c/w ౨ৎ massage, marking (with nails), unprotected p in v, #JustTheTip, hickeys, est. relationship, possessive!garrett, praise, daddy kink adjacent, riding, hand around the throat, post-sex fluff, pet names (baby, pretty, princess, daddy + no y/n), language, locker room chirping + a complete lack of willpower ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆
Garrett had just finished showering, his hair curling at the ends as he walks over, already reaching for your hands. “Lemme see,” he murmurs, taking your fingers in his own. He turns them over, inspecting your fresh set like it’s the prettiest thing in the world.
“Like ‘em?”
“Love ‘em.” A smile tugs at one corner of his mouth.
“Approved?” You ask, winking like you even needed to beg the question in the first place.
“Definitely approved.”
You smile, hands resting heavy on his chest. “Good. They were expensive.”
Garrett snorts, fingers running through his wet hair. “Good thing I paid for ‘em then.”
“Thank you, baby,” you whisper, rising on your tiptoes for a kiss. His hands lift, taking two handfuls of ass, humming against your mouth when your arms wrap lazily around him.
“Anything for you.” His hands squeeze your hips. “Your week sucked. Glad you finally got to relax.”
“How was morning skate?” You ask curiously, and like clockwork, he starts rolling out his neck and his shoulders, wincing in pain. You raise your brow at him, trying not to laugh at his predictability.
Your nails drag, just a tease, tracing the line of his necklace until your fingers find the clasp, nudging it back to center. And, with that little touch, the man practically purrs, rocking ever so slightly with you like he just got exactly what he wanted. Or at least a tiny taste.
Garrett just shrugs, feigning innocence. “You know how it goes,” he says through a boyish smile.
“Mhmm…” You reach for the hem of his shirt, helping him out of it as always.
Garrett’s skin is still warm from the shower, his tight muscles melting already beneath the slightest touch from you.
As soon as he hits his bed he lets out a deep, contented sigh, lazily sprawling out on his stomach. His curls are still damp from the shower, flattened slightly on one side where his head disappears into the comforter. His chain hangs loose against the back of his neck, glinting every time he shifts.
His brown eyes follow you as you crawl onto the bed; his smile spreads wider as he glances at you over his shoulder. You straddle him, running your fingers down his strong back, watching as goosebumps spread across his dewy skin.
“Oh my god.” His voice comes out low and rough.
“You’re so easy,” you tease, dragging your nails over his broad shoulders before pressing them into the tight knots you knew you’d find.
“Shittt,” he huffs, exhaling sharply as you nail that perfect spot, working out the tension. “Feels so fucking good, pretty.” His face presses deeper into the bed, big body softening with it.
You let your fingers drift into his damp hair, scratching your manicured fingers against his scalp. “Mpfhh…” He turns his heavy head slightly, eyes half-lidded. “I love when you get your nails done,” he murmurs, utterly relaxed beneath your touch as he lets out a little yawn.
You smile, winding one of his curls around your finger. “Yeah?”
“Oh fuck.” One of his legs kicks lazily against the mattress. “Damn, princess, they’re kinda sharp. You should keep ‘em like this forever.”
Leaning down to press a kiss to the side of his neck, feeling his slow, leveled pulse thump under your lips. “I’ll think about it.”
Garrett settles deeper into the mattress, already halfway asleep, completely at peace. “Gotta keep me up,” he huffs. “I’m gonna pass the fuck out.”
You press your nails a little harder into his back, making his muscles tense for a second before he softens into the mattress. “Too much?” You ask, pausing slightly.
“No—No, keep goin’.” His fingers flex against the comforter. “S’perfect.”
You smile as you watch the faint red marks appear where your nails dragged down, bright against his skin.
“Fuck,” Garrett hisses as you find yourself so caught up in your thoughts that you didn’t realize how hard you had dug into his skin until it had already happened.
“Oh, shit—” You gasp, but Garrett just laughs, shifting slightly underneath you as he looks back at you.
“Don’t stop. C’mon,” he whines, wiggling his shoulders impatiently beneath you.
“I created a diva,” you whisper, and he sighs blissfully.
“Don’t even recognize myself anymore. You ruined me.”
You chuckle and shake your head, letting your nails trail more deliberately over his tight skin. Your fingers trace from shoulder blade to shoulder blade, following the line of his tattoo.
“Y’know,” he murmurs against your knuckles, smiling to himself. “I don’t think anybody’s ever been this excited to put scratches on me.”
You chuckle and his shoulders flex beneath your hands. Your thumbs press into a particularly stubborn knot, making him wince before a low moan follows, a weak laugh slipping out because it hurts so good.
You tilt down, lips brushing against the shell of his ear, tits pushed against his back, and he angles his neck to get a little closer.
“What did you say?” You ask sweetly.
“I—” He clears his throat, swallowing hard. “I said I don’t think anybody’s ever been this excited to put scratches on me—”
“Which is odd.” You cut him off, your voice soft and distracted, scratching your initials in, watching as they shift red. “‘Cause it sounds like you’re talking about other women right now. Couldn’t possibly be.”
“Just talkin’ out of my ass,” he mumbles. “No one but you. Only you.”
“Mhmm…” You giggle, nails running in a little heart over the expanse of his back. Your fingernail swirls and swoops, drawing a lazy little “mine”.
Garrett buries his face in the mattress. “I know what you’re doing, baby.”
You giggle breathily, rubbing out a little more tension when he catches you in the shameless act.
“Yeah,” you whisper, dipping down again, trailing soft kisses down his neck. You pause when you find the perfect spot, just above where the collar of his jersey will sit.
“That’s my girl.” He doesn’t stop you, instead slithering his hand behind his back, slipping under the band of your shorts and panties.
You suck down on his neck as he rolls his fingers on top of your pussy, groaning when he feels just how wet you are; knowing this close to the game time, he’ll have to wait to sink his thick dick deep, but he loves to tease just as much as you do.
“On your back,” you whisper, watching as Garrett obeys without hesitation, stuffing a pillow under his head. His fingers find you fast, slipping your little shorts to the side this time. Garrett dips the tip of his thick finger in your soaked hole, his eyes rolling back at how warm and wet you are.
You tilt in, pressing your lips to his, lingering there for a second before he pulls you closer, his other hand slipping beneath the waistband of your shorts, gripping your ass.
“Baby,” he mumbles. “You gotta keep these on.”
“Okay.”
“I’m already losin’ this fight,” he breathes, pulling them down despite what he’s saying, chuckling against his mouth as you help him do it.
“You’re doing great, Gar—” His name trips up in a gasp as he presses his hand against your pussy, his middle and ring fingers thrusting deep.
“So jealous of my fuckin’ hand right now,” he grumbles, laughing at how pathetic he sounds as he pumps them in and out.
You grind into him, fucking yourself on his hand. The movement makes the muscles in his stomach tighten. His hair is already drying in messy curls around his forehead, one falling into his eyes before he blows it away with an impatient breath.
“You better keep this fuckin’ top on, alright?” He whispers when a soft satin strap falls. He lifts his hand to cup your cheek, brushing the other off your shoulder, sending the material sliding to your waist. “My mistake,” he whispers.
Your forehead falls against his and he sinks his fingers deeper, groaning at the feeling of your slickness dripping down to his wrist.
“I don’t know why I do this to myself,” he drags a hand down his face as he continues to torment himself with the thought of ruining you before his game, reluctantly pulling his hand away for the moment. “I gotta focus. Just make it so hard on me,” he smiles.
“Oh?”
“Baby,” he mumbles.
“Mhmm,” you hum, rocking against the stiff bulge between his thighs instead.
You whisper his name as you roll your hips. Your head falls back, hands sliding over your chest, and Garrett shuts his eyes for a second like he’s trying to remember every reason he wasn’t supposed to be doing this.
“Just—Fuck. Just the tip, okay?” He mumbles sheepishly.
“What?” You ask teasingly, looking down at him. He’s so gone he’s practically begging with his eyes.
“Just a little,” he breathes needily, hooking a hand around your neck, pulling you down to his lips.
“Garrett Graham,” you whisper. “You said no sex before games.”
Garrett’s head presses deeper into the pillow, his hips shifting beneath you as you grind against him.
“I say a lot of stupid shit,” he mumbles under his breath. “I don’t know what you thought was gonna happen,” he rambles and he tugs his clothes down, his cock hitting his bare skin with a slap.
"Only the tip," you breathe as you thrust your hand between the two of you, taking hold of his cock.
"I'll take it," Garrett whispers as his head meets your pussy. A rough sound rumbles through his chest as he looks up at you again. "This is for me?" He asks shakily.
"Yes, daddy."
“I can’t do this,” he mutters, huffing out a breath, palms slapping over his eyes. “Don’t say that unless you’re tryin’ to start shit, alright?”
He takes control, gripping his dick in his fist, running his fat tip through your slick folds, swirling softly on your clit.
He slows down slightly, a smile spreading on his lips as he glides lower.
"Mmm... Right there," you whisper against his mouth as his head toys with your entrance. His lips press against yours as you widen your thighs, dropping down on his tip, feeling a big stretch.
"Fuck me," he pants.
"Feels so good, Garrett," you whimper. His hold on your hips tightens, muscles trembling like he’s fighting against himself. His heels sink deep into the mattress, press up just enough to stroke just a little.
“So damn good. It’s not fair.” His eyelids fall and his jaw locks tight.
His blunt fingernails dig into your flesh, his gaze dropping to the place where you barely connect, his long thick dick throbbing, your slickness rolling in a tear down the side of his cock.
He pulls you down a little farther on his length and your gaze snaps to him.
“Shhhh—Shh,” he whispers, pulling you down to his lips. “Let me—Just fucking take it, alright?”
Garrett squeezes his eyes shut for a second before finding your mouth again, gripping your hips when you’re all the way down.
He pushes you down a little more, making your eyes roll back in your skull, filled to the brim with him. The sight of your pleasure is almost too much to take.
“Ride me,” he mumbles, lips dragging against yours.
You sit up, knees sunk into the mattress, nails dragging down his strong chest as he draws a heavy breath. The gold chain around his neck slides across his skin as his head tips back into the pillows. His throat works around a swallow before his eyes find you again.
You start to ride him, grinding slowly, like the pace alone will make up for his lack of self-control when it comes to his little pregame rule.
Garrett drags a breath through his nose, his voice rough when he whispers, “Jesus Christ,” he mutters, shaking his head once. “My willpower’s fuckin’ shot when it comes to you.”
You shift your weight and he groans low in his throat, his hands tightening on your hips as you circle them.
“That’s it.” His thumbs drag over your hips. "Easy, baby. Just like that."
Your nails dig into his chest as you begin to move, slow and steady at first, your body finding its rhythm while his muscles tense beneath your palms, his mouth falling open.
“Call me that shit again.” His eyes squeeze shut for a second. "Wanna hear it."
Your hands drift a little higher, thumb resting the hollow of his throat with your hands wrapping and squeezing.
“Daddy.”
"Christ. Yeah. Fuck yeah. Tight... Tighter," he moans as you ride him, your hips finding a deeper rhythm as your hands tighten around his neck, his eyes fluttering open just enough to find yours, fighting to stay open like he doesn't want to miss a second of it.
You lean back slightly, hands braced on his strong thighs as he fills you over and over again. His praise slips from his lips between gritted teeth.
You feel your orgasm building, sharp and fast, the pressure coiling in your stomach, and he feels it, too. Garrett sits up, wrapping his arm tight around your waist, the other twisting in your hair again as your body trembles uncontrollably. You gasp, swiveling your hips, grinding down as he presses his face into the crook of your neck, breathing heavy.
"Cum for me, baby. Let go. Show me how perfect you are, huh?”
Your whole body clenches, back arching as you cry out, pulsing hard around him, your orgasm triggering his own. Your name falls from his lips, hips jerking as he buries himself deep, cumming hard, holding you so close.
Garrett melts back into the mattress, pulling you with him, finding his lips for a tender kiss.
"Christ, baby," he breathes. "You’re so good to me, baby. You know that?" He whispers as his hands hold your cheeks, forehead resting against yours.
“Mmm—You are so, so good to me,” you whisper, feeling him smile into your kiss.
You pull back ever slightly, eyes falling enough to see the dark mark blooming where your lips had been, the soft red hue of where your hands were wrapped blushing on his skin as well. You rub your thumb across it, trying your best to catch your breath.
“You know,” he starts, his voice low and rough, “you always tease me for liking to mark you up…”
“Because you do.”
A smirk spreads on his kiss-swollen lips as he studies you a little. “Yeah, I do—” Knock. Knock.
“G, you alive?” Logan calls from the other side of the door. Garrett groans, dropping his head to your shoulder.
“No,” he mumbles and you giggle, tilting your head to rest it against his. Knock! Knock!
“C’mon, Romeo. Car leaves in five,” Logan tries again.
“Leave without me.”
“Can’t,” he laughs, “Coach likes goals. Get your ass movin’.”
He blows out a breath as you lift off him nice and slow, thighs trembling, making him chuckle breathily. You roll your eyes and drop to the mattress, wrapping yourself up in his blanket.
You watch him step into his dark slacks, tugging them up his thighs before fastening the button. Your gaze drifts higher, catching on the sharp lines of his waist disappearing beneath the waistband of his slacks, the chain hanging against his chest, the way the damp ends of his curls are already starting to dry around his ears.
A smile starts pulling at one corner of his mouth when he catches you staring.
He gives you a quick wink.
“Stop,” you mumble, fighting your own smile.
Garrett shakes his head to himself before turning slightly, checking the fit of his pants. His attention catches on the scratches.
It’s impossible not to look.
His hands slide into his front pockets, broad back tightening as he shifts, the scratches standing out even more against his skin.
“Garrett.”
“Hmm?” He asks, still looking, fully distracted.
“Garrett Graham?”
“Pretty girl?” His jaw tilts slightly, laughing through his nose when he sees the little mark on his neck, fussing with his chain.
“You love it.”
His bottom lip tucks between his teeth as he’s caught in the act, reaching for his black dress shirt hanging nearby.
“M’not gonna sit here and pretend this shit doesn’t look good, baby,” he mumbles.
The shirt slides over his biceps, draping over his shoulders. His chain catches the light against his chest as he fastens each button, chuckling under his breath like he’s tucking away a secret.
He reaches for the tie draped over the back of the chair, looping it around his neck, turning on his heels.
You crawl on the bed as he walks toward you, making your way to the edge. You rise up on your knees and his hands find your hips.
You fasten a knot in his tie, a little smile playing on your lips.
“Wait for me outside the locker room, yeah?” He asks.
“Garrett,” you sigh.
“What?”
“I’ve been waiting outside that locker room after every home game all season.”
“True,” he hums proudly. “Very true.”
“You really asking?” You chuckle and he smiles when the knot presses up to his throat.
“Just like hearin’ you say it, pretty.”
Your hands smooth the tie flat against his chest before brushing down the front of his shirt.
“Of course I’ll be there.”
“That’s my girl.”
Garrett reaches his stall and pulls off his jersey, dragging it over his head slowly, pulling himself out of his shoulder pads next. The scratches down his back earn about half a second of silence before the chirping starts.
“Jesus, G,” Logan laughs. “You get in a fight we didn’t see?”
Garrett looks over his shoulder like it’s news to him, which only riles the guys up even more.
“Nah, those aren’t from the game, boys,” Dean smiles, stating the obvious as Garrett rolls his eyes, reaching for a towel as another teammate whistles low.
“Weren’t there yesterday,” another teases, and heat climbs up Garrett’s neck.
“My girl got her nails done, alright?” He mutters, staring into his stall instead of turning around to hide the fact that he loves this shit.
“You better have paid for them, buddy. That’s how we’re doin’ it,” Dean laughs.
“Maybe I did.”
“Daddy,” Tucker adds, pointing toward Garrett when he finally turns around. “Addin’ that one to the playbook—”
“Enough,” Garrett mumbles smugly.
“She’s got Garrett Graham breaking all his rules.”
“A couple back scratches never hurt anybody,” Garrett breathes.
“Mhmm… That’s all that happened. We all believe you, G. You can stop gettin’ all red.”
“That hickey appeared on its own too, by the way,” Tucker piles on.
“Blushing like a slut, Graham,” Dean snickers, and that finally sends the room over the edge.
“No I’m not.” Garrett drags a towel over his face, trying to hide the grin that won’t leave his lips.
“He fuckin’ loves it—”
“Maybe I do. Now what?” Garrett mutters, back to the boys. He doesn’t even bother arguing because they’re right.
He fuckin’ loves it.
Garrett drops onto the bench, still shaking his head as the chirping starts to die down.
He reaches for his phone, trying to settle into a normal rhythm.
. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙶𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚝: 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚘 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚝.
He bites the inside of his cheek as the text bubbles come in fast.
Garrett groans, dropping his head into one hand, the other resting on his knee. He chuckles under his breath, rolling his eyes when he catches Dean smirking from the corner of his eye.
“Don’t,” Garrett grunts.
Dean just smiles, wrapping a fresh towel around his waist as he heads toward the showers.
a/n: I still don't know if I'll be writing for the other boys but since you guys really liked Dean's NSFW Alphabet and have requested it for the other guys, I thought I'd write them too since I really like character studies. Just remember I haven't and won't be reading the books!
Classification: Smut +18 | Explicit sexual content with consensual kink/BDSM, cum play, semi-public risk and toy use. It also includes references to past family abuse/trauma.
Word count: 3,6k
Divider by me ;) (Dean's will be updated soon!)
A - Aftercare: Garrett takes aftercare as seriously as his role as hockey captain. It’s never an afterthought but a non-negotiable extension of his dominance and care. After an intense session where he’s had you bent over the edge of his bed in the off-campus hockey house, your thighs still trembling from the rhythmic snap of his hips, he gathers you close against his warm, hard chest. His skin remains slick with sweat as he strokes your back with those big calloused hands. His eyes lose their predatory intensity and soften into something tender and watchful. He often stays buried inside you for long moments, simply breathing together, pressing soft kisses to your temple, your eyelids and the corner of your mouth. Then he fetches a warm cloth he keeps ready, gently cleaning between your thighs while murmuring how perfect you were and how proud he is of you for taking him so well. He wraps you in his oversized Briar hoodie that carries his scent of ice-rink chill mixed with cologne, massages any spots where he gripped your hips and holds you through any emotional drop.
Open communication flows naturally here as he asks how you feel, what you need and reassures you with a mix of sarcastic affection and genuine vulnerability. He fetches water or a snack he stashed earlier and refuses to let you move until he knows you are fully okay. For Garrett this proves he can be strong yet gentle, the opposite of the violence he grew up with, turning raw physical intensity into profound safety and devotion.
B - Bondage: Light bondage can suit Garrett well because he sometimes craves control without ever letting it feel coercive. He uses silk ties, softened hockey skate laces or even his hockey tape in ways that stay safe and reversible. Post-game adrenaline still surges through his muscular frame when he presses you against the wall of the house and binds your hands behind your back with tape. He drops to his knees, teasing you with his mouth until you beg, his dark hair falling into his intense eyes as he looks up with that cocky smirk. He checks circulation constantly, turning the process into extended foreplay with dirty talk about how gorgeous you look while remaining fully in control like he checks an opponent on the ice.
The moment you say his name in that needy tone or use your safe word he releases you immediately so you can touch him. Every step involves communication beforehand about limits and during the act with frequent check-ins. The restraint sharpens focus and trust rather than causing pain, aligning with his stubborn protectiveness and desire to be a safe partner.
C - Cum: Garrett has a deep possessive streak that shows in the raw, primal way he finishes. As the virile hockey player with that big-dick reputation energy, he loves coming deep inside you and then watching it slowly drip out so he can push it back in with his fingers while growling that you are his. In an empty locker room after practice he might pull out at the last second to paint your stomach or breasts, then rub it into your skin like a claim while using his sarcastic humor to say something like "Look at you, all messy for your captain." He always ensures you come first, often multiple times, before he lets go. Afterward in the shower, he loves watching the water rinse it away.
Open communication also surrounds these moments as he asks what feels good for you and reads your reactions closely. The act blends filth with care, turning into tender afterglow cuddles where he holds you close and reaffirms how much you mean to him.
D - Discipline: His stubborn and sarcastic personality lends itself to playful yet firm discipline that stays far away from anything physical or punitive. It’s rooted entirely in obedience, teasing control and light denial rather than pain. After you tease him too much at a team party, he waits until you are back at the house before he takes charge. “Strip for me, slowly and keep your hands off until I say otherwise.”
He makes you hold the position while he watches, occasionally reaching out to trace a finger along your skin or tell you exactly how gorgeous you look obeying your captain. If you squirm or break position he adds delicious “punishment” in the form of extended edging, bringing you close with his fingers or mouth only to pull back and remind you, “This is what happens when you tease me in public, baby. You wait until I decide you’ve earned it.” He constantly checks in with soft questions like “Still good? Color?” and mixes in heavy praise when you follow orders well. The scene always ends with him pulling you into his lap, kissing you deeply and giving you the release you both crave.
There’s always communication and debriefs afterward to keep everything safe and connective. This form of discipline lets Garrett channel his dominant side while reinforcing his role as protector. It never echoes his father’s violence, only trust, control and mutual pleasure.
E - Experience: Garrett had casual hookups before you but nothing emotionally deep or kinky. With you he explores new territory through patient experimentation and constant communication. His discipline makes him an excellent student of your body, he quickly learns the exact pressure of his tongue on your clit that makes your back arch and the rhythm that has you gripping the sheets. He remembers every detail like memorizing a playbook and uses that knowledge to drive you wild. He remains open to trying new things but always discusses boundaries first and checks in during scenes. This shared learning process strengthens your bond and lets him grow into the attentive partner who prioritizes your pleasure and safety above everything else.
F - Foreplay: He never rushes. Extended foreplay is one of his greatest strengths and a way he shows devotion. He kisses down your body with his warm mouth and explores every curve with those skilled hands as if memorizing you. In lazy morning light filtering across his bed he settles between your thighs for what feels like hours, using his tongue and fingers in tandem while humming praises against your skin about how sweet you taste. He builds you up slowly with dirty whispers promising exactly how he will fuck you senseless afterward. His passionate and kind nature makes the foreplay deeply connective, turning it into an act of worship that leaves you dripping and desperate before he finally sinks inside you. Check-ins during these moments keep everything attuned to your responses.
G - Gagging: With his size and natural dominance Garrett enjoys light gagging during oral if you are enthusiastic about it. He guides your head gently but firmly with one hand in your hair during deepthroat sessions, groaning "That's it, take it all" in that rough voice. After a big win a celebratory blowjob in his fogged-up truck has his powerful thighs tensing as he hits the back of your throat. He watches your reactions closely the entire time, pulling back immediately if it becomes too much and praises you constantly for how prettily you take him. Midway kink keeps it worshipful rather than forceful. Communication before and during ensures it stays pleasurable, with frequent eye contact if possible and check-ins reinforcing trust.
H - Hands: Garrett’s hands are a centerpiece of his midway-kinky dynamic and he knows exactly the effect those big, calloused hockey-player palms have on you. Years of gripping sticks, fighting for pucks along the board and training have left them large, strong and slightly rough in all the right ways. He is deeply aware of his own strength and terrified of ever using it like his father did, so every touch comes wrapped in constant communication and care.
Picture a slow, heated evening in his bedroom at the house. The lights are dim and he has you laid out on his bed completely naked while he remains in just his sweatpants. He starts by kneeling between your spread thighs, eyes locked on yours as he asks softly, “Tell me what you need tonight, baby. Hard or soft?” Once he knows your mood, those hands take over. He runs them slowly up your legs, the faint scrape of calluses making you shiver, then presses one large palm flat against your stomach to hold you down with gentle but undeniable weight while his other hand slides between your legs. Two thick fingers ease inside you, curling just right as his thumb circles your clit with precision.
He talks you through it the whole time in that low voice: “Feel that? That’s me taking care of you. Breathe with me…Let me feel how wet you get for these hands.” He watches your face obsessively, adjusting pressure the second he senses anything less than pure pleasure, never pinning you harshly but using his size and strength to make you feel securely held in the safest way possible. When you start to squirm he might drape his upper body over yours, one hand gently but firmly pressing your wrists above your head while the other keeps working between your legs, building you higher and higher.
He loves making you come on his fingers first, drawing it out until your thighs shake around his wrist, then brings those same slick fingers to his mouth so he can taste you before he kisses you deeply. Later he guides your hand to his cock, showing you exactly how he likes to be stroked with long, firm pulls, his own hand covering yours to control the rhythm at first before letting you take over. The contrast between his powerful grip and the tender way he cups your face or strokes your hair afterward is everything.
Because of who he is, there is never any bruising force or sudden movements. Every hold, every press of his palm, every curl of his fingers is discussed beforehand and checked during.
“Too much?” he’ll murmur against your neck, voice thick with lust but still clear and attentive. “Good? Tell me exactly how it feels.”
Those hands become instruments of both filthy pleasure and profound reassurance, proving again and again that his strength exists to protect and worship you, never to harm. By the end you are boneless, marked only by the faint redness of thorough attention that fades quickly and he is already reaching for the warm cloth and water, pulling you into his chest so you can feel those same hands now gentle and soothing against your back.
I - Intimacy: Every kinky element Garrett engages in stays soaked in deep intimacy. He needs eye contact, his name on your lips and the feeling of true connection. He fucks you slow and deep with foreheads pressed together, breathing the same air while the bondage, edging or possessiveness heightens the closeness. Intimacy includes conversations about feelings and desires before and after these encounters make the physical acts emotionally fulfilling. For him the kink serves to draw you closer rather than create distance.
J - Jack off: Mutual masturbation ranks high for Garrett. He spreads you out in front of him and strokes his cock while giving you precise instructions on how to touch yourself. He edges himself while watching you come undone, then finally lets go while groaning your name. On road trips the phone sex turns extremely descriptive as he tells you exactly what he wants to do when he gets home. These sessions involve plenty of praise and real-time communication about what feels best.
K - Kink level: He operates at a midway kinky level. He is confidently dominant and possessive with a strong praise kink, light bondage, edging, sensory play and discipline. He avoids anything resembling violence, pain, humiliation, CNC or degradation because of his father's legacy. Everything revolves around enthusiastic consent, frequent check-ins, safewords and a lot of aftercare. Your pleasure, trust and emotional safety turn him on more than any single act.
L - Location: Garrett favors the hockey house when teammates are out, his truck with tinted windows after practice, careful locker-room fantasies and hotel rooms during away games. He also loves lazy mornings in his own bed where time stretches and he can focus entirely on you.
Each location comes with awareness of privacy and a discussion about comfort levels.
M - Mirror sex: Mirror sex perfectly combines Garrett's need for connection and visual confirmation. Late at night in his bedroom he positions you on all fours facing the large mirror. His muscular body cages you from behind, abdomen flexing as he enters you slowly with that hockey-honed control. One hand rests on your hip while you both watch every expression. He murmurs in that low sarcastic-yet-tender voice, "Look at us. Look how perfectly you take me and how beautiful you are when you fall apart on my cock." He narrates the expressions on your face and the way your body moves while adjusting his pace based on your reactions. No bruising force exists here, only deep rolling thrusts and constant praise.
He pulls you upright against his chest near the end so you come together while watching in the mirror, his arms wrapped protectively around you.
N - No and Nipple play: Garrett draws hard lines against anything violent such as slapping, choking, degradation, CNC, blood or heavy pain. On the positive side, nipple play showcases his attentive passion. In a steamy shower after practice he pins you gently to the tiles and latches onto one nipple with his mouth while his calloused fingers work the other or lower. He alternates gentle sucking, light grazing with teeth that never truly hurts and precise pinching while his free hand circles your clit. His endurance lets him spend long minutes building sensation until you tremble. He constantly checks in with kisses and questions about pressure. The play often leads to him dropping to his knees in the cascading water or fucking you slowly against the wall while still teasing your nipples, turning it into pure sensual devotion.
O - Oral: Garrett is an enthusiastic giver. He holds your thighs apart with strong hands and devours you with his talented tongue for ages until you shake and try to close your legs around his head. He loves your taste and gets off on making you come on his face and when you go down on him he offers constant praise and heated eye contact.
P - Pace: He masters both urgent hard and fast fucking after big wins and deep controlled strokes that let you feel every inch. He prefers grinding against your clit with each thrust to draw out pleasure. He communicates throughout about what pace feels best in the moment and switches seamlessly based on your responses.
Q - Quickie: He EXCELS at quickies. Between classes or before a game he pulls you into a storage closet or his truck, yanks your panties aside and fucks you with deep grinding thrusts while his fingers work your clit. His own mouth muffles your moans as he promises to make you come even in the short time available, the urgency adds excitement while his stamina ensures satisfaction.
R - Risk: If risk is something you like, it definitely makes Garrett hard and he makes a real effort to make it happen for you. The controlled thrill of semi-public places like an empty locker room after everyone has left or the back of his truck in a dark parking lot heightens his arousal and his body responds instantly to the idea of taking you somewhere he could technically get caught, that adrenaline mixing with lust as his eyes darken and his cock thickens in his pants.
He stays careful because of his future in hockey and his protective nature, always discussing boundaries and details with you beforehand in honest conversations. “You sure about this spot, baby? Tell me exactly what feels hot and what crosses the line,” he’d say, voice already rough with want. Once you confirm, he puts in the work to set it up safely by scouting the timing, parking in the darkest corner or waiting until the arena is quiet.
Picture this…after a late practice, the locker room echoes with silence except for the two of you. He has you bent over the bench, your hands braced on the cool wood while he stands behind you, thick cock driving into you with deep, controlled strokes. One big hand covers your mouth to muffle your moans, the other gripping your hip as he growls low against your ear, “Quiet for me, baby. Don’t want anyone hearing how well you take your captain’s cock.” The risk makes every thrust feel sharper and every wet sound louder. He checks in constantly with whispered questions and reads your body language, ready to stop and leave at any hint of discomfort. The danger turns him on fiercely because it’s something you want, when you come hard around him, clenching and shaking, he follows right after, burying himself deep while kissing your neck. Afterward he helps you dress, holds you close and does thorough aftercare once you’re in the clear, proving again that his strength and desire exist only to make you feel good and protected.
S - Sensory play: He uses his precision and discipline for sensory play that heightens pleasure without any punitive edge. He blindfolds you, then teases you with ice cubes from his water bottle followed immediately by his warm mouth. He drips heated massage oil over your skin and kneads it in with strong hands before ghosting feathers or fingertips everywhere. Filthy sarcastic commentary accompanies every sensation, once you become a needy mess he removes the blindfold and sinks into you, the heightened sensitivity making everything electric.
T - Toys: He stays open to toys and likes using them on you. A vibrator against your clit while he fucks you or a plug in your ass while he takes your pussy intensifies everything. He buys high-quality items and makes the experience entirely about your pleasure. He discusses each toy beforehand, checks in during use and incorporates them into longer encounters with plenty of praise.
U - Undress: Garrett savors undressing you slowly, kissing and touching every revealed inch like a gift. He also enjoys the opposite frenzied ripping of clothes when tension breaks. He especially loves fucking you while you wear nothing but his hockey jersey, the fabric bunched around your waist as he drives into you.
V - Volume: Garrett is vocal with deep groans, filthy praise and your name spoken like a prayer. He wants you loud too and loves when you cannot hold back moans. In the hockey house he kisses you through orgasms to muffle the sound while smirking against your lips. He encourages you to tell him exactly how he feels and responds with more dirty talk.
W - Wild card: Edging is Garrett's standout wild card. He brings you right to the edge repeatedly with his mouth, fingers and cock, then backs off until you beg and whine for release. When he finally allows it, the orgasm shatters you. He watches your face the entire time like it’s the best view in the world and communicates constantly about when you are close. The buildup and release become intensely intimate.
X - X-Rated: Everything between you stays explicitly raw. Garrett describes in detail how tight and wet you feel around him and how perfect your pussy looks stretched on his cock. He wants the same descriptive feedback from you. No vagueness exists, dirty talk and narration keep the encounters immersive and connected through an open exchange.
Y - Yearning: Garrett yearns deeply when apart on road games. Texts and calls grow increasingly filthy and needy as he counts down the hours until he can touch you again. When he finally returns the reunion becomes intensely emotional and physical, full of pent-up passion balanced by tender check-ins and reaffirmations of love.
Z - Zzz (Sleep): After the intensity of a scene, the raw sex, the thorough aftercare and the whispered conversations, Garrett pulls you onto his broad, warm chest and settles into sleep with you wrapped securely in his arms. This is the moment where his protective dominance shifts fully into peaceful devotion. His muscular hockey-player body, still slightly damp from the shower you shared, becomes the safest place in the world as he tucks you against him, one large hand stroking slowly up and down your back while the other rests on your hip. He keeps the oversized Briar hoodie nearby so he can pull it over you if you get cold, the fabric carrying his comforting scent of cologne, ice and home.
In the quiet darkness of his bedroom at the hockey house, with the distant sounds of teammates occasionally filtering through the walls, he talks softly until you both drift off. “You were incredible tonight,” he murmurs, lips brushing your forehead. “Tell me how you’re feeling right now. Any sore spots? Anything you want me to do different next time?” These late-night check-ins are sacred to him, they let him make sure the kinky elements never leave emotional residue that could hurt you. Because of his past with his father, falling asleep with you like this brings him a profound sense of peace and redemption. You are the proof that he can be strong, dominant and passionate without ever becoming violent or cruel.
He sleeps deeply and better with you there, your head on his chest rising and falling with his steady breathing. If you wake up in the middle of the night from subspace drop or a random emotion, he’s instantly alert, big arms tightening around you, voice sleepy but caring as he fetches water, offers more cuddles or talks you through it until you feel safe again.
a/n: Comments, likes and reblogs really do mean the world and help more than you know! More stories will be added to the archive soon, so stay tuned for new content. Thank you so much for reading! 🤍
in which garrett graham x sorority!reader who have a complicated situation are walked in on while having sex, but that doesn’t stop the show, nor the aftermath.
THE SOUND OF SKIN SLAPPING AGAINST SKIN filled garrett's bedroom, heavy and rhythmic, punctuated by the wet, obscene sound of him driving into her over and over again.
she was on her stomach, face pressed into his pillows with her back arched prettily, garrett's favorite way to take her. he loved the view. loved watching the way her long hair spilled across his sheets, the way her spine dipped, the way her ass bounced every time he snapped his hips forward. he had one large hand pressed flat between her shoulder blades, holding her down into the mattress while the other gripped her hip hard enough to bruise.
"fuck, you feel so good," garrett groaned behind her, voice low and wrecked. he pulled almost all the way out, just to watch the way her swollen, slick pussy clenched around the tip of his dick before he slammed back in deep. "this pussy was fucking made for me, you know that?"
she nodded and whined into the pillow, high pitched and breathless, her fingers curling into the sheets beneath her. her mascara was already smudged, had been since the second he'd pulled her into his room and kissed her hard enough to bruise her lips, and her lip gloss was long gone, replaced by the taste of him and the salt of her own skin.
"garrett—" she gasped, pushing her hips back against him desperately. "please, more—"
"look at you," he breathed, shifting his weight so he could lean down over her, his chest pressing against her back, mouth hot against her ear. "begging for it like a good little bunny. you that desperate for my dick, huh?"
"yes," she cried out, the word muffled by the pillow but no less desperate. "only you, garrett. it’s only ever you."
he groaned, a guttural sound from deep in his chest, and rewarded her honesty by picking up the pace.
the mattress dipped with the force of his thrusts, the headboard slamming rhythmically against the wall, a sound that would surely earn him complaints from his teammates tomorrow, but neither of them cared. she was so wet, soaking him, making a mess of his sheets, and the thought alone made garrett feral.
"such a messy girl," he gritted out, tangling a hand in her hair and tugging her head back just enough so he could hear her gasps better. the angle forced her back to arch even deeper, taking him impossibly hard. "you love this dick, don't you? love when i fucking wreck you."
"yes, oh my god, yes," she whined, her voice cracking on a moan. she was so loud, always so loud for him, unable to hold back the pornographic sounds he pulled out of her. "you’re so deep, garrett, fuck—"
he let out a dark chuckle against the curve of her neck, lips brushing hot skin before he bit down gently on her shoulder. "i know exactly how deep i am. you feel that?" he pulled out slow, torturously slow, then drove back in so hard her whole body jolted forward on the mattress. "that's all the way in your stomach."
she sobbed into the pillow, fingers twisting the sheets so tight her knuckles went white. her thighs were trembling, slick with her own arousal dripping down from where they were joined, and every thrust sent another shiver through her body.
"garrett, please—" she whined again, face still half-buried in the pillow, hair wild and sticking to the sweat on her back. "i'm so close, please don't stop, don't stop—"
"i got you, baby, i got you," garrett promised, his voice ragged and tight. he didn't let up, his hips snapping against her ass with a punishing rhythm that was designed to destroy her. his hand snuck around her hip, his fingers finding her clit with practiced ease, rubbing tight, frantic circles that matched the thrust of his dick. "let go. soak my dick, show me how much you love it."
the stimulation was too much, the coil in her stomach snapping tight and then exploding violently. she cried out, her back arching so sharply it looked painful, her pussy clamping down around him like a vise as she came. she gushed around him, her walls fluttering and pulsing, making everything so much wetter, so much tighter, the sound of him fucking her through her orgasm loud and shameless.
just as she started to come down, her whole body trembling and weak, the bedroom door clicked and swung open.
"yo, garrett, you seen my—" dean's voice cut off mid-sentence.
dean stood in the doorway, frozen for exactly one and a half seconds before he whipped around so fast his sneakers squeaked against the hardwood floor. "what the fuck dude! you couldn't put a sock on the door?"
garrett didn't stop. didn't even slow down. he barely even looked up, just kept his hips moving in that same brutal, steady rhythm, one hand still pressed between her shoulder blades and the other still working her clit.
"you see me busy, dean," garrett said, his voice strained but impossibly casual for someone currently buried balls-deep. "knock next time."
"i did knock!" dean's voice came out pitched higher than usual, his back still turned, one hand covering the back of his neck like he'd been burned. "i knocked three times, garrett. three! you just didn't answer because you're—" he gestured blindly behind him without looking, "—clearly busy"
"then take the hint," garrett grunted, his hips stuttering for just a second before he found his rhythm again. he leaned down, pressing his mouth to her ear. "ignore him."
she let out a choked whine into the pillow, her face burning, and not just from the orgasm still pulsing weakly through her body. she could hear dean standing there, could hear his sneakers shifting on the floor like he was debating whether to bolt or keep yelling, and the humiliation of it somehow made her clench tighter around garrett's dick.
"jesus christ," dean swore, the doorknob rattling as he grabbed it blindly, still facing the hallway. "fuck, just lock your door next time!"
the door slammed shut, the sound echoing through the room, followed immediately by the heavy thud of dean’s footsteps stomping down the stairs.
garrett didn't miss a beat. the second the door clicked shut, a dark, arrogant smirk stretched across his lips, and he planted a hand beside her head, slamming his hips forward with enough force to shove a cry out of her throat.
"think he learned his lesson?" garrett murmured against the shell of her ear, his breath hot and ragged, hips rolling deep and slow now, dragging every inch out of the moment. he laughed quietly when she only responded with a broken, desperate moan. "yeah. me neither."
"garrett—" she gasped, her voice wrecked and muffled against the pillow. "he just—"
"don't care," he cut her off, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in so hard the bed frame groaned. "you think i'm gonna stop when you're squeezing me like this? when this pussy's still dripping for me?"
she buried her face deeper into the pillow, ashamed of the way her body responded to the sheer filth of this situation. dean had just walked in. dean had just seen her, face down, ass up, garrett's hand between her shoulder blades, and instead of being mortified enough to stop, she was getting tighter around him.
"you're clenching up on me," garrett noticed, his voice dropping into that low, knowing register that made her insane. he pulled out slow, torturously slow, leaving her empty and aching before he slammed back in so deep her vision blurred.
she sobbed into the pillow, her body betraying her completely. he was right, she knew he was right, and the worst part was that she could feel it herself, the way her walls gripped him like she never wanted to let go, the way her hips pushed back against him involuntarily, chasing more.
he straightened up behind her, both hands gripping her hips now, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh of her waist as he held her steady for his thrusts. the new angle let him watch himself disappear into her, slick and glistening, and the sight made him let out a low, filthy groan.
she whimpered, her fingers balling into the sheets so tight the fabric bunch around her knuckles. she let out a strangled moan when he pulled her hips back to meet a particularly brutal thrust. his thumb dragging slow circles into the bruise already forming on her hip.
he watched himself slide out, slow and deliberate, watched the way her slick coated his shaft, the way her swollen lips clung to him like she didn't want him to leave. the visual alone was enough to make his jaw clench, his stomach tighten. he'd had a lot of girls throw themselves at him over the years, it came with the territory of being assistant captain, but none of them compared to this. to her. none of them were this wet, this tight, this responsive.
none of them looked like her either, long hair sticking to her sweat slicked back, spine curved like a goddamn renaissance painting, taking him so pretty it made his chest tight in a way he'd never admit out loud.
"you're staring," she breathed, turning her head just enough to catch his eye over her shoulder. her lips were swollen and bitten, cheeks flushed, mascara smudged under her eyes. she looked ruined. she looked perfect.
"hard not to," garrett said, his voice rougher than he intended. he drove into her hard, watched the way her mouth fell open, the way her eyes fluttered. "look at this pussy taking me. look at how pretty you look stretched around my dick."
she moaned, dropping her forehead back against the pillow because holding herself up was becoming impossible. every nerve in her body was wired to the place where they were connected, to the relentless drag of him in and out of her, and she could already feel the pressure building again in her lower stomach, a second orgasm gathering like a storm.
"garrett, i'm gonna —" she tried to warn him, her voice thin and breaking, but the words caught in her throat when he suddenly changed the angle, lifting her hips higher so he could hit deeper. the new position made her see stars, made her toes curl against the mattress, made her mouth fall open in a silent cry.
"go ahead," he said, his voice tight and controlled even though she could feel him twitching inside her, feel the way his thighs were starting to tense behind hers. he was close too, she could tell, she knew his body almost as well as she knew her own after two years of this, but he'd never admit it first. never let her think she'd won. "come on my dick again. give me another one."
and she shattered. it hit her harder than the first one, ripping through her body in waves that made her thighs clamp together and her back bow so deeply her spine cracked. she screamed into the pillow — actually screamed, the sound muffled but still loud enough that she knew every guy in the house heard it, and her pussy clenched around garrett so hard he let out a string of curses through gritted teeth.
"fuck — fuck, okay, okay —" his composure cracked. finally. his hips lost their rhythm, stuttering forward in short, desperate thrusts as he chased his own release. his fingers dug into her hips hard enough to leave crescents in the skin, pulling her back onto him with every thrust like he couldn't get deep enough, like he wanted to crawl inside her and stay there.
"garrett —" she gasped, overstimulated and trembling, her body still pulsing around him in weak aftershocks. "come inside me, please —"
that was it. that was all it took.
he slammed into her one final time, burying himself to the hilt, and came with a groan so low and broken it sounded like it was dragged out of the deepest part of his chest. she felt him twitch inside her, felt the hot rush of him filling her up, and the sensation made her whine, a broken, exhausted, satisfied sound, into the pillow.
he collapsed on top of her, his full weight pressing her into the mattress, and for a long moment neither of them moved. just the sound of their ragged breathing filling the room, the slow settling of their heartbeats, the wet, filthy sound of him still buried inside her as his cock softened slightly.
"fuck," garrett muttered against the back of her shoulder, his lips brushing her damp skin. his voice was wrecked, sandpaper and gravel, and he pressed a lazy kiss to the spot where he'd bitten her earlier. "that was…"
"yeah," she agreed breathlessly, her eyes closed, face still half smushed into the pillow. she could feel his come inside her, warm and thick, could feel the way it was already starting to leak around where they were still joined. "yeah."
they stayed like that for a long, lazy moment, his weight pressing her into the mattress, both of them breathing hard, the sweat cooling on their skin. garrett's face was buried in the curve of her neck, his lips occasionally pressing absent, half conscious kisses to her shoulder, her neck, the spot behind her ear that always made her shiver.
finally, he pulled out, slow, deliberate, and they both groaned at the loss. she could feel the immediate rush of warmth sliding down her inner thighs, messy and obscene, and she pressed her legs together with a quiet whine.
garrett rolled off her and onto his back beside her, one arm thrown over his eyes, chest still rising and falling heavily. his other hand found her lower back, resting there possessively, thumb tracing lazy circles against her damp skin.
the room was quiet for a while, just the sound of their breathing slowly evening out and the distant bass of someone's music playing downstairs. the ceiling fan wobbled lazily overhead, casting slow shadows across garrett's mess of a room. hockey posters on the walls, a pile of gear in the corner, an empty gatorade bottle on the nightstand. she'd been in this room enough times to know it by heart.
"your boy dean is gonna kill you," she murmured into the pillow, her voice muffled and hoarse. she hadn't moved. couldn't really. her body felt like it had been through a washing machine, a very thorough, very aggressive washing machine.
garrett snorted beside her, his chest rumbling with the sound. "dean's a big boy. he'll survive." his thumb was still drawing those lazy circles on her lower back, like he wasn't even aware he was doing it. "he's seen worse."
"he has not seen worse," she countered, finally turning her head to the side so she could breathe properly, her cheek pressed against the cool cotton of his pillowcase. her hair was a disaster, a tangled, sweat damp mess spread across his sheets like something out of a shampoo commercial gone wrong. "he saw me face down in your bed, garrett. that's pretty much as bad as it gets for a guy walking into his teammate's room."
garrett lifted his arm from his eyes just enough to look at her, a lazy, satisfied grin spreading across his flushed face. his hair was wrecked too, dark and messy, sticking up in every direction like she'd been pulling on it, which she had been. "he's walked in on john and that girl from theta before. trust me, we've seen worse."
"that doesn't make me feel better."
"wasn't trying to make you feel better," garrett said, his grin widening. he turned his head on the pillow to face her, dark eyes dragging over her face, the smudged mascara, the flushed cheeks, the swollen lips. something flickered in his expression, something softer than he'd ever let himself show in daylight, and then it was gone, replaced by his usual cocky smirk. "was trying to make you feel less special. you're not the first girl i've had screaming in my bed."
she reached over without lifting her head from the pillow and pinched his side. hard.
"ow—" he flinched, laughing, catching her wrist before she could do it again. "okay, okay. you're the only one who sounds that pretty doing it. happy?"
she huffed out a small laugh, rolling her eyes even though her heart was still racing a little in her chest. "marginally better. keep going."
garrett chuckled, the sound vibrating through the mattress where his arm was pressed against hers. he sat up eventually, dragging a hand through his messy dark hair and glancing down at the mess they’d made of his sheets. there was a visible wet spot under where she’d been lying, and the sight made that cocky smirk of his come back in full force.
"look at that," he said, gesturing to the stain with his chin. "ruining my sheets, princess. that’s nasty." he joked.
she lifted her head just enough to glance at the wet spot, then dropped her face back into the pillow with a groan. "that's half your fault, graham."
"maybe," he conceded, standing up from the bed entirely unbothered by his own nudity. he grabbed a pair of shorts from the floor and pulled them on with one hand, the waistband sitting low on his hips, the line of his v-cut disappearing beneath the fabric. he tossed her one of his t-shirts, a worn briar hockey shirt, soft from too many washes, and a pair of sweatpants that would obviously be too big on her. "get dressed. i'm hungry."
"you're always hungry," she mumbled, but she sat up slowly, wincing at the soreness already settling into her hips and lower back. the t shirt smelled like him, detergent and cologne and something underneath that was just distinctly garrett, and she pulled it over her head without putting on a bra, letting the soft cotton fall to mid thigh. she left the sweatpants on the bed. his shirt was long enough.
she padded barefoot after him toward the stairs, his sweatpants draped over her arm just in case, but she didn't bother putting them on. the oversized hockey shirt hung off one shoulder, and she could feel the slow trickle of him still between her thighs with every step she took. it was obscene.
garrett walked ahead of her, barefoot and shirtless, basketball shorts slung low enough that she could see the indent of his obliques flexing with each step. he took the stairs two at a time, totally unbothered, like he hadn't just rearranged her internal organs thirty minutes ago.
the noise hit her before the sight did, voices, the tv playing some sports center recap, the crack of a can opening. the living room was full.
dean was on the couch, of course he was, sprawled out with a bag of chips balanced on one knee and a gatorade in his hand like he was trying to cleanse his soul of whatever he'd just walked in on. john was in the armchair, and two other guys she recognized from the team, she thought one was also named john, the other maybe beau, were on the floor leaning back against the coffee table, controllers in hand, some shooting game paused on the tv.
every single one of them looked up when garrett came down the stairs.
and then they looked at her.
the silence lasted exactly two seconds before dean threw a chip at garrett's head.
the chip bounced off garrett's temple and landed on the floor somewhere near his bare foot. he didn't flinch. just looked at dean with that lazy, satisfied grin still plastered across his face, like getting pelted with snack food was a small price to pay for the evening he'd just had.
"real mature, dean."
"mature?" dean's voice cracked on the word, his face still slightly red from whatever residual mortification he hadn't managed to sweat out in the last thirty minutes. he pointed at garrett with the gatorade bottle, jabbing the air like a prosecutor delivering a closing argument. "you wanna talk about mature? because mature is locking your door when you have company. mature is not making your teammates hear —" he gestured vaguely at the ceiling, at the room above them, at the general concept of what had just occurred up there, "— all of that."
"hear what?" garrett said innocently, walking past dean toward the kitchen like he didn't have a care in the world. he pulled the fridge open and grabbed a water bottle, taking a long sip before turning back around. "i have no idea what you're talking about."
"oh, you have no idea—" dean started, voice climbing again, but john cut him off from the armchair without looking up from his phone.
"bro, we heard everything. everything. i had my airpods in with the volume all the way up and i could still hear the headboard." john scrolled casually through something on his screen, like he was commenting on the weather. "at one point i considered calling the police. not because it sounded non consensual, but because it sounded structural. like the house might be coming down."
the room erupted. beau choked on his drink, spraying mountain dew across the coffee table while the other one doubled over laughing, his controller clattering to the floor. dean's ears went pink to the tips, and he shoved another handful of chips into his mouth like the act of chewing would keep him from saying something worse.
she leaned against the banister at the bottom of the stairs and raised an eyebrow at the room full of guys like she was surveying them from the top of a sorority staircase at a mixer. "you guys done?" she asked, her voice still hoarse but laced with enough dry amusement that it landed like a punchline.
she looked at dean specifically, chin tilted up, lips curved in that infuriatingly serene smile she'd perfected during rush week her sophomore year. "because if we're doing a debrief, i'd love to hear what exactly you saw, dean. since you seemed so traumatized."
dean's face went from pink to full crimson. he looked like he was about to spontaneously combust right there on the couch, chips scattering across the cushions as he held up both hands like she was a cop and he was surrendering.
"i didn't see anything!" he said, way too loud. "i turned around immediately. i saw— a shape. a blurred shape. i didn't even know it was you until you came downstairs just now."
"sure, dean," she said sweetly, tilting her head. "a shape."
the living room erupted again. beau nearly fell off the coffee table he was leaning against, slapping the surface with his palm while john buried his face in a throw pillow to muffle his laughter. john hadn't even cracked a smile, but his shoulders were shaking suspiciously, and he still hadn't looked up from his phone, which meant he was definitely not scrolling anything and was just using it as a shield.
dean looked between her and garrett like a man who'd wandered into a trap he couldn't find his way out of. "i'm going to bed," he announced, standing up from the couch with the dignity of a man who had none left. the chip bag crinkled in his grip. "i'm going to bed and i'm putting in earplugs and i'm never coming upstairs again without a warrant."
"smart," garrett said from the kitchen, leaning against the counter with his water bottle. he was watching the whole exchange with the casual satisfaction of a man who'd just won a game he hadn't even realized he was playing. his eyes kept drifting back to her, standing there in his shirt, barefoot, looking like she owned the place, and his jaw tightened in a way that had nothing to do with amusement.
he stopped beside her at the bottom of the stairs, close enough that his arm brushed hers, and looked down at her with an expression that was all garrett, cocky, lazy, proprietary. like she was something he'd won in a game and was now collecting his prize. his hand found the back of her neck, fingers curling into the loose mess of her hair, and he tugged gently, just enough to tilt her head back so she had to look up at him.
"you need a ride home?" he asked, his voice low enough that it was just for her. she looked up at him, eyes still hazy and half lidded but sharp enough underneath to cut glass. her lips twitched, that particular twitch she got right before she said something that would make him crazy. "you offering to drive me home in your truck with your come still inside me, graham? because if so, that's very gentlemanly of you."
"you're gonna be the death of me," he said, his voice so low it was barely more than a rumble in his chest. his thumb pressed into the side of her neck, right over her pulse point, and he could feel it hammering under his touch. "you know that?"
she smiled up at him, slow, sweet. the kind of smile that had gotten her into this situationship in the first place. "you started it."
new set up i hope we like!! i’ve been so obsessed with garrett recently and also dean omg so be on the lookout💋💋
Pairings: Garrett Graham x ChildhoodBestFriend!Y/N, mentions of Dean x Y/N and Kendall x Garrett
Genre: fluff, a touch of angst, and smut ;), Best Friends to Lovers!
Warnings: adult themes, sexual content, mentions of parental death, daddy issues, partying, and alcohol.
Words: 6.1k
Summary: You're visiting Garrett at school for the first time. But both you and Garrett don't realize that what you needed is right in front of you. When Garrett re-evaulates what he wants in a partner, the answer slaps him in the face.
Garrett Graham has been your best friend since boarding school. You remembered the day he came. All of the boys in your grade would fawn over his dad or talk to him about hockey. He didn’t have many friends, mainly because he was transfer and tended to be more closed off. One day in the cafeteria, you decided to approach him.
“Hi I’m Y/N! What’s your name?”
Garrett looked up to see a girl with big, round glasses, a perfectly ironed school uniform, and a smile with pink braces. She continued to sit down despite Garrett trying to give her a hint to leave him alone at his table.
“My name’s Garrett.” he spoke in a monotone voice, while poking at some broccoli on his plate.
“You’re in my world history class, you’re pretty smart.” You continued to smile.
“History’s cool, I guess.”
“Where are you from? I’m from New York.”
Garrett looked up at you. He was worried you’d talk about his dad.
“I’m from Boston. So, do you know who my dad is?”
“Nope.”
“Phil Graham?”
“The only Graham I know are graham crackers.”
Garrett laughed, “My dad was really great at hockey, played in New York.”
“My family is more into baseball, but we’re split between Yankees and Mets fans. Does your mom do anything cool for work?”
Garrett's face immediately went blank again. He was about to well up some tears, but held them in, not wanting to cry in front of the girl.
“Oh, no, she died. Lung cancer.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry, I’m sure she was a great mom. My mom passed away when I was a baby.”
Garrett then met his eyes with yours. He had finally met someone he could relate to, and not be flooded with Phil Graham fanboys. It made him realize that he could finally talk to someone about it without people listening or commenting out of pity.
“Do you ever miss your mom?” Garrett asked you.
“All the time, when I do well on an exam, when I don’t do well on an exam. But I know she’s always with me. This is from her.” You started fiddling with a silver heart necklace your mom has had since you were born.
Your words somehow reassured Garrett, and for once, Garrett Graham had finally made a friend. You remained friends throughout high school, eventually becoming best friends. You were the one who taught Garrett to drive, almost crashing your car several times. He made it up to you when, on his 16th birthday, he got a brand new Jeep and drove you wherever you wanted. Garrett would show up for your track and debate team competitions, always cheering the loudest in the room. You often went to his hockey games, even though you didn’t understand the sport. You’d scream from the bleachers when Garrett got a puck in the net. You were there the day Garrett signed to play for the Briar U Hawks, as his dad didn’t have time to fly out. You were the closest thing to family for him. Garrett was also on FaceTime as you anxiously opened your Harvard college decision. The speakers in your computer could’ve blown out from Garrett’s cheers when you both saw that you got in. Before graduation, you promised each other you would visit one another, no matter the distance. Luckily, Harvard and Briar U were not so far away.
Freshman year for both of you was hectic. Slammed with school and extracurriculars, you found no time to visit each other. It also didn’t help that the campus didn’t let freshmen keep cars on campus, so you and Garrett had to leave your cars at home. But you made an effort to see each other during breaks or to FaceTime occasionally. You’d also watch Garrett’s games when he’d come play at Harvard, a little biased since you wanted Harvard to win. Garrett would also follow the social media of the clubs you were in, whether it was the debate team, running club, or Women in STEM. He’d always text you a funny zoomed-in photo of your face, commenting how you were so photogenic when you had a clear resting bitch face.
But sophomore year was different. You both had your cars and were nosy about each other’s campuses. After comparing your schedule to Garrett's, you decided to come during Labor Day Weekend. That way, Garrett wasn’t busy with hockey and school and could focus on showing you around Briar. Garrett even kindly offered to let you stay at his house. Despite having three other guys as roommates, it wasn’t as different as boarding school. Garrett said you could take his bed while he slept on the couch.
“Guys, remember, Y/N is coming and staying the weekend. I don’t want you horndogs scaring her.”
“Your childhood friend with the big glasses? Trust me Gar, you got nothing to worry about.” Dean laughed.
“Doesn’t she go to Harvard? Studying biomedical engineering?” Logan shouted from the kitchen, trying to snake the sink drain.
“I’m sure she will be nice, didn’t you say she’s from New York?” Tucker added.
“Yes to all those questions, idiots, don’t be weird around her ok? It’s the first time she’s visiting Briar.”
He heard your car honk outside his house.
“She’s here! Act normal, I’m serious. Also, pretend you don’t know all that information.” Garrett opened the door to meet you at your car.
Dean walked over to the window to peek at Garrett swiftly going down to meet you. Dean sees your hair pop out of the car as you walk around to give Garrett a big hug. You pop your trunk to give him your small pink luggage and backpack for the weekend. Garrett grabs both and escorts you up to the house.
“Holy shit,” Dean remarks.
“What now, Dean?” Logan walks over, curious.
“She’s hot.”
Tucker got up to also take a peek through the window. Garrett had only shown them photos of you from high school. You looked like a typical nerd. Big glasses, oversized clothes, braces, you even kept your hair in a long braid. But instead, they saw a girl in leggings and a sports bra with an athletic build. No glasses, no braces, and your hair was down at a medium to short length, blown out in small curls. But one thing was still the same: you loved pink.
As Garrett and you got closer to the door, the roommates dispersed, heading back to acting all casual. Garrett puts your things down as he calls out to them.
“Guys, she’s here!”
You smile and give them a wave. “It’s nice to meet you all.”
“These are my roommates, Dean, John Logan, and John Tucker. But we call the Johns by their last name.”
They all said hello, looking semi-stunned as they looked at you.
“Where should I put my stuff?” You inquired.
“You can leave it in my room, it’s upstairs, last one at the end of the hallway.”
“Thanks, do you mind if I shower and change? I didn’t have time after my morning run.”
“Sure, I have my own private bathroom so feel free to use it.”
“Thanks Garrett, you’re the best.”
You grabbed your things and went upstairs to Garrett's room. Funny enough, it looked similar to his room in boarding school. Neat bed, hockey posters, and a photo of him and his mom by his bedside. You noticed it smelled of his clean laundry and expensive cologne, gifts from his dad, no less. Garrett left a towel for you, folded neatly on his bed. You started to unpack your things in a corner, not wanting to disturb his space.
“Dude,” Dean spoke up.
“What?”
“Since when are nerds from Harvard hot?”
“Gross, Dean.”
“You seriously don’t see it? She’s completely different than the photos you sent of her. She doesn’t even have those huge glasses anymore.”
“He’s got a point there G.” Logan chimes in.
Garrett gives a disappointed look to the group, annoyed that they’d talk about you that way when they don’t even know you. Garrett continued to bicker with Dean about you, claiming you were the same person regardless of how much you’ve changed since high school. As if they had summoned you, you came downstairs shortly after your shower in those huge glasses Dean had mentioned.
“Hey, Gar? Do you or any of your roommates have contact solution? I forgot to pack some on my way over.”
“I don’t think so, we can stop by the campus store if you need some.”
“Sure.”
“But…”
“What?” You looked down at your Harvard Engineering school shirt.
“You should probably change your shirt. If we go on campus, people are going to mock you.”
“Fine.”
You went back upstairs to change.
“You were saying?” Garrett looked at Dean.
“I hate to say it but the big glasses only made her look hotter.” Dean smirked.
“You’re ridiculous.” Garrett snarled at Dean.
“Nerds are hot now! What can I say?”
You came back down in a Paramore shirt.
“Ready to go?” Looking at Garrett.
“Yep.” You and Garrett said goodbye to his roommates. You and Garrett walked out to his Jeep.
You inhaled. “God I missed this car.”
Garrett laughed.
“It even smells the same, I see you still use the Black Ice car freshener after I gave it to you once.”
“I like the smell ok? And they’re cheap.”
“I never throught Garrett Graham would appreciate something cheap.”
“Oh shut up.”
You laughed as Garrett drove you to campus. You both walked around enjoying the nice day.
“I can’t believe how much nicer your campus is. Even the buildings look brand new.”
“Well, doesn’t help if your school was built when dinosaurs were around.”
“Hey, there’s some old school charm there. One day there are going to be kids complaining about how old your school looks.”
Garrett laughed as he noticed Kendall in the distance. She waved to Garrett as she approached both of you.
“Hey, Garrett.” She said flirtaciously.
“Hey, Kendall.”
“Who’s this with you?”
“Oh, this is Y/N, she’s my friend from boarding school. She came to visit for the weekend.”
“Hi, I’m Kendall. It’s nice to meet you.” She reached out a hand to you, and you shook it.
She had perfectly blown-out blonde hair and a full face of makeup. She had matching gold hoops and a necklace that said “Kendall” around her neck. She wore a low-cut black top, a denim skirt, and platform wedges. Compared to you in your Paramore shirt, leggings, and giant glasses, she didn’t really see you as much of a threat.
“Will I see you later Gar?” You looked at Garrett with confusion.
“Uh, yeah, I’ll see you later.” Garrett looked a little embarrassed.
“Great!” She kissed him on the cheek before continuing to walk wherever she was going.
Garrett turned his attention back to you, suggesting you two head to the campus store so you could get some contact solution. You agreed while continuing a conversation about the interaction.
“So, is she your girlfriend?”
“Nah, she’s just a girl I’ve been seeing.”
“Also, how is she going to see you later? I thought you said I was taking your room for the night.”
“Oh shoot, I forgot to tell you. Last minute Dean and the boys wanted to host a last minute party. It’s just for close friends though.”
“A party?”
“What? They don’t throw parties at Harvard?” Garrett said with a touch of sarcasm.
“They do asshole, I usually don’t have time to go to them.”
“Well, no better time than the present!”
You and Garrett reached the campus store. You grabbed a small travel-sized contact solution and looked around at shirts you could crop for tonight's party. You found a pink Briar U Hawks shirt that looks decent enough.
“Am I already convincing you to transfer?” Garrett joked.
“Hilarious. I’m only buying this so all your college friends don’t give me death stares for going to Harvard. Plus I need something to wear to the party.”
“You’re wearing that to the party?”
“Relax, Ralph Lauren, I’m going to crop it and style it a bit.”
You both walked to check out, and before you could even grab your wallet, Garrett paid for you. You bickered with him about it on the walk and ride home. Insisting you pay for drinks or dinner to thank him for letting you visit and stay at his house for free. Garrett waved you off, saying it was nothing. He brought up how you’d always give him his cookie at lunch when you were younger, so this was him paying you back.
You both eventually returned to the house to find Logan now underneath the sink, trying to fix it. Tucker was holding some kegs, about to load them into a car to fill them up before the party. He kept yelling at Dean to come help prepare for the party. Dean yelled out that the shower was clogged and Logan needed to come fix it. Garrett went to grab a keg from Tucker to help him bring it out to the front porch. Tucker kept insisting that Dean help out, since Dean had to go with him to get the alcohol. Dean threatened that he’d come down naked and do it, showing up on the banister with nothing but a towel around his waist.
“Dean! Dude, we have guests!” Garrett yelled out behind you.
“Sorry Y/N.” Dean winked at you. You immediately felt a flush on your face, and you were too flabbergasted to do anything.
“Sorry, he’s an animal, if you can’t tell.” Garrett spoke before heading upstairs.
You followed shortly behind, putting a small shield on your eyes, not wanting to see Dean shirtless again. Garrett apologized for Dean again, but you reassured him it was ok. You briefly stepped to the bathroom to put your contacts back in and heard Garrett visibly groan on his bed. You came back out to see Garrett lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling.
“What’s wrong?”
“It was my dad, he called me again. He wants me to meet his new fiance.”
“Still not talking to your dad?”
“Nope.”
“Gar, I know you hate your dad, but at least he’s still trying.”
“It doesn’t matter. All he cares about is hockey.”
“At least your dad makes an effort to call you.”
Garrett perked up his head to look at you and sat up on his bed. You sat down to join him.
“Is your dad seriously still mad you went to Harvard instead of Columbia?”
“Yep, brings it up at every family dinner. Always says it's embarrassing that his one child didn’t choose the school he went to, and is closer to home.”
“Your dad was always doting on you. Wanting to make sure you knew he was there for you.”
“Yeah, I bet moving to another state didn’t help. Every time I visited your dad it always seemed like a business meeting. So serious.”
Garrett laughed at your sentiment.
“Anyways, where are you taking me to dinner? I know you can’t beat the clam chowder in Cambridge.”
“I’m taking you to Malone’s, they have the best burgers and fries in Hastings.”
“You know I’m always down for a good burger.”
“I know, when I visited you in New York City, I’ve never seen you down so many Shake Shack burgers.”
You threw a pillow at his head for teasing you. Garrett laughed as he motioned for both of you to get up so you guys could go. Garrett noted it was cold out now and gave you one of his hoodies. It wasn’t a big deal. You and Garrett shared clothes all the time. You asked him where your Guns N’ Roses shirt went. You let him borrow it once because he got pizza grease and crumbs all over his shirt during movie night. He claims he left it at home, but you know it’s definitely buried somewhere in his dresser and worn out.
You both pulled up to Malone’s as Garrett opened the door for you. It was a cute, small diner, of what you’d expect, nothing too crazy. The waiter came over as Garrett ordered for you. You were flabbergasted that he remembered your order.
“I’ll have a Diet Coke and a double cheeseburger with everything on it and a side of fries. She will have a chocolate milkshake, a double cheeseburger but no pickles or tomatoes, and fries as well.”
You thanked the waiter as you scolded Garrett for ordering for you.
“But was I wrong?”
“No…”
“See, I knew you couldn’t resist a chocolate milkshake cause you like to dip your fries in them. Which, by the way, is still disgusting.”
“Don’t hate on my sweet and savory preferences, I think it’s gross that you eat pickles.”
“I think that's only your problem.”
“I’ve watched you eat a whole jar of pickles and drink the pickle juice.” You visibly gagged.
You enjoyed this time catching up with Garrett. It was like time never passed. You both reminisce about how stupid your bunkmates were in boarding school or about how Garrett almost ran your car into a tree while learning to drive. Eventually, both your burgers came out with your drinks, and they looked and smelled amazing.
“Ladies first,“ Garrett gestured to you, awaiting your reaction.
“Oh my god, it's so good.” Garrett smiled as he began to also dig in and ask the waiter for ketchup.
You dipped your fries into your milkshake, and you gave a satisfied hum to Garrett as you both finished your burgers in 10 minutes flat. You sat back in the booth, holding your belly with your new food baby.
“So, did you like your meal?” Garrett joked.
You laughed, “It was horrible, I’d never come here again.” You sarcastically remarked.
Garrett laughed before trying to fight him across the table to pay for dinner. You even tried to throw cash at him before he gave it all back, insisting it was his treat. You had both gotten back to see Tucker in the kitchen making food, Dean setting up the drinks, and Logan scolding Dean for finding a condom in the bathroom shower.
“Hey guys!” Garrett called out.
“Hey G! Look what I found in the shower.” Logan showed both of you as you visibly made a disgusted face. You excused yourself to get ready for the party, letting the boys deal with whatever was going on.
“How was dinner?” Tucker asked while pouring tomato soup into some cups.
“It was great, she loved Malone’s.”
“Ah, your classic date spot,” Dean added.
“It wasn’t a date! We were just catching up as friends.”
“Word of advice, G, if I knew a chick who’s known me for that long and was smokin’ hot, I wouldn’t let her go.” Dean patted him on the back before grabbing a beer from the fridge.
Garrett rolled his eyes.
“Is Kendall coming tonight?” Logan asked, trying to change the subject.
“Yeah, she actually ran into us on campus.”
“And…she didn’t set Y/N in flames when she saw her?”
“No, she just seemed excited to come tonight.”
Logan looked a little suspicious before dropping the conversation. Garrett went upstairs to check up on you. He knocked before coming in.
“Hey Garrett, look!” You showed Garrett your new cropped, off-the-shoulder top and lightly revealed the white bralette you had underneath. Garrett had to catch himself from taking a peek.
“That looks…nice.” Garrett tried to sound casual.
“Thanks.”
You had walked to the bathroom to curl your hair and do your makeup. Garrett lay on his bed, anticipating the party. You could hear him doing some deep breaths.
“Gar, I can hear you from the bathroom. What’s wrong?”
Garrett hated how well you could read him.
“The party, I guess I’m nervous about why Kendall is excited to see me later.”
“She just wants to talk to you and spend time with you, it's nothing to get worked up about. Do you like her?”
That question panged at Garrett’s heart. He thought about Dean’s comment. Did he actually like you? Or did he only see you as a friend? Would his answer break your heart? But why did he care about whether it would hurt your feelings?
“I…I don’t know.”
“It’s ok not to know Gar, but from what I can see, she really likes you.”
“How do you know that?!” Garrett sat up, staring at you in the bathroom defensively.
“In case you forgot, I’m a girl, girls don’t kiss random dudes on the cheek if they’re not into them.”
“Since when did you become so analytical.”
“I go to Harvard, dumbass.”
Garrett laughed as you finished up in the bathroom, stepping out. You were in your top, a white tennis skirt, and your hair was curled. Something Garrett immediately noticed was how you tended to keep your makeup light. A little mascara, eyeliner, and glittery eyeshadow. You were only wearing clear lip gloss, a little blush, and highlighter. In the back of his confused mind, he thought for a second you would look prettier without it, and he missed your big, round glasses.
“Ready to head downstairs?” You asked.
Garrett nodded as you both walked downstairs. A few people had shown up, including Kendall. You turned and gave Garrett a wink before noticing Kendall staring daggers at you, and then noticing Garrett behind you. You mentioned you were going to get a drink so you could leave him and Kendall alone.
You headed over to the kitchen to grab an alcoholic seltzer from the fridge. Dean then appeared in front of you.
“Y/N, I like the top, feeling like a hawk already?”
“I can definitely see why Garrett likes it here so much. You guys are great friends to him.”
“Well, I definitely can’t beat the girl who’s doing biomedical engineering at Harvard.”
You looked up a Dean, a little confused.
“What, you think Garrett wasn’t going to tell us all about you?”
“I guess that makes sense,” You laughed.
“But…he did leave out how beautiful you are.” Dean began to approach you closer.
You blushed, not used to guys flirting with you outright. Sure, you had been hit on at school, as your major was mainly guys. Your first week alone at school, three guys tried to ask you out. But they were mostly socially awkward, nerdy types, not beefy hot hockey guys. Even the guys on the Harvard hockey team were nothing compared to the guys at Briar.
“Thanks, Dean.” You remarked.
“Do you wanna play a game of pong?”
You nodded as you noticed Kendall and Garrett snuggled up in a corner. She was smiling at something Garrett said before he looked over at you with Dean putting his arm around your waist at the pong table. Garrett didn’t know why, but the sight of that made his jaw clench a little. Kendall reeled him back in, putting a hand on his cheek to bring him in for a kiss. Garrett smiled at her, and she motioned for them to go upstairs. Garrett obliged, following her.
“There go the love birds,” Dean noted.
Across the table, you were playing against Logan and Tucker.
“Maybe he’ll finally have the guts to ask her out, they’ve been sleeping together since last semester,” Logan added before attempting to shoot a ball into a cup, missing by a hair.
Your throat began to hurt. Why didn’t he tell me about her? Are things going to change if he gets a girlfriend? What if he has to stop talking to me? Dean snapped you out of your thoughts, reminding you to shoot your shot. You threw a ball and made it in. Dean excitedly hugged you, jumping up and down. Now, you both have one cup left.
“C’mon, man, she’s cheating,” Tucker whined.
“Maybe next time, partner up with a genius from Harvard,” Dean spat back.
After a failed attempt by Logan and Tucker, it was finally your and Dean’s turn. You then heard a slam upstairs and Kendall rushing down the stairs in tears. She left before saying goodbye to anyone. Garrett slowly came back downstairs, looking slightly disappointed with himself.
“Trouble in paradise?” Dean chirped before making the last cup.
You both cheered into another hug before pulling back for Dean to look at you. You can’t lie, Dean is gorgeous and has those baby blue eyes you wanted to fall into. Dean leaned in to kiss you before you heard the back porch door slam, and Garrett was nowhere to be found. You pushed Dean back, apologizing, then found Garrett outside on the back porch. He was sitting down staring at the bonfire, looking like he had something on his mind.
“I take it something went wrong with Kendall?”
Garrett sighed. “You were right, she likes me.”
“So… what's wrong?”
“She liked me so much she asked me out.”
“I’m not hearing a problem here, Gar.”
“But when she asked me that, I asked her why, and she couldn’t even come up with an answer that wasn’t about my looks.”
“Oh, I’m sorry about that, Garrett.”
“I asked her what's my major? What’s my favorite color? How do I like my coffee? What’s my mom’s name? What’s my favorite band? She couldn’t even answer one of those.”
“You’re a history major. You like the color black. You like iced coffee with a splash of milk. Your mom’s name is Elizabeth. Your favorite band is AC/DC or Guns N’ Roses, you claim you also don’t like One Direction, but I remember catching you singing Kiss You in the shower that one time.”
Garrett was flabbergasted that you knew all those answers. You knew him inside and out like a book. Jealous Garrett couldn’t help but tease you.
“I see Dean’s warmed up to you.”
“Eh, he just wants a hot girl to fuck, definitely not boyfriend material. He wouldn’t even know my favorite color or show if it slapped him in the face.”
“Your favorite color is pink, all shades, and you love Grey’s Anatomy, you basically forced me to watch it every night in high school.”
“See? Why can’t people just read our minds, it would make dating so much easier.”
There was a silence in the conversation. Out on the porch, you can only hear the light cricket noises and the crackling of the bonfire.
“Y/N?”
“Yes, Gar?”
“Have you ever… never mind.”
“Garrett.” You grabbed his hand. “Whatever it is you know you can tell me.”
“That’s the thing, it could ruin us.” Garrett sighed and swallowed the giant pill down his throat.
“Have you ever imagined what it would be like if we dated?”
You perked up at his question, looking at him, but he refused to make eye contact with you. You let go of his hand and moved to sit on his lap, which he didn’t protest. You grabbed the sides of his face, rubbing your thumb across your cheek. You gave him a small, gentle kiss on his lips.
“So how was that?” You looked at him in anticipation.
Garrett looked at you wide-eyed, unsure of what had happened. You laughed while hitting his arm in embarrassment.
“Are you kidding me, Garrett? The one time you don’t say anything.”
Garrett then pulled you in for another kiss, as slow and as gentle as the one before. You felt his warm hands cup the back of your neck.
“I really liked that,” Garrett smiled.
You smiled as you laughed at how awkward the situation was. Tucker innocently walked out to see the both of you canoodled up against each other.
“Yo Logan! You owe me $20!” Tucker called out. Logan came rushing to the back porch.
“Oh c’mon, Y/N, you couldn’t have just ignored G’s charm?”
You both laughed as you joined everyone. Dean approached both of you with Garrett possessively, now having his arm around your shoulder.
“If you ever break up with Gar, give me a call, gorgeous.” Dean smiled at you.
You rolled your eyes as you smiled at Garrett.
“So I take it that you’re not sleeping on the couch tonight?”
“If you learn to not hog the blanket, I guess I could join you.”
“Hey! That was one time!”
“And I was freezing cold.” Garrett pouted.
“You had flannel pants and a shirt on, plus you’re the one who decided to put on The Conjuring.”
“Hey that cinematic universe is a masterpiece.”
Garrett gave you a kiss on the forehead, apologizing that he had made you watch it late at night. You agreed not to steal the blankets as you both moved ot go upstairs into this room. You both showered separately and brushed your teeth. You saw that Garrett instinctively took the left side of the bed. You laughed at him.
“What?”
“It’s scary how well I know you. You take the side of the bed that is farthest from the window because you don’t like being woken up by the sun.”
Garrett stood up from the bed and came over to you. He threw you down on his bed and started to tickle you.
“You like being a smartass, huh?”
“I- ha- go to -ah an Ivy.”
You were fighting, trying to push him off, when he pinned your arms to the side of your head. Garrett’s big frame hovered over you, and you blushed at him staring at you. Garrett leaned in for a kiss, which made both your limbs melt. Garrett pulled you onto his lap, where you straddled him, enveloped in a deep kiss. Your mouths escalated as your tongues were swirling against each other, fighting for dominance. You let out small moans into his mouth, and you can feel Garrett’s bulge growing in his pants.
Garrett tugged at your shirt as you swiftly took it off, revealing your bare chest. Garrett instinctively kissed down to your chest, sucking a deep hickey on it while fondling the other.
“You’re so gorgeous, Y/N.”
You pulled on Garrett’s shirt as he took it off to reveal his perfect abs and wide chest. You gripped onto his shoulders as his arms came to grab your ass. He gave it a smack as you moaned out loud before attempting to cover your mouth.
“So, there are things I don’t know about you.”
You pulled on Garrett's hair, pulling his face back to look at you. He groaned and gave you a satisfied smile.
“You too.” You smirked.
Garrett then lay you down, kissing you until he reached the lower part of your belly. He pulled on your skirt before you nodded letting him proceed. He expected nothing less, you wore pretty light pink lacy underwear that was making him drool.
“Fuck.”
Garrett kissed the sides of your thighs before making his way back up to kiss you. He reached a hand down to your core, rubbing small circles against your clit through the fabric of your panties. A soft moan left your lips as you continued to give Garrett sloppy kisses. He felt your core become slightly wet as he paused, kissing you before taking his middle finger into his mouth.
“Please, Gar.”
Garrett moved his hand back down and his finger made its way inside. You kissed the nape of his neck as another moan escaped your lips.
“Good girl,” Garrett cooed before kissing your temple. Garrett can feel your nails sink into his back. Garrett moved his digits at a slow pace, before picking it up to match the pace of your moans. He briefly pulled his finger out letting a whine out of you, before he quickly moved two fingers inside of your core. You couldn’t think you could get any louder and your eyes started to roll back. Garrett moved at a fast pace, he moved his other hand to grip your face to kiss him. He was growing harder by each wet pump.
“Gar, s-slow, do- ah, down.”
You could feel you losing yourself amongst the immense pleasure. He then moved his thumb to rub against your clit. You hated how good he was at this.
“Ah- don’t, Gar, please!”
Garrett chuckled as he kept moving faster and faster. You soon felt yourself release as you came all over his thick fingers. You also didn’t realize some liquid had begun to come out of you until you saw it squirt out against his fingers. Garrett slowed down the pace before looking at you with a satisfied smile. You looked flushed, embarrassed.
“I-I’m so sorry, I’ve- I’ve never done that before.” You looked away from Garrett. He gave you a small kiss on the forehead.
“Well, I’m happy I could be your first.”
You smiled as Garrett reached into his bed side drawer to pull out a condom. He pulled his pants down to show his throbbing cock, as it shot right up against his belly. “Turn over gorgeous.”
You obeyed, turning over on all fours. He slapped your ass as you let out a moan. He pushed your back down, creating an arch and you moved your arms to lay your face into his pillows. Garrett licking his lips he put his wet tongue against you. Still a little sensitive you tried to move away from him, but he gripped his hands against your thighs. He lapped your wet core before giving you a slap on the other cheek, You moaned deep into his pillows before hearing him rip open a condom. Garrett wrapped it around his cock, you could hear a small hissing noise coming from him.
Garrett then lined himself up on the bed and slowly moved inside you. His cock was so thick you were worried it wouldn’t fit. Once he was all the way in you both let out moans in sync.
“Fuck, you’re so tight.”
Garrett then began to pick up the pace. You couldn’t control yourself, gripping on his sheets moaning louder into his pillows hoping any noise would muffle. Garrett then reached down to form your hair into a pony tail, tugging on it lightly to where your face moved above the pillows.
“I want to hear your pretty moans. I want this whole house to hear you.”
Garrett pulled your hair and motioned you to move up a little, where your back was against his chest. Garrett moved in faster pumps as he began to lay kisses against your shoulder and started to leave a red hickey on your neck.
“You think Dean could fuck you as good as this?” Garrett growled into your ear.
When you didn’t respond as quickly, you were caught up in the immense pleasure. Garrett slapped your ass again.
“Ah- n-no, I only w-want you,” You replied.
“Good, cause you’re mine.” Garrett grabbed your face to turn to kiss him. You grabbed and pulled on his hair. You felt him getting faster and his moans getting louder. You felt Garrett cum inside you, as his pumps slowed down. He let go of you and you collapsed on the bed. Garrett pulled the condom off himself before throwing it out. You, still face down, were still coming off the high of the pleasure. Garrett quickly scooped you up and brought you to the bathroom to pee and cleaned you up. He carried you back and delicately laid you down. He handed you your panties and gave you one of his shirts. You put it on and looked down to see it was your Guns N’ Roses shirt.
“Hey! I thought you said this was at your house!”
“I only said that so you wouldn’t dig through my clothes.”
“Well, I’m never giving this back.”
Garrett smiled before grabbing a drink from his mini fridge. He took out a protein shake while he handed you a lemon lime seltzer.
“I can’t even be surprised by you anymore.” You laughed, noticing Garrett knew you liked to drink seltzer at night before bed. He knelt down to you, kissing your knees.
“Do you need anything else, gorgeous?”
“You know what I could go for right now?”
“McDonald’s. You want a ten piece, fries, and an Oreo McFlurry.”
“...and?”
“With sweet and sour sauce, you’re not a psychopath.”
“...and?”
“An ice cold sprite. Do you know what I want?”
“You want round 2.”
“...and?”
“Then go to McDonalds, where you’ll get a Big Mac, steal my fries and a diet coke with lemon.”
“Well, let’s not waste any time then.”
Garrett tackled you onto his bed for a second round, you never wanted this night to end. Garrett knew you like the back of his hand. Both of you were smitten idiots who never realized the person who knows them like no other was right in front of them.
A/N: Ahh I love this trope! I hope you guys enjoyed reading!
꒰ঌ࿐𝓹𝓪𝓲𝓻𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓘ce 𝓼kater! 𝓕em! 𝓑leu! 𝓡eader x 𝓖arrett 𝓖raham
꒰ঌ࿐𝓫𝓵𝓾𝓻𝓫 a kiss shouldn't open floodgates, and it most certainly shouldn't lead to whatever you and Garrett Graham were doing right now
꒰ঌ࿐𝓼𝓶𝓾𝓽 ✓
꒰ঌ࿐𝔀𝓬 15,3k
꒰ঌ࿐𝓼𝓮𝓻𝓲𝓮𝓼 𝓑leu
Garrett did not text you the night he kissed you.
That was probably the only reason he survived until morning.
You told yourself this like it was a moral victory, like the restraint had been yours rather than his, like you had not walked back to your room with your mouth still swollen, your knee still bleeding, and the ghost of his hand burned into the hinge of your jaw. You showered too hot, scrubbed too hard over skin that did not need cleaning, and stared at yourself in the fogged bathroom mirror with the kind of clinical detachment usually reserved for post-fall injury checks.
Lip: tender.
Jaw: faintly red where his fingers had held you.
Knee: superficial scrape.
Hip: worsening.
Pride: catastrophic internal haemorrhage.
You had kissed Garrett Graham.
No. Worse.
You had kissed Garrett Graham and then gone back onto the ice.
Even worse than that, you had landed the jump.
That detail, privately, was what made you angriest. If you had fallen afterwards, if you had ruined the landing, if your body had proven that the kiss had knocked you off axis in a measurable, useful, punishable way, you could have filed the whole thing under mistake and moved on. But no. Your body, traitorous and apparently suicidal, had taken all that rage and heat and humiliating want and turned it into height. Rotation. Clean edge. A landing so sharp you had felt it through your teeth.
You hated him for that.
You hated him because he had been right there behind the boards while it happened, silent for once, watching you skate away like he had put something inside your body and was waiting to see what it did.
You hated him because you had wanted to look back.
You did not. That, at least, you kept.
The next morning, you arrived at the rink with your hair scraped tight enough to hurt and your expression arranged into something that discouraged conversation from three hallways away. Your coach took one look at you and narrowed her eyes.
She gave you the look. The one over the clipboard, a neat little slash of disappointment wrapped in professionalism.
“Warm up properly,” she said, “No triples for the first fifteen.”
You wanted to argue; but you bit your tongue.
That was the difference between your coach and Garrett Graham. With your coach, obedience could be disguised as discipline. With Garrett, everything felt like losing.
You were halfway through edge drills when the hockey team came in.
They were not on the ice yet. Not supposed to be, anyway. Their practice started after your session, but hockey players made it a habit of arriving early and making that fact everyone else’s problem. You heard them before you saw them, the thud of bags, the rolling laughter, the clatter of sticks against the boards as they filtered into the bench area like a badly supervised storm.
Usually, you could ignore background noise. You had trained through worse than laughter. You had trained through your mother taking phone calls at the boards about competitions you had not yet qualified for, through your father dissecting video playback in your peripheral vision, through another girl your age crying quietly in the hallway because she had lost a point on an under-rotation no one in her family would stop talking about.
But this noise had a centre now. You felt Garrett before you saw him.
You were gliding backward along the blue line, arms extended, working the edge deep enough that your blade made that satisfying, controlled bite into the ice, when his voice carried across the rink.
“Morning, princess.”
You did not look at him. You changed edge. Clean. Controlled. Indifferent.
Behind the boards, someone sucked in a breath like they were watching a loaded gun roll across the floor.
Garrett spoke again, “Knee still attached?”
You slowed, only slightly, leg extending so the swift glide turned into a natural slide.
Your coach’s head lifted and it became miniscule harder to feign indifference. Despite that, your eyes remind you, “Unfortunately, so is your mouth.”
The hockey bench went silent.
Then Dean said, “Annnnd- we’re back.”
Your coach looked from you to Garrett and back again with the exhausted calm of a woman who had worked in elite sport long enough to recognise both talent and deeply inconvenient sexual tension when it threatened her schedule.
“Do I need to ask?” she said.
“No,” you replied.
Garrett, at the exact same time, said, “Probably.”
You turned your head.
He was leaning against the boards in a Briar hoodie, hair still damp from whatever pre-practice shower or careless morning ritual had produced him looking like that. His mouth looked normal. Annoyingly normal. Not bruised or wrecked. If you had not felt it against yours, if your own body were not still hoarding the memory like contraband, you might have believed the whole thing had happened to someone else.
His eyes, however, were not normal. His eyes dropped to your mouth for half a second.
You smiled, “Careful, Graham,” you said. “Your team might start thinking you’re easy.”
Garrett’s jaw shifted once, but the corner of his mouth lifted. “You’d know, huh?”
“About standards? Yes. I imagine that’s a foreign concept for you.”
Dean made a choking noise. Logan rubbed a hand over his face. Tucker turned to the ceiling like he was asking God for patience and finding the line busy.
Your coach blew her whistle so sharply everyone flinched, “If the hockey team is finished auditioning for a campus harassment seminar,” she said, voice flat, “my skater is working.”
That should have ended it. But Garrett’s smile did not move off you as you reset your starting position, “Wouldn’t dream of interrupting greatness.”
You pushed off before you could answer. That seemed safer. Also cheaper than hiring a lawyer.
For the next forty minutes, you skated like precision could become violence if sharpened properly. Garrett and his team warmed up off-ice behind the glass, stretching, taping sticks, making themselves unavoidable in the way only large groups of young men could manage. You did not look at them. You did not look at him. You could feel him anyway, which was both humiliating and inconvenient. Your body had developed a Garrett-shaped awareness overnight and now insisted on updating you whenever he shifted, laughed, moved closer to the boards, or said anything in that voice that made irritation crawl under your skin.
When your session ended, you came off the ice flushed and furious for reasons that had almost nothing to do with your skating.
Garrett was waiting near the tunnel.
“Subtle,” you said, snapping your guards over your blades.
“I’m literally standing here.”
“Yes. That’s the issue.”
He leaned one shoulder against the wall, “You always this warm after a shared traumatic event?”
You stood, “Nothing was shared.”
“No?”
“No.”
“Huh,” His eyes went to your mouth again, slower this time, deliberately enough that heat climbed your neck, “That’s weird.”
Your fingers tightened around your blade towel. “What is?”
“I remember sharing.”
You stepped closer so quickly his smile sharpened, like he had been waiting to see whether you would, “You remember wrong.”
“I remember you pretty well.”
“You remember me kissing you because head injuries cause confusion.”
“You shoved me against the boards first.”
“You should have moved.”
“You should have stopped.”
Your mouth opened, nothing came out.
Garrett’s smile changed. It went smaller and more intimate which made something low in your stomach tighten, “That’s what I thought.”
You threw the towel at his chest.
It hit him with a soft, pathetic little slap that ruined any hope of dignity. He caught it before it fell, laughing now, actually laughing, and the sound was so unbearable you nearly lunged for it.
“Give it back.”
“Ask nicely.”
“Get sepsis.”
“Needs work.”
You grabbed for the towel. He lifted it out of reach with insulting ease.
You hated tall men. You hated hockey players. You hated Garrett Graham specifically with the full focus of an Olympic training cycle.
“Graham,” you said, voice deadly calm.
He looked delighted, “That almost sounded like begging.”
You stepped into his space.
The hallway seemed to notice since somewhere behind Garrett, a door cracked open and then immediately shut again.
“You are going to give me my towel,” you said softly, “or I am going to remove one of your fingers with my skate guard.”
His eyes flicked down your face, “Which finger?”
“Whichever one you’re most attached to.”
“Romantic.” He lowered the towel slowly.
You snatched it from him and for one second, your fingers brushed his.
Tiny contact. Stupid contact. Nothing.
Your pulse jumped anyway.
Garrett felt it. Or at least he saw something, because the laughter left his face by degrees. The hallway narrowed again in a terrible way because the two of you stopped performing hatred for too many seconds.
He said, quieter, “You okay?”
This was the one thing you hated more than the insults.
You shoved the towel into your bag, “You ruin everything when you try to be human.”
The softness vanished from his face, “Right,” he said. “My bad.”
“It usually is.”
“Careful, princess.”
You smiled like a wound, “Still waiting for the consequence.”
His gaze dropped, and this time it did not go to your mouth.
It went to your throat. Then back up.
Your breath caught so lightly you could pretend it had not.
“You sure about that?” he asked.
The door behind him opened again. Logan appeared, took one look at the two of you standing too close in the hallway, and said, “Nope.”
He shut the door.
The moment snapped and you stepped back first.
“This is why no one likes hockey,” you said, because retreat required smoke.
“Pretty sure people like hockey.”
“People also like food poisoning if you put it in a jersey.”
“Was that supposed to make sense?”
“To people with literacy, yes.”
He laughed again, but it was rougher now, “You’re exhausting.”
“You’re still here.”
“So are you.”
“I work here.”
“You pay to be here.”
You turned to leave, because if you stayed one second longer, you were either going to scream at him or kiss him again, and only one of those was allowed in hallways with security cameras.
Garrett called after you, “Hey, princess.”
You kept walking.
“Your number.”
You stopped.
Slowly, you looked back, “Excuse me?”
He held up your towel. Your towel. Again. Apparently, in the process of dramatic exit number six thousand, it had fallen out of your half-zipped bag and into the hands of the worst man alive.
Garrett looked entirely too pleased with himself.
“In case you want your stuff returned before next winter.”
“You can hand it to me now.”
“I could.”
“Graham.”
“Number.”
“You are deranged.”
“You dropped it twice in three minutes. I’m starting a lost-and-found service.”
You stared at him.
He stared back, waiting.
It was stupid to give him your number. Objectively stupid. Emotionally catastrophic. Practically unnecessary. You could cross the hallway, retrieve your towel, and walk away. You could leave it. You owned other towels. Many towels. Better towels. Towels that had never been touched by Garrett Graham.
He extended his phone toward you.
The screen was open to a blank contact. His mouth twitched as your confidence wavered, you hated being dared.
You crossed the hall, took the phone, and typed in your number with punishing force. Under the contact name, you wrote:
Do Not Text
Then you handed it back.
Garrett looked down at the screen and smiled, “Accurate,” he said.
“Instructional.”
“If I text you, you’ll block me?”
“If you text me, I’ll block you happily.”
He held your towel out, the fluffy material was slack and damp in his hands- pathetically making fun of you for being the reason that you had just given Garrett Graham your number.
You took it.
This time, your fingers did not touch.
He texted you six hours later.
UNKNOWN NUMBER
knee still attached?
You were at your desk with one leg folded beneath you, hair still damp from your second shower of the day, laptop open to a video of your program paused at the exact frame where your shoulder angle began to betray you. Your phone lit up beside a pile of annotated notes. You looked at the message. Then at the timestamp. Then back at the message.
You should have blocked him.
Instead, you typed.
YOU
tragic that yours is still talking.
You stared at the screen, and in the time it took for the three dots to turn into a message you changed his contact name.
CONCUSSION WITH LEGS
you free tonight?
Your body reacted before your brain did.Not in some sweeping, romantic, humiliating way but a small tightening somewhere beneath your ribs, a tiny failure of indifference.
YOU
no.
CONCUSSION WITH LEGS
didn’t ask if you were emotionally available
You deleted three separate replies before settling on,
YOU
die.
CONCUSSION WITH LEGS
rink. ten minutes.
You stared at it.
Then you turned your phone face down.
You lasted four minutes.
The rink after dark was not empty this time. That was your first mistake, assuming it would be. The building was quieter, yes, reduced to maintenance staff, late-night athletes, a couple of student workers behind the front desk, but not deserted. Not enough for whatever bad idea had brought you there in sweatpants, an oversized knit sweater, and shoes you had not taken the time to tie properly.
Your second mistake was pretending you had not known exactly where Garrett would be.
The storage corridor behind the rink was narrow and badly lit, a place of stacked cones, spare nets, old training equipment, cleaning supplies, and the heavy institutional smell of rubber mats and cold air. It was not sexy nor romantic. It was barely sanitary.
It was, however, private enough to ruin your life.
Garrett was waiting near the equipment room door.
He looked you up and down as you turned the corner, and the air shifted so violently between you that you almost stopped.
Almost.
“Ten minutes,” you said, “Do hockey players not understand time?”
“You came in eight.”
“I walk fast.”
“You missed me.”
You made a noise of such sincere disgust it should have required medical documentation, “I came because I wanted to confirm whether you were always this pathetic or just over text.”
His smile cut through the dim light, “And?”
“Still collecting evidence.”
You turned as if to leave.
Garrett’s hand closed around your wrist. Loose. Easy to break. A question disguised as contact.
You looked down at his hand. Then up at him, “Careful,” you said.
His thumb moved once against your pulse. “Stealing my line now?”
“You can sue for theft.”
“I’ll definitely try.”
“I’m warning you now, I usually win.”
“Yeah?” He stepped closer, “That why you look pissed all the time?”
You leaned in slowly, close enough that his eyes dropped to your mouth before you spoke,“I look pissed because you keep surviving.”
His gaze snapped back to yours.
There it was again. The match. The scrape. The little flare of awful, inevitable heat.
“You could leave,” he said.
“You could stop texting.”
“You answered.”
“You begged.”
“I invited.”
“You’re delusional.”
“You’re here.”
You kissed him because the alternative was agreeing.
Garrett was ready for it this time. His hand let go of your wrist only to catch your waist, hauling you into him with a force that knocked the breath out of your throat and turned it into something humiliating against his mouth. You shoved at his chest on instinct, but the movement only pressed your body harder against his, your fingers twisting in the front of his hoodie while his palm spread low over your back, dragging you close enough that every breath pulled your chest against his.
He laughed into your mouth. You bit his lower lip.
That shut him up only for half a second.
Then Garrett’s grip tightened at your waist and he turned you, walking you backward with his mouth still on yours until your back hit the equipment room door hard enough to rattle the handle. The sound cracked through the corridor.
You both froze.
Your breathing was already uneven. His was too.
Garrett’s forehead hovered close to yours, his mouth red from yours, eyes dark and fixed on your face.
“Door?” he asked.
You hated that he asked. You hated more that your answer came immediately.
“Open it.”
The equipment room was dark, colder than the corridor, the air packed with the smell of rubber and dust and sharpened metal. Garrett backed you inside without turning on the light, one hand catching the door before it could slam. It shut with a click that sounded obscene in the quiet.
For one second, neither of you moved.
Then your hands were on each other again.
It was uglier in the dark. Less controlled. Your fingers dragged at his hoodie, shoved it up enough to get your hands beneath it, your palms finding the hard warmth of his stomach and the little breath he tried to hide when your nails skimmed there. His hands slid under your sweatshirt and found bare skin at your waist, hot palms against you, thumbs pressing into the soft spaces under your ribs like he was trying to memorise the shape of you while still pretending this was only about proving a point.
You made the mistake of gasping when his mouth left yours and moved down your jaw.
He heard it, his mouth paused against your skin
You shoved his shoulder, “Don’t.”
His lips brushed the edge of your jaw when he spoke, “Don’t what?”
“Look pleased with yourself.”
“I am pleased with myself.”
“I can change that.”
He laughed, low and close, and the sound moved through you before you had time to hate it, “You’re welcome to try.”
You grabbed his face and kissed him again, harder this time, but he did not let you keep control for long. He crowded you back against a stack of folded mats, one hand braced beside your head, the other under your sweatshirt, fingers spread over your ribs like he could feel every breath you were trying to hide from him. The mats gave slightly under your shoulder blades. His body did not. He was heat and muscle and infuriating certainty, thigh nudging between yours, the rough seam of his jeans dragging against your leggings until your hips shifted before you could stop them.
Garrett felt it.
His mouth curved against yours.
You pulled back just enough to glare, “Say anything and I’ll leave.”
His hand slid lower, palm firm over your hip, thumb stroking once along the waistband of your leggings, “You won’t.”
“Try me.”
“I am.”
His fingers slipped beneath the waistband.
Your breath caught.
His eyes did not leave yours, “Tell me to stop,” he said.
You hated him. You hated the steadiness in his voice. The control. The fact that he was still asking even while his mouth was red from yours and his hand was under your clothes and your own fingers were tangled so tightly in his hoodie that you might have stretched the fabric. You hated the space he gave you to say no.
You hated that you did not want to.
“If I wanted you to stop,” you said, voice low, “you would know.”
Garrett’s jaw flexed.
Then he kissed you again, and his hand slid lower.
You jerked against him before you could stop yourself, the heel of his palm pressing through fabric at exactly the wrong place, or the right one, depending on whether you asked your pride or your body. Your head hit the mats behind you with a soft thud. Garrett’s other hand shot up to cradle the back of your skull before you could hit again.
The tenderness of the gesture made you furious. So you shoved your hand down between your bodies and cupped him through his jeans.
Garrett’s entire body went still.
“Oh,” you whispered, mean and breathless, “I got you.”
His laugh came out rough, “Don’t get smug, princess.”
“You’re hard in a storage room after one kiss. I think I’m allowed.”
His fingers pressed harder between your thighs.
Your sentence snapped in the middle.
Garrett’s smile returned, “There she is.”
“Fuck you.”
“That the plan?”
You looked at him.
The words hung there too heavily for what this was. This was supposed to be anger. A repeated mistake. A consequence of adrenaline, bad impulse control, and the unfortunate fact that Garrett Graham had a mouth that made you briefly sympathise with people who ruined their lives.
You tightened your hand over him instead of answering.
His eyes fluttered for half a second before he forced them open, as if he refused to give you even the satisfaction of looking away. His hand worked under your leggings with infuriating patience, fingers dragging over you through thin fabric first, not quite enough, just enough to make your stomach pull tight. You moved your hand in answer, slow at first, then firmer when his breath hitched and his forehead dipped toward yours.
“You’re enjoying this way too much,” you said.
“Been enjoying myself all day.”
His words brushed your lips. His fingers shifted, finding heat, slickness, the place where your body had apparently decided to humiliate you with enthusiasm. Garrett’s grip on the back of your head tightened, holding you still enough that he could watch your face when he touched you.
“Fuck me,” he muttered.
You smiled despite the heat crawling up your neck, “I thought that was the plan.”
His fingers slid inside you.
Your hand jerked on him.
Both of you stopped breathing.
The room felt suddenly too small, too dark, too airless. The metal shelf pressed cold against your shoulder. His body crowded every other inch of you, his chest rising hard against yours, his mouth open but not quite touching your lips. His fingers moved once, testing, and the sound you made was swallowed by his kiss before it could leave the room.
Garrett groaned against your mouth when your hand found the button of his jeans.
“Door locked?” you breathed.
“No.”
You froze.
His hand immediately stopped. Then he added, with the kind of grin you could feel against your cheek, “But no one comes back here after seven.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“You’re still touching me.”
“You’re inside me.”
His smile widened, “So we’re both making choices.”
You tugged sharply at his zipper.
His hips bucked once into your palm, and there was something so satisfying about catching him off guard that you almost forgot to be furious. Almost. You pushed your hand beneath the open waistband of his jeans, wrapping your fingers around him properly, and Garrett’s head dropped to your shoulder with a curse that sounded like it had been dragged out of him by force.
“Oh, Graham,” you murmured, your other hand sliding into his hair and pulling his head back enough to make him look at you, “You’re not very quiet.”
His eyes flashed.
His fingers curled inside you.
Your knees actually buckled.
He caught you, because of course he did, arm locking around your waist and lifting you back against the mats like your body weighed nothing. Your grip tightened around him in retaliation, thumb dragging over the sensitive head until his jaw went slack.
“Careful,” he gritted out.
You smiled, “I thought it was my line now?”
He kissed you so hard your teeth clicked.
After that, everything became hands and breath and the wet, obscene rhythm of touch hidden badly under the rustle of clothes. His fingers worked you open while his palm ground against your clit, and your hand moved over him in tight, slick pulls that made his shoulders lock and his breathing go ragged against your neck. Neither of you undressed. That made it worse somehow. Clothes shoved aside, buttons open, your sweatshirt bunched up under his forearm, his jeans barely low enough, both of you too desperate and too angry and too stubborn to admit this had been inevitable from the second he texted you.
“You close?” he asked, voice rough.
“No.”
He laughed once, “Liar.”
You tightened your grip.
His laugh broke into a curse.
“You first,” you snapped.
He kissed down your neck, teeth scraping lightly under your jaw, fingers pushing deeper, “Competitive even now?”
“Especially now.”
Garrett’s thumb pressed harder.
Your eyes squeezed shut.
“No,” he said, catching your jaw with his free hand, “Look at me.”
You wanted to hit him.
You looked.
That was your mistake.
Because Garrett looked ruined. Hair falling into his eyes, mouth swollen, cheeks flushed with heat, focus locked on your face like he wanted the exact second you lost control more than he wanted his own release. It should have made him look smug. It should have made him easy to hate.
It did not. It made your body go liquid around his fingers.
He felt it and the corner of his mouth lifted.
“Good girl.”
“Don’t-”
Your orgasm cut the word clean in half.
You came silently because you would rather die than make noise where someone might hear, teeth sunk into your lower lip, hand still moving on him out of spite more than coordination as pleasure tore through you in hot, shaking waves. Garrett watched the whole thing, jaw clenched, his fingers slowing only when your hips jerked away from the sensitivity. His hand at your jaw softened for half a second, thumb brushing near your mouth like he was about to say something dangerous.
You pulled harder.
His face went slack.
“There,” you whispered, still breathless, “Less talking.”
Garrett came with his forehead pressed to your shoulder and your name strangled so low into your sweatshirt that you almost missed it.
You both stayed like that for two seconds too long.
Then you shoved him back. The room rushed back in- the smell of rubber, the hum of the overhead light outside the door, the distant slam of a locker somewhere in the building. Garrett stepped away, breathing hard, hands moving to fix his jeans. You tugged your leggings back into place with fingers that only trembled once. The mark on your lower lip stung where you had bitten it. Your wrist ached faintly from the angle.
Garrett looked at you.
You looked at the door, “That was disgusting,” you said.
His laugh came out low and slightly wrecked, “You started it.”
“You texted me.”
“You answered.”
There it was. The phrase landed between you like a new rule.
You lifted your chin, “Don’t do it again.”
Garrett smiled.
You hated him for knowing you were lying.
He did it again two nights later.
CONCUSSION WITH LEGS
you awake?
You were not.
Or you had not meant to be.
You were in bed with one leg propped on a pillow because your hip had started to ache in a way you did not enjoy thinking about, your laptop open beside you, video paused on the same jump entry you had been analysing for twenty-three minutes without absorbing a single useful thing. Your phone buzzed once against your comforter.
You looked at the message.
Then at the time.
12:41 a.m.
YOU
no.
CONCUSSION WITH LEGS
typing while asleep. impressive.
YOU
some of us have talents beyond getting shoved into plexiglass.
CONCUSSION WITH LEGS
come over.
You stared at the screen. Then you stared at the wall. Then at the ceiling.
Then back at the screen. Absolutely not. Not again.
You were not becoming the kind of person who went to a man’s room because he texted two words and your body remembered the storage room before your brain had time to intervene. You were disciplined. Focused. In control. You had early ice tomorrow. You had a body that required sleep, hydration, stretching, and far fewer encounters with six-foot-something hockey players who thought come over counted as communication.
YOU
desperate.
CONCUSSION WITH LEGS
you coming?
You set the phone down. Picked it back up.
YOU
I have ice in ten hours.
CONCUSSION WITH LEGS
plenty of time.
That was how you ended up outside Garrett Graham’s door at 1:07 a.m, wearing the clothes you were going to sleep in and enough makeup for you to feel rational along with the expression of a woman arriving at a crime scene she had scheduled.
Garrett opened the door before you knocked.
His eyes moved over you once.
“You look cold.”
“You look stupid.”
“Missed you too.”
“I didn’t miss you.”
“You came to my room at one in the morning.”
“You sent me come over with a full stop like a serial killer. I came to correct your tone.”
He shut the door behind you, “Grammar emergency.”
“Public service.”
“You always this generous?”
“Only with the needy.”
He was on you before the sentence fully finished.
Good.
That was what you needed from him then. No questions, no comments about your hip, no eyes going too observant when you took too long to sit down. Just heat, pressure, the door at your back, his mouth on yours, his hands under your sweater, your fingers dragging through his hair while he made that rough sound against your lips that you had started to think about in places you had no business thinking about Garrett Graham.
His room was exactly what you expected and therefore irritating. Cleaner than it should have been. Hockey gear contained in one corner. Textbooks stacked on the desk. A few photos pinned crookedly near the wall: team pictures, friends, a life arranged around noise and loyalty and casual affection in a way that made your chest feel strange if you looked too long.
So you did not look.
You dragged Garrett’s mouth back to yours and let him walk you toward the bed.
“This is the last time,” you said.
Garrett’s hands were already at your waist, shoving your sweater higher with none of the patience he had pretended to possess in the storage room. His palms skimmed bare skin, fingers pressing into your sides, thumbs dragging up under your ribs until you sucked in a breath against his mouth.
“You said that last time.”
“And I meant it last time.”
“Yeah?” He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled you between his knees, looking up at you with his mouth swollen and his hands sliding down to the backs of your thighs, “You always this bad at commitment?”
“You always this bad at shutting up?”
Garrett smiled, “Make me.”
You did.
Your hands found his shoulders, pushing him backward onto the mattress, and Garrett went with a laugh that died the second you climbed over him. The laugh turned into a low groan when you settled over his lap, your knees bracketing his hips, the hard length of him pressing up between your thighs through too many layers of fabric. His hands gripped your hips immediately, fingers digging hard enough to anchor you, and you rolled down once just to watch his face change.
“Oh,” you said softly, “There’s the captain.”
His eyes opened slowly, “You’re getting really attached to that joke.”
“You keep proving it funny.”
He sat up with a quickness that made you gasp, one arm banding around your back, the other hand catching your jaw as he kissed you. A bite of a kiss, all teeth and pressure, his hand sliding into your hair and tightening just enough to tilt your head back when your mouth tried to outpace his.
You ground down again.
Garrett cursed into your mouth.
“Not so chatty now,” you whispered.
His hand slid from your hip to your ass, gripping hard, dragging you against him in a slow, dirty roll that made the seam of your leggings press exactly where it shouldn’t. Your words dissolved into a breath before you could stop them. Garrett felt it and did it again, rougher, his own hips lifting to meet you.
“Careful,” he murmured, lips moving along your jaw, “You almost sounded like you wanted something.”
“I want you to develop a personality.”
“I have one. You hate it.”
“I hate many things.”
“Still in my lap.”
You bit his neck.
He made a sound that went straight through you.
“Jesus.” His hand tightened in your hair, “You always use your mouth as a weapon?”
“Only when men deserve it.”
“And do I?”
“You’re here, aren’t you?”
Garrett laughed once, rough and breathless, then flipped you.
The motion knocked the air from your lungs. One second you were above him; the next, your back was against his mattress, his body between your thighs, your hands pinned loosely above your head by one of his.
Your heart slammed.
Garrett went still for half a second, “Okay?”
The question, quiet and rough, should not have turned you on as much as it did.
You lifted your chin, “You stopped to ask me that?”
His smile came back slowly, “Answer me.”
You pulled once against his grip.
He did not let go.
Your body betrayed you with a shiver making Garrett’s eyes darkened.
“Yes,” you said, “Obviously.”
“Obviously,” he repeated, like he hated you a little.
Then he kissed you down into the mattress.
It should have stayed rough. You wanted it rough. Rough was easier to file away. Rough meant no one had to talk about the photos on his wall or the way his sheets smelled like detergent and him, or the fact that his thumb stroked once over the inside of your wrist before he released your hands.
But Garrett had time here.
That was the problem.
No rink session. No coach. No watch beeping against your wrist, telling you to get up, get dressed, get back to being the person you knew how to be. In his room, he could take your long sleeve off slowly enough that your annoyance started to curdle into something else. He could kiss the bare skin under your collarbone and feel your breath stutter. He could hook his fingers into your waistband and pull your sleep boxers down with a kind of concentrated patience that made you want to kick him.
You did, lightly, catching his hip with your heel.
He looked up from where he had been kissing down your stomach, “Problem?”
“You’re slow.”
“You came here.”
“You texted.”
“You only have three lines?”
His mouth curved against the skin above your hip, “They keep working.”
You started to sit up.
Garrett’s palm flattened over your stomach, pushing you back down. Heat shot through you so fast you hated him for it.
His eyes flicked to yours, “Still okay?”
“Ask me that again and I’m leaving.”
“No, you’re not.”
You glared.
He pressed one kiss to the soft skin beneath your navel, low enough that your stomach tightened, “You’re going to stay,” he said, “because you want to see if I’m better with my mouth than I am with my words.”
“You set the bar in hell.”
“Then I’ll exceed expectations.”
He dragged your leggings down your thighs, then your underwear, not with the frantic impatience you expected from him, but slowly, hands smoothing along the backs of your legs, thumbs pressing into muscle like he was taking inventory. You hated how good his hands felt. Hated the way your body sank into the mattress under the heat of them, the way your hip forgot to ache for half a second when his palm curved over it, steady and warm.
“Don’t look at me like that,” you said.
Garrett glanced up from between your thighs, “Like what?”
“Like you’re thinking.”
His mouth twitched, “I know that’s new for you.”
Relief hit so sharply you almost laughed.
There he was.
Thank God.
You shoved at his shoulder with your knee, “Fuck you.”
“That the plan?” he asked, then lowered his mouth before you could answer.
Your head tipped back against the pillow.
He was smug about it. You could feel it in every touch. In the press of his mouth, in the way his fingers dug into your thighs when you tried to close them, in the little laugh he gave when your hand shot into his hair and gripped hard enough that he hissed against you.
But he was also good.
Good in the worst possible way - observant, adaptive, listening to every shift of your hips, every breath you tried to trap behind your teeth, every moment your body lost the argument before your mouth did.
“Garrett,” you snapped, though it came out embarrassingly close to a gasp.
His eyes lifted. You saw the victory on his face and almost sat up out of spite.
He caught your hip with one hand, pressing you down, “What?”
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t look at me.”
“Then stop making it interesting.”
“You are insufferable.”
His tongue moved in answer.
Your insult became a broken sound.
His hand slid up your stomach, palm flattening over your ribs, holding you down more through pressure than force. You grabbed his wrist, meaning to push him away, but your fingers only wrapped around him while your hips lifted into his mouth. The room was too quiet. Too private. Every sound felt magnified- your breath, his, the wet heat of his mouth, the sheets twisting under your heels, the low groan he made when your thighs tightened around his head.
“Quiet,” you whispered, though you had no idea whether you meant him or yourself.
Garrett laughed against you.
You nearly cursed loud enough for the entire house to hear, “Graham,” you warned.
He stopped. The loss of his mouth was so offensive you almost yanked him back by the hair.
He looked up, lips shiny, eyes dark, “You say my name like you’re mad at it.”
“I am.”
“You always this angry when someone makes you feel good?”
“Yes.”
“Liar.”
He slid two fingers into you while he said it.
Your back arched off the bed.
Garrett’s hand on your ribs shifted, holding you through the movement as his fingers curled. Your eyes shut, and this time he let them. He kissed the inside of your thigh, softer than anything else he had done, and you hated it so much you could have cried from frustration if your body had not been busy trying to melt around his hand.
“You’re doing it again,” he murmured.
You could barely breathe, “Doing what?”
“Trying not to make noise.”
“I’m considerate.”
“You’re stubborn.”
“You’re annoying.”
“You’re wet.”
Your eyes snapped open. Garrett smiled like he had won the lottery and planned to be awful with the money.
“I hate you,” you said.
“I know.”
Then his mouth was back on you and his fingers were still inside you and you were suddenly not nearly as invested in the argument as you had planned to be.
You came with one hand in his hair and the other twisted in his sheet, jaw clenched hard enough to ache, entire body locking around the rush of it. Garrett worked you through it like he had a point to prove, and by the time the pleasure finally released you, your legs felt boneless and your lungs seemed to have forgotten the order of operations.
He crawled back up your body with an expression you did not care for at all.
You grabbed his face before he could speak and kissed him.
He groaned when your tongue slid against his, tasting yourself on him, and the sound turned something inside you vicious again. Good. Better. You needed vicious. You could work with that.
You pushed at his chest until he rolled onto his back, and this time he let you.
“Generous,” he said, breathless.
“Temporary.”
You straddled his thighs, hands already at his waistband. Garrett watched you with heavy-lidded focus, one arm thrown above his head, the other hand resting on your thigh like he physically could not stop touching you. His thumb moved back and forth against your skin, slow and absent.
The softness of it annoyed you.
So you tugged his sweatpants down. His hand stopped moving.
Your smile came back, “There he is.”
Garrett exhaled sharply, head tipping back when your fingers wrapped around him, “You’re going to run that into the ground.”
“You’re the one making it relevant.”
He tried to laugh, but your hand moved and the sound fell apart.
That, you liked. A lot.
You liked the way Garrett looked with his mouth parted and his throat exposed, his arrogance knocked sideways but not gone, never gone, because even half-ruined he still watched you like he intended to win eventually. You liked the weight of him in your palm, the heat, the way his hips tried to move and then stopped because he was forcing himself to let you set the pace. You liked that when you leaned down and pressed your mouth to the corner of his jaw, his hand flew to your waist like he needed somewhere to put all that control.
“Not so loud, Graham,” you murmured.
His laugh sounded punched out, “You’re unbearable.”
“You invited me.”
“You begged.”
He lifted his head enough to glare.
You dragged your thumb over the tip of him.
His glare vanished.
“Oh, that’s interesting,” you said.
Garrett’s grip on your waist tightened, “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Talk like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you found a weakness.”
Your smile widened, “Did I?”
Garrett sat up so fast you barely had time to react, hand catching the back of your neck and pulling you into a kiss that was all heat and teeth and bruised pride. Your hand stayed between your bodies, still moving, and you felt the moment his concentration fractured. His mouth stuttered against yours. His fingers dug into your waist. His hips lifted once into your touch.
You laughed softly.
Garrett bit your lower lip, “Careful,” he said.
“Threatening me from underneath me?”
“Warning you.”
“About what?”
He looked at you, eyes dark and mouth flushed, “Payback.”
The word landed low in your stomach.
You hated that you were looking forward to it.
By the time he came, you had your mouth near his ear and your hand working him through the last of it, murmuring things you refused to remember in the morning. Garrett broke beautifully. That was the only word for it. Head falling back, jaw slack, your name slipping out of him once in a rough, unguarded sound that made your hand falter.
Only for a second.
But he noticed. Afterward, you both lay there breathing too hard.
The room was warm. His sheets were tangled under your thighs. Your shirt was somewhere on the floor with your shorts, and Garrett’s hand was still resting against your bare waist like he had forgotten to remove it.
For a minute, neither of you spoke.
Then he said, “Stay.”
You froze.
One word.
That was all it took to ruin the room.
You sat up immediately, reaching for your clothes, “Absolutely not.”
Garrett’s hand fell away, “It’s two in the morning.”
“Then I’m already behind schedule.”
“You have ice in ten hours.” His eyebrows had furrowed and you despised the guilt that burned in your throat.
“Now its...” you checked your watch, platinum glinting in the sliver of moonlight that shot through the gaps in his curtains, “8 hours”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know.”
The words came out too sharp.
Garrett’s jaw tightened.
You dragged your shirt on, ignoring the way your body still felt soft and used and warm, ignoring the way his bed looked too easy to crawl back into. Ignoring, most of all, the fact that he had not sounded smug when he said stay.
He had sounded like he meant it.
You stood.
Garrett watched from the bed, hair destroyed, mouth red, expression turning colder by the second, “You always run this fast?”
You smiled because it was easier than whatever else was trying to happen, “From you?”
His face closed.
Good.
Please.
“You’re not that memorable,” you said.
Lie.
Large lie.
Ridiculous lie.
He laughed once, flat and ugly, “Sure, princess.”
There it was.
The word back in its old shape.
You grabbed your coat.
At the door, his voice caught you again, “Text me when you get back.”
You looked over your shoulder, “So you can track whether your hookup made it home alive?”
“So I know you did.”
There it was again.
Humanity. Ruining everything.
You opened the door, “I’m blocking you.”
“You won’t.”
You left.
You did not text him when you got back.
You made it eleven minutes.
Then your phone lit up.
CONCUSSION WITH LEGSif you’re dead I’m keeping your scarf
You stared at it from your bed, makeup half removed, hair a disaster around your face.
YOU
vultures have more class.
His reply came immediately.
CONCUSSION WITH LEGSthere she is
You did not smile.
Absolutely not. You threw your phone onto the pillow and stared at the ceiling until the room stopped feeling like his hands.
By Friday, you were both unbearable.
The rink had started to organise itself around you with military precision. The figure skating girls whispered when Garrett passed. The hockey boys went abruptly silent whenever you entered. The assistant rink manager, a tired grad student named Miles who had once watched you tell Garrett that his skating stride looked like “a lawsuit waiting to happen,” began muttering prayers under his breath whenever the schedule overlapped.
Publicly, Garrett was still your least favourite person.
Privately, he had learned the exact pressure of his thumb against your hip that made your mouth go useless. You had learned that if you kissed the underside of his jaw while your hand was in his hair, he forgot whatever insult he had been about to make. He had learned that you hated being told what to do unless his voice was low and close enough to feel. You had learned that he became dangerously quiet when he was close, like even his arrogance needed a second to kneel.
None of this made you like him.
Liking was too soft a word for the way he had invaded the margins of your life.
You wanted him with the same viciousness that made you repeat a jump until your legs shook. You wanted him resentfully, inconveniently, in fragments of the day where you were supposed to be thinking about competition entries and strength training and whether your right hip was going to become a real problem if you did not start behaving like someone who cared about having a long career.
You wanted him most when he made you angry.
Which was unfortunate, because Garrett Graham seemed determined to make you angry as often as possible.
It happened again before your late afternoon session.
You were early. He was late leaving practice. A predictable disaster.
The team was coming off the ice in a sweaty, loud stream while you waited near the boards, arms folded, dressed for practice with your jacket zipped and your skates unlaced but ready. Garrett was the last one off, still arguing lightly with Coach Jensen about a play, helmet pushed back, hair damp, cheeks flushed. He looked alive in a way that irritated you. Hockey made him brighter. It brought out every awful, competitive, magnetic thing about him and arranged it on his face like proof.
He caught you watching.
His smile started, unfortunately, you looked away too late.
“Princess,” he called.
You kept your voice flat, “Graham.”
“Miss me?”
“Like a stress fracture.”
“Ouch.”
“One can hope.”
He stepped off the ice, removed his helmet, and came closer. Too close, given the number of people around. You could feel the team slowing behind him, watching with the cautious interest of men who had learned to fear shrapnel but still loved explosions.
Garrett lowered his voice, “You free later?”
You stared at him. He had the audacity to look innocent.
You looked past him at the team, then back at him, “Are you asking me that here because your brain fell out during practice, or was that earlier?”
His mouth twitched, “So that’s a yes.”
“That’s a restraining order.”
“Sounds intimate.”
“Sounds legally enforceable.”
Dean groaned behind him, “God, it’s like watching two porcupines flirt.”
You turned your head slowly.
Dean physically hid behind Tucker.
Garrett glanced back, “You people are cowards.”
Tucker pointed at you, “She threatened to castrate you with a skate guard.”
“And yet I’m still here.”
“Yeah,” Logan muttered, “That’s what worries us.”
Your eyes returned to Garrett, “Some of us have actual work to do.”
“Right,” he said, “The sacred art of spinning in circles.”
“The sacred art of not being dragged around on knives by gravity and poor impulse control.”
“You think about me on knives?”
“I think about you near medical bills.”
His grin widened.
You hated him. You hated him so much you let him corner you in the storage corridor eight minutes later.
“Absolutely not,” you said as his mouth found the side of your neck.
“You followed me.”
“You walked in front of me suspiciously.”
“You said, and I quote, move, you oversized traffic cone, and came this way.”
“Exactly. Suspiciously.”
He laughed against your skin, and you had to bite your lower lip so you did not react. Your session started in nine minutes. Nine. You had warm-up to consider. You had a coach who would notice if your mouth looked ruined. You had common sense somewhere, presumably, though it had not checked in recently.
Garrett’s hands slid to your waist.
You shoved his chest, “No.”
He stopped immediately.
That, annoyingly, made you want him more.
His eyes searched yours, “No?”
“No mouth on my neck. I have practice.”
The corner of his mouth lifted, “Specific.”
“Necessary.”
“So where can I put my mouth?”
Your pulse jumped. You hated him.
You looked at your watch, “Seven minutes.”
His expression changed.
There was a particular look Garrett got when presented with a challenge. You had seen it on the ice. At the boards. Across hallways. Under you in his bed. It was focus and arrogance and hunger braided together, bright enough to be dangerous.
“Seven?” he asked.
“Now six.”
He dropped to his knees.
You grabbed his shoulder, “You are such a cliché.”
He looked up, smiling, hands already at your thighs, “And yet.”
“And yet what?”
“You’re still here.”
You were. You stayed with one hand braced on the metal shelving, the other tangled in his hair, biting the inside of your cheek so hard you almost tasted blood while Garrett ruined your life with the kind of efficiency that made your time limit feel like encouragement rather than deterrent. He knew better now. Knew where you were sensitive, knew when to slow down just to make you hate him, knew that if he looked up at you at the wrong moment, you had to turn your face away because something in his attention made the whole thing feel too exposed.
You hated that he knew.
You hated that he learned.
His hands gripped your thighs hard enough to shift you higher against the shelf, one thumb dragging under the edge of your practice skirt, the other pressing into the muscle above your knee like he could keep your whole body exactly where he wanted it. The metal rack bit cold through the thin fabric at your back. His mouth was hot everywhere else. Too hot. Messy in a way he usually wasn’t, lips dragging against you, his breath harsh each time your fingers tightened in his hair.
“Quiet,” he said against you.
“You’re the one talking.”
His laugh vibrated through you.
Your knees nearly went, instinctively you slapped your free hand over your mouth.
Garrett looked up immediately, eyes bright, “Oh, that’s cute.”
You glared over your fingers, “I’m going to kill you.”
“After?”
“During.”
He kissed your inner thigh, slow and deliberate, never exactly where you wanted, close enough to make your hips twitch, “Liar,” he murmured.
Your watch beeped.
You looked down at it, frantic, “Five minutes.”
Garrett’s grip tightened, “Plenty.”
“It is not plenty.”
“For me?” He smiled against your skin, “It is.”
You would have insulted him if his mouth had not moved exactly then.
Your head hit the shelf.
He did not give you time to recover. His mouth worked you like he had a vendetta against your punctuality, his hands dragging your hips closer each time you tried to squirm away from the intensity. You felt obscene. Exposed. Ridiculous. One hand clamped over your own mouth, the other in his hair, jacket half-unzipped, practice skirt shoved up around his wrists while he knelt on the rubber floor in front of you like winning this particular fight required devotion.
“Garrett,” you hissed into your palm.
His eyes lifted.
That was the first mistake.
The second was saying his name at all.
He stilled just enough for you both to hear it echo.
Not Graham.
Not brute.
Not you absolute nightmare.
Garrett.
His fingers flexed against your thighs.
You pulled his hair in warning, “Don’t.”
His voice was rough when he answered, “Don’t what?”
“Make a thing of it.”
For a second, his face did something strange.
Then he smiled, but it was different. Meaner because it had to be, “Wouldn’t dream of it, princess.”
You hated the relief.
You hated that the word helped.
Then his mouth was on you again, and there was no space left for thinking.
You came with your teeth pressed into the heel of your palm, your hips rocking into his grip despite every remaining scrap of dignity trying to evacuate your body. Garrett held you through the tremor, mouth still working slow enough to make you bite back a whine. By the time he stood, your legs felt unreliable and your face was hot with the effort of pretending otherwise.
He looked far too pleased with himself, hair destroyed by your hands, mouth flushed, eyes bright with that terrible winner’s glow.
You shoved at his chest.
He stepped back, laughing under his breath.
“I have three minutes,” you snapped, fixing your skirt with hands that were not entirely steady.
“Need help?”
“I need bleach.”
“For your personality?”
“For the memory of this room.”
“You came here.”
“You texted.”
His eyes dropped deliberately. You followed his gaze.
The front of his sweatpants did absolutely nothing to hide what he wanted.
Oh.
You looked back up slowly, “Oh,” you said, soft and cruel. “Poor thing.”
His jaw flexed, “Don’t start something you don’t have time to finish.”
You stepped closer, your fingers sliding over his waistband, “I always finish.”
His breath caught.
Good.
You pushed him back until he hit the metal shelving with a dull clang, and for once Garrett Graham did not make a single clever comment. He only watched you sink to your knees with the kind of stunned, dark focus that made the whole room feel smaller.
You looked up at him, “Quiet,” you said.
His throat moved.
Then he smiled, wrecked already, “Yes, ma’am.”
You should not have liked that.
You did.
You had three minutes and absolutely no intention of letting him forget a single second of them. Your fingers tugged his waistband low, just enough, because neither of you had the time or sanity for anything else. Garrett’s hand braced on the shelf above him, his other hand hovering near your face like he did not know whether he was allowed to touch you here.
You caught his wrist and put it in your hair.
His fingers tightened instantly.
The first sound he made was too loud.
You pulled back and looked up at him.
Garrett swallowed, “Right. Quiet.”
“Use your captain voice on yourself.”
He huffed a broken laugh, “Fuck you.”
“Not today.”
Then you took him in your mouth and watched his entire personality leave his body.
There was power in it, which you liked. Probably too much. The way his head tipped back, the way his arm flexed above him, biceps straining against the sleeve of his hoodie as his hand tightened on the shelving hard enough to make it creak. The way he tried to keep his hips still and mostly failed. The way his mouth parted, curses trapped behind his teeth because you had told him to be quiet and Garrett Graham, apparently, had a competitive enough streak to treat even that as a challenge.
You moved fast because you meant what you said.
Punctuality was not optional.
Generosity, however, could be efficient.
Garrett’s hand in your hair shook. His fingers were firm, curled near your scalp, careful even when his breathing started to fall apart. It was the restraint that got under your skin. The way he held on without forcing, the way he let you set the pace even though every line of his body looked like control was costing him actual money.
You pulled back once, just enough to breathe.“Still hate me?” you murmured.
His laugh came out shattered, “So much.”
“Good.”
You finished him with the same vicious focus you brought to competition. Fast, clean, precise enough that when he finally broke, he did it with his head tipped back against the shelving and your name caught low in his throat like he had not meant to give you anything that real.
The sound of it hit you somewhere dangerous.
So you did not let yourself think about it. You swallowed, wiped the corner of your mouth with your thumb, and stood.
Garrett stared at you, for once, he had nothing to say.
That almost made the whole terrible idea worth it.
You checked your watch, “Forty seconds,” you said.
He blinked, still dazed.
Then, because he was still Garrett Graham even after having his entire personality temporarily rearranged, he laughed.
“You’re insane.”
“You texted me.”
“You keep saying that like you didn’t sprint here.”
“I walk fast.”
“Sure, princess.”
You stepped in close enough that he shut up.
His mouth was still red. His eyes were still blown dark. Your body still felt loose and hot and stupidly alive. You kissed him once, quick and hard, enough to taste yourself on him and make him follow your mouth when you pulled away.
Then you smiled, “Fix yourself before you traumatise a freshman.”
You left him there.
At your session, you landed everything.
You refused to examine why.
After that, it became a habit.
Not a relationship.
Never that.
Not even an arrangement, because arrangements required acknowledgement and neither of you was interested in naming something that had teeth. It was not dating. It was not seeing each other. It was not any phrase that could be spoken aloud in the presence of rational people.
It was simply this- Garrett Graham kept appearing where he should not be. You kept failing to leave.
In public, nothing changed.
If anything, you got worse.
At the rink, you still insulted him so sharply that his teammates started physically leaving rooms whenever both of you entered them. He still called you princess like he had invented the word to damage your blood pressure. You still told him to eat shit with enough calm that one of the assistant coaches once dropped his clipboard. He still smiled like every insult was a hand on his throat.
The team, collectively, lost their minds.
“You know,” Dean said one afternoon, standing behind Garrett near the vending machine while you tightened your laces on the bench, “I used to think sexual tension was fun.”
You did not look up, “You also think jorts are acceptable in public.”
Dean looked down at his shorts, offended, “These are practical.”
“They are birth control.”
Logan made a sound that could only be described as internal collapse.
Garrett leaned against the vending machine beside Dean, arms folded, watching you with that familiar little edge at his mouth, “You spend a lot of time thinking about Dean’s sex life?”
“I spend as little time as biologically possible thinking about all of yours.”
“That why you’re blushing?”
You looked up.
You were not blushing. You refused to be blushing.
“Heat response,” you said, “The body reacts poorly to contaminants.”
Dean’s gaze bounced between you and Garrett, then narrowed.
“Oh my God,” he said slowly.
Garrett did not look at him, ”No.”
“You-”
“No.”
“You two have either finally murdered each other or-”
Garrett turned his head, “Finish that sentence and I’ll make you skate suicides until you see your ancestors.”
Dean’s mouth snapped shut.
You smiled down at your laces.
Tucker, passing with a protein shake, muttered, “I’m too pretty to die in whatever this is.”
You still hated Garrett in hallways.
You simply also let him put his mouth on you in locked rooms.
Tuesday night was his dorm again.
CONCUSSION WITH LEGS
still hate me?
You stared at it for nearly a full minute.
YOU
more every day.
CONCUSSION WITH LEGS
prove it.
Arrogant.
Unbearable.
Predictable.
You changed your bra before you left. You hated yourself for that.
Garrett opened the door with a grin already on his face, like he knew. Like he could see the lace through your sweater by sheer audacity.
“Really?” he said.
You stepped inside and shoved him back by the chest before he could say anything else, “You sent prove it like a man who’s never experienced consequences.”
His hands landed at your waist automatically, big and warm through your sweater, “And here you are. Consequence-shaped.”
“I’m here to humble you.”
“Yeah?” His eyes dropped to your mouth, “Been waiting for that.”
You kissed him before he could smile.
Garrett’s hands tightened, dragging you further into the room while his foot kicked the door shut behind you. The room spun in fragments - desk, bed, the soft glow of his lamp, the dark shape of his hockey bag near the closet - then his mouth was on yours and his hands were pushing your coat off your shoulders, and everything else blurred into heat.
You shoved his zip-up off. He tugged your sweater up. You both got stuck for one humiliating second with your elbow caught in the sleeve and your mouth still trying to stay attached to his, which made Garrett laugh and you bite his lip hard enough that his laugh turned into a curse.
“You are so fucking mean,” he muttered.
“You invited me.”
“You begged.”
“You changed clothes.”
Your whole body went still. Garrett’s grin was immediate.
You narrowed your eyes, “Careful.”
His gaze dropped to the bra he had only half-exposed by pushing your sweater up, the lace visible under the fabric, your skin warming beneath the weight of his attention.
“Oh, princess,” he said, voice going lower,“You did.”
“I own clothes.”
“You chose those.”
“You’re delusional.”
“You wanted me to see.”
You grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him close, “I wanted you to shut up.”
His mouth brushed yours, “Then make me.”
You did.
For a while, that was all the room was, your mouth on his, his hands dragging your sweater over your head properly this time, the fabric hitting the floor somewhere near his desk while Garrett made a sound through his teeth at the sight of you.
“Jesus.”
You smiled despite yourself, “Tragic. I was hoping for literacy.”
His hand slid around your back, fingers finding the clasp with disgusting competence,“I can multitask.”
“You can barely speak.”
“Your fault.”
“Take accountability.”
Garrett’s lips moved down your throat, “Make me.”
There it was again.
The stupid phrase.
The one that had become less of a dare and more of a door.
You pushed him toward the bed.
He sat when the backs of his knees hit the mattress, looking up at you with flushed cheeks and hungry eyes, his hands closing around the backs of your thighs as you stepped between his knees. His palms dragged slowly up, lifting the hem of your little shorts with them, fingers pressing into the skin beneath like he liked the proof that you were solid.
“Who would’ve thought?” you murmured, tracing your thumb over his lower lip, “Garrett Graham, quiet for once.”
His teeth caught your thumb lightly.
Your stomach flipped.
“I’m thinking.”
“Dangerous.”
“About how many times you pretended to hate me while wearing this under your clothes.”
You huffed a laugh against his mouth as his hands moved higher, “Who says I’m pretending?”
“I do.” His thumbs dipped under your shorts and hooked into the waistband of your underwear, tugging the lace slightly higher, pressing it against you just enough to make your grip tighten in his hair, “Because your body keeps snitching.”
You tried to maintain your composure.
It was difficult with his hands under your shorts and his mouth hovering at your stomach, lips brushing the soft skin above your waistband while he looked up at you from beneath his lashes like he knew exactly how annoying he was.
“You’re enjoying this way too much,” you said.
“Been enjoying myself all fuckin’ week.” His fingers tightened on the lace, “Can you blame me?”
“Yes.”
His mouth pressed over your hip through the thin fabric, and your breath caught despite every effort to strangle it. Garrett smiled against you.
You pushed at his shoulder, “Don’t look smug when you’re literally sitting below me.”
He tilted his head back, eyes bright, “You like me below you?”
The words hit.
You hated that they did.
You sank one hand into his hair and pulled, “I like you quiet.”
His eyes darkened, “Then use my mouth.”
The room went hot.
For one second, neither of you moved.
Then you shoved him backward onto the bed and crawled over him, and Garrett laughed like you had made his entire night before your mouth met his again and shut him up properly. The kiss was filthy from the start, no warm-up, no careful descent, tongues and teeth and hands that could not decide whether they wanted to grip or shove or hold. Your shorts stayed bunched together. His hand slid, palm hot over your ass, dragging you down against him until you felt exactly how much he had been enjoying himself.
You ground down once.
Garrett’s head tipped back.
“Fuck,” he breathed.
“Oh,” you whispered, “So there is a mute button.”
His eyes snapped open. You smiled.
Then his hand slid sharply between your thighs.
Your smile vanished.
“Interesting,” he said.
“Don’t.”
“What? Point out that you’re soaked?”
You slapped a hand over his mouth.
Garrett’s eyes lit up. The bastard looked delighted.
His fingers moved beneath you, knuckles dragging against the damp fabric of your underwear, pressing exactly where the lace had already been pulled tight. Your hips twitched against his hand. You hated that you were straddling him because it meant he felt it happen. Felt the tiny involuntary movement, the heat, the way your thighs tensed around his hips.
His tongue touched your palm.
You yanked your hand away, “Are you twelve?”
He grinned, “You put it there.”
“You’re disgusting.”
“You’re wet.”
“You’re annoying.”
“You’re grinding on my hand.”
You looked down.
Horrifying.
You stopped immediately.
Garrett laughed and sat up, arm wrapping around your back to keep you in his lap. His mouth found your neck, kissing just under your jaw, careful not to mark because you had already threatened his life about it, but not careful enough to be merciful. His fingers slipped past the lace at last, and the first direct touch made you gasp against his hair.
“There she is,” he murmured.
“I hate that.”
“You hate a lot of things.”
“You’re top of the list.”
“Flattered.”
His fingers circled slowly, learning nothing because he had already learned too much, and you dropped your forehead against his shoulder with a sound that should have been swallowed more successfully. Garrett’s other hand moved up your back, fingers spreading between your shoulder blades, holding you to him while he touched you with that unbearable mix of patience and arrogance.
You reached between you, because if he was going to make you fall apart on his lap, he was not doing it alone. Garrett’s breath caught when your hand slid over him through his sweatpants.
The sound felt better than it should have.
You smiled against his neck, “Careful. You almost sounded like you wanted something.”
His fingers pressed harder and your smile snapped apart.
“I do,” he said, voice rough.
Your hand stilled for half a second.
His head lifted, making the room shift into something too sincere, too dangerous for the fact your heart was beating against your chest hard enough for you to hear it in your ears.
You shoved him back against the pillows and tugged at his waistband, “Then be useful.”
Something in his face closed and opened again, so fast you might have missed it if you were not already watching him too closely.
Then he smiled, “Bossy.”
“Observant.”
He lifted his hips to help you pull his sweatpants down, and the shift made his fingers drag inside you, sudden and precise, enough to make your hand fly out to brace against his chest.
“Garrett.”
His name left your mouth before you could stop it.
He went very still. So did you.
For a second, the only sound in the room was both of you breathing.
His eyes moved over your face, “Say it again,” he said.
You swallowed, “No.”
His smile was slow and dark, “No?”
“I said no, Graham.”
His fingers started moving again.
Your nails dug into his chest.
“Say it again,” he repeated, softer this time, which was worse.
You leaned down and kissed him instead, because kissing him was easier than giving him things. Your hand wrapped around him properly, and Garrett’s demand dissolved into a groan against your mouth. Good. Better. That you could handle. His fingers moved inside you while your hand worked him in the tight space between your bodies, and the whole thing became desperate too quickly, both of you half-dressed and pressed together on his bed, your shorts wrung into one tightly around your hips, his sweatpants barely low enough, his free hand gripping your waist hard enough to steady you as you rocked into his touch.
“You’re shaking,” he breathed.
“From rage.”
He laughed, but it broke when your thumb moved over him, “Still?”
“Always.”
“Good.”
He kissed you harder, fingers curling, palm grinding against your clit with each push until the room thinned down to the rhythm of your hand and his, your bodies moving like an argument both of you kept losing. He dragged his mouth down to your chest, kissing over the lace still covering you, teeth catching lightly over one nipple through the fabric. Your grip tightened around him.
“Fuck,” he groaned.
“You’re loud.”
“You’re impossible.”
“You invited me.”
“You begged.”
You both said it at the same time.
Then both stopped. Garrett laughed, breathless and stunned, and you hated that your mouth curved against his before you could stop it.
That was the problem, really. Not the sex. Not the hatred. Not even the fact that he touched you like he was actively trying to win a war. The problem was that he could make you almost laugh while doing it.
Absolutely unacceptable.
You tightened your hand, and Garrett’s laugh snapped into a curse.
Much better.
By the time you came, your face was buried in his neck and Garrett’s hand was firm between your shoulder blades, holding you there like he could keep the sound of you close to his skin. He followed a minute later, hips lifting into your palm, his hand tightening on your waist as he murmured your name like a secret he did not mean to tell.
Afterward, you stayed in his lap for exactly three seconds too long.
Then you moved. Garrett let you.
You fixed your underwear. He fixed his sweatpants. You found your sweater on the floor. He sat on the bed with his elbows on his knees, hair wrecked, eyes on you.
“You’re leaving,” he said.
“Observation skills. Very good.”
“It wasn’t a question.”
“Then stop using question tone.”
His mouth twitched, but it did not become a smile, “You could stay.”
There it was again.
The word.
Stay.
You pulled your sweater over your head, “You could learn to count. We’re all full of potential.”
Garrett looked down, laughing once without humour.
You hated that.
You hated that the sound made something in your stomach twist, because you had done it on purpose. You had made the softness go away and then disliked the absence.
A deeply inconvenient development.
“Text me when you’re back,” he said.
“Stop saying that.”
“Stop making me need to.”
Your throat tightened, and to ignore it- you grabbed your coat, “Goodnight, Graham.”
“Goodnight, princess.”
It sounded mean again.
You told yourself that was better.
The first time you had sex with him, properly, you almost convinced yourself it would fix things.
That was stupid.
Sex almost never fixed anything. You knew that in the same way you knew most obvious truths- theoretically, academically, with the irritated detachment of someone who had not expected to need the information personally.
Sex did not make people less complicated. It did not strip attraction down into something cleaner. It did not turn Garrett Graham back into an irritant you could manage with eye rolls and insults.
If anything, sex made it worse.
He texted you after a game.
Not immediately. Garrett, despite being the most irritating person you had ever met, seemed to understand timing when it came to making you insane. You knew Briar had won because everyone knew when Briar won. The hockey team made joy everyone else’s problem. You had left the rink before the game ended, pretending you had no interest in whether Garrett’s line performed well, then checked the score on your phone three times like a woman suffering an unexplained neurological episode.
At 11:38, your phone lit up.
CONCUSSION WITH LEGS
still hate me?
You stared at the message.
YOU
did you win?
The reply took longer than usual.
CONCUSSION WITH LEGS
you checked.
You considered throwing your phone into traffic.
YOU
I checked whether campus would be unbearable tomorrow.
CONCUSSION WITH LEGS
we won.
YOU
unfortunate.
CONCUSSION WITH LEGS
come say that to my face.
You did.
This time, he was still riding the game.
You could feel it the second he opened his door. There was a different energy in him after winning, something electric and loose under his skin. His hair was damp from the shower, face still flushed, a fading scrape near his jaw, a bruise blooming along one cheekbone like proof that pain looked good on some people in ways nature should have banned.
He looked at you.
You looked at the bruise, “Someone hit you.”
“Astute.”
“Did you deserve it?”
“Probably.”
You stepped closer, eyes still on his face, “Did it hurt?”
His mouth twitched, “You worried?”
“No. I’m curious about whether they did it correctly.”
Garrett’s hand caught your waist and pulled you inside, “You want to check?”
“Do I look like your sports med?”
“You look like trouble.”
“Derivative.”
“Accurate.”
The door shut behind you.
This kiss was different.
Not softer.But faster. Hungrier. Garrett’s win was still in his body, and your irritation at caring about it was still in yours. He kissed you against the door with his hands on your hips, lifting you slightly so you had to go onto your toes, his mouth rough enough to make the bruise on his cheek brush yours. You hissed when your teeth caught his cut lip.
Garrett laughed, “Careful.”
“You’re bleeding.”
“So?”
“So don’t get it on me.”
His smile was sharp, “Worried I’ll leave evidence?”
“I’m worried it’s contagious.”
“Winning?”
“Stupidity.”
He kissed you again before you could say anything else, and this time you tasted blood, faint and metallic, under the heat of him. It should not have made your knees weak. It did.
Garrett’s hands dragged down to your thighs, lifting. You hated that you jumped when he guided you, hated that your legs wrapped around his waist like they had been waiting for instruction. He walked you to the bed without breaking the kiss, your back hitting the mattress with enough force to bounce, his body following yours down, one knee braced between your legs, one hand already pushing your shirt up.
“You’re impossible,” he said against your mouth.
“You invited me.”
“You keep doing that.”
“What?”
“Coming when I ask.”
You dragged your nails down his back hard enough that his hips dropped into yours. He groaned.
“There,” you whispered, “Now we’re both embarrassed.”
Garrett lifted his head, his eyes were dark.
You had exactly one second to enjoy the reaction before he grabbed your wrists and pinned them above your head. Your body went still. His did too. There was the pause again. The check. The question in his eyes before it could become one in his mouth. You pulled once against his grip. He held. Heat went through you so fast your stomach tightened.
“Still okay?” he asked.
You swallowed, “If you say that every time, I’m billing you for emotional labour.”
His mouth twitched, “Answer me.”
“Yes.”
His grip tightened slightly, “Yes what?”
“Yes, I’m okay.”
“Good.”
Then his mouth was back on yours, and the rest of the night lost its edges.
Garrett took your clothes off with none of the rushed desperation from the storage room. That should have made it easier. It did not. He peeled your shirt over your head, kissed the skin it uncovered, dragged your leggings down your legs with his mouth following the path of his hands. When his palm passed over your sore hip, he slowed.
Barely.
But enough that you noticed.
“Don’t,” you said.
His eyes lifted, “I didn’t say anything.”
“You were going to.”
“I was going to be careful.”
“That’s worse.”
Something flickered in his face, then his mouth twisted into the shape you understood, “Right. I’ll be reckless with the injured athlete. Great plan.”
You kicked lightly at his shoulder, “You’re learning.”
“From the best.”
He dragged his mouth up the inside of your thigh before you could decide whether to be offended.
He got you open with his tongue first, because apparently Garrett Graham had decided confidence was not enough and competence was necessary too. He ate you out with the same focused arrogance he brought to a power play- watching, adjusting, learning the quickest route to your surrender and then taking it apart slowly just to prove he could. You tried to hold still. Failed. Tried to stay quiet. Failed worse. His hands held your thighs open, thumbs pressed firm into muscle, and every time you tugged his hair, he groaned against you like it did as much to him as it did to you.
“Garrett,” you gasped.
His eyes lifted.
“No,” you warned, already too close, “Don’t look at me like that.”
He pulled back just enough to speak, mouth wet, voice rough, “Then stop making it hard.”
“Your concentration is lacking.”
He smiled. Then slid two fingers into you and curled them exactly right. Your head dropped back against the pillow.
“Seems fine to me,” he said.
You came on his mouth with a hand clamped over your own lips, hips rocking into his grip, the pleasure hitting so hard it left your body loose and furious beneath him. Garrett did not stop until you pushed at his forehead and called him a narcissistic public health risk.
He laughed into your thigh.
Then crawled back up your body, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, looking at you like he had won something he wanted to keep.
You hated that look. You wanted it closer. So you pulled him down and kissed him.
He tasted like you. Your stomach twisted.
Garrett groaned when your hand slid down his stomach, into the loose waistband of his sweatpants. He was hard, hot, heavy in your palm, and the sound he made when you wrapped your fingers around him was so unguarded that your chest did something you refused to name.
“Still cocky?” you whispered.
His mouth brushed yours, “Always.”
You stroked him once.
His forehead dropped to yours, “Mostly,” he amended.
That almost made you laugh. He caught your wrist before you could make him come like that.
“No.”
“No?”
“If I’m fucking you tonight,” he said, voice low, “I’m not wasting it in your hand.”
The words hit so low you forgot to breathe. His expression shifted, “Unless that’s not what you want.”
You stared at him.
The room was warm. His sheets were tangled under your body. His mouth was red from you, his bruise darkening along his cheekbone, his body above yours and still, somehow, giving you space to back out.
You hated him for being decent. You hated him more for being patient.
“I want it,” you said.
His jaw flexed, “Say it properly.”
You lifted your chin, “I want you to fuck me.”
Garrett’s eyes went dark, “Jesus Christ.”
He moved fast after that. Condom from the drawer. Sweatpants shoved down. Your legs guided around his waist with hands that were firm but not careless. He paused when he lined himself up, eyes returning to yours one last time.
You nearly snapped at him not to ask. He did not, just looked.
You nodded once, and he pushed in slowly. With each inch both of you held more and more of your breath. It was not the first time you had done this. It was not even your first time with him, not really, not after the storage room and his bed and every awful, hungry thing you had already let happen.
But it felt like a line anyway.
The stretch was slow, deep, your body still sensitive from his mouth, your hands digging into his shoulders as he gave you inch after inch until there was nowhere left for either of you to pretend this had not become something with weight.
Garrett’s forehead dropped to yours.
“Fuck,” he whispered.
You closed your eyes.
“No,” he said, voice tight. “Look at me.”
You did. That was another mistake. He looked wrecked. Jaw clenched, cheeks flushed, eyes fixed on yours with a focus so complete it felt like exposure.
“You good?” he asked.
You swallowed, “Yes.”
His hips pulled back. Then rolled forward. Your grip tightened. He did it again, slower, deeper, watching your face like he could read the whole answer there, “Still hate me?” he murmured.
“Yes.”
His mouth curved, “Liar.”
You clenched around him.
His smile vanished, “Oh, fuck,” hips snapping forward harder.
Your breath broke.
The rhythm turned ugly after that. Harder, deeper, the kind that made insults dissolve into breath. He fucked you like he was still riding the game, like every hit he had taken on the ice had become something he needed to put somewhere, like your body was the only place dangerous enough to hold him. You dragged your nails down his back, and he groaned into your mouth, hips driving into yours until the bed knocked softly against the wall.
“Quiet,” he rasped.
“You’re the one-”
Your words collapsed when he thrust deeper, “Yeah,” he said. “That’s what I thought.”
You hated him. You loved it.
No.
No.
You did not think that word. You could not think of that word. In an attempt to smother the mis-step, you grabbed his jaw and kissed him hard enough to make his cut lip split again. Garrett hissed, then laughed, the sound breaking when you tightened your legs around him.
“You like me bleeding?”
“I like you silent.”
“Then you’re doing a terrible job.”
He slid one hand between your bodies, thumb finding your clit with devastating accuracy. Your head fell back. Garrett followed, mouth at your throat, but did not mark you. He remembered. Of course he did. That made you angrier than if he had forgotten.
“Garrett.”
His hips faltered at his name.
You felt it. You heard it too, the rough little sound he made against your skin.
Dangerous.
So you said, “Don’t get sentimental.”
He lifted his head, eyes hard, “Don’t give me anything to be sentimental about.”
“Then stop asking for it.”
“I’m not asking.”
“No?” Your voice shook despite you, “What do you call this?”
He slowed, hips moving deep and steady now, every thrust dragging through you with enough precision to make your thoughts scatter and enough tenderness to make you furious.
“I call this you being scared,” he said.
Your chest tightened.
You hated him.
You hated that he had found the right nerve without even meaning to.
You kissed him so he would stop talking. For once, he let you.
For a few minutes, there was nothing but heat. The slide of skin, the twist of sheets beneath your shoulders, his breath rough in your ear, your fingers in his hair, his hand working between your thighs until your body began tightening around him again.
“You’re close,” he said.
“No.”
“Still a bad liar.”
You dug your nails into his back.
He hissed, then pressed his forehead to yours, “Come for me,” he said, “Come on. I’ve got you.”
That did it.
I’ve got you.
You came with your mouth open against his, body locking around him, pleasure breaking through you in waves so hot and sharp your vision went white at the edges. Garrett groaned, hips losing rhythm as he fucked you through it, his hand leaving your clit to grip your hip like he needed the anchor.
“Fuck,” he gasped, “Fuck, princess-”
You clenched again. His control broke.
He buried himself deep and came with his face pressed into your neck, a rough, almost helpless sound dragged out of him as his body tensed over yours. Afterward, neither of you moved. His weight was over you, carefully held back enough not to crush you. His breath warm against your skin.
Your hand still resting in his hair. His thumb moving once over your hip. Gentle and unthinking. You hated unthinking softness it was harder to defend against.
Garrett lifted his head eventually, eyes softer than they should have been, “You okay?”
You nodded. He did not move away but you should have told him to.
Instead, you said, “Your face is bruised.”
His mouth twitched, “Astute.”
“It’s ugly.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m generous.”
“You checked the score.”
You looked away, his fingers touched your chin, turning you back, “Hey.”
There it was again. Humanity. The thing that ruined everything.
You sat up too fast. Garrett pulled back immediately, giving you room. That somehow made it worse.
“I have to go,” you said.
His face changed. The softness did not vanish this time, it curdled, “You always do.”
You reached for your clothes. “Yes. I’m very busy.”
“At midnight?”
“I have training.”
“You have avoidance issues.”
You stopped with your shirt in your hands. Slowly, you looked at him, “Careful.”
He laughed once, not kindly, “That's your line now?”
“It has always been my line.”
“No,” Garrett said, sitting up, “Your line is leaving before anything can touch you.”
Your face went cold, “There is no anything.”
He watched you, then said, quietly, “Sure.”
“You wanted sex. You got it.”
The second you said it, you knew it landed.
Not visibly, not in any grand way. Garrett did not flinch. He did not raise his voice. He did not give you the satisfaction of a reaction large enough to turn into a fight. He just went very still, and for reasons you did not care to examine, that was worse.
“Yeah,” he said, “I guess I did.”
You should have taken it back. You did not know how.
You put your clothes on in sharp, efficient movements. Garrett stayed on the bed, sheets low around his waist, mouth bruised from yours, eyes unreadable. At the door, you paused, hand on the knob, waiting for him to say something cruel enough to make this easy.
He did not.
So you said it for him, “Don’t text me tomorrow.”
Garrett looked at you from the bed, “Wouldn’t dream of it, princess.”
It hurt, which was infuriating because you had been the one to sharpen it. You left anyway.
That night, you dreamed about landing wrong. The dream was old. Familiar. One you had been having since you were twelve and learned that the body could be both instrument and enemy. In the dream, you were always in the air too long. Too high, too slow, suspended in that impossible second where you knew the rotation had failed but gravity had not punished you yet.
Then the impact came.
You woke before it, heart slamming, sheets twisted around your legs.
The next morning, your phone stayed silent.
So did his.
At the rink, Garrett passed you in the corridor with the team, bag over his shoulder, face unreadable. He did not slow. Did not smile. Did not call you princess. His eyes did not drop to your mouth, your throat, your hip, any of the places he had learned too well.
Nothing.
You had asked for nothing.
He gave it to you. It should have been a relief. Dean, trailing behind him, took one look at your face and physically moved to the other side of Logan.
Coward.
Garrett was almost past when you looked at him and said, “Lose a fight with a dictionary, Graham?”
He stopped.
Slowly, he turned. The whole hallway held its breath. His eyes met yours. For one second, there was nothing public about it. No audience. No joke. No easy heat. Just the two of you standing in the wreckage of a night neither of you wanted to name.
Then his mouth curved, there was no warmth in it.
“Careful,” he said, “You almost sounded like you missed me.”
Something inside you unclenched so violently it almost hurt.
Relief.
God.
You were relieved he was cruel again.
You lifted your chin, “I missed the peace.”
“You texted me at three in the morning.”
“Medical research.”
“On what?”
“How low my standards can go under sleep deprivation.”
His smile sharpened. The team, collectively, began breathing again.
Dean whispered, “Thank God. The divorce was scaring me.”
Garrett did not look away from you, “You busy tonight?”
You should have said yes.
You should have said no.
You should have said literally anything that would have made you sound like someone in control of her own life.
Instead, you smiled, “Depends,” you said. “Are you going to be less boring?”
His eyes dropped to your mouth. “I can try,” he said.
You walked past him, shoulder brushing his arm like the first day in the hallway, like the first contact had started a chain reaction neither of you had been smart enough to stop.
“Try harder,” you said.
And when his phone lit up that night at 12:43 a.m. with a message from you that said rink, no punctuation, no softness, no apology, Garrett Graham smiled at the screen like a man receiving a threat he had every intention of answering.
By the time he arrived, you were already waiting in the darkened corridor behind the storage room, arms folded, hair loose, mouth unsmiling.
He stopped in front of you. Neither of you spoke. You looked at his mouth, he looked at yours.
Then he said, “Still hate me?”
You smiled, “More every day.”
Garrett stepped closer, hands finding your waist like an argument he had memorised, “Good,” he said. And kissed you like he believed you.
SUMMARY: Garrett would be your first… right there, in your teenage bed.
WARNINGS: friends to lovers, fluff, and a slight suggestive touch!
A/N: I just wanted to write a little something about him, and this is what came out! I hope you guys enjoy it! I recommend reading while listening to the 5SOS cover of “Teenage Dream” for a more immersive experience. Kisses, love you! 💋
── .✦ [note: English isn’t my first language, by the way! If anything is wrong, please let me know 🫶]
— My mom is going to ask if you’re my new boyfriend. My dad is going to give you a dirty look, but relax, you’ll win him over in about twenty minutes, tops. And my brother… — Garrett finally looked at you, and you did the same. You were walking side by side until you reached the white door of your house, decorated with a Christmas wreath even though Halloween had been about two weeks ago. Your mom liked to be the first at everything, even when it came to holiday decorations. — My brother’s going to love you, because assholes recognize each other.
Garrett pulled his hands out of his jacket pockets. You tried to hide a smile — you really did — but it was a little hard when you had spent the last three months laughing for no reason with him. A completely friendly relationship, a respectable friendship — one in which you definitely didn’t spend almost every night thinking about ways to touch him, aside from the absentminded taps you’d give him. Because he genuinely made you laugh: a male person who wasn’t a ten-year-old kid making stupid jokes about pee or poop, and who still made you laugh.
Which didn’t seem that hard, considering how easily you laughed at ten-year-old humor, right?
— I’m the star of your dear little brother’s fourteenth birthday, and this is how you treat me?
— Oh, right. Sorry. Do you want me to kiss your feet, wash your hands, something like that?
Garrett smiled, and that was when you were interrupted by the front door opening. Your mom gave a radiant smile — not exactly at you. Your last boyfriend definitely wasn’t as handsome or as confident as Garrett Graham, and she liked that. Not that he was your boyfriend; he was just your friend who made you think about kisses — not exactly on his feet, maybe on his hands, his fingers, his mouth…
— Oh, honey! Your brother is going to freak out! — She hugged you, and you hugged her back. You didn’t even catch your mom’s first interaction with the charmer beside you, because you could only think about him. — Are you two…
— No, Mom. He’s just my friend. — A friend of three months. Had Garrett even slept with anyone in these past three months you’d been spending time together? It had to be a requirement in an athlete’s life, right? Practice here, practice there… oops, roller girl, a threesome, who knows. You didn’t know — he probably did sleep with people. And how did you feel about that? Jealous? Envious?
Maybe more envious than jealous. Garrett wasn’t yours, and you weren’t his. There was no reason to harbor strange feelings like jealousy — jealousy came from possession, and he wasn’t your boyfriend. You wanted to make that very clear, one way or another, that night.
— I can’t believe you actually did something nice for me this year! — your brother, that little boy you saw being born and who had annoyed you your entire life, but whom you loved more than yourself, exclaimed when he saw Garrett. Your mom had invited his school friends over for a video game night because of his birthday, and you decided to give him the best gift of all: the presence of a celebrity, considering his love for hockey. He hugged you, and you hugged him back, flicking his forehead and wondering when your little brother had grown so much.
— Good luck, celebrity. — You gave Garrett a light push, and of course he didn’t move an inch — it didn’t even tickle. But your breath hitched when he touched your back, sliding down to your lower back, too close to you.
— And my fee?
— This is charity, Graham. Do you think I can pay you?
— I think you can… — You focused on one of his curls instead of looking back into his eyes. You thought you might faint, but thankfully your brother’s friends — and your brother himself — dragged him into the living room for a video game match. You stayed there, a little dazed, wondering if what you saw in his eyes for those few seconds had just been in your head.
You went upstairs to your bedroom — abandoned, but clean, much more organized than it had been when you slept there every day. You lay down on the bed, staring at the LED stars on the ceiling glowing just for you. You didn’t bother turning on the light; you just wanted to lie there and think.
What if Garrett wanted you? What if he wanted to sleep with you? What if it was bad? What if it was good? What if he didn’t like it? What if he said you were a bad kisser?
There were so many possibilities that you rolled onto your stomach on the single bed pushed against the wall, pressing your face — makeup and all — into the princess-patterned pillow; the sheets were the same. Liking someone was so stressful. You’d rather not like anyone, but what could you do if your heart skipped a beat every time Garrett sent you a stupid video on Instagram, or called saying he couldn’t sleep and you told him some ridiculous story about yourself? He thought you were funny.
But… was that all? Did he find you attractive? Did he think you were pretty enough?
— Your brother is cooler than you. I’m already following him on Instagram.
You turned slowly when you heard Garrett’s voice. He turned on the light, glanced at your Barbie collection on a high shelf, and at the entire lilac-colored room.
— I thought they’d get upset if I moved them to the attic.
— Toy Story?
— Do you genuinely not think your Max Steel misses you a lot, sitting in some box in the basement?
Garrett smiled and took the liberty of sitting on your bed. You did the same almost immediately, looking at him a little awkwardly.
— It must be hard for him — Garrett started.
You were sitting with your back against the headboard, hugging your knees. He slid his hand up your leg, over your jeans, until it reached your knee — and without meaning to, you held your breath.
— For who?
— For your brother. Having such a hot sister.
— I’m not hot.
— Believe me. You are.
— No, I’m not.
— Yes, you are.
— No, Garrett. I’m not.
— If you weren’t, I don’t think I’d spend every night thinking about you. — He blurted it out, and you frowned in confusion — though you understood immediately, you just hadn’t processed it yet. — Not that… not that I only think about hot girls… I think that came out wrong. Sorry. You put me on edge, make me a little nervous.
You smiled, lightly touching the hand he had on your leg. Garrett smiled too; you looked like two teenagers, which was nice. There, he could just be Garrett, without the weight of being a celebrity — even though he was adored by all the boys downstairs.
And, in a way, by you too.
You kissed him softly, just once, just to test the waters — a chaste peck. But then Garrett pulled you in, intense and experienced. The kiss might have started slow, but it didn’t stay that way — especially because he was already on top of you, on that small teenage bed, rubbing and pressing his large body against yours. And it was delicious, simply delicious, feeling him against your stomach and…
— When was the last time you made out here?
You pretended to think about it, smiling at him. You had been so caught up in the kiss that you only then realized you didn’t need so many doubts — especially when your skin felt warm, your heart raced, and there was that pleasant sensation low in your belly…
— Actually, this is the first time.
— Holy shit.
— I was a very busy and very puritan girl! — You laughed, kissing him again, wrapping one leg around him until your hips met and—oh, God… — Garrett, you can’t get turned on on my teenage bed.
— Yes, I can. And I got even more turned on after finding out I’ll be your first.
— I didn’t say that, idiot. — Garrett held your chin and kissed you slowly, sweetly, his hand slipping under your shirt, touching your skin with his warm palm.
— But I am the first to make out with you on your teenage bed.
