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breaking patterns - garrett graham

pairing: garrett graham x reader

tags: MINORS DNI, exes to lovers, POV third person, no use of y/n for reader-insert, backsliding, smut, unprotected p in v, oral sex (fem receiving), squirting, semi-public sex, angst, jealousy

word count: 7.6k

summary: She and Garrett have been broken up for six months, and try as she might, she can’t seem to orgasm with other guys. So is it still backsliding if she’s really desperate?

notes: cross-posted on ao3; this was getting way too long so i decided to cut it and post the first part now lol. also i feel like i should make a separate garrett masterlist already?? cause i’ve been writing him like crazy lately; title from Audrey Hobert’s “Sue Me” ; banner from @uzmacchiato

The problem with having Garrett Graham as her ex-boyfriend is that she can’t escape him. Not in Briar, at least. Everyone in all her classes talks about him like he’s some kind of collegiate hockey god, especially when he finally got drafted by the Boston Bruins the summer before their junior year. No one else knows how they’ve been bugging him since he was a freshman–the same age his dad went pro. No one else knows how torn up he is between finishing his degree or giving in to the pressure. Or they might. But she would bet anything that no one knew the gritty details in the way she does.

Because she was there massaging his shoulders after every practice; icing his bruises from being slammed against the boards too hard; holding him as he talked through the pros and cons of his decisions; crying with him while he worked through his trauma from his dad.

That’s the most difficult part, she thinks. Knowing every little thing about somebody one second and having to act like they’re a stranger the next. She constantly reminds herself that she’s the one who broke up with him; she had taken the shears to cut their entangled strings clean. That was it. Two years of love and adoration undone by a measly “I can’t do this anymore.”

Now, six months in its wake, she can finally say that she’s okay. Mostly. Sure, some nights, she feels his absence like a limb and it gets so fucking lonely she has to physically stop herself from calling him, but her new routine without Garrett Graham by her side has been partly tolerable. The first few months were the worst. It’s like she sees him in every corner of the campus; some days, even when she stays locked inside her dorm, she hears a laugh in the hallways that sounds too much like him that she has to put on headphones at full blast to distract herself.

And it’s not like she can avoid him forever. Their friend groups overlap. She shares a class with half of his teammates. But the first time she had convinced herself it was fine to go to a party Garrett and his friends are also attending, she’s inside the random frat house for exactly three minutes when she sees him take another girl up the stairs. It’s the first proof that he really isn’t hers anymore. The pain hit her gradually at first, like everything is in slow motion. And then she drops her red cup to the floor and books it out of there, crying all the way back to her place and feeling like she’s taken a knife to the chest. That’s when she promised herself to do what she can to make sure their paths don’t cross again. Garrett’s moving on; she’s allowed to do that too.

So she tries going out. She says yes to every date offer, smiles at guys in bars, even lets some of them take her home. But the other problem with having Garrett Graham as her ex-boyfriend is that he’s ruined her for other men. And, for a reason only god and Garrett can probably answer, she can’t fucking orgasm with other guys.

The first time she hooked up with someone else, a little over two months after they broke up and just three days after seeing him with that other girl at the party, she had brushed it off as a fluke. One night stands were always hit or miss, anyways. So what if she had the worst sex of her life? What did she expect, letting Frank from Econ take her home? And so, a month later, at a frat party her friends dragged her into, she let another random guy go down on her in the upstairs bathroom and–nothing. She doesn’t finish again. She’s frustrated enough that she buys a whole drawer of toys. If other guys can’t do it for her, then she can do it for herself. She’s a strong, independent, modern woman.

But nothing.

Again.

It happens enough times that she has to call it for what it is: her new reality. A reality in which Garrett Graham is no longer hers, and in which orgasms have completely evaded her.

And now it’s six months later, and her friends are bugging her about going to another party. Only–

“You know why I don’t wanna go,” she says, pointedly flipping through another page in her history textbook. Her exam isn’t for another week, but who says she can’t do some advanced studying?

Anna drags the book from her. “Babe. It’s been six months. Why are you still letting him win?”

That makes her glare up at her. “Who said it’s a competition?”

“Everyone,” Dylan says with a laugh. “Break-ups always are. Besides, you’re the one who broke Garrett Graham’s heart. Why do you have to go into hiding?”

“Stop saying his full name like he’s some celebrity. And I’m not going into hiding,” she shakes her head, drumming her hands on the table lightly. “I just don’t feel like seeing my ex-boyfriend on the prowl. Is that so bad?”

They share a look before turning towards her. “Yes!”

She thinks she needs better friends.

“That means he won! You’re the one affected!” Anna says.

Dylan nods in agreement. “Why not turn it around on him? Pull a guy right under his nose at a house party he’s hosting. You’re hot; you can definitely do it.”

She almost spills the truth right there; how she’s given up on casual hook ups because they always end the same way–the other guy panting like a dog and her wishing she was literally anywhere else. Sex isn’t fun anymore. Now she’s just horny and alone with nothing to do about it. But even just thinking about her little (try: huge) sex problem is embarrassing enough; literally no one can know, and it’s with that in mind that she carelessly agrees to go to the hockey house party.

Just because she’s not looking to hook up doesn’t mean she can’t look like she is. And maybe some part of her hopes Garrett sees her from afar, the tight black cut out top that accentuates her breasts, the eye make-up that never fails to make her look sultry, the low-waisted jeans exposing her belly button piercing. Maybe it is a competition. And, she realizes while applying a final coat of her lipstick, she’s tired of losing.

The second the hockey house comes into view, regret pounds in her blood. The porch is too familiar. There’s that wooden bench she once sat on at two in the morning, drunk out of her mind, watching Garrett fumble with the keys. It had taken him a long time to coax her into sitting, his hands warm on her shoulders. When she finally obeyed, he had kissed her forehead for no reason other than because she was right there and he wanted to.

One quick glance at the driveway and she immediately spots Garrett’s jeep parked in its usual spot. The same jeep she had ridden in almost every day once, to class or to the rink or to whatever new coffee shop or restaurant she wanted to try out. She had kept a stock of her chapstick and emergency kit in the glove compartment; a mid-size pouch with her feminine products and a change of clothes. She wonders when he got rid of them. If he ever did.

The lump in her throat intensifies.

Some days, she feels totally okay. Like she’s completely washed him off. During those days, she even lets herself hope a little–that she’d have that kind of love again. That there will be other boys who will make her heart sing just as loud and make her skin vibrate against her bones. Because it can’t be just Garrett. Because if it’s just him then that means she already lost him and she’ll never get that again.

And then there were the bad days; the ones where one glance at a spot they once stood at all pressed together is enough to derail her entire week. That one corner of the library. The parking spot near the social sciences building. The tunnel at the rink. She’d spend hours in bed, locked in her dorm, staring at the ceiling as if the water stains there held the answer on why it still hurts. Why she still feels his absence like a gaping hole in her chest.

She had done the breaking, yes. Nothing new with a little self-harm.

The first thing she registers the second Dylan swings the door open is the pounding music, some techno club hit that works really great for running and other sweaty activities. The living room is packed, several people crowding the air hockey table and squeezing together on the couch. It’s a relief, honestly. The hockey house is more familiar to her when it’s just her and Garrett and his roommates; quiet mornings before they all drag themselves in the backyard for their workouts, warm coffee with her legs tangled with Garrett’s while they wait for Tucker to finish cooking breakfast.

Crowded is good. Crowded won’t make her think about cuddles on the couch and the candid polaroid picture Jules took of her and Garrett in sophomore year that used to be pinned to the fridge.

“All good?” Anna asks.

She smiles, a little too wide to be genuine. “Yeah. Totally. I just need a drink, stat.”

The kitchen is slightly less crowded, but the people occupying the space certainly aren't making things better.

Logan’s the first one who spots her, probably because Tucker is busy leaning over the stove and Dean is preoccupied being Dean (which means he has his tongue stuck down a girl’s throat with no care for an audience). He says her name in shock, looking at her like he’s imagining things other people can’t see. Valid, probably, since the last time he saw her here, she was frantically packing her things while trying not to collapse on her knees, Garrett trailing after her with his hair messed up and his eyes swollen. “You’re here.”

That makes Tucker look up at her. His eyes widens immediately. “Hey!”

“You’re back for real?” It’s Dean this time, pulling away from the girl he’s making out with just long enough to narrow his eyes at her playfully.

“This is an open-invite party, right?” She shrugs, reaching over the sink to get a bottle of beer.

Her eyes flicker to the fridge. Post-it notes. Practice times. Random magnets. Definitely no polaroid pictures. Logan gestures for her drink, holding up a bottle opener. She hands it over absentmindedly.

“Yes,” Logan agrees, though she hears a catch in his voice. “It’s just. You know. You haven’t really been back since–”

“Since you broke our captain’s heart and cost us four consecutive games,” Dean butts in, lips pulled to a smirk.

She knows he means nothing by it, if only for the fact that he actually looks pretty delighted at her being there. For a time, she had tried avoiding Garrett’s friends as well, a combination of thinking they hated her for hurting him and just avoiding Garrett by proximity fueling her decisions. But in the two years that she was with Garrett, Logan and Tucker and even Dean had become her friends, too. Sure, they don’t exactly hang out anymore, but she still thinks of them as such.

“And after this welcome party, I probably won’t be back at all,” she says with a faux grin, taking back her beer from Logan and raising it up. “Cheers, guys.”

She squeezes back to the living room where her friends are already dancing on the makeshift dancefloor. If she’s proud of herself for not asking about Garrett, then that’s between her and the god currently playing with her life.

Dylan cheers once she reaches them, holding her hand up and jumping in place.

She laughs at how ridiculous her friend looks. “How are you halfway drunk already?”

“Talent,” she answers with a bright grin.

Anna tugs the both of them closer by their tops. “Hottie alert. 5 o’clock.”

They all turn in that direction, easily spotting a guy who looks so much like the textbook definition of frat boy it almost makes her laugh. “Cliche.”

“You hets are killing me,” Dylan mutters, taking a swig of her beer. “But since we are trying to find a hook up for you, I guess he isn’t that bad.”

Anna almost jumps in place. “His hair is so tall he’s giving 2012 One Direction a run for their money. And look at his little frat shirt.”

“You’re impossible,” she laughs, but lets her eyes trail over the guy’s figure anyway. He’s cute, she guesses, in that no-strings-fun kind of way. But she’s not really looking to get disappointed tonight.

Anna basically deflates at her lack of interest. “Oh, well. The night is young. Shots?”

“That, I can get behind,” she points, and with that her friends somehow manage to procure a bottle of tequila and tiny red plastic shot glasses.

The pour is messy, dripping over her hand in a way she knows will be annoying later when it dries sticky. But her friends are having fun. The music is loud enough to forget anything she wants to forget. With a reluctant smile, she raises the cup up and downs the shot swiftly.

Her face is still screwed up from the taste when the song abruptly changes.

Heavy 80s electric guitar fills the air. A few people groan at the vibe change. Most are too drunk to care. And she freezes on the spot, one hand still holding onto the empty plastic cup, the back of her head burning.

She doesn’t need to turn around to know who she’s going to see.

It’s not that Garrett Graham is predictable, or that he’s deliberately making an entrance. It’s just that she had spent a good part of two years knowing him like the back of her hand.

“Oh shit,” Dylan almost chokes on her beer, basically confirming her thoughts.

Her shoulders tense and then straighten. Her heart is pounding louder than the classical rock song on the speakers. With a clench of her jaw, she turns around, and there he is.

Garrett Graham.

The love of her life.

The man she left.

The annoying part is that he isn’t even looking at her. Probably has not noticed her yet. And how could he, with over four girls surrounding him, two of whom are holding onto either of his arms like he’s a messiah.

The annoying part is that she expected this. It’s his house, after all.

The annoying part is she’s strung like a bow, the past orgasm-free six months making her feel like her skin is melting off, and the only man she’s sure can solve her problem is looking way too good and forbidden in the low light of the party he’s technically hosting.

He moves his head slightly to the right, and the chain around his neck catches light. That fucking chain.

She takes another swig of her beer.

“You okay?” Anna asks, voice more careful and less on-the-verge-of-drunk this time.

“Fine,” she grits out. “Perfect.”

Garrett says something unintelligible and the girls around him burst in laughter, loud and screechy enough to reach her ears.

“I think we’re gonna need more shots,” Dylan says wryly, already tilting the tequila bottle in her hands.

It’s there, with her hand outstretched while her friend pours liquor into her empty shot glass, that Garrett looks in their direction. Their eyes meet immediately. She’s not even embarrassed about getting caught looking. He’s looking too. His eyes don’t widen. His body doesn’t tense up. From anyone else’s point of view, it’s like he doesn’t react at all.

But like she said. She once knew him like the back of her hand. And people don’t change that drastically in just six months. So she sees the falter; the movement of his Adam's apple; the twitch in his fingers against the beer bottle. She files these observations in the corner of her mind labeled in red capital letters: DO NOT THINK ABOUT HIM, even though she absolutely still does. Because no amount of time or distance will ever erase him from her flesh.

Dylan, because she was there when they broke up and had rubbed her back while she sobbed and had been around her and Garrett more than Anna ever had, clocks the barely-interaction with a grimace. “Yep. Definitely need more shots.”

She’s not drunk. Not yet. But she’s slowly getting there. There’s something about the loud music, the constant jump-dancing, and the sweat that makes it easier to let go. Most of it probably has to do with the fact that she feels the weight of Garrett’s gaze in the back of her head like a locked target.

“He’s still looking,” Anna says lightly, peering over her shoulders.

She brushes the comment off. “I need a drink.”

Her friends look at the still half-filled cup in her hand.

“I meant water,” she corrects with a roll of her eyes. “Be right back.”

She accidentally meets his eyes again on her way to the kitchen. Yep. Definitely still looking, though he’s still managing to converse with the puck bunnies all over him. Good to know he can still multitask.

The kitchen looks relatively the same as earlier, if a little messier. Dean’s disappeared; he’s probably upstairs with his puck bunny of the night already. Logan is nowhere to be found too. Only Tucker is there still, leaning against the counter and doing something on his phone.

She makes a beeline for the fridge. Like she expected, the mini bottles of water they always stock up on during parties are right there in the designated compartment. The familiarity is enough to make her pause.

“Cutting off already?” The voice makes her jump, one hand flying to her chest in an attempt to settle her heartbeat. She doesn’t want to turn around to see him. She doesn’t want to talk to him or hear his voice or even breathe the same air as him. That was the plan; that had been the plan since she saw him with that girl at that party and decided that if she ever wants to move on, then she needs to cut him from her spleen completely.

But that was before she let herself be dragged to his house. His party. She knew this was coming. Maybe a part of her wanted it, even, if only to prove something. She’s just not sure if it’s proving that she’s moved on or that she’s still stuck where she was six months ago, broken from the loss of him.

When she turns, she does so slowly, making sure her feet are planted on the ground. She closes the fridge behind her with her foot and uses it to steady herself, leaning her back against the cold metal, unmindful of the magnets digging into her skin.

This is the closest they’ve been since the break up, so she doesn’t punish herself much for taking her time perusing his appearance.

Black sweater tight around his biceps. Dark jeans. That fucking chain. Hair messy and curled and falling to his forehead. Neck slightly glistening with sweat. He looks good enough to eat. Not that she can do anything about that observation.

“And you?” She says when she finally finds her voice. Her eyes flicker to the crowd of girls he left behind in the living room. “Bored already?”

“No,” Garrett says, voice rough. Under his gaze, her clothes feel too much. The cut-out top feels too revealing, her exposed belly button too cold. She doesn’t want him thinking she dressed up for him, even if she technically did. “Not even close.”

They’re silent for a few seconds, just staring each other down. And she hates this. Hates that it feels this tense. That it’s this awkward. Silences between them used to be comfortable and peaceful. There was a time when they didn’t need words at all. He would raise an eyebrow at her and she’d smile at him. He’d give her a look and she’d kiss it off his face. Squeeze her hand and hold entire conversations in that touch. Now, it feels like a performance; like they’re two souls who used to know everything about each other meeting in another life with different bodies that are strangers.

If she knew it would be this devastating to see him again, she never would have come at all. Because underneath the bitterness and the pretense that she’s moved on, the love is still there, beating stubbornly in her veins. The care and the regret and the hurt. She wants to ask him how he’s been. She wants to know every single thing that happened to him in the last six months down to the minute detail. She wants to say sorry for breaking both of their hearts. She wants him.

His mouth twitches, like he’s about to say something. And then a girl stumbles into the kitchen, his name on her glossy lips and her hands reaching for his arms, and she realizes with a start that she can’t want him. Not anymore.

She looks at the girl’s manicured nails pulling at his sweater and feels a pang in her chest so violent she has to swallow back a gasp. Her eyes raise to his, and he’s already looking at her, eyebrows furrowed and his face pained.

“Yeah,” she whispers with a small smile. “Yeah, I can see that.”

She pushes off against the fridge and walks off, back to the living room where it’s safe because Garrett’s not there with his soft eyes and his unreadable face.

“You okay?” Dylan asks when she reappears. “You get your water fine?”

Something in her face must betray her, because Dylan and Anna share a concerned look before pulling her close. “Oh, babe.”

Anna pulls back enough to study her. “You wanna go? We can go.”

“No,” she shakes her head, letting out a shaky breath. Her eyes flicker towards the kitchen, where Garrett is talking closely with the same girl–Kendall, if she remembered correctly. She’s heard about her. They’ve been spotted together enough times that people think they might be seriously dating. Which is fine. It’s none of her business. “It’s a party. I want to have fun.”

Something catches her eye. Spiked up hair, frat shirt, tall and built and perfectly distracting. She lets herself smile slowly, giving her friends a knowing look.

After all, if Garrett can have his fun, then why can’t she?

Cliche frat boy almost makes it too easy.

He’s the one who approaches her, first of all, though she and her friends strategically chose to dance within his line of sight. He’s polite, a little shallow, and he keeps glancing down her boobs every minute like he’s afraid they’re going to be taken away. He’s pretty enough, she decides. She’s not looking for anything other than a distraction, anyway, and she’s not expecting him to blow her mind. Not with her track record the last six months.

Still, when he leans down to speak against her ear, her eyes cut to Garrett’s figure a couple of feet away, no girls around him this time, his arms crossed in front of his chest and his back leaning against the wall. He’s already looking at her. “You wanna dance?”

“Sure,” she grins, downing another shot before letting him lead her to the middle. She meets Garrett’s eyes again as they’re making their way to the dancefloor, and against her better judgment, she raises an eyebrow at him challengingly. His jaw tenses, the grip on his beer bottle tightening. Satisfaction pangs in her stomach, low and hot.

The bass is heavy and thudding, the perfect background noise to grinding under the guise of dancing. She immediately turns to press her back against cliche frat boy’s front, his hands falling to her hips and helping her sway in time with him.

She throws her head back, resting it on his shoulder and exposing the long line of her neck. He ducks almost immediately, lips brushing against her skin. “You’re so hot.”

“Thanks,” she laughs. The words do nothing to her as expected. But Garrett’s gaze feels heavy, and it’s enough to keep her going.

Cliche frat boy’s hands go higher, going from her hips to her stomach. She knows he wants her. Can feel it tenting against his jeans and pressing onto her back. Knows his hands are itching to cup her breasts. She’s debating whether the distraction is worth the disappointment when she feels a hand grip her wrist, gentle but firm and all-too-familiar.

“Come on,” Garrett says, voice a low grumble and eyes dark and muscles tense like he’s readying himself for a fight.

He drags her away from cliche frat boy, the hand on her wrist burning each second the contact lasts. From behind them, she hears cliche frat boy let out a noise of protest, but like always when Garrett is close enough to touch, everything else falls away, muffled and silent, her whole focus shifting on him and only him.

“What the hell, Garrett?” She manages to say, trying half-heartedly to tug her hand free.

“Let’s go,” he says again, still in that rough, final tone she shouldn’t find so sexy but somehow does.

He leads her to the coat closet, tugging gently until she’s safely inside and closing the door behind her with a flourish.

“What is your problem?” She hisses, finally snatching her arm away. Her other hand wraps around the wrist he held, not because it hurt, but because it singes with the memory of his touch.

Garrett turns away from her, hands on his hips, shoulders heaving up and down in time with his heavy breaths. The closet is cramped. She can’t remember the last time she’s been inside; probably the winter of her freshman year when she was still pretending she was a guest at the hockey house and not someone whose clothes belong in the spare drawer and hanging space her boyfriend provided for her. But the distance between them is small enough that her senses are assaulted with his scent. She’s suddenly all too aware of him; of how much space he’s taking up, of how she feels each breath he takes like a gunshot.

“Garrett,” she calls, finally making him turn back around. But he still doesn’t say anything, eyes dark and face pinched like he pulled a muscle.

Finally, after a few silent seconds, she sighs in defeat, announcing, “I’m leaving.”

He moves so quickly she barely registers it, and before she knows it, one of his hands is on the door beside her head, trapping her in place.

“Garrett,” her voice is low now, barely a whisper. She feels his hot breath fan against her face and almost closes her eyes.

She watches him swallow like it pains him to do so. His eyes are dark, a bit wild around the edges, like something inside him has been flayed open.

“You can be with whoever the fuck you want to be with,” he tells her quietly, voice rough and serious, making her pause in place. “But don’t do it in front of me. Don’t be cruel.”

A shaky breath leaves her mouth before she can control it. She reads the pain and anger and jealousy on Garrett’s face like a book. It’s the first glance of the real Garrett she’s had in months, the Garrett that was hers completely and encompassingly, and the sight goes straight to her core.

She feels weak and tired and not at all in control, and it’s with resigned acceptance that she throws her arms around his shoulders, gets on her toes, and kisses him.

She can tell that the kiss catches him by surprise, because she feels him inhale sharply through his nose. For a moment he just stands there, one hand still pressed to the door and another falling limply at his side, lips barely moving against hers. And then his brain finally catches up to him, and suddenly he’s backing her into the door even further, hips pressing into hers, his tongue darting out to trace her lips.

“Fuck,” he pulls away enough to mutter, both of his hands coming up to cup her jaw. When he presses their lips together again, it’s wet and messy and makes a whimper sound from her throat.

She hitches one leg up, anchoring it on his hip. He thrusts forward, and the feeling of his hardening cock on her center even through the fabric of their pants is enough to make her head fall back against the door, her mouth opening with cry.

“Are you drunk?” Garrett asks against her lips, like he can’t possibly pull away or else she’ll disappear right in front of him. “How much have you had to drink?”

She uses one hand to pull at his sweater’s neckline, kissing him chastely. “I’m not drunk.”

“How much have you had to drink?” He asks again, voice more serious, the hand he’s using to support her leg clenching against her skin. She feels the grip burn through the denim of her jeans.

She raises one hand to grip the back of his neck. “Enough to still know what I’m doing.”

She goes to kiss him again, but he pulls his head away, making her sigh in frustration. “What are you doing?”

Her hips shift against his, impatient and needy. She pulls him closer, until her lips are brushing against his again, not quite a kiss, but close enough. “Please,” she whispers. His other arm snakes around her waist. “Please, Garrett. I need you.”

“Yeah?” He asks, voice a little broken.

She kisses him, quick but deep, tugging out his lower lip with her teeth as she pulls away. “So bad. I haven’t–I couldn’t–”

“What, baby?”

The nickname makes her thighs clench together, an action that he doesn’t miss judging from the way his eyes go even darker.

“Don’t make it a thing,” she almost whines, her hand squeezing the back of his neck. “I haven’t been able to–not since you.”

The words are vague and confusing and embarrassing, but Garrett gets what she’s trying to say immediately. His eyes widen visibly. His chest puffs out. His face does something annoying–all smug and possessive and so Garrett she could almost cry.

“No?”

She shakes her head. “I tried, but I couldn’t–”

His eyes flash at that. “Oh, did you?”

She tightens her hold on him, throwing her pride to the window long enough to whimper out, “Please, baby–”

His mouth cuts off the words from her lips, one hand coming up to squeeze her breast. She moans out loud instantly, hips continuing to gyrate against the obvious tent in his pants. One of his hands began to fumble with the button of her jeans, another traveling up her back under her top and unclasping her bra expertly.

“You’ve probably been so frustrated, huh?” He says lowly, pressing a kiss to her cheek almost delicately, a huge contrast to the way his hands are now tugging her jeans and panties urgently down her legs. “All those boys not knowing how to handle you.”

She hums, kicking her jeans off one leg and not bothering to take it off completely.

He kisses her again on the mouth, all heat and confidence. “Don’t worry, baby. I got you.”

And then he drops to his knees.

Garrett’s always been a generous lover. She had never felt like he was prioritizing his needs above her own. She was a virgin when they first got together, but their first time was a fairytale when compared to all the other first time horror stories she’s heard over the years. He never skimps on foreplay. He always makes sure she feels good, often double checking if she’s okay with what they’re doing even in the middle of doing it.

And Garrett, because he’s been made specifically to torture her and ruin her for other men, is ridiculously gifted in the art of cunnilingus.

He eats pussy the same way he plays hockey. Controlled. Focused. One goal in mind.

The first swipe of his tongue has her bracing herself with one arm to the wall and one hand pressed to her mouth to muffle the squeak that involuntarily leaves it. He looks up at her from in between her thighs, his lips pulled into a smirk so annoying it makes her roll her eyes, which only serves to make his eyes light up even more.

He guides one of her legs so it can rest over his shoulders, pressing soft kisses and nibbling at the skin of her thighs before going back to her center. She’s dripping, almost embarrassingly so. He gives another experimental lick, this time the tip of his tongue snagging on her swollen clit, and she jolts in place hard enough to knock her back against the door. Anyone walking by outside would know exactly what’s going on, and she can’t bring herself to care.

“You good?” He asks, eyes catching hers in the dim light of the coat closet.

The question does something to her chest. Melts it into something stupid. Makes her kind of want to cry for different, more pathetic reasons. She nods once, because she can’t trust her voice not to betray her. He looks like he sees through her, anyway, because something in his eye changes, the once dark and lustful look transforming into something warmer. More reverent.

When he leans down again, she thinks the world stops just a little. Nothing else matters more than his tongue licking up her cunt, the two fingers he suddenly thrusts inside that she greedily sucks up. He finds that sweet, spongy spot inside her instantly, because of course he does, because he’s Garrett and he knows her just as much as she knows him, even after six months of no contact.

For a moment, the closet is filled with the filthy, wet sounds of him eating her out and his fingers scissoring her open, her breath punching out of her throat with each stroke in quiet “oh’s” that only makes him more enthusiastic. And then his lips close around her clit and he sucks, and the world turns white.

The orgasm catches her off guard. After six long months without it, her body reacts before her brain can, and her mouth lets out the loudest screech she’s ever made, loud enough that Garrett’s eyes widen from below her, though he doesn’t stop with his ministrations. He laps at her like he’s been starving for it, fucks her with his fingers like it’s the last time he’ll ever get to do it. It takes a couple more seconds, and then she’s twitching again, her cunt pulsing around his fingers for a second orgasm that’s even stronger than the first.

She can’t help it. Her mouth drops open with another cry and she squirts all over his face.

“Fuck,” she gasps, legs twitching, trying to move away. “I’m sorry. I–”

His hand grips her leg tightly, voice rough and broken with want. “Don’t. Fucking–don’t.”

He presses frantic kisses all over her thighs, her hips, her legs, her belly button piercing, spreading her wetness all over. He stands up with shaky legs and tugs her forward until his mouth is on hers and she’s tasting herself on his tongue.

“Fuck, baby,” he hisses, already turning her over and bending her, guiding both of her hands to brace at the door. “That was the hottest fucking thing–I can’t–I need to be inside you. Please.”

She hears his pants and belt hit the floor. She’s still trembling from her long-awaited orgasms, but at least she has enough sense to ask, “Condom?”

A pause.

He lets out a loud groan. “I don’t have any.”

“Are you serious?” She turns her head back to look at him incredulously.

He looks physically pained, his eyebrows knotted together and his jaw clenched. “I have some in my room.”

She looks down pointedly at their states of undress.

“Fuck, I know,” he hisses, throwing his head back in frustration. But they’re too close together, so the movement only serves to press her bare ass against his hard cock, making him choke on air. “Shit. Shit. Shit. What do you–I need you to decide because I can’t–”

His hips give an involuntary thrust that has her gasping out loud.

“I’m clean,” she says, and the words shouldn’t feel that heavy given the situation, shouldn’t sound as vulnerable as it does. But Garrett raises his head to look at her like she’s rewired his brain. Like what she said meant something different. “I’ve never gone without. Not since–well, you know.”

Her heart pounds in her chest heavily. Garrett looks wrecked; like the admission undoes him even more than the sex. When his hands find their way to grip her hips again, they’re trembling almost violently.

“Me too.” He shifts until he’s close enough to press a kiss on her shoulder. “Fuck. Me too.”

She bends over again, more purposefully this time. “Please, Garrett.”

He exhales through his nose. “Where do you want me?”

She wiggles her ass against him. “Inside, please. Need to feel you inside. ‘M so empty.”

Garrett makes a sound at that. Rumbling and raw from the back of his throat. He squeezes her hips again, once, then twice, and then one of his hands disappears to guide himself to her entrance.

“Like this?” He whispers, rubbing the head of his cock over her clit and making her bite her lips in an attempt at being quiet. “Are you sure?”

She nods, breathless. “Please.”

The first press inside has her eyes rolling back. Garrett groans, hands gripping her hips tight enough that the skin around his fingers go white. He goes slowly, making her clench around every inch like he’s branding his cock inside her permanently. He might as well have been. It feels like forever before he finally bottoms out, nudging against her cervix and making her choke out his name.

“Fuck,” he breathes out, the entirety of his torso pressed against her back. “You feel so good. Shit.”

She shuts her eyes tight if only to stop herself from tearing up. “Please move.”

He presses another kiss, this time to her jaw. And then he pulls out almost all the way before snapping his hips back.

“Ah,” she cries out, fingers flexing against the door. Her breasts bounce from the impact, and Garrett reaches up to cup one in his hand. They’re both still wearing their shirts, although her bra is unclasped and hanging loosely from her shoulders.

It’s never felt this good with anyone else, and some part of her itches to tell him exactly that. That she’s never felt so owned; that he’s the only one who can take her to this place.

He pinches her nipple, lips hovering close to her ear. “Fuck yes. Feel me?”

“Uh-huh,” she chokes out, her knees shaking and her cunt clenching even tighter around him.

“You’re perfect,” Garrett grits out, pressing another kiss to her jaw, his thrusts never missing the fast rhythm he set. “I’ve never—fuck. I missed you so bad.”

Her lip trembles at that. “I missed you, too.” Her voice is raw and wet and ugly and he hears it exactly for what it is. His hands turn gentle, until he’s pulling out just enough to get her to turn around.

He walks them backwards, one of his hands reaching for a random coat and throwing it on the floor. He doesn’t let go of her even as he guides them both down to the floor, the makeshift blanket out of the winter coat scratching their bare legs.

“Come here,” he rasps out, pulling her until she’s straddling his lap. “Ride me. Please, baby.”

This time it’s her that reaches down to guide his cock inside her. She sinks down on him fast and efficiently, their open mouths pressed together, breathing against each other. The stretch burns something delicious, the angle getting him so much deeper.

“You feel even bigger like this,” she gasps out, her arms hugging his shoulders for support. “You’re so deep.”

The familiar Garrett Graham smirk paints over his face. “Yeah?”

“Garrett,” she cries, hips faltering.

He holds her steady. “Shh. I got you.”

He begins lifting her up and down his cock, his hips thrusting up to meet her every time. She can’t even pretend to be quiet anymore. And Garrett can’t pretend he doesn’t love it; how out of control she is. How raw and genuine.

He shifts a little bit, and the change in angle gets another screech from her throat. “Fuck. Yes. Right there. Don’t stop.”

Garret kisses her, messy and wet, his tongue pushing past her lips and teeth. She moans against his mouth, beginning to feel that familiar tightening in her stomach again. Garrett must sense that she’s close again too, because he pulls away from her lips to say, “Come on. You gonna squirt again? You know you want to.”

“I don’t—“ she grips his hair with both hands, head tossing back. “I don’t know if I can.”

“Of course you can, baby,” he tells her, voice almost condescending. “Here you go. Let me help you. Wanna feel you squirt around my cock.”

He reaches down and rubs his thumb against her clit. The reaction is instant: a scream gets caught in her throat, her open mouth pressing against Garrett’s forehead, her pussy pulsing and clinging onto his cock almost violently. She makes a real mess of it; her thighs and Garrett’s wet with her release.

It lasts longer than is probably healthy. And Garrett fucks her through it steadily, her entire body twitching with aftershocks. His jaw is cinched tight, lips pursed in concentration. She clenches her pussy around him, and a broken groan erupts from his chest.

“I’m– close,” he grits out, pace unrelenting and making her feel lightheaded from overstimulation. “Where can I…?”

She drags him by the neck for another messy kiss. “Inside. Please. Wanna feel you fill me up.”

“Jesus,” Garrett chokes out, the words doing their intended effect. His thrusts falter once, twice, and then he’s painting her insides with his cum, so deep she’s convinced her stomach bulges with it. “Yeah. Take it, baby. Take it all.”

Her eyes closed shut at the feeling, the warmth of it, the closeness she wasn’t sure she’d ever feel again. For a moment, none of them move, even as she feels him softening inside her. Her arms are still around his shoulders, hugging him to her, and his have moved to close around her waist.

“You good?” Garrett asks after a few seconds, one hand coming up to rub her back gently.

She nods, still lightheaded and breathless. “Yes. Just. I need a second.”

His chest rises up and down harshly as well, evidence of how winded he is, but Garrett only tightens his arms around her and pulls her even closer. “Okay.”

The music from the party continues to thrum outside the closet. She doesn’t know how they can get out with their dignities intact. She doesn’t know if she’ll ever find the strength to pull away from him. It was hard enough the first time.

Garrett moves his head, and then he presses a lingering kiss to her forehead. “Listen—“

A loud knock comes from the closet door, making the two of them jump. “Yo, are you guys done? I need my fucking coat.”

She doesn’t recognize the voice, but the interruption is enough to startle some sense into her.

“Oh my god,” she says, fighting back a whimper when she shifts her hips to pull herself off of Garrett.

He looks at her, face blanched and eyes trying to catch hers. “Hey, wait—“

But she’s already hopping around to put her pants back on. It’s uncomfortable; her thighs are still messy with their combined release. But her fingers are trembling and her chest feels like it’s caving in and she needs to get out of this damned closet and this damned house.

Garrett stands slowly, tugging his pants in place. He runs a hand through his messed up hair, silently watching her panic. Her lips are as swollen as his is, both their necks painted with bites and their skin littered with bruises invisible to the eye but ones they both know will last even longer.

Another loud knock.

“Hold the fuck on,” Garrett snaps, letting one hand pound back on the door once to highlight his words.

She finally stops fumbling, her jeans and her top firmly put in place, her hair finger-brushed, looking as put together as she can manage. She still can’t meet his eyes when she croaks out, “I’m sorry.”

Garrett exhales loudly, tilting his head to the ceiling and closing his eyes in defeat. “You’re running again.”

The fact that he doesn’t pose it as a question stings even more. Like he should have known better. Like she had already hurt him once, so this one’s on him.

She wraps her arms around herself. Her eyes burn, tears clouding her vision. “This shouldn’t have—we shouldn’t—Garrett.” The helpless way she says his name makes his face twitch. “This was a mistake. We’re supposed to be moving on.”

“Stop,” he rasps out, face all screwed up and refusing to look away from her. “If you’re leaving, just go. You don’t need to say anything else.”

“I’m sorry,” she ducks her head, crying softly now. She still feels his touch and his kisses like they’re ironbranded on her skin. Garrett still doesn’t look away; that’s the part that gets to her.

There goes six months down the drain.

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