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pairing – garrett graham x nursing student!reader
summary – after a head injury at clinical, garrett graham gets to be the one doing the looking after for once.
warnings – head injury, concussion, facial bruising, blood, medical care, patient aggression, emotional distress, caretaking, strong language
notes from me – we're getting somewhere my loves!!!! based on this ask, hope u enjoy! <3
word count – 11.9k
navigation – masterlist |
The car smells like hospital hand sanitiser and Maria’s vanilla air freshener and the coppery, unpleasant trace of blood she’s pretty sure is still stuck somewhere under her nose.
She sits very carefully in the passenger seat with her bag clutched in her lap and the discharge papers folded into the front pocket because Maria had put them there for safekeeping after watching her try to read the same paragraph three times and then ask, quietly and with genuine confusion, whether nausea was spelled with an o. The answer is no. Apparently. She knows that. Usually.
Her head throbs with every tiny vibration of the road, a dull, spreading pressure behind her eyes and across the bridge of her nose, pulsing in time with her heartbeat like her skull has decided to develop a second career as a bass drum. The split in her lip keeps reopening every time she moves her mouth too much, which is rude, considering she would very much like to continue pretending this is all fine and fine people generally require functional lips for lying.
There’s dried blood under her nose. She can feel it there, tight and flaky against her skin, the way she can feel the swelling beginning to gather beneath both eyes, heavy and hot and humiliating.
Her scrub top is folded in a plastic bag somewhere near her feet because the front of it’s torn and streaked with blood from the first few awful seconds before anyone could get to her, before security and Maria and Steph from triage had managed to pull her backwards by the waist while the patient screamed so loudly the whole department seemed to go airless around it.
It wasn’t his fault, not really. He was frightened and out of it and nobody expected him to come up that fast, one second curled tight on the bed with his voice climbing, the next swinging blind and hard enough that his elbow caught her straight across the face.
She remembers the crack of pain before she remembers making a sound. Then her own cry seemed to set him off worse, his hand catching a fistful of her scrub top before she could step back, the brutal pull forward, the bed rail coming up too fast.
Her nose had hit first. Or her mouth. Or her forehead. It’s all a little rearranged now, bright flashes and metal and Maria shouting her name and someone saying, “Security, now,” with enough force to make the whole bay move.
She knows it wasn’t anyone’s fault. She knows psych presentations can turn quickly, knows agitation isn’t always a straight line with warning signs and a polite little interval where everyone gets to reposition themselves safely.
She knows all the rational things. She also knows her face hurts badly enough that thinking in full sentences feels like pushing through wet cement, and she is, medically speaking, having a really fucking shit time.
Beside her, Maria drives like a woman who’s spent twenty years transporting compromised student nurses and actual glassware with equal care. One hand on the wheel, eyes on the road, her voice soft enough not to scrape against the inside of her skull when she says, “How’s the head, honey?”
She exhales through her nose and immediately regrets it because her nose doesn’t wish to be involved in breathing at this time. “Super normal. Love having one.”
Maria makes a small sound that could be a laugh if it wasn’t wrapped so tightly in concern. “Nausea?”
“Not worse.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
She lets her head rest back against the seat and keeps her eyes on the blurred glow of streetlights sliding across the windscreen. The movement makes her stomach roll faintly, but not enough to tell Maria about, because Maria has already done enough.
Maria had stood in the consult room while Dr. Patel checked her pupils and her nose and the swelling around her cheekbones, one warm hand resting between her shoulder blades every time she tried to make a joke and ended up going quiet instead.
Maria had found her spare hoodie from the locker room and helped her into it when lifting her left arm made pain streak down through her shoulder. Maria had said, very gently, you’re not catching the bus after getting your bell rung in my department, like that settled the matter.
“A little,” she admits. “But I’m not going to vomit in your car.”
“Kind of you.”
“I’m very thoughtful.”
“You’re concussed.”
She sighs softly. “Also that.”
Maria’s eyes flick over her in the dim light, quick and practised. “You remember what Dr. Patel said?”
She does. Mostly. The words have been looping vaguely around the edges of her head since he handed her the paperwork. Mild concussion. No fracture. Neuro obs stable. X-ray clear. Rest. No driving. No placement until reviewed. Come back if vomiting, worsening headache, confusion, unusual drowsiness, changes in vision, weakness, seizure, or if anything feels wrong enough that you’re trying to talk yourself out of seeking help.
No being alone tonight.
That last one had landed harder than the rest, somehow. Maybe because the ED had been too bright and too busy and she had been sitting there with a wad of gauze under her nose, feeling like a leaking appliance. Maybe because the doctor had said it in that professional, non-negotiable way that made arguing feel childish. Maybe because the idea of someone watching her because her brain had been knocked around made her feel suddenly, horribly small.
“Wake me every few hours,” she says. “Check I’m not getting weirder.”
Maria’s mouth tips. “You said weirder.”
“That’s the clinical term.”
“It’s not.”
“It should be. Easier to spell than altered level of consciousness.”
Maria actually laughs that time, but it fades quickly. “You can’t be home alone.”
“I know.”
“And you’re not going to pretend you’re fine and sit in your dorm by yourself because you feel embarrassed?”
Her eyes drift shut for half a second, then open again when the darkness makes her head swim. “I’m not embarrassed.”
Maria’s silent.
She sinks a little lower in the seat. “Okay. Maybe a normal amount.”
“There is no normal amount of embarrassed after being assaulted by a patient at work.”
“It wasn’t assault.”
Maria sighs. “Honey.”
“He didn’t know what he was doing,” she argues.
“That doesn’t mean you didn’t get hurt.”
Her mouth twitches before she remembers her lip is split. Pain snaps bright and sharp through the swollen skin. “Ow. Fuck.”
Maria’s hand lifts slightly off the wheel like she wants to reach over, then thinks better of it. “Don’t smile.”
“That’s bleak advice.”
“Currently medical advice.”
She presses her tongue carefully to the inside of her lip and tastes blood again. The whole evening keeps arriving in pieces. The patient’s arm. The bed rail. Maria’s face above hers, too close and too worried. Someone cutting away the torn edge of her scrub top.
Her own hands shaking in her lap while she tried to tell everyone, very reasonably, that she could finish the shift if they just gave her a second. As if she hadn’t been bleeding on her own shoes.
The thought makes heat rise under the bruising in her face, which is unfair because her face has already suffered enough. “God,” she mutters. “Everyone saw.”
Maria sighs, not impatient, but close to something sad. “Yes, everyone saw that you got hurt.”
“I’m the student.”
“Yes,” Maria nods.
“I’m supposed to be useful.”
“You were useful all day.”
“I ended the shift with a concussion and a bloody nose.”
“You ended the shift injured because an unpredictable situation escalated. That’s not a performance review.”
She knows that. She does. She would say that to anyone else. She would put her hand on another student’s shoulder and mean it completely. She would tell them they were in the wrong place at the wrong second and that sometimes you can do everything right and still get hurt because hospitals are not made of lesson plans and perfect outcomes.
Unfortunately, she’s not another student. She’s herself. And herself currently has blood in her hoodie sleeve because she keeps forgetting not to touch her face.
They hit a bump in the road, not even a large one, but it sends pain blooming through her skull with such immediate nastiness that she sucks in a breath through her teeth and grips the strap of her bag.
Maria notices. “Almost there.”
She opens her mouth to ask where there is, and then remembers campus, her dorm, her room, the bed with the old sweatshirt shoved under the pillow, the roommate who is not there. Her stomach drops so abruptly it makes the nausea worse. “Shit.”
Maria glances over. “What?”
“My roommate’s not home.”
“Tonight?”
“She’s at her sister’s. Like, hours away.” She closes her eyes, then opens them again because the inside of her head does not enjoy visual privacy right now. “Fuck. I forgot.”
“Okay.” Maria’s voice stays calm. That is possibly the worst part. “Do you have someone else? A friend you could stay with?”
She thinks of Lucy first, because that’s the correct answer. Lucy would absolutely let her stay. Lucy would probably panic and then overcorrect into a level of cheerfulness that could qualify as a secondary head injury. Monique would be better, quieter, but Monique has an exam tomorrow and lives across campus in a building where the lift is always broken, which feels like a personal attack under current conditions.
Then her brain, unhelpfully and immediately, supplies Garrett.
Garrett’s room with the lamp on. Garrett’s hand at the back of her neck. Garrett’s voice low in her ear telling her to stop studying and sleep. Garrett sitting on the edge of her bed taking off her shoes after a bad shift.
Garrett looking at her like competence is something he can be proud of even when she feels like she’s wearing it badly. Garrett, who has been hit in the head enough times that concussion protocol is probably written somewhere in his bones.
Garrett, who’s not technically her boyfriend, except the technicalities feel very stupid when her head is throbbing and her lip is bleeding and she wants him so badly it makes her chest ache worse than her shoulder.
“Yeah,” she says, and her voice comes out softer than she means it to. “Uh. Yeah. I have someone.”
Maria doesn’t look smug. That’s probably part of why she is a good preceptor. “Address?”
She gives her the hockey house. The words feel bigger in the car than they should. Maybe because saying his address out loud to Maria feels like she’s accidentally handed over evidence. Maybe because the last time Maria saw Garrett, he’d been standing in the ED hallway with panic sitting badly under his skin while Logan asked what day it was for the third time.
Maybe because Maria now knows exactly where to take the concussed student nurse with the split lip and the ruined scrubs, and that place is apparently Garrett Graham’s house.
Maria only nods and changes lanes.
The hockey house is lit up when they pull onto the street, every downstairs window glowing warm and yellow into the cold, the porch light flickering faintly over the steps. There are cars out front, some vaguely familiar. The sight of it loosens something in her chest. At least someone’s home. At least there’s a couch, and people who know what pupils are supposed to do, and Garrett somewhere inside if the universe has decided to be kind after all the other things it did tonight.
Maria puts the car in park and turns toward her. “Wait. I’ll help you.”
“I can walk.”
“I didn’t ask,” Maria responds.
She huffs, which hurts less than smiling. Maria gets out first and comes around, opening the passenger door before she can argue again. The cold hits her face and instantly makes her nose ache in a new and innovative way.
She climbs out slowly, one hand braced on the car door, shoulder protesting when she reaches for the strap of her bag. Maria takes it from her without comment.
“Rude,” she murmurs.
“Concussed.”
“Everyone keeps saying that like it explains everything.”
“It explains a lot.”
The walk up the path feels longer than it should. The porch steps require more concentration than she likes, which annoys her because she’s watched drunk freshmen navigate these steps while carrying open cups and zero dignity. Her sneakers scrape lightly over the boards.
Somewhere inside, someone yells something that might be, “You’re cheating,” followed by Dean’s voice saying, “It’s not cheating if the game lets me do it,” which feels like an argument that has existed in this house for generations.
She knocks once because lifting her hand twice seems excessive. There’s a crash inside. A hockey house crash. Male voices overlap, loud and irritated and completely unaware of the fact that sound is currently a weapon. She winces before she can stop herself, one hand coming up toward her temple and hovering there uselessly.
Maria’s mouth tightens. “You okay?”
“Yep.”
The door opens on Logan in sweats and a faded Briar shirt, hair a mess, controller in one hand, expression halfway to annoyed until he sees her. Everything drops out of his face.
He says her name once, startled and low, and then, “What the fuck happened?”
The room behind him seems to quiet in stages. Maybe because of his voice. Maybe because she’s standing on the porch looking like an ED discharge summary with legs.
She becomes suddenly, viciously aware of herself: the bruising already shadowing beneath her eyes, the swollen bridge of her nose, the blood dried under it despite Maria helping her clean up, the split lip, the hoodie zipped crooked because raising her shoulder hurts. She hadn’t thought much about how she looked in the car because looking required mirrors and mirrors required courage she didn’t currently possess.
Then Garrett appears behind Logan, and the whole night rearranges itself around the look on his face. He must have been in the living room. His hair’s damp at the edges like he showered not long ago, curls loose over his forehead, sweatpants low on his hips, a dark t-shirt pulled tight across his shoulders.
He steps into the doorway with his mouth already forming some question, probably a chirp, probably something warm and annoying about why she’s showing up with supervision. He sees her, and all the colour leaves his face, as if something has reached into him and taken it by the roots.
His eyes move over her once, too fast and not fast enough. Nose. Mouth. Bruises. Hoodie. The stiff way she’s holding her shoulder. Maria beside her with the bag and the paperwork. Back to her face, where his attention catches and stays.
She tries to smile. It’s a mistake immediately. Pain sparks through her lip, and she winces instead, which feels like the saddest possible version of flirting. “Hi,” she says.
Garrett doesn’t answer.
Logan steps back at once. “Jesus. Come in. Fuck. Come in.”
Warmth and sound and the smell of boys and pizza and laundry detergent roll over her as she steps into the house. The living room lights make her eyes sting. Dean and Tucker are on the couch, controllers in hand, the TV paused mid-game like they’ve both forgotten the concept of winning. Dean’s mouth opens. Tucker’s face changes quietly, which somehow feels worse.
“Holy fuck,” Dean half-yells.
The words hit too loud. She flinches before she can make herself not do it.
Tucker moves instantly. “Dean, get the lights, man.”
“What? Oh. Shit, yeah.” Dean scrambles for the lamp with the guilty urgency of a man who’s suddenly remembered inside voices exist. The room drops into a dimmer yellow, the overhead going off, the TV brightness turned down under Tucker’s quick hand. It changes the whole house at once, softens the edges, takes the blade out of the light.
Maria watches all of it with a look that would be approving if she weren’t still too professional to be obvious about it.
“She’s had a head injury,” she says, voice calm, eyes moving to Garrett because everyone’s eyes move to Garrett, because this is his house and not-his-girlfriend has arrived at his door concussed and bleeding. “Mild concussion. X-ray was clear, no nasal fracture, but she needs monitoring overnight. No alcohol, no driving, no being alone. Keep the lights low, noise down. She can sleep, but someone needs to check on her as per the discharge instructions. If she starts vomiting, gets more confused, can’t be woken, worsening headache, vision changes, weakness, anything that feels off, take her back in.”
Garrett nods slowly. He’s still staring at her.
Logan, maybe because Garrett looks like he’s briefly lost access to language, reaches out and takes the paperwork from Maria. “Yeah. We’ve got it.”
Maria turns back to her, and her face softens in that way that makes the back of her throat go tight. “I’ll see you in a couple days, honey. Not tomorrow. Rest tomorrow.”
She nods carefully. Even that tiny motion makes pressure throb through her skull. “Thanks for driving me.”
“Text me when you wake up.” Maria’s eyes flick toward Garrett again. “And listen to them for once.”
That almost makes her smile. She resists, heroically. “No promises.”
Maria gives her shoulder the gentlest squeeze, nowhere near the painful side, then lets herself out. Logan closes the door softly behind her, like the whole house has been put on medical quiet time.
For half a second, nobody moves. Then Dean says, much quieter this time, “Who the fuck did that?”
She lets out a breath that doesn’t quite make it to a laugh. “Hi to you too.”
Dean’s on his feet now, controller abandoned on the couch, all his usual lazy beauty sharpened into something pissed and bright. “I’m serious.”
“I know.” Her head’s beginning to pound harder now that she’s standing still. The adrenaline from getting out of the car, climbing the steps, seeing Garrett’s face, all of it drains down through her body and leaves her feeling oddly hollow.
Garrett notices, his hand comes to her elbow, barely touching at first like he’s afraid pressure might break something. The warmth of him lands through the hoodie and her body, traitorous and exhausted, turns toward it before her pride has any say.
She steps into him. She leans forward and presses her forehead against his chest because the angle is the only one that doesn’t put pressure on her nose, one hand curling weakly in the soft fabric of his shirt.
Garrett tenses under her for a fraction of a second, like seeing her had knocked him out of himself and her touching him is what pulls him back in wrong. Then his arms come around her.
Careful. So careful it almost makes her cry. One hand settles at the back of her head without pressing, fingers spread wide over her hair, the other around her waist, holding her there with a gentleness that feels nothing like the boy who body checks men into boards for sport and everything like the one who once took her UGGs off because outside shoes didn’t belong in bed.
She closes her eyes, just for a second. Garrett’s voice, when it finally comes, is rough enough that she feels it against her cheek. “Baby.”
“I’m okay,” she says into his shirt, because she’s decided to start lying as a hobby.
His hand flexes once at her waist. “You’re bleeding.”
“I’m not actively dying.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
She manages a weak shrug. “Clinically significant distinction.”
Logan exhales behind them, shaky in a way he probably wishes nobody noticed. Tucker moves around them quietly, collecting controllers, turning the game off properly, lowering the TV volume until the room becomes mostly the hum of the refrigerator and distant campus noise through the windows. Dean’s still standing there looking like he needs something to hit and has, unfortunately for everyone, found only furniture.
Garrett pulls back enough to look at her, but not far enough that she loses him. His eyes scan her face again, slower now. It’s almost worse than the pain. The way his gaze catches on the swollen bridge of her nose, the blood at one nostril, the split in her lower lip. He looks wrecked by it. Offended, almost, like her body has done something behind his back.
“Come sit down,” he says.
She wants to make a joke about his captain voice. She really does. It’s right there, familiar and easy. Unfortunately, her brain loses the sentence halfway through assembling it, and by the time she finds a piece of it, Garrett’s already guiding her to the couch.
Dean moves a cushion out of the way. Tucker places another behind her back. Logan stands nearby with the paperwork in one hand, reading it with a frown so intense it looks like he’s preparing for finals in head trauma.
They all shift around her with this strange, quiet purpose that makes her chest feel too full and her face feel too sore to hold whatever expression she wants. Garrett crouches in front of her and reaches for her sneakers.
She blinks down at him. “What are you doing?”
His mouth barely moves. “Taking your shoes off.”
“I can take my shoes off.”
He looks up at her, and there is something in his face so taut and helpless that the argument falls apart in her lap. “Can you let me?”
Oh. That’s not fair. That’s wildly not fair.
She swallows and looks away first. “Yeah.”
Garrett unties her sneakers one at a time, slow with the laces, careful of the way moving her leg pulls faintly at her shoulder. He sets them neatly beside the coffee table. When her feet are free, she curls her legs up onto the couch without thinking, tucking herself sideways into the cushions because upright feels like an idea designed by people whose skulls are not currently full of angry bees.
Garrett’s hand hovers near her knee, then settles there. “Did you want water?”
She nods, then instantly regrets the movement. Pain washes across her forehead, hot and thick. Her eyes squeeze shut. “Ow. Fuck. Yes, please.”
Garrett rises. Her hand moves before she decides to move it, fingers catching the loose fabric of his sweatpants at the thigh, barely enough to stop him if he wanted to go. But he does stop. Immediately. She opens her eyes. Garrett’s looking down at her hand on him. Then he looks at Logan.
Logan’s already moving. “I’ve got it.”
Garrett sits beside her instead. He does it carefully, couch dipping with his weight, his thigh warm along the outside of her curled legs. He doesn’t crowd her face. Doesn’t pull her in too fast. Simply sits close enough that she can feel him there, his hand returning to her knee, thumb still because even his restless touching has gone cautious.
Dean hasn’t let the original point go. He sits on the edge of the coffee table across from her, elbows on his knees, all dramatic cheekbones and very real anger. “No, seriously. Who the fuck did this?”
She opens her mouth. The first answer is too long and falls apart before she can get to it. Her head gives one hard pulse. She shuts her eyes briefly, tries again. “A patient.”
Dean stares at her. “A patient did this to your face?”
“He was really agitated,” she explains as Logan comes back with water. He hands it to Garrett, not her, which would be annoying if her hands didn’t feel vaguely unreliable. “It escalated. He didn’t mean it.”
Dean’s expression says that this isn’t helping his blood pressure. “He didn’t mean it.”
“No.” She lets Garrett pass her the glass, taking it with both hands because one feels optimistic. The cold of it is nice against her palms. Her lip stings when she drinks, water catching briefly at the split, but her throat is dry enough that she keeps going anyway. “He was out of it. Psych presentation. It wasn’t– nobody did anything wrong.”
Tucker returns from the kitchen with an ice pack wrapped in a tea towel and offers it out with both hands like a peace treaty. “For your face. Or your shoulder. Or… wherever. I don’t know. I’m not the medical one.”
She takes it and immediately loves him a little for the towel. “Thanks, Tuck.”
Logan, reading from the discharge sheet now, says, “It says shoulder strain?”
“Logan.”
“What? It does.”
“Stop reading my lore out loud,” she huffs.
Dean gives her a look. “Your lore says shoulder strain and concussion.”
She lets her eyes close for a moment. “My lore is private.”
“Your lore showed up bleeding on our porch.”
She would like to laugh. She really would. Instead, the corner of her mouth twitches, pain bites through her lip, and her eyes water instantly. “Ow. God. That’s so annoying.”
Garrett’s hand comes up, stops short of her face. His fingers curl in midair before he lets them drop. “Your lip’s split and you’ve still got dried blood under your nose, baby.”
The baby does something terrible to her. It always does, but right now it’s worse because his voice is stripped down to the bone. He’s looking at her like he’s trying to keep himself from shaking by cataloguing every visible injury.
She shrugs with one shoulder and immediately regrets that too. Pain tugs from the side of her neck down into the joint, sharp enough that her breath catches.
Garrett sees it. His jaw flexes. “Don’t shrug.”
“I forgot.”
“How do you forget your shoulder hurts?”
“Concussion,” she says, because if everyone else gets to use it as an explanation, so does she. “It looks worse than it is. Promise. I’m just drained. And foggy. I keep losing my train of thought, which is the rudest symptom. Like, I was mid-sentence with Dr. Patel and just fully misplaced the rest of it.”
Tucker’s mouth softens. “That sounds scary.”
She looks down at the glass in her hands. The condensation has started to wet her fingers. “Mostly annoying.”
She lifts the ice pack toward her face, but her shoulder protests halfway up and makes the movement jerky. Garrett catches the pack before she can pretend she meant to do that.
Her eyes flick to him. “I can hold an ice pack.”
“I know.” His voice is quieter now. He shifts closer, one knee turning toward her on the couch, the wrapped ice pack careful in his hand. “But how many times have you looked after me, huh?”
She has no good answer for that. Too many. Not enough. In locker room hallways, in his bed, on this exact couch with bruises over his ribs while he tried to convince her hockey was a sufficient medical explanation for all bodily damage. She’s pressed ice to his cheek and taped his fingers and made him take painkillers and once threatened to call Maria for backup if he said manageable one more time.
Garrett’s mouth moves faintly, not a smile, but close enough to hurt. “Let me.”
She lets him. Garrett lifts the ice pack to her face with a care that makes her throat tighten, angling it over the bridge of her nose and the swelling beginning to spread under one eye without pressing too hard.
The cold hurts first, a bright, mean sting over bruised skin, then settles into something almost relieving. Her breath comes out shaky despite her best efforts.
“Too much?” he asks.
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.” She shifts her gaze past him because his face is currently unmanageable. Dean and Tucker and Logan are all watching her with varying degrees of poorly concealed worry. Dean looks like he’s biting the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood. Logan still has the discharge paper. Tucker has both hands shoved into the pocket of his hoodie like he doesn’t trust them not to hover. “What?”
Dean blinks. “What?”
“You guys look like this every week and I don’t stare at you.”
Logan snorts, but it comes out thin. “That’s because we’re hot when we’re bruised.”
She manages an eye roll, which is a win. “You’re concussed half the time and deeply irritating the other half.”
“Range,” Dean says automatically.
She points weakly toward the TV with the hand not holding her water. “Relax. Go back to your video games.”
Tucker’s brows pull together. “No, but– but it’s different.”
Her eyes move to him.
He looks briefly embarrassed, then pushes through it anyway. “It’s you.”
Her chest does that awful thing again, too soft and too sore at the same time. She looks down because taking that directly from Tucker feels unfairly intimate, like he’s handed her something warm without warning.
“I’m okay,” she says, and it’s not entirely true, but she tries to make it sound close enough. “Really. I was observed. I had neuro obs. I had scans. No fracture. Nothing’s broken. Just bruised and concussed and mildly tragic.”
“Mildly?” Dean asks.
“Moderately if you keep fucking yelling.”
His face changes instantly. “Sorry.”
The apology is so immediate that she almost smiles again and has to stop herself like a responsible person. “It’s okay.”
Garrett’s hand holding the ice pack is steady. His eyes have barely left her face, and the longer she sits there under that attention, the more she realises he still hasn’t really said anything. Not like Garrett. Not a joke, not an actual question, not one of the bossy little comments that usually lands him in trouble and somehow still gets her to drink water.
His silence has weight. It sits beside her on the couch, pressed into the careful line of his shoulders.
She turns her head just enough to look at him. “You’re being weird.”
His eyes flick to hers. “I’m not.”
“You are.”
His mouth presses together. For a second, he looks younger than he usually does. Less Briar captain, less untouchable campus landmark, more boy on a couch holding an ice pack to a girl’s swollen face with fear making a mess under his skin.
He swallows. “Do you want me to loosen your hair?”
The question is so small and practical that it nearly undoes her. Her hair is still claw-clipped from placement, half-fallen now, strands tugging at her scalp from where it got pulled in the scuffle and then shoved messily back while she was being assessed. She had forgotten about it until he said it, and now she can feel every tight little pull at the roots, all of it feeding into the headache sitting behind her eyes.
“Yes, please,” she says.
Garrett lowers the ice pack and hands it to Tucker without looking. Tucker takes it like an assistant in surgery. Garrett turns slightly toward her, one hand moving behind her head, not touching at first. “Tell me if it hurts.”
“It all hurts.”
His face does something awful.
She softens her voice. “I’ll tell you if it hurts more.”
“Okay.” His fingers find the clip carefully. He’s taken her hair down before, usually with far less medical purpose and far more smugness, but now every motion is slow, almost reverent. The clip gives, and the weight of her hair loosens down her back. The relief is immediate enough that her eyes flutter shut without permission.
Garrett catches that too. “Better?”
“Mhm.”
He combs the fallen strands away from the side of her face with his fingers, avoiding the swelling, avoiding the blood, avoiding every place that might make her flinch. His thumb brushes once near her temple, feather-light.
She opens her eyes and finds him looking at her. “I’m okay,” she says again, quieter this time. “Really.”
Garrett doesn’t argue. That might be worse. He only nods once and takes the ice pack back from Tucker, pressing it carefully to her face again.
For a while, the room adjusts around her. Dean sits back down, but he doesn’t pick up the controller. Tucker goes to the kitchen and returns with a straw for her water like a man who’s discovered a side quest and intends to complete it properly. Logan reads the discharge instructions twice, then starts setting alarms on his phone without announcing it, because subtlety, in this house, is sometimes just everyone pretending they cannot see love doing administrative tasks in sweatpants.
She drinks water through the straw because lifting the glass is annoying and because nobody makes a thing of it. Garrett keeps the ice pack steady. Every so often, he asks a question in a voice too even to be casual. Headache worse? Nausea? Vision okay? She answers as best she can. Same. Little bit. Yeah, mostly.
When Dean shifts too fast and the couch creaks, he freezes like he’s committed assault by upholstery. That makes her huff something dangerously close to a laugh, and Garrett immediately murmurs, “Careful,” like her face is now a team responsibility.
The fogginess comes in waves. Sometimes she’s fully in the room, tracking Dean’s quiet rage and Tucker’s gentle fussing and Logan’s forced calm. Sometimes the edges blur a little, slow, like her thoughts are moving through syrup. Garrett’s thigh is warm against her curled legs. His arm rests along the back of the couch behind her, a soft barrier between her and the world.
She leans into him by degrees until her shoulder touches his chest and her head tips carefully toward the place beneath his jaw that smells like soap and boy and safety.
She doesn’t mean to get sleepy. She has discharge instructions that say she can sleep, she knows that, but the idea of giving in with everyone watching feels embarrassing in a new, stupid direction. Still, her eyelids grow heavy. The headache spreads and dulls under the cold. The room is dim. The boys are quiet. Garrett is warm.
At some point, Dean says softly, “You want me to call Lucy or someone?”
She tries to answer. The name gets halfway through her head and then wanders off. “Tomorrow,” she murmurs.
“Okay,” Dean says, and for once there’s no joke attached.
Garrett shifts beside her. “Baby?”
She makes a small sound that could mean what or I’m alive or don’t make me move, depending on how generous he feels.
“You getting sleepy?”
“No.”
There’s a pause.
Logan says, very quietly, “That was the least convincing thing I’ve ever heard.”
She opens one eye to glare at him, but the room tilts slightly with the effort, so she closes it again. “Your face is least convincing.”
“Strong comeback.”
“Thank you.”
Garrett’s lips brush her hair. It’s quick, maybe accidental, except nothing Garrett does with her feels accidental anymore, no matter how hard both of them have tried to label it otherwise. “I’m gonna take you upstairs, okay?”
Her eyes open properly at that, or as properly as they can. “I can walk.”
“I know.”
“You keep saying that and then doing the thing for me anyway.”
His mouth curves faintly for the first time all night. It’s tiny and tired and painfully Garrett. “Yeah.”
She should argue. She’s built a respectable portion of this entire situationship on arguing with Garrett Graham while letting him do exactly what she wants him to do. But her shoulder aches, her face throbs, and her legs feel like they belong to somebody who’s spent the day being chased by weather.
More than that, she wants him. She wants his hands steady under her thighs, his chest close, his room dark and warm around them. She wants to stop being the student who got hurt and start being the girl Garrett carries upstairs because the floor feels too far away.
“Okay,” she whispers.
Dean looks at the TV like he’s never been interested in anything more. Tucker suddenly finds the water glass fascinating. Logan folds the discharge papers with great concentration. Nobody says a word.
Garrett slides one arm behind her back and the other beneath her knees with the same careful strength he uses for everything he takes seriously. “Shoulder?”
“Fine.”
His eyes flick to hers.
“Not worse,” she corrects.
He nods once and lifts her.
It does hurt, a little. Her shoulder pulls, her head pulses, and the movement makes nausea roll faintly through her stomach. But Garrett holds her so close and so steadily that the discomfort never gets sharp enough to scare her. Her hand curls in the front of his shirt, her face turning carefully toward his neck because pressing into his chest would bump her nose and she’s learned at least one thing tonight.
Dean’s voice follows them, low and rough from the couch. “G.”
Garrett stops at the foot of the stairs but doesn’t turn fully, like turning her too much might hurt.
Dean’s eyes move over her once, then to Garrett. Whatever he’d been about to say gets swallowed down and changed into something smaller. “We’re downstairs if you need anything.”
Garrett’s hold tightens by a fraction. “Yeah.”
Tucker adds, “I’ll bring up more ice in a bit.”
“And meds when she’s due,” Logan says, lifting the papers slightly.
She wants to tell them they’re all being ridiculous. She wants to say she’s fine, to make some joke about the Briar hockey team turning into a poorly licensed urgent care clinic. But her throat feels thick, and her eyes sting in a way that has nothing to do with the swelling, and for once the joke doesn’t come quickly enough to save her from feeling it.
So she only says, “Thanks, guys.”
Dean nods, jaw tight. Tucker gives her a small, worried smile. Logan says, “Anytime,” like he means it and hates that there’s a reason to.
Garrett carries her upstairs slowly. The stairwell is dim, the house clutter softened into shadows: a hoodie over the railing, someone’s shoes kicked near the landing, a dent in the wall nobody has confessed to making.
His breathing is steady beneath her ear. His arms don’t shift, don’t tremble, don’t let her feel for one second like she’s heavy or inconvenient or anything other than something he’s decided belongs safely against him.
Halfway up, she murmurs, “Garrett?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re still being weird.”
This time, his breath leaves him in something almost like a laugh. It brushes warm over her hair. “Yeah, baby,” he says, voice low enough that it belongs only to the stairs and the dark and the careful space between them. “I know.”
His room is already dim when he gets there, like he’d been in it before everything happened and left the lamp on low beside the bed, the shade turning the walls a warm, soft yellow that doesn’t stab behind her eyes.
The window is cracked just enough to let in a thin line of cold air, shifting the edge of the curtain and carrying in the far-off sound of campus on a weeknight, car doors and laughter and somebody shouting down the street like the world has not personally offended her face.
Garrett nudges the door open with his shoulder and steps inside carefully, like the room might have developed hazards in the ten minutes since he last saw it. One of his hoodies is thrown over the desk chair. There’s a textbook facedown on the bed that he must have been pretending to read earlier, a roll of hockey tape on the nightstand, his phone charger twisted into a knot on the floor.
The ordinary mess of him sits around them so gently that it makes something behind her ribs go weak. His room. His bed. His detergent and the clean soap smell of his skin under the faint cold of the hallway.
For the first time since the bay, since the rail, since the white burst of pain and Maria’s hand firm between her shoulder blades, her body seems to understand that it’s stopped moving.
Garrett lowers her onto the edge of the mattress with so much care it almost becomes annoying. One arm stays behind her back until she’s properly sitting, the other at her knees, and even after he lets go he keeps his hands there for a second, hovering near her like he’s not fully convinced gravity has been handled.
She blinks down at him because he’s crouched in front of her now, broad shoulders between her knees, face tipped up, eyes moving over her again with that same awful, quiet attention.
She can feel what he’s seeing before he says anything. The blood dried tight beneath her nose. The swelling already darkening around the bridge of it. The split in her lip, tacky and sore. Mascara smudged under both eyes from the crying she doesn’t remember allowing herself to do properly, only the wetness and the sting and Maria saying, breathe for me, honey, nice and slow.
Garrett swallows. His hands rest lightly on her calves, thumbs still. “Did you want to wipe your face?” he asks, voice careful. “You’ve got, uh…” His eyes flick down, then back up, and his mouth tightens around something he doesn’t let out. “Some mascara under your eyes. And some blood still.”
She knows he’s trying very hard not to sound like the sight of it is putting his organs in the wrong order. She loves him a little for the effort, which is a thought she cannot touch right now because her brain is concussed and reckless and clearly looking for loaded weapons.
She nods once, then immediately remembers that nodding is no longer a neutral activity. The headache flares behind her eyes, thick and punishing. “Ow,” she says, small and irritated.
Garrett’s hands tighten on her legs. “Hey.”
“I’m good.” Her tongue touches the split in her lip and she tastes metal again. “Can you?”
His face changes. Barely. A little fracture through the tight worry, something softer underneath it. “Course.”
He stands, and the second his hands leave her, her body reacts before her mind catches up. Her fingers snag in the hem of his t-shirt, clumsy and sudden, and the movement pulls through her bad shoulder so sharply that a soft, wounded sound slips out of her before she can bite it down.
Garrett freezes instantly. Entire body going still. “Hey. Hey, you’re good.” He turns back toward her, one hand coming carefully to her wrist, covering her fingers where they’re twisted in his shirt. “I’m just going to the hallway, yeah? Bathroom’s right there. Two seconds.”
She knows that. Obviously she knows that. She’s been in this house enough times to know the bathroom is six steps from his door and usually contains at least one towel on the floor and Dean’s body wash in a place where it doesn’t belong. She knows Garrett’s not leaving. She knows the door is open, the house is full, Logan’s downstairs reading concussion instructions like the exam is tomorrow.
Still, her fingers don’t let go right away.
Her head hurts. Her mouth hurts. Her shoulder is a hot, sharp line down one side of her body. And the small, rational part of her brain that usually handles dignity and sarcasm is sitting in a dark room somewhere with a blanket over its head, because all she can think is that she wants him where she can reach him.
Garrett’s thumb moves once over her knuckles. “I’ll keep the door open.”
She nods more carefully this time. “Okay.”
He waits until her fingers loosen, then steps backward instead of turning right away, eyes on her the whole time. It would be funny, maybe, if it didn’t work. If she didn’t feel her ribs unclench slightly because she can still see him, because he backs into the hallway like she’s a wild animal he’s trying not to spook and not a nursing student with blood under her nose and one of his sleeves somewhere in her fist.
He disappears only when he reaches the bathroom, and even then he keeps talking. “Still here,” he says, and the water starts a second later, soft against porcelain. “Just getting a washcloth.”
“I know,” she calls back, then winces because even her own voice feels too loud inside her skull.
Garrett comes back with the washcloth damp and folded in one hand. His other hand shuts the door halfway, enough to soften the rest of the house into a distant murmur. The mattress dips when he sits beside her, turned toward her with one knee bent on the bed.
He smells like clean skin and laundry and something faintly sweet from the kitchen downstairs, and she has to swallow around the childish, humiliating urge to press her face into his chest and stay there until her body stops feeling like it has been borrowed from a car crash.
“Here we go,” he says.
The cloth touches just beneath her eye first.
She stiffens on instinct, because everything has hurt tonight and her body is no longer trusting innocent objects, but Garrett pauses immediately. “Too cold?”
“No.” Her voice comes out thinner than she likes. “Just surprised.”
“Okay.” His face stays close, intent in a way that would normally make her flustered for more interesting reasons. “I’ll go slow.”
He does. He wipes the smudged mascara from beneath one eye with feather-light strokes, the washcloth barely dragging over skin, then folds it to a clean corner and does the other side. He works like he has been given something fragile and a little dangerous. Like every movement is being negotiated with the injuries on her face and the dull heaviness behind her eyes.
His jaw flexes when the cloth comes away grey-black with makeup and faintly pink with old blood, but he doesn’t comment. He only turns it again and brings it to the place under her nose.
“That might hurt,” he murmurs.
“It already hurts.”
His eyes lift to hers. “Yeah.”
She looks down at his wrist, at the veins there, at the old tape mark near his thumb, at the little scrape over one knuckle from practice or a game or some Garrett-related misuse of his own body. Usually she would notice and ask. Usually she would press her thumb near it and say, what’s this? and he would say, nothing, and she would call him annoying and make him let her look anyway.
Tonight she just watches his hand hold the cloth and lets him clean the blood away. The dried parts tug where they have hardened on her skin, and she sucks in a breath through her mouth when the washcloth brushes too close to the swelling at the bridge of her nose.
Garrett stops every time, waits for the little movement of her fingers in his shirt to settle, then continues. He wipes around the split in her lip last, his mouth flattening when fresh blood beads at the edge.
“You’re gonna bruise like hell,” he says, almost to himself.
She tries not to smile. It becomes a tiny, crooked thing anyway and immediately hurts. “Hot.”
His eyes flick back to hers, and for the first time since she arrived, something almost like Garrett moves across his face. Small. Tired. There and gone. “Yeah, baby. Real intimidating.”
“Good. I’ve always wanted to look tough.”
“You already look tough.”
“That’s because you have questionable standards.”
“No,” he says, and the softness in it makes her look away first. “I don’t.”
The room goes quiet except for the dull throb of the house underneath them, the creak of something downstairs, Logan or Dean moving around, the low murmur of the boys trying and failing not to sound worried through the floor. Garrett folds the washcloth over itself and sets it on the nightstand, then looks down at the rest of her.
The hoodie Maria put on her is zipped to her collarbone, dark fabric stained rusty near the cuff where she must have touched her face. Her scrub pants are still on, wrinkled and creased from the shift, one knee smudged faintly with something she refuses to identify. There is a hospital sticker on her shoe that nobody noticed until now, bright and stupid and stuck to the edge of the sole.
Garrett’s gaze catches on the blood at her sleeve. “You want out of these scrub pants?” he asks quietly. “And your hoodie has blood on it, baby.”
She looks down, as if this is new information. Her brain takes a second to make sense of the stain. “Oh.”
“It’s okay.”
“Yeah,” she says after a moment. Then, because the word seems to have scraped something loose on the way out, she adds, “Sorry.”
Garrett’s head lifts. “Why the fuck are you sorry?”
The sharpness of it makes her blink. He says it too quietly, all the force held under his tongue. But it lands somewhere tender anyway. She presses her lips together and immediately regrets that too. “Ow.”
Garrett’s expression softens, but his eyes stay fixed on her. Waiting.
She sighs, and it comes out shaky enough that she would like to file a formal complaint with her nervous system. “Because you…” The thought keeps slipping. She can see it, vaguely, but reaching for it makes her head pulse harder. “You didn’t sign up for this. I should’ve gotten Lucy or Monique. Or stayed with Maria, or– I don’t know.”
“No.” Garrett shakes his head once, and then stops himself, like maybe he’s remembered that head movement isn’t anyone’s friend right now. His hand comes to the side of her face, careful of the bruising, thumb brushing just below her temple where the skin is untouched. “Don’t do that.”
“I’m not doing anything.”
“You’re apologising for coming here.”
Her throat tightens. She looks at his shoulder because his face is too close and too much and still not close enough. “I just didn’t want you to feel like you had to.”
“Had to what?”
“Look after me.”
For a second, he only stares at her. Then he exhales through his nose, rough and almost disbelieving, and his fingers slide into her hair at the side of her head, holding it back from her face like the gesture can stand in for all the things he’s trying not to say too fast or wrong. “You think I’m sitting here because I feel obligated?”
She has the very strong, very pathetic urge to cry, which is inconvenient because crying would involve her face. “I don’t know.”
“Baby.”
She closes her eyes.
“Hey.” His thumb moves once. “Look at me.”
She does, reluctantly, because Garrett’s voice has gone into that low place that usually gets him what he wants and because her resistance is currently running on fumes.
His face is steadier now. Still pale underneath the warm lamplight, still tight around the edges, but steady in the places he’s offering to her. “I want you here.”
Her breath catches around something that hurts in a completely separate way from her nose. “Are we…” She stops, partly because the sentence is embarrassing and partly because she loses the middle of it for a second. The fog rolls in, cottony and irritating. She blinks, and Garrett waits. He doesn’t hurry her. Doesn’t fill the gap with a joke. Just keeps his hand at her face until she finds the rest. “Are we okay?”
His expression breaks so gently it makes her chest ache. “Course we are.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” He brushes her hair back again, knuckles barely grazing the side of her neck. “We’re okay.”
She nods carefully. A tiny movement. “Good.”
Garrett’s mouth lifts at one corner, soft and sad and warm all at once. “Good?”
“Yeah.” Her fingers curl in his shirt again. This time, she doesn’t pull. “Because I really…” She swallows. Her throat is dry. Her head is thick. The truth comes out before she can dress it up in something safer. “I just wanted you.”
Something in him goes still. A held breath somewhere in the centre of him, then he nods, and the smile that comes with it is small enough that it feels private, even with the door half open and the boys downstairs and the whole house softly rearranged around her injury. “I know the feeling.”
She sniffs, because her body is committed to making the worst possible choices, and pain snaps up through her nose so sharply her eyes water. “Ow. Fuck.” She presses two fingers near the side of her face. “You do?”
Garrett’s smile shifts. “You want me to say it again while you look like you’re about to sneeze blood?”
“Maybe.”
“I know the feeling,” he says, and this time he doesn’t look away. “Because who better to nurse me back to health than you, huh?”
The laugh that escapes her is tiny and breathless and immediately followed by a wince, but it’s real. “I’m not even good at it today.”
“That’s okay.” He leans in and kisses the top of her head, nowhere near the bruising, lips warm against her hair. “I’ll cover this one.”
He gets up slowly this time, one hand staying in hers until the last possible second, then moves to his dresser. She watches him pull open drawers.
He finds a pair of grey sweatpants first, soft and old and definitely his, then a zip-up hoodie because it will not need to go over her head. She can see the moment he chooses it for that reason. The little pause, the glance back at her shoulder, the jaw tight enough to tell on him.
When he comes back, the clothes folded over his arm, he crouches in front of her again. “Alright. We’ll do this slow, okay?”
She nods, then corrects it into a verbal answer before her head can punish her. “Okay.”
“Pants first.”
“Romantic.”
His mouth twitches. “I’m known for it.”
He helps her stand only as much as she needs, one hand at her good elbow, the other at her waist. The room sways faintly when she gets upright, unpleasantly loose at the edges, and Garrett’s hand firms at once. “Dizzy?”
“Little bit.”
“Sit?”
“No, I’m good. Just…” She looks down at the drawstring of her scrub pants, then at him. “This is a very low dignity moment for me.”
Garrett’s gaze flicks up, and there it is again, the smallest spark of him through the worry. “Baby, you’ve fallen asleep drooling on my chest after telling me I had slutty veins.”
She frowns. “I said that?”
“You did.”
“That does sound like me,” she accepts.
“Exactly. Dignity’s been dead.”
She huffs, almost laughing, and he helps ease the scrub pants down her legs without making a production of it. Nothing in his face changes in the way that would make her feel watched, despite the fact that he’s, technically, undressing her in his bedroom.
His touch stays practical, warm, almost painfully respectful. He holds the sweatpants open for her one leg at a time, keeps a hand at her hip while she steps in, then draws them up slowly over her thighs.
They’re too big, of course. They sit low on her hips and pool at her ankles in a way that would be funny if everything didn’t hurt. Garrett ties the drawstring in a loose knot and pats it once.
“There,” he says. “Very fashionable.”
“Shut up. I’m concussed.”
“I know. That’s why I’m letting you get away with that tone.”
Her mouth threatens a smile, so she bites it back and looks down at herself instead. The hoodie is next. Garrett reaches for the zipper, then stops. “Where’s the top?”
She blinks at him. “What?”
“Your scrub top.” His voice stays even, but not naturally.
Her mind searches the department and comes back with torn fabric, scissors, someone’s gloved hands. “Um.” She rubs her fingers against the seam of his sweatpants, trying to make the thought stay still long enough to look at it. “Um. Bag. Maybe. They had to cut it off, I think.”
Garrett’s jaw tenses. It’s quick. A muscle jumping once, his mouth going flat, his eyes dropping away from her face for half a second like he needs to put the reaction somewhere she can’t see it. But she sees it anyway. She’s concussed, not blind.
When he looks back up, he’s forced something lighter onto his face. It’s not quite convincing, but the attempt is so Garrett it makes her ache.
“Damn,” he says. “Liked that pair.”
She stares at him. “Pair?”
“Set. Outfit. Whatever.” He lifts one shoulder, careful to keep his voice mild. “Made your ass look great.”
The giggle escapes before she can stop it. Immediately, pain blooms across her lip and nose, and she presses her fingers to her mouth with a muffled, “Ow. Don’t flirt with the concussed.”
Garrett’s smile is barely there, but warmer this time. “Can’t help it.”
“You should try.”
“I’ve been trying for months. Terrible at it.”
That one sits in the room longer than it should. Her eyes lift to his, and for a second, neither of them moves. Then Garrett clears his throat softly and reaches for the zipper of her hoodie.
“This one’s gonna suck,” he says. “I’m sorry.”
That’s somehow worse than if he had lied. “Okay.”
He unzips the bloodstained hoodie slowly, easing one side down her good arm first. That part is fine, or close enough. The bad shoulder is different. Even with the zip-up, even with him going painfully slowly, the fabric drags over the sore joint and catches near her elbow, and the strain of lifting even a fraction sends pain snapping hot and deep through her shoulder and up the side of her neck.
She makes a sound she hates. Small and broken enough that Garrett’s whole face changes.
“Stop, stop, stop,” he murmurs immediately. His hands freeze, one holding the fabric, the other at her waist. “I’ve got it. You’re okay. Don’t move.”
Her eyes burn fast. Too fast. The pain isn’t even the worst she has felt tonight, which somehow makes crying more insulting, like her body has chosen this as the point to become unreasonable. A few tears slip out anyway, hot and humiliating over her swollen cheeks.
“Sorry,” she whispers.
Garrett’s eyes flash. “Do not.”
“I know. I know, I’m just–” Her breath catches in that horrible little pre-sob way, and her face hurts too much to do anything with it. “It hurts.”
“I know.” His voice drops, low and steady. He shifts closer, bracing her gently with his own body while he works the sleeve down by tiny increments. “I know. I’m sorry. Almost done. There you go. Good girl. That’s it.”
The praise lands somewhere stupid and warm under all the pain, and she would make fun of him for weaponising it if she were not currently trying not to cry into his shirt. The hoodie finally comes free, and Garrett gets his zip-up around her without making her lift her arm higher than necessary, guiding the sore side in first, then the other, then drawing the soft fabric closed around her body. It smells like him immediately. Clean laundry, cold rink air, skin.
The relief of being out of the hospital clothes hits harder than she expects. She folds forward into him.
Garrett catches her like he has been waiting for it, one arm firm around her waist, the other cradling the back of her head before she can tip into the wrong angle. “There we go,” he murmurs into her hair. “Got you.”
She nods against him, but it’s barely a movement. “Hurts.”
“I know, baby.”
“I’m being a baby.”
“No.” His hand spreads over her back, broad and warm through the hoodie. “You’re being concussed with a fucked-up shoulder.”
She breathes against him for another minute, letting the warmth of him settle over the sharper edges. His heart is steady under her cheek. Or maybe it isn’t. Maybe that’s just what she needs it to be. Either way, his arms stay around her until her breathing evens out, until the tears stop sliding hot under her eyes, until she can pull back without feeling like she might tip sideways into the nightstand.
Garrett helps her lie down against his pillows. He has her on her back at first, then adjusts when she makes a face, turning her slightly onto her good side with slow hands and a pillow tucked near her shoulder so it isn’t pulling strangely. He moves like he’s learning her injury as he goes, like the map of her pain matters enough to memorise. It makes something soft and sore press up behind her ribs.
When he climbs in beside her, he doesn’t pull her in immediately. He waits, lying on his side facing her, one arm bent under his head, the other resting near the blanket between them. Giving her space to decide how much contact feels possible. Which is very considerate of him and also deeply annoying because she has no interest in space.
She curls into him as best she can, awkwardly, her bad shoulder protected between them, her forehead carefully finding the safe hollow below his collarbone. Garrett lets out a breath that sounds like he has been holding it since the front door.
“There,” he says softly. “That okay?”
“Mhm.”
His hand comes to her hair again. Fingers sliding slowly from her temple back over her scalp, loosening what the clip and the shift and the panic left behind. The motion sends a dull, pleasant ache through her, somewhere under the headache, a different kind of heaviness.
She sighs before she can stop herself. “Feels nice.”
Garrett’s thumb moves near her hairline. “I’ll keep doing it then.”
She lets her eyes close.
For a while, the room stays still around them. The lamp glows behind her eyelids. The house below makes small, careful sounds, a cabinet closing softly, footsteps pausing in the hallway and then retreating, the quiet evidence of three hockey players trying very hard to be normal about the girl in Garrett’s bed with a concussion.
Her head throbs anyway, steady and deep. Her lip pulses. Her shoulder aches in its own miserable rhythm. But Garrett’s hand keeps moving through her hair, slow enough that her breathing starts to follow it.
She’s almost asleep, or something near it, when Garrett speaks. “What happened?”
His voice is quiet. He asks like he’s been holding the question in both hands for too long and needs to set it somewhere.
She opens her eyes to the dark cotton of his shirt. Her brain takes a few seconds to come back online. She breathes out slowly through her mouth because her nose is still a disaster.
The memory is there at once, too close and too bright around the edges, and her body reacts to it before the words arrive. Fingers curling lightly in the front of his shirt. Shoulder tightening, then complaining. The ghost of the rail coming up fast.
Garrett’s hand pauses in her hair. “You don’t have to.”
“No.” Her voice is quiet. “It’s okay.”
He starts moving his hand again, slower now.
“It was a psych patient,” she says. “He was really agitated. Not like… violent, at first. Just scared, I think. Curled in on himself, wouldn’t really let anyone near him. Maria was with me. We were trying to keep the room calm, but the ED was so busy and loud and everyone was stretched thin, and he just…” She stops, trying to find the order of it. Everything feels slippery when she looks too directly. “He lashed out. His elbow got me in the face. Accidentally, I think.”
Garrett’s chest goes very still under her cheek.
“And I cried out,” she continues. “I don’t know. It just hurt and it surprised me, and I think that freaked him out more. Or the noise did. Or maybe he just didn’t know what was happening.” She swallows. Her throat feels raw. “He grabbed my scrub top before I could move back. Pulled me forward. My nose hit the bed rail. Or my mouth did. I’m not sure. It happened really fast.”
Garrett’s arm tightens around her, then loosens immediately like he’s afraid of hurting her. His hand remains in her hair, but the fingers have gone still.
“Security came in,” she says. “Another nurse pulled me back. Steph, I think. Or maybe Maria. Both, maybe. I don’t know. I remember Maria saying my name a lot.” She looks down between them, though there is nothing to see but the dark fold of his shirt and the edge of his hoodie on her body. “He didn’t mean it.”
Garrett is quiet for long enough that she starts to wonder if he has stopped breathing.
Then he says, “You keep saying that.”
“He didn’t.”
“I know.” His voice is rough, scraped thin at the edges. “I know he didn’t, baby. I just…” He takes a breath. It moves carefully through his chest. “You got hurt anyway.”
The words land with the same awful simplicity as Maria’s had in the car. That doesn’t mean you didn’t get hurt. She closes her eyes, because everyone has decided to be kind in the exact way she cannot defend against.
“I know,” she whispers.
Garrett’s hand finally moves again, fingers sliding over her scalp, then down to the nape of her neck where he can touch without brushing bruised skin. “Is this how you feel?”
She opens her eyes. “What?”
“When I come home after a game all bruised and shit.” He shifts just enough that she can feel him looking down at her, though she doesn’t lift her head to meet it yet. “Is this what it feels like?”
A tiny breath leaves her. Not quite a laugh. More tired than that. “You mean do I also go weird and silent and look like I might throw up?”
“Yeah.”
“Then yeah.” Her fingers smooth over the fabric of his shirt because she needs something small to do. “Kind of, I guess.”
Garrett doesn’t answer.
She turns her face slightly, enough to look at the line of his jaw in the low light. He’s staring at the wall beyond her head, mouth set, brows drawn, hair falling messily over his forehead. He looks angry and young and helpless, which is such a strange combination on him that it makes her chest ache.
“It’s different,” she says softly. “You’re playing a game you love. You know the risks. I know that. And you guys are all… insane about pain, which I’ve accepted against my will.”
His mouth twitches without humour.
“But I don’t enjoy seeing you hurt.” Her voice goes quieter around the admission. “Even when it’s normal hockey hurt. Even when you’re smug about it and standing in the kitchen telling me it’s fine while your ribs look like someone used you as a doorstop. It still makes my stomach feel weird.”
Garrett’s eyes come down to her then. She tries to hold the look for a second and manages maybe half. His attention is too raw tonight. Too stripped of the things he usually wears over it.
“I know you’re tough,” she says, looking at his collar instead. “I know you can take it. I know half the time you think me worrying is funny or hot or both, because you have a very damaged sense of romance.”
“That’s fair.”
“But I still…” She frowns slightly, the thought losing shape, then finding it again. “I still hate it. Not because I think you’re weak. Because you’re not. Obviously. It’s just your body, you know? And I like your body.”
Garrett’s eyebrows lift faintly.
She narrows her eyes at him. “Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to become insufferable.”
“Maybe a little.”
“I have a concussion. Be kind.”
His face softens again, the almost-tease folding back into something warmer. “I’m being so kind.”
“You’re doing okay.”
“Glowing review.”
She breathes out through her mouth, and for a moment the room feels almost normal. Almost. Garrett’s hand in her hair. His chest under her cheek. The two of them managing to find the familiar shape of each other even through the bruising and the blood and the fear still sitting somewhere near the foot of the bed.
Then Garrett’s thumb brushes the side of her head again, light and careful, and his voice drops. “I hated seeing you like that.”
She looks at him this time.
He doesn’t look away. His eyes are dark in the low light, all the usual teasing stripped out of them. “At the door,” he says. “I hated it.”
“I know.”
“No, I don’t think you do.” His mouth tightens, then releases. “You were standing there with blood on your face and Maria next to you and you looked at me like you were sorry. Like I was gonna be upset that you came here.”
Her throat works. “I didn’t want to be too much.”
Garrett makes a sound under his breath, small and rough. “You got hurt.”
“Yeah.”
“You’re allowed to be too much.”
The sentence is so simple it feels dangerous. Her eyes sting again, and she presses her face carefully into his chest before the tears can do anything stupid to her already stupid face.
Garrett’s arm comes around her, careful of her shoulder, his hand settling between her shoulder blades where he can hold without hurting. “Especially here,” he murmurs into her hair. “Especially with me.”
She doesn’t answer. She can’t, really. Not without crying, and crying hurts, and she’s tired of things hurting. So she only curls her fingers more tightly in his shirt and lets him keep his hand in her hair.
After a while, she says, very quietly, “I’m really tired.”
“I know.” Garrett kisses the top of her head. “You can sleep.”
“Logan set alarms.”
“Of course Logan set alarms.”
She manages the faintest smile. “He looked very serious.”
“He loves a protocol.”
“He does have the head injury experience.”
Garrett huffs a soft laugh against her hair, the sound loosening something in the dark. “Unfortunately.”
She lets her eyes close again. The headache is still there. The bruising is still swelling around her nose, hot and heavy. Her shoulder still aches beneath his hoodie. None of it has gone away.
But Garrett’s fingers keep moving through her hair, and his body is warm where hers has gone cold and wrung out, and downstairs the boys are quiet in a way that makes the whole house feel like it is holding its breath around her.
“Garrett?”
“Yeah, baby?”
“If I say something weird, it’s the concussion.”
His hand pauses for half a second. “Okay.”
“And if I say something nice.”
His mouth brushes her hair. “Also concussion?”
“Probably.”
“Got it.”
She’s quiet long enough that he likely thinks she’s drifted off. Maybe she has, a little. The edge of sleep is soft and close, pulling at the corners of the room, blurring the pain into something thick and manageable. Then she murmurs, “You’re good at this.”
Garrett’s chest rises slowly beneath her cheek. “At what?”
“Looking after me.”
His fingers resume their movement through her hair, slower than before. “Yeah?”
“Mm.”
His voice, when it comes, is barely more than warmth in the dark. “Only because you taught me how.”
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“Ugh, I hate finals, remind me again why I need my degree?”
Garrett laughs from your bed, his hazel eyes looking up from his phone and finding you at your desk, papers and books strewn messily across the top.
“Baby, you’re pushing yourself too hard, come lay with me and take a break.”
You scoff. “Yeah, right, I don’t have time for that Garrett, I have to pass these exams or I can kiss the career I want goodbye.”
Swinging his legs over the side of your bed, Garrett stands, slowly making his way toward you. Your eyes look away from your papers and books and up at Garrett. The smile on his annoyingly handsome face makes you want to cave to his every request every time.
“Garrett…” you mumble, trying to put your focus back on your work, but his shirtless chest and abdomen are making it hard to focus on anything else.
His lips twitch up into a smile. “Am I distracting you, baby?”
You roll your eyes at the teasing tone in his voice. He knows how to break down all your walls, how to sneak his way into getting exactly what he wants, whenever he wants it.
It’s not that you don’t want to let Garrett help you relax, you just really need to focus.
But when Garrett’s hand runs over the length of your arm, making goosebumps rise on your skin, you know you’re five seconds away from caving.
Garrett’s large hands find your face, his index finger and thumb hooking under your chin and lifting your head, forcing your eyes on his.
“Take an hour long break, you’re not going to fail if you take pause for an hour.”
Letting out a resigned sigh, you allow him to grab your hand in his, gently pulling you into his chest. His arms wrap around you, squeezing tightly. He drops his lips to the top of your head, leaving a soft kiss there before he mumbles, “Go lay on your bed, pretty girl.”
You nod against his chest, pressing your lips to his warm, bare skin before pushing back and making your way to your bed.
Fluffing a few pillows, you lay flat on your back, your head resting on the comfortable pillows and closing your eyes, waiting on Garrett to do whatever it is he thinks will help you relax.
“Just turn your mind off, baby. Let me help you relax, okay?”
You do as he says, allowing your mind to turn off, relaxing into your mattress.
The feeling of Garrett’s fingers on your skin pulls a content sigh from you. He runs his fingers against the exposed skin of your stomach, running them down to the waistband of your tight biker shorts.
He slips his fingers into the waistband, slowly pulling them down your legs. You lift your hips, helping him glide them down past your ass, tossing them to the floor.
“That’s it, baby, just relax for me, okay?”
You bite your bottom lip, nodding your head as your glazed over eyes watch every single movement Garrett makes.
He climbs into the bed, his weight making your small twin size mattress creak.
Settling himself on his stomach, Garrett grabs both of your thighs in his large hands, spreading them so they’re open for him. He nestles himself between your thighs, his mouth pressing a firm but soft kiss to your panty covered clit.
“Fuck,” you breathe out, writhing beneath him already.
Garrett breathes out a small laugh, the warmth hitting the sensitive wet spot on your panties, making you shudder.
Your hands find his curly hair, fingers digging into the soft strands and pushing his head down, needing to feel the warmth of his mouth on your pussy.
“My girl’s needy.” Garrett rasps, one hand finding your tit and squeezing while the other slides your panties to the side, exposing your soaked cunt to him.
“Very needy, please, Garrett… I need you.”
Garrett groans, wasting no time to run the flat of his tongue through the folds of your pussy and up to your clit, tasting you.
A whimper falls from your lips when Garrett continues to lick long, calculated lines through your pussy. His lips suction around your clit, sucking on it hard. Your thighs tense, squeezing around Garrett’s head as he eats you as if you were his last meal.
One hand toys with your tits, his other coming down between your legs, finding your now soaked entrance. His middle and index fingers toy with you, pushing just the tips in and out slowly before finally pushing them in deep, curving them up slightly and toying with that sweet spot inside you.
Your eyes squeeze shut, a long, drawn out moan escaping you.
Garrett pulls back, his mouth glistening with your juices. “You’re being such a good girl for me, lying here and letting me take all the stress away.”
You whimper, your hips swaying, silently begging Garrett to keep going.
He chuckles, kissing your clit before trailing his lips on your inner thighs. He gently kisses up your thighs, reaching your knee and softly kissing there before he works his way back down, his fingers still slowly working in and out of you.
“Garrett… Please?” you whine, writhing and shaking beneath him.
“Tell me what you need, pretty girl.”
He kisses the inside of your thigh, teeth lightly nipping at the skin, his eyes never leaving yours as he does. You whimper.
“This?” he asks, kissing your thighs again, gently biting and sucking on the sensitive skin.
“Mmm-mnh.”
His eyes darken, his hips pushing into the mattress to help relieve some of the ache he’s feeling. He moves his lips down, pressing a soft kiss against your swollen clit.
“This?” he rasps, hazel eyes burning into yours.
Your eyes roll back at the feeling of his warm, wet lips on your swollen and sensitive clit, your head frantically nodding in agreement.
“Mmhmm.”
Garret growls, the sound deep and needy. His lips suction around your clit again, sucking on it harshly, his tongue flicking at the sensitive bundle of nerves every so often. The sounds of him slurping at your cunt coupled with the squelching noises your pussy makes as he quickly finger fucks you fill the air of your small room.
You let out a loud moan, thighs tensing around Garrett’s head, hips lifting up off the mattress as you come undone for him.
Garret doesn’t slow down, his tongue and mouth continue to work you through your climax, overstimulating every part of you.
Your hands tightly grip his messy brown hair, pulling at the curly strands as you whimper and beg him to stop.
“Garrett, I- Please, it’s too, shit, too much!”
Finally, Garrett slows the pace of his fingers, slowly removing them from inside you, leaving you feeling empty. He places one final kiss to your clit, using his palms on the mattress to push himself up on the bed.
You can’t help but find the very obvious hard-on showing through his grey sweatpants.
“Do you want me to help you take care of that?” you ask, pointing at the outline of his hard dick.
Garrett chuckles, reaching into his sweatpants and tucking himself into the waistband of his boxers.
He smiles, leaning down to kiss you hard, letting you taste yourself on his tongue before he says, “No baby, later. This was to help you relax so you can finish studying. We have all night, trust me, this was just the first round.”
Summary: Finally, after all these years, you get to marry the two most important people in your life.
Warnings: MDNI, mainly fluff but it does get pretty spicy in the middle, oral sex(f! receiving, fingering), childhood best friends to strangers to lovers, established poly relationship, poly marriage, very light angst, reader is wearing a wedding dress, veil, and tiara, banter, teasing
Word Count: 4.4k (Im ded because WHAT)
Note: This was requested by my lovely moot @iristheplanet16 I hope you like it! This could very easily have been 6k, but I wanted to get it out to you sooner! Enjoy!
Masterlists
Rhett kept fumbling with his tie, zoning in on every part of his suit in the mirror. Stretching his arms out front, messing with his cufflinks as he tried to feel some sort of normalcy when soft hands enveloped his shoulders, bringing him back from where the cowboy’s mind had wondered.
"You okay?"
Rhett huffed. He loved the man behind him more than he thought possible, more than Rhett thought he could love anyone (besides you of course), but it infuriated him how much Robert Floyd could read the bull rider like the back of his hand.
"S'fine, just... nerves is all" Rhett kept tugging at his tie, trying to get it right, but his hands kept shaking. Steady hands engulfed Rhett's, who tried to shake them off only for Bob to ‘tut’ at him.
“I got it.”
Rhett admitted defeat, something he rarely ever did, and let Bob take over, the pilot fixing his soon to be husbands tie as he looked over the man. Bob could tell there was something on Rhett’s mind. The way Rhett was fidgeting with everything and gnawing at his bottom lip, something both you and Bob had noticed he did whenever something was eating at him.
Bob sighed, “Ok, come on. Out with it. What’s eating at ya?”
Rhett stared at anywhere but the blue eyes boring into him, “S’nothing, just…s’nothing” he shook his head, turning away from the comforting hold of his fiancé.
Now this made Bob worried, “Hey, come on. What’s wrong? Is it… are you getting cold feet or something? Are you second guessing-?”
Rhett scoffed, a look of offense on his face, “ ’course not! How could ya ever think a thing?”
Bob raised his hands in surrender, eyes apologetic, “Hey, hey I’m sorry, I’m sorry! Didn’t mean it like that just… I can tell something off. You know you can tell me, tell us, anything.”
“I know I just… I can’t believe we’re actually doing it. Didn’t think I’d ever… I don’t know, have this.” Rhett motioned his hands between the two, “Ya know? Something so… good.”
Bob felt a pang in his heart, the thought that his Rhett could ever think he wasn’t worthy of a love so kind and soft made his eyes tear up, the WSO already so emotional from the pre-wedding jitters. Bob said nothing as he crushed Rhett into his chest, Bob had 3 inches on Rhett, so the perfect height for Rhett to nudge his face into Bobs shoulders as Bob rubbed his sides.
They stayed there until the door to their room opened, Perry, Bradley and Mickey standing at the doorway, smiles and chuckles thrown at the canoodling couple before Mickey nodded his head to the door, “Come on fellas, time go get hitched!”
---
"Nat..."
The pilot was securing the back of your veil, making sure not a piece of your dress is out of site, "Yeah sweets?"
"Where's the tiara?!"
That may have been the most dumbfounded look you've ever seen on your soon to be husbands best friends face.
"Umm..."
"...Nat-"
"Don't freak out! It's in my bag!" She rubbed your sides, "Just breath, sweets, just breath. You're all good. Nothing’s happening today besides you marrying the loves of your life, okay?"
You nodded at her comforting words. You never felt more anxiety than today, ever the perfectionist and constantly worried about disappointing your guests, and more importantly anxious to finally say "I do" to the men you've been in love with since you met all those years ago. Well back then it wasn’t really love, not yet. It was more of a childhood crush.
It started over a decade ago. Even as a child, Trevor Tillerson was still an annoying piece of shit. And while you and Rhett Abbott may have just been 10 years old, you weren't about to let him pick on lil Bobby Floyd. Just as Trevor was about to smash his glasses, Rhett jumped in, telling Trevor off while you helped Bob to his feet, wiping the dust off his glasses while he stared at you both, wide eyes full of surprise at his saviors.
The rest was history, all three of you becoming the best of friends. You and Bob would go watch Rhett at his steer riding rodeos, cheering him on as you sat with his family in the stands. You’d go to the Amelia County Fair together, riding the Ferris wheel, playing carnival games, and eating so much funnel cake Bob was doubled over moaning about never eating anything sweet ever again.
You’d try to ignore the flutter in your chest whenever Rhett held your hand as you walked to school together, or the heat pooling under your skin whenever Bob and you studied together, knees pressed against one another as you tried to focus on the algebra in your textbook and not at Bob’s crooked smile.
But as they say, all good things must come to an end. That was when you received your college acceptance letters. Bob had been accepted into one of the best aviation programs, all the way across the country, and you’d been accepted into your dream school, on the completely opposite side of the country, and Rhett was staying put in Wabang.
You’d talk about him joining you, coming along for the ride and visiting you and Bob when he had the time. Rhett would nod, a sad smile on his face because as much as he wanted to be able to, he wouldn’t be leaving Wabang anytime soon.
So, with tearful goodbyes, you hugged each other tighter than ever, promising to stay in touch, to write every chance you could. But like always, life got busy, got complicated. Phone calls and texts went from daily to weekly and then to almost nothing at all. It wasn’t until years later that you finally decided to come back home, did your life really start.
It was a heartfelt reunion at the, coincidentally, Amelia Country Fair. You’d quiet literally bumped into Rhett, almost falling flat on your ass if it wasn’t for the calloused hands that caught you by the waist. Your jaw dropped as you recognized those ocean blue eyes. You pulled him in, hugging him tight while he chuckled into your ear, the feeling of his breath hot against your skin making you flush all over.
Rhett looked good, older, some scruff on his chin, and a bit of wrinkle by his eyes, but still the boy you befriended all those years ago, just more of a man now. You were catching up, laughing along to one of his many bull riding stories when you heard a call of your names. You gasped when you realized.
Bob Floyd had grown. He used to be small, so small for his age. Even before he left, Rhett had a good six inches on him, but now, he was taller than the bull rider on your left. Gone were the lanky arms, this Bob was filled out and oh so ripped? When did that happen? You could see the muscles poking out from underneath his plain white t-shirt.
Your breath wasn’t the only one that was hitching. Rhett’s hand twitched at his side when he heard the familiar voice, turning slow as Bob stood about ten feet away. Rhett was so overwhelmed. He'd been so alone since you both left. There was never really anyone in Wabang who understood him like you two did. Sure, he had his family, but they didn't really know Rhett. They didn't understand him, his ticks, his quirks. He didn't feel the same unconditional support from them the way he felt it with you two. Now that he had you two back, he wasn't letting go.
Unexpectedly, or expectedly, it was Rhett that broke first, pulling you along as he closed the distance between you both and Bob, crushing the three of you in a hug so tight you almost couldn’t breathe. Bob laughed, "Out of all the places I'd run into you two again." Bob kissed your cheek, out of politeness or something else you didn't know, but it made you feel flushed all over. Bob laughed again when he tried to pull back and give you both a proper 'hello', but Rhett's hold on him only tightened. "And Rhett, you've grown out your hair."
You smiled, raising a brow at the cowboy when you noticed how red that comment made him. Interesting, very interesting. "How about we go get some funnel cake, huh?"
Bobs groan into your shoulder, "Please, no."
You cackled. Rhett snorted. Bob couldn't believe just how lucky he was.
You smiled at the memory, before a knock at the door startles you, making you turn.
It was Maverick, dressed impeccably sharp in his dressing blues as he pointed at his watch along his wrist. He had agreed to walk you down the aisle, after taking on an almost fatherly role with you since you met the man years ago. Always there to give advice or a shoulder to cry on if you ever needed it.
“Phoenix, they're ready for you.”
Nat nodded at the man, giving you one final squeeze as she ushered her way to where the rest of the bridesmaids were waiting for their queue.
“You look beautiful.”
You sent him an appreciative smile as you whispered a ‘thank you’ to the man. He had a look in his eyes as he took you in, a fond smile on his face as he extended his arm out for you, an almost unnoticeable water in his eyelines, “You ready?”
Just as the orchestra started playing, you nodded, “As I’ll ever be.”
---
The cheers of your friends and family quieted at the shut of the car door. Usually, you three would never be caught dead spending so much money on something as silly as a limo, but the Dagger Squad insisted (Jake insisted) and they all pitched it and got it for you guys, so you could ride in style for the wedding reception.
Soft hands held your cheeks before even softer lips were on yours, making you squeak in surprise at your second kiss with the WSO as newlyweds. While Bob occupied your lips, calloused hands gripped your hand tight, like they’d never wanna let you go. Rhett bringing your hand up to his lips and kissing the rings he and Bob had just placed on your finger.
“Can’t believe we actually did it.” Rhett spoke between kisses as he made his way up your arm, until he found himself peppering your neck with kisses and nips.
You hummed, “Best believe it cowboy,” you winked as you turned to face Rhett, wrapping your arms around him as you bring him into a kiss this time.
Bob watched you two with a twinkle in his eye, “Stuck with us for good now.” Before he went took over Rhett’s place at your neck, kissing you as his hands started wondering, making their way under your dress and palming you through your underwear. You gasped against Rhett, your hips instinctively bucking into Bobs hand before all three of you shared a look.
You knew that once you made it back to the hotel for the reception, you wouldn’t have another chance for some fun until you stumbled into your hotel room at 4am, drunkenly giggling after one-to-many shots Jake and Perry would be shoving down your throats in celebration. And even then, you'd most likely be too drunk and too exhausted to actually have any fun. So, with a final nod, the limo filled with the sounds of lips locking and shaky breathing leaving the three of you, making you thank god that you got a limo where the back seats had complete privacy from the driver.
“Where you want us pretty girl?” Bob nipped at your ear as he spoke, hands massaging your thighs, trying to relax you as much as you can in the backseat of the limo.
You leaned into him, eyes closed and moaning as you tried to think. Your dress was too much to try to maneuver, making taking it off fully so you could have both your husbands inside you not a suitable option, so you thought of the next best thing, and it made you clench your legs together at the thought.
“Come on darlin’,” Rhett caressed your cheek, bringing you out of your fantasy that was already growing in your head, “We don’t got long before we’re at the hotel. Talk to us sweets.”
You pecked him, arousal growing with every word you whispered, “Want Bobby’s mouth and Rhett, want your fingers.”
Rhett chuckled at how eager you sounded, “You heard the lady, Bobby.”
At an instant, Bob lifted the bottom of your dress, pushing your underwear to the side before flicking his tongue along your heat, groaning at the taste. The vibrations made you jolt, your hands immediately coming to hold his head close, “Oh, fuck! Bobby!”
Bob bit down along the inside of your thigh before attacking your clit. You gasped, mouth opened to moan his name, only to be silenced by two of Rhett’s fingers that he shoved on your tongue, “There we go, that’s it sweetheart, get ‘em all wet and good fo’ me.”
Your eyes rolled to the back of your head. Rhett kept pumping his fingers in and out of your mouth, making sure they were all nice and coated in your saliva for your needy pussy. Bob meanwhile was busy switching between sucking on your clit and fucking his tongue in and out of you, the bottom half of his face already coated in your slick.
When Rhett finally deemed his fingers wet enough, he pulled them out of you, shushing you when you whined at the loss. He decided to take pity on you, kissing you as he hiked your dress up, fingers plunging into you fully.
"Fuck!"
You whined as Rhett them pumped in and out of you as a ferocious speed. Bobs grip on your tightened, holding you down as you try and buck your hips up, chasing after the pleasure, "Taking us so nice. We're not even in you and you're already a mess."
Bob groans around you when you try and clench your thighs around his head at Rhett's words. Suffocating between your thighs would be the perfect way to go he decided as he pulls himself deeper into you, his glasses fogging up under your dress.
The overwhelming emotions you'd been feeling all day make it easier for you to reach your tipping point. You can feel it on the tip of your tongue as you chase after sweet, sweet release.
"C'mon pretty girl, cum for us. Cum all over our Bobby's mouth for us, hmm?"
You shout their names, coming undone at Rhett's words, your climax releasing in waves as they both continue to help you ride it out. Bob leaving soft kisses along the inside of your thigh while Rhett whispers praises in your ear.
All three of you were breathing heavy, a comforting silence settling over the three of you. Your thighs are shaking as you try to recover, Bob glasses askew with his face dripping with your arousal, and Rhett's smirking, licking the remains of your heat off his fingers. You were so caught up in each other, you didn’t even notice that the limo had stopped moving a but ago, not until there was a knock at the door and a familiar hesitating voice, “Are the newlyweds alright in there?”
Natasha.
Fuck.
“C-Coming!” You tried to make your voice sound as normal as possible.
Rhett snickered, “Yeah you were.”
You glared. Bob pinched his cheek in reprimand. Rhett looked like he just made the funniest joke ever.
Bobs steady voice came out from next to you, “Just give us a second!”
All three of you scrambled to compose yourselves, Rhett wiping any remains of your fun off Bob face, both of them hurrying to fix your dress and doing everything you possible could to hide the fact you were just so horny you couldn’t hold yourselves together for the honeymoon. They both adjusted themselves, trying to adjust their boners down so that way it wasn't entirely obvious about the shenanigans you three had gotten up too in the limo.
Once you deemed yourselves presentable, Bob opened the door first, making sure to hold his hand out to help you out the back, Rhett right behind you, hands on your hips, ready to catch you if you lose your footing at any time. Bradley's red face, Natasha biting her lip as she tries to hold in her laughter, and Jakes teasing smirk are the first to greet you as you step out.
No one says anything for a moment, you and Bob are both slightly mortified at how much the three may have heard, and from the looks of it, probably quite a bit. Meanwhile Rhett stood there unbothered, his own proud smirk on his face as he wrapped an arm around both your waists, sending the three members of his husband’s squad a look that almost dared them to say something about what they may or may not have heard.
“Bet you’re glad I suggested the limo now, huh?”
Of course, it would be Jake to break the awkward silence between you all with a joke about the predicament he caught you in.
You hid your face in Rhett’s shoulder, begging for this to end. Bob went and answered your prayers.
“Hangman…” the warning in Bob voice was enough for the pilot to raise his hands in surrender.
“Alright, alright, I get it. No more jokes from me… for now.” Bob scowled. Rhett pushed him closer to his chest. Bradley hit Jake up the side of his head. Nat rolled her eyes, smirking at Jakes ‘ow’ after Bradley’s attack.
“Alright you three, let’s get you in there. You have guests waiting and a wedding reception to attend. But first…” Nat came up to you, checking your make up over, eyes concentrated as she reapplied your lipstick for you, “… And there! Good to go!”
You pulled her into a tight hug, “Thanks so much Nat! Don’t know what I’d do without you!”
She chuckled, “You’d walk in there with smudged lipstick like you just got jumped by your two horndogs for husbands.”
Your eyes rolled with a smile, playfully giving her shoulder a shove before the six of you made your way inside.
Jake, Bradley, and Natasha made their way inside first, so that way you three could make your planned entrance into the venue together.
There, the three of you shared a quiet moment together, your hands joined together as you leaned against your boys. They were your pillars for life now. Your source of strength, happiness and love. And now you got to celebrate it with those you hold dear in your life.
“I love you, so much.”
They both looked at you, surprised by the sudden vulnerability in your voice. Rhett stared at you with a soft look in his eyes he only reserved for you two, a teary-eyed smile on Bobs face and he can’t control himself before he’s kissing you again.
“Bo, my lipstick!”
“I don’t care.” He mumbled into the kiss, “Just one more before we go in.”
Just as he let you go, you were spun around and another pair of lips were on you, silencing the squeak of surprise you let out, “If he gets ‘nother one, so do I.” You giggled against Rhett’s lips, and you know for sure you would’ve gotten lost in passing kisses between the two of them if it hadn’t been for the music that started playing, signaling that it was time to go out and make your entrance.
You sighed, not wanting the moment to end, but you had a party to get too. You pulled away, triple checking that nothing was out of place on either of you. Your lip stick wasn’t smudged, Bob’s glasses weren’t fogged up, and there wasn’t a hair out of place on Rhett head.
Satisfied, you locked hands again,
“Ready?”
Rhett squeezed your hand, “Born ready.”
Bob tugged you forward, “Ready as ever.”
With that, the doors swung open, the three of you making your entrance, celebrating and greeting your guests as they cheered for you. The music bounced off the walls as you made your way to your table at the center of it all. The venue was big, with a beautiful view of the autumn skies and orange and yellow from the fallen leaves, giving it the perfect rustic feeling you’d all agreed with.
You and Rhett originally wouldn’t have opted for the big ol’ wedding you were having right now. If it was just up to you, you would’ve gotten hitched at the courthouse followed by a BBQ at Mavericks. But Bobs family was for all intents and purposes, big. A big family full of aunts, uncles, and cousins, and there was absolutely no way they’d all fit in Maverick’s backyard. And you also wanted to appease Cecilia. She had her heart set on seeing Rhett married in the church and since that was never going to happen with the whole wanting to marry two people thing, you all compromised with a big wedding.
The night carried on with laughter and sounds of dancing feet. You tried to hold in your giggles when Rhett sneakily reached over, trying to steal a forkful of mashed potatoes off Bobs plate, only for Bob to turn and flick his own fork down against Rhett’s. Your cackle echoed when Rhett pouted, especially when he gave Bob a look of betrayal when Bob let you successfully steal a piece of his dinner roll.
When it came down to the mother/son and father/ daughter dances, Bob and his mama danced first, then Rhett and Cecilia, and then you and Maverick. Then it was your turn. The three of you stood in a triangle, Rhett on your left, Bob on your right, their hands along your waist, and your arms wrapped around one shoulder each.
You swayed together, sharing quiet conversations, and gentle pecks on the cheeks. Bobs fingers danced another your waist while Rhett’s rubbed his hand up and down your back in comfort. At one point Rhett leaned into Bobs side, breathing in the cologne of the man next to him, leaving a small kiss on Bob jawline before pulling away fast. Rhett’s face was flushed red, feeling a little shy at being so soft in front of everyone.
“Hey,” Bob tapped Rhett’s waist, “Don’t get all shy on me now.”
Bob pulled Rhett in close, kissing the man soft, “M’not being shy,” Rhett grumbled in the kiss.
“Sure ya aren’t” Bob poked his cheek; Rhett tried to nip at him, “Not like you just declared your love to me and kissed me in front of everyone you know. No reason to be shy from a little peck on the cheek.”
Rhett leaned into you this time, “Darlin’, your husband’s being mean to your husband, stop him. Please, for me.” Rhett’s voice was full of dramatics while you just chuckled at them, one hand petting Rhett’s hair and the other petting Bobs.
“Just shut up and kiss me already. Feeling left out over here.”
“Now that just won’t do,” Bob kisses you first, his glasses bumping into your nose as he leans toward you.
“And now my favorite cowboy.”
“Your only cowboy,” Rhett corrects you, his grip along your waist tightening as he kisses you.
Soon the rest of the crowd joins you on the dance floor, beers and shots are passed around you all. Bob gets pulled away by Mickey at one point, Jake pulls Rhett away so they can shotgun beers, and Nat and one of Bobs sisters pulls you in for a dance.
When it came time to cut the cake, Bob and Rhett’s cheeks are flushed from the alcohol. Bob was extra giggly from the alcohol, something you rarely ever got to see since Bob was always the sober one out of you three. Their ties were long gone, and Rhett had his Stetson back on his head, being a bit more handsy with the alcohol coursing through his veins. You were stumbling in your heels, leaning against them both for support as you tried to steadily cut the cake and feed it to one another.
Hours passed before the party died down, people started slowly trickling out after the cake cutting, until only a sparse few were still there for your last dance. You and Bob were both basically leaning against Rhett’s chest, listening to the sound of his heart beating and the air coming in and out of his lungs as he wrapped you both up in his arms holding you tight as you swayed into the night.
When you finally did stumble your way up to your hotel room, you were trying and failing to be quiet as you fumbled with the hotel door key, absolutely wasted giggles leaving the three of you until Bob finally got it open. You aimed straight for the bed as soon as you could, the exhaustion from the night hitting you at full force all of a sudden.
And like they could read your mind, Bob and Rhett took care of you, knowing you didn’t have the energy to do it yourself. Rhett helped slip you out your dress, slipping one of Bobs sweaters over your head once he got you out. Bob made sure to wipe your make up off you, trying to concentrate as much as possible with the alcohol still making his mind a bit fuzzy.
Bob and Rhett both quickly stripped down to their underwear before sliding into bed with you, one on each side of you as you finally settled down. You laid against Bobs’ chest, one leg intertwined on his, Rhett’s arm wrapped around your waist as he nuzzled into your other side.
It wasn’t long for sleep to take you three, despite still buzzing from the alcohol and excitement, being in each other’s presence calmed you all down, like they were your own version of serotonin. Making all thoughts and worries escape as your breathing starts to even out and light snores start filling the room that was filled with warmth, comfort, and love.
Likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated!
Love ya! Please do not copy or repost. Love and thank you all!
Pairing: Thunderbolts!Bucky X Ex-Hydra Handler Reader
Word count: 10k <- Look, I am not apologizing at this point
Synopsis: Buck hates you, and he has every right to. You were his handler, the primary point of contact to Hydra when he escaped. Now you're here, haunting him when his past was supposed to be gone.
MINORS and AI dickbags GET OUT. I am not in control of how you interact with my work. My work is not to be used or reused for anything
Rating/Warning: reader is female, reader has hair and is somewhat physically fit, reader is described as smaller than Bucky, no age mentioned, mention of past alcohol abuse, Enemies to lovers, sassy/dickhead Bucky, Thunderbolts shenanigans, ptsd, past torture, past abuse, scars, battle, mentions of injuries, mutual longing, pinning, arguing, p in v, some fingering, size kink,
Note : This is for @houseofhyde for the secret Santa. It was so fun to write this! My first enemies to lovers. I hope you enjoy it and have a lovely holiday.
Dividers @saradika-graphics
My kink is praise, please feed me
You sat at the head of a large office table, going over the breakdown of the latest mission. The team, for the most part, sat leaning forward listening, some even writing down notes. You tried not to feel Bucky’s eyes digging into you, how he would just stare at you while you went over things. He was waiting for the right moment; he had something in his pocket. It was just a matter of when.
“The tanks we are looking for,” You pull up a photo of the tank, “It’s been spotted by the Mongolian and Russian border. We are looking to find out what the Russian military is doing there.”
“It isn't Russian Military.” Bucky finally speaks, the hairs on the back of your neck go up.
You stop speaking and wait for him to continue explaining.
“Those tanks were decommissioned. Six months ago. Whoever it is won’t be working directly with the official military.” He explains, the smugness in his voice is almost masked, but you pick it up.
You straighten yourself, composing your facade expression. “I see, so then we are looking for a non-official branch, with enough money to buy decommissioned tanks.”
Bucky just nods, “Should be noted, don’t want any accidents happening.”
Nerves officially ground down to nubs, you just nod and continue forward, adjusting your notes on the fly. The bastard always found something to pick on, a flaw, a detail. This one just happened to be a big one; if it wasn't an official Russian Military, it was now extremely likely to be a far more lethal offshoot. He was always right and always made sure the whole room knew it.
You and Bucky were not friends; you were barely on speaking terms. He loved to do this, to dig into things and point out every bit and piece out of line. You knew why being an ex-Hydra handler made the two of you’s relationship strained on the best of days. Bucky hated you in every sense of the word. He saw you as a pest, a mole, a plant from Valentina to throw him off his tirade against her. You had no idea if that was true, but knowing Valentina, it was possible.
“We are leaving Friday, three days of recon, and then we will decide what the next steps are.” You finish off the presentation feeling deflated and defeated.
“Sure, you’ll have it all sorted for us, Assistant Director,” Bucky replies with sarcasm dripping from his mouth.
Finishing his tirade, Bucky is up and gone, giving you one last glower before disappearing out of the room. Yelena and Bob stayed back, probably to find out if Bob was needed. You had already decided he should probably hang back; if it wasn't the Russian Military, it could put him in harm's way. Not that he was killable, but going Void in enemy territory was not something they needed right now. Taking several breaths, you put on a happy mask and get ready to answer questions.
You close everything out, scanning your face at the elevator to go up to your apartment. Living and working in the same building had its perks; this was one of them. You could go home without ever leaving the building. The apartment was midway in the tower, had a good view, and was six times bigger than anywhere you had lived in a decade. Considering your last place was a literal closet.
Closing the door, you kick off your heels, and deposit your lanyard on the side table, checking your work phone and then your personal. Not that you really had anyone who would contact you. You’d been a ghost for decades, and no family had ever been found once you were out from under Hydra.
The room consisted of a couch, a dining table with chairs, a mattress, and some cooking utensils. You’d bought towels, some clothes, and kitchen stuff; everything else seemed pointless. There was no guarantee how long you’d be here for. The one thing you hadn’t skimped on was your go-bag, which was just a tactical bag that you could live out of for a month if needed.
Walking into the kitchen, you pour yourself some water and dig out some leftover take-out. Memories of sitting in safe houses with bowls of ramen hit. One of your more trauma informed therapists had told you that your brain doesn’t have a timeline for dealing with memories, it does it on its own timeline.
The Soldier had always hated eating on missions. You never asked why, just shoved food in front of him and ordered him to at least eat half a bowl. Whether it was frozen pizzas, canned soup, or prepackaged noodles, you always made him eat. He’d always been slender, and his body burned calories faster than most. You were never allowed to call him Bucky or James, just Soldier/Soldat. It had always grated on your nerves, particularly with him.
You remember the day your relationship with him changed. You were running a mission, gathering intelligence and taking out a diplomat. It had gone sideways when the security team had spotted you. Bucky, ignoring orders, had jumped off a balcony and landed in front of you. He had crushed the man’s throat and grabbed you, dragging you to safety within seconds. From that point on, the two of you worked differently. More connected, in sync with one another, and he was more protective. Even after being wiped and refrozen, he was always drawn back to you.
Shaking your head, you grab the food out of the microwave and hear a knock on the door. One negative part of living where you work, unwanted visitors at all hours. Going over to the door, you open it up and find Valentina standing outside the door with that smug smile on her perfectly made-up face.
“Hello, Valentina,” You say politely, stepping back so that she can come inside. The mask slipping back on, you had to always be ready, always be prepared.
“See, you’ve changed nothing,” She says, standing in the middle of the mostly empty apartment. It was hard to decorate a space when you had never actually had a space to put things. “Looks worse than Barnes' room, at least he has a plant.”
You keep a small smile as you pull out a chair at the small table, maintaining professionalism so that you can keep this job. This good job, even if Val makes your skin crawl. She reminded you scarily of Hydra directors, how she moved, talked, held herself. It was like looking at the cloned version of them. Whatever Val was, it wasn’t good.
“Just been busy. Hoping to take some time to get a few things maybe this weekend,” You reply, as Val sits down in the chair. You grab her a glass of water without asking and set it on the table as you sit across from her.
Val flicks her hair to the side and takes a sip of the water. “Good, can’t have my favorite Assistant Director living in a boring apartment. Look at this place, you don’t work for Hydra anymore.” You just nod, and she runs a perfectly manicured finger around the edge of the glass. “You're still staying sober, I see.”
Trying not to clench your jaw at the comment, you had been sober for three years, something you’d worked hard at. Having learned the hard way that being drunk all the time meant you’d be homeless for life. “Yes, I can always have something available for you.”
She smirks and shifts in her chair, legs crossing over one another. You can already see the gears turning. “That would be nice, very thoughtful of you.” This has nothing to do with wine, you quickly realize, as you sip on the water. “I want you to start going on missions. Especially the next one.”
That hits you like a slap, and your perfect mask slips for a moment. You see it on Val’s face, a small glint that makes you want to lash out, like she was looking for a way to get to you. Goddamn snake. Of course, she had ulterior motives; she wanted dirt on her team.
“You get along well with our New Avengers, and I want to see how they follow instructions in the field,” Valentina says, a smile curling her lips. “Make sure they are being as efficient as possible.”
You school your face, and take a sip of your water, ”I haven’t had any updated training. Not sure I can even legally carry a weapon.”
The woman just laughs, “Don’t worry about that, I will take care of it. As for the training, I am sure you will be fine. Like riding a bike. I don’t need your boots on the ground, ” She waves her hand around. “Just supervise them, watch them, and report back to me.”
“Can I ask why?” You push, toeing at the invisible line you’ve created. A line you had hoped not to start poking at this soon. It has only been four months since you started working here.
Clicking her tongue, her eyes focus on you, really looking at you. Part of you wants to back down, but you won’t; you can’t constantly be bowing to her every word. At some point, you would have to start questioning her, or you won’t be doing your job. You were good at this job, and part of that was poking at the bear a little.
“Let's just say I want to make sure I have a set of eyes on my assets.” She gives a smile that makes your heart sink. “Can’t have them doing anything that could jeopardize the team.”
A knock on the door rouses Bucky from the packets. He glares, listening to see if he could hear who it was. When he hears your heartbeat, he nearly stays in place. Your face flashing through his mind, how you had tried to keep a calm facade at the table. The handler you had been was still there, but it wasn’t the same. Time changes people, Bucky briefly thought.
He gets up, straightening himself, prepared for whatever parroted bullshit you had, and opens the door. Why the hell did you have to bother him in the middle of the night?
“Whatever you have to say, I am not interested.” Bucky spits, going to close the door. Why did Val hate him so much? Oh, right, cause he was trying to dismantle her from the inside out.
You shove a perfectly polished boot into the way. Face stiffening as you try to keep your eyes level with his. “Wait, please.”
Bucky barely looks at you, just stands there. Not sure why he is entertaining you; you didn’t deserve it. Yet the look on your face made him stop. You looked nervous, almost, he’d never seen that before. The memory of you was of someone who didn’t take no as an answer, who commanded rooms with a glare, and never failed to obtain what was looked for.
“I am not looking for forgiveness-”
He lets out a huff of laughter, but doesn't stop you from speaking.
“I know what I did, and I will live with that for the rest of my life. But I can’t keep having you take me apart at every meeting. I know it was a big mistake, but it could have been handled differently. I just want to do my job and be of assistance to the team.” Your words are smooth, well practiced. That confidence, the tone, the authority laced behind it wasn’t as masked as much as you thought it was.
He opens the door and walks forward, towering over you. You don't step back, Bucky sees the way your jaw clenches, your eyes narrowing. He could smell the fear on you; you hid it well, but it was there. You didn’t have the leash to keep him under your control anymore, and that rattled you.
“Do your job better than. You make mistakes. I am going to keep calling you on them. ” Bucky nearly says in a cold tone, watching you flinch away from his words with satisfaction. “A pardon, some therapy, and some low-paying jobs dooesn't change what you did. Doesn’t change who you worked for.”
“I am not saying it does,” You fire back, a flare of your former self coming through. He almost wanted to step back, old training creeping up his spine like spiders. “I am trying here, trying to do better.”
“Well, do it with someone else. You won't get sympathy from me.” Bucky goes to close the door, waiting for you to stop him again.
Instead, you spit back, “You weren't the only one who was brainwashed and tortured.” It freezes him, and you take it as a sign to keep going. “I didn't have billionaires and best friends to pick me up when I got out. So you can shove your I-had-it-worse-than-you bullshit right back where it came from.”
Bucky just glares back at you, not phased by whatever you spew. He couldn’t believe a word that came out of your mouth. “You done? Had your hissy fit?”
He watches your eyes go dark and can see that you want to say more, but just nod. Arms crossed over your chest, he tries to not watch you too closely.
“Good. Some of us have actual work to do.” He closes the door, walking away. The pull in his guts wanting him to listen to what you have to say is overwhelming. That ingrained training is still there, just under the surface; it’s always just there. Even now, when he has been free for years.
I am going with the team to Russia. Val has appointed you as team leader. Your voice comes through the door.
Bucky doesn't bother replying, just walking further into his small residence. Listening as you walk away. Grabbing his cup of coffee and phone, he goes to his bedroom. He goes to the far side and settles into his pile of blankets and pillows, propping himself up so that he is mostly comfortable. There wouldn't be much sleep tonight. There never really is.
Swiping open his phone, he flips through notifications. One from Yelena asking if he wanted dinner, another from Bob asking if they could spar tomorrow. Alexi had sent four thumbs up and three winking smiling faces. It was their weird way of checking in on him. John won't say anything till tomorrow, and Ava would just shrug.
Rubbing his face, he puts that phone down and digs behind his dresser, pulling out a worn flip phone. He quickly finds the number he is looking for and phones it.
“Did Bob Void again?” Sam asks, sounding like he is out of breath, probably had been asleep. Bucky winces.
Bucky straightens, trying to put on an edge of non-chalance. “Nothing life threatening, yet.”
Sam tsks on the other end, clearly annoyed by the random call. “So why you calling me?”
“Remember the Hydra handler that got hired by Val?” Bucky is surprised to hear his voice shake. How many times had he seen you in his dreams? He’d lost count of how often he’d thought of you, his mind drifting back to the two of you working together.
“Yeah, I remember her. Hard to miss when your friend’s ghost shows up.” Sam cusses, Bucky’s chest tightens, hearing Sam call him a friend.
“She’s going to be on a mission with me. First time. Three days along the Mongolian and Russian border.” Bucky sighs, hating how rattled he was. It had been years since he had worked with you, and yet that connection was still there. Handler and asset. “Not sure she can even leave the country.”
“It's V. She has her ways. You know that.” Sam replies, keys typing in the background. “What you guys looking for there?”
He tells Sam, shifting a pillow so that he is somewhat comfortable. “I have to spend three days with her and my team. What if this is a trap?”
There is a loud sigh from Sam. “I will see if Val has been moving any other assets into the area, make sure you aren’t being jumped. As for her leaving the country, looks like that’s all been cleared around the same time she got hired.”
“So she can go wherever Val wants her to go.” Bucky grunts, metal fist grinding against the carpet. He’d already left marks on the floor in a few spots.
“That's messed up, man,” Sam replies, sounding just as worn as Bucky feels. Both of them would have preferred the blow-up and move forward way of working rather than this. Now things took a bit more finesse, a little more tact, so that they didn’t end up in jail.
“Not much different than me.”
“You were brainwashed and tortured for decades.”
“She claims she was too.”
“Do you believe her?”
Bucky was silent for a moment, hand rubbing against his beard. Did he? Or was it all a ploy?
“Don't know.”
Bucky sits, listening to the roar of the jet. He'd probably need earplugs if he wasn't a super soldier. It's almost comforting, the constant buzz of engines drowning his own thoughts. Mind drifting to how your body had filled out the tactical shirt and pants. You fit back in with the group like you’d always been there. Controlling the situation, your voice holding command without venom, and the whole team had fallen into step behind you. He may have been designated as team leader, but it was clear who was actually in charge.
It was weird to be around you. To see just how different you were when you weren't under Hydra's control. You still were fierce, strong, and striking as ever, but there was give now. Before, you would have never waited for questions or suggestions. Your word had been law then. Now you answered questions, took suggestions, even altered plans. There was still that cold steel behind your eyes. Bucky knew if he pushed too hard, you'd pull rank on him.
Bucky had also seen the guilt. If he caught your eye, your facade fractured. Not enough for most to see, but he saw it. Saw how you treaded carefully around him, let him talk over you. Didn't note him missing meetings or coming late. You actually regretted what you'd done for him. At least that's how it seemed, and he had no idea how to feel about that. He wanted you to be cruel, to not care, to berate him for leaving Hydra, for being a failure. Anything but the pain in your eyes, it wasn’t sympathy, it was understanding. Like you knew what it was like to be in his shoes.
You'd been his handler when he'd escaped from Hydra. From what he'd piece together over the years, you'd been his primary handler for years, possibly decades. He'd had a bond with you, one of the few handlers that didn’t need to beat him so that he’d comply. You'd tell him to sit in the chair or go in the icebox, and he would. No hesitation. There was no pinpoint as to when exactly that had happened, but you had never aged just like him. Which meant you had probably been frozen too. Someone Hydra had cared about enough to keep pairing him with.
“You there, old man?” John huffs, finally slotting his gun away from cleaning. The man was obsessive about maintenance and seemed to have taken a liking to you for some reason.
You were standing up at the front, watching the world go by. Bucky had been grateful you’d given him distance; he hadn’t known how to deal with you coming to his room. The call with Sam had just left him more shaken than before.
Bucky just raises his eyebrows at him. “Actually, using my brain, Walker. Should try it sometime.”
John glares, “We've been working together for almost a year. You’d think you'd let it go by now.”
Yelena flunks down between the two men. “Boys. Do you mind if we not bicker d’is time?”
“He started it,” Bucky and John say at the same time. Yelena rolls her eyes with an over-exaggerated sigh.
She holds up her hands. “One mission. No fights.” Yelena gestures at the front of the craft, to you. “Besides, we have eyes on us this round.”
Bucky huffs, and John grunts, both of them still glaring at the other. If Bucky hadn't been tasked with watching the New Avengers, he'd have broken at least three rules dealing with the sarcastic discount version of a superhero. John had gotten better over the months, but he still rubbed Bucky in all the wrong ways. That was mostly Bucky’s fault, but he wasn’t going to look at that too hard.
“You could be nicer to the new director,” Yelena says quietly, enough that Bucky knows it was directed at him. She was leaning forward, mirroring his own position.
“Haven't done anything to'er,” Bucky mutters, knowing full well that he hadn't needed to correct you about the decommissioned tanks a few days ago. Should have talked to you afterwards, not done it like a jackass in front of everyone. It wasn’t the first time he’d done that.
Yelena nudged his side, giving him a pointed look. “You pick apart every mission brief. Miss half the meetings, which she never corrects you for. Then you make up your own plan anyway. S’Rude.”
Bucky shrugs, he was not getting into a deep conversation with you a dozen feet away from him. “She should do a better job. Mistakes cost lives.”
“Her mission briefs are perfect. You don't like her.” Yelena points out cutting an apple with one of her knives. “Need a new leaf, Barnes.”
“Could be better.” Bucky grunts, flipping through his own notes, rereading what he’d already memorized. “And I’ve turned over plenty of leaves, thanks.”
Yelena was right, of course. Your briefs were near perfect; most of the time, he actually had to work to find flaws. It struck him then. He'd been putting twice as much effort into one-upping you as he was into figuring out how to take down Val. Meaning Val’s plan was working, bringing in one of his ghosts was distracting him.
“You read’r file?” Yelena asks, flicking her knife up in the air. A trick he had taught Natasha, and she had taught Yelena.
Bucky turns to her, closing his phone. “No. I haven't. Why?”
Yelena taps at her tablet for a moment. There is a small wooshing noise. “That's a link. You two.” She gestures in the air. “Twins, alike, the same. More than y’know.”
Bucky is sitting on the edge of the safe house's bed, finger scrolling through the tablet. Your file was lengthy; it included all the data you'd given on Hydra, along with a transcript of your court hearing. He hated to admit it, but Yelena was right. Partially right.
You'd been taken young off the streets, sold the line ‘Your work will shape the future’. That the people you trained and handled were at the forefront of that change. It was all a lie. A way to manipulate you into being plaintive and malleable. Because you'd been so young and guarded from outside influence, you'd gone along with it. Even when they'd frozen you, beaten you, and made you watch unimaginable horrors. You hadn’t been wiped like him, so you remembered it, all of it. A different form of torture, a threat.
Rubbing his face, Bucky lies back on the bed, staring up at the water stains. He hadn't expected this, to feel empathy towards you. To wonder just how much pain you had gone through. The fact that your testimony had even been used in his case, he hadn’t been told at the time, to help him get free. You had spoken about how he was wiped, how he had no choice, you didn’t have to do that.
Flashes of you sitting in front of him with a pair of scissors, carefully cutting his hair when it got too long. Helping him put on clothes when they’d take his arms for maintenance. How you won’t leave the chair room until it is over, even when he lashed out at you. You never used the words on him, never raised your hands or your voice. Careful and controlled, but never cruel. Even when you could have been. Was it possible that you were just another victim of Hydra?
A knock on the door has him clicking his tablet closed, looking at the clock, it was already his turn for watch. Gritting his teeth, he stood and slid the tablet onto the bed, going to the door. You were standing there, brows furrowed, not looking at him.
“Your turn for watch,” You mutter, before turning and walking away. Bucky had the irrational urge to grab you, tell you to stop.
Instead, he just grunts, “Yeah, I saw the time. Was on my way over, Director.”
Turning back you glare at him, arms crossing your chest, the bags under your eyes more evident in this light. “Always got to have the last word.” You spit at him, turning and murmuring to yourself. “Miss when you didn’t talk.”
Bucky moves without thinking, grabbing your shoulder and spinning you around so that he is right in your face. You don’t look surprised; your fists already clenched beside you, as you glare back up at him.
“Say it again,” Bucky growls at you. A smirk pulls at the corners of your lips as you continue to stare at him. Any thought of you being on the right side of this went out the window. “I know what you’re doing.” His voice is so low it’s almost hard to hear. “Trying to get me to snap, to get me to break. Just need a reason so that Val can kick me from the team. Right?”
Your face goes blank, eyes searching his face as your mask crumbles, not just a small crack. “Maybe if you opened your eyes, you’d see we have always been on the same side.”
He steps back, searching your face for a lie, for something. There was nothing, for the first time, you didn’t have a mask, raw vulnerability where the steel used to be.
“We were never on the same side. You were my handler, my controller; we were never equals.” Bucky shakes his head and walks away from you. He can’t do this right now; he has to focus on the mission, getting through the next two days.
The blast shakes your teeth as you run out of the jet, Yelena calling out over the coms, she’s been hit and is unable to move. John is calling out as well, his words slurred by pain, that alone was concerning. Alexi is moving through the woods like a bear after a chase. You have on glasses that show the directions your teammates are. Your feet stomp into the ground, and you are ducking, hiding, and diving. The tanks had been retrofitted with pulse lasers that could fry a fist-sized hole into an armoured vehicle. It had been more than the team had expected when you all had gone out on day two of your reconnaissance mission.
This group wasn’t human, or at least not a human species that you knew. They had made a base underground and had hidden themselves so well that they had been undetected. Now they were going to wipe out the entire team if you, Alexi, and Bucky didn’t get to Yelena and John. Heart stuttered in your ears as their voices started to fade. You jumped and rolled over a fallen log. Bucky was racing towards you, both of you heading in the same direction. Alexi was nearly hit. You watch the giant man leap and roll over some fallen debris.
The smell of singed trees and material frying in your nose. You can’t stop moving; if you stop, your teammates could die. At this moment, you were heavily regretting not keeping up with basic training, and every muscle in your body was screaming from lack of use.
“You hit?” You call out in comms, trying to keep a zigzag pattern as a tree behind you exploded. “Alexi! Answer!”
Bucky had moved back towards Alexi, “He’s breathing, come on, you old goat.”
“Ahhh,” Alexi gasps, and you groan inwardly as you finally get sight of John. He was holding onto his side, blood was leaking out of him, and his legs were damaged. “I live! Nothing can stop me.” Alexi boomed over coms.
Sighing, you crouch down by John, “Hey, hey, you there Soldier.”
John blinks up at you, looking a bit dazed, eyes barely focusing on you. “Hey, Director. Thought you were supposed to stay on the plane.”
“Yeah, you just had to break both of your legs,” You reply sarcastically, and grab one leg to snap it back into place.
His eyes bug out at the pain, and you don’t stop when you grab the second one and do the same. “Jesus Christ. Could warn a guy.”
“You’ll heal quicker if the bones are mostly in the right place.” You quip back, it was not the first time you had done this. “I am going to go find Yelena.”
“My daughter. I'm coming.” Alexi booms as the tree above you explodes. The man was going to get everyone killed.
Bucky is beside you, taking in John. He drops a medical bag down, and pulls out leg braces. “Get these on. Once you can move, go to the jet.”
John surprisingly doesn’t argue, just nods. You are already getting up, Bucky covering behind you. It felt so incredibly familiar, he fell into step the same way both of you had for hundreds of missions. The two of you are doing a dance that was older than both of you. In sync with the other like neither of you had missed a day.
“Duck!” Bucky cries out, you feel his body collide into yours as he covers you with his much larger frame. You hit the dirt hard, but he doesn’t land on top of you, instead caging you in with his limbs. Both of you lay there for a moment. “You okay?”
You feel him move, and you do too. Looking down, you see nothing on your front. Turning back, you watch as Bucky’s big hands turn you around and inspect you. One large hand traces a line on your back; it feels a little warm there. The way his fingers keep tracing that spot, a laser had probably just missed you.
“I am fine, we got to go.” You try to push, but he won’t let you go. His eyes are still roaming over you like he is certain he’ll see a hole through you. Something flips in your chest, a reminder of the past that keeps rearing its head. “James.”
Blue eyes flick up towards you, “You should have stayed on the jet.”
You roll your eyes, ignoring how soft his voice was, and start moving as he lets you go. Alexi is roaring something in Russian that sounds vaguely like your guts will decorate my Christmas tree. The yellow dot of Yelena pulsed in front of you, Bucky jogging behind you. The way he had looked at you still rattles you; he’d looked worried. Worried about you. A man who basically walked over you anytime he got to. He grunted at you more than speaking, who had nearly put his fist through the wall last night. The worst part was that you wanted him to be worried about you.
Pushing that aside, you find Yelena, who has managed to drag herself into a small hollow of a tree. She was bleeding badly from several places, and her face was pale, her body trembling from shock.
“Hey,” She gave a faint grin as you ducked down, Bucky standing above watching for anyone coming in. “Those lasers, huh?”
Letting out a small chuckle, you pack what wounds you could, taping them down efficiently. Yelena coughs up some blood, her hands shaking more. As you grab some painkillers from the first aid bag Bucky had dropped, you slam them into her.
“Bucky’s going to pick you up, pretty sure your Dad has torn a tank in two with his bare hands.” You try and tease, Yelena lets out a small cough of laughter.
Alexi comes barrelling in, crouching down; his entire suit is covered in gore. “Baby, Yelena, my darling.”
Yelena glares at him, but a small smile pulls at her mouth. He reaches in and carefully picks up his daughter, whispering more Russian to her. You step back and let him carry her; you knew it was serious, or she’d have been yelling at him to set her down and that she could walk on her own.
Bucky had already picked up the medical bag, looking at you. “We got to go. Regroup.”
You just nod and take off after him. Bucky and you grab Walker as best you can. The man was groaning and bitching at you about how he was fine. Disregarding the fact that he couldn’t actually take a step without falling over.
The flight out of Russia was silent. John was doing better; he had still been moaning about you and Bucky carrying him out. Neither of you had bothered arguing with him. Yelena had been put into the medical bay, techs were working on her wounds. She would be okay with time. The biggest issue was the fact that you’d all been hit with radiation from the alien tech.
Bucky had gone back to avoiding you; you had moved to the front of the jet, watching the night sky. Valentina was gonna be livid; she had hoped for the place to be taken and the alien tech seized. Instead, you were coming back with one injured super-soldier and a wounded widow. Bob was going to be distressed. Alexi was already talking about going back and finishing them off. Val may actually approve that, but they’d need more backup. Aliens wielding nuclear laser tanks need more than what they had, or at least more intel on how to take them out.
Your eyes drifted back to Bucky, who was fiddling with his tablet. John was strapped onto a gurney, snoring. That pull to him in your guts appeared. You wanted him to look at you, to see you, to remember the small glints of good that had happened. Hydra had been a nightmare, a hellhole of untold horrors, but there had been something there.
It hadn’t been much; there was never anything intimate, besides occasionally sharing a bed when both of you were stuck somewhere cold. Sharing food and cleaning weapons together. It wasn’t a relationship in any stereotypical sense of the word. Yet, it had been something, something you had clung onto for years. Even now, when the feelings were clearly not reciprocated. It had hit harder when he had checked you after almost being hit by the laser. The way his hands ran over the melted tactical vest, over and over.
A very loud and pissed off Val had finally left; the debrief had been a lot of Val asking why things had gone sideways. Her yelling through four-inch-thick plexiglass was hilarious. Like the intel you’d been given had been any good. As if Valentina hadn’t tried to gaslight the whole team into thinking she had told them about the alien tech.
Bucky didn’t mean to glance at you as you changed in the room. His eyes had just caught the movement in the mirror, and he saw your shirt get pulled off. The black of your sports bra, how your muscles moved in the dim lighting, and the scars. Blinking a few times, he tried not to stare, but there were so many. Some of them looked like they’d been cut open repeatedly, layers of scar tissue; he’d recognize them anywhere. Several around your ribs, or dipped under the waistband of your pants. Most were faded, but a lot of them were still dull pink and looked like they’d hurt if he touched them.
Your eyes found his, and he looked away. Wondering if he had gotten caught staring. He heard the door slam as you left. The team was in isolation, as everyone had been exposed to large amounts of radiation and god knows what else from the aliens. Medical doctors had said it would probably be a minimum of four days before they were clear to move around the place. You were all going to be stuck in this small living space for the foreseeable future.
He put on his own clothes, glad they had something that somewhat fit him. It was a little baggy, but better than being too small. John and Yelena had been taken to separate isolation areas where doctors could monitor them along with the techs from the plane. Which left you, Alexi, and Bucky in this place.
Rubbing his face, he pushes out into the small living room. Alexi had already taken up a spot on the couch. His overly large body draped over the sterile vinyl sofa. You were in the kitchen, the kettle going and the coffee machine on, you didn’t look up at him when he came in. Part of him wishes you would, then again, him preving on you in the changing room probably didn’t help anything.
“Winter Soldier!” Alexi claps, sitting up and patting the couch beside him. “It’s just us! Yelena is tough, she already improving.”
Bucky sighs and flops down beside him. “Glad to hear it, Alexi.” He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “You ever seen anything like that?”
You come over and place two coffees in front of both men before slipping into an armchair across from them.
“Hmmm, there were rumours," He taps his chin, and Bucky can almost hear your eyes roll across the floor. “The Dyatlov Pass incident. 1959. Lots of aliens, lots of lights.”
“The Dyatlov Pass is nowhere near the Mongolian border.” You reply, sipping on your tea and watching both super soldiers like they were ticking time bombs.
“You are correct! But these aliens, they move fast. They can move underground. Whole systems under the frozen soil.” Alexi exclaims, growing more animated the more he talked about it.
Bucky tunes out Alexi’s stories; it was clear his story was more fiction than fact. His sense tunes to you, how you're sitting stiff; your legs tucked under each other, tea in hand, even though it had to almost be burning your hand. Your eyes are watching Alexi, but not seeing him. Already having figured out the same thing he had.
Once again, your eyes flick to his, you glare at him for a moment, before settling back against the chair. Forcing yourself to relax against the vinyl cushions, they squeak under the movement, but it doesn’t deter Alexi. Who is now going on a full-blown rant about how Roswell was created by the US government to cover up the fact that Russian intelligence had already been communicating with extraterrestrials for decades. Which may have actually been factual.
When your eyes find his again, you don’t look away this time, holding his gaze and watching him. He doesn’t back down either. Two stubborn people waiting for the other to back down. If the two of you had known each other under different circumstances, would things have been different? Would the two of you even be who you were now?
Putting your tea down, you get up, stretch for a moment. “Think I am going to call it a night, boys.”
Alexi had finished his tirade and was asking Bucky’s opinion, but Bucky hadn’t heard the question. His eyes were too busy following the way you moved around the room. Putting your cup away and then walking down the hall to your room.
Bucky groans, rubbing a hand over his face. “I am tired.”
“But not blind.” Alexi chuckles, getting up and grabbing more coffee along with a large bottle of vodka. Of course, they'd have put alcohol in here. “You too share a lot of history, yes?”
“Something like that. It doesn’t matter.” Bucky tries to dismiss it, but he doesn’t turn down the vodka or more hot coffee.
Alexi takes a swig, barely making a face at the burning flavour of the near gasoline-like mix. “History, chemistry, they are the same. Sometimes we are mean to those we like the most.”
Bucky raises an eyebrow at Alexi and gratefully takes another swig of the vodka; he knows he’d need to drink most of the bottle in minutes if he wanted anything resembling a buzz. At least the taste was a distraction from the invasive questions.
“It’s not like that. She was my handler; she let them do what they did to me.” Bucky bites back; the words sound hollow, even to him. “She’s Hydra, or was Hydra. I am too tired for this, Alexi.”
“Yet, you stare. Wounded warrior.” Alexi keeps waxing away, like he is spouting poetry. “All stars collide eventually, even you. Maybe you need it the most.”
Bucky groans and takes another chug of alcohol. It was going to be a long few days.
You woke up early and immediately went to work out. There was a room with weights, a treadmill, and a stationary bike. It wasn’t much, but the heat in your belly needed to go the hell away. Exhaustion was the only solution. You would work yourself until you couldn't think anymore. Until the thought of Bucky touching your skin was erased from your mind through sweat.
It has happened more often since you started working at the tower and seeing Bucky almost daily. Dreams of him coming to you, scooping you up in his arms, like he used to, and walking you to his room. The way he’d touch you, his voice in your ear. Your face flushes at the thought, and you step onto the treadmill. Forcing yourself to run at a faster speed than needed.
Another memory of you trying to find him after he’d been pardoned, your own words had been used in his trial. All you wanted to do was see him, talk to him, tell him you were sorry for what had happened all those years. You weren’t allowed to see him; instead, Sam had stopped you.
“I know you probably mean well, but he’s been through enough.” He had put a hand on your shoulder, squeezing it. Some weird form of comfort that just made you feel more hollow. “Maybe another time.”
After that, you’d stopped trying to find him. Stopped hoping he’d remember you, that what the two of you had been through had left a connection. An attachment. A scar. It hurt every time you saw him, every time you had a dream about him. Those blue eyes are always watching your back, always waiting for your instructions. How his arms had carried you out of multiple firefights, you would have been dead if it weren’t for him.
Squeezing your eyes, you start running faster, pushing your legs as hard as they can go. The sweat starts to drip into all the creases as your lungs try to grab as much air as possible. Just as you were feeling like you couldn’t go another mile, the door opens, and Bucky comes walking in. White shirt stretched across his wide shoulders, hair dishevelled, a pair of black joggers that showed off his legs unfairly. He looked good, thick in all the right ways, which made your mouth water, and your feet almost give out.
He didn’t look up or acknowledge you. Just went over the weights and grabbed the third heaviest ones to start working out. It didn’t help that the whole place was covered floor to ceiling in mirrors. Now you could watch how his muscles moved under the shirt, his biceps nearly ripping out from the sleeves. His back rippled in a way that should have been illegal.
Your hand hits the stop button, and you jump off before the tread finishes rotating. Not bothering to stop to look at him, you go to leave, and he just huffs, shaking his head.
“What? Don’t like sharing?” Bucky tosses over his shoulder, freezing you in place.
Walking out of the place would be the right choice, walking away without causing any shit. You were going to be trapped with him for at least another three days.
“Just don’t need anyone staring,” You grit back, and grab the handle to leave.
Bucky keeps lifting the weights like it’s nothing, “You wish.”
You turn around and walk back over, getting up into his face, which really you shouldn't have done, cause holy fuck is he handsome up close. The small lines, the flecks of grey just starting to show. Now you’re the one staring.
“Seem to remember you being the one following me out of the jet.” You start to yell, knowing full well the entire floor will hear. “Not to mention looking me over with a fine-tooth comb after I didn’t get hit by a laser.” His brow furrows as the words keep tumbling out. “Or you staring at me through the mirror in the bathroom and in the living room. So who is wishing, Bucky?”
He shakes his head and turns away, setting the weights down. “You’re seeing what you want to see.”
A laugh actually escapes past your lips; there is no humour in it. “Nice try. Good deflection. Shouldn’t have expected anything else. Heaven forbid you’re actually honest about how you feel.”
This time, you do storm out of the room, and you hear him following after you. You get to your door and go to open it for it to be held closed. His metal hand is stopping you from opening it up. Turning around your face is nearly touching his; his eyes are blown open, looking over you. The heat from his body presses around you; you can smell his sweat, the faint hints of his cologne that has to be days old. Both arms on either side of you, trapping you against the door.
“What. Do. You. Want. From me.” Bucky grits out like it’s actually painful to say.
Closing your eyes, you try not to lean and just kiss him, cause that’s all you want to do right now. “I don’t want anything from you. I just want to do my job -”
“Now who's lying?” The door beside your head groans as he almost busts through the wood. “I remember things. Things about us.”
Swallowing, you stay still, back pressed against the door, feeling like the air had been sucked out of your lungs.
“You were nice to me. Stitched me up, cut my hair, stayed when I was in the chair.” His voice whispers. “Why?’
“You saved me,” You reply, letting a fragile piece of honesty slip out. “Over and over again, you remembered me even when they wiped you. You trusted me. It was the only thing I could give back to you, only thing I was allowed to do.”
Bucky's body starts to shake, his arm whirling, his other hand twitching. “Why didn’t you look for me? When you got out. You were my handler when I escaped.”
Curling in on yourself, you struggle to find words. “I did, but the Avengers aren’t exactly accessible to the public. I stopped after a while. Figured you didn’t remember me.”
A door opens, and Bucky moves away from you like he was burned, as Alexi walks out yawning and scratching his belly. Giving a much too cheery ‘mornin’. He walks past, wiggling his eyebrows at Bucky, whose ears go red. He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“Why did you come to work here, then?” Bucky asks, now standing across from you. “You knew I’d be here.”
You swallow, having not been prepared for interrogation this early. “I just needed a job,”
He starts pacing, and you can see frustration ebbing out of him. “That’s bullshit.”
“I knew you’d be here, but I didn’t know Val would put me in the position she put me in.” You threw your hands up in defeat. “I was living in a closet. Working as a goddamn dishwasher in a five-star restaurant, barely making enough to cover rent. Then Val walks in and offers me a job, an apartment, insurance. So you were on the bottom of my ‘to be worried about’ list.”
Bucky moves forward and opens your bedroom door, and grabs your wrist, dragging you inside. Turning, he closes it and locks it before turning back towards you. For a moment, you actually feel afraid of him. Bucky looks like he just fought a war, his hair standing up, shirt dishevelled from pacing and sweating. Now his eyes are fixed on you, like he’s never actually seen you before.
“Bucky-” You try to say, but he’s already moving towards you, his hand cupping under your chin.
“Just shut up.” He murmurs before leaning down to kiss you.
You’re too stunned to kiss him back at first, the warmth of his hand, the way his stubble catches your chin. It doesn’t stop him, and soon you're kissing him too. Hands sliding into his long hair, you tug him closer, lips opening as he pushes his tongue into your mouth. One arm snakes around his shoulders, the other around his waist. His hand holds your waist and the other cupping your face.
Pulling back, you gasp for air, he pants back, forehead against yours. “I fucking hated you, for all the wrong reasons.”
You kiss him back, all the feelings, the longing, the lost years flooding out of you in a tidal wave of emotions. His hands grip onto you, the metal one tangling in your hair, as he starts to walk you backwards.
“Stop,” You whimper before hitting the edge of the bed, before toppling down onto it with a thunk. “We shouldn’t do this.”
Bucky stares down at you, hands braced on either side of you. “Why?”
You shake your head, tears welling up. “We-I let them hurt-t you.”
He rolls over on his side looking at you, there is no contempt, no hatred, not like before. Instead, he just watches you, your hand covering your mouth as tears spill out. His fingers wipe the tears away, your feelings too tangled in your chest to separate. One arm dragging you against his chest, you didn’t deserve this, to be touched and held by the same person you hurt.
“It wasn’t you,” Bucky murmurs, placing small kisses at your temple, metal fingers tracing patterns against your side.
“But it was me,” You reply, “I was never wiped, Bucky. Hell, I signed up for it. I went along with it. Just followed the orders, even when I knew they were hurting you.”
“They took you when you were fourteen; you’d been on the streets for almost two years by then.” Bucky tries to assure you. The words familiar, things you’d both been told, but had never believed
“I could have gotten you out of there.”
“They would have killed you.”
“They tried to kill you.”
“And we are both still here. Still alive. For now.”
You let out a small laugh at that. Turning to face him more, the two of you look over the other.
“What changed? It wasn’t me coming on the mission, or getting shot at.” You press, having to know what changed, why he’d kissed you.
“Scars,” Bucky says simply, his fingers feeling a scar through your shirt. “And your file.”
“You read it?” You ask, trying to hide how surprised you are. As if you hadn’t read everyone's file as soon as you could.
“Yelena said I should.” Bucky huffs, shrugging his shoulders. “Maybe I wanted to believe that I wasn’t alone, that someone else understood what had happened.”
You swallow the emotions still lingering there. How was any of this happening? “And?”
“Yelena was right, we both went through horrors. Both made it out the other side.” Bucky tugs you closer. “You’re probably the only one left who has experienced what I have, in person.”
“Is that a good thing? Or a bad thing?”
Bucky leans down and kisses you again. “Good. Y’think I drag just anyone into an isolation bedroom?”
Another small laugh leaves you, “I was expecting you to throw me out a window, or strangle me, wasn’t expecting this.”
“Is that a good thing? Or a bad thing.”
You lean in and kiss him again, hand cupping his face, his arm drags you on top of him. Leaning in close to kiss him more, sets of hands roam over the other. Fingers dig underneath shirts, you get his off first, sitting back, you admire his chest. He’s broader than before, muscles more defined with proper nutrition and actual food. There is a softness there, the black and gold vibranium not nearly as striking as the silver had been. Your fingers find scars you remember, and some you don’t, the tips of your fingers trace over each of them. Hands running over the dog tags he still wears.
Bucky lets you look before taking off yours. The instinct to cover yourself makes your hands tense on his chest. You watch his lip get tucked against his teeth as his eyes roam over your body, fingers going to play along the band of your sports bra. His own fingers find the different scars, ones no one had ever taken the time to touch before.
To stop the spiral, you kiss him again, grinding your hips down, feeling his own need press against yours. The sweats don't do much to hide him, and all you have on is a pair of loose shorts. His big hands grip your hips, guiding them to push along his length in a way that makes you moan. You can smell and touch him in ways you only ever dreamt about, in ways that make you soaked. Both of you are desperately rutting into the other, the loss and tension so thick it’s like smoke.
You are completely consumed by the feeling, by needing him, trying to be as close to him as you possibly can. His hands grab your ass and squeeze, before coming around and pushing down inside your shorts, warm fingers pushing against your clit.
“Fuck,” You cuss, whimpering as your forehead hits his collarbone. “Oh god,”
“Not him,” Bucky teases as his fingers start to make small circles, in just the right way.
You slap his chest, “Such an asshole, ungh, right there please.”
“You're so warm. So fuckin’ beautiful. Right in front of me this whole time.”He flips you onto your back and drags your shorts and underwear down in quick order. His dog tags dangling against your chest. Pushing your legs open, hands running down the back of your thighs with a practiced ease, you don’t need to think about.
“God, you're so pretty,” Bucky is whispering, kissing between your breasts. Fingers going back between your thighs. Thumb keeps moving in a circular motion against your clit, the pressure just right to make you squirm. His lips kissed down along each scar. Tongue tracing the outlines. “Kept dreaming about this. About you, even when I knew I shouldn’t.”
Whining your hips push against his hand, feeling heat starting to curl in your stomach. It had been too long since you had indulged yourself in anything pleasurable. “How long-fuck- oh right there,”
Bucky chuckles and sucks against one of the fresher wounds, making you squirm and rock against his hand. “Since I got out.” He finds another mark and traces his tongue along it, making the heat in your stomach expand up your spine. “You were always there, even when I hated you.”
Grabbing his face, you drag him up, kissing him deeply, nipping and kissing at his lips. Your head tips back as you feel yourself start to crest. “Oh, fuck yes! Bucky.”
His hand comes over your mouth as he lets you ride out the orgasm, a grin spreads across his face at your cries. “Alexi, definitely heard that.”
You groan into the pillow, trying to hide your flush. “Do not bring that man up right now.”
Bucky grinds himself against your over-sensitive core, “Whatcha gonna do, if I do?”
Glaring up at him, you slap his ass and push at his sweats, “Do you really want to know? Sargent.”
He groans as he pushes his pants and underwear down. “Knew you’d pull rank on me.” Bucky nips along your jaw as he rubs his cock against you.
Your eyes grow wide, feeling him bare against you; he’s not exactly small, and it’s been a minute since you’ve done anything like this. Reaching down, your fingers wrap around him, and his eyes roll back, teeth gritting as you pump him a few times. Spreading your legs a little wider, he pushes down and rubs himself up and down through your now soaking slit.
“Not to inflate your ego,” You keen, rocking against him, the head of his cock pushing against your sensitive clit. “But you aren’t small.”
He chuckles as he starts working at one of your nipples with his mouth. Hips still rocking slow and steady, “It’ll fit, just got to take it slow.”
“Don’t leave me waiting,” You murmur, fingers pressing down on his shaft so he slides through your wet folds. It makes you whimper as it presses against your clit.
Grabbing both your hands, he pins them above your head, a small gasp leaving your lips. “I got you.” He leaves small marks along one breast. Eyes fluttering as he looks over you, “Fuck, you are something else, all spread out like this.” He pushes just the head of his cock against your wet hole. “Soaked for me.”
A small whine leaves you as he pushes in, and fuck is he big, spreading you out like no one has before. Large hand holding your hips still, metal gripping your wrists. The contrast of warm and cold makes you shiver. He could make you do anything he wanted, his whole body just encompassing you fully. Yet, he is slow, his eyes closing as his mouth falls open. Just pushing the head in and out, letting you feel just how big he is.
“Please, please, more.” You squirm, trying to break free and make him move more.
Buck groans and slowly pushes himself in a bit more; it’s so much and not enough at the same time. “Fuck you’re so tight, pretty pussy stretched around me. Can feel how much you want me.”
You bite into your lip and push your hips up against his hand, moving him deeper still. “Do not make me beg,”
A grin actually stretches across his face, and you want to smack him as he slides in a little deeper, your back arching off the bed. His hand holds you in place, grip tightening around your wrist enough to leave bruises.
“Oh, I will make you beg,” Bucky chuckles darkly, his tongue now travels along the column of your neck. One hand is still holding your hands above your head. “I’d never stand down from a challenge.” He groans as he moves further in.
You try to fight back against him, but it’s useless. You could tell him to stop, and he would, but right now you don’t. His grip tightens as he pulls back just enough to not be inside before sliding in all the way and holding right there. Pushing himself right up against your cervix, you whimper, body fluttering around him.
“Fuck, always so stubborn,” You huff, trying desperately not to beg and give in to what he wants. Trying to gain some wiggle room, but he gives you no leeway.
“Come on,” Bucky teases, sucking one of your nipples into his mouth. He licks and sucks at it, pulling it back with his teeth. It makes you squirm and trying to get more. “I know you want more.”
Bucky grinds his hips down, making you feel every bit of it as he starts to suck and work on your other nipple. You move as much as you can, chewing on your lip to keep the words from slipping out. A battle of wills is playing out, and you are on the verge of losing. Every little twitch, thrust, and cant makes you want to scream. Nipping at your breasts, he leaves some marks before going over and sucking at the other nipple.
“Know how much you want it.” His voice is deep and husky, as he drags himself out and then pushes in just as slow. “Tell me you want it, sweetheart.”
Groaning, you huff at him, glaring daggers as best you can, considering your skewer on his cock. “Fuck you, Barnes.”
Rolling his hips again, he gives a lazy grin. “Pretty sure that’s what we are trying to do. Just got to say the magic words.”
“You have me pinned,” You whimper, as he drags almost all the way out. “No, no, no, please.”
Bucky’s tongue is caught between his teeth as he uses his free hand to tap the head of his dick against your opening. “Please? What?”
Your jaw clenches, leaning up as much as you can and staring at him. “Fuck me, Bucky. Please just fuck me, until I can’t think anymore.”
“There she is, not s’hard,” He grins like a madman, he pushes himself in with a deep thrust, making your eyes roll back.
The bed rocks with how hard he plunges into you, his lips locked on every bit of skin, and your mind melting into a puddle between your legs. Your legs wrap around his waist, moving with him as best you can. It’s fast and hard, which makes you want it even more. Your body responding with every movement, god, you want to touch him and feel him, and kiss him back, but your fucking being held down by the maniac.
“Oh yes,” You whimper, just holding on for the ride. “Let me-ah-yes-right-there.”
He seems to get the idea, letting go of your hands. Your fingers dig into his hair, pulling on it, making him moan loudly. Teeth crashing against each other, as you taste him, tongues sliding over one another, fighting each other. You're already feeling yourself get close again, because fuck if you haven’t been thinking about this for so long.
“Better than I imagine,” Bucky murmurs, pulling back just enough to watch the way he moves in and out of you. “Fuck, fit perfect.”
You whimper and squeeze his biceps, pulling at his dog tags, “So close, Bucky.”
Bucky kisses you again, as his metal thumb finds your clit, your back bows up, the contrast of smooth, cool vibranium compared to how hot you are pushes you over. He groans, feeling you clench around him, your body pulsing in a rhythm that has him so close.
“Where,” He groans, holding onto your hips as his strokes start to get sloppy. Rhythm stuttering, as he holds you close, fucking into you with deeper thrusts.
“Inside, please,” You whimper, your orgasm rolling longer as he keeps hitting that spot, his thumb slowing, but never stopping the movements.
Bucky’s head tips back, mouth opening with a sigh as he pulls you exactly where he wants you. You lean up and wrap yourself around him as he buries himself into you. You can feel him pumping deep inside you. Filling you so full it almost hurts. Large hands holding your ass and you in place, both of you panting, sweaty and completely a mess.
You’re not sure what to expect next, but him laying you down gently and curling you against him wasn’t it. You expected him to tell you that it was a one-time thing, and he was going to have a shower came to mind. But now, as you lie here curled against his chest, you really don’t want him to leave. It’s insane, ridiculous, and exactly what you want right now. His fingers running along your spine, his heart beat steady, and his breath even in a comforting way you’ve never felt before.
Something you could get used to. Something so dangerous.
“Do you still hate me?” You whisper, trying to make it sound like a joke, but it comes out much more raw.
He chuckles, pushing some of your hair back from your sweat-slicked face. Blue eyes meet yours, watching you carefully.
“I don’t hate you.” Bucky replies, “I hate what they did to you. What they did to us. Not this.”
Leaning down, he presses his forehead against yours, and for the first time, you feel like you might be okay.
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Surprise! | Bob Reynolds x reader | Drabble 641 words
Valentina wants the New Avengers to attend a Halloween party in the city, but the last thing Bob wants to do is surround himself with drinking and partying when he's been doing so well. Lucky he has you to make sure he doesn't miss out on any fun!
Warnings: none really! Silly fluffy fun, Bob is trying to stay sober and everyone is supporting him. ❤️
From my Pumpkin Spice Challenge prompts "blindfold" and "big surprise"
Masterlist | Marvel | Bob Reynolds
"I dunno baby, do I have to wear this?" Bob tugged at the scarf you'd tied around his eyes as a blindfold.
"Yes, it's part of the fun, stop fussing." You batted his hands away from the knot at the back and took them in your own instead.
"Fine."
Bob looked very cute sulking under the silky scarf, you were glad he couldn't see your giggle, stiffled in the crook of your arm.
He'd been moping about ever since Valentina had insisted that the New Avengers attend a Halloween party being held in the city as part of her thinly veiled charity work. But Bob had refused, knowing there'd be copious amount of alcohol and not wanting to get in the way of his friends having fun.
Despite everyone promising to stay sober, and Yelena gleefully suggesting that she'd be on the look out for anyone lying, he'd still refused. So you stayed at home instead.
"Where are we even going?" Bob put his hand against the elevator buttons and you laughed again.
"How're you going to tell what floor we're on like that?"
"Dunno, the heat or something."
"You're ridiculous."
"You're ridiculous, blindfolding me to walk me around my own home." He made a grab for you, successfully catching you around the waist and pulling you in close, nuzzling into your neck.
"Can't we just…go back to our room?" Bob's nose ran up your neck to your ear, his teeth catching lightly on your ear lobe before he soothed it kisses.
"No!" You giggled, pushing him away despite the goosebumps erupting up and down your arms at his touch. "We're here!"
The elevator doors open and you took Bob's hands again, carefully guiding him out onto the wide observation deck of the tower.
"Okay, just stay right…here!"
Letting go of his hands you stood behind him instead and reached up to tug the blindfold off.
"Happy Halloween!"
Bob blinked at the bright string lights, his vision taking a moment to return.
"Oh my god…" There was a lot to take in, from the pumpkin themed lights to the candles and decorations, a heap of beanbags and couch cushions were piled up against on of the walls and a white sheet hung against the other. The sheet rustled and then —
"Surprise!" Yelena, Ava, Bucky, John and finally Alexei stuck their heads around the edges.
"What are you guys doing here!?"
"Snuck out early." Ava shrugged, grabbing a huge bowl of popcorn from a table covered in treats.
"We wanted to be with you!" Yelena bounded over the cushions and threw herself at Bob, ruffling his hair. "And your lovely girlfriend, of course."
You pushed her away before she could touch your hair too.
"Valentina's circus or scary movies on the roof, it was a no-brainer, Bob." Bucky clapped him on the shoulder and handed him a huge bar of chocolate. "Can we eat this now, she's a tyrant and said I had to wait." Bucky shot you a glance and you stuck your tongue out.
"C'mon, Bobby, what film do you want to watch?"
"PRIKOSNOVENIYE!" Alexei shouted, taking the remote from John and pointing it uselessly at the sheet while the team began arguing about spots on the cushions and how to share the snacks.
Bob took your hand, only daring to look away from his new friends to kiss you gently. "You did all this for me?" He whispered against your lips.
"Of course, we love you." You smiled back and he kissed you again, "I love you."
"Hey, love birds, come and pick a film!"
Suddenly you were under attack from flying cushions, super soldiers armed with popcorn and former assassins intent of getting their own film choice. And suddenly the feeling of ever being left out, seemed a long way away.
Sometimes the house became almost painfully quiet when Simon was away. Not the good kind of quiet, the kind that settled softly over the room and let you breathe for a while. This was different. A strange, persistent silence that felt like something was missing from the walls themselves, like the whole place had forgotten how to sound like home.
You did your best to fill it.
Books, music, little cleaning spurts that turned into reorganizing entire shelves, and, most often lately, cooking. Cooking helped. It gave your hands something to do and your mind something to focus on. It was soothing, for the most part, until you made something you knew Simon would have loved, and there was no one there to tease, taste, or steal the first bite.
Still, tonight’s recipe had gone well. The kitchen smelled warm and rich, all garlic and herbs and something sweet lingering underneath. You stood there with a plate in one hand, ready to finally serve, when you heard it.
A shuffle. Then a low groan from the front door.
Your whole body went rigid.
Simon was not supposed to be back for another week. You were alone. No guests, no deliveries, no reason for anyone to be at the door at all.
Someone was breaking in. Shit.
You went cold all at once, every lecture Simon had ever given you on self defense flashing through your mind, but panic left no room for careful thinking. You grabbed the plate tighter, your knuckles whitening around it, and moved before your brain could catch up.
The lock rattled, the door bursting open and you swung.
The plate shattered spectacularly against the head of the very tall intruder.
For one breathtaking second, you stood frozen, half expecting a stranger, a threat, anything else.
Instead, a familiar grumble filled the doorway, "Fucking hell."
Your soul left your body.
“Simon?” you gasped, throwing your hands up in horror as adrenaline shot through you so fast your fingers trembled.
He staggered inside, a duffel bag slipping from one shoulder and thudding to the floor. One hand braced against the wall, the other pressed to the side of his head.
“Are you okay?!” you gasped.
“I got smashed with a plate. What ya think?” he muttered, eyes shut tight.
“You were supposed to be back in a week!”
“Mission ended early,” he said with a pained groan.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Wanted t’ surprise ya.”
You stared at him.
Then gestured wildly at the ceramic graveyard on the floor.
"That is objectively the worst possible strategy for someone who constantly tells me to be careful because of all the enemies you've made."
He gave you a flat look. “Nice. Blame the victim.”
"The victim broke into the house like a raccoon with military training."
He huffed "rude."
“Just go sit down,” you said, already ushering him toward the sofa. “I’ll get the first aid kit.”
He kicked off his boots with a grunt and dropped onto the couch like all the bones in his body had collectively decided to quit. By the time you returned, kit in hand, he looked tired in that deeply worn-out way that made your chest ache, guilt gnawed at you like a tiny feral creature.
"Si, I'm so sorry," you blurted the second you sat beside him. "I genuinely thought someone was breaking in and then the door opened and I panicked and my body moved before my brain did and I hit you and—"
"It's alright, swee’heart," his voice came soft, steady.
You worked carefully, cleaning the scratches on his forehead and the small cuts along his shoulder. He didn’t even flinch much, though he did keep staring at you with that quiet, warm look that always made you feel like you were the only light in the room.
“Been through a dangerous mission,” he said, “an’ get home to get clocked by me wife.”
“It wasn’t on purpose,” you said, glaring at the cotton pad like it had personally offended you.
“Never said it was.”
“You are being very smug for a man who got ambushed by dinnerware.”
He huffed a laugh. “Usually wives greet their husbands with kisses and hugs. Not ceramic warfare.”
“I was trying out a new greeting method.”
He raised one brow. “Next time, how about a pan to the face?”
You let out a helpless laugh. “Shut up.”
“You hit me.”
“I thought you were breaking in!”
“Still counts as domestic violence, luv.”
You snorted despite yourself, and he looked absurdly pleased with that.
Once you finished, he leaned back into the couch with a long sigh, still horrified and still trying not to laugh at the stupidity of this entire situation. He tilted his head toward you.
“On the bright side,” he said, “I do know for certain you’re safe when I’m gone.”
ᰋ ˓ ♡ 𝑓awn’s notes ㆍ just started watching off campus, and it gave me some inspiration to write hcs!
· boyfriend!garrett is the kind of boyfriend who shows love through actions because words have never come easy to him, but he’s learning. he stumbles through emotional conversations, jaw tight and eyes fixed somewhere over your shoulder, but he’s trying, and that’s what matters.
· boyfriend!garrett’s primary love language is physical touch. he’s almost always touching you—hand on your lower back, thigh pressed against yours, fingers tracing patterns on your arm. he’s not even conscious of it half the time; it’s just instinct.
· boyfriend!garrett gave you a nickname early on and refuses to let it go. he uses it exclusively in public, but when it’s just the two of you, he switches to your actual name in this specific tone that makes your stomach flip every single time.
· boyfriend!garrett remembers everything. that cafe you mentioned months ago? suddenly there’s a pastry from it on your desk. your class schedule, your work shifts, your exam dates. small details you casually mentioned, then he brings them up later to show he was listening.
· boyfriend!garrett’s second language is acts of service. he drives you anywhere, picks up your favorite takeout when you’ve had a bad day, clears the snow off your car before you even wake up. makes sure you have snacks when you’re pulling all-nighters.
· boyfriend!garrett is actually domestic. grocery shopping together becomes a tradition, he tries to put the most unexpected items (which you two might never use) in the cart just to make you laugh. he’s a blanket thief and will wrap himself around you like a koala in his sleep. don’t tell his teammates, but he actually enjoys cuddling.
· boyfriend!garrett gets teased by his teammates for being whipped. he doesn’t care. he just grins and says, “jealous?” and goes right back to having his hand on your knee under the table.
· boyfriend!garrett is protective without being controlling. if some guy gets too close at a party, he appears out of nowhere with his hand on your lower back. he doesn’t make a scene—just looks at the guy with that quiet intensity that makes them back off. he trusts you completely; it’s them he doesn’t trust.
· boyfriend!garrett gets jealous rarely but intensely. his entire demeanor shifts, jaw tightens, shoulders square, voice drops. he won’t start a fight (learned that lesson) but he’ll get you out of there immediately and ask later, if that person bothered you.
· boyfriend!garrett struggles with vulnerability. he was closed off for so long that letting you in took time, but once he does, he’s all in. he tells you about his father on his own terms, usually late at night when it's dark. he lets you see him upset. he actually asks for comfort when he needs it, which was impossible for him before.
· boyfriend!garrett isn’t great with words (see above), but he tries. he tells you things he’s never told anyone—about his mother, his father, the guilt, the anger. when he does say “i love you,” it’s quiet and genuine and he means every word.
· boyfriend!garrett wants to make you feel good—it's genuinely important to him. if you’re not enjoying something, he stops immediately. “tell me what you want.” and he actually listens. gets off on getting you off.
· boyfriend!garrett has an insane schedule. practice, games, travel, press. but he makes time. he texts you before and after every game, no matter what. if you can’t come to his games, you get a play-by-play recap later. he actually wants you at the games—says he skates better when he knows you’re watching.
· boyfriend!garrett on game days: pre-game is focus mode. you get a quick kiss and “i’ll call you after” before he’s gone. win means he’s hyper and tactile, wants to celebrate with you—picks you up, spins you around. a loss means he's quiet, needs space but wants you nearby. he doesn’t want to talk about it, just wants you there. either way, he’s coming home to you.
· boyfriend!garrett has a whole playlist of 80s rock he’s been curating since he was a kid. lynyrd skynyrd, journey, boston, the works. he’ll put it on during late nights when you’re both just spending time together, and he gets this soft, shy look when you sing along to a song you know. he won’t say it out loud, but those quiet moments with you, music playing low and your head on his shoulder, are the closest thing to peace he’s ever known.
· boyfriend!garrett’s worst fear is hurting you. he’d rather leave than become his father, and you have to remind him that’s not who he is. he wants a future with you. house, dog, the whole thing. but he’s terrified to say it out loud. he’ll say it eventually, though, when it’s just the two of you.
the puck hits the back of the net and the arena explodes.
garrett doesn’t hear any of it. the roar of the crowd, the announcer’s voice, his teammates slapping his back. it all fades into static. his eyes are already scanning the stands, searching through the sea of faces until he finds you.
you’re tucked away in the third row, wearing his jersey, jumping up and down with your hands in the air. your smile is so wide he can see it from here.
his arm lifts before he can think about it. he points at you—that one was for you. the grin that breaks across his face is the one he reserves just for you.
a few guys on the bench notice. tucker hoots. logan rolls his eyes but he’s smiling.
garrett doesn’t care. he skates toward the bench with that same grin still on his face, and when he glances back at you one more time, you’re still looking at him like he hung the moon.
you glare at him from your spot against the boards, legs wobbling beneath you. garrett skates backward with infuriating ease, hands outstretched, that stupid smirk on his face.
“c’mon,” he says. “just push off. i’ve got you.”
“you said that ten minutes ago and i almost fell on my face.”
“you didn’t fall.”
“almost is the key word.”
he laughs, and it’s warm and genuine and makes you want to wipe that smug look off his face. but then he’s right in front of you, close enough that you can see the flecks of gray in his eyes, and his hands find your waist.
“trust me,” he says, softer now. “i won’t let you fall.”
you take a breath. you push off.
his hands stay on your waist the whole time, guiding you, steadying you. he skates backward in front of you, watching your feet, correcting you with small nudges. when you wobble, his grip tightens. when you find your balance, his thumbs trace circles on your hips.
you make it halfway around the rink before your legs give out. he catches you instantly, arms wrapping around you, pulling you against his chest before you can hit the ice.
“told you i had you.”
you’re both laughing now, breathless and a little ridiculous, and he kisses your forehead like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“you owe me,” you say, still catching your breath.
“yeah?”
“yeah. next time, you teach me how to fight.”
he snorts. “you want to learn how to fight?”
“if i’m dating a hockey player, i should probably know how to throw a punch.”
he grins, wide and boyish. “deal.”
he doesn’t let go of you for the rest of the night.
✏ 𝒹𝗁𝖺𝗓𝖾𝆑𝖺𝗐𝗇───all rights reserved; even when credited, these works are not allowed to be reposted, translated, modified or fed into ai ࣭ ౄు
Author's Note: The second and final part. Possible Trigger Warning: Hospitals. Part one is here.
The next time I woke up, my head was pounding again…and calling my name. No, wait, that wasn’t my head, it was the door, someone was at my door.
The knock came again, sharper this time.
I pushed myself up too fast and had to stop halfway to the door, palm flat against the wall while the room tilted.
Another cough ripped through me before I could speak. Whatever I tried to say came out wrong and immediately turned into more coughing.
By the time I opened the door, I wasn’t really standing so much as staying upright by accident.
“You look like shit…” Garrett decided.
I tried to answer and only got as far as shaking my head before I had to turn away again, coughing hard enough that my vision blurred at the edges.
“I mean this with nothing but love, but that’s disgusting.”
I started to head back to my room.
Garrett followed.
“Have you been asleep since our call last night?”
“No, I've been out at the clubs," I say sarcastically, glaring at him.
He came to sit on the edge of my bed, tenderly lifting his hand to my sweaty forehead. He pulled it away and went rummaging through my bathroom until he found the thermometer.
“Open up.”
"I'm not a kid Garrett. I can do it myself," I huff, taking the thermometer away from him.
When the thermometer beeped, Garrett snatched it out of my mouth to read it.
“Shit, your fever's 103”
I groan in acknowledgement.
“You should leave.”
“Not a chance. Is there anything you need?”
“You’re going to get sick.”
“I doubt it. I have an ironclad immune system.”
“Garrett…”
“I have spent the last 36 hours wanting nothing more than to be here taking care of you.”
"You're impossible."
"So I've been told."
I heard him moving around my apartment, opening cabinets and drawers as he searched for things. A few minutes later, he returned carrying a damp washcloth and a glass of water.
As I sat up, I had another coughing fit. My entire chest burned.
"Easy, easy."
I felt Garrett’s hand rub circles on my back while I struggled to catch my breath. By the time it passed, tears were streaming down my face.
"That bad?" he asked quietly.
I nodded.
He pressed the cool washcloth against my forehead. The relief was immediate.
"Better?"
"A little."
"Good."
I cracked one eye open. Garrett busied himself cleaning up the disaster zone that had become my room. Empty medicine packets disappeared into the trash. Used tissues followed. He gathered my dirty dishes from the desk and carried them to the kitchen.
"You don't have to do all this," I mumbled.
"Sure, I do."
His voice was soft.
"You'd do it for me."
When he finished, he took a seat at the edge of my bed, “Please let me take you to the doctor, this isn't normal.”
“I’m sick”
“Even when you’re sick, the things you’re doing shouldn’t take this much effort. You walked twenty feet to answer the door and looked ready to collapse."
"I didn't collapse."
"You literally had to lean against the wall."
"Details."
"You're exhausted, you’ve had a fever for days, you can't stop coughing."
"You're overreacting."
"Am I?"
Garrett wasn't smiling anymore.
"It's a cold."
I opened my mouth to continue my argument, but another coughing fit cut me off. This one was worse. The pressure in my chest felt crushing. Every breath rattled. By the time it finally stopped, I was gasping for air.
Garrett's expression went from concerned to alarmed.
"Jesus Christ."
"I'm fine."
I wasn't.
The room tilted slightly, and dark spots danced at the edges of my vision. I closed my eyes until they disappeared. When I opened them again, Garrett was staring at me.
"What?"
"You're breathing weird."
I frowned.
"What does that even mean?"
"It means you're breathing weird."
"Very descriptive."
"It sounds like you're wheezing"
Garrett watched me for a moment.
"You're avoiding deep breaths."
"What?"
"Every time you cough, you stop yourself from inhaling all the way."
I looked away.
"It hurts, doesn't it?"
I didn't answer.
"Y/n…"
I sighed.
"My chest is sore."
"From coughing?"
"Probably."
The uncertainty must have shown on my face because Garrett's expression darkened. He reached for my hand, his thumb brushing over my knuckles.
"We're going to the hospital."
"Garrett..."
"Baby, look at me. You're scaring me."
For the first time since he got here, there wasn't even a trace of humor in his voice, and I knew I’d lost this fight. I let my head fall back against the pillow. Garrett was already moving. He grabbed my shoes from beside the door and my sweatshirt from the back of a chair. Then he disappeared into the bathroom and came back with my wallet and phone. He knelt beside the bed.
"Can you stand?"
"Yes?"
"That's not supposed to be a question."
I sighed.
"I'm just tired."
Garrett held out his hands.
"I know. Let's try."
The second my feet touched the floor, the room spun. I swayed slightly before righting myself.
"Whoa."
"I'm okay."
"You almost face-planted."
"I did not."
"You absolutely did."
I leaned heavily against him while waiting for the dizziness to pass. Garrett didn't comment on how much of my weight he was supporting. That worried me more than if he had.
I forced myself away from him and started walking out to his car. The cool night air hit my face the moment we stepped outside. Instead of helping, it made me cough. By the time I got into the passenger seat, I was exhausted. He buckled me in himself.
"Garrett."
"What?"
"You're being weird."
His hands paused. For a second, he just looked at me. The parking lot lights illuminated the worry on his face. And suddenly I realized just how scared he was.
"Hey," I said quietly.
His jaw clenched.
"What?"
"I'm okay."
The look he gave me said he didn't believe that for a second. He shut the passenger door and rounded the front of the jeep. The drive was unusually quiet. Every few minutes, Garrett’s eyes flicked toward me. Making sure I was still awake, still breathing. Normally, I would have made a sarcastic comment, but the pain and exhaustion stilled my tongue.
The hospital finally came into view. Relief washed across Garrett's face so quickly that it broke my heart.
"See?" I said weakly. "We're here. Crisis averted."
Before he could respond, another coughing fit hit. This one was worse than the others. When it finally passed, I looked up to find Garrett already out of his seat and coming around to help me.
"I can walk."
"I believe you,” he said as he wrapped his arm around my waist, guiding me to the doors.
The bright fluorescent lights made my headache instantly worse, causing me to groan. The waiting room wasn't particularly busy, which seemed to be the only thing going in my favor. The receptionist looked up as we approached.
She picked up the phone. Within minutes, a nurse appeared with a cart to take my vitals.
"Hi, sweetheart. Let's check a few things."
I offered my finger, and the nurse clipped the monitor on. The number appeared almost immediately.
90%.
Her expression remained professional, but she straightened slightly.
"Okay."
Then she took my temperature.
"One hundred and two point seven."
Garrett muttered something under his breath.
The nurse glanced between us.
"Let's get you back."
I frowned.
"Already?"
Normally, emergency rooms took forever.
The nurse gave me a small smile.
"Already."
Garrett's hand immediately found the small of my back as we followed her through a set of double doors.
“Actually, I’m going to have you sit in one of the wheelchairs.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“Hospital protocol.”
Within minutes, I was being wheeled back to a room.
The nurse took vitals, asked questions, and clipped monitors to various parts of me while Garrett hovered nearby.
The doctor listened to my lungs for less than a minute before ordering a chest X-ray.
My stomach dropped.
Garrett's hand immediately found mine.
Twenty minutes later, I was back in the exam room after the imaging. Garrett sat beside the bed, knee bouncing restlessly. For the first time since we'd arrived, neither of us joked. We just waited and I fought to keep my eyes open.
The doctor returned carrying a tablet. "You have pneumonia, and with oxygen levels where they've been tonight," the doctor continued, "we're going to admit you for observation and start treatment immediately."
"What?" I blurted.
Garrett squeezed my hand.
Hard.
“We’ll get you a nebulizer treatment, put you on the nasal cannula. Give you some strong antibiotics and wait for that fever to break…you should be out of here tomorrow.”
When he left, I couldn’t stop the tears.
"Hey."
Garrett's voice was gentle.
I turned my face away.
"Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Look at me."
His chair scraped against the floor.
A second later, he was sitting on the edge of the bed.
"Baby."
I shook my head, fresh tears spilled down my cheeks.
"I don't want to be here."
The confession came out sounding far more pathetic than I intended.
"I know."
"I hate hospitals."
"I know that too."
The nurse came in with the nebulizer and started the IV antibiotics and saline. While she was working, Garrett pulled his phone out and updated the group chat.
Garrett: She’s been admitted to the hospital.
The nurse hooked up the nasal cannula before exiting the room. Garrett put his phone away, ignoring the incessant buzzing.
"You okay?"
"No."
"Fair."
The fever had begun making me feel strangely emotional. Everything felt overwhelming. The oxygen. The IV. The diagnosis. The realization that I had actually been sick enough to get admitted. I stared at the wall.
Garrett stood and carefully climbed onto the narrow hospital bed beside me.
"Garrett."
"What?"
"The nurses are going to yell at you."
"Then we'll both have something to complain about."
I was too exhausted to protest when he wrapped an arm around my shoulders. For the first time all day, my body began to relax. The steady beep of the monitor filled the room. Garrett's thumb traced lazy circles against my arm. A kiss landed against my forehead.
"Hey, Garrett?" I asked through the sleepiness.
"Hm?"
"Will you still be here when I wake up?"
The question slipped out before I could stop it.
Garrett looked at me like the question broke his heart.
"I'm not leaving."
At some point, I must’ve drifted again, because the next thing I registered was voices in the hallway and the absence of Garrett beside me.
Logan.
Dean.
“…you can’t just text ‘she’s been admitted to the hospital’ and then go radio silent,” Logan argued.
“She has pneumonia and low oxygen,” Garrett said. Flat. Controlled. Too controlled.
A pause.
Then Dean, quieter than usual: “Shit.”
“Her fever finally broke though, and they think she’ll be able to leave here tomorrow morning.”
“That’s good,” Logan decided.
The curtain shifted slightly. Dean stepped in first, hesitating when he saw me.
“You couldn’t have waited until after hockey season to catch the plague?” he joked.
“Sorry, Dean-o, my immune system doesn’t look at Garrett’s calendar,” I answer before breaking out into a coughing fit.
Dean grimaced and Garrett pushed past him coming back to my side, rubbing my back.
Garrett was instantly at my side. “Hey—easy. You good?”
“I’m fine,” I wheezed.
Garrett was already pouring me a glass of water.
Logan sat down. “So, uh… pneumonia. That’s pretty serious.”
“Yeah,” I said weakly. “Apparently, my lungs opted out of the group project.”
Dean winced. “That’s… actually kind of impressive in a horrifying way.”
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Author's Note: I don't typically write with multiple perspectives...but I think it works for this one. This is part 1 of 2
If three months ago someone had suggested Garrett Graham would spend an entire bus ride checking his phone instead of watching film, I would've laughed.
Yet he'd texted me three times before they even crossed the state line.
Garrett: Did you eat?
Garrett: How's the fever?
Garrett: Answer your phone, sweetheart.
Me: Did you eat?
Me: How’s the bus?
Me: How’s film?
Garrett: Touche’
I'd finally convinced him to get on the bus by promising I'd spend the weekend sleeping, drinking fluids, and not doing anything stupid.
Garrett's jersey hung over the back of my desk chair where I'd left it the night before. I stared at it for a second. Since we'd started dating, I hadn't missed a single game. This would be the first.
I missed him. I'd spent most of the week keeping my distance, dodging kisses and batting away his attempts to take care of me. The last thing either of us needed was for him to catch whatever plague had taken up residence in my lungs.
By Saturday morning, I couldn't make it past the kitchen before my knees hit the counter.
The mug of tea stayed half-full beside me while I stared at the wood grain of the table, waiting for the pounding behind my eyes to ease.
It didn't.
Every cough left me bent over the sink longer than I was actually standing upright. By the time I made it back to bed, my sweatshirt clung damply to my skin.
Getting up no longer felt like an option, so much as a mistake I kept repeating.
The chills came in waves, sharp enough that I curled deeper beneath my blankets and still couldn't get warm.
My thumb hovered over Garrett's name longer than it should have. A string of unread check-in texts filled the screen.
Apparently, I'd slept through all of them.
I typed.
Deleted it.
Typed it again.
Me: Sorry, love. I was sleeping. I still feel like shit, but I'll be fine. Stop worrying about me and prepare to kick ass tonight. I love you.
I stared at the message for a second before hitting send, then locked my phone like that somehow made the lie less obvious.
I snapped a picture of the half-empty mug sitting beside me.
Me: Happy?
The typing bubble appeared instantly.
Garrett: No.
It took two attempts to pull on one of his sweatshirts.
By the time I made it to the couch, I was breathing harder than I should have been. My alarm was set so I wouldn’t miss puck drop, and in the meantime, another nap was calling my name.
Garrett had watched the same clip three times and couldn't tell you a single thing that happened in it.
The projector flickered against the hotel conference room wall while Coach pointed out defensive breakdowns from their last game. Normally, Garrett would've been taking mental notes. Normally, he'd be the one answering questions before Coach even finished asking them.
Instead, he was staring at his phone beneath the table.
Sorry, love. I was sleeping. I still feel like shit, but I'll be fine. Stop worrying about me and prepare to kick ass tonight. I love you.
He read the message again.
And again.
The words I'll be fine weren't helping.
Because she'd sounded awful on the phone last night.
And because Y/N had a habit of insisting she was fine right up until she absolutely wasn't.
His thumb hovered over her contact.
Again.
"Earth to Graham."
Garrett looked up.
Logan was staring at him from the seat beside him.
"What?"
"You planning on joining us at some point?"
Garrett shoved his phone face down on the table.
"I'm here."
"Bullshit."
Coach clicked to another clip.
"Okay, what went wrong here?"
Silence.
Coach looked directly at Garrett.
Normally, he'd answer before anyone else.
This time he blinked.
"...Missed assignment?"
The room immediately erupted.
Dean nearly choked.
"Jesus Christ."
"What?" Garrett snapped.
"You don't know?"
Garrett glared at him.
Dean pointed toward the screen.
"The defenseman literally fell over."
A few more guys laughed.
Even Coach looked amused.
"Good to see you're paying attention, Graham."
Garrett muttered something under his breath.
Logan leaned closer.
"Dude."
"What?"
"She's gonna be okay."
Garrett looked away.
"Yeah."
Logan's expression softened.
"Have you heard from her?"
"She says she's fine."
Dean snorted from two seats over.
"Oh, well if she says she's fine."
Garrett shot him a look.
Dean lifted both hands.
"What? I'm serious. Girls are terrible at being sick."
"That's sexist."
"It's also true."
Several players nodded.
"Facts."
Garrett couldn't even argue.
Because Y/N had once worked an entire day on a sprained ankle before admitting something was wrong.
His phone buzzed.
Instantly, his attention dropped.
Logan groaned.
"You're unbelievable."
Garrett ignored him and opened the message.
A picture appeared on the screen.
A half-empty mug sitting beside a blanket.
Happy?
Despite himself, Garrett smiled.
No.
Garrett shook his head and slipped the phone back into his pocket.
Coach clapped his hands.
"Alright, enough. Let's go."
Chairs scraped backward.
The room shifted from meeting mode to game mode. Players filed toward the locker room. Dean slung an arm around Garrett's shoulders.
"Good news."
"What?"
"If we lose tonight, we can blame your lovesick ass."
Garrett shoved him away.
"Get fucked."
Dean laughed.
For the first time all afternoon, Garrett laughed too.
As the team filtered toward their stalls, he pulled his phone out one last time before shoving it into his locker and focusing on hockey.
At least, that had been the plan.
He was the last one dressed, sitting on the bench while the room buzzed around him. The familiar sounds of skates hitting concrete and sticks clattering against lockers faded into the background as his screen lit up.
Good luck, Graham. Give 'em hell.
A smile immediately tugged at his mouth. It was the same thing she told him before every game.
Below the message was a picture.
She was curled up on my couch, absolutely swallowed by one of his oversized Briar hockey hoodies. Her hair was a mess, a blanket covered most of her, and the television behind her displayed the pregame broadcast.
Garrett stared at the picture longer than he meant to.
She looked exhausted and pale, definitely pale.
But she was watching. Even feeling like death, she was still there.
Logan looked over from where he was taping his stick.
"He's smiling at his phone."
Dean pointed dramatically.
"Captain's down bad."
A few heads turned, and several teammates immediately started laughing. Garrett rolled his eyes, but he couldn't quite stop smiling.
Feel better, sweetheart.
A few seconds later,
And drink water.
The response came almost instantly.
Bossy.
For the first time all day, the knot in Garrett's chest loosened.
Coach's voice echoed from the hallway.
"Let's go, boys!"
The room came alive.
Players grabbed helmets and gloves.
Garrett looked at the picture one final time before locking his phone.
Then he slipped it into his locker and stood.
Tonight, he had a game to win.
Tomorrow, he was going home to his girl.
Crowd noise spilled through the speakers of my TV in waves, distant and metallic. I adjusted the volume, then immediately regretted it when the sound made my head pulse harder.
“Okay,” I muttered to myself, swallowing back another cough. “Just… watch the game.”
The camera cut to the bench.
My stomach twisted instantly.
There he was.
A whistle blew.
Faceoff.
Garrett won it clean.
The crowd roared, but even through the broadcast, I could see it—he wasn’t settling into the rhythm like he normally did. He was sharp, sure. Technically perfect.
But restless.
“Hey,” I said softly, like he could hear me through the screen. “Focus.”
As if he could hear me, he won the puck again.
Checked a defenseman into the boards with enough force that the glass rattled.
The commentators picked up their pace.
“Graham’s playing with intensity tonight—almost a little extra edge—”
I exhaled slowly.
“Good,” I whispered.
But even as he dominated the shift, I noticed it again.
The split-second hesitation after the whistle.
The glance toward the bench door instead of the scoreboard.
My throat tightened around another cough, and I pressed my forehead against my sleeve for a second, forcing it down.
“I’m fine,” I told the empty room.
Play had broken into transition. Briar skating hard through the neutral zone.
And then—
Dean.
Breakaway.
Shot.
Goal.
The horn exploded through my speakers.
3-0
Dean threw his arms up before crashing into the glass, grinning like an idiot as his teammates swarmed him.
For a second, I forgot how much my head hurt.
“Okay,” I breathed, a small, broken laugh slipping out. “That’s my boy.”
Pride flickered through me—sharp and immediate.
As the second third, turned into the third, the screen blurred a little when I blinked.
I told myself it was just the stream quality.
I adjusted my position on the couch, pulling his sweatshirt tighter around my shoulders. It was too big on me normally. Tonight it felt like it was swallowing me whole in the best way possible.
Another cough scraped through my chest, quieter this time. More tired than painful.
“Just a few more minutes,” I whispered.
The game kept going.
Fast now.
My eyes started to feel heavy halfway through the third period.
I blinked hard.
Once.
Twice.
The announcers’ voices blurred together—names, stats, excitement rising and falling like waves I couldn’t quite catch anymore.
I shifted again, trying to sit up straighter.
Bad idea.
The room tilted slightly, and I pressed my forehead back against the couch cushion until it steadied.
“Just the game,” I told myself. “Just finish the game.”
The clock ticked down.
Briar ahead.
Still pressing.
Garrett’s line came out again.
This time, he didn’t hesitate.
He looked… locked in, like something had finally clicked into place.
He took the puck at center ice, carried it through two defenders like they weren’t even there, and drove it deep into the zone.
The crowd in the arena rose in volume. Even through the speakers, I could feel it building.
“Come on,” I murmured. “You’ve got this.”
Shot—
Goal.
For a second, everything went white noise.
I startled awake fully for half a second, heart jumping like I’d been the one hit by the shot.
The replay rolled.
“That’s it,” I whispered, voice rough. “There you go.”
The screen started to blur at the edges again, the way it does right before sleep takes over, whether you want it to or not.
The announcers kept talking.
The crowd is still roaring.
Somewhere in the background, Briar was finishing out the final minutes.
But it all started to feel far away.
Like I was sinking slightly under it.
I pulled the blanket tighter around myself, cheek resting against the arm of the couch.
Just for a second, I thought about texting him.
Something simple.
Good game.
I’m proud of you.
But my fingers didn’t move fast enough.
The couch felt warmer than it had a minute ago.
Heavier.
The game noise softened into something like waves.
The last thing I registered clearly was Garrett on screen again—then even that started to fade.
“Did good,” I mumbled, barely audible.
The screen kept glowing in the dark. Briar had won, and I had drifted off.
Garrett skipped the press and went straight for the locker room, getting off his gear and checking his phone.
No new texts, at least not any from the only person who mattered to him at the moment.
He froze, glancing at the screen, making sure he had a signal.
“Hey,” Logan said, noticing his face change. “What’s up?”
Garrett didn’t answer.
Dean stood up. “Yo, Graham, you’re pale. What happened?”
“I need to go,” Garrett said, voice flat.
Logan frowned. “Go where?”
But Garrett was already pulling on his hoodie, not even bothering with the zipper.
“She hasn’t texted me since puck drop,” he said.
Dean blinked. “Relax, she probably fell asleep.”
“Stop worrying so much, she’s fine,” Logan started.
Garrett hung his head, forcing air into his lungs as he put his phone down and headed for the showers.
Everyone around him was celebrating the fact that they had secured a spot in the finals. He was too focused on every mile that lay between the two of you.
He didn’t even make it fully out of the arena before he was calling you.
Straight to voicemail.
Again.
Voicemail.
Again.
“Pick up,” he muttered under his breath, walking faster. “Come on.”
Garrett stopped walking for half a second, staring at his phone like it might change if he looked hard enough.
Dean came up behind him, “I’m going to take that phone.”
“Over my dead body.”
“Come on, dude, I’m telling you she’s probably sleeping. Let’s head back to the hotel, celebrate our win, and you’ll be home to her by noon tomorrow.”
“Yeah, okay.”
The ride to the hotel felt wrong in a way he couldn’t explain. Like the world was too loud and not loud enough at the same time. Like every red light was taking too long on purpose. He kept checking his phone. Still nothing. He tried to convince himself that everything was fine.
I woke up around one a.m.
The room was dark except for the TV still glowing blue in standby, casting long shadows across the couch.
For a second, I didn’t move.
Then I reached for my phone.
The screen lit up immediately—too bright, making me blink to adjust my eyes.
Missed messages.
A lot of them.
Garrett: Game’s over. You should call me.
Garrett: You’re probably sleeping, but call me when you see this.
Garrett: I’m going to lose my mind over here.
Garrett: If you’re getting worse, you need to get checked out.
Garrett: Y/n?
Logan: hey just checking in 👍 Garrett’s being annoying again
Logan: he said you were “sick sick,” which I think means dramatic sick
Logan: if you’re alive, just text “alive” so I can stop listening to him spiral
Dean: Yo
Dean: You good?
Dean: Your boyfriend is one missed text away from a meltdown btw
Dean: Pretty sure I saw him looking at flights…
I let out a slow breath that turned into a cough halfway through.
It hurt worse than it should have. I forced down some water.
Me: Sorry babe, I fell asleep. I saw your goal, though, good job. Congrats on making the finals.
Garrett: Call me.
Me: I’m okay
Then another message came through.
Garrett: That’s not what I asked.
I groaned slightly as I sat up and facetimed him.
“Y/n?”
Garrett’s voice came through immediately—too fast, too sharp, like he’d been holding his breath since the moment he saw my name light up.
I swallowed.
“Hey.”
A pause.
“Why haven’t you been answering me?”
I shifted on the couch, blanket sliding off my shoulder.
“I was sleeping.”
“I was worried”
“I didn’t—” I coughed, cutting myself off, pressing my forehead into my sleeve until it passed. “I’m sorry”
The silence on his end changed.
“Talk to me,” he begged.
“I watched the game,” I said quietly, like that was the part that mattered most.
Something shifted in his voice immediately.
“Did you eat?”
I hesitated.
“…I had tea.”
A sound came through the phone—low, sharp. Not quite a laugh. Not even close.
“Y/n.”
“I did,” I insisted, weaker than I meant it to be.
Another pause.
Then his voice dropped.
“Okay,” he said finally, but it didn’t sound like okay. It sounded like recalculating.
Then, softer—
“How are you feeling, and no bullshit this time”
“I’m exhausted,” I admitted.
A long breath on the other end.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I figured.”
Then—
“When’s the last time you took your temperature? Took some medicine?”
“Right before the game.”
“Let’s go take care of a few things, and then you can head back to bed.”
“Garrett…”
“Please, it’s the only way I’m going to be able to sleep tonight.”
“Okay.”
“First, grab one of my Gatorades from your fridge and something to snack on.”
“I don’t have the energy to make anything right now.”
”Grab one of your granola bars or something.”
“Okay,” I said, following his instructions.
“Now go up to the bathroom and take your temperature.”
I leaned heavily against the bathroom counter as I waited for the thermometer to beep. I couldn’t hide the shock on my face when I read the numbers.
“What? What does it say?” Garrett asked, not liking my expression.
Another cough hit me before I could respond, deeper this time, forcing me to curl forward slightly. It took me a minute to right myself.
“102.5”
“Shit.”
“I’m overdue for medicine. It’ll be fine.”
“Yeah, okay, take your medicine.”
I rummaged around the medicine cabinet and took some meds. I fought the coughing fit as I moved towards my bedroom. I had to physically stop and catch my breath, almost forgetting that Garrett was still on the phone.
“You’re getting worse.”
“I’ll be fine. I took medicine, I’m about to drink some Gatorade for electrolytes, and then when I’m done talking to you, I’ll get more rest.”
A pause.
“I wish I were there.”
“I’m glad you’re not. I look and probably smell disgusting.”
He cracked a smile, “Don’t care.”
I set the phone down as I crawl into bed.
Logan’s voice drifted in. “Yo, pizza’s here—everyone’s heading down.”
“I’ll come down in a minute,” Garrett said immediately, without looking away.
Dean, further off: “She answer?”
I leaned closer to the phone.
“Hi bys,” I called weakly.
“Hey, Y/N,” Logan said. “I was starting to get worried. How are you feeling?”
“Better than Dean after he got shoved into the glass.”
A cough cut the sentence in half.
Garrett’s jaw tightened.
“Easy,” he said quietly.
Dean’s voice sharpened. “Okay, yeah, she sounds awful.”
“Helpful,” Garrett muttered, “You guys give me a minute, and I’ll join you.”
“Congrats on the win!” I try to muster as much enthusiasm as I can.
I can’t hear their responses as they exit the room. Garrett refocuses his energy on me, “Get some rest. We’ll be back around noon tomorrow, and if you are still not feeling better, I’ll take you to the doctor.”
“Okay, Garrett.”
No arguing. No insisting, I was fine. No energy left to fight with. Just an exhausted acceptance.
“If anything changes. If anything feels off or worse. You have to call me. I don’t care what time it is. Promise me?”
“I promise.”
“I love you.”
“I love you too,” I say, ending the call.
I don’t even remember plugging my phone in before sleep consumed me.
A/N: first garrett fic! i started this months ago and finally got around to finishing it, so the end might be a little rough, but i did my best :) more garrett fics to come!!!
summary: your past history with one of garrett's friends gets in the way of your relationship
word count: ~3.9k
warnings: 18+ talks of sex and descriptions of sexual acts (no smut)
“So, would you maybe want to come over on Friday? It’s the weekend before our season starts and the guys were wanting to do a whole day of classic movies,” Garrett asks you as you stand from your seats in the Coffee Hut.
It was a brisk October day and you were meeting Garrett for coffee and a quick bite before heading to your job on campus with the student magazine. You were the photographer for both the magazine and newspaper on campus, so you were quite busy already, with the new semester starting.
“Sure, that sounds great. What kind of movies are we talking?” The two of you step back out into the chilly air, the warmth of your to-go cups helping keep the frigid temperature at bay.
“Tucker’s choice is Jurassic Park, Logan picked Beetlejuice, I went with Jaws, and Dean chose Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, so it’s definitely going to be a great night,” he recalls which movies they selected for the night.
“Do I get to choose as well? Or is it just guys pick?” You tease lightly, which thankfully, he senses.
“I don’t think the guys would be happy with me if we have to watch Mean Girls,” he plays along, knowing it’s one of your favorite movies. You scoff and smack his arm playfully.
“What an insult to true cinema.”
“Yeah, because Mean Girls is in the same category as Jaws and Jurassic Park.”
“It absolutely is.” Garrett smiles so widely that it reaches his eyes, a sight you’ve grown so fond of, both of you coming to a stop once you reach the communications building.
“Well, I’ll see you Friday night then,” you say, leaning up to kiss his cheek. He blushes, though if you were to point it out, he would claim it’s the cold air making his skin pink.
“See you then, sweetheart. Have a fun night working on the new issues.”
Friday night rolls around and you arrive at the guys place at around four, since the movies were going to be long, plus accounting for bathroom breaks, snack breaks, and smoke breaks. You knew you were in for a long night, and you couldn’t wait to spend it with Garrett and his friends for the first time.
Garrett answers the door and greets you with a warm smile and a hug, pressing a light kiss to your temple.
“Hey, I’m so excited for tonight, I’m glad you could make it.”
“Me too. I asked Jenna to take photos of the football game for me just so I could be here. Which I’m glad she agreed to because the last thing I want to do is sit at a football game in the cold.” He guides you down the entry hallway and to the living room, bringing you to the spot he’s designated for himself and you.
Tucker was already laying on the floor, messing around on his phone, but when he sees you, he jumps up.
“Hi, you must be (Y/N),” he greets, sticking his hand out for you to shake. “My name’s John, but you can call me Tucker, Tuck, T, anything.”
“Nice to finally meet you, Garrett tells me about you guys all the time.” you beam, watching as he sits back down on the floor.
“Does he now? He says I’m his favorite, right?” You giggle and before you have a chance to respond, another tall brunette is walking through the doorway, immediately stopping in his tracks, and the middle of his sentence.
“Logan, this is (Y/N), the girl I’ve been seeing,” he introduces you, but this man doesn’t exactly need one.
“I’ve seen you before.” You give him a strange look, your shoulders shrugging as you step closer to Garrett.
“She’s the photographer for the newspaper and magazine, so you’ve probably seen her taking pictures of our games and other things,” Garrett explains. Though the look in his eyes reads that there’s another reason, one he can’t quite put his finger on.
“Maybe, but I could’ve sworn I’ve seen you at a party, or somewhere of that sort, and it-”
“Heyo! Who wants popcorn? I made four bags, but we can always-”
A familiar voice enters the living room this time, and the blond man has the same reaction as Logan, stopping dead in his tracks, eyes wide like saucers as he takes in your presence.
Oh god.
“What are you doing here?” Dean wonders. Garrett, confused as all hell, glances between you and his friend, waiting for an explanation.
“OHHH! That’s how I know you!” Logan suddenly exclaims. “You and Dean fucked freshman year! You were the one who had vomit on her shoes and left barefoot.”
“What?” Garrett’s voice grumbles from beside you. Dean has a sheepish grin on his face, recalling the memory.
“Yeah, it was about two months into the semester. She came to a game, I noticed her, and we ended up at a party. I carried her back here because someone threw up on her shoes and she left them at the frat house.”
There is an awkward tension in the air, and you still haven’t said a word.
“I realized I never got your name,” you state softly with a short chuckle.
“Dean,” he introduces himself, though you could have inferred that from being introduced to two of them already.
Garrett’s expression is practically unreadable to you, but it’s very clear to the other guys that he’s jealous, because they start poking fun at the situation.
“Aww, look at that, Dean got to Garrett’s girl first,” Tucker teases the man beside you, kissing his cheek playfully.
“It was one night almost three years ago,” you brush off the idea that it was anything super serious. Garrett just offers you a tight-lipped grin, dropping your hand and sitting on the couch.
“We should get the movies started so we’re not doing this until five in the morning,” he says, wanting to change the topic quickly. Dean remains in his spot, completely taken aback by how this night has already turned out, handing everyone a bowl of popcorn. He looks at you cautiously while pointing to the kitchen.
“I can make you your own bowl, if you’d like?” He offers. You just shake your head and take a seat next to Garrett.
“I’ll be alright, thanks though.” He finally sits down on the opposite end of the couch, Logan sitting between Garrett and Dean, an entertained smirk on his lips.
Garrett stares blankly at the tv screen, which starts playing Jurassic Park, thanks to a coin flip to decide who goes first. You were extremely uncomfortable, since Garrett is entirely closed off now, an awkward tension settling in the room, but especially between you and him.
You quietly snack on the popcorn, taking drinks from your soda can here and there, trying your best to keep your attention on the film. But you find it difficult to do so when you can practically feel the anger radiating off of the man sitting beside you.
Once the first movie ends, you immediately jump up and state you are heading to the bathroom. Not that you have to go, but you needed to escape the awkwardness you unintentionally created. The rest of the guys throw trash away, take a small break to stretch, and even welcome in the pizza that they had ordered halfway through, just in time for dinner.
Though you weren’t hungry, and it wasn’t because of the popcorn you ate. The tension with Garrett was horrible, and you desperately wanted to leave and forget that this ever happened. You flush the toilet to pretend like you actually came in here for a reason, other than to collect your thoughts, splashing some water on your face after, and giving yourself a short pep talk to keep yourself from bursting into tears.
Just as you open the door, you run into a large body, releasing a grunt as you bump into the person’s thick build. Garrett stands there, blocking you from leaving, a regretful look in his eyes.
“Can we talk in my room for a minute?” He keeps his voice low, nodding his head in the direction of the stairs. You silently follow him with a thick lump in your throat, feeling like this could either go well or burn to the ground completely.
Once you two are sat on his bed, the door shut for your privacy, he takes a deep sigh and shakes his head.
“Why didn’t you tell me you slept with Dean?” He asks, keeping his eyes forward.
“Because I didn’t know it was him,” you murmur. “It was one night three years ago, I never got his name because it was nothing but sex. That was the only time we saw each other.”
“But you’ve seen him since, haven’t you? At games? The ones that you photograph? You couldn’t have possibly not known it was him?”
“I only take photos, it’s not like I write the stories that go with them. I get told to take pictures of numbers and last names. I didn’t really put two and two together. And even if I did, we really were nothing.”
“It still makes me feel so…weird thinking about it,” he cringes, standing up to pace back and forth in front of you. “Like, you slept with Dean?”
“One. Fucking. Time,” you reiterate. You were starting to get angry with him, so what you slept with his friend? You’re with him now, shouldn’t that matter? “Do you think I’m going to leave you for him or something?”
When he doesn’t respond, you realize what this is all about. He’s jealous.
“I know his reputation in bed, I’m sure he can satisfy you a-”
“Stop right there,” you firmly say, standing to meet him, getting in the way of his stride. A heavy sigh escapes him, knowing he has to face what he truly feels.
“Fine. Yes. I’m worried that you’ll see how great of a guy he is and get transported back to that night and leave me.” At least he’s honest.
“Garrett, there’s a reason I never wanted to know his name that night, and the same goes for him not knowing mine. It was only supposed to be a one night stand. I left in the morning before he had even woken up, I never had his number, never contacted him again, never wanted to. Sure, it was a good night, but he set his intentions quick. He only wanted sex and I was okay with that. He told me he’s not into relationships, and I’m assuming it’s still the same as it was three years ago.”
“Yeah, he sleeps around a lot still,” Garrett replies, keeping his eyes on his hands.
“And I don’t want that. I want someone to want me for me, not for sex. He’s clearly incapable of having any ability to stick to one girl, so why would I leave you for that?”
Garrett doesn’t say much, but he knows you’re right. He can hear it in your voice how truthful you’re being, and he feels terrible for assuming such a thing without any evidence.
“That’s true,” he grumbles, stepping a little closer to you, his hands messing with the bracelet on his wrist. “So…you said he was good?”
“Garrett,” you warn, narrowing your eyes at him as he raises his head to look at you, a sigh sounding from his puffy lips. “Don’t you dare.”
“I’m sorry, I just can’t get past the image of you two. Knowing one of my best friends has seen you naked, has been inside of you, it’s fucking awful, alright!” He suddenly shouts, causing you to step back a little due to the sudden rise in volume.
You aren’t exactly sure what to say, do you comfort him more? What do you even say? Yeah, all those things are true, but it was three years ago? Instead, you shuffle your feet nervously and and gaze up at him.
“Is it something you would be able to move past?” You wonder, your voice quiet and hesitant. Silence hangs between the two of you, the tension palpable, awaiting his response.
“I don’t know,” he whispers, meeting your eyes once more. Though this time around, they hold a regretful look, one that reads he’s about to say something he doesn’t want to. However, to both of your benefits, he doesn’t say anything else.
“Alright. Well, uh, I can leave then, I’d hate to ruin your guys’ movie night anymore than I have. I’ll sneak out before the guys get back in.”
Before Garrett is even able to register what happened, you are dashing out of his room and down the stairs, taking a quick look to make sure that his friends were still outside, which they thankfully are.
He’s not even reached the bottom step when he sees you are out the door and rushing to your car. Coming to a halt, his hand nervously tugs at his hair, wondering if he’s fucked up the one relationship he hoped would last. Just then, the guys file back inside, all of them staring at Garrett in confusion.
“What’s going on, dude?” Tucker questions, noticing the expression on his friend’s face, which is almost like he’s seen a ghost.
“Nothing,” he sighs heavily, walking back over to his spot on the couch. “Let’s just start the next movie.”
“Where’d (Y/N) go?” Logan wonders, stepping into the kitchen, and then down to the hall to look for you.
“She went home,” Garrett says, shrugging his shoulder. “Wasn’t feeling well.”
Weirdly enough, the guys seem to buy it. All except for Dean.
“Is this about us sleeping together? Dude, it was three years ago.”
“It’s not that.”
“It is! You’ve been in a terrible mood since you found out, and now all of a sudden she’s gone? Please tell me you didn’t break up with her?”
Silence from Garrett.
“Oh my god, you idiot!” Dean shouts. “Did you seriously?”
“Not directly,” he replies. “But I’m not sure how I’ll be able to over it, knowing you touched her in places I haven’t yet, knowing you’ve been inside of her, I-”
“You cannot think like that, dude,” Logan smacks Garrett on the back of the head. “Sure, I don’t understand what it feels like knowing that your friend slept with your girl previously, but it’s literally the same as any new relationship and finding out they had previous partners. The only difference is you know him.”
“We weren’t even in a relationship, for fuck sake. I slept with her once, and to be honest, I don’t remember anything,” Dean tries to save face. “I remember leading up to it but we were drinking, so I remember little to nothing of the actual act. I couldn’t even tell you what she looks like naked.”
Garrett glares over at Dean, but he lightens up his reaction when he comes to the realization that he’s right. Dean rarely lies, if anything, he’s the most truthful in the group when it comes to things like his sex life.
The two lone individuals left out of this situation glance between the blond man and the brunette man, both unsure of what to say anymore.
“I think you should apologize to her,” Dean suggests. “She really meant nothing to me, she still means nothing to me, and I’m sure she feels the same. Her attention was on you the entirety of the first movie. She likes you. Plus, even if she did want to be with me, I don’t do relationships. So it’s no use for her to leave you for me, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“She said the exact same thing,” Garrett sighs, running his hands over his face in a stressful manner. The three guys share a knowing look and Logan pats his friend on the shoulder.
“Go find her before she gets more upset over this,” he says. “Tonight, you have a chance to apologize. If you don’t run after her, she won’t think she’s that important.”
“Yeah, seriously.”
Garrett sits there for a moment, taking in their words. Finally, he stands and slides into a pair of shoes while grabbing his keys, heading right for his Jeep.
It’s a short drive to your apartment on campus, and Garrett goes over what he wants to say in his head the whole way over. He’s not even sure if you’re going to want to see him, but he has to make things right and apologize at the very least.
With a few short knocks on your door, he waits until you finally open the door, a somber look on your face that cracks his heart in two
“I’m sorry,” he says immediately. “I’m sorry for assuming that you would leave me, I’m sorry for making comments about your past experiences, I’m so sorry for everything.”
You don’t say a word to him but let him in, telling him you’re not too upset at the situation. Awkwardly, he walks over to the couch with you and takes a seat, going back to nervously messing with his bracelet.
“Um, I talked to the guys after you left and they kind of knocked some sense into me. I overreacted horribly. It wasn’t okay for me to focus on something you’ve done in the past, and my judgement was clouded because of who it was with.”
You nod along to everything he says, keeping your mouth shut until he’s ready for you to speak your mind.
“I know Dean’s reputation on both ends, in terms of what he’s like in bed and how he doesn’t do relationships. He told me he isn’t even sure he remembers that night because of your guys’ drinking. But overall, I should have listened to you when you told me it meant nothing. I just…I didn’t react well at all.”
You take a moment to respond, carefully mulling over your words in your mind.
“You should have listened to me,” you agree. “I told you it was so long ago and hadn’t even crossed my mind until I came face to face with him, and I know it doesn’t sound super truthful because I have photographed him, but that’s how unimportant he was; plus I don’t think I ever saw him without his helmet. I didn’t care to learn his name, I didn’t care to stay after games and try to get with him again, hell I had no idea you guys were even friends, and it didn’t click in my mind until tonight. He was just a one night stand and that’s all he will ever be.”
Your firm tone in your words is enough to get Garrett all emotional. Tears spring to his eyes, realizing that he may have just fucked up a good thing.
“I’m so fucking sorry,” his voice cracks with emotion, deep breaths rattling his shoulders. “I hope I didn’t ruin things between us because you’re so special to me. You really are. It’s why I got scared.” You scoot closer and raise a hand to gently rub his back in a comforting way.
“I know you’ve had past sexual partners, and if it was anyone else I wouldn’t be so in my head about this. But…Dean is always the one to get the girl. He’s the one they flock to, and yeah, before you, I did have my fair share of one night stands. But he’s the one most popular with women. They hang off his shoulders and suck his cock openly in the house,” he continues on, leaning into your soft touch.
“Is there something deeper going on?” You wonder. Garrett says nothing, leading you to connect in the dots in your mind.
“There was this girl I liked sophomore year,” he starts. “I was considering asking her on a real date. We weren’t anything serious at the start, but we kept seeing one another for sex, even though we never agreed it was strictly that. But one night, after a game, I was getting ready to call her and ask if she wanted to come over, but as I walked past Dean’s room, I saw her. Playing with her tits and riding Dean’s dick like it was the most magical thing ever.” You can’t help but giggle at his description of Dean, which you do your best to hide.
“I see. I’m sorry that you had to witness that, and now I understand why it’s not been easy to handle this whole thing. But listen closely, G. I’ve had a taste of both of you,” he winces at your phrasing and you mentally slap yourself for putting it that way, “and I was only with him once. You’re the one I’ve chosen over and over again. I like you a lot, Garrett. You are the sweetest guy I’ve ever met. I look forward to spending days with you and cuddling up, kissing you, holding your hand, wearing your jersey to games. I love it all. Dean is nothing. I truly have not thought of him once since that night.”
Garrett listens to your words closely, keeping his eyes on your entwined hands, ones that he reached for in the middle of your little speech.
“I love you,” you add. With that confession, Garrett’s head shoots up in surprise, brown eyes wide in shock and lips slightly parted with the attempts of wanting to respond. “I don’t want him, I don’t want casual sex, I want you. I want our relationship, our nights of watching Gilmore Girls and Golden Girls while throwing cheese balls into each other’s mouth. I want to be the one you come home to every night and help ease your sore muscles from games, tend to bruises and any injuries you get, and take care of you the rest of the time. Dean and I may have had a small run-in, but you are the one I am meant to be with.”
Garrett is left speechless, though now he has tears pooling in his eyes and making them glassy. Slowly, a smile stretches across his lips and he tackles you against the couch, pecking all over your face, which elicits loud giggles from your throat.
A sound he has fallen in love with.
“God, I fucking love you too,” he finally responds. “I want all of that with you too, baby. Like I said, I got scared because, well, I love you so I didn’t want to lose you. But I can see that’s not going to happen.” Your hand cradles his cheek, thumb stroking his blush pink skin and wiping away the streaks of tears underneath your finger.
“Never. I can promise you that.” After a few more shared kisses, he sits up while bringing you into his arms, pressing a couple more kisses to your forehead and temple.
“Are we good? I didn’t fuck things up?” He questions, a slight hint of worry and insecurity still clear in his tone.
“We’re okay. You didn’t fuck anything up, promise. Now, what do you say about cuddling up and watching Mean Girls?” Garrett chuckles and shakes his head, though he wants nothing more than to spend his night like this instead of with the guys.
“Deal. Are we going to recite it word for word while throwing cheese balls or popcorn at each other?”
summary: Garett loses his temper during a game when his father announces his upcoming marriage before the game. It worsens when he sees you sitting with his father in the stands. Seeing you with Phil messes with his head, but it ends with you reconnecting in Garett's bedroom.
pairings: garrett graham x afab!reader
warnings:7.1k words. mature themes. unprotected p in v. creampie. cum play. breeding kink. oral sex (m!receiving). blowjob. deepthroating. handjob. praise kink. dirty talk. nipple play. clitoral stimulation. body worship. hair pulling. risk of being overheard. d/s dynamics. aftercare. family conflict. read responsibly.
note: he has me in a chokehold ever since I watched the show… also!!! first time writing about Garrett, might do it again next time. reblogs and comments are very much appreciated!
Ever since Garrett packed his bags for Briar U and threw everything he had into college hockey, you two barely saw each other anymore. The daily routines you shared back home gave way to late-night texts, random phone calls, or FaceTime sessions that kept you connected as you both built entirely separate lives. You had your own things going on with your own circles, your own relationships, and your own sex lives with other people, but there was an obvious spark between you that never went away. It was clear to anyone who saw you together that the distance hadn’t changed the foundation between you because you knew each other better than anyone else did after years of growing up side by side.
You knew his biggest fears, along with the dreams he never told anyone about, and he knew yours right down to the exact way your bodies functioned or reacted under pressure. You remembered how his body felt during those private nights, and he knew your body just as well since you crossed that line together years ago to become each other’s first. Being so far away from Garrett made you miss him terribly all the time, so you agreed the exact moment his father asked you to tag along to watch one of his college hockey games. You didn’t know Phil was bringing his new girlfriend along since you truly believed he was just traveling to support his son, but you really should’ve known better with a man like him.
You absolutely hated how Phil Graham treated his son, but you still tried your best to tolerate his presence because he always treated you nicely. His father also made you promise to keep the whole trip a complete secret, which you happily did because you wanted to surprise Garrett. What you didn’t know, and Garrett didn’t know either, was that Phil planned to use this exact day to announce he was marrying a woman his son barely even recognized. You only learned about it today because you asked nosy questions of Cindy. You also had no idea that Phil had already shown up unannounced at the hockey house earlier that morning to corner Garrett before the match. They got into a heated conversation over it, and the unexpected confrontation completely messed with Garrett’s head right before the game.
Sitting next to Phil and his girlfriend in the stands made it clear why Garrett looked so betrayed and hurt when he glanced up at you. You didn’t quite understand his reaction at first, but it clicked when you watched him play badly as he missed passes he usually nailed. He kept his eyes on your section while he stumbled through his game, and his expression showed he felt like you took his father’s side by showing up with them. Garrett eventually lost his temper on the ice, so the referee kicked him straight out of the game. He walked off the rink looking completely wrecked, while you immediately jumped up from your seat to run after him through the crowded arena. “Garrett,” you called out while you pushed past a group of fans to follow him down the corridor.
He didn’t even look back as he stormed down the hallway. “Garrett, please wait a second,” you tried again, but he kept walking away past the random people staring at you both. “Garrett Graham!” you yelled out loud so he could actually hear you over the loud fans. He finally stopped walking before he turned around to face you with a completely pissed expression. “What do you want from me right now?” he snapped back at you with an annoyed look. “I can’t just let you walk off like that after everything I just saw out there,” you replied right away as you tried to catch your breath. You stepped even closer to him to place your hands right on his covered arms. You looked right into his eyes while you let out a long breath through your nose.
“You have every single right to be completely furious right now,” you said while your fingers gripped his gear gently to anchor him. “But you can’t let him ruin your performance out on the ice,” you added because you needed him to snap out of it. “Are you really going to let his sudden drama control how you play your game?” you asked while you watched his expression carefully. “I don’t want him to win by messing with your head,” you explained as you rubbed your palms against his sleeves. “I came all the way out here for you,” you reminded him while your voice dropped to a softer tone. “I didn’t come to force you to come to the wedding,” you said to make sure he understood your loyalty. Garrett leaned forward immediately to rest his forehead against your shoulder as if he was searching for any kind of comfort from your presence.
He let out a long and shaky breath against your neck while his body weight leaned into you completely. “I thought you took his side,” he mumbled while his shoulder pads bumped against your chest. “I’m always on your side,” you promised back as you held him tight. He pressed a quick kiss against your neck before he leaned back slightly. “I know,” he muttered while his hands slid down to your sides. “I just got completely pissed off seeing you sitting right next to him,” he admitted because the sight had blindsided him completely. “I’m sorry you had to look at that,” you replied while you shook your head. “Stop apologizing to me,” he told you right away. He slid his large hands straight down to your waist before he squeezed the skin tightly through your top.
“I missed you so much,” he whispered as he tilted his head closer. “Well, you really need to get back out to the rink right now,” you reminded him while you patted his bulky chest protector. “Not even time for a quick make-out session?” he asked with a small smirk on his face. “I might forgive you for keeping secrets if you give me that,” he joked, because he wanted to lighten the mood between you both. “You don’t have anything to forgive me for,” you countered while you smiled back at him. He trailed his lips along your jawline before he brushed his mouth against your own. “Don’t you miss me just as much?” he whispered against your skin while he looked for a reaction. “Oh, please, you get enough attention from women every single day,” you said while you rolled your eyes at his question.
“Are you actually jealous of them?” he asked while he grinned to tease you. You decided to shut him up by grabbing his face to pull him into a deep kiss. You bit down on his lower lip while he sucked on your tongue to deepen the contact. Your mouths moved against each other as he swiped his tongue over your teeth while you gripped his jersey. He moaned into your mouth as he sucked your bottom lip between his own lips. You kept licking into his mouth while he pushed his tongue against yours to taste you. “Mmmh-” he groaned against your skin before he broke the kiss to breathe. He went to press another kiss to your lips, but you caught his shoulders and shoved him back. “Stop it, you have to get back out there,” you said while you nudged him toward the door.
“We really need to end this before it turns into something else,” you added because you knew you would not be able to stop once you started. “This is not like you at all,” you remarked while you adjusted his jersey. “You know you are the only one who makes me lose my mind,” he told you while he stared at you. He let out a long breath, but he finally gave a nod of his head. He leaned in one last time to press his mouth against yours for a quick kiss. “Promise me that you will spend time with me later tonight?” he asked while he brushed his thumb against your cheek. “I promise,” you said as you watched him step toward the doorway. He turned around to give you a last look before he headed back toward the rink. You waited in the storage room until his footsteps faded away so you could catch your breath again.
You walked back out toward the arena, but you refused to head back to the seats next to Phil. You instead found a spot in the tunnel entrance where you could see the rink without anyone spotting you in the crowd. You occupied the side as the players returned for the final period of the game. It surprised you to see Garrett skate back onto the ice, since the coach had clearly decided to keep him in the lineup despite his earlier meltdown. He kept his eyes forward as he skated past the bench. You waited back in the dark tunnel so you could watch him the whole time. “Don’t mess this up, Garrett,” you whispered to yourself while you watched him take his position. He didn’t see you standing there in the entryway, but he seemed to have his head back in the game.
You leaned against the side as the buzzer sounded to start the last period, and you needed to see how he would finish this. Garrett took over the game. Tucker zipped up the wing while Dean and Logan guarded the zone and stopped the other team from getting close to the net. They kept the puck moving and made easy passes to each other. Garrett battled for the puck in the corner and dodged a defender to face the goal. He found a gap and fired a shot that went past the goalie. The game ended, and the buzzer sounded to signal their win. Garrett threw his stick to the side as his teammates mobbed him on the ice. They slapped backs and hooted while the fans went wild. He caught your eye for a second and gave a quick nod before he skated toward the bench to join the line.
You walked away from the tunnel to head toward the exit and meet him once he finished with your arms wrapped around him. He gripped you tight right back, and he tucked his face into your shoulder. You squeezed him and said how great he played out there before you mentioned that Phil walked out halfway through the match. He stiffened up against you before he could even reply. “I don’t care about him today,” Garrett muttered into your skin while his breathing warmed your neck. You patted his back, and you feel the sweat from his jersey and his gear. “Okay, okay,” you teased him as the sound of distant chatter from the arena faded down the corridor. “You’re a sweaty mess. Go wash up,” you told him, and you tried to nudge him toward the direction of the locker room.
“I will,” Garrett murmured, and he squeezed your waist one last time to keep you close. “Give me a second, I just want to hold you,” he admitted as he leaned his full weight against you. He kept his arms around you for another moment before he stepped back and grabbed your hand to pull you along with him. You walked together down the corridor while he guided you right toward the locker room area. “Wait out here,” Garrett said as he stopped you right by the door to keep you away from the naked players inside. He disappeared through the entrance without another word to grab something. You stood by the wall for only a few seconds, and you could hear the muffled noise of the team from inside the room. Garrett pushed the door open again and stepped back into the hallway with his keychain in hand.
“Take these,” Garrett murmured as he dropped the car key into your palm. “Go wait by the car,” he added while his thumb brushed over your knuckles. “Give me fifteen minutes,” he promised before he turned back around. You nodded, and he finally went inside to change after you headed out to the parking lot. You waited for Garrett in the parking lot until he finished changing, and then he drove the two of you back to the off-campus rental house. The driveway was empty because Logan, Dean, and Tucker hadn’t made it back from the rink yet. Garrett unlocked the front door and walked you inside the quiet house without stopping in the living room. “Let’s go upstairs,” Garrett murmured while he guided you toward the steps.
You followed him up the staircase because you knew the other boys would be home soon. He pushed his bedroom door open and led you inside before he closed it behind you. The rest of the house was completely silent while he dropped his duffel bag on the floor. “We have the place to ourselves for a bit,” you reminded him as you leaned back against his desk. Garrett walked over to you and wrapped his arms around your waist. “Good, I don’t want any interruptions,” Garrett muttered while he pressed his face into the side of your neck. “Are you feeling needy?” you teased him while you tilted your head to give him more space. He let out a rough grunt against your skin before he kissed your neck.
“Yeah,” Garrett muttered while his arms tightened around your waist. “I really need you right now,” he admitted as he breathed out against your skin. You slid your hands right under his shirt while he held you close. You felt his hard muscles before you lifted the fabric up to check his body because you knew he always had a few bruises after his games. Several fresh darkening marks covered his body because he had taken a hard beating from playing and training. “You got beat up out there,” you murmured as you looked down at the marks. “It’s nothing,” Garrett grunted while he looked down at your fingers.
“I’ve had worse,” he told you as he guided your hands higher under his clothes. You let him cover your fingers and guide them over his skin while you let out a small chuckle. “Really?” you asked him as you looked up at his face. “You can’t even let me do it on my own?” You teased him because he wanted control. Garrett just rolled his eyes, but he didn’t let go right away. “Can’t I just hold your hands for a few seconds?” he questioned you while he gripped your fingers a little tighter. He let go of you after a moment and grabbed the hem of his top to pull it over his head. He tossed the shirt somewhere across the bedroom floor and stepped closer to you.
You leaned forward and started pressing kisses against his shoulder before you moved your lips down to his chest. You dropped lower to press more kisses onto his flat stomach while Garrett tangled his fingers into your hair to play with the strands. You dropped down onto your knees in front of him and reached out to grasp the waistband of his pants. Garrett looked down at you while his hands gripped your shoulders to handle his balance. “I can get those, baby,” Garrett murmured while he tried to nudge your fingers away from the button. You ignored his hand and continued working on the zipper because you wanted to take care of him.
“Let me do it,” you insisted as you looked up to meet his eyes. “I want to make it up to you for earlier,” you told him while you unfastened the button. Garrett let out a sigh and let his hands slide down to your neck. “You don’t have to make up for anything,” Garrett told you while his thumbs stroked your jawline. You pull the zipper down and open the fabric to reveal his underwear. “I know I don’t,” you replied as you reached inside to tug the material out of your way. “But I want to,” you whispered before you pulled his pants down past his hips. “You know I’d rather focus on you first,” Garrett reminded you while his fingers twitched against your neck. You looked up at him from your knees and gripped the fabric of his pants that already pulled down to anchor yourself.
“Fine,” you murmured as you tilted your head back to study his expression. “Just a taste then?” you asked him while you offered a small smirk to challenge his resolve. Garrett let out a quick laugh because the idea of you stopping early seemed entirely impossible to him. “Yeah, right,” Garrett scoffed while he shook his head at your suggestion. “Like you’re actually going to stop at just a taste,” he teased you while he looked down at your hands. You rolled your eyes at his comment and hooked your fingers into the waistband of his boxers without waiting for permission. You tugged the material down past his hips and watched his hard cock spring free instantly in the space between you.
You wrapped your fingers around the shaft and stroked him slowly while you stared right up into his eyes to gauge his reaction. Garrett let out a small grunt and tangled his fingers into your hair again. “Seriously,” Garrett said, and his grip tightened on your head while he tried to control his breathing. “I really wanted to take care of you right now,” he muttered as he watched your hand move on his length. You leaned forward before you gave the tip of his cock a few light licks, and you cleaned off the wet drop of pre-cum waiting there. “You’re already leaking for me,” you murmured against his length as you looked up to catch his expression. Garrett let out a quiet groan and gently gripped his fingers through your hair to show his approval.
“Yeah, well,” Garrett admitted while his breathing hitched slightly. “You’re the one down on your knees,” he pointed out to justify his reaction. You wrapped your lips around the head after those first few licks and swirled your tongue over the sensitive tip. You slowly slid your mouth further down the shaft to take him halfway while your hand took over to stroke the rest of his length. “What the- yes…” Garrett gasped out while his cock twitched against your lips. He didn’t force your head down or push his hips forward because he wanted to let you guide the movement. “That feels so good,” Garrett whispered while his hand felt gentle on your head. Giving head wasn’t always an enjoyable experience for everyone, because some guys were careless, but you tolerated it for Garrett.
He was always perfectly clean and gentle about it, while constantly showering you with sweet praise. His latest comment made you feel a bit cocky, so you took more of his thick length into your mouth until the tip touched the back of your throat. Garrett noticed it immediately because he knew your limits by heart, and he gave a firm tug on your hair to lift your face before you could gag. “Whoa, slow down,” Garrett murmured while his thumb wiped a wet line from the corner of your lips. “You don’t need to swallow all of me at once,” he added as he gave you a small smile. You just gave him a playful look before you slid your mouth right back over his wet cock to continue. You started bobbing your head up and down the shaft to find a pace while your hand kept rubbing the base.
“Mmf-” Garrett breathed out as the other hand caressed along your cheek. He kept his grip on your hair softly to guide your movements without forcing himself against your face. “You’re doing so good for me,” Garrett whispered, and his hips jerk when you swirl your tongue around his cock. You continued bobbing your head to take his wet shaft into your mouth, but Garrett firmly nudged your forehead away to remind you of what you two had talked about. “That’s enough,” Garrett muttered while he stepped back to slip his cock out of your lips completely. “You said just a taste,” he says with a smirk to keep your promise. You let out a stubborn grunt and slapped his thigh because you wanted to keep going.
Garrett laughed and kicked his pooled clothes away to strip down completely before you stood up to meet him. He reached out and grabbed the hem of your top to pull it up over your head. “You know I don’t want to wait any longer,” Garrett whispered while he tossed your clothes somewhere onto the floor. The sound of the front door slamming downstairs can be heard throughout the room, and it shows that the other guys have arrived. “Oh, they’re probably fucking by now!” Dean shouted near the stairs to tease the two of you. You feel your neck heating up the blunt comment, but you’re glad the bedroom door is locked. “That’s embarrassing,” you murmured as you looked toward the doorway.
“Do you think they’re going to try and listen?” you asked him while you crossed your arms over your chest. Garrett shook his head and gripped your waist to get your attention back. “No,” Garrett told you while he leaned down to kiss your shoulder. “Well, I hope not,” he amended as he guided you toward the mattress. You stopped him before he could guide you onto the mattress, and you grabbed the waistband of your bottoms to slide them down to the floor. Garrett let out a sound of approval while he walked over to his drawer to grab a condom. You let out a small chuckle at the sight, and your hands were already reaching behind your back to unclasp your bra. “I’m literally clean and on birth control,” you reminded him as you slipped the straps off your shoulders.
Garrett turned back around with the plastic wrapper in his hand while he looked over your bare body. “So you just go without protection with other guys?” Garrett questioned you while he raised an eyebrow. “Of course not. What the fuck,” you replied instantly because the idea annoyed you for few second. Garrett took a step closer while he watched you hook your fingers into your panties. “Then why do you want to do it without one with me?” Garrett asked you while he kept his eyes on your face. “Because we always do it without,” you pointed out as you tugged the fabric down. Garrett let out a laugh and reached out to grasp your waist. “Smartass,” Garrett muttered while he stepped right into your space. “I just want to make sure you’re safe,” he explained to justify his caution.
You stepped out of your underwear and gave him a playful look to keep teasing him. “So are you saying you’re not safe?” you challenged him while you slid your hands onto his chest. “Of course I am,” Garrett countered before he leaned his head closer to yours to capture your lips. “You know what?” Garrett murmured while he tossed the unopened condom wrapper back into his drawer. “You want me to cum inside your cunt?” Garrett asked you as he guided you down onto the mattress. “Is that what you want?” he questioned while he helped you settle right into the middle of the bed until you felt completely comfortable. You lay back against his pillows while he crawled over your legs to hover over your body.
“So no one is going to interrupt us?” you asked him because you wanted to be entirely sure before things went any further. “They’re all downstairs,” Garrett promised you while he leaned down to look into your eyes. “Dean and Logan are probably playing video games on the couch,” he added to reassure you. “Tucker is probably cooking dinner in the kitchen,” he finished while his hands slid to your hips. “No party tonight?” you questioned him with an arched eyebrow in disbelief. “Since you guys won the game?” you asked because it seemed impossible for the team to be quiet after a victory. “Nah,” Garrett replied while he shook his head with a small smirk. “Tomorrow,” he told you as he leaned down closer to your face.
“The guys are just too tired tonight,” he claimed to explain the lack of noise. You knew that was highly unlikely because the team never passed up a chance to celebrate a big win. You suspected Garrett had made a secret deal with his roommates to keep them downstairs for the evening. “What exactly did you do?” you asked him while you looked up at his face to get the truth. Garrett just smirked because he wanted to keep his secret. “Open wider, baby,” Garrett murmured while he tapped the inside of your thigh to guide you. You moved your legs further apart because you couldn’t help but obey his request. He guided the thick head of his cock right against your wet folds and started rubbing it back and forth to distract you from asking any more questions.
You tried to start another question because you wanted a real answer. “But Garrett-” you began before your words cut off. He responded by grinding his length directly between your slick folds until the tip swiped over your sensitive clit. You let out a frustrated whine because the brief contact left you desperate for more. “I swear,” Garrett promised while he looked down at your reaction. “They won’t come upstairs until we go downstairs,” he added to reassure you. He slapped his hard cock directly against your wet cunt right after he finished speaking and gripped your hip with a tight hand to hold you against the bed. You let out a frustrated whine because he kept rubbing his tip against your clit instead of sliding inside your wet cunt.
“Are you sure they’re going downstairs?” you asked him while you tried to tilt your head up to hear anything from the hallway. “Garrett, I can’t do this if they’re going to walk up here,” you insisted because the thoughts wouldn’t leave your mind. Garrett let out a sigh and ground his length between your folds to pull you away from your thoughts. “They’re not coming up, baby,” Garrett murmured while his breathy voice sounded a little distracted by the sight of your body. “Stop worrying about them,” he told you as he swiped his thumb over your jaw. “But what if Dean tries to-” you started to ask before his body pressed closer. Garrett cut you off by sliding the head of his cock into your aching hole before he pulled it to rub it into your clit again.
“Fu-fuck- please,” you moaned out while your hips rolled up against him in desperation. “Please, what?” Garrett asked you while he watched your body squirm beneath him. You bucked your hips against him to show him your desperate need because speaking felt too difficult right now. “Mhm… Shit,” Garrett cursed quietly while his throat bobbed after swallowing. “You like that?” he questioned you as he kept his length nestled right at the entrance of your cunt. “I do,” you whimpered while your eyelashes fluttered from the heat between your legs. “Can you just-” you tried to finish your sentence, but you couldn’t find the right words because your brain is slowly stopping from functioning. Garrett let out a laugh and leaned down to press a kiss against your cheek.
“Focus on me,” Garrett said while his fingers tightened on your hip. “Come on,” he coaxed as he popped the tip in and out of your wet entrance, which made a wet sound every time he did it. “Feels good, doesn’t it?” he whispered while he gave you another torturous grind right up against your sensitive clit to make your cunt ache even more. You nodded to answer that it felt amazing, and he finally positioned the tip directly at your entrance. “They won’t hear a single thing,” Garrett assured you while he leaned down closer to your ear. “But let’s try to be quiet anyway, okay?” he whispered to ensure you two kept things private. You nodded again and bit your lower lip while he began sliding slowly inside your cunt. You let out a muffled whimper as he pushed deeper until his full length filled you completely.
“Nghh-” you breathed out while you adjusted to his thick size. Garrett caught your lips in a deep kiss and slid one hand down to squeeze your chest. He flicked your nipple with his thumb to distract you from his size before he pulled away from the kiss to start moving his hips. “You’re so tight, baby,” Garrett grunted while he began to thrust slowly. You wrapped your hands into his curls to hold onto him while he continued thrusting into you. Garrett planted his palms flat on the mattress beside your head to support his weight. “You’re taking me so beautifully, baby,” Garrett murmured while he stared straight down into your face. He watched your reactions closely to see how each movement affected your body.
Your eyes rolled back slightly because the pleasure made it difficult to keep them open. Your teeth bit into your lower lip to suppress your voice while you took his length. “N-nffh-” you whined through your closed mouth, but a few desperate sounds escaped despite your best efforts to keep quiet. Garrett let out a deep groan and picked up his pace just a little. “Look at me,” Garrett whispered, and he leaned down closer to your face. You forced your eyes open to meet his gaze because you wanted to look at him. “You feel so perfect,” Garrett muttered as he kept thrusting deep into your cunt. Your hand gripped his hair tighter to handle the feeling, and you swallowed another loud moan. You kept one hand tangled in his curls while your other hand slid down his nape to trace the dark letters of the tattoo across his upper back.
Your fingertips brushed over his skin before they moved up to play with the thin gold chain of his necklace. “Your back looks so hot like this,” you whispered while his hips kept up the slow pace inside your pussy. “Will never get enough touching it,” you added because you remembered when he asked for your advice before getting it done. Garrett let out an exhale and thrust his length deeper. “Mmh, you really think so?” Garrett asked you while a small grin tugged at his lips. He looked cocky after hearing the praise you gave him, but a little shyness quickly took it back. Garrett leaned down further to hide his face and nuzzled his nose directly into the crook of your shoulder. “You know how much this chain means to me,” Garrett murmured against your skin while his chest pressed against yours.
“A-aah- uh-uh…” You whined out, and he shoved his length deeper until the tip touches your sweet spot. Garrett gripped your hip firmer to support himself while he kept his face hidden against your neck. “I like it when you touch it,” he confessed before he dragged his cock entirely out just to push right back inside. Garrett gave your neck a bite before he pulled his face away to look down at you. The gold chain dangled close to your lips, so you opened your mouth to tease him by biting the necklace. You let out a small chuckle against the chain, but it turned into a whine when Garrett suddenly pulled his cock almost all the way out of your cunt. He left just the tip inside your entrance to torture you, and he refused to thrust back in.
You ground your hips upward in a desperate attempt to force him deeper because you needed him deeper. Garrett responded by pinning your hip against the mattress to stop you from doing that before he thrust all the way in. “D-don’t do that,” you whine out while you shake your head against the pillow. “When- when I’m... I feel like I’m close,” you gasped out to finish your complaint. Garrett looked at your face while his chest heaved a little. “Yeah?” Garrett murmured while he gave you a small smirk to tease you. “You’re getting that close for me?” he asked before his hand traveled down to the back of your leg. He slowly lifted your knee to rest it over his shoulder to adjust the position. Garrett started thrusting faster and deeper into you without teasing you this time.
He used his free hand to reach down between your bodies so he could rub your clit while he buried himself inside you. You wrapped your hand around his neck not to choke him, but you did it just to feel his necklace against your palm. “Oh god, G-Garrett,” you gasped out as his tip kept finding your spot with every thrust. “Just like that, baby,” Garrett murmured while he never looked away from your face to watch your reactions. The feeling of his cock stretching you out and the way his fingers were rubbing your clit made you clench around him. Your clit pulsed against his fingers while your walls continued to squeeze him to the point you felt his cock throb inside you. “M-mmph- I can’t,” you whimpered, and you rolled your hips into his hand to get more pleasure.
“You’re doing so good for me,” Garrett whispered as he kept up the fast pace. You pulled him closer by his shoulders until his forehead was pressing against yours. You kept your eyes closed while you told him how you felt. “Mmn, I’m close…” You whispered while his cock slid deep into your cunt. “R-right there-” you gasped as he kept up the pace. Garrett groaned against your lips before he gave you a peck. “I know, baby,” Garrett murmured before he moved faster. He rubbed your clit with his fingers while he kept fucking you. Garrett gives your lips another kiss before he whispers praises against your mouth. “You’re so perfect for me,” Garrett murmured as his hips touch against your thighs the moment he thrusts back in.
He talked you through it while keeping up the pace. “I missed you so much,” Garrett confessed when he pushed his cock all the way inside your cunt. “I- I know…” You gasped against his lips before you squeezed his length. It only takes a few thrusts until you finally cum around his thick cock while Garrett doesn’t stop his movements to chase his own orgasm. The tightness of your walls made him grunt out loud, but it’s easier to thrust now after you finish around his cock. “Fu-fuh- fuck,” Garrett groaned while he kept going, and he watched the way your body bounced against the mattress with every thrust. He was now raised on his knees, with your leg hooked over his shoulder. Garrett looked down between your bodies to watch the way his cock disappeared inside you and the way it looked coated with your cum.
“I’m right behind you, baby,” Garrett panted out as he sped up his movements. “Do you want it inside you?” he asked you, but it’s obvious that his focus is on watching your cunt squeeze his shaft. “M-mmf, yes, please,” you whimpered, and you wanted him to fill you up completely. Garrett let out a breath and buried himself all the way to the base to give you everything. Garrett reached his free hand up to pinch your nipple while he kept thrusting to chase his orgasm. He played with the peak between his fingers as his pace slowed down for a few moments. “Never done this without a condom with anyone else,” Garrett panted out while he stared down at you. “I only want to fill you up,” he whispered before he pushed deeper into your cunt.
His confession made you bite your lip and smirk while you reached up to grab his waist to hold him against you. “Sh-shit, fill me up then,” you whimpered while you squeezed your pussy around his shaft. Garrett let out a grunt and gave you a few more thrusts to finish. His hips stop moving against yours as his cum fills your cunt completely. “God- g-god, you’re perfect,” Garrett breathed out while his cock twitched inside you. He gave you a few more thrusts to get his cum deeper inside before he pulled out and put your leg down. He watched the fluid leak out of your cunt while you felt heat bloom across your cheeks. You tried to close your thighs together to hide it, but he blocked your movement with his hand.
“Look at how pretty you look right now,” he murmured while he kept your legs parted. “Don’t look, Garrett,” you whispered as you avoided eye contact. Garrett sat down beside you on the mattress and caressed your cheek with his thumb. “I can’t help it when you’re this beautiful,” He said before he leaned down to kiss your forehead. Garrett kept his mouth against your forehead while he breathed out. “Some of your clothes from your last visit are in my closet,” he whispered as his fingers brushed through your hair. You tilted your head back to see his face. “Even the customized jersey with your last name and number?” you asked because he had gifted that specific shirt to you for your visits to Briar U.
Garrett nodded while his thumb stroked your jaw. “It’s there, and it’s already washed since you used it the last time we did this in my room,” Garrett replied with a grin. He nudged your nose with his own to tease you. “Even those tight little cotton shorts you paired it with are in the drawer,” Garrett added while your face grew warm. He leaned down to press a kiss to your lips. “You look so hot with Graham on your back,” Garrett murmured against your mouth before he smiled. “I’ll get them for you,” he said before he stood up from the mattress. He walked over to the dresser while being completely naked to grab the clothes. You chuckled while you watched him search the drawers. “No underwear?” you asked after he tossed the shirt and the shorts over.
Garrett looked back with a smirk on his face. “Don’t wear one,” he replied, and you rolled your eyes. You sat up on the bed and with the blanket covering your body. “So we’re not going to shower?” you added to annoy him. Garrett grabbed a fresh pair of boxers for himself along with a box of tissues from the nightstand. “Later, before bed,” Garrett answered as he slipped his boxers on. “Yeah?” you teased while he walked back to your side. Garrett climbed onto the mattress to get closer to you. “Later, baby. Aren’t you hungry?” Garrett asked while he set the tissues down to clean you up. You adjusted the blanket against your chest. “I am,” you admitted as your stomach rumbled. Garrett nodded his head toward the door.
“I feel like Tucker cooked something,” Garrett said before he reached out to tend to you. Garrett reached out to take the blanket away from your body before he opened your legs wider. He looked down at the mess dripping from your cunt while he pulled a few tissues out of the box. “I could just eat you clean instead,” Garrett murmured with a grin. You let out a scoff because you knew exactly what he wanted. “You wouldn’t stop there. You’d just want to make me cum again,” you pointed out as you grabbed your own handful of tissues. You used them to wipe the sweat away from your chest before you slid the jersey over your head. Garrett chuckled at your comment before he started wiping the cum from your inner thighs and your ass.
He focused on cleaning your cunt gently while you finished pulling the top over your stomach. “You know me too well, baby,” Garrett said as he threw the dirty tissues away. You stood up from the bed right after and pulled on the tiny cotton shorts. You walked back over to where Garrett sat so you could put your hands on his shoulders to reach his upper back. Your fingertips traced the letters of the tattoo inked across his skin while your other hand played with the curls at his nape. “You look amazing in that jersey,” Garrett murmured while his hands slid down to touch your waist and hips. He stood up from the mattress and took your hand to lead you to the door before he unlocked it to walk out into the hallway.
You only took a few steps toward the stairs before Dean looked up from the couch downstairs. “Finally, we can actually go upstairs now,” Dean called out to tease you both. Tucker laughed while Logan shook his head right beside him. “We thought you two were never going to come out of there,” Tucker added, and Garrett squeezed your fingers to ignore them. “There’s some pesto on the stove if you guys want it,” Tucker called out from the couch. Garrett led you toward the kitchen while he kept his fingers locked with yours. “Thanks, man,” Garrett answered, and you also mouthed a thank-you to Tucker. Garrett guided you straight to the counter and reached into the cabinet for a single bowl for the two of you to share.
He poured some pasta inside before he grabbed a fork to twirl a few noodles together. “Taste this,” Garrett murmured as he held the food up to your lips. You bit into the noodles, and the savory flavor filled your mouth. “Look at them, having pasta after sex,” Dean shouted from the living room while Logan snorted at the joke. Garrett raised his middle finger to the guys without looking back. “Ignore them,” Garrett muttered as he watched you chew on it. You took the fork from his hand right after you swallowed it. Garrett leaned his hip against the counter, and he never looked away from you. You twirled another bite of noodles and pressed it against his lips to make him eat before you leaned close to his ear to whisper, “Pasta after sex.”
the five times you try to break up with clark kent
—
14th February 2025
it wasn't working out with him.
clark was a great guy — patient, chivalrous and thoughtful, to name some. to most, his being superman would've been every reason to stay. who wouldn't want that?
you think you might've been nitpicking the very first time it clicked in your mind that you wanted an out. for the umpteenth time, you sat alone in the restaurant. across from you, a barely-eaten entrée. it'd been closing in on an hour now since he whisked away to attend to the shrieks he claimed to have heard a couple blocks away.
you hadn't fussed about it. the check was paid in the next five minutes, and in ten, a takeout bag hangs loosely from your wrists. the speech you had drafted sat in your notes application. but when you get to your apartment, he's already there. shirt skipped a button like it was put together hastily, hair all wind-swept. the translucent plastic is gently pried from your hands, not giving you a chance to protest before nudging you into the apartment.
he presses an apologetic kiss to the side of your head, offering you a promise to do better.
4th March 2025
unsurprisingly, it happens again anyway. in fact — you'd given him the green light to. this time, it was during a dinner with a friend. of course, she didn't have all the facts. but what she said to you stuck.
one day you're going to need him, and he's just not going to be there.
you boldly copy the drafted text, and send it.
this was something unprecedented for you. you believed in a face-to-face conversation. so there was something to be said about your exhaustion to have done it this way. it wasn't a long text either, paired with the assurance that you'd explain the next day.
as a cop out, you tell yourself, if he hadn't tried to come fight for you within the hour, you'd remain resolute on your decision.
he was stumbling into your balcony in less than 5 minutes, slamming your balcony door open until it'd nearly come off the hinges — completely out-of-breath, with the expression of a man who'd come undone.
"let's…talk about it. please."
you don't break up with him that evening.
16th April 2025
clark had never, ever been cruel to you. not by accident, or by anger or frustration. especially not in the way that people can be cruel without meaning to. he was unbelievably consistent, kind…basically the epitome of a perfect man.
and that was the problem.
you got the feeling that he wasn't allowing himself to be human. a trait he'd so clearly valued about himself. clark kent spent his entire life being what everyone needed him to be. but that was the thing, wasn't it? being in the presence of someone who seemed far too good, had only cast a mirror on the ugly, impatient monster that you, a regular woman of the 21st century, could be at times.
it'd gotten the better of you. the careless, annoyance, paired with the thrumming ache of your period cramps stabbing your lower abdomen. the words spill out of you before you can stop them.
"sorry i'm not so perfect like you."
he looks at you over the rim of his mug, wondering if his telling you that the coffee was slightly bitter warranted such a strong reaction.
"…where's this coming from?"
"nowhere. just. i feel like i'm fucking up constantly. and you're just there. doing everything right, and now i just look like a douchebag for nitpicking."
clark senses where the conversation is headed.
it was every girlfriend's favourite line after all. maybe you should just break up with me. you hate me, don't you. why do you not love me.
instead, he drags his gaze over you, eyes stilling at your belly, as though he's identified the problem. you stare at him in confusion when he gets up, lifts your breakfast before you get to finish it and hoists you to your feet.
within the next thirty minutes, he has you all bundled up in the sheets — arranged for an off-day for you with your boss, retrieved pain-killers, sweets, snacks, drinks and your favourite show all lined up on your laptop.
you're scooching back into the warm chest that causes a significant dip to the bed behind you. clark then lowers his head to press a kiss to your shoulder.
"i promise to mess up more."
20th May 2025
it was a perfect day.
a dinner he didn't have to leave half-way, paired with a long walk home through the park. his jacket sat and your shoulder — and you're looking upt at him mid-laugh. it's the quiet reminder that electrifies you every single time. and true to your nature, the thoughts flicker.
you know how this ends. it'll never work. you've been friends longer than you dated. get out of it now while you still can, before it gets too deep.
the courage eventually makes it out of your throat to be honest, genuinely. that you're not sure that you can do this, that you don't want to lose him and office-related breakups always led to one of them having to resign and —
he stops walking. the ghost of the smile that was a constant around you begins to falter slowly. he's thought about it far longer than you have — given the simple fact that he'd been in love with you. far, far longer than you'd even begun to like him romantically.
"i know," he admits, "i think about it too."
"….and?"
there's a long pause, and you frown when his shoes shuffle ahead. going at a slower pace. for you to get on the move too, albeit frustrated.
"and, it's not gonna happen." he says simply with a shrug. "you're never going to lose me."
you grunt under your breath, with an arm hooked around his.
"stupid, perfect, jerk."
14th April 2026
you'd watched the footage over and over like a crazed freak.
watched him go down, without getting up, before the cameras had lost sight of him. the clip ends the same way, with it being cut off and replaced by the news anchor's grim retelling of the current situation downtown.
he promised you, that no matter how much he'd gotten beaten down, he'd get back up. promised that you'd see it on the news that he would be on his feet, and all you had to do was wait for the knocks on the door.
but he hadn't gotten up. he doesn't come back home that evening either.
clark knew what was coming when he finally does, after recuperating in fortress. you break up with him right then. spills of your words coming out all at once — attempting to push him away through panicked, yet relieved cries — telling him, begging that you couldn't do this.
he holds you in place, right against his chest, so you could hear the steady thumps. it calms you for the time being, but doesn't stop the tremor in your hands. what he says after, however, does.
heavier, warmer palms cradle your cheeks. engulfing it entirely, with his thumbs wiping away the dried tears that remained. through it all, he's shaking his head insistently. lips pressed taut as he takes a long, good look at you.
"i can't live in a world where you don't love me."
you let out a sharp intake of breath, a full-bodied shudder taking you when he nuzzles his face into the crook of your shoulders.
"but…i can't stop you, if you want to leave."
"do you want to leave?"
the prospect of him, ever having brought it up himself made you feel sick. actually. months you'd spent, doing everything and anything to chase him away. the option, and the metaphorical open door he offered, pissed you off.
it served to make that blaring fear in your mind burn true.
you were irrevocably, devastatingly, in love with him.
instead, what you do is shove him backward. with a force that he stumbles like he'd been the weakest man alive. only to find the grabbable part of his cape, just by his shoulders, to kiss him before he can ever think to question you.
he responds instantly. one hand coming up to the side of your head, digits tangling through your hair to tighten it in his fists. the delicateness he often treats you with is long gone, replaced with a needy, tired grunt into your mouth.
"never again."
you briefly feel the rushed words he mutters into your lips to take a breath, "don't even — think," he pulls away once more, making sure you've properly heard him this time through your lusty gaze, "we're not breaking up. not now. not ever. you hear me?"
the words are paired with a fraction of a tightening of his fists, the delicious pressure easing your scalp.
"m-mhn. never."
it satiates him this time. he'd make sure to remind you just how much he loved you, however many times it took for you to etch that in your mind as he fucked you like a man starved.
summary: clark kent doesn’t do well with jealousy- never has, probably never will. mentioning the gross regular at the upscale bar where you work seemed harmless. but when clark shows up with a sheepish smile and tense jaw, you realise it probably meant more to him than you thought.
clark kent x girlfriend ! reader
themes: jealousy, jealousy, jealousy! domestic fluff, established relationship, very subtle nods to smut, with some scott miller thrown in!
You shouldn’t have told him.
Well, okay- that’s slightly dramatic. Of course you should have. You did the right thing; if it was the other way around, and a girl at the Daily Planet made it her personal vendetta to be on your sweet, bumbling boyfriend’s radar for three weeks in a row, you’d want him to tell you.
It was the right thing to do.
The only thing to do.
Right?
“Right.” Clark echoes mindlessly, his eyes drifting far away from you in a way that makes your heart ache and your eyes narrow.
He’s always too sweet, your Clark. Always too polite, too hesitant to tell you how he really feels.
On this occasion, you let him off. Figure it’s better to let him sit in it, cool off, before continuing the inevitable conversation of So, what are we going to do about it? a lot later.
There’s nothing you can do, unfortunately. It makes you feel helpless and stuck and very, very angry at the world- but at the end of the day, Scott is a customer. A paying customer. One that smacks his gum a little too loud and looks you up and down every chance he gets, but a customer all the same.
You wonder what business he has plaguing your hotel bar three (nearing four) weeks in a row now. You’ve never seen him before. Nobody comes to the Regis for a casual drink unless they’re there on business; a key to one of the overtly expensive rooms tucked in the back pocket of a slack trouser.
Scott isn’t a guest. Nor is he a bar regular. He is just a very annoying man, with a very smug grin, and a very disgusting entitlement to your sweet, uncomfortable attention.
Your shift tonight starts at 8pm.
Usually, Clark gets home just after six, and he brings you a bagel and a smoothie and doesn’t let you have them until you reach up on your tiptoes and press glossed lips against his. He doesn’t usually let you plate it up yourself, either; he perches you carefully on a bar stool and does it for you. Everything bagel (extra cream cheese, light on the salmon) on your favourite plate, the paper straw in your drink swiftly replaced by a glass one with a heart.
“You’re one bagel away from turning into one.” is a teasing joke he likes to say often, eliciting a sweet little eye roll from you and a light laugh.
You’re treasure, Clark says. He makes it known to you too, through kisses and cuddles and pecks on the cheek that you have to fight against to eat your bagel. And when you’ve finally finished your food and slurped up the drink, that’s when he can have your full attention, every bit of it, before you have to get ready and he happily drives you to work.
You don’t typically work this late. It’s a one-off, some big business event on the top floor that’s lasted a week longer than expected, meaning a whole week more of missed dinners and missed plans and overall, missing your boyfriend.
So when Clark texts you at 5:30pm, a sweet rambling of apologies that end in a very flustered So sorry, baby. I’ll make it up to you when I pick you up at 1. Love you. You can’t find it in your heart to be upset with him. You just hail a cab and slot inside, fingers drumming mindlessly on your exposed lap.
The uniform could be a lot worse, especially for a bartender. The Regis is a five-star utopia of crystal chandeliers, polished silverware and bellboys that are addressed only by their surnames- you’re almost glad to have only the responsibility of popping open a four-hundred dollar bottle of wine every now and then.
Even so, you keep a firm grip on the bottom of your pencil skirt, sleek black pumps clacking against the linoleum floor.
It’s busy. Much busier than a usual Thursday evening, but you convince yourself you don’t mind. More room to be busy. More things to do in the time you have to kill. Bartending isn’t your dream job by any means, but at the moment it pays for all the good things in life- you could have it a lot worse.
You think of Clark. Sweet, handsome, beautiful Clark, who is probably working so hard at his desk right now that it makes your chest ache. Brows furrowed, pen gnawed at and forgotten between his beautiful plush lips. You imagine the way he types; thick fingers soft and precise, the backspace bare because he always seems to know exactly what to say. He doesn’t make mistakes- you’ve seen him write in person. He just makes whatever’s lacking… better.
Naturally, your stomach flutters at the thought.
Sam greets you with bright eyes and an even more radiant smile, blonde hair falling in waves past her sharp shoulders as you walk towards her and reach for a glass to polish.
She’s beautiful, Samara; with her big blue eyes and pointed chin and great knack for conversation. She’s also the only one you can call a true friend here, so you like to keep her very close.
“You’re late,” she jokes, sharp elbow digging softly into your own. “How big was that bagel?”
Faux offense floods your features, “I’m right on time!”
“Late for you,” she nudges you playfully, head nodding towards a part of the bar you can’t quite see from where you are. “Your man beat you here.”
“Ha-ha,” you deadpan immediately, eyes beginning a roll, “Very funny. You’re on Scott duty tonight.”
“Wha- no!” the realisation is quick to dawn, “No. Absolutely not. I was on Scott duty last night.”
“Mhm. That’s the price you pay for making that joke,” you’re dramatic about it, a heavy sigh you don’t mean falling from your lips.
“What joke?”
“The he’s my man joke,” you fold your arms, half-polished pint glass forgotten on the counter. “It’s dumb and not funny.”
A smirk falls on her lips then, eyes falling away from, “Wasn’t a joke, dummy. Your man is here. Your real one.”
You’re about to bombard her with even more confusion- lest you actually check yourself and come eye-to-eye with the irritatingly vainglorious Scott Miller- but she’s called away by the ding of a kitchen bell quicker than you can stop her.
With an amused shake of your head, your eyes scan the otherwise empty tables; the polishing cloth almost falling from your grasp when your eyes finally settle on the delicious sight a mere ten steps away from you.
Clark.
He isn’t back at the Planet at all, surrounded by his too-small desk and countless pictures of you in neat little gold frames, sipping sludgy coffee from a chipped work mug.
Clark is here; right in the middle of your workplace, his blazer slung carefully over the back of his chair, the rich wood ever so slightly creaking under his ginormous frame. He practically dwarfs his laptop; all 6’4, 240 pounds of superhuman beef.
His briefcase sits gingerly on the floor next to his feet, polished leather a lovely chocolate brown that matches his sensible loafers. Your body relaxes at the mere vision of him; this Kryptonian God that practically kisses the ground you walk on and would tilt the world on it’s axis just to fit your needs- here, on a work night, undoubtedly for you.
It’s almost an innate reaction, the two steps forward you take. And it’s also very Clark to sense you on a whole other plane, because his head tilts up like a puppy ready to play, blue eyes roaming the bar.
They find you almost immediately as a breath catches in your throat. Together three years, one month before your fourth and still, the way he looks at you makes every moment feel like the first.
He lifts his arm up to wave, no doubt refraining from being a full distraction. He knows his mere presence is enough to knock you off balance completely.
You’re about to do the same, the warmth in your chest threatening to burst, when-
“Usual, sweetheart. Make it neat, no ice, yeah?”
The invisible capsule encompassing you both collapses. There’s a voice; a deep, daunting, degrading voice that has the power to contort your expressions into one of pure disgust in milliseconds.
You smell him before you see him, all seventy-four spritzes of his overpriced Hugo Boss cologne. The scent of that minty clump of rubber he seems to always chew on follows soon after, as he winks at you and adjusts the cap on his head.
StormPAR, it reads. You shudder. It’s scarily fitting for a man capable of turning the sunniest of days into a cyclone.
You freeze, goosebumps rising along your shoulders. Clark is out of sight, but you can picture him perfectly in your mind.
Alert. Tense. Maybe even frowning slightly. Your heartbeat falters- not from fear, but irritation at the man in front of you. Clark doesn’t know that. He’s probably listening anyway, waiting for that moment when your pulse skips a beat just a little too long, so he can rush to your side with a concerned smile and a cold shoulder pointed towards Scott.
Still sweet. Still gentle. Still very much Clark.
Except what happens next is something you never could have predicted.
You give a small nod, lips pursed in a tight line because exactly three weeks ago, you shot him a kind smile that he immediately took as an invitation to try and get more out of you.
It’s dirty. It’s disgusting. It’s StormPAR’s poster boy for disaster- and yet, here he is, your only customer at the bar. Unfortunately, you don’t have much of a choice.
You reach for the whiskey, trying to keep it together for the ten seconds spent pouring and mixing. It’s not the usual Johnnie Walker or Jack Daniels favoured by suited businessmen; this is something expensive, Japanese, its name foreign and sharp. The glass is special, polished long in advance, kept apart from the rest of the dishwasher-bound crockery.
You slide it over to Scott without your eyes ever meeting his. He grins and it’s toothy and wide, and in another lifetime you might visually find him not vile- but in this life, he may as well be a fire-breathing dragon with a venomous bite and even worse gaze.
The knocks the whiskey back in one. The glass staggers alongside the table towards you, so quick that you just about manage to block it with a startled elbow.
“Another, princess.” he winks.
Clark tenses. You don’t even have to look at him to know he’s probably standing stiff, brows furrowed, pupils pointed over his glasses.
“Make it two, actually. Got nowhere to be now that you’re here.”
A grimace fills the lower half of your face. You’re about to turn away to pour the next glass, but the sound of a different voice altogether stops you.
“You always talk to people that way?”
It’s warm. Familiar. It’s a megaphoned version of the one that whispers in your ear late at night, gentle and patient and slow and always accompanied by a baby or a hon; a voice notorious for both talking you through it and providing you gentle comfort right after. In this instance, it’s still a blanket of comfort, but in a very different way; something soft and safe thrown over a very icy situation.
Clark slides onto the stool beside Scott like he has every right to be there. Your mouth practically falls open.
His shoulders are relaxed, hands loose against the bar. Whatever article had his full attention not even five minutes ago is completely forgotten now, lost in the shut laptop behind him. Ink lines the grooves of his palm, fresh from attempting to amend print far too soon.
There’s no tension in him at first glance. He doesn’t look angry, though you know better than that.
Scott’s eyebrow raises as he turns toward him.
“What’s it to you?”
Clark can take him. Easily. Beneath that bashful gaze and blinking blue eyes is a man who is so used to protecting you that it comes second nature to him. If it comes to that, you know he wouldn’t hesitate.
Clark hums softly, like he’s considering Scott’s words. Then he glances at you, a silent check-in without uttering a single word, and something in his expression changes. It’s not soft nor does it harden- it doesn’t even twist inside out.
You realise then and there that the outcome of this situation is entirely dependent on you. It relies on what you want him to do, what exactly you want to happen- unfortunately, you’re too tense right now to give him any sort of clear signal.
“It’s not complicated,” he says, turning back, voice still mild. “Just need to watch your tone.”
There’s no bite in his words, but it’s louder than his initial statement. The times you and Clark have argued are very few and far between, but not once has he raised his voice at you or spoken with his tongue dipped in venom.
Hearing it for the very first time is slightly exhilarating.
Scott leans back, sizing him up, “Didn’t realise she had a guard dog.”
Clark smiles at that, lips curving upwards in the kind of smile that should belong on a farm under open skies and humming cicadas, not here under dim bar lights and repetitive jazz music.
“She doesn’t,” he says easily. “That’s not what this is.”
“Then-“
“She’s a lady. You don’t speak to a lady like that.”
It throws Scott, just for a second. Enough for the bravado to falter, for the narrowed eyes under the cap to soften around the edges. You find yourself watching them both, this intense silence growing and filling the air with a thick tension.
Clark doesn’t move closer. Doesn’t even square up; someone built like your boyfriend doesn’t need to.
He just sits there, as calm as the saxophones acting as background noise between you, one hand resting against the bar like he could stay all night if he had to.
“Look, man-“
“You’re gonna stop,” Clark interjects gently, somehow still polite- only now there’s something unshakeable threaded through it. “You’ll ask her right, or you won’t ask at all.”
The air tightens. And Scott scoffs- but it’s weaker this time, eyes flicking between the two of you before he grabs the edge of the bar and pushes himself up. “Whatever, man.”
He doesn’t ask for another drink.
He doesn’t even look back at you as he stalks off- head slightly hung, eyes darting this way and that in quiet anticipation of witnesses.
You both watch him go for a moment. It’s only until Scott turns the corner, gives one last fleeting glance your way and ducks his head out of the double doors that finally, a soft exhale leaves the man beside you.
When Clark turns back to you, it’s like the tension was never there. It’s just him again.
Gentle Clark. Sweet Clark. Yours.
“You okay?” he asks, his voice so low and careful it reaches deep in the pit of your stomach and twists in the best way. A big, warm hand reaches over the counter and rests on top of your own.
You can’t help it; you smile.
“Thank you.”
His eyebrow raises. “You never need to thank me for taking care of you.”
Maybe tomorrow, you'll kiss him a little longer before taking a bite of your bagel.
i owe you all a massive apology - i have had the most insane couple of months, and i cannot wait to share it all with you very soon :')
for now, thank you so much for still being here and for reading💋🖤
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Based on this ask by @nerdgirljen .... sent in 2024...yikes.
Pairing: Stucky x Reader
Summary: you wake up decades after the fall on the train... Everything's so different... including the men you loved so dearly. [WC 1K] [Ao3]
Warnings: angst, hurt/comfort
You wake up to the sound of machines. A slow, rhythmic beep… beep… beep fills the room, steady and unfamiliar. Your head feels heavy, your limbs heavier, like someone replaced your bones with sandbags. The ceiling above you is white. Too white. Not the cracked plaster you remember from the army infirmary. Not the dim yellow lights of a wartime hospital.
Everything here is bright. Sterile. Wrong.
Your throat burns when you try to speak. “Steve…?” The name comes out broken. A whisper dragged across glass.
No one answers. You try again. “Bucky…?” The door opens. Two men step inside. For a moment, your mind refuses to process what you’re seeing. They’re too tall. Too broad. Too… large.
Your boys had always been scrappy. Lean from rationed meals and hard years in Brooklyn. Even after the serum, Steve had still moved like someone who remembered hunger. But the men standing in front of you look carved from stone. Like a Statue of David come alive.
The blond one freezes first. His breath catches. “Holy—” His voice breaks.
Your heart stutters. That voice. “…Steve?”
Steve Rogers looks like someone punched the air out of him. He takes one slow step toward the bed, eyes wide and glassy. “Hey,” he says softly.
Your stomach twists.
His voice is deeper now. Older. But it’s still him. Still the boy who used to pull you between him and the street when fights broke out. Still the boy who kissed you behind the Stark Expo and turned red for an hour afterward.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he murmurs.
Your eyes fill with tears instantly. The nickname hits something deep in your chest. “You’re… big,” you whisper.
Steve laughs weakly through the tears forming in his eyes. “Yeah,” he breathes. “Got a little upgrade.”
Your gaze shifts to the other man standing near the door. Dark hair. Sharp eyes. A metal arm glinting in the light. For a moment, you don’t recognize him. But the way he stands—half-guarded, shoulders slightly forward like he’s ready to step between you and danger— You know that posture.
“Buck?”
Bucky doesn’t move. Not at first. His jaw tightens so hard the muscle jumps. “You… remember me?” he asks quietly.
Your brow furrows. “Of course I remember you.” Your voice shakes. “You idiot.” Your fingers tremble as you lift your hand weakly off the blanket. “You vanished.” Your eyes burn. “You both did.”
The room goes painfully quiet.
Steve sits on the edge of the bed like he’s afraid you might disappear if he moves too fast. “You were supposed to stay in the hospital that day,” he says hoarsely.
You blink. “What day?”
Neither of them answers immediately. That silence scares you more than anything. “Steve.”
Your voice is small now. “What day?”
He exhales slowly, like the truth physically hurts. “1945.”
The number hits you like ice water. You stare at him. “…No.” Your voice cracks. “That plane crash was only a few weeks ago.”
Steve’s eyes close. “Oh, sweetheart.”
Your chest starts rising faster. “No.” You shake your head weakly. “No, that’s not—”
“Seventy years,” Bucky says quietly from the doorway.
The words fall like a bomb. You stare at him. “Don’t lie to me.” Your voice trembles. “I was just looking for you yesterday."
Your throat tightens.
“You were missing. Steve was missing. I got on that damn plane because someone had to find you.”
Your breathing becomes uneven. “I wasn’t gone seventy years.”
Steve reaches for your hand. “Hey—hey, look at me.”
You yank your hand away. “No.” Tears spill down your temples.
“You don’t get to look like that and tell me I lost my whole life.” Your voice cracks open. “I was twenty-three.”
The silence in the room is suffocating. Bucky finally moves closer. Slowly. Carefully. Like approaching a wounded animal. “You didn’t lose it,” he says quietly.
Your laugh comes out broken. “Didn’t I?” You gesture weakly at the room. “At… whatever this is?” Your gaze flicks between them. “You’re giants now.” Your voice trembles. “You’ve lived whole lives.”
Steve shakes his head immediately. “No.” His grip tightens on the mattress. “We didn’t.”
Your eyes flicker to him.
He swallows. “Not without you.”
The confession hangs in the air.
Bucky’s voice comes softer now. “We thought you were dead.”
You look at him. Really look. The lines in his face.
The exhaustion in his eyes.
“You fell off a train,” you whisper. “I searched every damn mountain for you.” His mouth tightens.
“And you disappeared in the ice,” he says quietly. “And I spent decades not knowing who I was.”
Steve exhales shakily. “I woke up thinking everyone I loved was gone.”
The room feels too small for all the grief in it.
Your chest aches. “God,” you whisper. “You both got so big.”
Steve lets out a watery laugh. That familiar crooked grin flickers across his face. “You’re still tiny.”
You glare weakly at him. “Shut up.”
For a moment—Just a moment— it feels like Brooklyn again. Like cramped apartments and cheap diners and late-night walks. But then reality crashes back in.
Your voice drops to a whisper. “…Did either of you move on?” The question terrifies you. Steve looks at Bucky. Bucky looks at the floor. Steve finally answers. “No.”
Your heart stutters. “Why?”
His voice is soft. “Because you were our girl.”
Your throat tightens. “Still are,” Bucky murmurs.
Your eyes burn again. “…You’re old men now.”
Steve grins.
“Technically I’m only about thirty.”
Bucky snorts.
You stare at them. And suddenly you start crying. Not the quiet kind. The ugly kind. The kind that comes from losing seventy years in the blink of an eye.
Steve panics immediately. “Oh God—did I say something wrong—”
Bucky moves faster. He sits beside the bed and carefully pulls you into his arms like you’re made of glass. You bury your face against his chest. And you realize something strange.
He still smells the same. Metal arm. War scars. Decades of pain. But underneath it all— It’s still him.
“Hello,” he murmurs softly into your hair.
Your voice breaks. “Hi, Buck.”
Steve wraps his arms around both of you from the other side. For a moment, none of you speak. Three ghosts from the 1940s. Still tangled together after seventy years. He presses a kiss to your hair. “Welcome back, baby.”
Hi, I've read some of your fics and they're great, and I was sure I was following you, but I guess not, hehe. I'm following you now, though. 💙
I'd like to request a fanfic about Adrian Chase. It's about a girl who's blind and wears red glasses. She starts working at Checkmate. She's a good hacker, and Adrian thinks that because she's blind she's defenseless (I think that's something he would believe), so he protects her from everyone and everything. But one night at a bar, someone tries to mug her, and Adrian is about to intervene and protect her, but she proves to be a good fighter (kind of like Daredevil). Adrian is impressed and now he likes her even more. She might be cold and serious at first, but she's actually fun. She also likes Adrian, but she doesn't show it much. It could be a slow-burn story with a happy ending. I hope you understand my crazy idea. Thanks. 🌻🧜♂️
The Devil of Evergreen
Story Summary -> When the new hacker starts at Checkmate, Adrian makes it his duty to be her dog. Her guide dog, specifically, as the newbie happens to be blind and he uses everything he's learnt from movies and comics to make sure his damsel in distress is safe. Whether she actually is a damsel, well, that's another thing entirely.
Tags -> Blindness, Disabled Character, Canon-Typical Violence, Adrian Chase Being Adrian Chase, Protective Adrian Chase, daredevil!reader, Coworkers to Lovers, Clingy Adrian Chase
Would you prefer to read this on AO3? Click here!
Checkmate desperately needed a new hacker. John, as skilled as he was, could only do so much, and ever since the company had begun to take on multiple jobs at once, he needed to be in so many places at once. There were so many jobs. Crises were popping up all across the country - hell, the world - and someone needed to handle it. Someone like Checkmate.
That, however, was a problem. They were a small team. There was no way that 7 people could do all that, especially since most of their jobs involved a technical aspect and Economos could only be in one place at a time. He was always needed for something, always travelling from place to place, back and forth, until he was hanging by a thread and whining to anyone who would listen.
It was simply too much for Economos to handle.
And since he'd rather exhaust himself than admit his own limitations, Economos decided to reach out to an old buddy of his only after he'd had a very public breakdown where he called Harcourt "a dog fart in the shape of a human", ran away so she couldn't attack him, and collided with the side of his desk. He'd managed to hit his crotch on the corner, and that shocked him so hard that he released the loudest (non-dog) fart they'd ever heard.
Peacemaker still thought about it. He'd get all snuggled in bed and let his mind drift; every time, it returned to that moment. Chris would lie there and giggle to himself until he fell asleep.
But once Harcourt had gotten over that weird insult, she gave Economos the go-ahead to finally - fucking finally - find someone to help him carry the load.
He'd been rather tight-lipped about the whole thing. The team had concluded that this lack of communication about the new recruit stemmed from some insecurity within John, who thought he'd be teased about his need for help. There are a lot of things to make fun of John for; the fact that he's human was not one of them.
Shocking yourself mid-mental breakdown by ripping ass definitely was, though.
They came to realise that Economos may have kept his cards close to his chest for other reasons as soon as they met the new girl. The idiots on their team - Fleury, Peacemaker, and Vigilante (and Judomaster whenever he wanted to be a little shit) - would have been insufferable if they knew beforehand, and it would've been the only thing they spoke of.
Because they're idiots and get hung up on anything they find even remotely unorthodox or out of the norm, they would've gone crazy to find out that Y/N, the new girl, was blind. Adrian would be especially annoying as he would have so many questions, go home and do research, then come back to work with even more.
And John didn't know the answers. Of course he would have no idea. He didn't have the balls to ask her anything regarding her disability just in case he said something insensitive and she'd never want to help him ever again. It was easier to pretend that he wasn't curious about the whole thing.
To anyone who doesn't know much about blind people or hasn't been around many, there's this preconception of incompetence. It is usually not out of any kind of malice, usually the opposite, but they assume the person can't do things because they can't see, and surely you need to be able to see a screen to be a hacker.
1986. The IBM Screen Reader. Jim Thatcher.
He changed that. Without him, Y/N would never have got a job. It sounds simple, really. Create a system that reads what's on the display to you, but it was revolutionary, and at this point in her life, Y/N was a jedi master when it came down to it, especially if a braille terminal was involved. 450–600 words per minute without batting an eye.
She could process information like it was nobody's business, and since she had to have every bit of code memorised, she had the ability to find and exploit weaknesses in any given system with the precision of a scalpel. Y/N was the most qualified person for the job, but John was also subjecting her to... them. The idiots. He had intended to feel guilty about that later. Right now, he just needed help.
What he didn't expect, however, was Adrian. Economos thought Vigilante would be like a bouncy little terrier - loud and proud - when first being introduced to Y/N. He wasn't sure if he'd just gotten lucky or if there was something else at play, but Vigilante's initial reaction to Y/N was subdued. Polite, almost flustered.
It wasn't as if she were intimating in any way. Y/N L/N walked into HQ with red-tinted glasses perched on her nose, her cane tapping the floor in a steady rhythm, wearing jeans and a t-shirt. Nothing about her screamed, 'hey, be afraid to talk to me,' and yet, Vigilante seemed at a loss for words. His eyes kept flicking between her face and his shoes, as if looking at her for too long was physically paining him.
Adebayo clocked it immediately. It wasn't uncommon for Adrian to have trouble processing new experiences, especially social ones, but he usually became brash and overly enthusiastic to compensate. This... this was new.
Emilia and John greeted the new arrival and soon whisked her away into the office to discuss the terms of her employment and fill her in on everything John had forgotten. Then, once they were out of the area, Leota nudged Adrian.
"Hey, you good?"
"Do I smell weird?" He replied.
Leota sniffed him. At this point, they had spent enough time together during some very weird missions that there was an unwanted but learned comfort with each other. If he wanted her to sniff him, she was so used to him that Leota knew that the path of least resistance (or whining, in Adrian's case) was the best course of action.
"Nah, you're good."
"Good. Good. I read that the blind have, like, super senses. There's this comic -"
"Oh no," Bordeaux sighed.
Adebayo incredulously asked, "Are you talking about fucking Daredevil?"
Adrian flinched, realising he'd made a faux pas. He'd thought bringing up a fictional blind person would make him seem more knowledgeable about the whole, but that was not the case. "I was just trying to educate myself," he said sheepishly, rubbing the back of his head.
Fleury smiled, all teasing and strangely fond. "You are such a nerd."
"Eat a dick."
"Why would I do that? That doesn't seem appealing at all."
"I dunno, but there's a man walking around with no penis and it's your fault. Cause you gobbled it all up, and now you're full of dick."
Chris couldn't help himself and joined in on the argument. "Oh, like being full of dick is a bad thing? Some people enjoy it."
"Don't make this into a gay thing."
"Why not? What's wrong with gays?" Leota added, crossing her arms across her chest.
It devolved from there. Then, the office door opened, and everyone just stopped, stopped talking, stopped breathing mid-word. Their collective gazes snapped to the doorway where Y/N stood with a slightly raised eyebrow and a look that seemed to see straight through them. They scrambled to compose themselves and present themselves in a more professional manner.
"Don't stop on my account."
Ah, so she had heard.
Before Adrian could make a sound, Leota held her hand over his mouth and held it there.
One by one, Economos introduced the gang to Y/N, starting with Judomaster, then Fleury, then Adebayo, then Bordeaux, then Peacemaker, and finally Vigilante. Adrian was buzzing with energy and dying to release his awkwardness but being firmly held back by Leota's iron grip.
"What's the wriggling one's name?" Y/N asked, and she pointed her cane directly at Adrian. Leota reluctantly let go of his mouth and he quickly cleared his throat because now was not the time for his voice to fail him. He was so used to yapping his mouth off that being silenced - by his own brain - felt foreign.
Vigilante's brain felt frozen, and his mouth opened and closed several times before any sound actually came out.
"It's, uh, Adrian."
That got major side eyes from the rest of the team. Y/N didn't seem bothered by him, but she did catch a whiff of something that was not entirely unpleasant, just out of place.
"Someone smells a lot like oregano."
Adrian mumbled under his breath, "Fuckin' Fennel Fields."
Like the universe hated him, the only available desk was right next to Adrian - yeah, it was the universe's fault and not Adrian's supernatural ability to distract whoever was sitting near him just by looking at them. The moment she perched her cute lil' butt down and started to set up her workstation, Adrian was drawn to her. Like a moth to a flame, his eyes were fixed on her every movement. It wasn't in a leering way (well, not entirely); he genuinely seemed fascinated by her.
"You're staring, weirdo," Y/N pointed out dryly, not looking up from her screen reader.
"Sorry, sorry." Adrian stammered and quickly looked away, but his eyes kept darting back to her. He cleared his throat again and attempted to strike up a conversation. "So, uh, do you need any help?"
"Why? Cause I'm blind?"
"No! I mean, yes, you are. And you know that."
"I do."
"Yeah, of course. Yeah, of course you do. I mean, not that you would need... Or couldn't... Fuck."
"Is the fact that I'm disabled a problem for you?"
"NO! No!" Adrian panicked, nearly toppling out of his chair. "I just wanted to help!"
A wicked grin overtook her face. "I'm fucking with you, Adrian. Relax."
She reached across the desk and tapped his arm reassuringly, but there was no denying the fact that she was openly laughing at him at his discomfort. The other team members were also struggling to contain their amusement, especially Rip, whose favourite pastime was fucking with Adrian. Which she soon found out was so easy to do, as he was earnestly clueless and easy to trick, and she had managed to pick the perfect victim to ragebait within an hour of meeting him.
Having a free source of entertainment at work was a blessing.
If she was honest, it was kind of cute. How he wore all his feelings on his sleeve, even though he refused to admit it. How he was so willing to be the punching bag because it meant that people were interacting with him and giving him attention. She'd never seen someone so furiously happy to be picked on, and something about that made her soften towards him.
And he was helpful; he'd decided that early on. It was his duty to protect her from any thug, uneven floor, or table corner because obviously she would need help. He was going to be her guide, her arm to hold, her eyes to see through, and all that patronising shit that he was too dense to understand was demeaning and unnecessary.
Despite Adrian's well-meaning but condescending intentions, he had another reason for offering himself as her protector: he hoped that by showing his good side, he could win over the prettiest girl he had ever seen and endear her to him.
Whatever.
It was a stupid idea anyway.
Yeah.
Unless?
His personality was an acquired taste, he knew that. In his adult life he'd been told that it had ruined the romantic vibe or lady boner or male boner or they/them boner or... well, you get the picture, but his face and body were perceived as attractive. He'd worked hard for these muscles and, yeah, maybe he still looked like a dweeb, but some people are into that, and that was what did most of the heavy lifting in his romantic life.
Admittedly, it was a very limited romantic life. Especially since he didn't consider himself to be romantic at all. Fuck no, he's too badass for that.
But Y/N wouldn't care about that. What he looked like wouldn't matter to her, so he was already starting the race with his shoelaces welded together and would have to try twice as hard to get her to like him. He had no idea if she had a guide dog at home, but soon there would be no need for it. Adrian was going to take its place and send that pooch straight back to the pound because Y/N wouldn't need it once he came into her life. He could do everything that dog could do and more. Why not get more bang for your buck?
All he wanted in payment was some head scratches and to occasionally be called a good boy - both in a reassuring and sexy way; is that too much to ask for?
Tell that imaginary labrador to fuck off!
So, his main method was helpfulness, and this was both a help and a hindrance. Adrian offered to get Y/N a coffee, to walk her to the bathroom, to hold the door open for her, to help carry her things. He tried so hard to be helpful that he was practically tripping over himself. He would run across the office to do little favours for her, like getting her a pen or finding a paperclip. Adrian was always ready to assist, even if it wasn't necessary or even if Y/N didn't want it.
"I can walk to the bathroom without help, Adrian. You don't need to escort me everywhere."
"But what if someone tries to take advantage of you while you're alone?"
"...Right. So, which one of our coworkers do you think is going to steal my cane while I take a piss?" She asked with a dry laugh, already knowing the answer to that. Adrian was clearly trying to be her knight in shining armour, but he was more like a clown in tinfoil.
Adrian's face reddened as he realised the absurdity of his comment. He opened his mouth to defend himself, then closed it again, struggling to find the right words. "I just thought..." he mumbled before he tried to play it off. "I was going this way anyway."
"Sure you were," Y/N sighed yet couldn't help but smile. He was so obvious in his affection that it was pitiful. "Go sit down."
His shoulders slumped as he trudged back to his desk, feeling deflated and defeated, and he knew that he would only be able to impress her if something dangerous happened. He could step in and save the day then; that was literally everything he'd ever trained for and she wouldn't see a threat coming.
The cherry on top was that they had a mission coming up. In Gotham. Vigilante. Adebayo. Y/N. Together, in Gotham. Y'know, the most fucked-up place ever, where you get shanked for sneezing twice in a row? There were a countless number of threats in Gotham - they do have the highest crime rates in the world but, hey, they're workin' on it. It was perfect! All they'd have to do was step out of the van and she'd immediately be a target.
She had a triple whammy.
If her cane was out, she had an obvious disability.
A pretty face.
And, as far as they knew, a lack of a guide dog that could help defend her. They had no idea that her dog was actually a serial killer with a hero complex and a love of The Muppets.
Yeah, Adrian figured his chance would finally come and that his heroic intervention would be just the thing to win her heart. He barely slept the night before they shipped off and instead crafted an elaborate fantasy where he would swoop in, shield her from a hail of bullets that he willingly took into his own body, and carry her to safety with the knowledge that he'd be completely fine after a quick 8hr nap.
In his mind, she would be so impressed that she'd fall into his arms, kiss him passionately, and declare her undying love for him.
As the van pulled up to Gotham City, Adrian was practically vibrating with energy. He positioned himself next to Y/N, ready to act at a moment's notice.
"Hey, uh, just wanted to let you know that I've got your back out there, okay?" He tried to sound casual but failed spectacularly.
"Right back at you, Vij."
He was so focused on protecting Y/N that he nearly tripped over a loose piece of concrete as soon as they stepped out. She caught a hold of his arm so he didn't fall on his ass.
Adebayo snorted.
"C'mon, at least one of us should be watching where we're going," she joked, the irony of her 'eyes and ears' failing at the first step not lost on her.
Then, just as he had expected, a passerby came running at them with visible malice. Adrian was far too busy thinking about his big moment to step in as the ruffian reached for Y/N's bag.
BANG!
Her cane connected with the thug's knee with devastating force.
"It's good to be home," she quipped as the would-be mugger fell to the ground, howling in pain. Adrian watched in stunned silence because she just handled it without fuss, without flinching, and without his help at all.
Surely, it was just a coincidence. If it happened again, he would be ready to swoop in and save the day.
"You're from Gotham?" He asked in shock, completely thrown off his game.
"Born and bred."
She casually shouldered her bag and started walking to their hotel, leaving him scurrying after her.
The mission was a dime a dozen. Vigilante storms his way into a crime den as Adebayo sniped any stragglers on their way out, he found their base of communications and inserted a device so Y/N could access it remotely and retrieve all the data necessary for their client, and boom, done. They executed it as such, and because it had been planned to perfection, they felt the need to celebrate.
"I need a drink," Adebayo said as she dissembled her gun.
"I second that motion," Y/N chimed in over comms as she gathered her things and planned to leave the cafe she'd been hijacking the Wi-Fi in. "Vigilante, you in?"
This was huge. Not only had she respected his wishes to call him by his alter ego whenever they were in earshot of the public, but his crush was asking him to do something outside of work. It was basically a date. Sure, Adebayo was there too, but hey, you gotta start somewhere. He couldn't refuse this opportunity.
"Fuckin' yeah! I'm in!" He replied with way too much enthusiasm.
The hotel bar was the best option. It wasn't the nicest. It didn't have welcoming company. There weren't any rave reviews on YELP. It was close by and it ensured that they weren't suddenly on mob turf. Every single bar or speakeasy or pub or even a bistro, nay, even a cafe was owned by a mob lord.
Black Mask and the Sionis Crime Family.
The Bertinelli Crime Family.
The Falcone Crime Family.
The Maroni Crime Family.
One of the few Triads.
Penguin's Gang.
Two Face.
Take your pick; you're on their turf.
It was dingy, lit by dim bulbs and smelt of spilt beer and desperation, and filled to the brim with Gotham's unsavoury denizens. They sat in a booth in the corner that had a clear view of both the back door and the bar itself for a safe exit and a direct route for more booze.
Leota did most of the talking and, like usual, Adrian did a really bad job at subtly being more interested in what Y/N's reaction was rather than the conversation itself. Y/N mostly just listened and drank her beer, occasionally nodding along or adding a comment here and there, but for the most part, let Leota do all the heavy lifting
From across the room, a "heels and handbag, goin' out back" from a gruff and gravelly voice drew Y/N's attention. It hadn't been a loud statement, just a comment between two people, but if you had particularly good hearing as Y/N did, then it was perfectly audible.
Two pairs of boots made their way to the back door.
"I think I'm gonna step outside for a breather." Y/N stood, her posture shifting from relaxed to tense in a microsecond as she pulled out her cane and assembled it. "I won't be long."
"Okay, girl, I'll get us another round," Leota said as she got up to head to the bar, leaving Adrian alone in the booth.
He wouldn't be alone for long, he reasoned. Sure, he was restraining himself; with every breath he was getting closer to following Y/N to the back. No. No. He could do this. He could give her the independence she wanted and needed, even if it made him feel useless.
It was just a back alley in Gotham, probably full of garbage and a few stray cats. It was probably fine. Gotham City, the most dangerous place in all America, where you could go from hero to victim in the span of a second. No. He was being silly. Y/N had shown more than once that she could handle herself.
A few minutes passed, and Adrian still felt restless. His brain was a whirlwind.
And then BANG!
Something heavy hit the back door and Adrian shot out of his seat and sprinted towards the exit, knocking over a few patrons in his rush to get outside. The alley was dark and reeked of garbage, and he saw two figures unconscious on the floor right by the exit with bruises as big as golf balls on their faces.
Further down the alley stood two women. One was shaking in her heels, her flimsy dress torn, and the other was wiping blood from her hands with a handkerchief
"Do you have money for a cab?" Y/N asked, completely unruffled and without a scratch on her.
"Yeah, uh... yeah," The woman replied with tears in her eyes as she fumbled with her purse, clearly shaken. "Thank you so much. I can't even... how did you - Thank you. Really. Thank you."
"Go home. Get some rest. This wasn't your fault, okay?"
"Y-yeah. Yeah, okay."
She stumbled away as fast as her high heels would allow and Y/N turned to Adrian, who had been standing there frozen, mouth agape. He seemed stunned for a moment before he slammed down onto his knees before her.
"You're so hot. You're so, so hot. Like the hottest." The words tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop them. "I think you're my dream girl. You're so fucking cool, and I'm sorry for being, like, weird and all hovering, but holy shit, you're like catnip. Like my catnip, but in a sexy and earnest kind of way."
Y/N snorted.
"You're so weird."
His gaze dropped to the floor as a blush burnt on his face. Fuck, he'd ruined it now. Completely and utterly. He'd acted a fool in front of her and now he was going to die alone because nobody would ever come close.
Nobody would be as cool.
Nobody would be as hot.
Nobody would be as badass as her.
Then he felt fingers on top of his hair like she was petting him, almost affectionately. He tilted his head up to meet her gaze, still kneeling, and she smiled. Not a smirk or a smile that says, 'I'm about to tease you for this,' but a genuine, warm smile.
"Hey, c'mon, stand up. You'll get your jeans all dirty down there." Y/N gently tugged on his hand to help him up, which he took without hesitation.
There was no world where he'd decline holding her hand.
"I thought you were being attacked or something," Adrian said sheepishly.
"And what if I was?" Y/N asked. "Would you have swooped in and saved me?"
He scoffed. "Oh please, you don't need saving. I know that now."
She let go of his hand to gently cup his face, her thumb tracing his cheekbone and down to his chin. "I appreciate the thought, though."
"Are you doing that blind-touching-face thing? Cause -"
"I was going to kiss you but you just ruined the moment," Y/N commented with barely hidden mischief, and Adrian's face contorted comically as it went straight over his head.
"What?" He stammered. "But, but, but-"
His gaze dropped to her mouth, then back up to her eyes, then back down again. "You should totally, absolutely, 100% kiss me now. Right here. In this gross, smelly alley. Please... pretty please with, like, so many cherries on top and a tonne of cream."
"Buy me dinner and I'll think about it."
Within the hour, the pair had called it a night with Leota, ordered an obscene amount of food, and were settled in Y/N's hotel room. Adrian was counting down the minutes until the meal was over and she would make good on her offer.
After what felt like an eternity, Y/N wiped away her mouth with a napkin and beckoned him closer with just one finger. He practically leapt out of his chair and crossed the distance between them in a single bound, his mouth on hers before she could blink.
He poured every ounce of his pent-up longing into the kiss and would continue to do so for the rest of the night. Nay, the rest of his life.
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