Untitled

“For the same reason they’ve been givin’ me shit for the last month.”

“Which is?” You ask, squeezing his hand a little tighter.

“You.”

You smile so hard you have to look away. Garrett shakes his head at your reaction, trying to fight his own smile.

“Every time somethin’ happened tonight, I’d look for you.”

“Every time?” Your voice comes out soft and bashful with your eyes locked at the empty parking lot ahead.

“You acting surprised is the craziest part.”

“I am surprised.”

“No, you’re not,” he laughs, looking away for a second.

His arm slides around your waist as the two of you reach the Jeep. The parking lot light flickers overhead, and when he presses your back against the side of the cab, the space around you sinks into darkness.

His hand comes up, cradling the back of your neck as he kisses you, deep and familiar, like he’s been thinking about it since the second he saw you outside the locker room.

“I was gonna ask for that back,” he murmurs against your lips.

“Oh?” You whisper, your hands curling into the material of his sweatshirt.

“Not anymore.”

He kisses you again, catching your bottom lip between his teeth before letting it slip free.

A laugh escapes you, barely more than a breath, your cold hands sliding beneath his sweatshirt and making him shudder against your mouth.

“Walked into that arena lookin’ like you belonged to me.” The words come out rougher that time.

You smile into the kiss as he lifts you off your feet, pressing you lightly against the side of the cab, your arms sliding around his neck and your fingers threading through the curls peeking out beneath the back of his hat.

“Pretty sure I’d give you anything you asked for at this point.”

“Anything?” You whisper, playing with the dark curls at the nape of his neck.

“Mhmm.”

Your smile grows as you tilt your head just enough to meet his gaze.

The anticipation is written all over his face, impossible to miss. His hands are still on you, his eyes fixed on yours, and the sight of it makes another laugh bubble up from your chest. You let him wait a second longer anyway, enjoying it far more than you should before finally whispering—“Backseat?”

The Jeep unlocks with a sharp click, and you immediately start giggling against his mouth.

“God,” Garrett mutters, resting his forehead against yours for a second. “Baby, I was really hopin’ you were gonna say that.”

One hand stays anchored at your waist while the other reaches for the door handle. He pulls it open and steps aside, trying to look casual about it, but the grin spreading across his face ruins the effort completely.

You barely get the door open before he’s behind you, one hand settling at your hip as he helps you climb inside. Your knees hit the cushion, and the door rocks slightly beneath his weight when he follows after you.

Garrett is on you the second the door shuts, one hand braced beside your head as his mouth crashes back into yours.

The cramped space only seems to make him bolder. His hand slides from your waist to your thigh, squeezing hard enough to pull a breath from you, and the sound seems to go straight to his head.

He kisses you deeper, impatient now, like the few seconds it took to climb into the backseat were already too many.

His hand finds the back of your neck again, pulling you into another kiss before either of you can think better of it. The hat flicks off and his sweatshirt disappears somewhere into the dark, tossed aside without a second thought as his fingers slide into your hair.

A low groan rumbles from his throat when your hands find the waistband of his sweats.

“Can’t believe you’re lettin’ me do this,” he murmurs, shaking his head with a quiet laugh that sounds equal parts amused and disbelieving.

“Do what?”

“This.” His eyes flick over your face before a crooked smile pulls at his mouth, his voice falling lower. “In the parkin’ lot. Bet we could make it home if we wanted to.”

You immediately start nodding. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay—” You stop moving for half a second and Garrett lets out a laugh, the sound warm and low in the dark.

“Baby, c’mon.”

You grin. “What? I’m just givin’ you shit.”

“Yeah, well, people need to stop doin’ that tonight,” he mutters, shaking his head. “Been gettin’ roasted for like four straight hours.”

A laugh slips out of you. “Sorry.”

His eyes drop to your mouth. “Yeah?” The corner of his mouth tilts upward. “Then show me,” he mumbles, smiling into the next kiss as his hand drags between your thighs, rubbing your warmth through your clothes.

Your nails trail down his bare chest as you kiss along his neck, feeling the deep groan that rumbles through him.

“Let me see you,” he says.

Your heart stutters as he guides you into his lap. Garrett groans the second you settle over him, your clothed body pressing against him, separated by entirely too much for his liking.

He watches you with heavy eyes and parted lips, his hands already roaming beneath the jacket and jersey, sliding up your back before he undoes your bra in one quick snap.

“Fuck me,” he mutters, the words slipping out before he can stop them. His hands cup your breast as you straddle him and you gasp when his thumbs brush over you, your body arching instinctively into his touch.

“Don’t wanna take this off,” he mumbles, lips finding your neck again, kissing and lingering there as his hands refuse to stay still. “What do you—” His sentence dies halfway through when your hips grind against the thick print of him.

Garrett lets out a rough breath and squeezes his eyes shut for a second before looking back at you. “What do you wanna take off, baby? Anything? Nothin’?” The question comes out rushed, almost distracted. “Whatever you want.”

You shrug off the jacket and pull the jersey over your head, smiling when Garrett’s eyes immediately follow the movement. The bra he’d already unclipped slips easily from your shoulders and his expression goes completely blank for a second.

Then you reach down and pull the letterman jacket back on.

“Holy shit,” he murmurs, leaning back into the seat for a better look. “Yeah, see? That’s the problem right there.” His eyes drag over you again before finding your face. “Been drivin’ me fuckin’ crazy all night.”

Your soft lips lock down on his neck, feeling his pulse racing beneath your mouth before you kiss higher, lips dusting the shell of his ear as you breathe. Garrett lets out a rough groan when your hips roll against him just right, his eyes squeezing shut for a second as he fights for control.

“Oh my God, baby,” he mumbles, his gaze locked on yours before his mouth finds yours again, hot and greedy as you grind down against the outline of him through his briefs.

You keep him pressed right there beneath you, letting him feel every slow roll of your hips as you move against him.

“Baby…” He groans, his head tipping back for a second before his eyes drop again, eyeing the dark gray patch of fabric where the precum gathered.

“Mhmm,” you hum, dragging it out as your hips keep moving.

“Christ. Need to be inside you,” he huffs, the words tumbling out faster this time, his voice already rough. “You’re makin’ me lose my fuckin’ mind.”

His hands slide higher along your thighs before drifting back down again, fingers catching lightly at your leggings. And just like before, you’re already tugging them lower.

Garrett lets out a rough breath, the sound carrying more disbelief than confidence.

“Playin’ the best hockey of my life,” he murmurs, shaking his head like he still can’t quite believe how badly he’s got it. “Away game next weekend… what the hell am I supposed to do without you?”

You reach across the backseat and grab his phone, smiling to yourself.

“Your birthday,” he says immediately, answering before you can even ask for the password, already knowing where this is gonna go.

“Watch it next weekend. Call me after,” you say, leaning closer.

“How’d I get this lucky?” Garrett whispers as his lips dust over yours, lifting his hips just enough to tug his boxers down, his heavy cock hitting his skin.

“You gonna call me, Graham?”

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “But you already knew I was gonna do that.”

You giggle, shaking your head. “Yeah. I’m catching on.”

“Good,” he says.

Garrett’s mouth falls open when your hips start to move. Just the tip of him pressed right against your soaked entrance as you roll your hips with a practiced sway, dragging him through the slickness.

His head thuds back against the seat and a rough groan slips out of him. “Ugh, that’s it. That’s my fuckin’ girl,” he hums, watching you sink down on the first few inches before lifting off again just enough to leave him staring at the sheen of you on him.

“Feels so good,” you sigh, playing with the depth as you watch his composure start to crack. His hips lift off the seat automatically, chasing your warmth without a second thought.

He’s completely done with the teasing now. The easy confidence, the joking, all of it disappears. His biceps and forearms flex as his hands tighten on you, the look on his face giving him away long before his words ever could.

“Baby,” he breathes, voice rough around the edges, eyes fixed and heavy on you as your body moves in the dark. Every bounce of your chest, every flutter of your lashes, every shaky breath that leaves you when the angle hits just right.

He palms your ass, gripping your hips like he can’t decide where he wants to touch you most.

“Garrett,” you whisper, pressing your forehead against his, your breath unsteady. “Feels so—fuck, this feels so good. I’m close—”

“Yeah?” He breathes, the word barely making it out. One hand comes up to tangle in your hair while the other stays anchored at your hip, guiding you closer.

Your eyes pinch shut as he chases the feeling, and the reaction alone has him hanging by a thread.

“Garrett! Fu-uck—” Your voice breaks apart on his name, the sound punching straight through whatever self-control he has left.

His jaw clenches immediately. Not because he isn’t enjoying himself, because he is. Way too fucking much.

“Jesus Christ, baby,” he mutters, his forehead dropping briefly against yours as he fights to stay present, his hands tightening instinctively on your hips. The look on his face says exactly what Dean would’ve been making fun of all night.

“There she is,” he breathes, the words slipping out with a rough laugh. “That’s my girl.”

His hand slides up your back as he watches you come apart in his arms, eyes fixed on your face. A groan slips out of him at the sound of his name when it leaves your lips in a squeal.

“Yeah, baby? Shit.” His chain catches on the sweat slicked on his chest, his lips parted as his eyes start to glaze over with pleasure but he wants your focus. “Look at me.”

His strokes up slowly until he's pounding into you, the wet mess he made squelching through the Jeep as it sways, both of you sure you aren't going to last much longer like this.

"Feels so fucking good," he grits out.

You whimper that you're close, the words barely making it out of your mouth. "Fuck, I'm cumming," Garrett stammers, your pleasure enough for him to break, jaw tightening, brows furrowing, filling you up but refusing to stop until you cum again.

You follow close behind him, pussy fluttering around his cock as it throbs inside you, leaving him sucking in a breath.

You tuck yourself into his neck, both of you breathing hard, your body still trembling as his hands move slowly up and down your back. His lips press absentmindedly against your skin, soft now where they’d been desperate before.

“Damn…” He whispers, voice low and rough, smiling like an idiot as he stops the recording. “I don’t wanna leave.”

A laugh slips out of you, breathless and soft. “Don’t you have that boys’ night?”

Garrett immediately lifts his head, giving you the same look he gave Logan when he asked for a rain check.

“Baby.”

You laugh harder, his hand coming down to give you a play smack on the ass.

“No.”

“Garrett—”

“Hell no.” He’s already shaking his head. “You heard me the first time.”

His arms tighten around you as he settles back against the seat. You hide a smile against his shoulder as his hands drift underneath the jacket.

“I already told you I’m gone next weekend. So I’m spendin’ this weekend with you.” Garrett presses a kiss against your forehead before pulling back just enough to look at you. “Not even a discussion.”

“Sounds perfect,” you mumble, pressing a lazy kiss to his lip.

“My bed sounds too nice,” he chuckles softly. “Stay with me tonight.”

You smile and nod, reaching up to straighten the chain resting against his chest. Garrett catches your wrist before you can pull away, turning your hand just enough to press a kiss against the inside of it.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, his voice quieter than before.

Your brows pull together slightly, head tilting curiously. “For what?”

A crooked smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, looking back at you in his arms like this. “Tonight. Comin’ to the game. Wearin’ my stuff. Puttin’ up with my teammates. This… Especially this. Goddamn.” He shakes his head, laughing softly to himself. “All of it.”

Your hands cup his face, thumbs brushing over the stubble along his jaw while you take him in.

“Of course,” you whisper.

Eventually Garrett reaches for the pile of clothes beside you. He helps you get situated again, carefully gathering everything back together before draping the letterman’s jacket over your shoulders last.

“There,” he says, satisfied immediately.

“Happy?” You ask.

“Mhmm… Very.” His arm settles around your waist, pulling you closer against his side.

“I love you.”

Garrett’s smile softens instantly. “Love you too.” His forehead rests lightly against yours. “Love bein’ yours.”

dividers @uzmacchiato

His hockey sticks lined up exactly where he left them. His Jeep. His routines. His clothes. Especially his clothes.

He loved the way his jerseys seemed to fit you just right, skimming and teasing your curves when you tossed it on after sex, dressed in nothing more than his last name, a pair of panties.

And every time he turned around lately, something of his seemed to be in your hands. Garrett had a bad habit of handing you things and never asking for them back.

The letterman jacket was different. Maybe because it wasn't just another sweatshirt—maybe because he'd worn that thing for years.

Maybe because he'd left it at your apartment the night before after tossing it over a chair, fully intending to grab it on his way out the next morning. Instead, he'd stumbled out five minutes late for morning skate with his mind lost somewhere between the sheets and that goodbye kiss.

And when you showed up to puck-drop dripping in royal blue, he almost lost his edge completely.

His jersey. His letterman’s jacket. That dainty necklace he'd bought you for your birthday peeking through the space in between whenever you moved.

You looked like every hockey girlfriend fantasy he never admitted he'd been carrying around in the back of his mind. The kind of thing he'd spent years pretending he didn't want.

The kind of thing he'd caught the guys talking about on the bench between shifts; somebody waiting in the tunnel after the game, secretly texting from the gym when they’re supposed to be in a team workout, gifting jerseys, giving them a reason to look up into the crowd instead of the back of the net.

Now he couldn't shut up about you either.

You laugh at something the person next to you says before turning toward the ice, and even from halfway across the arena, Garrett catches the smile that spreads across your face the second you spot him.

Dean slashes him lightly as they skate out toward center ice, following Garrett's line of sight into the crowd. The second his eyes land on you, a grin breaks across his face.

"Holy shit,” Dean gasps dramatically.

Garrett immediately groans, throwing his head back, already knowing exactly where Dean’s gonna take this.

"You seein’ what I’m seein’, buddy?" He laughs, looking back toward the stands like he can't quite believe what he's seeing. "She looks good in your jacket—"

“Does she now?” Garrett asks with a challenging bite, latching onto the part where Dean said his girl looked good and ignoring the rest entirely.

Dean lets out another laugh, skating alongside him as they reset for the next shift. Garrett adjusts his grip on his stick, dropping his gaze to the tape wrapped around the blade. It lasts all of three seconds before he's looking back up into the stands again.

"Oh, you're in trouble,” Dean chuckles.

“Focus,” Garrett grunts, the attempt so half-assed it only makes Dean laugh harder.

"No, you focus."

Garrett shakes his head, trying and failing to hide the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as the music blasts over the speakers.

Dean exhales sharply, blowing it out slowly like he’s genuinely concerned. "You're gone, bud.”

"Shut up."

“You are."

"I'm literally standing right here," Garrett laughs, finally looking over at him.

"Mentally?" Dean asks, smacking a gloved hand on top of Garrett's helmet. "Absolutely not."

Garrett opens his mouth, fully intending to argue but nothing comes out. Dean lifts an eyebrow, waiting for an answer.

"You got nothin'."

"Fuck off,” Garrett chuckles.

The puck drops and Garrett does his best to forget about the stands. And for a little while, hockey wins.

The game settles into that familiar rhythm; slamming into the boards, skate blades carving into the ice, eyes darting between bodies for an opening.

Dean feeds him a perfect pass through the slot and he takes it—bar down, the net ripples and the horn explodes ahead, the crowd erupts into cheers as the music plays.

Garrett’s fist pumps instinctively as adrenaline courses through him, teammates crashing into him from every direction before he can even slow down.

And like a complete idiot, the first place his eyes go isn’t the scoreboard.

Dean catches it immediately, grabbing him by the back of his jersey as they head back to the bench. “Did you do it for her? I just gotta know. How are we gonna play this?”

Garrett shoves him away, but Dean hangs on, refusing to let go.

“Boys,” Dean announces dramatically. “We lost him.”

“You’re such a dick.”

“Answer the question, Graham,” Dean demands as he steps off the ice.

“What question?” Garrett asks, brushing the ice off the blade of his stick.

“The goal.”

“The goal?”

“Yes, the goal,” Dean adds, with no plans of letting it go.

“I scored because you passed me the fuckin’ puck, buddy. That’s how hockey works—”

“See? That’s not a no.”

“Mhmm,” Garrett hums, gnawing at his mouthguard to hide his smile.

A few of his teammates stream past with the puck and distract Dean for a moment, Garrett’s eyes finding their way back to you. You’re looking down at your phone, smiling at the screen, and he can’t help but wonder if his phone is buzzing in his locker right now.

Fuck, he’s in trouble.

“Malone’s after this? A few beers with the boys, G. What do you say?” Logan’s voice calls from Dean’s right, catching him completely off guard. Because what do you mean, with just the boys on a Saturday night? A home game? With you in the crowd looking like that? Fuck off.

Garrett looks to his left and Dean and Logan are both staring at him now, matching grins stretched across their faces.

Garrett narrows his eyes immediately, the pieces clicking together all at once. Those motherfuckers.

It wasn’t an invitation. It was a test.

And judging by the way Dean doubles over before he can even answer, he’d failed it spectacularly.

“No way,” Dean howls. “No fuckin’ way.”

“You’re a dick,” Garrett laughs, flicking him off with a gloved hand.

“You’re the dick, G. Fucking rude, actually. You didn’t even think about it!” Logan adds.

“Not for a second,” Dean agrees, pointing at him like he’s presenting evidence in court.

“Shut up.”

“I’m serious,” Dean laughs. “That look on your face? Incredible.”

Garrett lifts his water bottle, taking a long drink while the two of them continue losing their minds. “Hang it up, Dean.”

“Not a chance… You know my favorite part is?” Dean asks as he leans forward, resting his elbows on his breezers.

“No… No I don’t,” Garrett answers simply.

“Three years. Three fuckin’ years of listenin’ to you tell everybody how there was no way you could do both. You spent all that time acting like getting attached was gonna ruin your game.”

“It would’ve,” Garrett deadpans.

“Really?” Dean asks. “Because you got a goal, two assists, and you’ve looked up into the stands approximately forty-seven times tonight—and it’s only the first.”

Logan nods, looking up at the scoreboard and back to Garrett. “Statistically speaking, she should probably come to every game.”

“—Yeah,” Dean agrees. “For the good of the program.”

Garrett scrubs a hand across his jaw, already losing the battle not to smile. “Both of you are idiots.”

“Maybe.” Dean shrugs. “But we’re right.”

Garrett rolls his eyes, hanging his head for a moment. Eventually the conversation drifts somewhere else, both of them getting distracted by whatever’s happening on the ice. Garrett immediately takes advantage of it, searching the crowd without even thinking about it.

Back to you.

Dean catches it almost instantly. “Fuckin’ love this for you, G.”

Garrett rolls his eyes toward the ice, but the smile gives him away. “Shut up.”

The second the locker room door swings open, Garrett spots you.

One second he’s laughing at something Dean says, smiling for one reason, and the next he’s smiling for another entirely. His hand drags across his mouth like he can somehow hide it, duffel bag looped over his broad shoulder, the other shoved into his pocket as he tries and fails to look casual.

You’re leaning against the brick wall, still drowning in that royal blue jacket of his.

Your eyes lift from your phone and the second you spot him, a smile spreads across your face, and Garrett feels his own answering before he can stop it. He doesn’t even realize he’s walking faster until Dean catches up beside him.

“Oh, wow,” Dean breathes dramatically.

“Go away, dude,” Garrett mutters under his breath with a laugh.

“No, seriously. Look at you… You are clippin’.”

Dean smacks him on the ass as he blows past, earning a startled laugh from you before he jogs ahead to catch the rest of the guys.

Garrett just shakes his head, already fighting a losing battle. His hand finds your waist, pulling you closer like he’s wanted to all night.

“Good game,” you smile.

“Yeah?” His grin softens immediately as he leans in closer. “You think so?”

“Rain check on that boys’ night?” Logan yells from halfway down the hallway, his voice echoing through the tunnel just as Garrett’s lips brush yours.

“Oh?” You ask sweetly as Garrett pulls back and shoots Logan a dirty look. “You have plans?”

“Hell no,” Garrett answers immediately, his hold on you tightening slightly as he turns you just enough to block out the idiots behind him.

“Goal was for you, by the way!” Dean shouts over their laughter, and Garrett’s entire face floods red.

“Don’t listen to them,” he mutters, pulling you into a tight hug.

“I mean, the first one definitely was,” Dean continues.

“Buddy, both of ’em were,” Tucker adds as the locker room door swings shut behind him, piling on while Garrett groans.

“Don’t you have shit to do?” Garrett asks.

“You better have him home by midnight, sweetheart,” Dean adds as he pushes through the side door, pointing at the two of you like an exhausted hockey parent.

Your back presses against the wall as Garrett keeps his eyes fixed on the exit, waiting for the last one of them to leave.

The second Dean disappears through the door, Garrett exhales, silence finally settling around you, just the two of you and an empty hallway, exactly like he’d been hoping for. He turns back to you, breath catching when he finds your eyes already on him.

And before you can speak he kisses you deep, his hand gripping into the back of the letterman’s jacket to bring you closer. His other hand lifts, cradling the back of your head, smiling against your lips as he draws back just enough to whisper.

“You ready to get out of here, baby?”

Bonus Drop: The Parking Lot ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

dividers @uzmacchiato

When you sighed dramatically for what had to be the hundredth time, he chuckled at your exasperation. “Someone’s feeling needy, huh? Just give me a second, bunny.”

Caught off guard by the new term of endearment, you let out an almost imperceptible gasp.

When he glanced up from the screen and noticed the subtle change in your expression, his eyebrow lifted as a cocky smirk overtook his face.

“Oh, you liked that huh?”

Before long he had you naked and quivering in his lap, your soft thighs straddling his waist, fingernails gripping his broad shoulders as you slowly sank down on him, swearing you could feel each ridge of his thick cock as it stretched you open.

Taking your time to adjust to the sensation of almost impossible fullness, you let out a satisfied sigh. But before you could start to move, his big hands held you in place, firm on your hips as he gave you a devilish grin then picked up his controller to resume his game.

“Now be a good bunny for me and wait.”

Since that day he’s used the nickname to tease and torment you, saying it’s a fitting one because you’re so soft and sweet.

He likes how just whispering it into your ear when you’re alone gets you all worked up and whiny. How it makes your pussy drip for him. You can pretend you don’t like it, but knows you do.

He’s obsessed with the sweet way you whimper when he has you underneath him in his bed, rubbing slow circles over your clit with his thumb before stretching you out on his fingers to get you ready for him.

“Cum for me, bunny,” he murmurs, eyes locked on yours until you gush all over his fingers, leaving your pussy a sweet, sticky mess that he loves to clean up with his tongue.

“Taste so good, bunny,” he groans, voice muffled by your pussy, big hands holding you open while you squirm beneath him. “Could eat you all day long.”

With his curly head buried between your soft thighs, he’ll greedily lap up every last drop of you like he’s starving, grinding his hips against the mattress while savoring in your exquisite taste.

Sometimes when you pull on his curls just right and let out the softest little moan, he’ll cum long before he’s ready, rutting into the sheets and leaving them a soiled, tangled mess.

“Look what you did to me, bunny,” he’ll gasp under his ragged breath with a smile, lips shiny to match the gold chain around his neck. “You’re going to have to make it up to me later.”

And you definitely don’t mind ;)

He was busy. Hockey, classes, captain shit, the usual revolving door of women who used to come and go before she’d started appearing in the kitchen in his sweatshirts and stealing the last banana off the counter with the lazy comfort of someone who knew exactly which drawer the forks were in.

Garrett denied all of it. Continually. Aggressively, even. Like if he said the words she’s not my girlfriend often enough, the universe would stop presenting evidence to the contrary.

Unfortunately for him, the universe was a petty bitch, and so were his friends. Dean had been killed by Tucker for the third time in under two minutes and was halfway through an appeal to basic human decency when the first noise came from upstairs.

Not a bed thump. Not laughter. Not the usual muffled, morally concerning sounds that made Tucker reach for the remote and Logan yell, “Bro, volume,” without looking away from the screen.

This was a voice, her voice. And it was furious. “ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME, GARRETT?”

Every thumb in the living room stopped moving at once. Onscreen, Dean’s character was immediately shot in the head.

Nobody cared.

There was a half-second where the whole downstairs seemed to hold its breath around the TV static and the low hum of the fridge from the kitchen. Logan lifted his head first, slow and delighted. Tucker’s brows went up. Dean turned, beer paused halfway to his mouth, eyes brightening with the reverent attention of a man who had just heard the opening note of live theatre.

Upstairs, something moved hard enough to creak through the ceiling. A footstep. Maybe two. Then Garrett’s voice came down, rough and defensive and very much not using his captain voice. “What? Jesus Christ, I looked at my phone.”

“You were snapping a puck bunny right before you fucked me!”

Dean’s mouth fell open. Logan’s eyes went huge. Tucker closed his eyes once, like a man hearing a disaster he could have warned someone about if anyone in this house respected wisdom.

“Oh, rookie error,” Logan said solemnly, pointing one finger toward the ceiling without taking his eyes off the stairs. “That’s a rookie error.”

Dean nodded, gravely, as if Garrett had failed a sacred code. “Yeah, no. You can’t do that.”

Tucker set his controller down on his knee. “You absolutely cannot do that.”

From upstairs, Garrett snapped, “I wasn’t snapping a puck bunny.”

“Oh, fuck you, Garrett!”

“Oh, fuck me?” Garrett shot back, voice rising now, indignant in that very particular Garrett Graham way where he sounded personally offended that reality had chosen to disagree with him. “Fuck me? Are you shitting me? I go on my phone for, like, two seconds and you freak out?”

“I was straddling you, you asshole!”

Dean made a strangled sound and pressed his fist to his mouth, eyes shining. “God, she’s good.”

Logan leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fully abandoning the game now. His abandoned character stood motionless on screen while someone named xXSlayerBoiXx unloaded an entire magazine into his chest. “Yeah, no, I’m with her on that. That’s insane. You don’t check messages mid-straddle.”

“It’s about respect,” Dean said, sudden and earnest, like the spirit of an Italian grandmother had entered his body. “You gotta keep that shit separate, man. Girls know when you’re mentally in the room. They can feel it.”

Tucker looked at him.

Dean looked back. “What?”

“No, I agree,” Tucker said after a beat, which somehow made it funnier. “I just didn’t expect you to be the one bringing emotional literacy into this house tonight.”

Dean lifted his beer in salute.

Upstairs, her voice came again, closer this time like she’d moved toward the door or maybe toward Garrett, which somehow made the whole thing worse and better. “You literally smiled at your phone.”

“I smile at shit!”

“You smiled like a slut!”

Logan lost it. He folded forward, laughter punching out of him so hard he had to slap one hand over his mouth. Tucker’s mouth twitched. Dean pointed up at the ceiling with the beer bottle, triumphant.

“That,” Dean said, “is a woman with language.”

Garrett barked something they couldn’t quite catch, then louder, “It was a team thing.”

“Oh my God, don’t lie to me with hockey. That’s so insulting.”

“I’m not lying with hockey!”

“You’re always lying with hockey. It’s your little emotional support sport.”

Dean wheezed. “Oh, she’s killing him.”

“She’s not wrong,” Tucker said, and picked up his controller again only to realise no one else was playing. He set it down with the soft resignation of a man accepting that the night had changed shape. “He does use hockey as a legal defence.”

Logan wiped under one eye with his thumb. “Your Honor, I couldn’t text back because we had a power play.”

“Exactly,” Dean said. “And the jury’s like, damn, compelling.”

The argument upstairs hit a sharper pitch then, the words overlapping enough that downstairs only fragments came through: Garrett saying her name in that strained, warning way; her cutting over him with something about half the campus knowing exactly what your stupid little smirk means; Garrett snapping back that she didn’t get to act like he’d done something when he hadn’t done anything; her laugh, sharp and humourless enough to slice through the floorboards.

The thing was, from downstairs, it was hilarious. It was the kind of fight you listened to with one hand over your mouth and the other hovering near your beer because you didn’t want to miss a word.

But even through the ceiling, even with Dean’s face lit up like Christmas, there was something hot and real in it. Garrett could say casual until his voice gave out. The guys had seen him check every time the front door opened on a Friday night in case it was her. They had seen him turn down girls without making a production of it and then act like he didn’t know he’d done it. They had seen him stand in the kitchen at nine in the morning holding two mugs of coffee, one black and one with the stupid oat milk she liked, and still somehow insist he was not, under any circumstances, doing relationship shit.

Upstairs, something thudded, like someone had shoved a door or dropped a shoe or Garrett had knocked into his own dresser while gesturing too aggressively for a man who claimed to be calm.

“Don’t walk away from me,” Garrett said, clearer now.

“Oh, now you care where I am?”

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“That– that thing where you make it sound like I don’t give a shit.”

There was a pause after that. Barely a pause. Downstairs, all three of them went quieter without meaning to.

Then she said, voice still furious but lower now, scraped around the edges, “You were smiling at another girl with my thighs around your waist, Garrett.”

Logan’s face changed first. The grin softened out of it by a fraction. Tucker looked down at his beer. Dean, for all his many sins, at least had the sense to stop laughing for a second.

Garrett didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice had lost some of the heat. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Then what was it like?”

“Baby–”

“Oh, do not baby me right now.”

Dean inhaled through his teeth. “Tough room.”

“Deserved,” Tucker murmured.

Garrett said something too low for them to make out, then louder when she clearly answered over him, “I’m not trying to make you look stupid!”

“You don’t have to try, you’re doing great.”

Logan made a tiny, appreciative noise. “Goddamn.”

Dean leaned back against the couch, eyes narrowed in thought now, as if evaluating odds at a racetrack. “I got ten bucks on Kitty.”

Tucker turned his head slowly. “Kitty?”

“Yeah.” Dean said it like this was obvious, like the naming of women based on their probable combat style was an established household tradition. “Kitty.”

Logan frowned. “Why Kitty?”

Dean looked offended by the lack of memory. “Because she scratches the shit out of him. You didn’t see his back last week?”

“Oh shit,” Logan said immediately, pointing at Dean. “That’s right. In the locker room. I thought he got attacked by a raccoon.”

“Exactly.” Dean spread one hand, pleased with his own case. “Kitty.”

Tucker’s brows drew together. “Nah. She’s hotter than a housecat.”

Dean tipped his head, considering. “I didn’t say housecat.”

“You said kitty. That implies housecat.”

“She’s not a housecat,” Dean said seriously.

Logan leaned back, very invested. “Cheetah?”

“No,” Tucker said. “Cheetahs are too sleek. She’s got more… attitude.”

“Mountain lion,” Dean said, snapping his fingers.

The room went quiet in collective consideration.

Logan nodded first. “Mountain lion works.”

Tucker lifted his beer. “Yeah. Respectfully.”

Dean tipped his bottle toward the ceiling. “Ten bucks on Mountain Lion.”

Upstairs, Garrett’s voice rose again, but not in the same way now. “You think I’m sitting there trying to get with somebody else while you’re literally in my room?”

“I don’t know what you’re doing, Garrett, because you keep telling me this is nothing.”

That hit the downstairs like somebody had turned down the TV and let the actual room in. Logan’s mouth went a little flat. Dean’s eyes flicked toward Tucker, then away. Tucker exhaled through his nose and leaned back in the chair.

Garrett said nothing. She laughed again, quieter this time, and it was worse than the yelling. “Right. Yeah. Exactly.”

A door creaked upstairs. A floorboard shifted.

Garrett’s voice came out rough. “That’s not fair.”

“No, what’s not fair is you acting like I’m insane for being embarrassed when you keep making sure I know I’m not allowed to be anything else.”

“Jesus. That’s not–” Garrett stopped, frustrated enough that they could almost see him dragging a hand through his hair. “That’s not what I meant.”

“What did you mean?”

Another silence. Dean, who had somehow turned from smug spectator into anxious civilian in under thirty seconds, whispered, “Say something good, dumbass.”

Tucker shot him a look. “You whispering isn’t helping him.”

“I know, but, like, he can sense my spirit.”

Garrett finally spoke, lower. They couldn’t catch the first part. Only the end. “…don’t want you thinking I’m messing around with other girls.”

“But you are.”

“I’m not.”

“You were.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You were smiling at your phone like–”

“I was smiling because Logan sent me a video of Dean eating shit in the driveway.”

Tucker stared at both of Dean and Logan, disgusted. “This house is an ecosystem of idiots.”

Upstairs, there was a beat of silence. Then her voice, much flatter now. “What?”

Garrett said, louder, with the rushed relief of a man finally locating evidence in his own defence, “It was Dean. It was the video of Dean slipping on the ice by the cars. I was laughing at that.”

Dean pointed to himself, touched. “I saved his situationship.”

Logan leaned over and slapped his shoulder. “Your pain had purpose.”

“I told you I’m important to this team.”

The floorboards creaked again. Upstairs, she said something too low for them to catch. Garrett answered, also too low, his voice doing that thing it did when he was trying not to sound soft and failing just enough for people who knew him to notice.

Then she snapped, suddenly audible again, “That still doesn’t fix the fact that you’re weird about me.”

Garrett’s answer came immediate and defensive. “I’m not weird about you.”

All three guys downstairs went still. Then, as one, they looked at each other. Dean’s face went blank with disbelief. Logan’s mouth opened. Tucker’s eyebrows lifted toward his hairline.

“He’s so weird about her,” Logan whispered.

“Incredibly,” Dean agreed.

“He once made me Venmo her for mozzarella sticks because I ate the ones she left in the fridge,” Tucker said.

Logan turned to him. “He made you Venmo her?”

“She didn’t even ask. She was asleep.”

Dean nodded solemnly. “That’s husband behaviour.”

Upstairs, she said, “You got mad at Tucker for eating my leftovers.”

Tucker lifted both hands as if personally vindicated by God.

Garrett shouted, “Because he knew they weren’t his!”

“They were in a communal fridge!”

Dean clutched his chest. “Oh my God.”

Logan dropped his head back against the couch. “He’s cooked.”

“Burnt,” Tucker said.

Upstairs, the argument blurred again into movement, voices crossing, Garrett’s frustration and her hurt colliding in the messy, intimate rhythm of two people who knew each other well enough to know exactly where to press and not enough to stop themselves from pressing there anyway. 

There was another thud, softer this time. Something fabric-heavy hitting the floor. Maybe the edge of a comforter. Maybe one of Garrett’s hoodies being launched with intent.

Then she said, sharp but trembling around it, “I’m not asking you to marry me, Garrett. I’m asking you not to make me feel stupid for liking you!”

The living room went dead silent. Even Dean didn’t joke.

For a second, there was only the muted TV, the distant rush of heat through the vents, the soft electrical buzz of the lamp beside the couch. Tucker looked away first, because there were some things a man wasn’t supposed to witness even through drywall. Logan rubbed a hand over his mouth. Dean’s face did something strange, caught between sympathy and the reflexive horror of sincerity arriving without warning.

Garrett’s voice came low enough that they had to strain for it. “I don’t think you’re stupid.”

She answered, quieter too. “You act like I am.”

“I don’t mean to.”

“Yeah, well.” Her voice wavered, barely. “You’re really good at it anyway.”

There was another pause, longer this time. Then Garrett said her name, and it sounded so unlike the way he said it when he was teasing her downstairs, so stripped of performance, that even Logan stopped breathing loudly.

“I’m busy,” Garrett said, and immediately Dean made a face like he wanted to climb through the ceiling and tackle him. But then Garrett kept going, rougher, faster, like if he didn’t get it out in one rush he’d lose the nerve. “And I’m not– I don’t do this shit. I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“I want you to stop hiding behind that.”

“I’m not hiding.”

“Garrett.”

Silence. Then, quieter, from him: “Maybe a little.”

Dean’s eyes widened.

Logan whispered, “Progress.”

Tucker nodded once. “Huge.”

Whatever she said next didn’t reach them. It was softer, swallowed by the ceiling and the old pipes and the house settling around all of them. Garrett answered in the same register. For a minute, the boys could hear only the shape of it: his voice low and trying; hers still hurt but no longer slicing; a murmur, a footstep, another smaller sound that might have been a laugh or might have been her telling him he was an idiot in a tone that had lost most of its blade.

Dean leaned slowly toward the ceiling, listening so hard his beer tilted dangerously in his hand.

“Are they making up?” Logan whispered.

Tucker held up one finger. “Wait.”

The upstairs went very, very quiet. A bedframe creaked once. All three of them froze.

Then, clear enough to cut through the entire house, came a high, breathless little squeal that immediately dissolved into a muffled laugh and Garrett saying something low that none of them could make out but absolutely did not sound like an apology anymore.

Dean nodded once, satisfied. “Yup.”

Logan picked up his controller. “They’re fucking.”

Tucker reached for the remote and turned the TV volume up three notches with the resigned precision of a man who had lived in this house too long. “Good for them.”

Dean lifted his beer toward the ceiling. “Mountain Lion won.”

“You don’t win a fight by sleeping with Garrett after,” Tucker said.

Dean considered this. “Depends on the fight.”

Logan unpaused the game and immediately got shot. “I still think Garrett lost.”

“Oh, he definitely lost,” Tucker said.

Dean grinned, settling back against the couch as the game roared back to life and the upstairs became, blessedly, a problem the TV volume could mostly handle. “Yeah, but he’s not gonna know that until morning.”

From above them came another muffled thump, followed by Garrett’s laugh, low and pleased and stupidly gone.

Logan shook his head, respawning. “He’s so fucked.”

Tucker’s mouth curved faintly as he lifted his controller again. “Yeah.”

Dean, eyes on the screen now, smile still wide, said, “But in his defence, did you guys see her in that little skirt earlier?”

Tucker killed him instantly in the game.

Dean stared at the screen. “Wow.”

“Respect women,” Tucker said pointing at Dean, calm as anything.

Logan laughed so hard he missed his next shot, and upstairs, Garrett Graham continued very loudly pretending he didn’t have a girlfriend.

The room has gone quiet in the aftermath, the sort of quiet that arrives after a small, localised weather event has torn through and left evidence everywhere for later people to pretend not to see. 

Garrett’s comforter is half on the bed and half dragged toward the floor, one corner caught under her knee. A pillow has somehow ended up near the closet. Her shirt is inside out beside the desk chair. One of Garrett’s socks is on the nightstand, which makes absolutely no sense, but the whole room has taken on that loose, wrecked, airless quality of a place where nothing had been put down so much as flung away in the service of more urgent priorities. 

The lamp throws soft gold over the wall and across the pile of clothes at the foot of the bed, and under it all the house is still making noise downstairs: gunfire from the TV, somebody laughing too loud, a dull male groan of defeat that is probably Dean dying in the game again.

She’s sprawled on her stomach across Garrett’s chest, bare skin warm against bare skin, one leg tangled in the sheet and the other hooked lazily over his thigh like she has no intention of giving his body back to him anytime soon.

Her chin rests over his sternum, and she traces nonsense patterns over his chest with the tip of one finger, slow little loops through the faint sheen still drying there, feeling the hard, steady thud of his heart under her cheek when she tilts down. 

It’s stupid, really, how quickly the fight has gone soft at the edges now that they’ve burned through it. Her throat still feels a little raw from yelling. Her body feels heavy and loose and humming in places she’s absolutely not going to name out loud. Garrett’s hand sits at the base of her spine, thumb moving every now and then like he keeps forgetting he’s doing it.

For a while neither of them says anything. Which is probably for the best, because words have been historically risky in this room tonight. Then the floorboards creak somewhere downstairs and Logan’s voice carries faintly up, followed by Dean’s laugh, bright and stupid and unmistakably delighted by his own existence.

She stills. Garrett’s hand pauses on her back.

Her eyes lift to his face. “Do you think the guys heard us?”

Garrett looks down at her for half a second, mouth already fighting the kind of grin that means he’s decided honesty will be funniest if delivered without mercy. His hair’s a mess from her hands, curls pushed in every wrong direction, face flushed in that warm, post-sex way that makes him look softer and smugger at once, which should be illegal on a man who already has enough advantages.

“Think the whole campus heard us,” he says.

She lets out an offended little laugh and drops her forehead against his chest. “Shut up.”

“No, seriously.” His voice is lazy now, rough around the edges, pleased with himself in a way that makes her want to bite him. Again. “Pretty sure the women’s soccer team knows you’re mad at me. And now... not so mad at me.”

“Oh my God.” She presses her face harder into his chest, but she’s giggling now, because the alternative is imagining Logan, Tucker, and Dean downstairs, all three of them going dead silent and absolutely listening like the worst little creeps in Massachusetts. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I literally do.”

“You’re naked on top of me.”

She grins into his chest. “That’s unrelated.”

“Feels related.”

She lifts her head just enough to glare at him, which doesn’t work at all because he’s grinning at her like she’s the funniest, most inconvenient thing that has ever happened to him.

That look gets under her skin in a way she hates. The part where his amusement goes warm and stupid around the eyes because he’s not just entertained. He’s happy she’s there. Happy she’s still touching him. Happy in the middle of a room that looks like a crime scene made of laundry and bad decisions.

His hand slides up her back, slow and broad, then comes around the side of her neck with the kind of easy confidence that makes her body go annoyingly still. His fingers resting lightly beneath her jaw, thumb brushing once along the side of her throat while he tips her face up.

“C’mere,” he murmurs, and kisses her before she can say something defensive.

It’s quick, technically. Barely more than a press of his mouth to hers, warm and lazy and smug at the corner because he can probably feel the way she melts by half an inch the second his hand settles there. 

But it does something ridiculous inside her anyway. Something bright and helpless and fluttering low in her stomach. She kisses him back without meaning to make anything of it, but he smiles against her mouth, and that’s somehow worse.

When he lets her go, she blinks down at him. “You’re very annoying after sex.”

“Before too.”

“True.”

“During, though?”

She pauses, letting her eyes move over his face with theatrical consideration. “Tolerable.”

Garrett’s eyebrows lift. “Tolerable?”

“Mhm.”

“That’s crazy, considering the volume you were using ten minutes ago.”

She gasps and shoves at his chest, but he catches her wrist before she gets far, laughing low in his throat, the sound moving under her palm. “Garrett.”

“What?”

“You’re so full of yourself.”

“Evidence-based confidence, baby.”

She rolls her eyes, but the baby lands anyway, soft and warm and stupidly effective in the middle of all that cocky shit. Which is exactly the problem. Garrett could say something that made her want to smother him with his own pillow and then two seconds later say baby like it belonged in his mouth, like he hadn’t even had to think about it.

He gives her ass a lazy pat and exhales, long and reluctant, glancing toward the clock on the nightstand. “I gotta get up.”

Her brows draw together. “Why?”

“Because I told Coach I’d be at the rink early.”

“It’s nighttime.”

“I'm captain.” He shifts under her, and she makes a small noise of protest before she can stop herself, which makes his mouth twitch again. “Don’t start.”

She pouts. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You made a sound.”

“I’m allowed to make sounds.”

“Clearly.”

She narrows her eyes at him, but Garrett’s already moving, careful and slightly awkward with the sheet and her limbs and the fact that she has absolutely no interest in helping. 

He sits up, easing her off his chest and onto the mattress, and she flops onto her back with the kind of boneless indignation only a girl who has just been thoroughly ruined and then abandoned for hockey can really commit to.

The air cools instantly where his body was, and she hates that too. Hates the little absence of heat along her side. Hates, more than anything, the fact that she notices.

Garrett gets out of bed naked, completely unbothered by the fact that he looks like that in lamplight and has the audacity to walk away from her with broad shoulders and hockey-built thighs and his back scratched to hell. 

She hadn’t realised she’d done quite that much damage. There are red marks dragged down over the muscle beside his spine and along one shoulder blade, bright against his skin, some already fading, some very much not. The sight sends a hot little pulse through her, equal parts pride and embarrassment and something so pleased it probably needs to be medically reviewed. She bites her bottom lip to stop the grin. It doesn’t work.

Garrett bends to grab his boxers from the floor and pulls them on, then glances back over his shoulder because he feels her looking. “What?”

She shrugs against the pillow, still grinning. “Nothing.”

His eyes narrow slightly. “That face is obviously not nothing.”

“It’s nothing.”

“You look way too proud of yourself for nothing.”

“I’m just lying here.”

“Yeah,” he says, turning enough that she gets the full benefit of his expression now: amused, suspicious, a little too aware of his own effect on her and absolutely not above using it. “That’s the problem.”

She lets her gaze drag over him again on purpose this time, slow enough to be rude, from the messy curls to the bare chest to the low waistband of his boxers, then back to his face. Garrett watches her do it. 

His mouth parts like he’s about to say something, then closes again. His jaw shifts. He looks briefly toward the ceiling, as if appealing to God, Coach, or whatever patron saint governs self-control in sexually compromised hockey players.

She giggles. “What?”

Garrett exhales through his nose. “Nothing.”

“No, what?” She props herself lazily up on one elbow, sheet slipping down just enough that his eyes drop despite his clear attempt to be a disciplined athlete with somewhere to be. “What did I do?”

He gives her a look.

She widens her eyes, all fake innocence and bare shoulders and hair messy around her face in ways she knows are not helping him. “I’m not doing anything!”

“You look like that,” Garrett says, accusingly.

She glances down at herself like this is new information. “Like what?”

“Like that.” His hand moves vaguely in her direction because apparently language has left him. “All…” He stops. Swallows. Drags a hand over his mouth. “Fuck.”

The grin takes over her whole face now, slow and delighted. “Garrett Graham. Are you objectifying me?”

“I’m trying very hard not to.”

“How noble.”

“I’m a good guy.”

“You’re currently staring at my boobs.”

His eyes snap up. “I’m flawed.”

She laughs, and the sound loosens something in his face. For one second he just looks at her, standing there beside the bed in his boxers with scratches down his back and his hair wrecked by her fingers, caught between leaving and crawling right back over her. 

The room feels warmer for it. Smaller. The mess of it suddenly not messy so much as lived-in for one strange little slice of time – her clothes with his, her phone on his nightstand, his handprint still warm somewhere on her hip, the argument hanging around but no longer sharp enough to cut.

Then he sighs like she’s personally ruined his life. “I’m gonna be late.”

She frowns immediately, because the words take a second to land in the right order. “No, you’re not.” She rolls onto her side and reaches for her phone on the bedside table, fingers searching blindly until they close around it. The screen lights her face blue for a second. “You have plenty of– oh.”

The oh comes out because Garrett’s moved while she was checking the time. Fast. Smooth. Infuriatingly athletic, even in boxers, which feels unfair given the circumstances.

One second she’s looking at the screen. The next his hands are around her thighs, warm and sure, tugging her down the mattress until her hips slide to the edge of the bed and the phone slips from her hand. She drops it with a soft thump into the sheet, breath catching in a little startled laugh as he steps between her knees.

“Garrett.”

“Yeah?”

“What are you doing?”

He lifts one of her ankles first, then the other, setting them over his shoulders like he has all the time in the world and not a single intention of using it responsibly. His hands settle against her thighs, thumbs pressing in just enough to make her stomach flip.

The lamplight catches on his grin when he looks down at her, all cocky mouth and dark, focused eyes and the kind of heat that makes every smart thing she might have said disappear before it reaches her tongue.

“I’m gonna be late,” he says.

For a second she just stares at him. Then her smile spreads, helpless and bright and already half-breathless. She lets her head fall back against the mattress, laughter spilling out of her as her fingers curl into the rumpled comforter. “You’re gonna be late.”

Garrett’s mouth curves, pleased, and his hands slide a little higher on her thighs.

“Yeah,” he says, like this is simply what the night has decided and who is he to argue with circumstances. “Definitely.”

❄︎ ❄︎ ❄︎

⤷ taglist ⋆⁺₊ ₄₄❅. @xlinxdax0704  |  @snowtargaryen  |  @goodbyetuesday  |  @staystrongsoa  |  @dadshirrt  |  @miya-111  |  @softburrow  |  @darlinglux  |  @waitingforsmartpeople  |  @seon9yeonie  |  @kmc1989  |  @laceyvt3  |  @sunny747  |  @cosmoh0lic  |  @blackgurlieee  |  @matchieee  |  @loomiz  |  @corvusmorte  |  @erin-alice  |  @cloudsxcherriesx  |  @lolskunk  |  @elizabeth123456767  | click here to be added to the taglist!

Garrett grins, the corners of his lips tugging up in what looks to be a mix of amusement and pleasure at your easy obedience. "Good girl," he murmurs, fingers slipping off your waist, only to intertwine with your loose ones by your side. "Up," he says in the softest voice possible.

You blink up at him through your lashes. He tilts his head at you, resembling a bit of a golden retriever with those brown eyes fixed on you, solely on you. You're warm under his attention.

"Didn't anyone tell you it's rude to stare, baby?" Garrett says softly, a teasing chide to his words.

It's your turn to let out a scoff now, mirroring his, and his eyebrows soften in appreciation of the soft sound from your lips. "You're my boyfriend, I think I'm allowed to admire you."

His grin widens. "Oh, is that what you're doing? Admiring me?"

"Mhm."

"Huh," Garrett murmurs, lifting his free hand to cup your cheek, watching the way you melt in real time with adoring eyes. "When did you get so smooth?"

You smile prettily up at him, your best smile, and his breath catches in his throat. "Learned from the best."

"Did you?" he brushes your cheek with a calloused thumb, so gentle it makes something in your heart splinter and crack in two.

"Come on, sweetheart," he gentles his voice even further, giving your cheek a gentle pat. "Let's take a nap. You look exhausted."

You frown up at him, lips jutting out in a pout. "That's so mean, do I not look pretty?"

Garrett curls his arms around you, picking you up with an ease that still surprises you. Your legs naturally wind around his waist, head lolling forward to find rest on his shoulder. "You always look pretty, baby," he hums, kissing the side of your head. "My gorgeous girl, hm?"

Letting out a pleased sound of acknowledgement, you let Garrett climb the rest of the stairs and make his way down the hallway. You pass Dean's room on the way, and the door is wide open.

You don't bother lifting your head from Garrett's shoulder, you're already sure what's going on in there. Your boyfriend wrinkles his nose above you. "Dean, how many fucking times! Close the door, yeah?"

Dean lets out a sound to the affirmative, but makes no move to get up from where he's got a pretty girl perched on top of him.

Garrett pinches the bridge of his nose and lets out an annoyed sigh, shifting you on his hip to close the door with one hand. "Idiot," he mutters under his breath. He hitches you higher against his chest, and you go willingly, boneless and warm under his affections.

The floorboards creak under Garrett's weight as he moves to cover the distance from Dean's room to his. "Tired, sweetheart?" He asks, voice soft again, a low rumble to the timbre of his words.

"No," you mumble against his neck, pressing your nose against the space between his jaw and shoulder.

He lets out a laugh, opening his door with his foot, shifting you in his arms a little so he can flop onto his bed, back against the headrest, with you in his lap. "You're lying."

"Am not."

"Are too," he grins, watching you peer up at him with half-lidded, obviously sleepy eyes. "You're barely awake, pretty."

You let out an annoyed whine, hands finding home on his chest. "I'm awake, thank you very much. And I want a kiss."

Garrett's smile widens. "Do you now?"

"Don't be a jerk," you reply, narrowing your eyes at him. "I'm allowed to ask for a kiss."

"You are," he hums, tugging you closer, one big hand lifting from your waist for your neck, brushing idly at the tender skin of your jaw. "You do have to say please, though, honey. Manners."

Groaning frustratedly, you add, "please can I have kiss?"

Your boyfriend smiles, thumbing at your cheekbone. "You can, baby," he murmurs, leaning down to meet you halfway. Your hand slides up to the nape of his neck, thumbing at the baby hairs there, and he sighs against your mouth, deepening the kiss.

It's lazy, the kind of kiss that isn't going anywhere, and doesn't need to, either. His tongue brushes your lower lip, seeking entry, and you open for him. He tastes like mint, the gum he's always chewing.

"Garrett," you breathe when he pulls away for a second to get air.

"Shh." His lips trail to the corner of your mouth, your jaw, the soft spot below your ear. "Just relax, sweetheart."

When Jungkook wakes you, you don't even realize you fell asleep until you hear him calling your name softly. "See, I knew you needed a break."

Your lips curved into a pout, your eyes squinting as you took in your boyfriend standing over you with a smirk. He wasn't wearing headphones anymore, but his monitors were still up, showing a moving background of cherry blossoms falling from a tree. "What time is it?" Your eyes moved to the clock, and you blinked at the time staring back at you. You slept for three hours.

"I ordered some takeout, by the way." Your gaze flickered back to Jungkook, and your lips twitched into a knowing smile.

"Chen's Garden?" It was the local Chinese restaurant nearest to your campus, and also one of your favorites. You were already imagining the fried rice and mandu you could eat as you continued your paper, but it was like Jungkook could read your mind.

"No, no paper - you're taking a break."

"I took a break! I napped. You made me nap!"

Jungkook rolled his eyes, and you followed his actions, crossing your arms defiantly.

"Your body made you nap, not me- don't be stubborn."

"Don't be bossy-"

"I'm not-" You tried to get up, and Jungkook cut himself off to push you back down. "Stay down. Relax, you're working too hard."

"Look, bossy." You huffed, and Jungkook narrowed his eyes, wiggling his nose at you.

"Fine, I'm bossy, but I will tie you down if I need to. Your paper can wait one day." Jungkook didn't even give you the chance to rebut; he simply climbed into bed with you, caging you between him and the mattress. His hands rested on either side of your head, and his hips nestled between your legs, making your cheeks flush as he gave you another smirk. "Don’t be stubborn, be good for me."

That simple little instruction seemed to short-circuit your brain. Any resistance you previously had was replaced with thoughts of the last time your boyfriend told you that you were good for him. You lowkey hated how easily his words could affect you. Your eyelashes fluttered as you gave another pout.

"You know you're going to have to get off me at some point to grab the takeout," you mumbled, and Jungkook huffed a laugh. He could see the color darkening in your cheeks, and that you were no longer meeting his eyes as you moved your gaze just over his shoulder.

"Yeah? I think I still have time to convince you to follow my orders, though."

"Your orders?" You echoed and felt a little pool of warmth begin to form in your lower stomach. You were acutely aware that Jungkook was still crowded over you, his hips keeping your legs open as he looked down at you with a grin.

"Yeah, plus I still haven't rewarded you for behaving earlier-" His face came closer, his eyes flickering to your lips as he hummed. "Do you want your reward?" His lips were so close to yours, you could feel your own lips tingle, the need for more heating you up as you nodded your head dumbly with a soft mumble.

"What's my reward?"

Jungkook doesn't answer you with words; instead, his lips press into yours, and all your thoughts melt as his body sinks into you - keeping you trapped. He kisses you like it's the first time, or like it'll be the last, his head tilting, deepening your kiss until you're clutching onto him as if he might leave. But he would never. Not when your body reacts to him so well, you're already mindlessly tugging on his sweatshirt, your thighs squeezing his hips as he coaxes you to open your mouth with his tongue.

His groan earns a whine from you, and his hips roll forward to grind his hardening cock against your covered pussy, jumbling your thoughts again as he begins to kiss down your neck with slow fervor.

He makes you forget about your paper, about college, about your job, and everything else - you're unable to focus on anything but the hitch in his breath as he grinds into you with slow rolls that make you feel how much you affect him as he does to you.

His lips suck just under your earlobe, his tongue wetting the skin and making you arch prettily for him, just as his hands slide under your shirt to map the way your body curves as his teeth brand a love bite into your skin. “Don’t want to get up now, do you?” He mumbles, and your head falls back into the pillows as he pushes your shirt up, exposing your pretty tits.

If you normally spent the weekend at his, you did so comfortably, foregoing the bra, and usually wearing just one of his old t-shirts unless you two left his dorm. It made it easy access for him to touch, to admire, and most importantly, to kiss whenever he wanted to, and right now? He really wanted to.

His head dips, and his hand sneaks around your waist and up your back to arch you up to his hungry mouth. He groans the same time you gasp as his wet tongue swirls one of your nipples into his warm mouth, sucking on it until you are tingling all the way down to your pussy.

“Jungkook- mmmph!” Your moans get breathier the more his mouth stays on you, making new waves of your arousal seep between your thighs.

He takes his time to suck while his hands slide down your waist and under your thighs, spreading you open while he moves to give your other breast the same attention. When he’s satisfied, he gives you a lazy grin while your eyes gloss over, and he leans back down to give you another sweet kiss.

“Stay in bed with me, and I’ll make it worth your while, Baby.” He murmurs, and you wonder how you got such a hot nerd until you see just how much his ears burn red, reminding you he’s still the same man who stuttered when he first talked to you.

The duality makes your head spin, and you don’t notice that he’s dragging your shorts and panties down your legs until his shoulders rest between your thighs and his eyes sparkle as he takes in your pretty pussy up close.

“JK-“ your words fail the moment his tongue parts your puffy folds with a long stroke, stopping just at your clit to make your brain fog up and your mouth drop. But it’s JK who moans first, hot and heavy as your slick coats his tongue. You’re sweet and addictive, as always, and his eyes roll when your hand finds the back of his head to pull him closer to your drooling cunt.

“Yeah, keep saying my name-“ He mumbled, his voice muffled by the fat of your thighs. He dives his tongue in deeper, spreading your lips to get a better taste of your arousal, and making your head tilt back to face the ceiling.

One of your hands stays curled in his dark hair, keeping him to you, even though you are sure you’ll have to be the one to pull him off you soon enough, and the other clutches the Bakugo plushie you forgot you had been holding in your sleep as the room fills with the sounds of your moans and Jungkook’s sloppy kisses to your cunt.

Jungkook gets drunk off your pussy easily, the feeling of your gummy walls fluttering around his tongue as you whine his name is enough to make his hips press down onto the mattress underneath him. And there had been a few occasions he’d cum untouched, just like this, as your thighs squeezed his head and your hips rolled up to his hungry mouth. But today, he plans to last longer, wanting to keep you in his bed while he makes sure you relax.

Each whimper and whine he pulls out of you has his cock splurting a few gooey wads of his precum onto his boxers, which he ruts against his bed, unwilling to part from your glossy cunt as he suck, slurps, and kisses himself pussydrunk between your thighs. Soon enough, his tongue swirls around your clit, writing out his name while his fingers sink into your entrance, stretching you all the way down to the knuckle with ease.

When his fingertips caress the familiar spongey spot inside your wet channel, your vision whitens, and your moans grow louder - just as Jungkook wants. He focuses on it with a mean precision, working your orgasm faster so that it makes your cries of his name choke off into wet gurgles as your eyes cross lewdly.

"Just like in the hentais," He smirks, and the lower half of his face gleams with your sweet slick like a badge of honor. "C'mon, pretty girl, want you to cum for me." He coos, and he stuffs you with a third finger, reducing you into a blabbering mess as he leans his head back down to flick his tongue on your pulsing clit - matching the pace of his fingers thrusting into you.

And it's all you need to fall apart. Your eyes roll back as your mouth drops open and the warmth in your stomach bursts, gushing your orgasm onto your boyfriend's waiting tongue with a squeal. Your thighs tremble throughout it all, and Jungkook's head gets squished between them as he continues to fuck you. His fingers feel every squeeze of your velvety walls, and your clit gets lapped by his fat tongue until you push on his forehead to get him off your sensitive cunt.

That's when he finally lets you go, grinning like your slick wasn't dripping down his chin as you tried to catch your breath.

With perfect timing, a knock is heard, and Jungkook is licking his lips as he gets off the bed. "That's the takeout. You stay here, I'll grab the food, and we can eat in bed, okay?" Jungkook talks to you as the ringing in your ears slowly subsides, and he flashes you another beaming smile as he squeezes your ankle affectionately. "And then after we eat, I'm going to fuck you- then you really won't be leaving my bed until tomorrow morning."

You don't even have time to respond, only noticing a dark stain blooming on his black sweatpants as he bounds out of the bedroom to grab the food as he planned.

대박 - you made it to the end!

Tell me about it. Reblogs, likes, and comments are always appreciated ♡ . Tumblr is based on reblogs, not likes, and they help writers like me get a better reach. Thank you for your support!