap, and he squeezed his eyes shut tighter, trying to imagine the way your thighs would tremble when he pressed his mouth between them, how your hands would fist his curls, begging him to keep going, to make you come again.
His free hand flew to his mouth, stifling the desperate sounds spilling from him as he pictured you spread out beneath him, all soft skin and slick heat. He could almost hear your breath hitch when he’d slip two fingers inside, curling them just right, dragging them against that sweet spot that made your back arch.
John’s grip tightened around his cock, his strokes growing erratic, fast and rough as his hips thrust up into his hand, chasing that sweet release. His heart pounded in his chest, sweat slicking his skin as he let out a muffled groan, his mind flashing with every image of you on your knees, eyes wide and innocent as you looked up at him through your lashes, lips parted as you begged for him to come in your mouth.
“Fuck, fuck—” His voice cracked, breath ragged as his body tensed, his muscles coiling tightly as he teetered on the edge.
Then the door opened.
Suddenly. Way. too. suddenly.
And before John could even register what was happening, you stepped inside. Time slowed to a grinding halt. His breath caught in his throat, his hand still wrapped tightly around his cock, body frozen mid-thrust as your wide eyes locked with his.
The shock on your face was instant. You stood there, completely still for a second too long, mouth agape, cheeks turning an impossibly bright shade of red as the realization of what you had just walked into settled in.
“Oh my god,” you gasped, hand flying to cover your mouth as you spun on your heels, practically running back toward the door. “I-I didn’t mean to—I’m so sorry!”
“Wait!” John scrambled, his heart pounding in his chest as he fumbled to pull the sheets over himself, covering his still-hard cock, panic rushing through him like a tidal wave. “Just—wait, come back!”
You stopped at the door but didn’t turn around, your hand still gripping the handle as you leaned your forehead against it, your entire body radiating embarrassment. “John… I-I didn’t know…”
He swallowed hard, feeling like the ground might swallow him whole as he sat there, half-covered, his face burning hotter than he’d ever felt before. “I didn’t… I didn’t expect you back so soon.” His voice was shaky, apologetic, laced with mortification. “God, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean for you to… to see that.”
You didn’t move for a long moment, the tension in the room thick enough to cut with a knife. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, you turned your head just slightly, your voice soft and unsure. “I didn’t know you… did things like that.”
John blinked, caught off guard by your words. He could still see the flush in your cheeks, your wide eyes filled with something that wasn’t just embarrassment—it was curiosity.
He shifted under the sheets, the awkwardness of the situation still clinging to the air, but something else had begun to simmer just below the surface. “You mean… jerk off?” he asked, trying to lighten the mood with a soft chuckle, though it came out more nervous than anything. “Everyone does it.”
Your lips parted slightly, the redness in your cheeks deepening as you hesitated before nodding slowly. “I just… I didn’t think you… did.”
John’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “Wait, have you…?” He trailed off, trying to find the right words. “Do you… ever touch yourself?”
The question hung in the air. You visibly stiffened, your fingers tightening around the door handle as you avoided his gaze, clearly flustered by his bluntness.
“I—” you started, biting your lip, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot. “I mean, not really… I don’t… know how?”
John’s heart skipped a beat. Something primal stirred deep inside him, the embarrassment from earlier melting away as he processed your words. The idea of you, so unsure, never having explored your own body… God, it made him feel things he shouldn’t be feeling, especially in this situation. But the thought of showing you, guiding you, of being the one to make you understand—every nerve in his body was suddenly on fire.
“You… don’t know how?” His voice was soft now, careful, as he slowly sat up on the bed, the sheet still loosely covering him but not enough to hide his erection. “You’ve never… tried?”
You shook your head, eyes still trained on the floor, your voice barely above a whisper. “I-I’ve watched things before… but it’s not the same. It always felt… weird. I didn’t know if I was doing it right.”
John swallowed thickly, his cock throbbing beneath the sheet at the thought of you, laying in bed, trying to figure it out, your fingers unsure as you explored yourself for the first time. He had to clench his jaw to keep from groaning at the mental image.
“Come here,” he said, his voice low and soothing, almost a plea. “Please, baby. Come sit with me.”
You hesitated, clearly conflicted, but something in his tone pulled you back. Slowly, you turned around, your steps tentative as you approached the bed. John made space for you, his heart racing as you sat down beside him, still looking anywhere but at him, your hands fidgeting nervously in your lap.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” he murmured, reaching out to gently brush his fingers against your knee. The touch was light, careful, but it sent a shiver up your spine. “It’s just… when you’re not here, sometimes… I need it.”
You bit your lip again, your eyes finally meeting his, though they were filled with a mix of embarrassment and something else—something curious, something intrigued. “What were you thinking about?” you asked softly, your voice barely a whisper.
John’s breath hitched, his fingers tightening on your knee as he leaned in closer, his voice low and rough. “You. Always you.” His hand slid up your thigh just slightly, making you squirm, your heart racing in your chest. “I was thinking about how good you look on your knees for me… how your mouth feels wrapped around me, the way you look at me when you take me deeper.”
Your breath hitched, your thighs pressing together involuntarily as his words sank in, the heat in your cheeks spreading down your neck. You could feel the tension building between you, the air thick with something that made your stomach twist in anticipation.
“Have you ever thought about it?” John asked, his voice low and dangerous now, his fingers brushing higher up your thigh. “Have you ever wondered what it would feel like to… touch yourself? To make yourself feel good?”
Your eyes flickered up to his, wide and unsure, but there was no denying the way your body responded to his words. You could feel a warmth pooling low in your belly, your breath coming quicker, your heart pounding in your chest as his hand inched closer.
“I don’t know how,” you whispered, your voice shaky.
John smiled, leaning in so close his breath fanned across your lips, his voice a soft growl. “Then let me show you. Do it with me?”
You bit your lip as you looked at him, your chest rising and falling rapidly. The air between you felt heavy, the tension so thick you could barely breathe. “I don’t know if I can…”
John’s hand moved higher on your thigh, his fingers gripping just hard enough to make you squirm. “You can. Trust me.”
You glanced down, your eyes lingering on the bulge still straining against the sheet, the way he was barely holding himself together. The thought of watching him touch himself, seeing what he did when you weren’t around—it made heat pool low in your belly, something you couldn’t ignore any longer.
“What if I… do it wrong?” you asked quietly, voice wavering, more shy than you’d ever felt around him.
John swallowed, his cock twitching beneath the sheets as his eyes darkened, hunger clear in his gaze. “There’s no wrong way. Just do what feels good… I’ll show you.” His voice was soft but laced with an edge, the kind that sent a shiver straight down your spine.
You hesitated for a moment before nodding slowly, your hands trembling as you reached for the hem of your shirt, tugging it over your head. John’s breath hitched, his gaze dropping to the curve of your breasts, already imagining how perfect they’d look bouncing when you got off.
His fingers fumbled with the sheets, pulling them down just enough to free himself, his hard cock springing up between his thighs. The sight of him—so big, so fucking hard, his tip already glistening with precum—made your mouth water, and you couldn’t stop yourself from rubbing your thighs together, the growing ache between your legs unbearable.
John caught the motion, his lips curling into a slow smirk. “See something you like, baby?”
You swallowed hard, nodding, your eyes locked on the way his hand wrapped around himself, giving his cock a slow, deliberate stroke. He groaned softly, his thumb brushing over the tip, smearing the precum across his length as he stared at you with hooded eyes.
“Take your shorts off,” John rasped, his voice thick with desire, his gaze never leaving yours. His hand continued to move lazily up and down his length, precum smearing over his fist as he stroked himself, his thumb teasing the sensitive tip, making his hips jerk involuntarily. “Fuck, baby… I wanna see all of you.”
Your hands trembled as you slid your shorts down, hesitating for a moment before slipping your panties off too. The cool air hit your bare skin, making you shiver, but the way John’s eyes devoured you, his chest heaving with every breath—it made you feel like you were on fire.
“Fuck, you’re already so wet, aren’t you?” His voice was rough, low, the sound of it making you clench around nothing.
“Y-Yeah…” You breathed, your fingers trembling as they dipped below the waistband of your panties, slowly sliding them down your legs. John’s eyes followed your every move, the tension between you building with every second that passed.
He shifted on the bed, spreading his legs wider, his cock jutting out proudly as he stroked himself again, a low grunt escaping his lips. “Show me,” he murmured, voice thick with desire. “Show me how you touch yourself.”
Your breath hitched as your fingers hesitated just above your clit, unsure, nervous. But John’s eyes were glued to you, his chest rising and falling quickly, his hand working himself faster now, and something about the way he looked at you—like he was starving—gave you the courage to finally touch yourself.
You let out a shaky breath, your fingers slipping between your folds, brushing lightly against your clit. The sensation made you jump, your hips twitching at the sudden jolt of pleasure, but John’s soft moan of approval encouraged you to keep going.
“Fuck,” he whispered harshly, his voice strained. “You’re... you’re really doing it, aren’t you? Jesus, baby...” His strokes grew faster, more desperate. You could hear the slick sound of his hand moving over his cock, the heavy breaths leaving his lips, and it was making you wetter by the second.
But it was the sounds he started making that sent you over the edge.
At first, it was soft groans, little grunts under his breath. But then, his hips jerked, and a loud, needy moan tore from his throat, completely unrestrained. It was raw, desperate, and it caught you off guard. John had never been this loud before, not even when you were together like this. It made you ache even more, your fingers circling your clit faster as your legs shook.
“Fuck, John,” you gasped, your voice breathy, the heat between your thighs intensifying. “I didn’t know... I didn’t know you could sound like that.”
It wasn’t until he felt your gaze on him that he realized just how loud he’d been. His cheeks flushed hot, embarrassment coursing through him as he glanced over at you. “Shit,” he muttered, trying to catch his breath, his hand faltering for a second. “Didn’t mean to… didn’t mean to get so loud.”
You blinked at him, wide-eyed and clearly surprised. “Wow,” you murmured, almost like you couldn’t believe it. He had never been like this with you before—never vocal, never letting himself go like that. It made something tighten in your chest, your hand moving a little faster now as you watched him struggle to regain control.
John groaned, his face flushed with both arousal and embarrassment. “Yeah, well… fuck, it feels too good. Can’t help it.”
You bit your lip, watching as his hand moved faster on his cock, the wet sounds from you mixing with his ragged breathing. “I like it,” you admitted, your voice soft, but there was something in your tone that made his stomach clench. “I wanna hear you, John.” You could feel yourself getting closer too, the pleasure building in your belly, tightening with each circle of your fingers. You let out a soft cry, your body arching slightly as your legs spread wider.
That sent him over the edge. His hand jerked roughly along his length, his body tensing as a strangled groan ripped from his throat. He didn’t even try to hold back anymore, the sounds spilling from his lips louder than you’d ever heard from him before. “Fuck, baby, you’re gonna make me come. I can’t—shit, I’m gonna fucking lose it.”
You watched him unravel, the sight of him lost in pleasure pushing you closer to your own release. Your fingers sped up between your legs, your breath coming in short, shallow gasps as you imagined what it would feel like if he were touching you instead. The sounds he made—those deep, guttural groans—were sending heat pooling between your legs, your body trembling as you chased that high.
John’s free hand flew to his mouth, trying to stifle another loud groan, but it was no use. He was too far gone now. His cock throbbed in his hand, and before he could stop himself, he was coming hard, his body jerking as thick ropes of cum spilled over his fist and onto his stomach. His eyes squeezed shut, his face contorted in pleasure as he let out a series of breathless, desperate moans that you’d never heard from him before.
The sight of him completely losing it pushed you over the edge. Your body tensed, your breath catching in your throat as your orgasm crashed over you, your fingers slick and wet as you rubbed yourself through it. You couldn’t stop the soft whimper that slipped from your lips, your thighs shaking as the pleasure washed over you.
For a moment, the room was filled with nothing but the sound of your heavy breathing, both of you coming down from the intense high. John was still catching his breath, his chest heaving as he glanced over at you, his face flushed, a sheepish grin spreading across his lips.
“That was…” He trailed off, his voice still a little shaky. “Fuck.”
You couldn’t help but smile, your body still buzzing. “Yeah… fuck.”
You both lay there in silence for a while, the tension between you now replaced with something softer, more intimate. Finally, John let out a breathy chuckle, glancing over at you with a playful glint in his eyes. “I guess I’m not as quiet as I thought.”
You smiled, your own cheeks still flushed as you leaned over and pressed a kiss to his shoulder. “I think it’s hot,” you whispered, your voice soft and teasing.
He groaned, covering his face with his hands, but you could see the smile tugging at his lips. “Fuck, I love you,” he laughed, pulling you closer to him.
john’s been staring at you all night, watching the way you tuck yourself against clayton’s side, the way your fingers trace along his wrist absentmindedly. he’s been leaning back against the couch, arms spread wide like he doesn’t have a single care in the world, but his eyes? they’re fucking hungry. you notice, of course you do. you’ve always thought john was hot, all sharp angles and confident smirks, and maybe you let yourself glance at him a little too long, shift a little too much in clayton’s lap, let your thigh brush against the inside of his. you’re baiting him. pushing. clayton’s grip tightens, his fingers splaying against your hip, digging in just enough to make sure you don’t forget who you belong to.
“you’re doin’ it on purpose,” he mutters, low and close to your ear, his lips barely brushing against your skin.
“doin’ what?” you blink up at him, all wide eyes and false innocence. you feel john’s stare, the tension thick between the three of you, and it makes you shift in clayton’s lap again, this time more deliberate.
clayton exhales slowly, like he’s forcing himself to stay calm. “you know.” his fingers flex against your hip again, pressing you down just a little harder against him.
john makes a quiet sound from where he’s sitting, something amused—no, something entertained, watching clayton fight the losing battle of not giving in. “you gonna let me touch her, or are you just gonna hold her there all night?”
clayton’s jaw locks. he looks at john like he wants to say no, like he wants to tell him to get the fuck out, like he’s regretting ever letting this be an idea in the first place. but then you whine—soft and needy, tilting your head just enough to nuzzle against his jaw, your lips brushing over the edge of his stubble. “please, clay,” you murmur, voice all sugar and heat, and fuck if that doesn’t break him a little.
his fingers dig in tighter, his hold unrelenting. “fine.” but his voice is firm, a warning. he lifts his head, locking eyes with john, sharp and territorial. “but you don’t kiss her.”
john grins. “wouldn’t dream of it.”
but you kind of want him to. maybe that’s bad, maybe you shouldn’t, but the idea of john’s mouth on yours, of clayton watching, of his patience stretching thinner and thinner—it makes you ache, makes you press your thighs together where you’re still straddling clayton’s lap. and john, the bastard, he sees it. he moves slow, deliberate, reaching out and dragging his fingers along the bare skin of your thigh, watching the way goosebumps rise under his touch. clayton watches too, tense, like he’s waiting for a reason to change his mind.
john hums, gaze flicking up to meet yours. “she’s real responsive, huh?”
clayton doesn’t answer. he doesn’t need to. he just grips your hips, keeping you in place, letting john trail his hand higher, teasing along the hem of your shorts, knuckles brushing against the soft skin of your stomach. it’s agonizingly slow, and clayton must feel the way you shudder, because his hands tighten, like he’s torn between keeping you steady and pulling you away entirely.
“she’s real needy too,” john adds, voice low, like he’s testing his limits.
clayton exhales hard through his nose. “don’t push it.”
john just smirks. his fingers trace over your skin, teasing, never quite where you want him, and you can feel how tense clayton is beneath you, every muscle in his body drawn tight. it’s thrilling, the way he’s letting this happen even though you can tell he fucking hates it, the way he refuses to let john have too much, the way he keeps his hold on you like you might slip away if he lets go.
“you like this, huh?” john’s voice is a little rougher now, his hand sliding higher, fingertips brushing against the waistband of your underwear. “you like making him jealous?”
you do. fuck, you do, and clayton knows it. his grip shifts, his hands moving up to cup your waist, pulling you back against his chest, keeping you just a little out of john’s reach. it’s possessive, firm, like he’s reminding you exactly who you belong to.
“john,” you whimper, shifting forward again, but clayton doesn’t let you move far.
“you’re real fucking desperate, baby,” clayton murmurs, lips against your ear, low enough that only you can hear it. it sends a shiver down your spine, makes your thighs clench, and fuck, you want more.
john watches, eyes dark, fingers twitching against your skin. “you gonna let her have what she wants, or you gonna keep her all to yourself?”
clayton’s quiet for a long moment. then, slowly, he slides one hand down, over your stomach, between your thighs, pressing against the heat there, making you gasp. “she already has what she wants,” he says, steady, sure.
but you whine, pushing against his hand, trying to move closer to john, and clayton’s patience snaps just a little. he catches your chin, tilting your head back to look at him, his blue eyes burning. “don’t be greedy, sweetheart.”
but you are. and you’re gonna push him until he can’t take it anymore.
thinking about stoner john marino at harvard and something sappy or unhinged bc he’s going to pitt and the distance
i loooveee writing stoner players!!!
also i love writing scenes similar to this, like touchy and intimate but still kinda lighthearted and silly.
content warning for marijuana use
john’s laugh is warm as he exhales a plume of smoke, the joint balanced between his fingers, his shoulders slumped against the worn cushions of his dorm room couch. “i’m telling you,” he says, voice slow and slightly gravelly, “if you think the dudes on the penguins are gonna be all serious, you’ve never met the guys. they’re all degenerates.”
you’re curled up next to him, legs thrown over his lap, your dab pen between your lips. the faint hum of music from his old speakers fills the room, and the faintly sweet, earthy scent of weed hangs thick in the air. “oh yeah?” you tease, tilting your head back to blow smoke at the ceiling. “more degenerate than you? hard to believe.”
he snorts, dragging his free hand up your thigh, his thumb drawing absent circles into the bare skin just under your shorts. “low fucking bar, babe,” he mutters, passing his joint to you, trading it for your pen before stretching his arms over his head, his t-shirt riding up enough to flash the taut line of his stomach.
you hum thoughtfully, taking a slow pull and savoring the heady buzz settling over you. “you’re gonna be fine, john. you’re, like, the least nervous person i know.”
john leans back, his head lolling to the side to look at you, his dark eyes shining, slightly glassy. “you think i don’t get nervous?” he asks, a crooked grin tugging at his lips. “that’s cute. i just hide it really fucking well.”
“oh, really?” you say, your tone full of mock skepticism as you reach out to pass him back the joint. he takes it but doesn’t bring it to his lips, his fingers fidgeting with the paper instead. he looks ridiculous, truly, double-fisting two types of pot, but he doesn't even seem to notice.
“yeah, really,” he says, and there’s something soft and a little too earnest in the way he’s looking at you now, like the weed’s loosened whatever grip he usually keeps on his feelings. “like, fuck, i’m nervous about leaving, y’know? leaving you.”
you blink at him, caught off guard by the abrupt shift, but before you can say anything, he keeps going, words spilling out faster now, tumbling over each other.
“i mean, think about it—i’m gonna be, like, what? five hundred miles away? eight hundred? too many miles. and you’re here, being all cute and smart and, like, fucking unattainable because you’re you, and i’m gonna be in pittsburgh getting checked into the boards by some six-five asshole from winnipeg who probably eats nails for breakfast.”
you can’t help but laugh, the sound breaking through his rambling, and he groans, throwing his head back dramatically. “don’t laugh at me,” he mumbles, but there’s no real heat in it, his cheeks pinking slightly as he takes a long drag to hide his flustered expression.
“john,” you say, leaning forward to press your hand to his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heartbeat beneath your palm. “you’re gonna kill it in pittsburgh. you’re the best goddamn player i’ve ever seen.”
his eyes soften, and he reaches up to catch your wrist, pulling your hand to his lips to kiss the inside of it. “yeah, but i’m not the best boyfriend, though,” he mutters, his voice dropping a little, turning quieter. “because if i was, i’d just stay here with you.”
“you’re ridiculous,” you say, but your voice is just as soft, and you’re already shifting to climb into his lap, straddling his hips. his hands settle on your waist automatically, his touch firm as he abandons the weed, and the way he looks up at you—like you’re the only thing in the world—makes your chest ache.
“i’m serious,” he says, his fingers tightening slightly, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. “fuck hockey. i’d give it up if you asked me to. i swear to god.”
you laugh again, leaning down to kiss him, slow and easy, tasting the weed on his lips. “i’m not asking you to give up hockey,” you murmur against his mouth, your hands sliding up to cup his face. “you love it too much. and i love you too much to let you quit.”
“i’m gonna miss your laugh, too,” he suddenly says, his thumb brushing over your cheek. “and the way you steal my hoodies and—and how you hum that dumb song when you’re studying.”
your chest tightens, the lighthearted buzz from the weed dipping into something warmer and heavier. “you’re making me sound like some perfect 1950s housewife.”
“nah,” he murmurs, leaning in close enough that his forehead brushes yours. “you’re better than that. you’re you.”
you roll your eyes, but your face is hot, and he grins like he knows exactly what kind of effect he has on you. “god, you’re so fucking cheesy,” you mutter.
“yeah, well, you like me that way,” he shoots back, and then he kisses you, soft and slow, like he’s trying to memorize the feel of your lips. “you’re better than me,” he continues, his voice muffled, almost dazed as his hands start to wander, slipping under your shirt. “you’re better than anyone. like, shit, how the fuck did i end up with you?”
you shake your head, grinning as you nip at his bottom lip. “you’re really fucking high,” you point out, and he laughs, pulling you closer until your bodies are pressed flush together.
“maybe,” he says, his grin turning crooked, his eyes warm and heavy-lidded as he looks up at you. “but i’m also really fucking in love with you, so there’s that.”
“shut up,” you say, but you’re laughing again, your cheeks hurting from how wide you’re smiling.
“make me,” he challenges, and before he can say anything else, you’re kissing him again, your bodies tangled up on that ratty dorm couch, the distance between harvard and pittsburgh feeling a little less daunting with every touch, every shared laugh, every lazy kiss.
"Stop looking at me with those eyes,
Like I could disappear and you wouldn't care why,
Now I'm fucked up and I'm missing you,
He'll never be like you."
***
Request: "A second chance romance with either John Marino or Clayton Keller." (I wrote one for clayton already btw if ur still around, it's called "state of grace")
Summary: Dead to you, or misunderstood?
Word Count: 7.3k
Pairing: John Marino x fem!reader
Warnings: alcohol, mention of underage drinking/fake ids, insinuation to sex
Notes:
this one is very very silly and extremely ridiculous LMAO but I hope it makes u giggle
clayton keller (fav) and sean durzi (adorable and I love him) mentioned!!
as soon as that video came out of john and sean doing the Christmas stuff at the radio station, all I can think about is john nonchalantly chewing gum!!!
also it's so late and I've barely proof read this, I cut out some shit so sorry if there's some stuff that doesn't make sense. i will go over it in the morning.
italics signify flashbacks.
***
John Marino is dead to you.
You decided that years ago, the second he walked out of your life. You vetoed him from your mind with the finality of a gavel. No reconsideration, no appeals. John Marino: struck from the record.
He was an asshole. A collegiate athlete with an ego so overinflated it could’ve floated him through every Ivy League campus. He had that unbothered confidence—the kind that turned heads whenever he walked into a room. His dark curls always looked effortlessly tousled, his crooked grin suggested he knew exactly how to get away with anything, and those eyes—sharp, dark, assessing—seemed to pin you in place whenever they met yours. Harvard was supposed to be your time. The best time of your life. The kind of experience you could frame on your wall and point to when your kids asked what you were most proud of. And in so many ways, it was. But sometimes, in those quieter moments you hate, his name snakes through your thoughts like smoke through a keyhole.
Not today, though. Today, you’re focused on not dying.
The adult lodge hums with warmth, the chatter of voices and clinking glasses cocooning you from the biting cold outside. An idea from your brother–a ski trip, some mountain in Utah–although, since you moved to California after college you hadn’t touched a pair of skis. You’re perched at a corner table, your cheeks flushed from the heat of the fire and the two whiskey sours you’ve nursed since arriving. Your brother’s deep laugh booms beside you, joined by the chorus of your cousins’ amusement at one of his exaggerated ski stories. He’s got this wild, expansive energy about him—messy hair, that toothy smile, and the kind of laugh that draws attention whether you want it or not.
It’s easy to laugh along, letting their familiar teasing wash over you. They’ve always ribbed you about being “too serious,” but tonight, with the alcohol loosening your edges, it doesn’t sting. Instead, you grin as your cousin raises her glass and toasts, “To Bambi on Ice! May she conquer the slopes tomorrow without destroying herself—or someone else!”
“Cheers to that,” you say dryly, tipping your glass with mock solemnity. It earns another round of laughter, and you let yourself lean into it.
The bar shifts suddenly, the lights dimming just a touch, and a voice crackles through the microphone at the front. “Alright, folks! You know what time it is!” the emcee calls, his enthusiasm drawing cheers from the crowd. He’s a tall guy, lanky, with an obnoxious bow tie and a grin that practically reaches his ears. “Open mic is over, and you know what that means—it’s time for Snow Blinded Love!”
Groans and applause ripple through the room, but your table keeps laughing, apparently unfazed by whatever tradition this is. You glance around, bemused. “Snow Blinded Love? What is that?”
Your cousinsmirks, her face a picture of innocence. “Oh, you’ll see.”
Before you can press her, she grabs your arm, dragging you up to the stage. “Come on, what?” you ask suspiciously, leaning away from her insistent tugging.
She doesn’t answer, just yanks you to your feet with surprising strength. “Trust me, it’s fun!”
Your brother bursts into laughter, but there’s a knowing edge to it, one that sends a ripple of unease down your spine. You twist to shoot your brother a what-the-hell-is-going-on look, but he’s doubled over laughing, helplessly waving you on.
“What are you—hey!” you exclaim as she drags you through the maze of tables toward the stage. The crowd parts around you, and your stomach plummets when you see the two chairs in the center, set back-to-back. “Oh no. No, no, no. I’m not doing this.”
“Yes, you are,” she chirps, unbothered by your resistance.
The emcee spots you and grins wide, gesturing with a flourish. “And here comes our next contestant for Snow Blinded Love! Give her a round of applause, folks!” The room erupts, and you feel heat crawl up your neck.
“I am going to kill you,” you hiss at your cousin as she practically shoves you into one of the chairs.
“You’ll thank me later,” she whispers, her grin maddening as she retreats.
You sink into the chair, heart pounding as you face the blank wall in front of you. The emcee rattles on about the rules, but you’re too busy glaring daggers into the table where your brother sits. He’s stopped laughing. His smile fades, his brow furrowing as he looks past you at someone being ushered onto the stage.
“Wait—” he starts, half-standing, but your cousin shushes him, pulling him back into his seat. The sudden seriousness in his expression tightens something in your chest.
Before you can figure out why, the chair behind you shifts, and you feel the faint vibration of someone sitting down. Your pulse quickens.
The emcee’s voice booms again. “Alright! For those of you just joining us, here’s the gist. Our contestants can’t see each other, but they’re gonna answer a few questions, get to know one another, and see if they’re a match. Sound good?”
The crowd cheers. You want to melt into the floor.
“Let’s get started with a softball,” the emcee continues. “Contestants, tell us your name and where you’re from!”
You swallow hard. “Um, I’m—” Your voice cracks, and you clear your throat, mortified as your name slips out. “I’m from California,” you say quickly, praying the anonymity holds, “I mean, kind of, I moved… Nevermind.”
There’s a beat of silence before the voice behind you answers, low and vaguely familiar. “I’m John. From Massachusetts.”
You repeat his name in your mind—John. Massachusetts. John from Massachusetts. It doesn’t strike you as odd; there are plenty of Johns in the world, and Massachusetts is hardly a small state. It’s not your John. Not John Marino, who practically stomped a hole in your heart on his way out. Not John, who kissed you breathless under the glow of Harvard Yard lampposts before ghosting you with the efficiency of a man who’d already done it a dozen times before.
Still, there’s something unnervingly familiar about the voice behind you. Lower, rougher, like gravel rubbed smooth over time. But it’s been years. People change. Voices change. And you’re probably just imagining things. Aren’t you?
“Alright, contestants,” the emcee says, his voice booming with too much cheer. “Let’s start with something easy! Tell us one fun fact about yourself.”
You can practically feel John shift behind you, hear the smirk in his tone as he speaks first. “I play hockey. Been doing it since I was a kid.”
Hockey. Your stomach clenches, a flicker of recognition sparking at the back of your mind. But no, it can’t be him. There are tons of hockey players. Probably half the guys on this mountain played hockey in college or something. Still, something about the casual confidence in his voice stirs a memory you’d rather not revisit.
“Your turn!” the emcee chirps, and you snap back to reality.
“Oh, uh… I… I used to bake a lot?” you say, your voice pitching upward like a question. God, why did you phrase it like that? “I mean, I still bake sometimes. When I have time.” You groan inwardly, your face heating. Way to sell yourself.
John chuckles behind you, low and warm. “What’s your best dessert?”
You blink. That wasn’t part of the game, but the question feels so genuine, so unforced, you find yourself answering. “Uh, probably cookies? Chocolate chip. I don’t know.” You let out an awkward laugh. “Pretty basic.”
“Can’t go wrong with the classics,” he says, and something about the simplicity of the exchange steadies you. He’s probably just some random nice guy. Nothing to panic over.
The emcee barrels on with another question, this one about your ideal vacation spot. Then something about what you’d do if you won the lottery. The questions are light, easy, and you manage to loosen up, answering with enough sarcasm to earn laughs from the crowd. You even forget your brother and cousinwatching—until the emcee throws out his next question.
“Okay, here’s a fun one! Contestants, what’s the worst first date you’ve ever been on?”
You laugh nervously, fingers knotting together in your lap. “Oh, uh… I guess there was this one time in college,” you say. “It wasn’t, like, terrible, but the guy was broke, and the whole thing was kind of a mess. We went to some crappy campus diner, and his card got declined, so I ended up paying. Then we went back to his dorm, and there was a sock on the door.” You cringe, heat prickling your cheeks. “I guess that’s not really a date… more of a bad… situation.”
The room chuckles softly, and for a second, you think you’ve dodged any real embarrassment. But then John speaks.
“No way,” he says, and there’s a low, teasing lilt in his voice. “That’s exactly my worst date too. Except…” He pauses, as if for dramatic effect. “The worst part wasn’t the diner or the sock. It was that I couldn’t even make her finish.”
Your stomach plummets.
The air around you seems to go completely silent, the chatter of the bar fading into static as the words register. No. Your heart lurches, a cold sweat breaking out under your sweater. No, no, no.
It’s him. It’s John.
Your John.
Memories flood back in vivid, mortifying detail—the awkward laughter over his empty wallet, the way his twin XL creaked under your weight, the sheer desperation of it all. And suddenly, you feel like you’re right back in his dorm room, tangled up in him, sweaty and fumbling and wildly unsatisfied.
You whirl around in your chair so fast you nearly knock it over. He’s already turned too, his dark curls sticking out from under his backwards cap, brown eyes studying you.
“Holy shit,” you whisper, the words barely audible over the roaring in your ears.
There’s a beat of stunned silence between you. Then his lips twitch into a grin, that familiar, infuriating smirk that used to drive you crazy—except, this time, he had about three fewer teeth.
“Hey, Bambi.”
Your throat tightens, memories surging forward without mercy.
It was late—somewhere past midnight—when you snuck into the university ice rink together. The air inside was freezing, your breath visible in little puffs as you wrapped your coat tighter around yourself. John had just finished convincing you it was a “crime” to attend school in Massachusetts without knowing how to skate, and in your sleep-deprived, finals-fueled haze, you let him drag you there.
“I’m going to eat it,” you said flatly, arms crossed as you stared at the ice.
John, ever the charmer, turned to you with that lopsided smile. “You’ll be fine. Trust me.”
“Trust you?” you scoffed. “The guy who convinced me to pull an all-nighter for that paper we turned in three hours late?”
He laughed, his breath visible in the cold air, and stepped onto the ice effortlessly, like he belonged there. “That was one time.” He held a hand out to you, his dark eyes glinting with mischief. “Come on, Bambi.”
“Bambi?” you repeated, incredulous.
“Yeah.” His smirk deepened, his free hand gesturing vaguely in your direction. “You’ve got those big eyes, like you’re constantly about to fall over. And, y’know…” His gaze dipped briefly to your legs, where your wobbly stance wasn’t doing you any favors. “You’re not exactly graceful.”
“Gee, thanks,” you muttered, though you couldn’t quite hide your smile.
He gave his outstretched hand a little wiggle. “It’s endearing, okay? Now, come on.”
You hesitated, staring at the ice like it might swallow you whole. But his hand stayed steady, patient. Something about the way he looked at you—like you weren’t just another girl he was trying to impress, but someone he genuinely wanted to share this with—made you take that first, wobbly step.
The second your blade touched the ice, your balance wavered, arms flailing. John caught you easily, his hands warm and steady on your waist as he laughed. “See? You’re a natural.”
“A natural disaster, maybe,” you muttered, clutching his arms like your life depended on it.
He started skating backward, pulling you gently along with him, his hands never leaving your waist. “Relax. I’ve got you.”
And he did. For hours, he stayed right there, guiding you around the rink with infinite patience, laughing every time you stumbled but never letting you fall. When you finally managed a shaky loop around the rink on your own, he clapped like you’d just landed an Olympic routine.
“That’s my Bambi!” he called, grinning so wide it hurt your chest.
You groaned, cheeks burning, but the nickname stuck. And later, when he kissed you under the rink’s dim, flickering lights, his hands cupping your freezing cheeks, you didn’t mind it so much.
The memory fades, but the warmth it left behind doesn’t. You’re back in the bar, staring at him, your chest tight and your head spinning. He’s older now, sharper somehow, but the smirk is the same. The nickname feels like a slap and a hug all at once, reopening wounds you thought had healed.
“Bambi?” he says again, softer this time, like he knows exactly what you’re thinking.
Your pulse kicks up, panic creeping in. You can’t do this. Not here. Not with him.
“Don’t,” you blurt, your voice tight.
His smile falters, confusion flickering across his face. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t call me that,” you say, harsher than you intend. “You don’t get to call me that.”
It wasn’t like it was something only he called you, your family picked up on it after he started. But the fact that he came up with it still makes you ache. His brows knit together, and for a split second, he almost looks… hurt. But then the mask slips back into place, his smirk returning. “Alright, fair. But you don’t get to act like you didn’t just show up in my life again out of nowhere.”
You stare at him, mouth opening and closing like a fish, completely unable to form a coherent response. In the crowd, your brother’s laugh suddenly comes up in the eerie quiet of the baggage between you and John, and soon enough, he’s full-on cackling. Your brother’s voice finally comes up, “Oh my God! This is the best thing I’ve ever seen!”
You whip around to glare at him, your embarrassment blooming into full-blown fury. “Shut up,” you hiss, your voice sharp enough to slice ice.
John’s smirk deepens, and he leans back in his chair with infuriating ease. “That your brother?” he asks, tilting his head toward your table.
You don’t answer. Maybe if you ignore him, he’ll disappear. Maybe this is all some whiskey-induced fever dream.
When you don’t respond, John raises a hand and waves, the motion deliberate and almost mocking. “Hey, man!” he calls, his voice light, friendly, like you’re all part of some happy reunion. “Been a while! How’s it going?”
Your brother, who has no sense of self-preservation or shame, raises his beer in salute. “Johnny Marino!” he hollers back, grinning wide. “You still suck at foosball?”
John laughs, the sound low and rich, and it sends a shiver down your spine. “Not as much as you suck at pond hockey,” he retorts smoothly, and your brother howls like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard.
You sink further into your chair, wishing it would swallow you whole. Of course, they’d bonded. Of course, your brother had no problem chatting it up with the guy who wrecked you. Because why not?
The emcee, sensing the shift in energy, steps in. “Whoa, whoa,” he says, grinning as he gestures between you and John. “Sounds like there’s some history here! Care to share with the class?”
“No,” you say flatly, but John answers at the same time with a casual, “Sure.”
Your head snaps toward him, incredulous. “Are you serious?”
“What?” He shrugs, his smirk practically glowing under the stage lights. “They want to know.”
“I don’t care what they want,” you bite out. “They’re not the ones who had to deal with you.”
The crowd makes a collective “ooh” sound, and you hear someone whisper, “This is getting good.”
John’s expression flickers, just for a second, before he recovers. “Deal with me?” he echoes, feigning offense. “You make it sound like I’m the bad guy.”
You bark out a laugh, sharp and humorless. “Gee, I wonder why.”
“Oh, come on,” he says, leaning forward. “You’re not still mad about college, are you?”
Your jaw drops, and you can feel the heat climbing up your neck. “Still mad? Are you serious right now?”
The emcee steps back into the fray, practically salivating at the drama. “Okay, okay, hold on,” he says, raising his hands. “Let’s unpack this. What happened in college?”
You glare at him, your lips pressed into a thin line, but John answers before you can shut it down.
“She’s mad because I—” He pauses, as if considering his words carefully, then flashes a grin. “—left her on the ice.”
The crowd gasps and laughs, and you can’t decide if you want to scream or burst into tears. “That’s what you think this is about?” you demand, your voice rising.
“Well, that and…” He waves a hand vaguely. “Other stuff.”
“Other stuff?” you repeat, your voice climbing higher. “You ghosted me, John. You just left. No call, no text, nothing. One day you’re there, and the next you’re gone. Like I was nothing.”
The bar falls silent, the weight of your words crashing over the room. John’s smirk falters again, but he quickly replaces it with a defensive edge. “Yeah, well,” he says, his voice tight, “I sort of had my hockey career on the line, and I didn’t want the stress of a long-distance girlfriend, so…”
The crowd erupts with laughter, and you feel your blood boil. “Oh my God,” you say, your voice shaking with disbelief. “You absolute asshole.”
Your vision blurs with frustration, and you barely notice the emcee trying to steer the conversation back to safer territory. You sit there, boiling with frustration, your heart hammering against your ribs like it’s trying to escape. Every second that passes feels like a lifetime as your thoughts pile up, racing too fast for you to catch any one of them.
He’s here. Why is he here? Of all the mountains, of all the stupid bars in this stupid snowy town, why is he here?
Your throat tightens as your brother howls with laughter again, completely oblivious to the tension sitting heavy between you and John. The crowd is laughing, but it’s not funny. Not to you. Not when your carefully constructed walls, the ones you’ve spent years building brick by brick, are starting to crack under the weight of his stupid smirk.
God, I hate him. I hate his stupid face. His stupid hair. His stupid everything. Don’t I? I do. I have to. After everything…
John leans back in his chair, arms draped casually over the sides like he doesn’t have a care in the world. His eyes flicker with something—amusement, maybe, or curiosity. It’s the way he used to look at you back in college, right before he’d ask you a question designed to knock you off balance.
Why does he still look like that? Like he knows exactly what I’m thinking?
The emcee’s voice fades into background noise as you grip the edge of your chair, your knuckles white. You force yourself to take a deep breath, then another, but it doesn’t help. Your head is spinning, and you can’t stop the flood of memories rushing to the surface.
He doesn’t deserve this space in my head. Not after what he did. Not after how he made me feel.
But your mind doesn’t listen. It drags you back, kicking and screaming, to the nights you spent tangled up in him, to the mornings when his messy curls were the first thing you saw, and to the way he’d grin at you like you were the only person in the room. To the heartbreak that came after, when he walked away without so much as a goodbye.
John shifts in his chair, and the movement snaps you back to the present. His smirk softens just slightly, enough to make your chest ache in a way you don’t want to examine. “So,” he says, his voice low enough that only you can hear, “are you gonna sit there glaring at me all night, or are we gonna talk?”
You blink, stunned into silence. Talk? What could there possibly be to say after all this time?
“I…” You trail off, your tongue suddenly too heavy to form words. Don’t engage. Don’t let him pull you back in.
But he leans forward slightly, his elbows resting on his knees, and lowers his voice even more. “What’s the matter, California girl? Cat got your tongue?”
And there it is—the phrase that tips the scale.
California girl.
It was the summer before your junior year. The air in Cambridge was thick with humidity, sticky and alive with the buzz of cicadas and the laughter of students spilling out of libraries and onto the grassy quad. You were supposed to be studying—something boring but necessary for a specific lecture you were enrolled in. Instead, John Marino was standing in front of your dorm room, his grin as reckless as the boy himself, holding up two incredibly fake IDs.
“C’mon, Bambi,” he said, waving them at you like they were tickets to paradise. “Live a little.”
You rolled your eyes, even as a smile tugged at your lips. “That’s the best you could get? These look like they were made in someone’s basement.”
“Close. Some guy’s van.” He shrugged like it didn’t matter. “But they’ll work.”
“Johnny, this is stupid. We’re going to get caught.”
“And if we do, I’ll take the heat.” His grin widened, that infuriating smirk that always seemed to know exactly how to get under your skin. “But we won’t. Trust me.”
You wanted to say no. You really did. But there was something about the way he said it, about the spark in his dark eyes, that made it impossible. He had this way of making you feel like every crazy idea he pitched wasn’t just possible but inevitable—like all you had to do was take his hand, and the universe would rearrange itself to make it work.
So, against your better judgment, you grabbed your coat and followed him into the humid night.
The bar was loud, the air thick with the smell of cheap beer and sweaty bodies. Your ID worked without a hitch, much to your surprise, and before you knew it, you were nursing a poorly mixed rum and Coke at a sticky booth while John argued with the bartender about the merits of "good whiskey" like he had any idea what he was talking about.
“You’re ridiculous,” you muttered when he slid into the seat beside you, his own drink sloshing dangerously close to your lap.
“And you love it,” he shot back, his grin wide and unbothered.
You hated that he was right.
The night passed in a blur of laughter and poorly chosen karaoke songs. You told yourself you wouldn’t get on that stage, that you’d sit back and watch John make a fool of himself. But then California Gurls came on, and he grabbed your hand before you could stop him.
“Come on,” he said, tugging you toward the stage.
“Absolutely not,” you protested, digging your heels into the sticky floor. “I am not doing this.”
“Bambi,” he said, his voice low and teasing as he leaned in close, “don’t make me sing Katy Perry alone.”
You groaned, your resolve crumbling. “You’re the worst.”
“And you’re gonna love it,” he said, pulling you the rest of the way.
The song was a disaster. Neither of you could sing to save your lives, and you kept tripping over the lyrics because John was too busy ad-libbing nonsense about California beaches and hockey players. But by the time the chorus hit, you were laughing so hard you could barely stand. His arm slung around your shoulders, his voice cracking on the high notes—it was stupid and chaotic and perfect.
When the song ended, you stumbled off the stage together, breathless and glowing. He grabbed your face, pulling you into a messy, wet kiss. “See?” he said, his smirk softer now, more genuine when he pulled away. “That wasn’t so bad.”
You wanted to say something snarky, to deflect like you always did. But the way he looked at you—like you were the only person in the room—stole the words from your tongue.
Instead, you just smiled. “It was awful.”
“Awful,” he echoed, his grin widening. “But fun?”
You rolled your eyes, but your heart wasn’t in it. “Yeah. Fun.”
You sit there, heat crawling up your neck as John’s smirk softens into something infuriatingly familiar. His gaze holds yours, steady and deliberate, and you’re absolutely not imagining the glint of amusement behind his dark eyes. It’s like he’s daring you to react, to crack first, and damn it, you’re not going to give him the satisfaction.
So you do the only thing you can. You force your voice to steady, lifting your chin slightly as you deadpan, “What?”
His smirk doesn’t falter. If anything, it deepens. “What?” he parrots, his tone all mock innocence. “You live in California now, right?”
The words hang in the air between you, sharp and deliberate. He’s playing dumb, leaning into the role like it’s a second skin. The nonchalance of his delivery grates against your frayed nerves, and you feel your fingers curl around the edges of your chair.
“Seriously?” Your voice is tight, a little too sharp, but you can’t stop yourself. “That’s what you’re going with?”
“What?” he repeats, his brows lifting in mock confusion. “I’m just asking a question.”
The casual tone is so grating it makes your teeth ache. You can’t tell if he’s trying to rile you up on purpose or if he’s genuinely this infuriating, but either way, it’s working. You open your mouth to retort, but the emcee, clearly seeing the tension boiling over, interrupts with the eagerness of someone about to drop a bombshell.
“Alright, alright, folks! Looks like things are heating up over here, so you know what that means—it’s time for Cold Shoulders, Warm Hearts!”
The room erupts in cheers and laughter, and you blink, utterly bewildered. “What?”
The emcee gestures dramatically toward the stage, his grin wide enough to be concerning. “It’s our favorite winter couples’ game! Perfect for duos with a little… unresolved tension.”
John huffs a laugh beside you, his head shaking slightly. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Oh, but I’m not!” the emcee quips, clearly reveling in the chaos. “Here’s how it works: each of our contestants—yes, that’s you two—gets to pick two ‘advocates’ to argue on their behalf. We’ll throw out a few prompts, and your team will go head-to-head to convince the crowd. Whoever loses the round takes a shot!”
The room bursts into cheers again, and you can feel your face heating as your brother’s laugh cuts through the noise. “This is insane,” you mutter, more to yourself than anyone else.
John leans closer, his voice pitched low enough that only you can hear. “Only in Utah, huh? People here are freaky.”
You choke on a laugh, more out of sheer disbelief than anything else. “You think this is funny?”
“Oh, it’s hilarious,” he replies, leaning back in his chair like he doesn’t have a care in the world. “You’re just mad because you know I’d win.”
The audacity of his statement nearly makes your jaw drop. “Win?” you repeat incredulously. “This isn’t a competition.”
“Everything’s a competition,” he counters smoothly, and there’s something in his tone—a flicker of the old John, cocky and insufferable but annoyingly charming—that makes your stomach flip. You hate it. You hate that he can still get under your skin like this.
The emcee claps his hands together, his grin practically glowing under the stage lights. “Alright, contestants! Who’s it gonna be? Pick your advocates!”
You shake your head, already trying to wave him off. “I’m not—”
“Oh, she’s in,” your brother calls from your table, his grin wide enough to rival the emcee’s. “I’ll be her first advocate.”
You whip around to glare at him. “Absolutely not.”
But your cousin is already standing, her expression equally mischievous. “And I’ll be her second!” she declares, linking her arm through your brother’s.
“Sit down!” you hiss, but they ignore you entirely, striding toward the stage like they’ve just been handed golden tickets to the show of the century.
John, for his part, looks completely unbothered. In fact, he seems to be enjoying himself. “Alright,” he says, standing with a sigh and glancing toward the back of the room. “Clayton! Sean! Get up here.”
Two figures stand up almost immediately—one tall and broad, with a sharp jawline and a sort of deer-in-headlights expression, the other shorter, his long, messy hair sticking out from under his beanie. They exchange a look, clearly amused, before making their way to the stage.
“Who are they?” you ask, crossing your arms tightly as you glance between them.
“Teammates,” John says simply, as if that explains everything. “They’re great at arguing. You’ll see.”
You roll your eyes, muttering under your breath, “Of course they are.”
The emcee ushers everyone into position, his grin still plastered across his face. “Okay, folks! Let’s kick things off with a classic: Who was in the wrong during the initial breakup?”
Your stomach lurches. This can’t be happening. You glance toward your brother and your cousin, both of whom look far too excited for your comfort. On the other side of the stage, John’s teammates are already leaning toward each other, strategizing.
This is going to be a disaster.
You swallow hard, your throat dry. This isn’t just a question. This is the question. The one you’ve avoided answering for years. The one that kept you awake on so many nights, staring at the ceiling and wondering if it really was all his fault. Or if maybe, somehow, you had been the one to push him away. But it’s not like you ever thought you’d have to hash it out on a stage, in front of a bunch of strangers.
This is a nightmare. A cruel, ridiculous nightmare.
Your cousin looks at you expectantly, her smile still wide but clearly masking some discomfort. She doesn’t know what she’s signed up for, you realize. She doesn’t even know the half of what went down between you and John. Why would she? You barely know her beyond the occasional holiday get-together. She has no context for the years of messy history sitting between you and the boy—no, the man—who’s currently standing on the opposite side of the stage, smirking like he already knows how this is going to go.
Her face twists in a grimace. “Um,” she starts, glancing at your brother for help. He’s too busy grinning like a fool to notice her panic.
Great. Fantastic. This is going to be humiliating.
You shoot her a tight smile, leaning in to whisper harshly, “You don’t have to do this. Just tag out.”
“No, I’ve got it,” she whispers back, though her voice wobbles. “I think.”
She doesn’t have it.
She clears her throat, taking a small step forward. “Okay, well, um… obviously, she wasn’t in the wrong.” She gestures vaguely toward you, her confidence clearly evaporating under the weight of the question. “Because, like, look at her? She’s nice, right? And smart. She’s… probably very reasonable in arguments.”
You wince, feeling your face heat under the weight of the crowd’s laughter. “Probably?”
She flounders. “I mean, definitely! Definitely reasonable! There’s no way she was in the wrong.”
On the other side of the stage, John’s teammate—Clayton, apparently—steps forward with a look of barely concealed amusement. “Oh, come on,” he drawls, his tone slow and easy, like he’s enjoying this way too much. “Let’s not forget we’re only hearing one side here. Relationships are complicated. There’s no way it was all Johnny’s fault.”
“Johnny?” you hiss under your breath. Your fingers curl around the edges of your chair as you glare at John, who has the audacity to look almost apologetic. Almost. But his expression still carries a flicker of satisfaction, like he’s already winning this ridiculous game.
“Okay, wait,” She interrupts, her voice higher now, clearly panicking. “But, like… didn’t he ghost her? I heard something about that. Isn’t that, like, always bad?”
Clayton raises an eyebrow. “Ghosting’s bad, sure. But we don’t know what led up to it, do we? What if she gave him a reason?”
Your breath catches, and you feel a spike of anger flare in your chest. A reason? What the hell does that mean?
She falters, glancing at you again. Her expression is pure panic now, and you can see the exact moment she decides she’s done. “Okay, I’m out,” she says quickly, turning on her heel. “You take this one.”
Before you can protest, your brother steps in, looking entirely too gleeful. “Don’t worry,” he says to your cousin, clapping her on the back as she retreats. “I’ve got this.”
He strides forward, radiating confidence, and points dramatically at John. “You,” he says, his voice carrying through the bar. “You’re the one who ghosted my sister, right?”
John looks taken aback for a split second, but he recovers quickly, raising an eyebrow. “I mean… yeah? I thought you knew that, man.”
The crowd gasps, clearly eating up the drama.
Your brother smirks, crossing his arms like he’s just won the argument. His eyes, a little glassy from too much alcohol, have that familiar stubborn glint. “Exactly. Case closed.”
Clayton doesn’t miss a beat. His lips curl into a slow, deliberate smile as he shifts his weight. His voice is smooth, even with the slur that slips in now and then. “Not so fast,” he counters, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he looks at John. “We still don’t know why he ghosted her. Maybe he had a good reason.”
Your brother’s voice slices through the thick air, first to break the silence. He’s clearly drunk—red-faced, bleary-eyed, his voice too loud, tinged with that undercurrent of indignation that’s all too familiar. “Ghosting’s for cowards,” he declares, pointing a wobbly finger at John. His eyes narrow as he tries to focus. “It’s about respect. If you cared, even a little, you’d have said something. Anything.”
John looks tired, his broad shoulders slumping as he leans back in his chair. His lips press into a thin line, and there’s a dullness in his brown eyes as he meets your brother’s gaze. No fire, no real defense, just weariness. Like he’s been here too many times before.
Clayton snorts, his eyes flicking to John, the challenge evident in his arched brow. He’s waiting for some brilliant retort—something sharp to dismiss your brother’s drunk tirade. But John just stares back, silent, and the tension knots tighter. Your brother barrels on, his words slurring together as he barely pauses for breath. “You ghost someone when you think they’re not worth your time,” he continues, his voice taking on an almost preachy tone. “You don’t ghost because you’re scared or whatever. You do it because they don’t matter to you.”
And every word he says slices into you, bringing the ache to the surface. Is that what it was? Did John think you weren’t worth it? That you were just something—someone—he could leave behind without a second thought? You swallow hard, the burn of the past rising in your throat. Maybe that’s always been the answer, and you’ve just been too scared to face it.
Clayton suddenly waves a hand in front of John’s face, his own words coming out thick with alcohol. His usual composure slipping, his eyes drooping a bit. “Hey, man,” he says, his voice unexpectedly soft, like he’s reaching out. “He’s got a point. I mean, if you cared about her…” He trails off, a frown pulling at his lips. “If you cared, why didn’t you say something?”
You blink, startled. There’s something genuine in Clayton’s question, something vulnerable beneath the drunken bravado—like he’s really trying to understand. John’s expression darkens, his jaw tensing, the muscles there jumping beneath his scruff. He glares at Clayton, like he’s been betrayed. “You’re supposed to be on my side,” he mutters, his voice tight, barely audible.
Clayton shrugs, his smile lazy and a little sad. “Maybe I’m on the side of what’s right,” he says, his words barely coherent, slurring as he tilts forward. “Maybe you should’ve done better.” He blinks, looks at John again, and then waves his hand dismissively. “Tagging out.” He wobbles to the side, leaving Sean to step up, shaking his head with a sigh.
Sean’s eyes meet yours, a brief apology in the flicker of his gaze. He’s sober—or at least a lot closer to it than your brother or Clayton. His smile is strained but genuine as he approaches, giving John a nudge to make room. “Sorry about him,” Sean says, glancing over at Clayton, who’s leaning heavily against a stool, looking at the ceiling like it holds some great mystery. “He’s… not the best drunk advocate.”
Your brother is still glaring at John, swaying slightly. Sean clears his throat, his eyes softening as he turns back to you. “Alright, let’s… let’s try to clear the air here a bit.” He’s diplomatic, trying to find a way to make this all less charged, less raw. But it’s too late. You can feel every eye on you, expectant, waiting for a resolution. And you have no idea how to give it to them.
Then Sean says something—just one word—and it’s enough to send you spiraling. “Closure,” he says. “Maybe what we need here is a little closure.”
Closure. The word rings in your ears, and suddenly you’re not here anymore. You’re back there—back in that small, cramped apartment. It was the end of your junior year. Spring had just started to creep in, the promise of summer a whisper in the air. You should have been excited—just one year left. The start of something new. But all you’d felt was the heavy weight of what was coming.
John had been distant for weeks. His touch, once warm, felt like a formality. When you kissed him, it was like he was already gone. You had tried to ask, tried to talk—but he’d always dodge it. Smile and change the subject. A vague excuse. And even then, even as everything was slipping, you’d held onto that tiny thread of hope. Maybe—just maybe—you were wrong.
You weren’t.
You remember standing outside his apartment door, the cheap wood painted an ugly shade of blue, your heart pounding so hard it hurt. He opened the door, his eyes widening in surprise. “Hey,” he’d said, his voice soft—too soft, like he already knew. Like he’d been dreading this too.
“We need to talk,” you’d whispered, stepping inside. The air felt heavy, the silence almost crushing. He’d looked at you—those dark eyes empty in a way that made your stomach turn. You had wanted to believe… but when he spoke, every bit of hope shattered.
“I think we need some time apart,” he’d said, carefully, every word deliberate. “I don’t… I don’t think this is working anymore.”
You remember the way the room seemed to close in, the walls shrinking. “What?”
His sigh, the way he ran his hand through his hair, the frustration etched into every line of his face. “We’re going in different directions,” he’d said. “I’m going to Pittsburgh, and you… I don’t know. I just think it’s better if we end it now, before it gets harder.”
The air had rushed out of you, the pain sharp and immediate. “So that’s it?” you’d asked, voice trembling. “You’re just… done?”
He’d looked at you, and for just a moment, you’d seen it—regret, sorrow. But then he nodded. “Yeah,” he’d said, barely audible. “I think it’s for the best.”
You had wanted to scream, to cry, to fight. But all you could do was nod, turn, and leave. The door closing behind you with a hollow click, and every step away from him feeling like it might break you.
Closure. That’s what you’d needed. What you still needed. But it wasn’t what you got.
You’re back in the bar, the memory fading, but the ache remains. John is staring at you, his face flushed, eyes glistening under the dim lights. For the first time tonight, you think you see something real there—something that looks a lot like regret.
“Closure?” you repeat, your voice thick. You shake your head, the laugh that slips out bitter, raw. “There’s no closure here. There never was.”
The room falls silent, the tension suffocating. John’s mouth opens, but nothing comes. His eyes drop, the weight of every unsaid word pressing down on the space between you. And you can’t stand it—the way he’s looking at you, like he wishes things were different but won’t say the words.
Your brother’s oblivious, his face splitting into a grin as he stumbles forward, raising his fist in a drunken cheer. “Yeah, you tell him! No closure!”
It’s ridiculous. All of this—the shouting, the accusations, the drunken performances. But you’re not laughing. You’re staring at John, your heart pounding, your hands trembling, waiting for him to say something—anything—that might make this less awful.
But he’s silent, his gaze locked on yours, the tension in the air pulling tighter. His lips part, but there’s nothing—no words, no apologies, just that hollow look that makes your stomach twist.
Your brother finally stumbles off, his triumphant grin replaced with confusion as your cousin steps in, her eyes wide, looking between you and John. She gives a nervous smile, her voice uncertain. “Um, I think maybe… we’re all just a little… misunderstood?”
Sean lets out a sigh, nodding slowly as he lifts his shot glass. “Yeah,” he says. “Misunderstood. Let’s call it a truce.”
Your cousin blinks, then smiles, clearly relieved. “A truce?” she echoes.
Sean nods, his smile widening. He raises his glass, and she follows, the two of them clinking their shots together. The crowd cheers, the tension breaking for just a moment as laughter echoes across the bar.
But for you, it’s still there—the weight of everything unsaid between you and John. He’s still staring at you, the world around you fading until it’s just the two of you and the chasm that lies between.
“You know what else is ridiculous?” John says, his voice quiet, his eyes locked on yours.
“What?” you snap, your heart pounding, the anger simmering beneath your skin.
“This,” he says, gesturing between the two of you. There’s something softer in his gaze now, something vulnerable. “All of it. And you know what? I'm sorry.”
And before you know what you’re doing, before you can remind yourself that you hate him, that he broke you, you’re leaning across the space between you. His lips meet yours, the kiss messy, desperate—nothing like the closure you wanted, but everything you needed in that moment.
The crowd’s cheers are distant, muffled, like they’re on the other side of a glass wall. John’s hands are cold against your flushed skin, his fingers trembling as they cradle your face. It’s frantic, uncoordinated, like every bit of tension that’s been building up has finally snapped.
Someone yells, “Get a room!” and you pull away, laughing against his lips. John’s smiling too, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and for just a moment, it’s like everything else fades away.
“Okay, okay,” the emcee’s voice cuts through the noise, amused. “I think it’s safe to say this round’s over!”
John’s eyes are still on you, that challenging look in them—a dare, a promise. Maybe there’s no closure. Maybe there never will be. But maybe—just maybe—there’s something worth exploring anyway.
And maybe you will.
But for now, you grab your own shot glass, raise it high, and toast the most ridiculous night you’ve had in years.
