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blurb: after a drunken confession gets misunderstood, tucker spends the next morning thinking he lost his chance before realizing you meant him all along.
warnings: 18+ mdni, fluff, drinking/intoxicated confession, misunderstanding, jealousy, lowkey possessive Tucker, explicit sexual content, oral sex, protected sex, praise, teasing, slight public-risk element because the boys are downstairs, language.
꒰১Taglist໒꒱ @littlemissclairebiggs
The problem with being drunk was that you had never been very good at lying when you were sober.
A few drinks only made it worse.
By the time the party had spilled from the living room into the kitchen and halfway down the hall, you were warm all over, curled into one corner of the couch with your legs tucked underneath you, laughing at something Dean had said that probably wasn’t as funny as he thought it was. He knew it, too. That was the problem with Dean. He didn’t need anyone to laugh at his jokes. He already found himself entertaining enough.
Hannah was beside you, shoulder bumping yours, her cheeks pink from the heat in the room. Allie stood near the arm of the couch with a red cup in her hand, watching Dean argue with Garrett over which one of them had worse taste in music.
“You can’t insult my playlist when you listen to old man rock during workouts,” Garrett said.
Dean looked offended. “Old man rock?”
“Your entire Spotify sounds like someone’s divorced uncle buying a motorcycle.”
You laughed before you could stop yourself, and Dean pointed at you like he had just won something.
“See? She gets it.”
“I’m not getting involved,” you said, even as you kept smiling.
“You already did.” Dean dropped onto the coffee table in front of you, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. His attention shifting onto you was always dangerous. Dean with a target was impossible. “Actually, since you’re feeling honest tonight.”
“No.”
“I didn’t even ask yet.”
“That’s why I’m saying no early.”
Allie grinned. “Smart girl.”
Dean ignored her. “Out of everyone in this house, who would you hook up with?”
Garrett groaned from the kitchen doorway. “Don’t start.”
“I’m curious.”
“You’re nosy,” Hannah corrected.
“I contain multitudes.”
You pressed your cup to your mouth to hide your smile, but that only made Dean’s eyes narrow with interest. He knew weakness when he saw it. Worse, he could smell embarrassment from across a room.
“Oh, you have an answer.”
“I do not.”
“You absolutely do.” He leaned closer. “Look at her face.”
“My face is normal.”
“Your face is guilty.”
“It is not.”
“It’s very guilty,” Allie said, not helping at all.
You gave her a betrayed look. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”
“I am. I just also want to know.”
From the kitchen, Tucker moved quietly around the counter, gathering empty bottles and tossing them into a trash bag because, of course, he was cleaning during a party he didn’t even throw alone. That was Tucker. He did things without announcing them, without waiting for praise. He remembered who liked what, who needed water, who had left their jacket upstairs, who needed to be walked home before they got too drunk to text properly.
He was wearing a faded Briar T-shirt and jeans, hair a little mussed, mouth tipped in that quiet half smile he got when everyone else was being ridiculous. He looked over when your laughter rose, and for one second, his eyes caught yours.
Your stomach flipped, and you looked away too fast, fast enough that Dean noticed it, too.
“Oh,” he said.
You pointed at him. “No.”
“Oh, this is good.”
“Dean.”
“You looked at someone.”
“I looked at the room. That’s how eyes work.”
Garrett appeared behind him, instantly interested now that someone else was suffering. “Who did she look at?”
“No one,” you said.
Dean’s grin widened. “She has a crush.”
“I have patience,” you said. “And you’re testing it.”
That only made them laugh. Your face felt hot. The room felt even hotter, or maybe that was the alcohol, or maybe it was the fact that Tucker was still in the kitchen, close enough to hear pieces if he wanted to.
The worst part was that you did have a crush.
A soft, stupid, inconvenient crush on John Tucker that had started slowly and then gotten completely out of hand before you knew what to do with it. It was the way he listened. The way he made space for people without making them feel like a burden. The way he looked at you sometimes, like he was catching details no one else cared enough to notice.
The way he called you sweetheart in that warm voice and ruined your ability to think like a normal person.
Dean tapped your knee with two fingers. “Come on. We’ll be mature.”
Garrett snorted.
“We will not tell a soul,” Dean added.
“You’re literally asking in a living room full of people.”
“Fine. We’ll only tell a few souls.”
You should have kept your mouth shut. You really should have. But you were tipsy, and warm, and tired of pretending you didn’t glance toward the kitchen every time Tucker moved.
So you sank lower into the couch, smiled into your cup, and said, “John. Obviously.”
The reaction was immediate.
Dean sat up straight. Garrett made a noise like someone had handed him a gift. Allie’s brows shot up. Hannah blinked, then turned toward the kitchen, then back to you like she was putting something together too late.
And from somewhere near the hall, Logan looked over.
“Me?” he asked.
Your smile faltered.
Dean burst out laughing. “Logan?”
Garrett pointed at him. “Did not see that coming.”
Logan looked delighted and confused at the same time. “I mean, I’m flattered.”
You stared at him, trying to make the room slow down enough for your brain to catch up. “What?”
“You said John,” Dean said, like this explained everything.
“There are two Johns,” Hannah said carefully.
Dean waved that off. “Yeah, but nobody calls Tucker John.”
Your eyes shot to the kitchen.
Tucker had gone still with a bottle in his hand. Not dramatically. He didn’t freeze in the middle of the room or make some big scene. His posture barely changed, but you saw it because you were always looking at him more than you should have been. His shoulders set a little tighter. His mouth softened out of its smile.
Then he dropped the bottle into the trash bag and looked away.
Your stomach twisted.
“No,” you said, but it came out too soft under all the noise.
Logan raised both hands, grinning. “Hey, I’m not complaining.”
“You should be,” Garrett said. “This is the first time anyone’s ever chosen you while drunk and meant it.”
“Rude.”
Dean leaned back, laughing. “Well, this changes everything.”
“It changes nothing,” you said.
“Sounds like something a woman with a Logan crush would say.”
“I don’t have a Logan crush.”
Logan placed a hand over his chest. “Now that hurt.”
The room kept moving around you, loud and amused, everyone turning the moment into a joke before you could untangle it. You looked toward Tucker again, but he was already turning toward the fridge, pulling out a water bottle.
A minute later, he crossed the living room and handed it to you.
“Here,” he said.
Your fingers brushed his.
Even tipsy, even embarrassed, you could tell he was pulling himself back from you. Tucker was still being kind. Still careful. But there was distance in his expression now, a quietness that hadn’t been there before.
You held the bottle with both hands. “You’re mad at me.”
His gaze flicked over your face. “No, sweetheart.”
“You are.”
“I’m not mad.” His voice stayed gentle, which somehow made it worse. “Drink some water for me, all right?”
For me.
You wanted to grab onto the words and make them mean what you wanted. Instead, you twisted the cap off and took a sip.
Dean was still laughing with Garrett. Logan was still pretending to be smug. No one else noticed the way Tucker’s smile didn’t reach his eyes.
You noticed.
Of course you noticed.
Later, when the party thinned and the floor felt a little less steady beneath your feet, Tucker was the one who found your jacket. He was the one who tugged it around your shoulders when you kept missing the sleeve. He was the one who crouched in front of you by the entryway, holding your shoe steady so you could slip your foot inside without tipping over.
“You don’t have to do all this,” you mumbled.
“I know.”
“You always do that.”
His hands paused at the laces. “Do what?”
“Take care of everybody.”
He tied the knot, then sat back on his heels and looked up at you. His face was softer from that angle, the party lights warm on his skin.
“Somebody’s gotta do it.”
You wanted to tell him that wasn’t why he did it. You wanted to tell him he took care of people because it was built into him, quiet and stubborn and good. You wanted to tell him you said John because you meant the one in front of you.
Instead, you touched his shoulder lightly and said, “I said John.”
Something shifted in his face.
“I know,” he said.
But he didn’t know. Not really.
And before you could make your mouth explain it properly, Hannah came over with your bag, and Tucker stood, and the moment slipped away into the cold night air.
He walked you home because he insisted, keeping his hands to himself except when you stumbled on the curb and he caught your elbow.
At your door, you looked up at him, still fuzzy and frustrated and aching with something you didn’t know how to name.
“Tuck.”
His eyes moved over your face.
“Get some sleep,” he said softly. “We’ll talk when you’re sober.”
Then he waited until you were inside before he left.
By morning, you had a headache, a dry mouth, and a terrible feeling that something had gone very wrong.
The Advil on your nightstand helped with the first two.
The third got worse when you checked your phone and found a text from Hannah.
hannah: before you panic, you didn’t do anything bad
hannah: but you may need to clarify something
you: oh god
hannah: yeah
You stared at the screen for a full minute, slowly remembering flashes of the night before. Dean being nosy. Allie laughing. Logan looking over.
John.
Obviously.
Your eyes closed.
“Oh no.”
By the time you made it back to the hockey house later that afternoon, your stomach was tied in knots. You had planned to talk to Tucker privately. That was the mature thing. The adult thing. The thing you were absolutely going to do as soon as you stopped wanting to walk into traffic.
Unfortunately, Dean opened the door.
His grin started before he even said hello.
“Well, well, well.”
“Don’t.”
He stepped aside to let you in. “Our girl returns.”
“I’m not your girl.”
“Logan’s girl, apparently.”
You stopped in the entryway. “I am going to kill everyone in this house.”
From the living room, Logan called, “Not me, I’m the victim.”
“You are not the victim.”
He appeared over the back of the couch, all lazy grin and bright eyes. “I had a beautiful woman confess her feelings and then immediately take it back. I’m wounded.”
“I didn’t confess my feelings to you.”
Garrett walked in from the kitchen with a bowl of cereal. “That’s not what we heard.”
You looked around, heat crawling up your neck. “Where’s Tucker?”
The room went a little too quiet.
That was when you realized he was standing at the far end of the hall, one hand on the laundry room door, his gaze fixed on you.
He had heard you.
Of course he had.
Dean, sensing blood in the water, leaned against the wall. “Why do you need Tucker? Thought you were here for your man John.”
“I was,” you snapped, then immediately wanted to disappear.
Logan’s grin dropped into open delight. Garrett choked on his cereal.
Tucker did not move.
Dean blinked. “Wait.”
You pressed your hands over your face. “I meant Tucker.”
Silence.
Then Logan said, “I’m sorry, what?”
“I meant Tucker,” you repeated, quieter this time, but clear enough that no one missed it. “Last night. When I said John. I meant John Tucker.”
Garrett started laughing first. Dean followed a second later, so loud and delighted you wanted to throw something at his head. Logan looked between you and Tucker, offended in the most dramatic way possible.
“So I was collateral damage?” Logan asked.
“Yes,” you said.
Dean clapped a hand over his mouth like he was trying and failing to control himself. “The wrong John got the ego boost.”
You wished the floor would open up and swallow you whole.
Tucker still hadn’t said anything.
His expression was unreadable in that quiet Tucker way, but his eyes were locked on you now. Not distant like last night. Not hurt. Careful, maybe. Like he was trying to decide whether he could believe what he had just heard.
The laughter around you faded into a dull buzz.
Then Tucker nodded once toward the hall.
“Come here a second?”
Your heart climbed into your throat.
Dean made a low, obnoxious sound, and Garrett slapped his arm.
“Shut up,” Garrett said, still smiling.
You walked past them without looking back.
Tucker led you down the hall, not touching you, and stopped just outside his room. The door was open behind him. You could see the navy comforter on his bed, a folded hoodie on the desk chair, a pair of sneakers lined neatly near the closet. Everything about it was so Tucker that your chest hurt.
He turned to face you, and for a moment, neither of you spoke.
Then you said, “I’m sorry.”
His brows pulled together. “What are you sorry for?”
“For last night. For making it weird.”
“You didn’t make it weird.”
“Tucker.”
“All right,” he said, mouth twitching faintly. “Maybe a little weird.”
Despite yourself, you laughed. It came out nervous.
“I wasn’t trying to embarrass you,” you said. “I thought it was obvious.”
“That you meant Logan?”
Your eyes widened. “No.”
“Because it sounded pretty obvious to everyone else.”
“That’s because everyone else is stupid.”
His smile showed for half a second, then faded into something softer. “You said John.”
“Your name is John.”
“Nobody calls me John.”
“I know.” You rubbed your palms against your jeans, hating how shy you suddenly felt. “That’s why I thought it would be obvious.”
Tucker stared at you.
Then he huffed a quiet laugh and looked down, shaking his head. “You’ve had a crush on me long enough to start using my government name?”
Your face went hot. “Don’t say it like that.”
“How should I say it?”
“You shouldn’t.”
He stepped a little closer, not enough to crowd you, just enough that you noticed. You noticed everything when it came to him.
“Were you serious?” he asked.
The teasing was gone now.
You swallowed. “Yes.”
His gaze searched yours. “You were pretty drunk.”
“I was tipsy.”
“You were drunk enough that Dean almost made sense.”
“That is not fair.”
“It’s a little fair.”
You smiled, but Tucker didn’t. Not really. His eyes stayed steady on your face, gentle and cautious in a way that made your heart squeeze.
“I’m not gonna do anything because of something you said last night,” he said. “Not unless I know you mean it now.”
Your breath caught.
Sweet, decent Tucker, making sure there was solid ground beneath both of you before he took a single step.
You looked at him and felt every bit of your embarrassment settle into something warmer.
“I mean it,” you said.
His jaw flexed.
“You sure?”
“I’m sober. I’m humiliated, but I’m sober.”
That got you another almost-smile.
“And you meant me?” he asked.
You tried to roll your eyes, but your voice came out softer than you wanted. “I said John.”
“There are two of us, sweetheart.”
“Yeah.” You held his gaze. “But there’s only one I wanted.”
The air between you changed.
It wasn’t loud or sudden. There was no dramatic shift, no big movement. Tucker just went very still, and for the first time since you had known him, you saw the restraint in him crack.
He stepped closer.
Not touching yet. Not quite.
“How long?” he asked.
You blinked. “What?”
“How long have you wanted me?”
You looked past him into his room, then back at his face. “A while.”
His eyes dipped to your mouth.
“I’ve been trying to be decent about it,” he said. “Thought I was doing a pretty good job until last night.”
“What happened last night?”
His mouth tilted, but there was still something bruised underneath it. “I had to listen to you say his name and pretend it didn’t bother me.”
You shook your head. “I said yours.”
Tucker’s hand lifted slowly, giving you time to move away. You didn’t. His fingers touched your jaw, warm and careful, his thumb brushing just beneath your cheek.
“Say it again.”
Your breath came in a little unsteady. “I meant you.”
His eyes held yours.
“Good,” he murmured.
Then he kissed you.
The first kiss was soft. Almost too soft. His mouth moved over yours like he was still asking, like he was giving you every chance to decide this wasn’t what you wanted after all.
You answered by fisting your hand in his shirt and pulling him closer.
The second kiss broke whatever careful thing he had been holding onto.
Tucker made a low sound against your mouth, one hand sliding to your waist as he stepped into you. Your back touched the doorframe. His body was warm and solid in front of yours, and the shock of finally having him this close went straight through you.
He kissed like he did everything else, steady until he wasn’t. Patient until he had a reason not to be. His hand held your waist, thumb pressing lightly through the fabric of your shirt, while the other tilted your face up for him.
When his mouth left yours, it only went as far as your cheek, then your jaw, then the sensitive place just below your ear.
“Tuck,” you breathed.
He paused.
The sound of his name seemed to do something to him. His fingers tightened at your waist, and his breath brushed hot against your skin.
“One more time,” he said.
You closed your eyes. “Tucker.”
He kissed your neck, slower now, open-mouthed and warm. Your knees weakened, and he noticed, of course he noticed, because his arm slid more firmly around you.
Behind you, the living room erupted in laughter over something completely unrelated, muffled by the hallway and the blood rushing in your ears.
Tucker lifted his head. His eyes had darkened, but his voice stayed low. “You want to stop?”
“No.”
“You want to go in?”
You nodded, then remembered he needed words. “Yes.”
His gaze softened for one brief second.
Then he reached past you, pushed his bedroom door open wider, and walked you backward inside.
The door clicked shut behind him.
The sound was small, but it made your stomach tighten.
Tucker turned the lock, then faced you again. For a second, he just looked at you, like he was memorizing the sight of you standing in his room with kiss-swollen lips and nervous hands.
Then his eyes dropped to your mouth.
For a moment, he did not say anything. He just stood there with his hand still near the lock, jaw tight, chest rising a little too slow, like he was trying to decide how much restraint he had left.
Then he crossed the room.
You barely had time to breathe before his hands were on your waist and his mouth was on yours.
The kiss was not soft this time. It was deep, certain, his fingers pressing into your sides as he walked you backward toward the bed. You went with him, hands catching at his shoulders, your stomach flipping at the difference in him.
Tucker was always careful. Always steady.
Now he was steady in a way that felt dangerous.
Your legs hit the edge of the mattress, and he pulled back just enough to look at you.
“You meant me,” he said.
It was not really a question.
You swallowed. “Yes.”
His eyes moved over your face, then down to your mouth again.
“Good.”
Then he kissed you again.
His hands slid beneath your shirt, warm palms dragging up your bare skin. You shivered, and he noticed, but he did not stop to ask if you were cold. His mouth stayed on yours while his fingers curled into the hem.
“Arms up,” he murmured.
You obeyed before you could think better of it.
He pulled your shirt over your head in one smooth motion and tossed it aside. His eyes dropped to your chest, still covered by your bra, and the way he looked at you made your face warm.
Not because he looked shocked.
Because he looked focused.
Like every second of holding back had led him here.
“Tucker,” you whispered.
His gaze came back to yours. “Don’t get shy on me now.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.” His thumb brushed over your ribs, just beneath the band of your bra. “But you don’t have to be.”
He reached behind you and unclasped it. The straps slipped down your arms, and he pulled it away slowly, adding it to the growing pile of clothes on the floor.
You were bare from the waist up now, standing in front of him in only your jeans, and Tucker went quiet again.
“You’re staring,” you said, but your voice came out weaker than you wanted.
“I know.”
Your breath caught.
His mouth came back to your neck, then lower, open and warm over your collarbone. His hands held your waist as he kissed down your chest, taking his time with you in a way that made your knees feel unreliable.
You gripped his shoulders.
He smiled against your skin. “You wanted me quiet and sweet?”
“No.”
His mouth brushed over your breast, and your answer broke into a gasp.
“No?” he repeated.
You shook your head, fingers tightening in his shirt. “No.”
“Good.” He lifted his head. “Because I’m not feeling very sweet right now.”
The words sent heat straight through you.
You reached for his shirt, impatient now, tugging at the fabric. Tucker let you pull it up, then took over when your hands got clumsy. His shirt came off and landed somewhere near yours.
For one second, you forgot how to move.
He was all warm skin and hard muscle beneath your hands, his stomach tightening when your fingers dragged down the center of his chest. You had seen him shirtless before. Everyone had. But not like this. Not with his mouth still swollen from kissing you and his eyes fixed on yours like he wanted to watch you realize exactly what you had asked for.
Your hands went to his belt.
He caught your wrist before you could open it.
“Not yet.”
Your pulse jumped.
He sat you down on the edge of the bed, then dropped to his knees in front of you. His hands moved to the button of your jeans.
He opened them, dragged the zipper down, and pulled the denim over your hips. You lifted yourself enough to help, and he slid them down your legs. He pulled off one shoe, then the other, then removed your jeans completely and dropped them beside the bed.
You were left in your underwear.
Tucker’s hands settled on your knees.
He spread them apart slowly.
Your stomach tightened at the look on his face.
“There,” he said, voice low. “That’s better.”
Your fingers twisted in the comforter. “You’re being very smug.”
His hand slid up your thigh, his thumb pressing into the soft skin there.
“I spent too long pretending I didn’t want this,” he said. “I’m not pretending anymore.”
You reached for him, but he pushed your hand gently back to the mattress.
“Tuck.”
His eyes lifted.
“Say it again.”
You knew what he meant.
“Tucker.”
The tension in his face shifted into something darker.
He leaned in and kissed the inside of your thigh.
“Again.”
“Tucker.”
His mouth moved higher.
You sucked in a breath when his fingers hooked into your underwear.
He pulled them down slowly, eyes on yours until they passed your knees. Then he took them off completely and tossed them onto the floor with the rest of your clothes.
Now you were naked on the edge of his bed, and he was still kneeling in front of you in only his jeans.
The imbalance of it made your whole body burn.
Tucker noticed.
Of course he did.
His hands slid up your thighs, firm and warm, spreading you open again when your legs tried to close.
“Don’t hide.”
The words were quiet, but there was no uncertainty in them.
You let your knees fall apart.
His eyes dropped.
A rough breath left him.
Then he leaned in and put his mouth on you.
Your back arched instantly, one hand flying to his hair, the other gripping the sheets. Tucker’s hands locked around your thighs, holding you open as he licked into you with none of the hesitation he’d shown at the door. He was still controlled, still Tucker, but this was a different kind of control. The kind that let him take his time because he knew exactly what he was doing.
“Tucker,” you gasped.
He hummed against you, and the vibration made your hips jerk.
His fingers dug into your thighs, keeping you where he wanted you.
“That’s it,” he murmured, mouth brushing against you. “That’s what I want to hear.”
You barely had time to process the words before his mouth returned.
He figured you out fast. What made your legs tremble, what stole your breath, what had you clutching his hair and murmuring his name like nothing else mattered.
When you tried to muffle yourself with your hand, he stopped just long enough to reach up and pull it away.
“No.”
You blinked down at him, dizzy. “They’ll hear.”
His thumb stroked over your wrist once before he pinned your hand gently to the mattress.
“Then they’ll know.”
Your body reacted before you could stop it, clenching around nothing, and Tucker saw it. His eyes darkened, mouth curving slightly before he lowered his head again.
This time, he added his fingers.
You cried out before you could catch it.
“There,” he said, voice rough with satisfaction.
He worked you with his mouth and hand until the room blurred at the edges, until the noise downstairs faded into nothing but a distant hum. He did not need to keep bringing up the mistake. The possessiveness was in the way he held you open, in the way he dragged your sounds out of you, in the way his eyes lifted every time you said his name.
You were close too quickly.
Tucker knew that too.
He curled his fingers, and your whole body tightened.
“Tuck,” you gasped.
He looked up at you.
“Come for me.”
You did.
It hit hard, rushing through you in a wave that made your thighs tremble around his shoulders. Tucker did not stop until you were shaking, until your hand had gone loose in his hair and your breathing had turned uneven.
Only then did he ease back.
He kissed your thigh once, slower now, almost gentle.
Then he stood.
You watched him wipe his mouth with the back of his hand, and the sight made heat bloom in you all over again.
His eyes stayed on yours as he undid his belt.
The buckle opened. Then the button. Then the zipper.
He pushed his jeans down his hips, taking his boxers with them, and kicked both aside. Now there was nothing between you except the few inches of space he crossed when he leaned over you again.
You reached for him, wrapping a hand around him, and Tucker’s breath caught hard.
His head dipped, mouth brushing your shoulder.
“Easy,” he said, voice strained.
You moved your hand again, slower this time, learning the weight and heat of him.
His hips pressed forward into your touch before he caught himself.
“Sweetheart.”
You liked how wrecked he sounded.
You did it again.
This time, his hand covered yours, stilling you.
“Condom,” he said, rough and breathless.
Even now, worked up and possessive and looking at you like he wanted to forget the rest of the house existed, Tucker remembered.
He reached over to the nightstand, yanked the drawer open, and pulled one out. The wrapper tore between his fingers, and you watched him roll it on, your mouth dry, your whole body aching.
When he looked back at you, something in his expression softened for half a second.
Then he moved over you.
He guided you farther up the mattress, settling between your thighs as you lay back beneath him. His body covered yours, warm and solid, one hand braced beside your head while the other hooked under your knee and pulled your leg higher around his waist.
The first press of him against you made you gasp.
Tucker’s eyes stayed on yours.
“You still want me?” he asked, quiet but direct.
“Yes.”
“Say my name.”
“Tucker.”
He pushed into you slowly.
Your mouth fell open, and no sound came out at first. The stretch was full and deep, enough that your fingers dug into his shoulders. Tucker moved inch by inch, jaw clenched, his breathing rough against your cheek.
When he was finally inside you completely, he stopped.
The pause made everything sharper. The weight of him. The feel of him. The way his hand held your thigh up against his side.
You wrapped your other leg around his waist.
“Move.”
His eyes flashed.
The first thrust was slow, deep, dragging the breath from your lungs. The second was firmer. By the third, your nails were in his back and his mouth was against your neck, breathing hard as he found a rhythm that made your thoughts scatter.
This was not soft, not exactly.
It was intimate because it was Tucker. Because he watched you. Because his hand slid under your back to hold you closer. Because every time your breathing changed, he noticed.
But it was rougher than you expected from him. More possessive. His hips drove into yours with a steady, controlled force, his hand firm on your thigh, keeping you open for him. His mouth moved against your jaw, your throat, your lips, like he could not decide where he wanted to claim you most.
“You feel that?” he murmured, voice low against your ear. “That’s what you do to me.”
You moaned, and his pace deepened.
His hand came to your jaw when you turned your face into his shoulder, guiding you back to him.
“No hiding from me.”
“They’ll hear.”
His eyes held yours.
“Let them.”
Your body clenched around him.
A rough sound left his throat, his forehead dropping near yours.
“You liked that,” he breathed.
You could not deny it. Not with him still inside you. Not with his hand on your face and his hips pressed tight to yours.
So you whispered, “Maybe.”
His mouth curved.
Then he moved again, slower this time, deeper, making your back arch.
“Good,” he said. “Then let me hear you.”
His name slipped out louder this time, and Tucker rewarded it with a thrust that made your legs tighten around him. He kept that rhythm, deep and deliberate, his hand sliding between your bodies to touch you where you were still sensitive from his mouth.
The pleasure sparked fast.
“Tuck.”
“I’ve got you.”
His fingers moved in time with his hips, and suddenly you were right there again, clinging to him, breathing his name against his mouth.
“That’s it,” he murmured. “Come on, sweetheart.”
You came hard, your whole body tightening around him, a broken sound leaving you as he held you through it. Tucker cursed softly, his rhythm faltering, his face burying against your neck.
A few thrusts later, he followed, pressing deep as his body went tense over yours.
For a moment, neither of you moved.
You could feel his heartbeat against your chest. His breathing was uneven, his hand still curled around your thigh, but the roughness in him had gone quiet.
He kissed your shoulder, then your cheek.
“You okay?” he asked, softer now.
You opened your eyes and found him watching you, warm and serious beneath the mess of his hair.
“Very okay.”
“Good.”
He kissed you once, slow and careful, then eased out of you. He disappeared only long enough to take care of the condom, then came back with tissues, a bottle of water, and one of his shirts.
You sat up, still unsteady, and he helped clean you up without making a big deal of it. Then he slipped the shirt over your head, pulling it down around your thighs.
From downstairs, Logan’s voice carried faintly through the floor.
“Tell her I forgive her!”
You covered your face. “Oh my god.”
Tucker laughed quietly and pulled you into his side.
“Don’t worry,” he said, kissing your hair. “I’ll handle him.”
summary. Nicknames catch on really quick in your group of friends. And for you, you have been dubbed the Mama to Tucker’s Papa.
pairing. John Tucker x Reader
tags. Fluff, Friends being friends, I have no idea if this is ooc or not, but I tried</3
ice time. 2.7k
Usually, you wouldn’t have minded.
Nicknamed are big in your group. Hannah first became Han-Han to you and Allie, and then later on, Wellsy, when Garrett joined the picture. Allie was Als, then Allie-Cat from Dean, and you were called multiple variations of your name by your two best friends before another one clicked.
And this one was Mama.
Sometimes Mom. Most of the time Mother.
And really, it made sense. You more often than not took on the caretaker role. Designated Driver during parties, the friend who prepares tea and hangover soup the next morning. The one that would be at home in the kitchen than anywhere else.
You really wouldn’t have minded.
If it didn’t mean that being Mama was having a Papa to be paired with.
And that Papa, was none other than Tucker, hockey player, anchor to the boys’ group, and resident cook of the house. One of your closest friends after Hannah and Allie, and most of that stemmed from both of you bonding over your very nurturing characteristics.
Dean started the whole thing.
It happened on a normal Friday night. Everyone had chosen to hang out that night, with the idea of movies, dinner and a few drinks. Soft music came from the living room while Hannah and Garrett argued over the movie considering it was their turn to pick that night. The rest were out on a beer run, and dinner fell on you and Tucker, as it usually did.
Tucker stood beside you at the stove while you chopped vegetables.
Neither of you had actually planned on cooking together.
It just sort of... happened. It was Tucker’s turn that night, and when you got tired of waiting in the living room, you got up and headed to the kitchen.
“Hey.” You sat on one of the stools, leaning forward as you watches him prep. Tucker looked up, and smiled. “Hey. You got bored?”
“Yeah. Doomscrolling while Han and Garrett argued over whether to pick a romcom or a horror movie was amusing only for the first ten minutes.”
Tucker snorted. You watched him grab a pan. “Not surprised. So, you decided to head here?”
“I think I’d much rather be here than there at the moment.” You chuckle. Then you eye the vegetables on the table. “What are you preparing?”
“Mac and Cheese. Probably a lot of it. And—” He gestures over to the vegetables. “Something with those. I haven’t decided yet.”
You hum, tilting your head. “Need help?”
His head snaps up to you, brow raising. “You don’t have to. It’s my turn tonight.”
“Yeah, but I want to.” You shrug, sliding off the stool to take the knife from his hand. “Now scoot over, you work on the Mac and cheese and whatever thing you’ll do, I’ll handle the prep.”
Tucker grins, letting out a laugh before moving to the stove. “Yes ma’am.”
Sometime in the middle of it, you settled in a familiar, but also not familiar routine.
You handed him ingredients before he asked for them. He moved aside before you needed the space. You knew exactly where he kept everything, and he knew exactly how much seasoning you liked adding.
At one point, Tucker held out his hand behind him without looking.
You immediately placed the spatula into it.
And Dean happened to walk in at that exact moment, arms full with six packs.
Both your heads snap up, at the sound of someone entering, Tucker’s hand still holding the spatula, and your arm still outstretched in the middle of handing it over.
The silence lasted three seconds, before a shit-eating grin spread on Dean’s face. “Oh my god.”
You and Tucker blinked at him
"What?" Tucker asked.
Dean stared.
Then he puts the six packs down on the counter, and pointed between the two of you again, the grin on his face not at all wavering.
“You guys are literally like— Mom and Dad.”
You make a face. “Dean, what the hell are you—”
“No, like. I mean, I did comment on it to Allie-Cat about how you two seem to have this flow in the kitchen but seeing it happen just solidified the whole thing.”
“You’re being weird, Di Laurentis.” Tuckers laughs, turning his attention back to the sauce, stirring it with the spatula while you work on what you decided to be coleslaw. You nod along, but Dean shakes his head.
“I’m serious. Wait Allie-Cat,” He calls for Allie who pops her head up from the couch she flopped onto the moment they returned from the beer run. “Agree with me here.” Dean gestures to you and Tucker. “Mama y Papa.”
Allie blinks, then grins. “Yeah, I see it.”
Dean looks back at the two of you. “See!” He points at you. “Mama.” Then to Tucker. “Papa.”
“Dean.” You groaned.
“No, no, it works.” Hannah piped in from her place next to Garrett. “I mean, we already call you Mom as a joke. And Tucker is Dad here. It just works.”
“Oh my god.” You sigh, and turn to Tucker, who doesn’t seem like he has a problem with the whole thing, grinning in amusement when he met your gaze.
“So, we’re calling them Mama and Papa now?” Logan interrupts as he heads down from, looking between the kitchen and living room. He eyes you and Tucker, before nodding. “I can roll with it.”
The nickname stuck, and spread in the friend group like a highly contagious disease. And with the nickname came the teasing.
-
“Oh good, Mama brought snacks.” You looked up from unloading grocery bags onto the counter to find Hannah already reaching for the chips.
"Hannah."
"What?" she asked innocently.
"You are twenty-one years old."
"Yeah."
"You can buy your own snacks."
"Why would I do that when Mama always remembers?"
"Han-Han."
"Love you too, Mother."
Across the kitchen while unloading the other grocery bag, Tucker tried not to laugh as loud at the incredulous look on your face.
You kicked his shin.
He ended up laughing anyways.
-
Then there was the movie night incident.
Everyone had crammed themselves onto the couch, fighting over blankets and snacks.
You'd gotten up to grab more popcorn, and when you returned, your spot had disappeared, because Dean just moved slightly to your spot, and you stared at him.
Dean only grinned, patting the spot where he once sat, which is conveniently, next to Tucker.
You glowered. “Dean.”
He grinned wider. “Sit beside Dad, Mom.”
You froze, and you catch Tucker visibly stiffen, his eyes flickering to you, then to Dean.
Dean looked between the two of you.
"What?"
"Dean," you warned.
"What? Married couples sit together."
"We are not married."
"Yet."
Your friends just exchange grins and teases, your face immediately going hot. You glance at Tucker, and ignored the way your stomach flipped slightly when he met your gaze, before burying his face in his hands at another tease.
He groaned into his hands. "You people are unbelievable."
This time, it was your turn to smile in amusement at his reaction.
Things only escalated by the end of the month with the road trip, which was a six-hour drive to a neighboring city for a random weekend getaway.
You had volunteered to drive the car, and Tucker offered to sit at the front and switch with you when you were halfway.
It was reasonable, so you agreed, and when the day came, it was Dean (again) who made a huge deal about it.
"Oh look."
"Dean." Tucker was the first to give Dean a pointed look while you sigh in the driver’s seat.
"The family car."
You eye him. "Dean."
"Mama and Papa taking the kids—"
"DEAN."
Needless to say, by the time you reached the hotel, your patience was hanging by a thread.
Tucker, unfortunately, thought your annoyed face was hilarious.
"You know," he said as the group unloaded bags, "you get this wrinkle right here when you're mad."
You stared.
He poked between your eyebrows, his grin widening when you nearly slapped his hand away.
"You’re testing my patience.” You glowered.
His grin widened, and he nudged you. "I’m just pointing things out.”
“I hate you.”
He shut the trunk door, and grinned. “Nah. You love me.”
Something in your chest tightens. You choose to instead huff and ignore the feeling, turning on your heel just as Logan comes by to grab the other bags.
-
Months passed, and you thought the joke would have died down along with it.
It kind of did. Because the joke stopped being a joke.
People stopped questioning it. Everyone stopped laughing every time, instead treating it like it was normal.
And it did, because at some point, becoming the Mom and Dad of the group became normal.
It became a fact. An accepted thing.
Which somehow made it ten times worse, because somewhere along the way, the joke stopped feeling entirely like a joke.
At least to you.
And judging by the way Tucker sometimes looked at you when he thought you weren't paying attention—
Maybe not to him either.
You didn’t know when you started liking him. When it stopped being just a nickname to you. But you could pinpoint when things really started to change between you and Tucker.
It was another Friday night gathering.
Another Friday night where you find yourself in the kitchen with Tucker. Usually, you’d have the others clean up while you lounge in the living room after making dinner, but after another round of jests that Logan started this time:
“You both are disgustingly domestic. Just get together already.” He points out.
Grace, new to the group but had already caught on and was definitely in on the whole thing, nodded along. “It’s cute. Like you’re married and all.” You didn’t shoot them your usual pointed glares, instead opting to look away, but Logan caught the flush in your cheeks and, like Dean, made a huge scene about it enough to get the attention of the others.
“Oh my god you’re blushing.”
Allie looked at Tucker, and grins. “Tucker’s blushing too!”
“Oh my god this is new.” Dean cackles.
You sent them all out for snack and beer runs so that the house would be quiet from all their jests, but you didn’t think ahead far enough because now you’re alone with Tucker.
The silence between you in the kitchen is usually comfortable. Familiar. Easy.
But tonight, its different. Heavy and awkward, like the all of the teasing finally settled into something more real between you two.
You curse yourself for not thinking ahead, busying your hands with drying a plate. Tucker was putting the dishes away, and it was silent for a long time (a minute), until he finally broke it with by clearing his throat.
“So.”
At the same time, you also decided to break the silence, and looked up to face him. Both of your faces were flushed, embarrassment obvious on either of your faces.
“So.”
You both stare at each other for a brief moment, before you both burst into laughter.
The tension cracked immediately.
When the laughter dies down, Tucker nervously shrugs at you, shifting his weight. “So, like, you don’t mind?”
“Mind what?” You blink at him.
Tucker rubs the back of his neck, and gestures vaguely. “Well. The whole… Mama, Papa thing.”
You stare at him, before letting out a shy laugh. “No. Not really. I don’t mind…”
“You sure?” He eyes you for a moment, and the seriousness in his gaze makes your stomach flip. “I mean, I could always tell them to back off.”
You shake your head. “No.”
“No?” A brow raises.
“No.”
He meets your gaze, and you swallow. “I mean, I don’t mind.” You look down at the dishtowel in your hands, and mumbled quietly, “I think it’s cute.”
The silence that followed was deafening.
When you dared glance up again, Tucker was staring.
Not a hint of amusement or anything close to teasing in his gaze. Then he smiled.
It was soft, and dangerous, and you feel your heart stutter in your chest.
“Yeah?” He hums, his eyes never leaving yours. The intensity makes you want to hide, but instead, you try to cover up the way your heart is pounding by looking away and grumbling, “Don’t make me repeat it.”
His grin widened. "I wasn't gonna."
"Liar."
"Maybe I was."
You rolled your eyes.
He laughed, and you lightly swing the dishtowel at him, earning an offended gasp and a “Hey!” from him. Your grins don’t exactly fade as you went back into the routine of wiping and putting away the dishes again, but something new has settled between you.
Something warm. Something hopeful. A quiet understanding about something that has been brewing there for months.
Dean noticed first. Of course he did. But it was mostly because neither of you were very good at hiding things. Or that neither of you was exactly hiding anything.
Tucker started sitting beside you more often, and you always saved the seat next to you.
He'd bring you coffee, meeting your outside your classes to walk you to your next one.
Sometimes, you'd drop by to bring him food.
You'd steal his hoodies. He'd let you.
Dean pointed it out to Allie. Allie told him to let it happen.
That wouldn’t stop him from commenting on it when he recognized the hoodie you were wearing after Hockey practice and you tagged along with Hannah and Allie.
"You guys are disgusting."
"Don’t be such a hypocrite, Dean." You poke at him. He scoffs, but doesn’t deny it. I mean why would he deny it, when Allie herself is wearing his hoodie?
You grin, "Exactly."
The funny thing is that neither of you were explicitly going out. No confession, no formal talk. It was just an understanding that settled after that one night, though you did think about actually doing the whole confession thing.
But it seemed like Tucker thought the same thing.
Because just a few days later, sometime around the early afternoon. It was just you and Tucker. A simple invitation to hang out, making lunch and all that.
You were helping Tucker clean up. Again.
Because apparently that was your thing. He was drying dishes. You were washing them.
Routine. Something normal. Comfortable.
"You know," Tucker suddenly said.
"Hm?"
"I think Dean might actually pass out if we started dating."
You nearly dropped a plate, glancing at him with squinted eyes.
"Tucker."
"What?"
"Tucker."
His laugh was warm.
You shook your head, but despite yourself, you smiled. “He would. Definitely.”
The room went quiet.
You glanced over.
Tucker was already looking at you.
The smile slowly faded from his face. Not like in a bad way, just in a manner that was softer. Serious.
Your breath hitches. “Tucker…”
He steps closer, “I’m not saying this because of the whole nickname thing.” He murmurs. “I’m saying this because I like you, and I'd really like to date you. If you'd let me.”
The plate nearly slipped from your hands, but he catches it, setting it down in the sink. His gaze doesn't stray from yours, and you can feel your face heat up. "Tuck."
"Yeah?"
Your heart felt like it was trying to escape your chest.
"You have really terrible timing."
His grin returned.
"You saying no?"
You stared, then tilted your head back and laughed. A beat, and you shake your head with a chuckle, "No."
His expression softened immediately.
"No?"
"No."
The smile that spread across his face was blinding.
“This confirmation that I get to call you my girlfriend now?” You grin.
“Yeah.” And when he leans in, you tilt your head up in response. It's gentle. Careful, and you’re both smiling into it, and just as you pull away, you couldn't help thinking that maybe Dean had been onto something all along.
The next day, you walked into the hockey house holding Tucker's hand.
The silence lasted long enough for everyone's gaze to flicker from your joined hands, then back to you.
“Are you guys actually…” Hannah tentatively asks, pointing from you to Tucker.
You nod. He just smiles, simply squeezing your hand tighter, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
"Mama and Papa finally got together," Dean announced dramatically.
You just laugh, finding a seat on the couch. Tucker instead pulls you onto his lap, smiling widely, and for the first time since the nickname started—
Pairing: garrett graham x childhood best friend!reader
Summary: when the granddaughter of the former head coach of the New York Rangers transfers to BriarU, people don’t expect you to be so attached to captain of the Briar Hawks hockey team, garrett graham. what everyone didn’t know was that you are his childhood best friend. don't forget the guys who welcomed you with unconditional support and became family like you’ve never expected.
Warnings: childhood best friends to lovers trope. (they act like they’re married and have been together for 30 years) one-bed trope. no mention of y/n, pet names are used to refer to the reader: petal and angel. found family to the absolute max, along with dean being a menace. wholesome love all around. reader is given princess treatment.
a/n: worked my butt off for this one, and i hope you all love it as much as i do. i'm such a sucker for the found family trope. also a little family healing for garrett, and did i mention that garrett is completely gone for the reader? (let me know what you think!)
Word count: 13.1k
masterlist
“Did you guys hear about the granddaughter of the former New York Rangers coach transferring here from Columbia?” Logan asked Dean and Tucker from the kitchen. “We’re out of beer.”
Just as he made the statement, Garrett walked through the front door holding a case of beer: “I come bearing gifts.”
“Our saviour,” Logan jokingly praised as he opened his welcoming arms for Garrett to hand the case over to him.
“Logan, is she hot?” Dean chirped from the couch.
“What girl caught your eye?” Garrett teased, walking over to the pantry in search of a snack.
“Not yet. I was asking the boys if they heard about the new transfer from Columbia. Apparently, she’s the granddaughter of the former Rangers coach,” Logan explained.
His words had Garrett pause his rummaging and slowly turn around to face Logan. “Where’d you hear that from?” Garrett’s voice came out more snippy than he had meant.
“A couple of the guys in the locker room mentioned it today at morning practice,” Logan shrugged, not noticing Garrett’s shift in mood.
Garrett’s breath hitched at the mere thought of guys he knew talking about you.
The girl he grew up with. Of course, he knew you.
He couldn’t even remember the number of times you two would go off and explore an arena wherever the Rangers were playing. Even when someone would catch the pair of you somewhere you probably shouldn’t have been, no one could ever say anything against the pout that you would pull out when you were kids. It helped that you were the Rangers’ head coach’s granddaughter.
Your families have been connected since before both of you were born. His father met yours when he first made the team at 18. Your father was 20 and determined to prove that he deserved to be on the team, not just because his father was the coach. Both felt like they had something to prove and became a fierce pair on the ice.
Your mothers bonded quickly when they were first introduced. It wasn’t easy with husbands who were always in the limelight.
They marveled when they found out they were pregnant around the same time. Garrett was born exactly one month before you. Which was something you never heard the end of during your childhood. He would always claim that it was his job to make sure you were safe.
They would always gush when you two were together as children. Garrett was always trailing behind or beside you like a protector, and he was always the first one to help you up when you stumbled over your feet. Sometimes, it felt like he knew you better than he knew himself.
Garrett remembered all the family vacations that you guys shared. The way that his father would put on an act and pretend that they were this picture-perfect family, but you didn’t buy it.
You’ve hated Phil Graham from the moment you overheard an argument between Garrett’s parents when you were 8 years old. You were staying over for a couple of days as your parents were away traveling. Garrett had begged you to ask your parents if you could just stay with his family instead of staying with your grandparents.
It didn’t take much convincing for your parents to let you stay with the Graham family. Granted, they didn’t know what happened behind closed doors.
A memory flashed in Garrett’s mind of the first Halloween without his mom and the first time his father laid hands on him.
“Gare, you don’t have to be brave with me.” You were inspecting his bloodied knuckles. The first aid kit sat next to you on the bed. “This is going to burn a bit.”
“Petal, just do it already.” he tried to squirm away, but you kept a firm grip of his hand in your lap.
Garrett redirected his focus from the pain to you. He watched as you took care of his hand, making sure it was clean before putting ointment over the split knuckles and wrapping it with such care. He looked at you like you were the only thing that brought light to his life.
“Okay, all done,” you muttered quietly while you started putting all the stuff from the kit away. You walked over to his closet to put it back in the corner where you first stashed it when you saw bruises on his mother’s wrists years ago.
“I hate him.”
“I know you do.”
“He’s a monster. He’s cruel. He never treated my mom right, even before she got sick. He’s always been so mean,” Garrett sniffled. He looked down at his wrapped hand and clenched his other fist tightly. “I never want to be like him.”
His words caught your attention, and you sat back over to him. You took his hands in yours and brought them close to your heart. “You, Garrett, are nothing like your father. You are nothing but kind and caring. You always look out for me even when you don’t need to. You are so special, and I never want you to think otherwise.” You told him with fierce invigoration.
Even at 12 years old, Garrett knew then that he would never love someone as much as he loved you at that moment.
“G? You all good there?” Logan snapped his fingers in front of Garrett’s face, hoping to pull him out of his daze.
Garrett shook his head slightly as if to clear the thoughts that scrambled through his mind about you. “Sorry, what’d you say?” His eyes flickered over to Logan, but he still seemed distracted.
“I was telling you about that girl. I heard from a couple of the guys that it hasn’t even been confirmed that she’s transferred officially.” Logan explained to him.
Garrett let out a breath that he didn’t know he was holding. That news made him feel better that it was just rumors. His chest felt tight at the thought that you wouldn’t share such big information with him. Especially considering he last talked to you a week ago, and you didn’t mention anything about the possibility of transferring to Briar U.
“Hey, G? Do you know her? With your dad being a former Ranger,” Tucker speculated, making his way over to the kitchen to grab a beer. “Maybe a connection?”
Dean joined the rest of the group. “If you do, can you put in a good word for me?”
“Not a chance,” Garrett snorted. “I’m leaving this conversation.” He started to walk away from the boys and headed for the stairs.
“G? You didn’t answer the question!” Garrett heard Tucker yell out from the kitchen. Ignoring him, Garrett made quick work of taking out his phone and pulling up your contact.
His thumb hovered above the call button until he got to his room and closed the door behind him.
“Hey, bub! What’s up?” you answered. Just from hearing your voice, Garrett’s body relaxed. He felt the tension that he held in his shoulders melting away while listening to you. “I actually have some news for you!”
Garrett shook his head. He flopped back against his bed, softly laughing to himself, “Just wanted to talk to you.”
“Love, we just talked last week. Did something happen?” The concern in your voice was obvious. “You know you can call me anytime, right? No matter what.”
“I know, Petal.” A warm smile crept onto Garrett’s face. “Is it a crime to just want to hear your voice?”
“You’re such a sap.” Your laugh came through the phone, and Garrett almost forgot the reason why he called you.
“You said you had something to share with me?” Garrett turned the conversation back to you.
“You know how I’ve been telling you I want a change of pace? I feel stuck here, and I love my family, but I need some space to breathe without someone asking me for Rangers tickets or if I’ve ever wanted to hook up with any of them,” you rambled, beating around the bush of the actual news. “I just want to feel like I’m on my own for once. Wow, I sound entitled. I am so sorry for that–”
“Don’t apologize. I’m always here to listen to you.” Garrett cut you off, knowing that if he didn’t, you would continue apologizing for something you never had to be sorry for. “And I get it. Trust me, I do.”
“I miss you, Garrett.” You admitted it so softly that he almost missed it.
“I miss you, Petal.”
“You’ll be sick of me when I transfer to Briar U.” You snuck the surprise in. “I’m serious, you’re never going to get a moment alone again.”
The moment he comprehended what you said, he couldn’t stop his smile from widening. “Petal, don’t play with my heart like that if you’re not serious.”
“Garrett Graham, did you hear what I just said? I am serious.” You mockingly defended your words. “Love, I mean this. I already submitted the paperwork. I’m waiting on my credits to transfer over, so I can get my new schedule.”
“When will you be here?” The urgency in Garrett’s voice and the question got a giggle out of you.
“Maybe a week or two. I’m still trying to solidify my official housing situation. They offered me a suite on campus, but I’m considering looking for a place off campus,” you explained the small conundrum. “Gramps said he would pitch in if I find a place because he says that he knows the ‘kind of boys that could live on the same floor’ as me. Which is verbatim to what he said, by the way,” you laughed to yourself, thinking back to the conversation with your grandfather.
“I one hundred percent agree with Gramps. Don’t even worry about finding a place. Just stay with me, Petal,” Garrett offered without a single thought or hesitation. “I’d know you’re safe. Gramps would feel better knowing that you’ve got four giant hockey players to protect you. Your dad might not be the biggest fan of it cause he hasn’t met the other guys, but he’ll trust me with you.” Garrett was reasoning with you.
“Love, I couldn’t intrude on you or the rest of your housemates. This is a big thing, and I’m a big girl. I can figure this out…” You trailed off. You had to admit to yourself that what Garrett offered sounded nice. From your search, most places close to campus were already filled since it was midway through a semester. You saw a few that caught your eye, but the drive was 25 minutes away from campus.
“Petal, this isn’t up for discussion.”
“Yes, it is. Especially considering I’m almost positive that when you were moving in, you told me that there were only four rooms.”
“I’ve got the master bedroom, Petal. It’s plenty of room for you and me. There’s an ensuite bathroom. Honestly, it’d just be how it was when we were little and used to go on vacation,” Garrett countered you. “Baby, please just stay with me.”
The softness of his voice almost made you cave at the spot. “You have to ask your housemates.”
“Done. They won’t have a problem with it.”
“You ask them now, Garrett. Go downstairs and throw the idea out there for them. Keep me on call, so I can hear their reactions,” you instructed him.
“Yes, Ma’am.” Garrett shot out of bed and headed for the door. “Boys! I got a question for you!” Garrett yelled out to them, hoping they could hear him over the TV blasting the sounds from their video game.
“Bub, that was straight in my ear,” you pointed out, reminding him you were still right next to the speaker.
“Oh shit, sorry, Petal,” Garrett muttered as he hurried down the stairs.
Dean was the only one to catch what Garrett had said. He pointed it out to Logan. “Petal?”
Logan looked up from the screen. He twisted his head to glance at Garrett. “What’s up, G?”
“Who are you talking to?” Dean quipped at the same time as Logan.
The exchange took Tucker out of the game and left him watching the people around him. He muted the TV, leaving the house quiet.
Garrett’s posture gave away his nervousness about finally bringing you up to them. He never purposely tried to avoid any topics that could relate to you, but that also meant he chose to never bring it up. He got enough questioning about his ‘legendary’ dad and what it must have been like to grow up in that environment. That’s all anyone ever cared about anyway.
“The granddaughter you were asking about?” Garrett answered, hoping his tone was enough to signal to them to be cool about it.
“What do you mean ‘the granddaughter,’ G?” Logan questioned. His eyes widened by the moment.
“How do you guys feel about getting another roommate?” Garrett blurted out. He never thought it would be nerve-wracking to mention you to the guys. He felt like he had to share a part of you that he only ever wanted to keep to himself.
“We only have four bedrooms,” Dean pointed out the obvious.
Tucker gave him an up slap against the back of his head, “He knows that, dingus.”
Garrett ran a hand through his hair as he scanned the guys for their reactions. “What’d they say, Bub?” You weren’t even on speakerphone, but it was loud enough in the silent house that the others could hear you clearly.
“You’ve known who I was talking about this whole time? You just pretended to be stupid or something?” Logan's thoughts gathered quickly to make the connections. “Let me sound like some idiot going on about it.”
“Yeah. She’s transferring from Columbia.” Garrett swept over Logan’s realization.
“G, I don’t know any girl that would want four guys as their roommates,” Tucker claimed, because it seemed laughable that a girl would ever want to live with guys who eat, breathe, sleep hockey.
“She’ll be fine. I’m not asking you to give up any of your rooms. Mine will be fine. I don’t want her to be in the dorms. You know how the guys over there are. I’d feel better knowing she’d be close,” Garrett explained with a rare softness in him that no one ever really heard other than you.
“She’d be more than close,” Dean muttered under his breath. Logan nudged him in the side with his elbow.
“Are you sure she even wants to move in?” Logan asked him honestly.
“Gare, put me on speaker, please?” You requested politely. Garrett abided and shoved the phone more in the guys’ direction. “Can they hear me?”
“Yes, Ma’am.” All three of the guys affirmed for her.
“Unbelievable.” Garrett guffawed at the three in front of him.
“Garrett’s just being overdramatic about this. I don’t want to force myself into your guys’ space–”
“Petal.” Garrett cut you off with a tone that didn’t leave room for much argument.
“Love, you can’t just ask them something like that and expect them to be completely okay with it.”
“Petal, I will call Gramps. Please don’t make this more complicated.”
“Garrett Graham! Don’t you dare!” You yelped on the phone.
Garrett’s mind was only focused on the sound of your voice, as if the rest of the world melted away from him. Logan, Tucker, and Dean all raised eyebrows at each other because of the pair of you. They had never heard Garrett be like that with a girl. Hell, they never saw him interact with many girls unless it was for a night, and they were always quick to leave.
“Petal, all you have to do is say yes.” Garrett implored.
“Would you guys be okay with it? If not, I’ll work something else out, don’t worry about me.” You asked them, uncertain about Garrett’s plea.
“If you’re important to Garrett, you’re important to us. You’re welcome here anytime,” Tucker answered for the three.
Dean raised a finger in the air to signal he was about to chime in. “Get ready for some serious game nights,” he joked.
Logan added, “What’s your drink of choice?”
“A cosmo,” you answered simply, with humor lacing your voice.
“Bullshit, it’s always a strawberry mojito,” Garrett called out to counter.
“Besides the point,” you brushed off.
“Honey, we have to go attend the fundraiser.” Your dad’s call from the hallway broke you away from the conversation. He knocked against your door softly.
“Come in,” you told him.
“You talking to someone, Sweetie?” He said from the door.
“Just Gare, Dad,” you announced to him as he started to enter your room.
“Hey, son! I saw a clip from your last game, and you’re looking real good out there. With this one transferring over, I’m going to have to attend some games in person finally,” your dad happily spoke to Garrett. Who had made his way to the kitchen and placed his phone on the counter while he searched for a drink.
The other three scrambled from the couch to the counter to continue to listen to the phone call. All of them actively started to slowly get more and more geeked out at the mere presence of your dad’s voice.
“Hey, Pop! Thanks, it’s been quite a season out there, but our next home game is in two weeks. Will you be in town?”
“Yeah, I’ll get the lot to come out since it’ll be Petal’s first home game because she originally chose a school with no hockey!” Your dad bellowed out in a laugh. “We have to cheer for you while we can.”
“Gramps, still mad at me for Boston?” Garrett queried.
“Like Gramps could say mad at you, Bub,” you snorted.
Logan, Dean, and Tucker were in utter disbelief at what they were witnessing. They had never seen Garrett at peace and content, talking to people on the phone. He was never like this when he was on the phone with his dad.
They started to question the relationship that Garrett had with you and, presumably, the rest of your family. It was evident that he was close with your family, but it seemed deeper than that. A casualness that only came around when you were talking to family, but they assumed he was somehow also romantically linked to you. Maybe it was both, but the scene in front of them was creating bounds of confusion.
“He’ll get over it once he sees you on ice,” your dad assured him. “Anyways, Garrett. Petal and I have to seriously head out now before the Missus has both of our heads.”
“It was good talking to you, Pop.”
“Bye, bub. I’ll let you know when I get back later. I love you!”
“I love you too, Petal.” Garrett grinned to himself, and the boys officially thought they had lost the Garrett Graham that they knew. The call ended, and Garrett turned back to the boys. “You shitheads are actually okay with this, right?”
And just like that, Garrett Graham was back the way they knew him to be. “G, what the hell was that?” Logan was baffled.
“The former Rangers’ head coach is going to attend our next game,” Dean said in a daze.
“You gotta tell us what’s going on, man,” Tucker said, exasperated by no explanation.
It was clear that Garrett didn’t even know where to start. His mouth opened and closed exactly three times before he even let anything out. “What do you guys want to know?” He thought it was a great question to gauge where the guys’ heads were at.
“Don’t tell me you’ve been with her this whole time, and you’re still with bunnies,” Logan chastised him. “That’s not cool, man.”
“No. No, we’re not dating,” Garrett responded, putting his hands up to somehow show his innocence. “We grew up together.”
“No way there’s nothing there, G,” Tucker protested.
“So you wouldn’t mind?” Dean gave Garrett a look that explained what he had meant.
“Dean, you’re not getting with her. Don’t even think about trying anything,” Garrett warned.
“Oh, you’re in love with her.” Logan snapped his fingers at Garrett.
“Dude, I thought we already knew that,” Tucker said to Logan.
“Wait, how is it going to work with her moving in here? This is not exactly a five-star hotel.” Dean gestured to the slight mess around them. While it was cluttered, the house wasn’t too bad at its current state. It looked lived in. “I mean, if you’re not dating her, but she’s going to share your room with you. I’m just trying to understand this, man. Because that means no more bunnies for you like ever.”
“There’s not going to be another bunny,” Garrett said as if it were the most simple thing.
“He’s a changed man, Dean,” Tucker whooped as he made his way over to Garrett and gave him a good slap on the shoulder. “G, this girl means a lot to you, and if you want her to live here. We’re seriously cool about it.”
“Thanks, Tuck.”
After much discussion, your family thought it was best if you had a week to settle in. Since you weren’t moving into your own place, you didn’t need to bring much other than clothes and necessities. You and Garrett had talked about what he had and what you still needed to buy, but agreed that you could just go shopping together rather than getting anything beforehand. Everything you needed to bring was able to fit in your G-Wagon.
While you didn’t officially start until next Monday, you were finally at Briar to pick up your schedule and really take in the new campus without the rush of trying to figure out where your classes were.
It was Friday, and students were still scattered around campus for those who still had classes. You were walking around aimlessly, trying to find a cafe that Garrett recommended that you might like.
Meanwhile, the guys were finishing grabbing lunch on campus after their practice. They headed out of the dining hall together. Garrett was looking down at his phone as he checked your location, knowing you would be at Briar already.
Garrett cocked his head to the side because, according to the phone, you were in his vicinity. “Holy shit, look at her. She’s like an angel,” Dean guffawed as he stopped the guys in their tracks.
“She’s beautiful,” Logan commented.
“Out of your league, dude,” Tucker added on.
Garrett tilted his head back up to see what Dean was going on about. There you were, about 20 feet away. He had half a mind to tell Dean off, but he agreed with him.
You hadn’t noticed the group staring at you. They watched as you pulled your phone out as if you were making a call. You held the phone to your ear while still looking around, but not fully catching the four boys.
Garrett’s phone rang in his hand, the other three’s heads snapped to look at his phone. He accepted the call. “Hey, Petal.”
“Bub, I think I’m lost,” you told him.
“You look so cute, though. Like a lost little duck,” he continued to admire you from afar.
He watched the realization dawn on your face after his words. You scanned your surroundings and finally saw them. Your face lit up at the sight of Garrett. He did just the same when he saw you start to head in his direction. You hung up the call and slid your phone back into your purse. Garrett slid his to his pocket to free up his hands.
The three guys stayed back as Garrett walked to meet you. They watched as your grin spread across your face. It was so bright that it could make anyone melt if they knew it was directed at them.
The sight of you starting to jog towards Garrett in pure joy was something to behold. You met each other halfway and practically crashed into one another. His arms wrapped around your waist automatically. Your arms locked around his neck. Neither of you was particularly interested in letting go.
“You’re actually here,” Garrett mumbled into your hair. His grip tightened even as he pulled back to look at your face. His eyes crinkled at the corners from the way he was smiling in genuine delight. “I’m never letting you go anywhere without me again,” he chuckled as he picked you off your feet and spun you around.
Your laugh was blissful. Students flowed around you both while they pointed out Garrett and the ‘mystery girl’ he was with. But in the moment between you and Garrett, all of them were forgotten, like the rest of the world.
“Gare, let me down!” you yelped, laughing. Garrett missed that laugh. More than he’d realized.
Garrett set you back down, but you stayed in his arms. You reached up to fix a piece of hair that had fallen across his forehead. Without any hesitation. Without any thought. Like you had done it a thousand times before. Garrett didn’t even react. He was fully occupied by admiring you.
Back to the Dean, Logan, and Tucker. The three guys nearly choked when they saw that. “I thought he said they aren’t dating?” Dean pointed to you two. “She fixed his hair.”
“I was not expecting them to run into each other’s arms,” Logan quipped.
“What is happening?” Dean was utterly confused by the scene in front of him.
“I don’t know.” Logan shook his head.
“I’ve never seen him smile that much.”
“Neither have I, Dean.”
“They have to be dating,” Dean declared.
“If they’re not now, I hate to see them when they are,” Tucker cackled, clapping his hands together. “C’mon, let’s introduce ourselves to our new roommate.”
You tore your eyes away from Garrett’s and glanced over to where the guys were. “Your friends?”
Garrett turned back and saw them walking toward you two. He sighed, “Unfortunately.” He watched as Dean cheesed and happily waved to you. “Oh, my God.” Dean was mortifyingly enthusiastic.
You broke an arm away to wave back. “Are they on something?”
“Worse.”
“Perfect.”
You dropped your arms down and attempted to pull away from Garrett to get ready to greet them. Which Garrett’s response was laughable. Instead, he moved to stand behind you and keep his arms around you. The guys caught how Garrett’s stare stayed on the side of your face. The kind of smile plastered on his face was something his friends had never seen before. It was warm. He looked hopelessly gone.
“Let me guess, the one leading the pack is Tucker, Dean is obviously the blond, which leaves Logan, who has that brooding brunette look to him.” You humored him.
“The second they get over here and meet you. They’re never going to leave us alone,” Garrett said, exasperated. You laughed and moved one hand to lightly grip his forearm while you waited for the three to make their way over.
“Can’t believe he waited a week before she transferred to tell us that he knows her,” You heard Dean tell the guys.
“Hey, you guys! Garrett, you remember we exist, right?” Logan greeted, joking.
Dean was the first one to offer you a hand. You moved your hand from Garrett’s arm and shook Dean’s waiting hand. “Hi, Angel.”
“Angel?” you whispered to Garrett in question as you pulled away from the handshake.
Garrett just scoffed, but luckily Dean was there to explain, “You look like an Angel, unless I can call you Petal?”
“You’re pushing it,” Garrett warned. Dean smirked and raised his hands to motion to back off.
“Okay, but Angel, if things don’t work out with him, let me know. I’ll only be a few doors away.” Dean winked at you playfully, signalling he was really only saying it to mess with Garrett.
Garrett looked about a second away from committing a felony. You felt his arms tighten around you and pull you to press against him. Logan noticed and burst out laughing. You nearly choked. “You’re a fun one, Dean.”
“Call me Six Flags,” Dean nodded at you.
“I hate you,” Garrett told him.
“No, you don’t, Graham.” Dean smiled.
“Don’t mind him,” Tucker pushed Dean out of the way. “I’m Tucker, well, John, but Logan is also John,” Tucker introduced himself. He opened his arms slightly, and you tapped on Garrett’s arms to let you go. You giggled and accepted the hug. “We cleaned the house for you, Ma’am,” he whispered as you guys parted.
“Oh, how very kind of you all,” you told him.
Logan watched with a grin on his face that reflected genuine. Like he’d decided within the past few minutes that you belonged with them. “We’ve heard nothing but your name for the past week, and honestly, I’m just happy you’re here.”
Your expression softened. “That’s really sweet. And seriously, thanks for being so cool about this. I really appreciate you guys.”
“Any time, Angel,” Logan replied. Dean snorted at the use of the name.
“Not you too, Logan.” Garrett rubbed at his temples. He reached an arm out to you, and you naturally wrapped your arms around him. “Do you have everything with you already?”
“Yeah, my car is packed to the brim right now,” you answered. “Are you guys done for the day?”
“We cleared the schedule, so we can help the Missus move in,” Dean claimed.
“Perfect! Would any of you mind if you drove my car to the house?” You reached into your purse to grab your keys and dangled them in front of the guys. Dean nodded and opened the palm of his hand. “Thank you, kind sir,” you teased, dropping the keys into his waiting hand. “I parked it in the lot near admissions! It won’t be hard to miss.”
Dean finger-saluted you. “I’ll see you all at home?”
“Yeah, we’ll meet you back there.” Tucker motioned to himself and Logan before breaking away from the group with Dean.
“See you in a bit,” Garrett responded, waving goodbye to the three.
When Garrett pulled up to the house, it was bigger than you expected, but at the same time, it made complete sense for the four hockey players.
Well.
Four college hockey players, and apparently you know.
Even after Garrett had parked the car, you knew better than to try to just get out yourself. You waited patiently while Garrett rushed over to your side to open the passenger door and offer a hand to you.
With your hand laced with his, you guys made your way to the porch. The front door swung open. Dean stepped outside, twirling your car keys around one finger. “Your car is officially here.”
“My hero,” you pretended to gush. “Thanks, Dean.”
“No problem, Angel.”
Dean tossed the keys in your direction, but Garrett intercepted and caught them. He kept hold of them and pointed them to pop open the trunk. The movement was so familiar that neither of you really reacted. Unfortunately, Dean did, and so did Logan and Tucker, who were right behind him.
Immediately. They exchanged a look. You pretended not to notice. Garrett definitely noticed.
“Alright,” Garrett announced. “Let’s move this circus inside.”
You all turned to look at your car and the full trunk. Silence. You cleared your thoughts. “What?”
Logan pointed to the mountain of boxes. “You know you’re sharing a space with G, right?”
“We’ll make it work.” You shrugged.
Tucker went to pick up one of the boxes, and he immediately regretted it. “What is in this?”
“Just books.”
“All of them?”
You nodded proudly, “I like reading.”
“Nobody likes reading that much,” Dean retorted.
You pulled your hand away from Garrett to snatch the box away from Tucker. “Give me my children.”
Garrett laughed, and the sound made you smile before you could stop yourself. “Come on,” he said, taking the box from your arms before you could protest.
“Hey!”
“No, Petal.”
“I can carry it,” you defended.
“I know.” He said, heading into the house.
Instead of arguing, you sighed, picked up another box, and followed him inside. Dean, Logan, and Tucker were standing still, which, in passing, you told them, “I thought you guys were going to help?”
“Yes, Ma’am.” The three all got a box of their own to carry in.
The inside of the house was exactly what you expected. A little chaotic, but you could tell that they made an effort to tidy up the house for your arrival. It was comfortable. The kitchen looked surprisingly clean.
“I’m a mean cook, Angel. Just you wait,” Tucker boasted before going up the stairs to drop off the box in Garrett’s room. Well, now your shared room.
Any nerves that you had about transferring to Briar and moving in with the guys disappeared. This didn’t feel like walking into a house of strangers. It felt like walking into a place you’ve somehow already been a hundred times.
Maybe because Garrett was here, or that his friends welcomed you without hesitation. Everyone kept making room for you without even realizing they were doing it.
By the time the second trip down to the car was made, you were already helping Dean and Logan make fun of Garrett’s habit of neatly folding laundry.
By the third trip, Tucker is asking you what your favorite meal is, so he can try to make it. Then Logan explained the house’s completely unnecessary ranking system for takeout restaurants, and somehow you’re laughing through all of it.
Dean placed the final box onto the floor. “Important question.”
“Which is?” you asked back while looking through a box full of shoes in dust bags.
“You’re completely okay with just moving into his room,” Dean gestured around Garrett’s master bedroom.
“He offered,” you shrugged, “And it’s not like we haven’t shared rooms before. Growing up on summer vacations, our parents always figured that we would sneak into each other’s rooms anyway, so they just started putting us together by the time we were seven.”
“That clarification should’ve come when we first called last week,” Logan said.
“I hate living here.” Garrett rubbed a hand over his face.
“No, you don’t, G,” Tucker mumbled.
By midnight, only a few boxes were left to unpack, and you guys gathered in the living room for some late-night pizza. The kitchen light was off, the room was illuminated by the TV, and six pizza boxes had taken over the coffee table.
Dean was on his fifth slice and in full interrogation mode. “Okay,” he said, pointing at you and Garrett. “We have questions,” he said, pointing to Logan, Tucker, and himself.
“Yup, we all do,” Logan added, leaning back against the couch.
Tucker nodded. “Especially because he’s acted weird for an entire week.”
“I haven’t acted weird,” Garrett tried to pass off. All three of the roommates stared at him.
You laughed into your drink. Garrett looked betrayed.
Dean pointed dramatically, “First question: how long have you two known each other?”
You and Garrett answered at the same time, “Since birth.”
No response.
“Literally?” Logan blinked. “He neglected to mention that he had a childhood best friend.”
“Literally,” you repeated. “Our moms were best friends before we were born.”
“How?” Dean gaped.
“Buddy, I think you all know who our dads are.” You gently parented him.
“And your grandfather?” Logan asked.
“Former head Rangers coach, as you guys know. Only stepped down after my dad retired from hockey,” you told him while reaching for another slice. Before you had to get up from your place next to Garrett, Tucker plopped another slice on your place. “Thanks, Tuck.”
“Who’s older?” Dean went.
You rolled your eyes at the question, knowing what was coming.
“Me,” Garrett claimed proudly.
“By one month,” you scoffed. “You guys would never believe how many times he pulled that out in an argument.”
“I’m older,” Garrett dismissed.
“By thirty-one days.” You deadpanned.
“Still older.”
“You brought it up constantly.”
“Because it’s true.”
Logan looked delighted. “This explains so much.”
“What does it explain?” Garrett questioned.
“Why you two act like a married couple.” Logan’s words had you choking on your drink. Garrett nearly did the same, but he was quick to rub your back in soothing motions. The action really didn’t help your case. Dean howled in laughter after catching it. Logan and Tucker snickered to themselves.
After calming down, Dean moved on to his next question. “How have we never heard of you before?”
The room went a little quieter. Garrett mumbled, “You guys know I don’t really talk about home.”
No one pushed. They all knew that much.
The boys knew Garrett didn’t like interacting with his dad and that his mom had passed away when he was younger. What they didn’t know was that you had been there through it all.
You nudged his knee with yours, and he glanced at you briefly. Just for a moment, but his shoulders loosened a little.
“There was never a reason to bring me up. I was away in New York, and god knows that Columbia kept me busy enough to have any downtime,” you explained. “And you guys were always away when I would visit during the summer.”
“Wait, a damn minute.” Dean paused mid-bite.
“What’d you just say?” Logan was taken aback.
“What do you mean by that?” Tucker probed.
Garrett shook his head and poked you in the side. “They didn’t know that, Petal.”
“Well, now they do.” You finished the last bit of your slice and put your plate on the coffee table. You leaned back against the couch and tucked your feet under you. Garrett lifted his arm, and you scooted closer to his side.
His arm came behind your waist, and his hand landed on your hip. He tugged you to be snug against his side.
“Now, a serious question,” Dean remarked, even though he felt like he was interrupting something.
“Dangerous start.” Your laugh was airy, with tiredness starting to dawn on you.
“Who said ‘I love you’ first?”
“Straight for the kill,” Logan snorted.
“Oh god,” Tucker mumbled into his drink.
“So help me, god.” You heard Garrett mutter under his breath. You turned your head to look at Garrett and found him already facing you. “We’re not answering that,” Garrett scoffed.
“There was a first time!” Dean gasped.
“Everyone has a first time,” Garrett attempted to brush him off, but he replied too quickly to seem casual.
“That is not helping your case, G.” Logan chuckled.
Dean sat back, feeling victorious. “I knew it.”
“Knew what?” you asked.
“That whatever this is–” Dean gestured between you and Garrett, “–has been happening for years.”
Garrett groaned.
Tucker nodded thoughtfully. “Honestly, I’m just glad you finally showed up. He’s been unbearable this week.”
“I have not.”
You laughed again, and before you could think about stopping yourself, you leaned your head against Garrett’s shoulder.
Like it was the most natural thing in the world. Because it was, and Garrett didn’t even hesitate before leaning back.
Dean, Logan, and Tucker exchanged identical looks like before. None of them said a word. They didn’t need to. The answer to every question was sitting right there on the couch for them to see.
The next morning, you woke up to Dean banging against the bedroom door. The morning sunlight filtered through the blinds. You turned slightly and felt your cheek brushing against Garrett’s bare skin. The bed was a sight of tangled limbs and Garrett’s head tucked into the crook of your neck.
The persistent knocking caused him to shift in his sleep, an arm instinctively tightening around you.
“Gare, I cannot breathe.” You attempted to pull yourself away from his grasp.
“Baby, it’s too early,” Garrett murmured in your ear, not aware of the knocking yet.
“Guys, wake up, we want to go to breakfast!” Dean yelled from the other side of the door.
“Dean, just come in,” you permitted him.
The door creaked softly, and Dean entered the room with a hand covering his eyes. “Angel, are you guys decent?”
“You wish I wasn’t.” You chucked a pillow at him, which he annoyingly caught.
“What the hell are you doing in here?” Garrett grumbled, realizing Dean was in the room.
“The guys and I want to get breakfast at Malone’s, and Angel hasn’t been yet, so it’s perfect.” Dean begun. “We’re leaving in 30 minutes.”
“That sounds great. We’ll be ready,” you told him.
“Okay, okay, now get out,” Garrett shooed Dean away.
“Angel, you see what we’ve had to deal with?”
“Try dealing with him for your entire life,” you countered.
“You’re a strong woman.”
“The best. Now, seriously, man, out.” Garrett pointed an arm to the door.
“Fine, but you guys better be downstairs soon!” Dean said as he shuffled out of the room, shutting the door behind him.
“Finally,” Garrett mumbled, tucking his head back into your neck.
“Bub, we have to get up.” You ran a hand through his hair. You felt him smile against your skin. “Come on, let me up,” your hand continuing to play with the hair at the nape of his neck.
“Baby, I haven’t woken up with you in my arms for months. You’re breaking my heart here.” Garrett expressed, trying to be serious, but the whisper of a smile played at the edges of his lips.
“You are being dramatic.”
“You love me.”
“Unfortunately.”
“Fortunate for me.” He pressed a kiss against your forehead and finally loosened his grasp around you.
You rose from the bed and stretched. You looked out the window. “This is nice.”
“Yeah,” Garrett replied. You turned back to face him.
You found him already staring at you.
The drive to Malone’s was chatterful. Your car was chosen, but the designated driver was Garrett. You were seated in the passenger seat, holding Garrett’s hand in your lap. The backseat arrangement was laughable. Dean, Tucker, and Logan, in that order, were squeezed into your back seats, which you always felt like were spacious when driving with your friends. But with three hockey players in place, they were like a tin of sardines.
When Garrett finally parked, Logan was the first out of the car and almost tripped over his own legs, with Tucker trying to push him to get out faster.
Logan beat Garrett to opening your door. “Angel,” he said, a smirk pinching at his cheeks while he offered his hand to you.
“You’re doing this on purpose.” You stifled a laugh as you peeked at Garrett, who was five steps short of your door.
“Let me have this one?” Logan whispered. You took his hand and got out of the car. Rather than letting go of your hand, he wrapped your arms together and guided you to the entrance of Malone’s. “You are going to love this place, Angel.”
“Petal.”
You heard him say from behind you, turning back to look at him. “Yes, Gare?”
Garrett Graham would never admit to pouting, but lo and behold, a sliver of a pout was edging his lips. “You’re just leaving me behind?” he gaped. Instead of responding, you let Logan lead you guys in.
“Snubbed by your own girl, that’s got to be tough.” Dean clapped a hand on Garrett’s shoulder.
“G, stop moping and let’s go. I’m hungry, man,” Tucker told him, heading in after you and Logan.
Inside, you and Logan were waiting by a booth. Logan slid into one side, and you to the other. Tucker sat next to Logan. Dean dragged over a spare chair, spun it around backwards, and sat at the end of the booth. Garrett stopped at the edge of the booth. “Oh, now you want to be next to me?”
Ignoring his dramatics, you looked up from the menu. “What do you guys usually get?”
Garrett sighed pitifully. He slid next to you and snaked his arm around your waist to pull you closer to him. You automatically put the menu in front of both of you. “You’ll like the berry waffles.”
“Sounds yummy.” You leaned your head against his shoulder.
“You’d think they didn’t wake up next to each other,” Dean teased. “Garrett, get a grip, dude.”
Even with the teasing, Logan, Tucker, and Dean enjoyed seeing Garrett like this. A kind of softness that he never really displayed to people besides you. The tenderness as he whispered to you as if no one else existed. The way the menu was shared, and Garrett was pointing out all the things he thought you would like to try at some point.
A waitress came by with coffee. Without asking, Garrett reached over and slid a mug in front of him before adding two sugar packets. Then a splash of cream. He stirred it once before pushing it toward you. “There.”
“Thanks, baby.” You took a sip. “Perfect.” You pressed a kiss against his jaw.
“You didn’t even watch him make it,” Logan commented.
“I don’t have to?” Your eyebrows pulled together, showing your slight confusion.
“You just trusted whatever he put in it?”
“He’s made my coffee since I first started drinking coffee.”
Logan blinked. “They’ve killed me.”
“God, I forgot that you guys have been married for years,” Dean joked.
Tucker ignored the rest of the group and got to ordering. The rest of you followed suit.
Around the diner, people had definitely started noticing. Mostly because four starting hockey players were difficult to ignore, especially when one of those players is the captain, Garrett Graham. What really stuck out was you, the unfamiliar girl who leaned into his side as if you belonged there.
Whispers bounced between tables.
“Who is she?”
“Is that the new transfer girl people have been talking about?”
“How does she have Graham bringing her with the guys?”
“I thought he said he doesn’t do girlfriends.”
Two girls near the counter glanced over one too many times. One leaned toward the other. “I’ve literally never seen him with a girl before.”
“Maybe she’s his sister.”
You happened to laugh at something Garrett said, but the smile that was plastered across his face said it all.
One of the girls frowned. “Definitely not his sister.”
Dean noticed before anyone else. Without turning around, he spoke just loudly enough for it to reach anyone sitting at the counter. “Man.” The others looked at him. “It’s amazing how people forget that minding their own business is free.”
“It’s ridiculous,” Tucker said bluntly. The whispering behind him immediately quieted.
Logan casually leaned back in the booth. “It’s almost like we have our own lives.”
There was a softness that came over your features. It radiated such appreciative affection for such new, devoted friends. The guys defended you as if you were their own, without a second thought or hesitation.
Dean caught your eye and winked at you. “We’ve got your back, Angel.”
“Always,” Logan added.
“You’ve got us for life, Angel,” Tucker finished.
“You guys are going to make me cry.” You teared up a bit, and your face flushed with heat at the gesture. Garrett rubbed at your side soothingly. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“Angel, we’re practically family already,” Logan reasoned, sending you a sweet smile.
“I am going to be the best uncle ever,” Tucker claimed, nodding his head.
“But I get to be the Godfather,” Dean asserted in full seriousness, but the act dropped quickly with a grin spreading across his face.
“We’ll play rock, paper, scissors for it.” Logan contended, waving a hand at Dean.
Garrett snorted, shifting the attention to him. “Unlikely,” he scoffed jokingly under his breath, but it wasn’t quiet enough for the guys not to catch it, and especially not for you.
You pressed a hand against the one he had on your side. Your thumb rubbed circles against his knuckles.
“Listen, buddy, we never said you had to be the dad,” Logan tutted at Garrett.
You felt Garrett stiff beside you. “That’s not even funny, man.”
“Oh, this is gold.” Tucker snickered at Garrett’s obvious displeasure at the mere idea of you creating a life with someone else.
“I’m fine.” You all caught on to Garrett’s voice and how defensive he sounded.
Dean wasn’t ready to end Garrett’s suffering just yet. “You want blond babies, Angel?” He wiggled his eyebrows at you. “They’d be beautiful.”
Your whole body shook with laughter at Dean’s insinuation. You didn’t see Garrett’s face, but the guys did. The way his brow wrinkled into a deep frown. His right eye twitched while he was glaring down at Dean. “Godfather, typically means you’d have to be alive for the role.”
Dean paled slightly. Instead of replying, he took a long sip from his water, gulping awkwardly.
Tucker had put his hand to muzzle his laugh that was threatening to spill out.
Logan was suddenly very interested in a ketchup bottle. “These ingredients are so funny.”
The waitress came up to the table with breakfast, unaware of the scene she was walking into. “Hope you all enjoy,” she said, setting plates in front of each of you. She refilled your waters before finally walking away from the booth.
Garrett’s frown dropped just like that. Before you could reach for the syrup, Garrett poured it perfectly on your waffles. You grabbed a piece of bacon off his plate. You took a bite of about half of it before you offered it up to Garrett’s mouth. He ate the rest without questioning.
Neither of you looked exactly at each other, but the way you moved with ease and avoided bumping into one another said it all.
Neither of you broke the conversation either. Garrett asked if you liked the waffles. You nodded sweetly, taking another bite. He hummed, satisfied in response. It happened so naturally that it was obvious that neither of you even processed how you guys were.
Across the table, Logan stared.
Then at Tucker.
Then at Dean.
“I think we’ve been upgraded from roommates,” Logan muttered to the two.
“We’re just watching these two domesticate each other in real time.” Tucker looked a bit in awe at how evidently you both were in tune with one another.
Dean nodded solemnly, “I think we’re witnessing a thirty-year marriage before the first date.” He took another bite of the pancakes. “They’re hopeless.”
You and Garrett looked over. “What?” you both asked at the same time.
The three roommates burst into laughter. You and Garrett looked at each other, and despite having no idea what was so funny. You both started laughing, too.
Della, from behind the counter, watched the way the five of you fit together. She had never seen the boys the way they are right at this moment. She immediately decided that you were a missing piece in a very chaotic puzzle of hockey players. You belonged at that table.
Breakfast lingered long after the plates had been cleared.
The conversation drifted from hockey to classes, then somehow to the time that Dean accidentally set the kitchen toaster on fire. “It was defective,” Dean insisted.
“It exploded because you put a Pop-Tart in sideways,” Tucker replied.
“That’s a design flaw.”
“More like user error.”
You laughed at the pair, shaking your head. You tapped against Garrett’s thigh. “I’ll be right back.”
“Bathroom?” Garrett slid out of the booth to let you out.
“Mhm.” He helped you out like a gentleman and kissed your hand before you walked away from the table.
You did head toward the hallway for exactly seven steps. Then you quietly veered toward the register, looking over your shoulder, and the guys were busy talking about the next home game coming up in a week.
The waitress looked up with a smile. “Everything okay, honey?”
“Perfect, actually.” You pulled out your card that you had sneaked into your pocket before you left earlier. “I’d like to pay for our table.”
She glanced toward the booth. “The hockey boys?”
“Yeah.” You smiled.
“They’re usually fighting over who pays.”
“I figured.”
“You sure? Honey, I’m positive that none of those boys would want you to pay.”
You looked over your shoulder again. The four of them were full of laughter. Logan was dramatically reenacting whatever play he was retelling. Tucker looked like he regretted encouraging him. Dean was adding in parts that Logan was leaving out. And Garrett. He was watching the conversation with that quiet little smile he’d worn almost all morning.
It tugged at something in your chest. “They’ve been really good to me.”
The waitress followed your gaze. “You’ve known them for a long time?” She wondered.
“Just the one I was sitting next to.”
She rang up the bill. You tipped her generously when signing off the receipt. When she handed your copy, you tucked it into your pocket along with your card before anyone could notice.
“Thank you.”
“My pleasure, sweetie.”
When you returned, Dean looked up. “That was fast.”
“I think we’re ready to finish up here,” Tucker said.
“I physically cannot move.” Dean leaned back and rubbed his stomach.
“You had seven pancakes,” Logan reminded him.
“I regret nothing.”
Garrett politely signalled for the waitress’s attention. She placed the check holder at the edge of the table. “Huh,” Garrett muttered when he reached for it.
“What?” Logan asked.
“It’s empty.”
Dean frowned. “What do you mean it’s empty?”
“The bill.”
“You guys already paid?” Tucker questioned.
Garrett looked at the others. “I didn’t.”
“I was waiting for him,” Dean said, pointing to Garrett.
“So was I,” Tucker admitted.
The waitress walked by carrying another tray to pick up the empty plates off the table. “You boys are all set.”
Four heads turned. You busied yourself with applying some lip balm. “What?”
Logan shook his head.
“It was taken care of already.” The booth fell completely silent.
Four pairs of eyes turned toward you.
“Petal,” Garrett said.
“No.” You stopped.
“You paid?” He scoffed.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You absolutely paid,” Logan retorted.
“You didn’t have to do that, Angel,” Dean said.
“I didn’t do anything,” you shrugged.
“Bullshit,” Garrett muttered.
“Breakfast seemed like a pretty cheap way to say thank you for letting me into your lives so easily.”
The table was quiet for another moment. Then Dean stood up. “Oh.”
“What?” You glanced at him. Tucker and Logan slid out of the booth to stand as well. Garrett did the same. Your eyes flickered to each of them. They all shared a look and nodded. In a blink, you were bombarded by the four. They hugged, keeping you in the middle. “Guys, I can’t breathe.”
“Too late,” Logan mumbled.
“Petal, we don’t need that.”
You were holding up two different colored fluffy throw blankets. “Do you like the dark blue better or the gray?” ignoring Garrett’s statement.
“You’re not going to use it, and it’ll end up on the floor.”
“I can use it in the living room.” You brushed him off.
“Okay, fine, just get both. One for the living room and the other for the bed.” Garrett gave in.
You hummed to yourself triumphantly. “You see, that wasn’t so hard.” You brushed a faint kiss against the left side of his jawline before you put the blankets in the cart.
A husband who was in the same aisle with his wife had watched the short interaction between you and Garrett. He had a fond expression written across his face. “Son, happy wife, happy life.” He simply said before following his wife out of the aisle.
“Are you planning a proposal I don’t know about yet?” You teased Garrett, grinning at him. Your faces were inches apart.
Garrett brought a hand to your face with his thumb gently stroking your cheek. His face carried a relaxed smile. His gaze was locked into your eyes. “Not yet. But eventually.”
You wished his words would surprise you, but in reality, it was more of a confirmation than anything else. “I think we’re skipping a few steps.” You placed a hand on his chest, and you could feel the beating of his heart.
“Like there would be anyone for me other than you,” Garrett murmured.
You could tell he was holding himself back. The way he brought himself closer to you and tilted his face to yours. His pupils dilated, and you could feel his heartbeat start to quicken. “You know, for a second there, I thought you were finally going to do it.”
“If I kissed you, I don’t think I’d be able to stop.”
“Who said you had to?”
His lips brushed against yours. It felt like he was trying to test the waters. Your hand slid from his chest to his jaw. The hand on your cheek pulled you in even closer, if that was possible. His lips smiled against yours.
The gap finally closed. The way his lips parted against your own so gently. The kiss was chaste since you both were standing in a store. “I’ve wanted to do that for so long.” He said, pulling away to look back into your dazed eyes.
You pecked his lips again. “We never stood a chance.”
“Against what?”
“Us.”
“It’s you and me forever, Petal.”
The next week breezed past you before you knew it. The transition to classes was easier than you were expecting. Another thing you thought was going to be difficult was you and Garrett, but really, other than stolen kisses in hidden hallways or late nights in the kitchen. The pair of you hardly had to change anything.
Sure, Garrett was even more affectionate than usual, but it wasn’t overly done where the guys caught on to you two. It kind of felt fun keeping it between you and Garrett. Not that either of you meant to keep a secret. It just hadn’t come up, and anyone who had been around lately either assumed you were already dating or, like the guys, just got used to the fact that you and Garrett were suspiciously close.
Plenty of people on campus just thought that the new transfer student finally locked down the infamous Garrett Graham. Not many knew or cared to find out that you guys knew each other prior. No one found that you had moved in either, not that it was any of their business.
As much as you tried not to let it get to you, the puck bunnies were hard to ignore. Especially with the Briar Hawks having a home game soon, everyone was buzzing around you. From the guys’ endless practices and workout sessions to students’ nonstop chatter about the game and after-parties.
Garrett was quick to assure you that the minute he found out that you were coming to Briar. He hadn’t even thought about another girl since. Not that mattered anyway. It wasn’t like you were a saint in New York. You had your fair share of dates that Garrett, over the years, pretended didn’t bother him when you would call him excitedly to prepare for one.
You could hold your own, but that didn’t stop the irk you would get overhearing the bunnies talk about “whatever” you and Garrett had would never last long before he got bored.
You didn’t doubt your new relationship with Garrett. Even your mothers were rooting for you two to end up together, the second they found out about each other’s pregnancies. Garrett was yours just as much as you were his. It’s been like that since the two of you could walk.
“Baby, I’ll see you and the family later at the game, I got to run to meet with coach. I love you.” was the last thing you heard from Garrett at seven in the morning before he hurriedly pressed a kiss against your forehead before heading out the room. You weren’t even fully coherent enough to reply. Just hummed happily before dozing back off.
You decided that around nine it was time to get up for the day. You had the house empty to yourself. The first time since you moved in. Even with everyone’s hectic schedules, there was usually at least one or two other people home. Not that you minded the company, it let you know the guys better and their habits, which some were admittedly messier than others.
Your feet padded down against the staircase. You found yourself looking for something in the fridge to make for lunch. With the game being later into the night, you had plenty of time to get ready for it. Right now, you chose to make lunch for the guys. You had bought a huge slab of salmon the other day and decided that it was the perfect thing to pair with some rice and steamed vegetables for the guys. Just like your dad’s game day lunch.
Music blasted in the house while you cooked. You set out individual meal prep containers that you hadn’t had the chance to use since you bought them. You portioned out a slice of salmon, rice mixed with quinoa, along with steamed broccoli and cauliflower to each container. It was close to noon, and you knew by the time you got to the arena, it would be perfect timing for lunch.
You hadn’t told anyone that you were planning to stop by to drop off the food. The players were still on the ice when you entered the arena. You stopped to sit down a few rows behind the players’ bench while you waited for them to finish their drills. No one had noticed you yet, except for Coach Jensen.
His brows drew together as he tried to figure out if he recognized you. At first, he assumed you were a bunny trying to sneak into watching practice, but his eyes landed on what seemed to be a thermal food bag.
“Definitely a girlfriend.” He thought to himself.
He saw how you watched the boys with trained eyes. It was as if he could see you mentally noting what some of them could work on. That piqued his interest. “Okay. Let’s head to lunch!” He called out to the players on the ice. “I thought I said no girlfriends during practice.” He threw in right after, causing you to snap your head in his direction and see him already looking back at you.
“I’m just dropping off lunch!” You sheepishly called out. You made your way down, and Garrett was quick on the ice to make it over to you. “Hey, bub.” You smiled, watching him take off his helmet.
“That’s the missus, coach!” Logan hollered from across the ice.
“Angel!” Dean’s voice boomed with the sound of his skates coming to a stop near you and Garrett.
Tucker was the only one out of the four to catch what you told Coach Jensen. “I heard lunch?”
“I hope that’s for us too and not just, G!” Logan called out, making his way over.
“Missus?” Coach Jensen questioned to himself more than anyone in particular.
“Is that the transfer from New York?”
“I want lunch, too.”
“She’s the one G was with when we saw him at Malone’s the other day.”
“I didn’t know bunnies made lunches.”
That was the chatter that was amongst some of the other players.
Garrett tuned them out and honed his attention to just focus on you. “You didn’t have to bring lunch for me, Petal.”
“Great! Because I didn’t make it just for you.” Your voice was loud enough for Logan to hear, resulting in him whooping out a cheer. You brought the bag to your front and shook it ever so slightly at the four. “If your coach is okay with me bringing food to feed some of his players…” You trailed off, glancing back at Coach Jensen, who simply was amused by this whole interaction. Never in his life had he seen his star player/captain turn so soft in a matter of seconds, or give any girl the time of day on a game day.
“Whatcha got to feed these hooligans?” He walked over. You opened the bag for him to take a peek in. He could see the stack of meals you prepared for the guys. His eyes spotted how you made sure to take into account protein and grains along with the vegetables. “Not too bad.”
“Approved?” you said hopefully.
“Just make sure they get back to me after lunch is over.” He winked at you in approval before making his way to the locker room.
“Give us a bit, Petal. We’re going to take off the gear, and we’ll come back out. Make yourself comfy on the bench.” Garrett pressed a kiss against your cheek before skating off the ice.
The other three saluted you as they passed by, following Garrett to the locker room. It didn’t take them long to find their way back to you. By the time they returned. They noticed the four containers neatly laid out with a fork sitting on top of each lid, with a napkin placed underneath it.
Dean whistled out, “Angel, you’re my favorite.” He started to pass around a container, so each one of them had one.
Tucker had been the first to open it and see what you made. “Smells delicious, Angel. Is that rice mixed with quinoa? Oh, you’re good.” He complimented, blowing you a kiss.
“Our savior,” Logan greeted you with a side hug and a kiss against the top of your head. Before grabbing a container of his own and taking a seat. “Oh, TIGS.”
“Dude, what does that even mean?” Dean questioned him. “This is good shit?”
“No. This is god sent.”
“Thanks, baby,” Garrett murmured to you in appreciation. He had found his place at your side. “Is this what I think it is?”
“Yeah, it’s dad’s game day lunch.” You two were sat pressed next to one another. Your eyes scanned over to the other guys. A satisfied smile wreathed your lips.
Dean closed his eyes, letting out a blissful sigh as he swallowed. “G, you’re evil for not introducing us to Angel sooner.”
Tucker paused to chew, pointing his fork at the salmon. “This is delectable. Thank you, Angel.”
Logan mumbled, his mouth still half-full. “Angel, where were you the past three years on game days? This is so good.”
Garrett just laughed at the three’s antics. “And this is why you didn’t meet them until now.”
“We heard that,” Dean called out.
“How are you guys feeling about tonight?” you asked them, shifting the conversation.
“We got to make sure we win your first Briar hockey game,” Logan affirmed.
“Not her first Briar game,” Garrett corrected before taking another bite of the food. The remark made the other three pause mid-bite/chew.
“She’s been to one before?” Logan raised a brow at him
“Angel, we could’ve known each other much sooner!” Dean yelped dramatically.
“Not the first hockey game, but my first official home game,” you explained.
“When did you see one?” Tucker asked you.
“I’ve been to a few,” you admitted. “My first one was Garrett’s first game playing because how could I ever miss that? Then I’ve been to a couple away games you guys had when it was close to New York. Most recently before the transfer, I went to Garrett’s first game as captain.”
“Hold on a minute,” Dean said. “You’ve been to all these games, and we never knew?”
“Never needed to bring it up,” Garrett shrugged.
“Wait, is that you got so weird at some of the away games? I always thought you were nervous or some shit,” Logan said in an epiphany. He snapped at Garrett’s direction, “I knew it was weird when you didn’t come out with us after.”
“Like that Clovers game! I just figured you were meeting up with a bunny–” Dean was cut off.
“No, I took Petal to dinner after the game.”
“Oh, that was the nice Italian place!” You recalled it in your memory.
“We don’t get taken to dinners after games,” Logan scoffed playfully.
“We’ll take you to dinner tonight, Angel,” Dean offered with a grin.
“Even better, I’ll cook you dinner, Angel.” Tucker winked.
“Sorry, boys. Not tonight. Gare’s got the family coming in to see this game. I’m sure Gramps will want dinner together tonight.”
“Your family is coming tonight? Like actually? I thought that was just like a joke your dad was making.” Logan gaped. “And your grandfather wants dinner?”
“Not with you shitheads,” Garrett snickered.
You smacked his arm lightly. “Be nice. They can come if they want to.”
“Family dinner with hockey royalty,” Dean said, a bit starstruck.
“G, how are you not shitting in your pants?” Tucker said, baffled.
“Her dad is okay with her living with us, right?” Logan brought up.
“More importantly, he knows that you guys are sharing a bed?” Dean added.
Garrett put down the now empty container. “Guys.”
“Yes, my dad is perfectly fine with my living situation. He knows that we’re together, and he trusts Garrett. Well, I think the entire family has had a bet going on since we were conceived.”
“Ma, definitely had one with Mom. You remember when we went to Vancouver for vacation?”
“That was what? When we were ten?”
“Yeah, Ma slid over twenty bucks to Mom during dinner when I was cutting your steak–”
“YOU GUYS ARE TOGETHER?” Dean yelled out the second it clicked in his head.
“Honestly, quicker than I expected,” Tucker claimed.
“Let’s not kid ourselves. They were always together.” Logan retorted.
You tore your eyes from Garrett’s and looked back at the guys. You felt heat flush your face, realizing what you casually said. “Yeah, we’re together.” You couldn’t help the smile that threatened to lift the edges of your mouth.
“Since when?” Tucker questioned.
“The day we brought back the blue blanket from the couch.”
“Oh, I love that blanket,” Logan noted.
“I know, it’s so soft!” You happily clapped your hands together.
“It’s really warm, too,” Logan added.
“You didn’t tell us sooner?” Dean wondered.
Garrett kept his eyes on you. How you animatedly expressed your love of the blanket. The way your eyes lit up when you talked. “Honestly, just slipped my mind. I mean, it’s just so natural being with her.”
“You talking about little old me?” You playfully fluttered your eyelashes at him. “I love being with you, too, love.” You kissed the corner of his mouth, pulling away with a gentle smile.
By the time warm-ups began, the arena was already loud. Student sections were filling with painted faces and homemade signs. Lots of 44 were seen around the arena. The pep band was halfway through the fight song.
Garrett tapped his stick against the boards before skating another lap, absently scanning the stands. He always looked. Even when there wasn’t anyone to find.
But tonight was different. Halfway up behind the home bench sat you, your parents, and grandparents. Your dad had a custom Garrett 44 hat, with your mom sporting 44 on her cheek. You spotted him almost immediately and stood, waving both hands over your head.
Garrett couldn’t help but smile. You were wearing his jersey. His actual jersey. Not one you’d buy from a gift shop. One he’d given you the second you started talking about wanting to plan your outfit.
You gestured to your parents excitedly. Garrett came to a stop, and he scanned the seats next to you. His pause was noticed by Logan. He lifted his stick toward the stands.
“What a night,” Logan looked over in its direction.
Dean nearly skated into Logan. “Man, what are you looking at?” Then he saw them too.
Tucker answered before anyone else. “That’s the family.” His eyes looked over two seats next to you, and rest assured, your grandfather sat there with the quiet confidence of someone who’d once stood behind an NHL bench for nearly twenty seasons.
Dean examined your grandfather. He looked older now compared to clips from his coaching days. The former head coach of the New York Rangers. A living legend. Not to mention your father, who sat next to you. Dean looked like he’d forgotten how to breathe. “They came for him.”
Your grandfather looked down toward the ice. He spotted Garrett and raised one hand. Garrett’s smile widened even more. He lifted his glove and waved back. Like it was the most normal thing in the world. Logan stared.
You laughed from the stands and leaned over to say something to your dad. He smiled, then cupped his hand around his mouth. “ATTABOY, SON!” The words echoed faintly across the ice. Garrett let out a laugh, then tapped his stick twice against the glass in front of them.
The announcer interrupted, “Ladies and gentlemen.” Warm-ups were over.
The game was fast and physical. Two teams were fighting to lead the conference. By the end of the first period, it was tied one to one.
Logan threw a huge hit that brought the crowd to its feet. Dean blocked a shot that probably should’ve gone in. Garrett had two chances and saved both. Every time he returned to the bench, his eyes drifted toward your section.
To the same five people who always cheered him on and like how they always would.
Late in the third period, it was still a tie game with only three minutes left. The arena buzzed with nervous energy. Coach Jensen leaned over the boards. “One more shift.”
Garrett nodded, and the puck dropped. Tucker won it clean, and it was back to Dean, then across Logan, who’d carried through center before slipping it wide. Garrett caught it in a stride. There was one defender. Garrett cut inside and the defender bit. Open lane. For the smallest fraction of a second, everything went quiet. He had snapped the puck.
Top corner. Bar down. Ping. The sound rang through the arena. The red light exploded with the building erupting. Goal.
Students leapt to their feet, and the bench emptied over the boards. Logan tackled Garrett first. Dean nearly knocked both of them over. Tucker arrived a heartbeat later. The arena shook with applause. You were already screaming with both hands over your mouth and tears filling your eyes.
Your dad was on his feet, clapping so hard that his palms had turned visibly red. Your grandfather stood beside him, grinning with unmistakable pride. The television camera caught them easily. “Hockey royalty celebrating that goal,” one commentator laughed. “Looks like they approve.”
The final horn sounded moments later. Briar Hawks won.
When Garrett stepped off the ice, an arena attendant waved him over. “They’re waiting.” He didn’t need to ask who. The family entrance hallway smelled faintly of popcorn and fresh ice.
The moment that Garret rounded the corner, “There he is!” you ran to him. He caught you before you even reached full speed, lifting you clean off the floor as you wrapped yourself around him. “I almost lost my voice!”
He laughed into your hair. “I heard.”
You pulled back just enough to kiss him. Like it belonged there with such ease. When you stepped aside, your dad opened his arms. “Come over here, son.” Garrett didn’t hesitate and hugged him tightly.
“Good game, Pop.”
“You kidding?” Your dad squeezed his shoulder. “That release would’ve beaten me.”
“You don’t have to say that,” Garrett attempted to be modest.
“I know,” your dad brushed Garrett’s hair back from his face. “But I mean it.”
Next came your mom. She cupped his face in both hands before pulling him into a hug. “You look exhausted.”
“I feel exhausted,” Garrett admitted.
“You eating enough?” Your mom tapped his cheek.
“Ma.”
“I asked a question.” She persisted.
“Yes, Ma.” Your grandfather stood, waiting with his hand tucked into his coat pocket. Garrett stopped in front of him. “Hey, Gramps.”
The older man looked over him for a long second and nodded, “I’m proud of you.”
Garrett swallowed hard, “Thanks.”
“You earned that one.” The former coach clapped him firmly on the shoulder. “Now stop standing around me and go stand next to Petal.” You immediately slid back to Garrett’s side. Your grandfather pointed between you two, “Took you long enough.”
Your mom laughed. “I was beginning to think I should’ve agreed to a betrothal that your mom and I talked about once.”
Your dad shrugged, “I would have given them another year.”
Garrett rubbed the back of his neck. “It was obvious?” Every member of the family stared at him. He sighed, “Never mind?”
“Hey!” Another familiar voice echoed down the hallway. Dean, Logan, and Tucker rounded the corner, still carrying pieces of their gear. They stopped the second they saw your family. Every single one of the three stood a little straighter.
Dean whispered, “Oh my God.”
Logan elbowed him, “Be normal.”
“I’m trying,” Dean told him.
Tucker quietly failed to hide his awe.
You laughed, “You guys! Come over here!” You motioned them over. “This is Dean, Logan, and Tucker,” you introduced them to your family. The three hockey players suddenly looked like nervous freshmen again.
Your father smiled first and shook each of their hands, “Good game, boys.”
Dean looked as though he might frame the handshake. “Sir, I watched your highlights growing up.”
Your father laughed. “Now I feel old.”
“You are old,” Your grandfather commented.
“I walked right into that one,” Your dad admitted.
The former head Rangers coach shook hands with each of them too. “I like watching your line.” The three roommates collectively forgot how words worked.
“Thank you, sir,” Logan managed.
“That means a lot,” Tucker remarked.
Your grandfather smiled, “You boys play the game the right way.”
Dean quietly leaned toward Garrett and you, “I’m never washing this hand.”
Garrett snorted, and you laughed, leaning into his side, “I figured.”
Your mom looked around the group. “So, who’s hungry?” Every hand went up, and she laughed, “Perfect, go get changed and let’s head out.”
The players immediately obeyed. Garrett kissed the side of your head. “I’ll be back out.”
As the guys started walking together, Dean drifted beside Garrett. “So…”
“What?” Garrett glanced over at him.
“They really are your family.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way.” He looked back to the group waiting for them. At the people that had supported him through everything. Then looked back at the guys, the friends who had become brothers. Then back to you, watching as you shooed him to hurry along.
☄︎ Warnings: logan puts reader in a headlock (not during smut). smut. alcohol drinking. both being oblivious af. nipple play. reader needy af. missionary (legs on shoulders)
☄︎ Pairing: F!Reader x John Logan
☄︎ Rating/Genre: Mature (🔞). Smut.
☄︎ Words: 6175
☄︎ Summary: Logan’s been your best friend for two years now. And it takes you way too long to realise that you both want more.
💭: john ‘closed cans are safer’ logan. i love you bad! i'll come back to readover this one again as it's a long one and i feel like i missed sth! if you enjoyed, please consider leaving a comment, ask, reblog etc, it means a lot xx
Original request here. 〣 Off Campus Masterlist here. 〣 Logan Masterlist here.
If you were asked to explain your relationship with John Logan, you’d probably tell people that he’s your best friend. Your person. The Mark Sloan to your Callie Torres, without the sex and baby part, of course...
The point is; he was a true friend. You supported one another through messy breakups, study meltdowns, hockey losses, and family drama all throughout your Freshman and Sophomore years. Sure, there were a few alcohol-induced kisses scattered across the past 24-months, but you did that with all your friends. It was Briar culture. It didn’t mean anything.
You were just best friends.
You didn’t believe in blurring boundaries. However, tonight, the foundations you’d spent the last two years building felt like the were being held together by nothing more than scotch tape and silly string.
The Hawks’ house smelt like a mixture of sweaty men, cheap citrus air freshener, and the greasy takeout that you and Logan had half-eaten and left on the kitchen island hours ago. You were slouched down on the sofa, scrolling through TikTok on your phone. Sprawled out next to you, with his heavy head resting on your lap, was Logan.
It was a position you’d found yourselves in a thousand times before. He was exhausted from the last practice, and you were his designated safe zone. The hand that wasn’t holding your phone was buried in his thick curls, your fingers absentmindedly massaging his scalp in the way that always got him to relax. His legs were dangled off of the opposite armrest, his eyes closed and breathing slow.
You glanced down at him. His eyelashes were annoyingly long, “why are men always blessed with long eyelashes?” you thought to yourself. There were faint bags under his eyes from a week straight of college essays, early morning ice time, and his shifts at the garage.
Without thinking, your thumb brushed the edge of his cheekbone, sweeping away a stray eyelash.
He smiled faintly but didn’t open his eyes, his breathing still calm and measured and you turned back to your phone screen.
The next video on your for you page had you snorting. You took your fingers out of his hair to forward the video to your group chat with a message.
That had Logan’s eyes cracking open. He blinked against the dim light coming from the lamp in the corner, his dark eyes looking up at you from your lap. “What’s so funny?” he grumbled.
“Nothing,” you smiled, looking down at him. “Just a funny video.”
Logan grunted and reached up, his calloused hand gently wrapping around your wrist to pull the phone down closer to his face. “Let me see.”
Angling the phone so he could watch, you cringed internally. He was not going to get this. The text on the screen read: “When he knows how to handle you”. In the video, the guy had his massive forearm around a girl’s neck, trapping her into a headlock while she giggled. Logan watched the video loop twice, then he looked up at you, his brow furrowing before he looked back at the screen and watched it loop once more.
“What the fuck are you watching?” Logan asked, a genuine chuckle rumbling in his chest.
“Don’t judge,” you said as you gave him a light slap on his shoulder. Your fingers then slid back into his hair, resuming their massage of his scalp. “It’s actually really hot.”
“Girls like being put in a headlock?” He scoffed.
“Yeah, it’s hot,” you retorted, standing your ground. “Especially when a man has like... thick arms.”
The sleepy look in Logan’s eye was completely gone. He slowly sat up and swung his legs around to face you.
“Why do I feel like you’re giving me dating advice that’s going to get me arrested?”
You scoffed, rolling your eyes. “I didn’t tell you to go and find a random girl on the street to tackle, Jonathon.”
It annoyed the hell out of him when you called him that, which is precisely why you called him that when he annoyed the hell out of you. you got the reaction that you were hoping for. His eyes squinted at you, his jaw clenching as his lips pressed together in a tight line.
“Anyway,” you continued as you tried to suppress your laugh. “It’s obviously only hot when you trust the man.”
“You trust me.”
It wasn’t a question, so you didn’t answer him. You turned back to your phone, suddenly hyper aware that he was still looking in your direction.
Logan just stared at you, a serious expression settling over his face as he contemplated your words. The gears were turning in his head, his gaze dropping briefly to your neck before snapping back to your eyes.
“Right,” he said, abruptly standing up from the couch. “I still think you’re weird, but okay.”
“It’s not nice to kink shame, Jonathon.”
He paused mid-step, turning back to look down at you. “If you call me that again, I’m going to pull you into a headlock.”
“I’ll run,” you challenged, shifting your weight to the edge of the cushion.
“I’ll chase you.”
“You are not going to chase me around this room.”
“Try me.”
He looked serious. Really serious. And you had no reason to believe he was bluffing. But, looking up at him and that challenging glint he had in his eyes, you found a reckless part of yourself desperate to test him.
You stood up slowly, backing away a step. “I don’t believe you ... Jonathon.”
The last syllable of the name had barely gotten out before he essentially pounced on you.
Your shriek dissolved into laughter as you bolted around the couch. But, as fast as you were, he was faster. He closed the distance with barely any effort. Before you could reach the edge of the living room, two pairs of heavy hands clamped around your waist.
He manhandled you with ease, pulling you back and flush against his chest.
In the next second, his forearm slid over your shoulder, hooking dominatingly around your neck. You could feel his chest rising and falling against your shoulder blades.
His face buried in the crook of your beck, his warm breath brushing against your ear as he whispered, “I told you I’d chase you.”
A sharp gasp caught in your throat. You were locked against him. Even if you wanted to move, which admittedly, you didn’t, you wouldn’t have been able to.
The moment your body collided with his, Logan lost all sense of self. He had honestly expected this to be a joke, a stupid thing he did where you’d both laugh it off and you’d go back to scrolling on your phone as he napped. But, the second your back hit his chest, the second your hips pressed firmly against his crotch, his brain basically shut down.
You shifted against him slightly, trying to find your footing and get comfortable in his tight grip. The friction of the movement sent an aggressive jolt of heat right below his stomach.
‘Oh,’ Logan thought, a wave of panic flooding through his system even as his grip subconsciously pulled you closer against him. “This is bad. Really, really bad.’
Despite the alarm bells ringing in his head, he didn’t let you go. He couldn’t. in fact, he leant in slightly closer, taking a deep breath and inhaling the scent of you. It filled his lungs, making his chest ache with a wave of possessiveness that he had absolutely no right to feel over a ‘best friend’.
Underneath his arm, you were frozen.
You had hugged Logan a thousand times. You had leant on him during late night study sessions, had fallen asleep on his shoulder during road trips, you’d even shared a bed with him after varous movie marathons. It had never, ever felt like this.
You could feel his heart beating frantically against your back. It was racing. You hand went up to his forearm, your fingers wrapping it. You held onto him, not even attempting to pull his arm away, even though every rational bone in your body told you that you should.
In a normal friendship, this is the part where he would laugh, call you a loser, and let you go. But he was holding you for far too long for it to be a joke. His forearm was pressed firmly against your collarbone, his fingers curling tightly into the fabric of your shirt at your shoulder. He had zero intention of letting you go.
‘Since when were his arms THIS big?’ you thought, mind dizzy and overwhelmed.
A knot of heat coiled deep in your stomach. You felt an ache in between your thighs. The kind that was desperate and dizzying and you had no right to be feeling towards your ‘best friend’.
‘’Get it together!’ you screamed at yourself internally.
“Ummm, Logan,” you choked out, your voice coming out embarrassingly breathless. “You should probably let go now.”
“Oh. Right. Yeah.”
Logan’s breath was ragged as he slowly, almost relucatantly, unraveled his arm from your neck. He immediately stepped back, clearing his throat roughly and refusing to meet you eyes as he rubbed the back of his neck.
“I guess... I get the hype,” he muttered awkwardly.
“Ha! Awesome,” you replied, just as awkwardly.
You practically sank back down onto the couch, your knees feeling like jelly, while Logan moved toward the kitchen island. He began aggressively clearing up the food containers, his back turned to you as his shoulders tensed.
The silence that was in the living room now was no longer comfortable. It was heavy, dripping with something you were too scared to contemplate about now. the invisible boundary had been crossed and you weren’t sure if you could even go back now. or, if you wanted to.
⋆꙳⛸❅*‧
The shift was almost immediate. For the next two weeks, even being in the same room as him sent you into a panic. It was made much worse by the fact that that was also his reaction. You tried to be normal, chilling in the hockey house as you usually did. But, when you both reached for the remote at the same time and your fingers brushed, Logan pulled his hand back as if he’d been brunt.
When you sat on the coach, Logan stayed on the opposite end. When you turned to speak, Logan kept his eyes on his book, even though you’d noticed that he hadn’t turned a page in almost 30 minutes.
But then, there were times where you’d catch him staring, watching your mouth as you spoke. When you caught him, he would look away immediately.
You felt like you were losing your mind. You couldn’t tell if he was acting like this because he felt awkward, or if he was just reacting to your awkwardness.
You looked at yourself in the bathroom mirror, trying get the imagines of him that kept flashing up out of your mind. It mostly involved his biceps wrapping around you as he fucked-.
“Okay, no, I’m obviously just sexually oppressed,” you muttered to yourself. It had been a while since you’d last been with someone, longer than you realised until this moment. “Logan is objectively hot and my brain is just playing tricks on me.”
That was the lie you told yourself. And, to prove it, you finally said yes to Lyle.
He was... nice. He had bright blonde hair, played lacrosse, and had been asking you out at nearly every party you went to for the last few months. You never really turned him down, and he took that as encouragement to keep asking. Truthfully, you hadn’t much minded the attention, even if you had previously never planned to do anything with it. But now, he was the perfect, and safe, distraction you needed from your newfound fixation on your best friend.
The following Thursday afternoon, you walked into the hockey house to drop off a textbook that you had borrowed from Tucker. You weren’t even sure if Logan would be there, as he hadn’t exactly been texting you much.
When you turned the corner, Logan was sitting at the kitchen island, shaking a protein shake in one hand as he scrolled through something on his iPad.
“Hey,” you said, making an effort to keep your voice casual. You tossed the textbook onto the counter.
Logan’s head snapped up instantly. The second his eyes took you in, his posture straightened. At least he was looking at you now. “Hey. You’re dressed up.”
You swallowed hard, suddenly feeling very self-conscious in your ‘dressed-up’ clothes. “Yeah. Um. I actually have a date in like, twenty minutes so I need to go–.”
“A what?” Logan froze; the protein shake in his hand stopping halfway to his mouth. “A date? What do you mean a date? With who? Sorry, what?”
Logan’s voice didn’t even sound like him.
“It’s just with Lyle. From class,” you said. Despite how your heart was currently doing backflips in your chest, your voice was steady. “We’re just getting drinks downtown. It’s no big deal.”
Slowly setting the shake on the island, Logan stood up. You blinked in surprise as you realised, he looked... angry?
“Lyle?” Logan scoffed, the name tasting like poison on his tongue. He stepped around the island and walked over to you, the closest he’s willingly come in months. “The lacrosse guy? The one that wears his cap backwards on his head like an absolute douche.”
You wanted to respond that Logan also wore his cap backwards on his head, but now didn’t seem like the right time to bring that up.
“He’s not a douche, Logan!” you defended instead. You weren’t even sure why you felt the need to defend Lyle this hard. But you did. “He’s nice, and I’m allowed to go on dates. You’re supposed to be happy for me, as my friend.” You emphasised the last word. He was being incredibly selfish right now.
“Well, I’m not. I’m not fucking happy, okay?” he snapped.
“Why?” Your voice trembled, your eyes watching him take deep breaths. “Why are you not happy for me?” you pressed.
Logan closed his eyes for a brief second, inhaling sharply. When he opened them again, you saw the old Logan, your best friend who had beautifully brown doe eyes. But then, it’s like he pulled the walls back up.
“Because he’s... an idiot.” Logan deflected. “He’s just trying to get you into bed.”
“Okay, and who says I’m not trying to get him into bed?” You fired back in a tone you weren’t proud of, the frustration boiling over inside of you.
Logan flinched, jaw tightening. “I just think you deserve better.”
“Well, that’s not your call to make.”
“Yeah. Clearly it isn’t,” Logan growled. “Go have fun.”
You stood there for longer than you should have, before you turned and practically bolted out of the door.
The date with Lyle was a, for lack of a better word, disaster.
It wasn’t even his fault. He was funny and charming. He listened to you when you spoke, and actually asked you questions. But, every time Lyle smiled, you wondered why his eyes didn’t shine like Logan’s did. Every time he laughed, you missed the sound of Logan’s.
He did nothing wrong, except not be Logan.
The date forced you to face that fact that you were becoming hopelessly in love with your best friend. and that it was ruining your life.
⋆꙳⛸❅*‧
By the time the next hockey party came around, you still hadn’t spoken a word to Logan. Nor had he reached out to you. you were too stubborn, too deeply afraid of your own feelings, to break the silence first.
When you walked through the front door of the crowded house, your hand casually looped through Lyle’s arm, your eyes instinctively scanned the room for Logan anyway. You hated yourself for it. Hated how looking for Logan in any crowded room was still your default.
It took you an embarrassingly short amount of time to find him.
He was leaning back against the kitchen counter, a red cup in his hand. He wore a flannel shirt with the first few buttons left undone, the parted fabric showing some the top of his toned chest. His thick curls were framing his face in a way that made him look effortlessly, infuriatingly, handsome.
He was locked into a conversation with a notorious puck bunny who was practically throwing herself at him. And he was eating it up. Logan was listening to her, his head tilted down, his dark eyes locked onto her face with a focused stare that made your stomach violently turn over.
You froze, watching as the girl leant further into him. Her manicured hand slid up his bicep, her fingers scratching lightly against his arm as she whispered something into his ear. Her lips inches from his neck.
It infuriated you that Logan didn’t pull away. Instead, his eyes began to scan the room, clearly searching for something, or someone. His eyes stopped on you when he spotted you, still stood by the front door. The smile on his face vanished instantly. He pulled back from the puck bunny, his posture freezing as he took in the sight of you standing beside Lyle.
You gave him the coldest look you could muster before turning away. You pulled Lyle over to the makeshift bar, immediately pouring you both a heavy drink.
For the next two hours, you put on the performance of a lifetime.
You dragged Lyle to the living room floor and danced on him. You laughed way too loudly at a stupid joke that Garrett had made. You let Tucker convince you to line up a row of tequila shots, intentionally standing directly in Logan’s line of sight so he could see how much fun you could have without him.
But it was a miserable victory. He still didn’t approach you and he didn’t even look that bothered.
Eventually the heat of the house was too much. Ditching Lyle on the sofa, you slipped out into the cooler air of the backyard, heading toward the secondary bar area. You grabbed a bottle of water, pouring yourself a fresh drink, trying to stop your hands from shaking.
The sound of deep laughter had your shoulders squaring. You knew that laugh better than you knew your own name.
Logan and Dean walked over to where you were standing. The moment Logan noticed you there, alone, his laughter died. While he went silent, Dean got louder, shouting your name and pulling you into a hug.
Dean looked between the two of you. “So,” he drew out. “I take it we’re still going this miserable silent-pining thing then?”
Both you and Logan snapped your heads toward him, glares locking onto him.
“God, even your reactions are the same,” he laughed. “I don’t know why you guys are looking at me like that.”
“Shut up, Dean,” Logan mumbled.
“Look, you two either need to fuck and get it out of your system or just confess how you feel about each other. It’s painfully obvious at this point.”
“Dean. Shut. Up,” Logan practically begged.
It wasn’t lost on you that he didn’t deny anything to Dean.
“You’ll thank me for that later,” Dean laughed, patting Logan’s shoulder before turning on his heel and walking back inside, leaving the two of you there.
You stared at Logan, waiting for him to say something, anything. to apologise. To clear the air. But, he didn’t. he just stood there, his eyes burning into yours.
You let out an annoyed sigh and turned to walk past him, done with the games.
His hand shot out, his finger clamping around your wrist. “Wait, don’t go. Can we walk?”
“About what, Logan?” you snapped, trying to pull your hand back.
“Don’t be like that.”
“If you don’t like the way I’m ‘being’, you can go back to your girl.” You gestured toward the house. “You seemed real interested in her.”
Logan looked down at you. You were stubbornly looking away, your jaw set, and you probably would have had your arms crossed if he didn’t have a vice grip on your wrist.
“How much have you had to drink tonight?” He asked suddenly.
“Excuse me?”
“I saw you at the kitchen island with Tucker,” he said, his grip firm but careful. “I saw the tequila. How much have you had?”
“Why are you asking me this?”
At this point, you weren’t even being purposely defiant, you were just genuinely confused at the sudden shift in conversation.
“Please, it’s important.” For the first time in a long time, he really looked at you. You saw the plea in his eyes.
“Fine, if you must know. I had like one drink, plus those shots.”
“So, how do you feel? Tipsy? Drunk?” his eyes scanned your face, checking the focus of your pupils, needing to be absolutely sure.
“I’m not drunk, Logan. Why are you asking me this?”
A visible wave of relief washed over him, his shoulders dropping slightly. “Good, come with me.”
Without waiting for your response, his grip slid down from your wrist to capture your fingers. His palm felt cold against your warm one. He dragged you back toward the back door of the house, navigating the way through the crowd, and all the way up to his room.
Logan let go of your hand and stepped back, running a frustrated hand through his curls. He began to pace the length of his floor. “I need to say something and I just... I want you to hear me out.”
“Okay...” you said softly, going to take a seat on the edge of his mattress.
“I need to... I want to apologise to you.” Logan stopped pacing to look down at you. “I didn’t realise I was hurting you.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Well, you did know. You knew exactly how he’d hurt you, but you couldn’t admit that.
“With Sarah,” Logan explained, stepping closer to you. “I was flirting with her because I was trying to get over you. I wasn’t purposely trying to make you jealous. Although, I won’t lie and say I’m not enjoying it just a little.”
“I wasn’t jealous,” you lied.
Your brain was choosing to ignore all the other things he said. While you weren’t drunk, you also didn’t have the brain capacity to try decipher what he was saying. What he really meant by ‘trying to get over you’.
He laughed, and God you’d missed that sound.
“I think you were jealous,” he said. “And that’s good cause it might mean you’ll hate me a little less when I say this.”
“Logan, I–.”
“Please, just let me finish,” he interrupted softly, taking another step until he was towering over where you sat on the edge of his bed. “Remember in freshman year, you told me that story about the guy who got close to you in high school only cause he wanted to sleep with you?”
You nodded, not a pleasant memory.
“I swear to you on my life, that’s not what this is,” Logan whispered. He sank down to his knees on the floor directly in front of you, bringing his face level with yours. “You’re my best friend. The most important person in my life. I didn’t plan for this, it just happened. I just–.”
“You what?” You asked as he trailed off.
“I didn’t plan to fall for you,” he confessed. “It was so easy. Too easy, actually.”
When you were silent, he continued rambling, “And I’ve been thinking about what I would do to you if I had the chance. Every single night, I think about it. So... that’s why I was with Sarah. I’m trying to block it out so I can be there for you how you need me to. I’m sorry I couldn’t just be the friend you needed.”
There was too much to process, your mind scrambled. It felt too good, too terrifying, too much like a fantasy you’d conjured up in the middle of a touch-starved night.
“Logan... how much have you had to drink?” It was like you were trying to find a loophole, a reason to protect yourself just in case this was all a joke.
He smiled up at you. “Unfortunately, I am extremely sober. I could do with a drink, honestly.”
You let out a deep breath. So, this was real?
“I think you should lock the door,” you said, your tongue felt like lead in your mouth. “Quickly.”
He scrambled up from the floor and practically ran to lock the door. When he turned back around, his breath caught in his throat.
You were sitting on the edge of his bed, your eyes locked onto his as your fingers slowly slipped the straps of your dress down over your shoulders, letting the fabric pool around your waist.
“Show me,” you commanded softly. “You have the chance, show me what you’ve been thinking about.”
Standing up, you stepped out of your dress and shoes, the fabric pooling on the floor. You were about to take your bra off when Logan stopped you.
“No,” he said, voice thick with need. “I want to do that. Lie back on the bed.”
Doing as you were told you, you got comfortable on the bed. You tugged your bottom lip between your teeth in anticipation as you watched him strip down to his boxers, his eyes never leaving yours.
Once bare, he climbed onto the bed and sat between your open legs. He leant over you, his palms resting flat on the mattress on either side of you. He looked down at you, his eyes filled with lust and adoration.
“I’ve thought about this for so long,” Logan whispered, his voice trembling slightly. “There are so many things I want to do to you.”
You reached up to rest your hands against his shoulders. It should have felt weird, the shift from being his friend, to thinking about him, to being here, under him. It didn’t. He looked down at you with the same expression he had been for a while, and you were sure your expression mirrored his. Maybe Dean was right, it was painfully obvious.
“Can I kiss you?” Logan asked.
“Yes, please,” you plead.
He leant down slowly, so slowly that you wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him down into you. While his every movement so far was dripping with patience, his kiss was anything but. The transition from his gentle hesitation to starved desperation was instantaneous.
As soon as your lips parted, he groaned deep in his chest as he swept his tongue along with yours. He caught your tongue between his lips, sucking on it heavily. His tongue slid back into your mouth, tangling with yours over and over as he demanded more from you.
Logan’s hand found your jaw, tilting your head to deepen the kiss.
Your fingers knotted deep into his curls, pulling him down closer, matching his desperate pace as a spark ignited deep in your stomach.
“Shit,” he shuddered, as you wrapped your legs around his waist and ground up into him, desperate for the friction.
You whined as he sat up and unwrapped your legs from him. “If you keep grinding into me, I’m going to cum in my boxers. Is that what you want?”
Too dazed on the feeling of him, you couldn’t even tease him for the confession. “No.”
“Right,” he said, “then be patient.”
“Yes, Jonathon.”
You giggled softly under him as he leant down again. His nose brushed slowly against your neck, inhaling deeply as he found the exact spot where you were the most sensitive. He parted his lips and bit down on the soft slope of your neck. Not hard enough to draw blood, but hard enough.
A loud whine was dragged from your throat, your fingers digging into his thick biceps, as he bit down on you. his tongue swept over the bite before his lips locked onto the skin, sucking deeply enough to leave a semi-permanent mark.
Your head fell back against the pillow as he moved to the other side of your neck, feeling happily helpless against the marks he was bruising into your skin.
With one last kiss to the marks he’d etched into your skin, his kisses drifted downward. Logan took his time, his jawline grazing your collarbone as he pressed a kiss to the base of your throat. He used every touch, every kiss, to show you how badly he wanted you.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured between the trail of wet kisses he was leaving across your chest. “How lucky am I, that I get to learn exactly how you like to be touched?”
“Logan,” you said breathily. You raised your chest slightly, a silent and desperate plea for him to keep going.
His hands slid up from beneath your waist. His palms were no longer cold; they blazed against your skin as he traced up your ribs, his touch leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. His hands then moved to your back, his fingers finding the clasp of your bra.
Logan stopped, he kept his eyes on yours as he asked, “Is this okay?”
When you nodded, he moved to unhook the clasp. It took him a few attempts to get it, not helped by the awkward angle with your back flat against the mattress and the way his fingers were shaking with anticipation. His nervousness only made this hotter for you. Once undone, he pulled the straps down over your shoulders, peeling the fabric off of you and throwing it onto the floor.
His gaze raked down your torso, taking you in completely.
For a split second, you wanted to wrap your arm over yourself, a sudden wave of vulnerability hitting you when you remembered that Logan’s never seen you like this before. But the way he looked down at you with breathless awe filled you with an intoxicating confidence.
With your bra out of the way, he leant down, this time his warm mouth closed over one of your erect nipples. He sucked softly at first, his tongue swirling in a slow and deliberate circle. Your nails dug into his back, scratching at the skin there as he rolled your other nipple between his fingers.
He hummed in satisfaction, encouraged by your reaction. He increased the pressure, his lips pulling at your nipple in tight suction as his thumb grazed over your other nipple in synch with his mouth.
“Logan, I’m so wet.” You loved this, loved the attention, but he was talking his time and, between your legs, you were aching for him. “I need you now, Logan. Please.”
“Oh, but there’s so much more I need to do with you.” Logan would be lying if he said he wasn’t right there with you, his dick was painfully throbbing between his legs, straining against the constraint of his boxers. He had ignored it, wanting to give you the attention you deserved.
“Next time,” you whimpered.
“Okay, baby, whatever you need.” Logan shifted slightly so he was straddling one of your legs. He kept his mouth on your nipple as he pressed his thumb to your clit through the cotton of your panties. He dragged his thumb down over your clothed folds, earning a loud moan from you.
“Fuck, you are soaked.”
Reaching down, you tugged at the waistband of his boxers. He helped you pull them down, wiggling out of them before he helped you wiggle out of your panties.
A thick lump in his throat formed as he spread your legs. “You’re even more beautiful here than I imagined.”
You felt your cheeks heat at the compliment, but he didn’t give you much time to think about it as his dick edged at your hole. He eased himself into you, only giving you a bit more once you fully stretched to accommodate him.
“Is this still okay?” He said through clenched teeth as he bottomed out.
You hadn’t ever been stretched like this, the burn so good. “Yes, Loge, feels so good.”
With your confirmation, he began to move. He pulled out just as slowly as he went in, then drove his hips back into you. he did that a few times, relishing in the feel of your walls around his dick as he moved.
He manoeuvred you so that both of your legs were resting against his shoulders. The new angle had him reaching deeper into you with every thrust. Pulling back slowly, he watched your face as he thrust back in. his dick twitched within you as he watched you sharply inhale, your mouth falling partly open.
“Talk to me,” he rasped. He could see you were enjoying it, but he needed to hear how wrecked the words were when they came out of your mouth. “Keep telling me what feels good.”
There was so much you wanted to say, but instead you settled on, “This. You. Everything.”
He let out a dry chuckle as his thrusts increased in pace. His hand slipped between your legs, coating his fingers in your arousal before moving to your clit. Your hips bucked into his touch.
“Yeah? You like that?”
“I do,” you sobbed.
All you could hear was the sound of your heart pounding in your ears as your vision faded to black. Every thrust now was hitting that soft spongy wall within you.
“Yes! Right there~ don’t stop, Loge,” you begged.
It felt like too much and not enough at the same time. He gasped, feeling you slowly expand and then tightly contract around his length.
You felt his hips falter, his orgasm quickly approaching. “Your pussy is perfect, baby. I’m gonna–.”
“Fill me up, Loge,” you begged, interrupting him so he didn’t even think about pulling out. “Cum in me, please.”
He let your legs drop from his shoulders as he pressed himself onto you so that you were chest to chest. He kissed you as he came into you, his thrusts turning into slow grinds of his hips.
As he came down from his high, he wiggled his hand between your bodies to circle at your clit again.
“I’m so close,” you muffled into his shoulder. “Keep doing exactly that.”
He listened, keeping the same pressure and intensity. You bit into his shoulder, nails digging into his back as you became a mess under the force of your orgasm. Your entire body buzzed as pleasure rippled through you.
Logan groaned against your neck as you squeezed around his softening dick. He lifted his head, eyes still dark and heavy, and pressed a quick kiss to your lips before he slowly slid out of you.
He rolled over, lying flat on his back with a deep exhale. Your body mourned the loss of him, already feeling cold without him surrounding you. a second later, he reached out and pulled you flush against his side.
“As first time’s together go... that was pretty...” you trailed off, tracing a lazy circle on his chest.
“Mind-blowing?” He finished for you, a smug smirk playing at the corner of his lips.
You both laughed then. The sound was bright and easy. it felt so good to just laugh with him again.
“Yes, mind-blowing. Round of applause to you.”
You laughed again as you both started clapping in synch.
“We can never let Dean know he was right by the way,” Logan said as he turned his head to look at you.
“I mean, he probably knows. Knowing him, he was listening through the door the whole time,” you retorted.
You were only half-being serious, but the thought made you both freeze. You simultaneously held your breath, eyes darting to the locked bedroom door, listening to see if you could hear the creak of the floorboards over the bass of the music.
When you heard nothing, you laid your head back on his chest, you knew you should get up and go to the bathroom, but you just wanted to be in this moment for a bit longer.
“We should probably talk about this.” He gestured vaguely between the two of you, his hand moving to rest on your waist. “Like... what this means. For us. For our friendship. Are you okay with everything that just happened?”
“I’m more than okay, Logan,” you whispered. “And we will talk about all of it. I promise. But can we do that tomorrow?”
“Yeah,” he breathed, “tomorrow is fine. I just want to say that I’ve been your best friend for two years, and I’m going to keep being your best friend if you’ll have me. I’ll just also be the guy who loves you.”
You lay in his arms for a little while longer, wanting to just stay in a world where John Logan loved you.
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You spin aimlessly in your desk chair, head shaking as you try your best to fend off your too-extraverted-for-their-own-good friends. Your lit analysis essay had been sitting long forgotten on your desk, the bright screen of your laptop glaring at you as you glare at Pansy and Daph. If they wanted you to leave your and Pansy's tiny, shared dorm room, they would have to drag you out kicking and screaming.
"Nope. Not going," you state definitively to neither girl in particular since neither girl was really paying attention to you at that exact moment.
Both were rifling through your very limited closet space, pushing some clothes to the side and throwing other items haphazardly around the room.
"I know it has to be in here somewhere. I gave it to her for her last birthday, and she wouldn't dare throw out a gift," you hear Pansy mutter until finally, "Aha!"
Pansy brandishes her prize up into the air to reveal the slinky scrap of black fabric that she had indeed gifted you for your last birthday.
"Found it!" she exclaims gleefully, holding the supposed dress out to you—not so much as an offering, but as a direct order.
"Come on, y/n. Pleeease. You have to go! It's Sigma Chi's last rager of the year. And you know their parties are legendary across campus," Daphne begs, grabbing you by your arms and pulling you up from your chair.
"You're going. If for no other reason than to support me in finding out if all the rumors about Draco and his dragon are true," Pansy snickers.
Draco Malfoy was the President of Sigma Chi and he and Pansy had been dancing around each other for ages. If the two of them didn't get together at the party tonight, you weren't sure if you'd be able to sit through another coffee debrief where Pansy speculated about what Draco was hiding in his tailored trousers. Rolling your eyes, you snatch the dress from Pansy's outstretched hand, flipping your friends off before turning around to change.
"Please," Daphne scoffs as you shimmy into the dress. "The only rumors y/n cares about are the ones about Blaise Zabini and who he invites into his bed."
You feel your chest tighten ever so slightly at the mention of his name, but you force yourself to appear unaffected as you turn back around to face your friends.
"Who Blaise takes to bed is none of my business," you say primly as Pansy hands you a tube of mascara.
Blaise Zabini was the Vice President of Sigma Chi. While Draco might have been the face of the Fraternity, Blaise was the one pulling all the strings behind the scenes. He was cold, calculating, arrogant, and just maybe part of the reason you'd been avoiding the party tonight. Because somehow, for reasons beyond your comprehension, his gaze had landed on you. And not just in fleeting glances, but with the kind of stares that caused the hairs on the back of your neck to prickle until your eyes met his from across the room and the corners of his mouth would turn up just enough for you to know you were being watched.
Just the thought of his intense stare was enough for goosebumps to form on your bare arms. Curse Pansy and her skimpy dressing habits.
"Besides," you continue, "I'm pretty sure the only things that the boys at Sigma Chi keep in their pretty little heads, are the rules to beer pong and their little black book." You put a heavy emphasis on the word book as you pop your lips, admiring the thin coat of gloss that you'd applied.
"With the way he looks at you, you're practically in that book already," Pansy snickers, stealing your lip gloss right out of your fingers and applying it herself.
"Hey now. I've known Blaise since we were in diapers," Daphne defends. "He isn't like that. Mostly. He's typically quite picky."
"Yeah. And he picked, y/n. He's practically been eye-fucking her for weeks," Pansy interjects.
You feel heat starting to rise to your cheeks at your friend's vulgar language.
"Wow, I do not want to talk about this anymore. Thank you," you squeak out, rather mortified by the whole conversation.
Because yes, obviously, you'd noticed the way Blaise looked at you. You'd have to be blind not to. And, obviously, you'd noticed the way he flirted within an inch of his life whenever you did make the rare appearance at the Sigma Chi house. And of course, you obviously felt the jolt of electricity that shot through you whenever Blaise went out of his way to make sure his fingertips brushed against yours for any given reason.
Did you want to climb him like a tree? Yes, of course.
But despite what Daphne and Pansy said, and what you knew from your own observation, Blaise was still something of a flight risk to you. He was an enigma and whatever it was about him that made your gut churn about restlessly whenever the two of you were within twenty feet of each other, was not something you needed in your life right now.
"Alright, are we ready?" Daphne asks finally once the three of you had put the finishing touches on your makeup.
"Me? Never," you reply dryly as you try to smooth out your dress.
"Well you better get ready, because you look positively edible," Pansy says, dragging you out the door.
Great. You were practically being served to Blaise Zabini on a silver platter. You'd folded much too easily.
When you arrive, you can already hear music pouring out of the Sigma Chi house as you approach the entrance.
"Names?"
One of the pledges sits inside the door way looking painfully bored as he scrolls through the list of names on his dim laptop.
"Alright, you three are good," he sighs gesturing for you to go on inside.
You can feel the bass pulsating through your veins as you take the usual path to the main room where you're immediately hit by flashing, neon lights and the music's volume suddenly sounds about a thousand times louder. The sensory overload is a bit overwhelming, but a wave of calm flows over you as Daphne hands you a drink and you take your first sip.
"There they are, Sigma Chi's favorite ladies," the familiar drawl of Draco's voice reaches over the crowd as the blonde approaches, his commanding presence parting bodies like water.
"Malfoy. Flattery gets you no where here. You know that," Pansy replies coolly, though you can tell she's eating it up inside.
You watch as Draco smirks down at your friend, his hand finding its way to her lower back as he pulls her to him.
"We're about to start a game. Join us." He looks up at you. "We'll need a fourth. You too."
It's not much of an invitation, but you shrug and follow the two love birds down to the basement where furniture had been pushed up against the walls to make space for the holy grail of frat parties. The beer pong tables.
You feel his presence before you see him—the hairs on the back of your neck prickling just before he appears by your side. He looked good. Mouth wateringly so.
His cologne is strong and his eyes are as hungry as ever as he takes you in, eyes raking over the ridiculous article of clothing that Pansy called a dress. You were beginning to feel a bit self conscious about the way it clung to every bend and curve of your body under Blaise's intense gaze. It was definitely a mistake coming here.
"Didn't know if you'd be here tonight." His voice is like honey in your ear, his breath warm against your cheek.
When had he gotten so close?
"Didn't plan to show. But you know how Daph and Pans can be."
His laugh is low and dangerous and it makes your heart want to beat right out of your chest.
"Come on. Looks like you're with me," he says, hands on your waist as he leads you over to the table where Pansy and Draco are already waiting.
His hands feel like fire, but when he finally lets go, all you want is to feel that delicious burning sensation once more.
But that's not what was important right now. Your focus needed to be lasered in on the game in front of you. Rows of red solo cups, two ping pong balls, and a competitive streak that was begging to be let out.
"I don't like to lose," you warn, looking up at Blaise with a sudden burst of confidence.
You watch as a wicked grin spreads across Blaise's face.
"Me neither."
As soon as the game starts, you lose yourself in the familiar feeling of cheap plastic between your fingertips and the soft splash of a ball being sunk. Despite your best efforts to maintain focus though, you have to wonder if Blaise is acting as a double agent here because he's doing everything in his power to distract you.
"Didn't realize I was playing with a pro," he murmurs into your ear, one hand permanently melded into the small of your back as you play.
"Anyone looks like a pro when you're used to playing against drunk frat boys," you tease back, sinking another cup.
He's so close—every movement results in you brushing up against him—and the warmth of his body radiates off of him, inviting you in. He chuckles again and you hope he doesn't notice the shudder the deep sound sends through you, straight to your core.
You hardly notice your friends in that moment. Daphne had slunk off ages ago, Pansy and Draco were just echoes in the background as your world locks in on Blaise. It was disorientating how much you were drawn to him—how much you wanted his gaze to stay trained on you. Just you. It doesn't even fully sink in when Blaise lands the final shot and Pansy shoots you a good natured eye-roll. You'd won. But all you see are Blaise's dark eyes burning into you, a triumphant smirk on his face. The ping pong ball slips from your finger tips as Blaise leans down to whisper into your ear.
"Let me take you upstairs."
You knew what that meant. Everyone knew what that meant. But in that moment, you wanted it. Bad.
As if in a trance, you let Blaise take your hand, leading you through the crowd and pointedly ignoring the exaggerated wink Pansy sends your way.
The two of you make your way back up to the main floor, and then up the grand staircase where you're met with a dark, quiet hallway. You'd never been to the top floor before. It wasn't like you'd imagined. There's a distinct lack of beer stains on the carpet for one thing. And no street signs hung like trophies on the walls.
Blaise's room is at the end of the long hallway. The last door on the left. And it's exactly how you imagined it would be. Not that you'd ever imagined what his room would be like of course.
Clean would be an understatement. His room was immaculate—everything had a place and was organized down to the last detail. The bed is made perfectly with lush, satin sheets, expertly pressed shirts hang in the closet, and his desk is arranged with surgical precision. You'd never guess that the room belonged to a college frat boy, but it perfectly encapsulates Blaise.
As soon as you cross the threshold, the door clicks shut behind you and you're suddenly aware of just how real the whole situation is. Strangely though, you feel perfectly calm.
It's quiet as Blaise's eyes rake over you once more, seemingly drinking in every detail of his latest conquest. His hands on your waist keep you close and you're sure he can feel the racing beat of your heart. He leans down, lips hovering just centimeters away from your own. Finally.
"Do you want this as badly as I do?"
You barely hear the question as the words ghost across your lips. You tilt your chin up, lips grazing his. He pulls back, gaze staring down at you intently.
"Your eyes are saying yes, but I need that pretty little mouth of yours to tell me the same," he murmurs.
With those words, you're simply putty in his hands.
"Please, Blaise," you hear yourself whine before his lips crash into yours.
It's pure hunger as your arms snake around the boy's neck, pulling him closer and pressing yourself into him. There's no hesitation as your lips move against each other's—just weeks of tension melting away as you let his tongue explore your mouth.
His lips are deliciously soft and taste like cheap liquor—you're sure you could get drunk off his kisses.
His hands move boldly—feeling, groping—no awkward fumbling, just self-assured exploration that leaves your skin burning beneath his finger tips.
You're not exactly sure how you end up perched atop his desk, and you barely register him pushing his things to the side into a cluttered heap. All you can focus on is the gentle pressure of his lips on yours, and the satisfying ache in your core. You feel a shiver run up your spine as one of Blaise's hands slides down your thigh, gripping tightly as he hitches your leg up and around his waist.
You can't help the moan that escapes your lips as Blaise grinds his hips into you, his hard bulge pressing against you. You could swear you hear Blaise growl in response, but it gets swallowed by another heated kiss. He continues to grind into your core, and when you can't take another second of it, your hands find their way desperately to his trousers, tearing away at zippers and elastic until the pesky clothing items are pooled together on the floor.
"Hmm," Blaise hums against your mouth, a smirk clear in his voice. "You aren't very patient are you?" he asks, palming himself in one hand.
"Please," you whimper, trying desperately to find some sort of friction against your soaking core.
"So wet for me. So needy. All you have to do is tell me what you want. And I'll give it to you," he teases, as his lips ghost over your once more.
"I want—need you to fuck me. Please Blaise."
The mortification of begging would probably hit you later, but right now it was the least of your worries.
Apparently that was all Blaise needed to hear though as he pools your dress up around your waist in one swift movement. He doesn't even bother removing the soaked lace beneath, just moving it to the side as he carefully aligns himself.
"Don't even think about stopping now," you groan as Blaise meets your eyes once more.
You'd never seen them burn with such blazing intensity.
He pushes in with one, swift stroke, and your nails dig into his shoulders as you hold on for dear life. You can feel every ridge, every vein inside you as he stretches your walls to their limit.
"You are so, so perfect," Blaise rasps as he slowly begins to move inside you before capturing your lips in another heated kiss.
Your head falls back, eyes fluttering shut as Blaise hits a particularly deep thrust. His lips press against your jawline, your throat, continuing down until they find a hardened nipple through the thin fabric of your dress. You choke on your gasp as Blaise teases the hardened nub with his tongue, all while maintaining a relentless pace inside you. All you can do is lose yourself to the sensation of Blaise pounding into you.
And it was a mind numbing, rhythmic assault, each thrust sending shocks of pleasure up your spine.
You can feel him watching you too. That ever familiar tingle on the back of your neck that let you know his eyes were locked in on you as your mouth opens to let another blissful moan escape.
His angle shifts ever so slightly, and you don't even recognize the sound that comes out of your mouth, but you can feel Blaise's grin against your skin.
"Right there," he preens, thrusting forward and finding his mark again as waves of pleasure wash through you.
He's determined now, hands finding their way to your knees, spreading your legs further and allowing him to push impossibly deeper. You can barely think straight as he pushes you further and further towards the edge, sending your mind spiraling. It was a truly exhilarating feeling.
"So close, come for me," Blaise grunts into your ear, his deep voice melting your insides further.
It doesn't take much more before the waves of euphoria rush over you, your back arching, and toes curling as you clench down on Blaise's cock. The moan that leaves Blaise's mouth is probably the most erotic sound you've ever heard and this time it's your turn to capture his mouth with yours.
You start to see white behind your eyes as Blaise slowly works you down from the edge, soft praise whispered in your ear as his hand find your thighs once more and he lifts. Your legs tighten around his waist as he moves you over to the bed before pulling out. You let out a whimper at the sudden loss.
Your mourning is short lived though because with one, swift movement, Blaise's shirt is up and over his head and godhe was a sight. Then he's on you once more, deft fingers making quick work of the zipper on your dress—then it joins the rest of the discarded clothes somewhere on the floor and you're left in delicate lace that didn't really cover much of anything.
You watch as Blaise leans down to press a soft kiss to the inside of your thigh and heat rekindles in your core.
"Better than I ever imagined. I fucking knew you were perfect," he murmurs against your skin before taking the lace of your panties in his teeth and dragging them slowly down your legs.
You had no idea why you had ever tried to convince yourself that this would be a mistake.
His fingers between your legs draw yet another inhumane sound from between your lips and you watch as Blaise's eyes bore into yours as he licks his fingers clean.
"Still so, so wet for me."
You want to scream, beg him to fill you back up again as he hovers above you, but you'd done enough begging and you needed to wipe that cocky grin off his face.
Hooking your leg around his, you roll him onto his back, effectively swapping positions as you perch prettily on top of him. He gazes up at you with something like pure, unadulterated reverence as you sink yourself back down onto his cock and you both moan out in unison.
His hands find their way to your breasts, kneading the tender flesh, teasing your nipples as you rock your hips back and forth on his cock.
"Fuck. Feels so good," you gasp, relishing the slow, blissful feeling of his cock disappearing into you.
You see Blaise's jaw tighten, his hands falling to your waist now, fingers digging into your skin so hard you're sure that they're imprinted on you permanently. The pace he sets is brutal, hands guiding you up and down as his hips thrust up to meet your own.
The sounds coming out of your mouth are downright sinful as you hear yourself cry out, caught up in the overwhelming sensation of being filled to the brim.
A hand snakes down between your legs, thumb finding your clit—circling once, twice.
"That's it. You can take it," Blaise grunts, thrusting in at a new angle that has you seeing stars.
You feel like your world has shattered as you fall apart on Blaise's cock once more.
"God, you feel so good. Such a perfect little cunt—" Blaise's words come out raspy and you can barely make them out properly through the post orgasmic haze that was clouding your mind.
He's close. You can feel it in the way each thrust becomes wilder than the last. More desperate.
"Please Blaise, fill me up. Come for me."
Your legs tremble as he continues to slam into you, the room spinning as every sensation feels like its magnified.
The feeling of Blaise finally spilling into you, cock pulsing, is pure ecstasy. You hold yourself there—relishing the moment, burning the image of Blaise's climax into your memory.
When he eventually pulls out, you collapse onto his chest, comforted by his soft, rhythmic heartbeat as you lay there satisfied and exhausted, juices trickling down your thighs.
You don't know how long you lay there for, just the two of you and the sounds of shallow breathing. At some point, you roll off Blaise's chest, but he's quick to pull you close, tucking you tenderly beneath his arm as you rest your head on his chest.
Just before your eyes flutter shut, you feel his lips press a soft kiss to your forehead as another arm wraps tightly around you. Safe. Secure.
The room is exactly as you left it when your eyes blink open again—slowly adjusting to the light. You're still tucked comfortably in Blaise's arms and you can feel his steady breath on your neck.
The music is still going downstairs and you can still hear the party in full swing.
You don't want to leave.
But the longer you lay there awake in the warmth of Blaise's arms, the faster the cold, harsh reality of your situation hits you.
This had just been a hookup. It had been a long time coming, sure. Built up over weeks and weeks of pent up sexual tension. But it had only ever been meant to last for a night.
You try to shift quietly, careful not to wake the sleeping frat boy whose vice-like grip was currently holding you hostage. But the more you try to slip away, the tighter his hold on you becomes.
"Where do you think you're going?"
The low timber of his voice sends shivers down your spine and heat begins to crawl up your neck as you realize you'd been caught.
"Back to my dorm. I still have an essay I need to finish," you reply.
The excuse is laughably weak, but you don't know what else to say.
"The essay can wait. Go back to sleep."
His words are deliciously tempting, but you know that if you stay it will only hurt more when you have to leave in the morning. And you weren't anywhere near ready to analyze that particular feeling.
"Blaise, I need to go."
"You don't."
You can feel your frustration mounting as you try again to untangle yourself from Blaise's arms. Forcefully this time. But his grip remains firm.
He shifts the two of you until your noses are practically touching and he can stare intently into your eyes. You're still caged in his arms, but the seriousness in his demeanor makes your body still.
"You. Are not. Going. Anywhere," he says evenly, dark eyes unwavering as he makes his assertion.
You open your mouth to protest, but the words are lost on your tongue as Blaise presses a soft kiss to your lips.
"I have waited far too long to have you here with me. I picked you out weeks ago because you are smart—" a soft kiss lands on the tip of your nose, "and witty—" another kiss, "competitive and beautiful—" a third kiss dusts your nose. "You don't back down, or shy away from my intensity. You are perfect. You are here because I want you to be here, and I want you to want to be here with me."
The words coming out of his mouth don't seem real, but there's a flash of vulnerability in his eyes that makes your heart do a stutter step in your chest as your breath catches in your throat.
"Is this what you want?"
The question hangs in the air between the two of you, and for a moment you feel paralyzed.
This was not the cocky, arrogant Blaise that you were used to. The one that knew he could have anything he wanted with a snap of his fingers and moved with an air of unbridled confidence. This Blaise had uncommon depth and humility that served to draw you in deeper. You liked every version of the boy before you, but seeing—hearing him like this sparked something deep inside you.
Any sense of doubt you might have had disappears from your mind as your head slowly nods 'yes'.
"I want this. I want you. I'll stay."
You can't help the small smile that spreads across your lips as Blaise lets out a sigh of relief before pulling you close once more.
"Go back to sleep. And in the morning I'll take you out and get you a coffee and show the whole campus what's been mine all along."
everyone say thank you to @nottendo for the beta read💜💜
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That was delicious. I genuinely don't think I've seen anyone line up those scene parallels so well before. This was a perfect snapshot of every branch, rock, and mattress they hit on their way down
pairing: chef luca x ex-wife!reader
word count: 6.6k
warnings: established former relationship, discussions of separation and divorce, discussions of moving on, luca and reader has a son, brief mention of blood and minor injury, smut 18+ (fingering, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex, size kink? idk luca's big, dirty talk, creampie)
notes: it's finally here! thank you everyone for your patience, i am a slow writer by nature and life gets in the way, but i finally got around to finish it! happy reading, and do comment, reblog, and send me asks to tell me what you think <;3
✨follow @ficsbygreenorangevioletgrass and turn on the notifications to get alerted for my latest fics ✨
<<< read part 1 here >>>
06.13 PM
Your apartment has never felt so claustrophobic after that little moment you shared with Luca. You try to stay busy in the next hour —tidying up Alfie’s room even after he made it up, checking your email four times, even doing the laundry, for fuck’s sake— as Luca keeps to himself in the kitchen area. Whether Alfie is obliviously enjoying his screen time or purposely ignoring the weird tension between his parents, you’re not entirely sure. Right now, you’re just grateful that he’s not saying anything at the moment.
The boy simply creeps up to the kitchen counter with a shy eagerness about him. “How long ‘til dinner, Dad?”
“3 more minutes, Chef,” Luca answers, focused on the task at hand, so poker-faced that it makes his son giggle.
“I’m not a chef, you’re a chef!”
“Well, where I work, we call everyone in the kitchen ‘chef.’ Out of respect.”
Alfie climbs onto the dining bench in interest, peering up to watch his father set the dish on the plates meticulously. Luca doesn’t miss how the boy deeply inhales the delicious smell in the air.
“Smells yummy.”
“Thank you,” Luca replies, his excitement seems muted although his heart is soaring. He looks up to find Alfie staring at the plate, chin propped up on his little fist. You’ve always said that he looks just like his dad, but in that moment, Luca only sees you. Alfie has the way your mouth tugs ever so slightly into a smile, the way your eyes shine in childlike wonder. In quiet thoughtfulness.
No Michelin star, earned or retained, would ever amount to this.
“Can you go get your mum and tell her dinner’s ready, please?” He softly asks Alfie, as if not wanting to disrupt this peaceful silence. “Thank you, Chef.”
“Yes, chef.” The six-year-old salutes him and pads over to your home office, which doubles as the guest bedroom. The door is open, and he sees you reorganizing the linen closet with your back to him. He hugs you from behind, startling you.
“Oh!” You put your hand on his head, stroking him lightly. “Hey, bub.”
“Daddy told me to come get you and say dinner’s ready.”
“Gotcha. Thank you.” You half-expect him to run off like he usually does, but he lingers, his arms still wrapped around you. “What’s up, bubbie?”
“Nothing.” He buries his face against your side. “Love you, Mommy.”
“I love you too, bubbie.” This makes you smile, pleasantly surprised at this seemingly random admission.
“Love Daddy too, but don’t tell him that,” he whispers as he looks up at you, putting his forefinger in front of his mouth.
“Why not?”
“Sometimes he gets sad when I say that,” he murmurs. “He doesn’t tell me, but I know it.”
Oh. His playful exterior sometimes makes you forget just how emotionally sensitive he is. And it breaks your heart that he can see through the complicated adult emotions with his childlike eyes.
“Alfie…” you level with him and pull him closer, “Your dad loves you very very much, and I’m sure he’d be happy to hear you say that. He’s just sad because… he’s been away, and he misses you a lot.”
“He should come home, then.”
It’s so simple, the way Alfie puts it. His Dad comes home and reunites with him and you, and his puzzle would piece together perfectly again. And you all live happily ever after. The end.
The truth, of course, is not so simple. But maybe, just for tonight… Maybe you and Luca can sacrifice a few of your own puzzle pieces. For your baby boy.
So you get back on your feet and guide your son out of the room. “Come on, bub. Let’s see what Daddy cooked for us, hm?”
When you and Alfie turn the corner into the kitchen-living area, Luca is wiping the side of the plate neatly. He smiles at you somewhat nervously, like he’s not sure what to do with himself, so you throw him the figurative olive branch.
“Smells amazing,” you compliment him as you and Alfie take your seats. “What are we having, Chef?”
Luca’s eyes light up and your heart stops. You stopped calling him ‘Chef’ long ago, when the moniker became synonymous with workaholism and neglect. But there’s no venom in the way you say it tonight. Call him sentimental, but it reminds him of the early summer days in the tiny apartment you first shared in Chicago.
Of blueberry pies and barely there bumps.
He has to remind himself that this whole ‘happy family’ shtick is just a charade now, it’s all for Alfie, it doesn’t mean anything for the two of us, but he can’t help but miss this.
And little does he know, so do you.
“Well, buckle up, you guys, because we are having…” He carries the plates over and serves it to you and Alfie with a flourish, “Baked sweet potato wedges with Mediterranean dip, and our pièce-de-résistance… Alfie’s Nuggies.”
It looks nothing short of beautiful, with the wedges fanned out like autumn leaves underneath a colorful burst of cherry tomatoes, cucumbers, olives, and feta cheese. The chicken nuggets are rich golden brown against the brilliant white plate. The splatters of sauce (is that Tahini?) is a hint of thoughtful chaos on the dish.
Your six-year-old let out a little noise of awe and amazement next to you, but no sound escapes you—not for the longest time.
“This is…” you look up at Luca as if he would have the word you’re looking for.
But his blue eyes just look a lot like I love you.
“Thank you,” you ultimately say, with absolutely no pretense whatsoever.
And if he does hear an ‘I love you’ hidden somewhere in there… he hopes he’s not imagining things.
***
08:37 PM
If you could travel just a few hours back in time and tell yourself that you would spend the whole day stuck at home in a nasty storm with your son and his father that you’re divorcing—and that you’d be okay with it, you would’ve probably scheduled yourself an MRI scan because clearly something is wrong.
But the night is winding down. Luca is tucking Alfie into bed for the first time in months. You are washing dishes in the quiet accompaniment of steady rain and running water, and everything feels just right.
“He’s out like a light,” Luca informs you quietly as he reemerges from Alfie’s bedroom and stops right by the kitchen counter. “Need a hand?”
“Nah, I’m just about done,” you casually wave him off. “You want anything to drink?”
“Uh… what do you got?”
“Scotch, gin…” you pause, not wanting him to get the wrong idea. The sink tap squeaks a little as you shut it off. “...wine.”
His heart skips. Don’t overthink it, he reminds himself. “Red or white?”
“Take your pick,” you shrug nonchalantly.
Luca reaches up to see the bottles of wine you have in store, and you try not to pay too much attention as his shirt rides up around the waist—or the sleeve, showing off the remnants of Alfie’s crayon work over his inks… you’re just two co-parents hanging out. It’s normal, right?
“What about the Malbec?” he eventually chooses, taking out the bottle.
He’s always loved Malbec—this particular brand of Malbec you brought him when he first invited you for dinner on your third date.
Don’t overthink it, you remind yourself. “Yeah, sure.”
You pick up two wine glasses and set them down on the dining table, shuffling into the corner bench. Luca settles into the other bench, directly against the kitchen counter, pouring the wine onto both glasses.
“How many bedtime stories did Alfie manage to get out of you?” you pipe up, swirling the purplish liquid around.
“Just one…” he sips on his wine thoughtfully. “Although he made me read it three times.”
You smile, bemused. “Which one was it?”
“‘The Bear Who Did.’”
“Ah, yeah. He’s been into that one lately,” you muse. “But… for what it’s worth, I’m glad he asked you to tuck him in tonight.”
The two of you exchange a soft look. A ceasefire. A truce, at least when it comes to your son. Because you really do want Luca to have a good relationship with Alfie.
“Me too.”
“And I’m sorry you had to… make do with spending the day with Alfie here.”
He shakes his head softly. “Nah, don’t be. I had a good time. It’s nice to just hang out… at home.”
At home, the words echo in your head.
With you, they echo in his, loud and unsaid.
“So, uh… how have you been?”
“Ah, you know how it is. Work is kicking my ass—my current client’s only two blocks away, but the house is a total fixer-upper, and Alfie’s… Alfie.” You don’t want to backtalk your own son, although you both know how trying he can be sometimes. “But it’s all good. My mom helps out with Alfie, and Jess insists that I go out and live a little every now and again.”
“And do you? Live a little?”
“I mean, within reason. I can’t go clubbing ‘til 4am anymore. I think I’m getting old…” you stretch your arms, feeling that soreness just from your daily activities.
Luca grins, raising his glass. “I hear you. I don’t even really go out anymore.”
“Seriously?”
“Mm-hm.”
You make an incredulous face. It would make sense for you not to go out much, with Alfie and everything. But he was alone, abroad… “Why, though?”
He just shrugs lightly. “I’m working. Whenever I’m off, I mostly just… eat or sleep.”
“I somehow find that hard to believe.” You take a dubious sip. You both know how much Luca enjoys grabbing a cheeky pint. He’s British; it’s in his blood, goddammit.
“Oh come on…”
“You don’t even go out drinking or whatever? Meet people?”
His gaze flashes towards you almost playfully. “Do you?”
Your face falls, not expecting to be caught so off-guard with such an innocent question. And upon seeing that, his face falls. Shit. And with that, the air between you shifts so dramatically.
Stupidly, you still try to save the conversation. “Of course my friends and I go out—”
“You know that’s not what I meant.” His voice darkens, his blue eyes piercing through you.
This conversation is a long time coming. It’s a natural progression of your relationship—or the lack thereof. You separate, you get divorced, and eventually you move on. Two years is a more than acceptable time to start dating again. And still, you phrase out your next words very carefully.
“I’ve been on dates here and there…”
Luca sucks in a slow, calculated breath. “Does Alfie know?”
You shake your head. “It’s nothing serious so far.”
He’s not sure what’s worse, the fact that it’s nothing serious, or that you’re holding out for something serious in the future.
“Look, we both know this is happening sooner or later…”
“I know,” he quickly recovers—or as much as he can recover. He just stares down the stem of his glass. “It just… It’s a lot to take in, that’s all.”
“I understand.” The wine feels like gravel down your throat, and the words coming out of your mouth feel like throwing up a boulder.
“Because I do miss you.”
Your eyes immediately dart over to his, as if you’re not sure you heard it right. “Luca…”
“I miss you everyday. I miss us. I miss everything we used to have.”
Your heart catches—no, stops altogether at his admission. “Luca, we can’t do this anymo—”
He swallows thickly, his jaw setting as he braces himself. “I’ve been thinking about it everyday—the whole time I’m away, and frankly, I’m kicking myself over not telling you this sooner.”
“That’s probably just the homesickness talking.” You turn away. This can’t be possible. This can’t be happening. What the fuck?! “It got you reminiscing about the good old days. Give it time, you’ll come around.” You try to maintain a neutral, distant, cold approach to this, although the crack in your voice betrays you.
“No. That’s not it.”
“Then what the fuck is it?”
Your words cut through the quiet apartment like a flash bang. Luca stops dead in his tracks in his shock, and honestly, so do you. Awful silence hushes over the room, and both of you are almost too afraid to break it. Neither of you even dare to move.
After what seems like forever, Luca moves first. A tear escapes his eye, and he wipes it away with his knuckle hurriedly. “Noma should’ve been a dream. And it is, in a way. I guess.” He stares blankly ahead, his life in Copenhagen replaying in his head like it’s on fast-forward, and the playback seems to just highlight how lonely he is there. “But that doesn’t change the fact that I’m utterly miserable there. I get up and go to work and I just feel empty. Because what’s the point? You and Alfie are way over here, being a family while I’m… doing what?” He wants to tear his hair out, because this is everything he’s dreamed of, and yet he is living the stuff of nightmares. “It makes no fucking sense.”
It makes even less sense to you. You can’t even begin to process this tangled mess in your head. “Luca… we are almost officially divorced. You’re telling me this now? When everything is—”
“I thought I was doing what was best for you. I thought I should just… let you cut your losses and—”
“The best for me? How the fuck did you think giving up was the best way forward for me?” The thought of it burns your eyes with angry tears. They melt, and you don’t do a thing to stop it from running down your face. “You didn’t think to fight for us while you still could?”
Luca’s heart aches to see that. He is dying to reach out and wipe them away, but he can’t. His voice is quiet and small and almost childlike. “I tried. You were just so… sure about the divorce. You had it all figured out. And I… I thought you had no room for me anymore.”
“I had to keep it together. I had to figure it out—for Alfie’s sake. For mine.” You stare at your little potted sunflower on the windowsill. “I don’t see the point in being vulnerable with you anymore when you’re already set on leaving.”
The words have run out. The whirlwind of emotions has passed. What he feels and what he wants is now very clear.
“I shouldn’t have left.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t have.” You wished he didn’t. Everyday for the last two years. And everyday you set yourself up for disappointment because, the truth of the matter is, he did leave. So you stop wishing. “Because I don’t know how to come back from this. I really don’t.”
Nothing that comes out of your mouth is unexpected. But it doesn’t hurt any less to hear it from the horse’s mouth. “It’s just… seeing you guys today… We were a family again. And I would do anything for us to be a family again. Please.”
You sigh heavily. “What else is there to do, Luca…?”
“We can, I don’t know, figure something out, go to couples counseling—”
You groan in frustration, Jesus Christ not this again, wanting to tear your hair out when— CRASH! You accidentally knock over your wine glass and it shatters as it hits the floor. “Shit…”
“Mommy?” Alfie calls you from inside his room, sleepy but alert.
The two of you freeze just before you can move out of your seat. Afraid the slightest of noises would rattle your son.
“Yes, bubbie?” you try to sound bright and normal. Maybe if you can convince him that everything’s fine, he won’t come running in panic.
“What was that?”
“I just knocked over a glass, kiddo, everything’s okay. Go back to sleep.”
You and Luca wait a few seconds with bated breath. One, two, three… ten seconds go by, and there’s no movement in the bedroom.
The coast is clear.
You scramble down to pick up the shards of glass. The spilled wine looks like blood in the dim light of the room. It’s a painful reminder of the broken pieces of your former life, the casualties. He quickly follows suit, as if struggling to put it all back together. The irony is not lost on either of you, you’re sure of that.
“It’s fine, Luca. I got it, I—” a sharp piece of glass accidentally cuts your palm as you pick it up in hurry. “Fuck!”
“You okay?” He takes your hand as quick as lightning, wanting to inspect the wound, but you snatch it away.
“I’m fine.” You get up on your feet, teetering over to the sink, away from the crime scene, careful not to step on any piece of glass.
Yet he still follows you, walking over to where you’re standing now. “Come on. Let me just take a look.” He reaches out to your wrist, running little circles with his thumb to ease your grasp.
“It’s not a big deal…” you let him look anyway, you figure it’s easier to just let him do his thing than to argue your way out of it.
His calluses are brittle against your palm, but he handles you with the gentlest touch. The wound is not too big or too deep, but the sight of blood marring your palm makes his heart drop. There’s no visible piece stuck to it, that’s a good sign, he thinks. He rips off some paper towel and wets it on the sink, and softly dab at the gash, cleaning the wound and wiping the blood off.
You grit your teeth, not wanting to show any sign of pain although it stings. “It’s just a little cut…” your tone bears less and less conviction, as if you have no energy left to argue with him on such a small matter.
There’s a very particular way his eyebrows arch when he’s deep in thought. The left one always sits slightly higher than the right. Blue eyes fixed on the object of his focus. A minute gesture behind the chaos in his head. “You need a Band-Aid,” he points out.
“It’s in the—”
Luca is already opening the drawer next to the stove, taking out a packet of a Star Wars-themed Band-Aid. He still remembers where everything is, and you can’t tell whether the ache in your chest is a good or bad thing.
He puts the Band-Aid on your cut, then takes your hand close to kiss it better, like he used to do.
“Um.” You freeze in your tracks, taken aback. And it seems he’s just as equally as taken aback by his own action. He is flushed with embarrassment, and you feel your face growing hot as well.
He’s the first to break the awkward silence, quiet and tentative. “I’ll clean up the mess. You just hang tight.”
It seems so mundane, sweeping broken glass and cleaning the floor. His body registers it as a simple muscle memory—he must’ve cleaned up messes on this very spot a million times. But his heart is heavy with the burden of your history, and all the pain that comes with your separation. He might not be able to put the pieces back together, but maybe he can clean up the mess and make it nice again for you.
And all the while, you’re stuck to the kitchen counter, watching him so effortlessly reacquainted with his former home. It’s as if he never left. For a confusing moment, it feels like home again. How did you manage without this view, this presence for so long?
Luca puts away the debris in the trash, hidden away in another kitchen drawer next to you, and hovers in front of you, as if wanting to reach out and touch you… but too afraid you’ll push him away.
“Does it still hurt?”
You can’t tear your eyes off of his. The little cut on your hand is but a dull ache now, but the insides of your chest feels like it’s been mangled beyond repair. You burst into tears, sobs ripping through the seams.
His arms wrap around you, keeping your tattered pieces together. Your face is buried in his chest, surrounded by soft cotton and earthy perfume, and your first thought is you can’t remember the last time you were in his arms like this. You rake your mind through all the memories, all the times you hugged each other hello and goodbye and all the times in between, and you can’t remember the last time you stopped, why would you stop—
“My love…” Luca’s voice soothes you, so quietly murmured against your forehead with a soft kiss, yet rings so clear in your ears. He cups your face with both hands, wiping the tears away with his thumbs. “It’s okay... I got you.”
The palm of his hand grazes your lips, and you kiss it the way he kisses your Band-Aid earlier. You have no energy left to fight whatever is going on inside you. You don’t understand the nagging urge to be away from him, when being close to him feels this good. You miss his touch and his voice and his face, and you’re so overwhelmed with longing that you close the distance between your lips and his.
Luca gasps when you kiss him—and it feels like the first breath he’s drawn in two years. Your lips are just as he remembers, just as warm and inviting and familiar, and he relishes coming home to them tonight. He didn’t think he would be so lucky ever again, but now you’re here, kissing life back into him again.
Against your better judgment, you stumble into the bedroom, careful to make as little sound as possible as you tread down the hallway. Still tangled in each other. Refusing to let go even for a second. His five o’clock shadow scratches your skin, following the trail of his lips down your neck.
You push him into bed and climb on top of him without a single thought. You need him close, closer than the past two years, closer than now, and your clothes feel like they’re in the way. Of his hands, of his mouth, of his warmth…
You tear your dress off and throw it away, and he stops in his tracks. He has every part of you memorized, every curve and every ridge, every notch of your stretch marks, every inch of your C-section scar from Alfie’s birth… and yet he’s looking at you for the first time all over again.
“Beautiful…” it escapes his mouth just like that, and you kiss him senseless in return. You worry that if you stop, the moment will pass and this whole thing turns out to be just an illusion.
Or worse, a mistake.
You tug his t-shirt over his head, trying not to linger on his broad chest too long. He gets the idea—he is dying to say something, but doesn’t—and just unclasps your bra in response. He keeps his mouth busy by kissing and licking and sucking your newly exposed breasts.
It’s not that you haven’t been touched like this in a while; it’s just that you haven’t been touched by him like this for so long.. “Luca…”
He never thought he’d hear that again. His name in a wanton sigh, uttered by the lost love of his life. He’s not one to waste his chance. “It’s okay. I got you, my love. I got you.”
Because for the first time in a long time, it’s true. He’s got you. He’s got your body underneath him, your nipple in his mouth, your sweet sex in his hand.
God.
You’re so soft, so warm, so wet against his fingers. The little stuttered moan you let out sounds absolutely heavenly. He remembers exactly the last time he was here.
Christmas Eve, two years ago.
Things had been tense long before that, but Luca was home and able to spend some time with his wife and kid at last. You didn’t seem all that chuffed having him around—whether he was here or not brought out that “neutral look of displeasure” from you these days— but at least you didn’t pull away when he rested his head on your shoulder as the three of you watched Jurassic Park (Alfie’s all-time favorite). Didn’t roll your eyes and turn away when he kissed you and wished you happy Christmas before bed.
And he wanted so desperately for you to openly want him again.
So he tentatively deepened the kiss and reiterated his love for you in every inch of your body that he could get his hands on. Trying to convince you that he was still here. Trying to convince himself that with every orgasm he pried out of you, that you still wanted him there.
But you just… laid there and watched. Hands locked in on the sheets, not even touching him. Motionless as he went through the motions of his thrusts. Numb as he touched and kissed and fucked you the way you used to like. He was fighting a losing battle. He might as well have been making love to a ghost.
“Luca…” Your breathless voice snaps him out of his own intrusive thoughts, more clear and alive and real than any memory of you posing no desire for him.
“I— yeah, sorry. I just…” he shakes off his own thoughts.
“Hurry up, come on…” you needily thrust yourself into his hand.
“You sure?”
No, and neither does he. But at this point, you’re much too stubborn about your decision in the divorce and much too prideful to admit that you want him back and maybe just a tad too eager to make a mistake with him.
So you nod your head yes, and with a searing kiss, he fingerfucks you the way you needed him to.
“Oh, God… fuck…” you sigh under the undoing of his fingers. It’s like he never forgot how to work your body. His fingers play a pattern on your clit that makes you sing. And when one slides into you, crooking and curling against your silky heat…
“Luca, I— now.”
He unlatches his mouth from your nipple almost begrudgingly, as if too sweet to part with you. “Not yet, baby. We can’t…”
“What, why?”
“Because…” he nips at the smooth flesh of your chest thoughtfully. How can he explain it to you in a way that makes sense? “I want…” to take as much time with you as possible, he adds another finger inside you deliciously slow. “I need…” to feel you in every way first, he chants in his head as he kisses you through your orgasm.
Your resolve is slipping, but the craving is as ravenous as ever. You try to squirm in protest anyway. “But…”
“Please.” His lips press against your forehead, eyes squeezed shut. “I got you, okay?”
His blue eyes meet yours, as familiar as the sky you’ve walked under your whole life. As sure as day. And before you realize it, you find yourself nodding along.
Watching him slither further down your body. Mouth paving the way between the valleys of your breasts, up the diamond-hard tops of your nipples.
Down your torso.
Between your nether lips.
You don’t remember the last time you did this either. Memories of attempts to rekindle the romance flash before your eyes. The nights that he climbed into bed late at night after work, still smelling like chocolate or mint or whatever ingredient he was working with that day. Waking you up with the parting of your legs and hushed kisses saying, “Missed you so much, baby…”
“Right there. Yes…” you pant as he laps you up where you’re dripping, catching every drop and coaxing more at the same time.
His eyes close, and he swallows back a needy groan. “Come for me, baby.”
The words shoot right into your core, and you’re suddenly overcome with the waves of pleasure running through you, grinding your hips into his mouth shamelessly. Has he always been so greedy in the way he ate you out?
Your head is spinning with need and you hope the broken words you string up are comprehensible enough for him. “Luca, come on, I can’t—”
“No, please—” he seems to understand just fine, but still he shakes his head and buries his face deeper into you.
“Luca…”
“Wait, just let me—”
So insistent. So stubborn. So… needy. You grasp a fistful of hair on the back of his head. Both heaving, you breathe out,
“Please.”
The word stops him in his tracks. But it’s not so much the word as it is the gravity that comes with it. Whatever the two of you are doing, whatever you’re feeling is beyond words at this point.
It’s just you and him and this need.
And as much as he wants—needs— to satisfy his hunger, there’s just no way of stopping you anymore. Truth be told, he’s not even sure why he’s been stalling you in the first place. Not when you’re so eager to tug his clothes off and touch him absolutely everywhere. To stroke him, and taste him…
“No, baby.” He stops you just before you slither down his body, settling you back on the bed and caging you underneath him.
You throw him a look, indignant. If he’s gonna hold it off some more, you swear to God—
“No, I…” he kisses you hard, hoping you’ll get that he wants you too. More than anything. And that he’ll give you what you want. Hell, he would give you anything if he could come back to this again for the rest of his life. “Just trust me, okay?”
You marvel at the sight before you. So tall and broad and sturdy. With dark blond locks tousled in passion and eyes lidded from lust and longing, and it makes your heart stop because… there it is.
Love.
As much as you shut it out and as much as you avoid it, love is permanently etched to his actions. Tattooed onto the smallest of things. In the way he kisses your temple softly, and the way he caresses your skin as he aligns himself against you, and the way he holds you as he pushes in…
“Luca…” you gasp sharply.
He stops halfway into you, his eyes searching your face with compassion. “You okay?”
You’re aching and craving the stretch of him all at once, but you wouldn’t have it any other way, so you ultimately nod your head. I’m okay.
And he knows that deep down. He feels the same. Soothed and tormented by your very presence, although he can’t help but ask, “Do you want me to stop?” Please don’t ask me to stop…
You shake your head quickly. Neither of you would ever dream of it. You would take everything—the weight and the sting of it all— and he would leave everything behind just to have this again.
Your hips colliding again in a frenzy of a rhythm you haven’t played in so long—still remembering every beat like it’s your own pulse. Your walls gripping him like you wouldn’t let him go.
He shudders a little. “I’m gonna come if you keep doing that…”
“I don’t care,” you murmur into his neck with a kiss, “Come.”
“What…?” He can’t have heard that right… right?
“I want you to.”
“Jesus…” he breathes out. “I wanna make this last, baby—”
You shake your head again and wrap your legs around him almost demandingly. “I want you to come inside me and fill me the fuck up… want you dripping down my legs… please…”
“Fuck!” The images flash before his eyes faster than he can stop his hands from grabbing you by the hips, slamming himself into you.
Nor can he stop himself from coming deep inside you.
There’s no way to describe the way he feels at that moment. The way tension peaks and snaps into release. How it brings you into your climax as well. Your lips must be swollen from the assault of your own teeth as you hold back the filthy noises coming out of you. You don’t mind the building ache in your thigh muscles, because as soon as that warmth fills you up, your body is overcome by waves of bliss.
“Fuck…” he flops back onto his side of the bed—the right side—and quickly gathers you in his chest. It’s an effortless little maneuver, making sense at last as you lay half on top of him.
Your hand finds his—more puzzle pieces coming together as he fills the spaces between your fingers. You bring it to your lips, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. Surprised to find the gold wedding band still adorning his ring finger.
***
9:56 PM
“Was that really your first time since we… you know?” Your murmured question rings loud in the absence of the rain. The storm has finally passed, but neither of you move—neither even dare to bring it up— afraid to ruin the moment.
“It was.”
“Not even in a casual, ‘no strings attached’ kind of situation?”
“No.” He looks almost embarrassed to admit it, but there is no hesitation in his answer.
“Wow…” your heart sinks. Is it possible to feel good and bad at the same time?
Luca pauses for a moment. You can see the conflict brewing in his head. “Did you?”
You don’t have to answer. The sheer silence you take is an answer enough.
The confirmation feels like shit, but he tries to stay neutral. His thumb stills on the back of your hand. “Can I ask how many?”
“Gosh, does that even matter?” You sigh. There’s another argument coming—you can feel it.
“No, I just… I wanna know.”
“You don’t really wanna know.”
“Is it a lot?”
“I mean…”
“How many?”
You take in a sharp breath. There’s no way out of this now. If the truth is what he wants, then the truth is what he shall get. “Twelve.”
He tenses up next to you. The whole world stops, and you can’t help but think, it’s over. There is no way this marriage is salvageable now. “What…?”
“I know that it’s a big number, and I know you might be upset—”
“That is a big number.” He doesn’t say anything about the latter part of her sentence, but it’s obvious that he’s upset, too. “I just… why?”
“I was trying to get over you.” It’s a pathetic answer, but that’s all it is to it. “I couldn’t sleep in this bed for months. I just couldn’t. Slept on the guest bed instead,” you motion at the next room, “and then one day, I couldn’t take it anymore. It’s like a switch flipped inside my brain, and I needed to—”
“What?”
“I needed to… overwrite the memories of you,” you admit feebly. “On this bed. On my body.”
Knife, meet heart. He’s not sure what answer he was expecting, but whatever it was, this hurts so much more. “And did it work?”
“Up to a point…” you pause, a sad smile in realization. “It’s funny. I keep getting bits and pieces of you somehow.”
“What do you mean?”
You close your eyes, your memories flashing, reminding you that every single time reminds you of Luca one way or another. “It’s… somebody’s perfume, or the timbre of their voice, or the way they hold my hand…”
“And you see me in them?”
“Every single one.”
“Jesus…” Luca finds himself relieved and choked up at the same time. He doesn’t want you to ever get rid of your memories of him, but at the same time, it’s painful to hear that you tried anyway.
And you tried very hard.
“I’m sorry.”
He hums, and you realize… he hasn’t let go of your hand. Not once. Not even after your little confession. It makes the argument easier, knowing he’s there. It’ll be easier to part with him again after tonight, you hope, knowing you both did your best to understand. Why you needed to be apart. Why you did the things you did.
The armor has been shed, and the two of you are now naked, in every sense of the word.
Luca turns to look at you, studying your profile. He remembers the last time he was here.
He had just told you about Denmark. Stupid of him to feel excited, to tell you he’d just been offered his dream job, to ask you and Alfie to move someplace new with him, because it turned into a fight.
Worse than a fight; it was a death sentence.
You turned away and stared at the ceiling, and told him you couldn’t do this anymore.
And in some fucked up way, Luca feels as if he’d been brought back in time, and this is his one chance to make it right. So he asks you,
“Do you still love me?”
You breathe out, heart clenching because in spite of yourself, “I do.”
“Do you want us to try again?”
“Luca…” you sigh heavily, “How would that even work? Alfie and I are here, and you have Noma–”
“No more Noma. I’m giving that up.” The answer is straightforward, and he surprises himself over how easily it rolls off of his tongue. How right.
“What? You wouldn’t…” Your face falls as you turn to him.
“I would. And I am,” he says firmly. “Look, I’ve thought about this for months now. I can’t do Noma anymore, I need to be home.” His gaze softens, and you feel the pattern running on the back of your hand again.
Slow and steady and certain.
The tear rolls off the corner of your eye and onto the pillow with the tiniest drop. “I wanted you to come home…”
“Then let me come home. Please?”
“I want to. I just…” you reach out and cup his face tentatively. “I just want to make sure that we’re not doing anything rash.”
His eyes light up. The only thing that matters is that you want him home, too. It takes him everything to let his logical part of the brain take control. “How about this, then?” Luca pauses thoughtfully. “We’ll take a minute. For me to sort out everything at Noma, find a replacement… and for us to figure out if this is really what we wanna do.
“If it starts to feel like a bad idea, maybe we should rethink it. But if it feels good… maybe we can give it another shot.
“And in the meantime, we’ll talk. We’ll FaceTime and… figure out what the hell to say to our lawyers.”
That makes you grimace. You were supposed to have another meeting with your divorce lawyers. Tomorrow is going to be awkward. But awkward beats saying goodbye to the man you’ve always loved, right? It’s a small price to pay.
“What do you say, baby?” He looks at you with all the hope that he has. “Just give me a minute to get everything sorted and then I’ll come home.”
You smile tearfully. “A minute is not enough… how about a month, hm?”
“Yeah, that makes more sense, actually.” He chuckles sheepishly. “A month. I can do that.”
“Good.” You sidle up to him and kiss him where his heart is. You’re willing to settle for having him just for the night, but you can’t wait until he comes home to you for good.
warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, brat-taming, light banter, fluff, blindfolds/ropes, p in v sex, rough sex, dacryphilia, size difference (he's a big boy), bucky fucks mean, aftercare, hair pulling, edging, implications of cheating-no actual cheating, slightly gaslight-y but bucky means well! (me gaslighting), oral (m receiving), miscommunication, arguments, degrading, praising, petnames: "honey" "angel" "sweetheart"
word count: 6.3k
masterlist
a/n: based on this song. and because mob!bucky fucks wild (oops!)
synopsis:
After seeing your husband discreetly forward half a million dollars to a mysterious woman, you can't help but suspect Bucky isn't being loyal. So, you grab his wallet and make him pay for it all, because revenge is better than money.
You couldn’t believe what was staring back at you. You couldn’t believe that your husband of many years would do something like this.
The bright screen displayed banking statements. Several hundreds, then thousands of dollars being sent to a woman you had never heard of—some lady who went by the name “Samantha Wilsbury.”
You had never heard of this woman in your life. Neither Bucky nor his crew had ever mentioned her. Bucky trusted you completely with all his banking and money information. When you first saw the five thousand dollars sent to Ms. Wilsbury, you didn’t blink an eye. You knew how demanding his job was; transactions were constant, money moving in and out so often that you hadn’t even bothered to check up on it anymore.
The only reason you started caring was because of the new transfer staring back at you right now.
Half a million dollars sent to Samantha Wilsbury.
With an accompanying message that read: “Treat yourself to something nice. — B.”
A million emotions came crashing down hard on you. This empire that Bucky had built for you, all the vows he said with tears in his eyes when you two got married, all the hopes and dreams of having a family together—all of it was thrown away in one cold and daunting wireless money transfer and a five-word sentence.
Your heart should have sunk at the sight. You should have closed the laptop, run to your king-size bed, and started crying. You should have ripped apart Bucky’s Prada tuxedos, or keyed his precious Bugatti.
But you didn’t.
Instead, you closed the laptop calmly. You put on your best dress, slipped into your fancy heels, applied your overpriced makeup, grabbed all of his credit cards designated for your use, and walked out the front door with a fur coat and the keys to his Rolls-Royce.
No bodyguard, no chaperone.
All you needed was your rage, and his money.
The first stop was Dolce & Gabbana. The Vittoria Calfskin bag. Fall and Winter collection. You barely even tried it on before deciding you also wanted the larger size in leather, and with one quick swipe of Bucky’s black card, he was already down eight thousand dollars in the span of fifteen minutes.
Bucky normally never batted an eye whenever you spent his money—in fact, he encouraged it. But despite that, you rarely splurged. You believe that spending extravagantly is a privilege, not a right. The most you would typically spend in a day would range between thirty and a hundred dollars—never over. When a few minutes passed and he still hadn’t reacted to your sudden eight-thousand-dollar transaction, you figured this wasn’t nearly enough.
You were just scraping the surface.
The next stop was Versace. You picked up a black wool-cashmere coat with an A-line cut, a mere four thousand dollars. And you might as well pick up a few pairs of pumps, right? Black wool matches with everything. So, you added a red La Medusa Slingback pump and a Gianni Ribbon Patent pump in both burgundy and light pink. While you were there, you completed your unnecessary brand-new outfit with the signature cat-eye and square sunglasses in black.
Another swift swipe of his card, and he was down another seven thousand dollars.
You knew that Bucky was drowning in work—whatever mob bosses like him do. You knew his day was going to be stressful, and adding to his stress little by little for his infidelity was going to be the perfect cherry on top.
Meanwhile, Bucky’s phone was pinging with back to back notifications from his bank.
Purchase Approved: $34,960.00 at Chanel Boutique, Atlantic Ave., Brooklyn Heights.
If this wasn’t you, call your concierge banker.
Purchase Approved: $25,400.00 at Tiffany & Co., Pierrepont St., Brooklyn Heights.
If this wasn’t you, call your concierge banker.
Purchase Approved: $19,480.00 at Cartier, Bedford Ave., Williamsburg.
If this wasn’t you, call your concierge banker.
Purchase Approved: $50,340.00 at Jimmy Choo, Front St., DUMBO.
If this wasn’t you, call your concierge banker.
He raised his brow in confusion as he stared down at the purchase history on his phone. He could never be upset over you spending his money. But he couldn’t help but be curious about his wife, who usually stayed at home and only spent money on takeout, was suddenly lavishing herself with designer purchases, all in the span of two hours.
Bucky brought up your contact information, a smile tugging at his lips as his fingers worked over the keyboard.
Bucky: You having fun, baby?
You left him on read for about five minutes, but you eventually replied.
You: Lots of it.
Bucky wasn’t the best when it came to reading undertones through text. After reading your message, he felt a strong swell of pride. His smile grew wider, happy knowing that he was the source of your enjoyment—his money, his hard work, and you were finally using it to treat yourself to something nice.
His heart raced with anticipation. Had you gone and bought yourself a sexy set of lingerie? Some more bedroom heels to add to your tumbling pile of stilettos? Regardless of what it was, he couldn’t wait to see you prance around in it.
Bucky: I can’t wait to see what you’ll put on for me tonight.
You: 👍
For the rest of the day, Bucky’s mind was occupied with thoughts of you.
He imagined you waiting for him at the house with a bright smile, surrounded by shopping bags bigger than you. He pictured you, head to toe, dressed in Fleur du Mal—a silk robe, sheer tights, and black lace. His favorite.
In the backseat, one hand clutching a fresh bouquet of roses, he used his other hand to subtly adjust himself. His erection kept pulsing in his pants as he clearly pictured the scene; you meeting him at the edge of the bed, your bare legs on full display as you walked across the marble floors in your brand-new Louboutins.
“Fuck,” he mumbled to himself, tugging at his belt to ease the growing tightness. Unfortunately for him, the shuffle of his hips only pressed his cock harder against his slacks—the friction instinctively making him throb for more.
He sat up straighter, one hand clamping hard on the driver’s seat. “Mind stepping on the gas a little? My wife is waiting for me at home.”
“You’ve got a special date night planned for Mrs. Barnes?” the old man behind the wheel cooed, peering at him through the rearview mirror.
Bucky was never one for small talk—but he didn’t mind this time. He only smiled, smoothing his hair back as he pictured your face, beaming once he stepped inside with the bouquet of roses. He had a rough day. Work was demanding, calls were incessant, Sam and Steve couldn’t get the job done right, and the only thing he wanted was to go home and make sloppy, sweet love to his adoring wife.
“You bet I do.”
When Bucky walked through the double front doors of his mansion, he expected to find you waiting for him in the foyer, jumping into his arms and marking his face with red lipstick as you always do.
Instead, he found his butlers hauling boxes and suitcases—your suitcases—down the stairs.
One of them looked up, catching their breath. “Good evening, Mr. Barnes—”
“What the hell is this?” Bucky hissed. “What is going on here? What is my wife’s luggage doing in the middle of my foyer?”
One of the butlers straightened, swallowing hard. Bucky could see a trail of sweat trickling down the side of the man’s head as he spoke. “Mrs. Barnes told us that she’ll be moving to the spare house in Santa Fe, sir. She requested that we have her belongings packed no later than—”
“Moving?” Bucky scoffed, raising his hands in disbelief, rose petals flying everywhere. “Moving? Packing?”
All of the men froze, standing there like deer in headlights. They glanced at each other, none of them knowing what else to say.
“Where is she?” Bucky asked, his voice surprisingly quiet.
None of them moved an inch.
“I said,” Bucky exhaled, finally losing his patience. “Where the hell is my wife?” he barked, his voice echoing off the grand entrance walls.
One of the butlers raised a timid finger, pointing up past the stairs. “S-she’s in the master bedroom, sir—”
The poor man couldn’t even finish his sentence before Bucky shoved past him, the sound of his expensive shoes clicking urgently against the clean marble floors. He left a trail of angry rose petals as he stomped up the stairs. His heart was beating anxiously fast, his ears ringing with the words “moving” and “belongings packed.” He hadn’t felt this anxious since his best friend Steve got shot during a job.
Bucky couldn’t believe it—you, his precious wife, the very person he devoted everything to, was going to milk his bank accounts and leave without a word or explanation.
He practically kicked the door down, finding you in the middle of the master bedroom—not in the silk robe and red bottoms he expected—but tossing clothes haphazardly into your luggage.
“Oh,” you said, turning to him and narrowing your eyes. “You’re home.” You then dug back into the closet, dismissing him as if he were one of the butlers.
He tip-toed around the bundles of clothes you had strewn all over the floors, the sad display of roses still clutched in his hands. “Honey,” he began with a voice that was softer than how he spoke to the butlers downstairs. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m leaving,” you said flatly, tossing a shirt into the suitcase without another glance.
He frowned, setting the flowers on the dresser before walking over to you. He rested a gentle hand on your shoulder, the touch immediately making you stiffen.
“Baby,” he sighed. “If you needed a little private getaway, you should’ve just told me. I can book us something right now, somewhere far with just the two of us—”
“No, Bucky,” you turned, glaring up at him. “I’m leaving you.”
All the color drained from his face and the ringing in his ears only grew louder. His vision started to blur, and he blinked once, then twice, before he forced himself to focus back on you.
“What?”
You didn’t say anything. You didn’t trust yourself to speak. You pressed your lips together, keeping your head down and your eyes focused on the task at hand: packing your belongings into a suitcase. While you were walking back and forth from the closet, all Bucky could do was stand there, jaw agape and his eyes wide.
“What the hell do you mean you’re leaving me? Where are you going?” Bucky snapped, but you continued to ignore him. You moved as though he wasn’t even in the same room as you.
“Angel, answer me.”
You still ignored him. You brushed past him, your heels clicking against the floor as you bent down to pick up a stray dress you had thrown. Before you could even stand up completely, his hand wrapped around your arm, giving it a light squeeze and forcing you to face him.
“I told you to answer me, sweetheart,” he frowned. His hold on you was tight, but his voice was soft. Even then, you could tell it was taking everything in him not to shake you for an answer.
“You want an answer, Bucky?”
He nodded.
“Then why don’t you answer this—” you pulled your arm away in one harsh tug, jabbing a finger into his chest, “—why don’t you explain the series of transactions you’ve been sending to this random woman you’ve told me nothing about—”
“Series of transactions?” His brows furrowed. “Random woman? What are you talking about—”
“Don’t act like you don’t know!” you snapped in his face. His eyes widened in surprise. He opened his mouth to speak, but you breezed right on, not caring what he had to say. “Thousands of dollars being sent daily—whatever, that’s nothing. But half a million dollars with a message saying ‘treat yourself’ to a... Samantha Wilsbury? Are you kidding me? Who the hell is that, anyway? A hooker?”
Bucky blinked. “Okay, hold on—” His words died in his throat as you pushed past him roughly, causing him to stumble back a bit.
You zipped up your luggage, hauling it off the bed. “I’m not sticking around to hear whatever you have to say. I don’t care about the money or the luxury life. If the man who was supposed to be the love of my life isn’t being loyal to me, then what the hell is the point?”
“Sweetheart, stop,” he stood in front of you, halting your movements. “Stop this. You’re not going anywhere. Just listen to me—”
You glared up at him. “There’s nothing for you to say. I’ve already made my decision. I’m leaving.” You rolled your luggage, trying to move past him, and he trailed after you, calling your name, but you didn’t look back.
“Christ, baby. Listen to me!”
“Don’t push me, Bucky. Be glad that I’m only leaving your sorry ass with a mere dent in your bank account and didn’t crash your fucking car—”
“Samantha Wilsbury is a man!”
You paused at the doorframe, looking over your shoulder at him, your hand still gripping the luggage handle. “What?”
Bucky ran a hand through his hair, frustration and exhaustion evident in his voice. “Samantha Wilsbury isn’t some woman I’m sneaking around with—it’s a code name. For Sam.”
You raised a brow. “Sam Wilson?”
“Who else?”
“Well—I don’t know! You don’t tell me anything!”
“You never really asked,” Bucky frowned. “And besides, I don’t want you worrying about my silly little job,” he explained, as if he wasn’t the mob boss of all of Brooklyn. “Your job is to be sitting at home, safe and sound, wearing your cute outfits—like a good little wife should.” He took a step closer, looking down at you as he cupped your chin between his fingers, tilting your head up to look at him. “Not spending all of my money out of spite without hearing me out first.”
You furrowed your brows. “What the hell could you possibly be sending half a million dollars to Sam for? And what was up with that ‘treat yourself to something nice’ message, then?”
“I sent him that money to clean out a property to protect us from an investigation,” Bucky let out a long exhale, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “And the ‘treat yourself to something nice’ message is code for a successful transfer.”
You frowned and crossed your arms tightly over your chest, still not convinced. You had seen the messages “treat yourself to something nice” once or twice—but they were usually sent to men like Steve Rogers or Tony Stark. None of which had ever been sent to a woman.
Bucky sensed your hesitation and let out another sigh, his thumb rubbing your chin soothingly, then tracing the curve of your lips slowly. “You’d really think I’d be unloyal to you—my wife of many years?” His blue eyes bore deep into yours before trailing down to your lips, then to the line of your jaw. “You have access to everything I own. My credit card information, my phone, all of my passwords. I’ve always been so open with you, angel. You know that.”
You pressed your lips together, averting your eyes to avoid his gaze. It was true—Bucky gave you access to everything. Everything he said made sense, but even as you stood here, slightly embarrassed by your overreaction, your pride was still standing strong.
You had a hard head—always so damn confident to the point you didn’t like to be proven wrong. That’s why Bucky married you.
“Well, what else was I supposed to think? You don’t communicate with me.”
“And you think this,” he motioned around the messy room, “packing your bags and swiping my cards is communicating?”
You stayed silent, your jaw clamped stubbornly tight.
Bucky gave your chin a squeeze, making your lips plump out slightly. He shook his head, clicking his tongue in disapproval.
“That’s not what a good wife does, you know?” he mumbled, his voice growing quiet and deep. “Good wives don’t think their devoted husband is out cheating on them. Good wives don’t milk their husband’s bank account dry out of spite,” he continued, his thumb probing against your glossed lips. “And good wives certainly don’t pack up their stuff and leave without a word.”
He then pushed his thumb past your lips. Your mouth closed around his finger as you blinked up at him. “Now make it up to me and suck.”
“Bucky…” you muttered, your voice muffled around his finger.
“No,” he shook his head. “I told you to suck,” he demanded.
His other hand flew up to the back of your head, giving your hair one harsh tug before holding you still as he pushed his thumb deeper into your mouth. His hold was tight, but his words came out gentle. “Be a good wife for me now.”
You never broke eye contact with him. Your cheeks slowly began to hollow out as you sucked on his thumb, letting out soft whimpers as he began to stroke it back and forth into your mouth.
“Look at that,” he breathed, exasperated. “You look so damn cute when you’re not spouting lies in my face.”
You swallowed the saliva building up in your mouth around his finger. “I… mmph—thought—”
“I know,” he cooed gently. “I know what you thought. And you thought wrong—letting your pretty little head wander to every bad thing without consulting me first.”
You only muffled around his finger as he rocked it back and forth against your tongue. The sight of you like this—hair tousled by his own hands, your plump and glossed lips sucking eagerly at his thumb, and the soft, helpless whimpers vibrating out of your mouth—only made his cock throb in his pants.
If his erection was unbearably hard on the car ride home, his cock was practically jumping out of his slacks now. He watched his thumb, glistening with your spit, stroking in and out of your warm mouth.
“Fuck,” he grunted, pulling his thumb out with a wet pop. He smeared his wet finger over your sloppy, glistening lips. With a growl, his hands started working on his belt and zipper, looking down at you with hungry eyes. “Get on your knees.”
You barely had time to wipe your wet lips with your hand before his rough hand found your hair again, quickly pushing you to your knees before you could protest. You stumbled to the floor, your hands catching on his clothed thighs as you let out a startled gasp, coming face-to-face with his cock, already hard and swaying.
You yelped as he tugged your hair back, forcing you to arch your neck to look up at him. “Buck—” before you could finish saying his name, he grabbed his shaft, slapping your soft face with his cock—it was heavy and warm.
A low groan rumbled from his chest as you winced, urging him to continue giving your face gentle slaps with his dick. He smeared his pre-cum all over your face—your cheeks, your lips—ruining the time you took to make yourself look pretty in a matter of seconds.
“Look at you, princess,” he taunted, a grin tugging at his lips. “How cute of you to think you’d be able to leave me. Got all your bags packed, and now you’re here on your knees, with my cock—my scent—all over your pretty little face.” He let out another groan, his cock probing at your closed lips. “Real cute.”
“You’re ruining my makeup,” you whined.
The act was humiliating and degrading, yet you couldn’t deny the arousing feeling that came with it. It was a shameful part of you that you knew Bucky took advantage of—and tonight was no exception.
He let out a sigh of pleasure, rubbing the tip of his cock against your cheek. “Don’t know why you’re so worried about that. You’re not going anywhere anymore,” he rocked his hips gently, the warmth of his shaft rubbing along your face. “You’re going to stay right here, on your knees, where you belong.”
Bucky gave your hair another tug, pulling your face closer. “Now suck.”
When you didn’t move, he poked his cock against your lips, nudging his tip past your mouth. Your eyes fluttered shut as you felt his length slowly slide against your tongue, your lips stretching around his shaft as he started to rock his hips. You tried not to gag as he eased himself in.
“I know blow jobs aren’t your favorite because you can’t fit it all in,” he tossed his head back and groaned before looking back down at you. “But after that little stunt earlier—you owe me this.”
His grip on your hair tightened as he nudged you deeper, bobbing your head up and down against his shaft. Tears pricked at your eyes as his cock hit the back of your throat, choking around his length before he pulled away, giving you room to breathe.
“Fuck. I’m sorry baby,” he rasped before moving your head back down, causing you to gag and cough around his cock. “You just look so damn cute trying to take it all.”
He pulled more than halfway out, letting you catch your breath before he went back to fucking your mouth, his thrusts shallow as the tip of his cock disappeared in and out of your warm, pillowy lips.
You looked up at him, your eyes glossy with tears as you sucked at his cock. The sight of your angry husband—his eyes fluttered shut, his brows knitted tight with frustration from earlier, his jaw slightly hung open as desperate groans and grunts escaped his lips, his hips rocking into your mouth slowly—it was enough to make your cunt flutter. Your hands clenched around his slacks, your tongue now fervently lapping around his dick—trying to please him.
“Bu-Buck—mmm,” you muffled around his cock. “P-please…”
He shuddered, the soft rumble of your words vibrating around him. His eyes landed back down on you—pulling your face away and drawing his hips back, his length leaving the warmth of your sweet mouth with a wet pop.
“Fuck—what’d you say, baby? Did you just say ‘please’?”
You let out a cough, sniffling as you nodded your head. He growled, a strange feeling swelling in his chest. The sight of you catching your breath and tearing up after what he’d just done made him want to take care of you—but also ruin you completely.
“Get up,” he commanded, grabbing your arm and hauling you to your feet in one swift motion. He then nodded toward the king-size bed. “Go.”
You swallowed hard, your heart beating faster in your chest. Bucky was usually gentle with his lovemaking. He never barked orders at you, only at the people who worked for him. To see him take charge like this made you move to the bed without a second thought. It scared you, but you were also excited.
You kicked your heels off and lay down in the center of the bed, but as you got comfortable, you didn’t see Bucky follow. Instead, he walked over to the dresser, pulling out the third cabinet.
He reached in slowly, digging around before pulling out a rope and a silk blindfold.
“Wait,” you spoke up, grabbing his attention. “I don’t want to be blindfolded. I want to see you while you—”
He scoffed. “Honey, you’re not in any position to be making demands now.” He shut the drawer roughly, taking slow and heavy steps toward you, the rope and blindfold clutched tightly in his hands.
“I don’t care if you want to see me,” he said, grabbing your hands roughly and pinning them to the bedpost. He ignored your whimpers as he began tying the rope around your wrists and the frame, his movements precise and swift.
He stepped back, looking down on you. “Go on,” he taunted. “Give it a nice tug for me.”
And you did. It didn’t budge.
Bucky hummed in approval. “Good. Now you can’t run away.”
He lifted the blindfold, bringing it closer to your face. You squirmed, turning your face away and avoiding the silk.
“I don’t want to be blindfolded,” you whined, writhing on the bed. “I want to see you!”
When he failed to put it on, he let out an agitated groan. With one hand, he grabbed your chin, squeezing your cheeks to force you to face him.
“And I wanted you to be a good wife and show me the things you lavished yourself with after my shitty day at work,” he hissed. “But instead, I walk in to find U-Haul boxes all over my foyer, the bedroom a mess, and my wife threatening to leave. And now you want to see me?”
He let out a laugh, the sound completely condescending, but it only made your panties wetter.
“No. You don’t get to see a damn thing, spoiled brat.”
He quickly tied the blindfold around your eyes, the black silk blinding you completely. You were stuck on the bed, immobilized and blind as a bat. You let out a shaky exhale as you heard the sound of his clothes ruffling; the careless toss of his expensive shoes, the belt, and his pants hitting the ground.
You felt butterflies in your lower belly once his weight pressed down on the mattress, his warmth and scent growing closer to you.
There was a brief, agonizing pause. You could feel his presence. He was close, unbearably close, yet he didn’t move.
“Bucky,” you breathed. “You’re still there, right? W-what are you waiting for?”
He didn’t reply. The only sounds you could hear were the light shuffle of the bed and the sound of skin rubbing against skin. Then, his breathing grew heavy, and quiet grunts escaped his mouth.
He was jerking off to the sight of you—bound, blind, and completely helpless.
“S-sweetheart, please—” you pleaded, your legs squirming and thighs squeezing together to soothe the ache that had been left unattended. “Please, touch me.”
“Yeah? You want me to touch you? After you threatened to ‘leave my sorry ass’?”
A pathetic, almost whiny sound left your lips before you could stop it. “I know what I said was stupid, but fuck, just please, just touch me.”
He crawled closer to you, his fingertips trailing the hem of your dress. “Touch you here?” His hand started crawling up underneath, smoothing across your bare thigh and rubbing over your clothed pussy. “Or here?”
“Just undress me. Do something—”
You let out a sharp gasp as his hand suddenly came up to the V-neck of your dress, and in one harsh pull, the fabric tore right through the middle—his strength ripping it apart as if it weren’t a thousand-dollar dress, as if it were simply cheap wrapping paper and he was opening his present.
“No fucking bra,” he gritted through clenched teeth, disapproving. “You weren’t wearing a fucking bra when you were out shopping in this tiny little dress?” his hands found the waistband of your lace panties, ripping that open in one hard tug. “And lace. My favorite. You were never planning to leave, were you? You were just hoping to piss me off—begging to get fucked.”
As if anything you could possibly say mattered—as if you had any pride left—you shook your head in futility. “No, I—”
Before you could finish your sentence, his rough hand clamped hard on your thigh, making you jump. Without warning, he poked his cock against your slit, his tip catching at your entrance.
You were already so embarrassingly wet that his cock head slipped inside, your walls already fluttering around him; accommodating him, inviting him in.
“Oh my God!”
His thumb found your clit, giving it slow, soothing rubs. “Fuck, that’s just the tip, and—and—shit, you’re so fucking tight,” he rambled. He slowly pushed in deeper, testing you as his cock went about halfway in.
Your cunt stretched around his pulsing cock, the burn slightly painful as you tried to adjust to his size. You wanted to hold onto him, you wanted to look into his eyes as he fucked you, but you were bound and helpless. The very thought of being spread open, tied up for your husband’s pleasure, only made you wetter.
And that only made it easier for him to slip inside even deeper.
He moved his hips, his cock slowly sinking further inside. A low groan rumbled from his chest—and God, you wished you could see his face right now. You wished you could see your husband, eyes shut and head thrown back at the feel of your tight pussy clamping down on him.
“God—so fucking…” he grunted, rocking his hips back and forth, slowly easing the rest of himself in, “warm, so hot and warm—and tight. Jesus—”
You cried out as his hand moved your thigh up and over his shoulder, your leg swaying helplessly in the air as he fucked you—this new angle allowing him to drive into you deeper. Your warm walls clenched around him, welcoming every ridge, every pulse, as he rocked his hips back and forth.
The bed started to creak as a litany of curses left Bucky’s lips; “Fuck, baby. Feels so damn good.” “Don’t want to stop, don’t ever want to stop fucking my girl.”
His fingers circled your clit even faster, making you arch your back and your legs tremble around him even more.
You couldn’t touch, you couldn’t see, you couldn’t even form a coherent thought. He had reduced you to a babbling mess as he fucked you so deep—the only thing you could do was feel.
“Can’t believe…” he rasped, the sounds of his heavy breathing and skin slapping against skin filling your ears, “… you actually thought you could fucking leave me.” He gripped your thigh harder, holding your leg up. “Spend all my fucking cash,” his fingers sped up against your clit. “And leave me just like that. Shit—this is what fifty thousand at Cartier gets you—blindfolded and tied up for my fucking pleasure.”
His nasty and filthy words made you feel warm, your pussy fluttering around him helplessly as you felt yourself getting close.
“Oh my god, don’t stop, Bucky! I’m going to—”
He let out a disapproving grunt, stilling his hips—or rather, forcing his hips to stop—and his fingers paused right above your clit. “You know what I just realized, honey?”
You gasped, lifting your head up off the pillow and looking at him—despite being blindfolded. “W-why’d you stop—”
“I just realized you haven’t apologized,” he pointed out. “I haven’t heard a single ‘I’m sorry’ leave your lips yet.” He slowly moved his hips back, the tip of his cock kissing your cervix goodbye. “All I’ve heard from you tonight were lies and demands—begging me to fuck you. And here I am, giving you what you want.”
“Bucky,” you whined, your voice rising higher in pitch the more you felt his cock retreat. “Please, don’t—”
“God, what kind of husband am I if I let my wife brat out like this?” He laughed, incredulous. “What a fool I am.” He pulled back far enough that only his tip remained inside you—just barely.
“No!” you cried, your voice shaky. You rocked your hips, trying to sink back down on him, but the ropes against your wrist kept you in place.
He gave you one very short, very shallow thrust with just the tip. “Go on, sweetheart. Tell me you’re sorry.”
One thing Bucky knew was that you were very prideful. So prideful that he’d tear down his own just to make you happy. But how much pride could you hold onto when you were lying here, completely bare and tied up, with your vision gone and desperately needing to come?
“I’m… I’m sorry,” you mumbled.
“What was that?” he moved his hips back, only half of his tip inside.
“N-no!” you gasped. “Don’t leave me like this—please. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry!”
He sighed, clicking his tongue disappointedly as he withdrew completely, his cock leaving the warmth of your pussy with a wet pop, leaving you utterly empty—leaving you fluttering around nothing.
“And here you are, still making demands.”
“No, no!” you cried out, shaking your head. You writhed on the bed, tears spilling down your cheeks and dampening the silk. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I’m sorry for not communicating with you—I’m sorry for not trusting you—please. Please don’t leave me.”
Without another word, Bucky grabbed both your legs, pulling them up again and against your chest, nearly folding you in half as his cock pushed past your entrance—giving you one hard and deep thrust, filling you up completely again in a matter of seconds.
“Good girl.”
You arched your back off the bed, moaning in pleasure as he filled you deeply. He fucked you harder, harder than he had before, your body shaking and bouncing uncontrollably against the mattress, the bed frame hitting the walls obscenely.
“Fu-fuck… yes, Bucky!”
“Shit,” he grunted, leaning down so that his body completely enveloped yours. “Feels so fucking good, angel.”
Your hips were aching because of the fold he had you in, but you didn’t care. You were so close, and you knew he was too. His hips started to move into a frantic rhythm, his cock throbbing inside you, his breathing growing heavier and uneven.
You let out a cry as you felt yourself come undone unannounced. Your pussy clamped down on him hard as your body shook with the overwhelming sensation. Bucky still pounded into you—chasing his release right after yours.
“God, baby. You’re gripping me so tight—fuck,” he grunted. “Shit. Gonna fucking cum, sweetheart. Gonna pump you full.”
And with one, hard, sloppy thrust, he filled you completely with his seed. He moaned loudly before his body dropped on top of yours, his hands wandering all over your body lazily, groping and feeling you as his body trembled with pleasure.
With shaky hands, Bucky removed the blindfold from your face, and you squinted, your eyes adjusting to the sudden light. Once your vision focused, you were met with Bucky’s gaze—soft, adoring, with that lazy boyish smile. It was a complete contrast to how he had treated and spoken to you just a few moments ago.
“Look at you,” he breathed, in awe. “Your makeup’s all over the place.” His finger crept up to wipe a stray tear from the corner of your eye, trailing down the curve of your jaw. He ran his thumb over your lip before leaning in and pressing a soft kiss. “So pretty.”
You melted into his kiss before he pulled away. You wanted more of him. You wanted him to hold you and you wanted to wrap your arms around him. You tugged against the ropes that bound you to the bed, giving him a frown.
“Untie me,” you requested.
“I don’t know,” he teased, smiling. “I like seeing you like this.”
Your frown deepened into a dramatic pout. “Untie me!”
“Say please,” he laughed softly. “Haven’t you learned your lesson?”
“Please?”
Bucky let out another quiet laugh, his hands coming up to untie the knot around your wrist. Once you were finally free, you let out a small wince, rubbing at your wrist from the slight burn of writhing against the rope. He frowned, grabbing your wrist and looking down at them.
“You were moving around too much, baby.” He brought one wrist up and kissed it gently, then did the same thing to the other. “This is why I don’t like using ropes on you. Come here,” he shuffled around on the bed, moving your body easily against his.
He held you close as you both lay there in silence for a moment, your breathing steadying and softening as he gently caressed your hair.
After a moment of silence, he spoke up again.
“You don’t think I’d actually cheat on you, do you?” he asked, his voice quiet and slightly breaking at the end.
“No, I—I… should’ve heard you out before going all money crazy,” you sighed into his chest. “It was so obvious too—Samantha Wilsbury is a ridiculous code name.”
Bucky chuckled, the vibration comforting against your cheek as you lay against his bare chest. “At least you had a good time shopping, right? Who chaperoned?”
You hesitated for a second. “No one.”
His hands stilled in your hair. He pulled away slightly to look down at you, but you kept your face buried in his chest. “No one was with you? You were out alone? What the fuck—I’m going to kill Walker—”
“No,” you protested, chuckling softly. “Don’t kill him—” you warned, because he would actually do it. “I wanted to go alone.”
“That’s dangerous, baby,” he frowned. “But at least you’re home safe and in my arms, I suppose. Just don’t do that again.” He sighed, his fingers running lazily through your hair again. “What’d you buy today? I want to see.”
“Oh. I don’t have them,” you said casually.
His fingers paused in your hair a second time. “You mean, you left the shopping bags in the Rolls-Royce?”
“No,” you shook your head against his chest, nuzzling even closer, preparing for a nap. “I donated them.”
“Wait. What?”
Later that week, Bucky was out on another grueling mission. He was gone all day, and curiosity got the best of you. You were scrolling through his bank statements again, and the sight of the most recent money transfer made you snort.
Three hundred thousand dollars had been sent to a Stevie Rodgina with a message that read: “Take this money and shove it up your ass. — B.”
Summary: After your boyfriend cheats with your best friend, you enlist Theodore Nott in a fake relationship to get revenge
A/N: I fear this was better in my head
credits to @cafekitsune for the divider!
There comes a moment in every girl’s life that cements itself into her mind. It takes up a corner of her brain and becomes the foundation for every action she takes thereafter. It rewires her chemistry, ensuring that, years later, it will resurface unbidden, vivid and relentless.
She remembers it as though it’s happening right then. Every detail is etched onto the canvas of her mind with the precision of a master painter. She recalls every word, every inflection, every syllable. She feels again the rush of emotions, as if the pit of her stomach were reliving the moment in real time.
That was how it felt when your eyes landed on your boyfriend making out with your best friend, the girl who had been by your side since first year, the one you trusted implicitly. You stepped into the Hog’s Head that night, and your vision tunneled the second you saw them in the booth, lips locked.
The clinking of glasses around the pub sparkled mockingly in the dim light, a cruel contrast to the way your heart sank, your body shutting down as ice ran through your veins.
First came confusion. Perhaps you’d seen wrong, perhaps your mind was playing tricks. But as the seconds passed, certainty settled in, burning the image into your brain.
What do I do?
In any instance where you had been betrayed like this, your first instinct would have been to go to your best friend—the girl who had stuck with you since your first year when you were placed as dormmates.
Stuck in your place, your brain was short-circuiting, trying to, but in the end unable to do anything else but stare at them.
For fuck’s sake—are they scuba divers? Are they ever going to come up for air?
It seemed like they heard you, finally parting, and it seemed that your boyfriend—or rather, ex-boyfriend, and if he’s so lucky, not late-boyfriend—spotted you first, his face going pale the second he saw you.
You scoffed.
They were doing this in a public place, and he had the gall to look surprised when you managed to spot them?
And then you felt it—the emotion that managed to crush through all of the others like a tidal wave, filling your body and clouding your thoughts. Rage. Fury.
You spun on your heel, barreling through the crowd toward the door.
“(Y/N)!” Your boyfriend called behind you, but you ignored him, sidestepping another patron as you charged and left him in your dust. It seemed like your anger had managed to blur the edges of your vision, and you collided with another student.
“Watch it—!”
Theodore Nott stood at six feet tall, towering over you more than your boyfriend ever had, jawline so sharp it could cut you—if not for that, his words certainly would. He glared down at you with stormy eyes that you couldn’t quite call blue but couldn’t call green.
You heard your boyfriend call your name once more as he approached you, and it seemed the desperation on your face was apparent to someone as apathetic as Theodore, who only raised a brow at you.
And in that instant, you made one of the most reckless decisions of your life.
Your hands curled around the lapels of his jacket before you could even command your body to do otherwise, yanking Theodore toward you and leaning up on your tiptoes to close the gap, pressing your lips to his.
A split second passed, and your head was spinning, body coming back to life.
Have I lost my mind? I’ve just been utterly humiliated by my boyfriend and my best friend. Now I’ve kissed one of the notorious snakes—without consent, no less—which makes me literal scum. He’s going to push me away any second, probably hex me, and make this humiliation ten times worse.
All those self-deprecating thoughts came to a silent standstill the second his arm looped around your waist, another hand cupping your cheek as you tilted his head to deepen the kiss.
The moment stretched, every second dragging out as if the world itself had decided to pause and watch. His lips moved against yours with a deliberate, almost teasing patience that sent a shiver down your spine, making your knees threaten to buckle. You could feel the heat radiating from his body, the subtle press of his chest against yours, grounding you even as your mind screamed in disbelief.
Your hands tightened on his jacket, nails digging in slightly as if anchoring yourself to reality. Your mind screamed in protest, reminding you of every reason this was reckless—this was Theodore Nott, the last person you should be doing this with, and yet… you couldn’t stop.
The kiss was urgent, hungry, but also careful, as though he could sense the storm raging inside you and wanted to meet it without drowning you completely.
Finally, reality slammed back into you. You broke the kiss with a gasp, eyes still closed, trying to catch your breath after being so violently knocked out of orbit by a kiss you could only describe as divine.
When your eyes met his again, you were rendered speechless.
Oh, you better admit yourself into St. Mungo's tonight, you imbecile.
“Oh my—uh… I—I shouldn’t have—I'm sorry—” You stammered, tearing your hands from his jacket and stepping back. Embarrassment burned hotter than your anger had moments ago.
You swallowed, shamefully looking down as you moved toward the exit once again, "I'm gonna go—"
Your voice trailed off, choked by a mix of embarrassment and disbelief. You wanted to disappear, to vanish from the pub before anyone could process what had just happened. Before he could.
You pivoted toward the door, picturing yourself in the cool night air where your face might finally stop burning.
But before you could take another step, a firm hand caught your wrist. You froze, the warmth of his grip rooting you in place.
“If you leave first,” He said, his voice low and smooth, carrying that unmistakable edge of challenge, “you lose."
You didn't even know if your ex-boyfriend was still there, you had lost any awareness of your surroundings the second your lips met his.
Your eyes widened, and you stammered, “I… I’m not… I don’t—”
The corner of his lips twitched as though he was fighting a smile at your pathetic state, a teasing glint in those stormy eyes that made your knees threaten to give out again. “Why don’t you… join me and my friends?”
You swallowed, heart hammering, and glanced back at your ex. He was still standing there, awkward, flustered, clearly humiliated. It was… satisfying, in a small, dark way.
If you left now, before they did, it would look like you had something to be ashamed of. You didn’t deserve that.
They didn’t deserve to enjoy the rest of their night undisturbed. They deserved to squirm in their seats, to feel the weight of your stare drilling holes into them. They deserved their night ruined. Their lives ruined.
“…Fine,” you whispered, almost against your will. Your voice trembled with a mixture of exasperation and something dangerously close to thrill. “But only for a little while.”
Theo’s grin widened, that teasing glint in his eyes sharpening. “Oh… I don’t know,” he said, placing his hand on the curve of your waist, leading you to the table that had been taken by the other Slytherins, "We can be quite a fun bunch."
Theodore guided you through the Hog’s Head, arm casually looped through yours, like you’d belonged there all along. You couldn’t help but notice the way the pub-goers glanced at you, whispers flickering through the crowd. Your stomach fluttered with a mix of nerves, shame, and something you didn’t dare name.
When you reached the table, his friend's eyes immediately lit up. They were lounging casually, drinks in hand, and the smirk on Blaise’s face made it clear that they had clearly witnessed your make out session.
"Well, well, well, looks like someone’s been busy." Mattheo drawled, his wicked grin hidden half behind his glass as Theodore pulled out a chair for you and then slid his own closer.
It took everything in you to not look so startled when he wrapped his hand around your shoulder, trying to hide your incredulousness at how seamless this act managed to come to Theo.
You lowered your gaze from Mattheo's who was set on staring at you with an ear-to-ear grin like an imp, only to catch Theo’s eye—he seemed to read your thoughts instantly and, without missing a beat, chucked a fry at his best mate, "Stop ogling my girl, you prat."
“Ohhh,” Mattheo drawled, leaning back in his chair, "She's your girl now? That's the first I've heard of this."
Draco snorted, smirking at Theo, “Yeah, Theo, since when? You never mentioned a girlfriend before.”
Before you could even sputter, Theo’s calm, controlled voice cut through the teasing. “Yeah,” He said effortlessly, as if stating the weather, “We’re dating.”
You froze. What?! You were still reeling from the kiss, and now he was lying with such ease that it made your brain stutter. You were so caught off-guard, so out of your comfort zone that you couldn't even say anything.
He didn’t even flinch, "And we're not first-year girls that I should tell you everything."
Enzo let out a low whistle. “Wow… Theo, good for you, man."
You felt like your chest had been sucker-punched. How could he lie so effortlessly? So convincingly? You were still fumbling over your own thoughts, heart racing from the kiss, and he was… untouchable.
Theodore leaned slightly closer, voice low enough that only you could hear. “Relax. Just play along. Trust me.”
Trust him? You barely knew him. And the two people you’d trusted most in the world had just ripped you to shreds.
This was a bad idea.
But you didn’t move. You couldn’t. Because Theodore was right—if you left, your ex would see it, and you’d lose.
So you stayed. You plastered a grin on your face and let Theodore enjoy himself with his friends. You tried your best not to glance at the betrayers—refused to give them the satisfaction of knowing they occupied even a single neuron in your brain.
When tears threatened to prick your eyes, you bit the inside of your cheek hard and reached for Theo’s drink, taking a slow sip to ease the tightness in your throat.
Thankfully, it seemed they weren’t as shameless as you’d feared. They looked too uncomfortable to enjoy themselves, shifting in their seats, eyes flicking toward you before darting away. The sight of them leaving some time later brought you a sliver of satisfaction. However, that was made very bitter at the realization that they were leaving together.
You held out for another twenty minutes before finally turning to Theodore with a tired smile. “Walk me back?”
He didn’t hesitate. He stood immediately, earning a chorus of jeers from his friends about being a “simp” who couldn’t let his girl walk alone. Theodore just flipped them off before guiding you out with a warm hand at the small of your back.
The walk was quiet. Snowflakes gathered in your hair and clung to your coat, the world muted by the thick white dusting over Hogsmeade. Then, halfway down the path, you stopped abruptly.
Theodore turned to you, “What’s wrong?”
You stared down at the snow-covered road, tears burning at the edges of your vision, “She’s back at my dorm.”
You pressed the heel of your gloved palms into your eyes, your chest trembling with the sobs you’d been holding in all night, “And if she’s not… then I’ll be left wondering if she's with him for the rest of the night.”
Theodore sighed, steering you toward a small alcove behind the pub. It overlooked the rest of Hogsmeade, quiet and dim under the glow of lanterns. You sank down against the fence, not caring about the wet snow soaking through your clothes, hiding your face in your knees as the dam finally broke.
The image of them at the pub replayed relentlessly behind your closed eyelids, no matter how much you willed it away.
They’d done it so unabashedly, so arrogantly—her practically in his lap. Comfortable enough to humiliate you like that in public meant it couldn’t have been the first time.
Your mind reeled back to every time they’d both been absent, every “we just ran into each other in the hallway” excuse, every occasion they’d been “too busy” to join you in Hogsmeade.
They’d done this where other students could see. Had no one thought to tell you? Did your other friends just… choose to stay silent? Were they ever really your friends at all?
Theodore didn’t say a word. He just stood beside you in silence—until the soft clink of his lighter broke through your thoughts. You looked up, face blotchy and eyes raw, just in time to see him take a long drag from a cigarette, the smoke stark against the winter air.
“Can I have one?” You asked.
"No," He glanced down at you, “Take it from me, sweetheart—once you start, it’s very hard to stop.”
You exhaled sharply, lowering your forehead back to your knees. You tried to breathe deep, to steady yourself, to make sense of any of it, “What good even are you?”
There was another beat of silence.
“I’m sorry,” He said, and you looked up again, “I sprang that whole thing on you. If you don’t want to, I’ll take it back. Make it seem like I was the one mistaken. You don’t need to worry.”
“Why did you do it?” You asked quietly, “You could’ve easily pushed me away. I mean, I was the one at fault there.”
“Because,” He said, taking another slow drag, “you looked desperate.”
You huffed a humorless laugh, “I’m swooning.”
Theo’s mouth twitched—almost a smile, but not quite. “Besides,” He added, tilting his head so the dim light from the pub hit the sharp cut of his jaw, “I wasn’t about to let them see you run off like you’d done something wrong.”
You blinked at him, caught between wanting to roll your eyes and wanting to thank him, “So you just… decided to announce to half the school that we’re dating?”
“It’s better this way,” He said simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, “Rumors spread fast. By Monday, everyone will think you’ve moved on—and not just moved on, but traded up.” His gaze flicked to you, calm but deliberate, “Let them choke on it.”
Your throat tightened, but this time it wasn’t from wanting to cry.
"And what do you get out of this arrangement?"
Theodore glanced at you through the thin curl of smoke leaving his lips. His expression didn’t flicker, but there was a spark of something behind his eyes—mischief, maybe, or calculation.
“Let’s just say…” He exhaled slowly, the smoke catching in the cold air like ghostly ribbons, “…I have my reasons.”
You swallowed and then sighed, watching as your breath became visible in the cold air, tears now dry on your cheeks, “I want them to pay for it.”
Theodore smirked, the corner of his mouth curling like he’d just been waiting to hear those words, "And so they shall."
You pushed open the door to your dorm, ready to collapse onto your bed and pretend the last twenty-four hours hadn’t happened. After talking with Theodore for a while, you’d waited until well past curfew to sneak back into Hogwarts, hoping your ex-boyfriend and ex–best friend had either gone to sleep separately or she was holed up in his dorm.
Honestly, at this point, you didn’t care where they were or what they were doing. They’d been dead to you long before you saw them at the pub tonight.
All you wanted was a bed. Sleep. Silence.
Theodore had still given you the option to change your mind about him — told you he’d take the blame if you wanted to pretend you didn’t know each other. But you were too wrung out from crying, too hollow to think. Your body was ready to collapse the second your face hit the pillow.
Except the moment you stepped inside, sleep vanished.
She was there.
Sitting cross-legged on her bed, biting her thumbnail — that nervous habit of hers you hated that you knew.
Your mind started firing questions faster than you could breathe. Was she nervous? Guilty? Regretful? Did she feel anything at all?
Her head snapped up.
“Hey,” She said softly, eyes wide with something dangerously close to guilt, “Can we talk?”
You froze. Part of you wanted to say yes. She’d been your best friend, the person you’d cared about more than anything. You didn’t want to lose her.
Your heart almost opened the door.
Your mind slammed it shut.
“No.”
She blinked, flinching like you’d slapped her, “Please, just—”
“I said no.” You moved past her toward your bed, shrugging off your coat, “Whatever you think you need to say, save it. I don’t care.”
“(Y/N), please! I didn’t mean for it to happen—”
You laughed—sharp, humorless, “You didn’t mean to kiss my boyfriend? How exactly does that work? You trip and fall face-first onto his mouth?”
Her jaw twitched. Then she scoffed, “Fine. If you’re gonna act like you’re so perfect, maybe remember you’re not exactly a saint either.”
Your head snapped up, “Excuse me?”
She crossed her arms, chin tilting higher, “We all saw your little show with Nott earlier. Don’t think you can sit there acting holier-than-thou when you cheated too.”
Heat surged under your skin.
“What I was doing with Nott is none of your business. But don’t you dare pretend that makes you right. You are the lowest, ugliest, skankiest slag I’ve ever met in my life.”
“That’s rich,” She spat, “Coming from the slag who spread her legs for the first guy she saw. Nott probably thought you were easy, didn’t he?”
You took a step forward. Then another. She backed up.
“Theodore has nothing to do with this, and neither does anyone else. The person I’m pissed at is you.” Your voice shook now, not from fear, but fury, “You were supposed to be my best friend! How could you betray me like this? Humiliate me in front of everybody? Go behind my back? I would never have done this to you. I wouldn’t have even thought about it!”
With each sentence, you jabbed a finger into her chest, until you finally shoved her, the force surprising even you.
She didn’t back down.
“You deserved it, didn’t you? Acting all high and mighty — then turning around and doing the same thing.”
Something in your chest cracked. You looked at her, really looked, and realized you didn’t recognize her anymore.
You laughed, breathless and disbelieving, “The only difference between us is I didn’t throw away seven years of friendship for some asshole who can only think with his dick. You think he won’t turn around and do the same thing to you that he did to me? You’re deluded.”
One more shove.
Then you straightened, voice quiet but lethal.
“If you ever approach me again, I’ll kill you. Until then?” You took a step back, smirking like she was something you’d scrape off your shoe, “Have fun with my sloppy seconds, slut.”
The next morning, the corridors were alive with the usual rush of students heading to the Great Hall, but your thoughts were still tangled in last night’s chaos. You tightened your coat around you, trying to focus on anything but the memory of their faces, when a familiar voice cut through the din.
“(Y/N)!” Your ex-boyfriend called, catching up just as you reached the entrance to the Great Hall. His face was flushed, a mixture of anger, embarrassment, and confusion, “What the hell was that yesterday?”
You froze for a heartbeat, then let a sardonic smile creep across your face, “Oh, that? I thought your tongue down my best friend’s throat was a pretty clear indication that we were both seeing other people.”
His face burned red, guilt and humiliation flickering across his features. You barely felt any satisfaction—what you felt yesterday had been raw, scorching, and unshakable. This was just a pale echo.
“Look, I—” He began, his voice tight, “I didn’t mean for it to happen.”
“Didn’t mean to cheat on me with my best friend? Or didn’t mean for me to find out?” You let each word land like a slap.
His jaw clenched, his gaze hard, “You’re one to talk, acting like you didn’t leave with Theodore Nott of all people yesterday.”
You tilted your head, cool and deliberate, “I did. So? That doesn’t give you the moral high ground to lecture me. If you think you’re the victim here… think again.”
He stepped closer, lowering his voice to a dangerous murmur, “Wait—are you serious? Are you actually—”
And then you saw him. Theodore Nott, leaning against the wall with that impossibly calm expression, arms crossed, watching like the world had paused for his amusement.
Your chest tightened, but you squared your shoulders. “Yes,” You said clearly, deliberately loud enough for both of them to hear, “I am dating Theodore Nott.”
The color drained from his face, the clever retorts dying on his tongue. You didn’t give him a chance to recover.
Theo’s smirk sharpened, eyes flicking between you and him, silently daring him to challenge your words, to give him a reason to rearrange his sorry mug this fine morning.
You started walking, leaving your ex behind, and Theodore fell naturally into step beside you. His presence was calm, confident, infuriatingly infuriating—and comforting at the same time.
“You promised, Nott,” You murmured, your voice low and dangerous, “We’re going to make them pay.”
Theo’s grin widened, the corner of his mouth lifting into that familiar, teasing arc. “Oh, don’t worry, mia cara,” He said smoothly, eyes glinting with mischief and you felt your ears get hot, “We're gonna make them regret ever messing with you.”
Side by side, you stepped into the Great Hall. Whispers began immediately, flickering through the crowd like wildfire. And as the students’ eyes turned toward you, you realized—the game had officially begun.
The chatter of students filled the Charms classroom as you stepped inside, your nerves buzzing the way they always did when eyes might follow you. You hesitated in the doorway for a fraction too long, scanning the rows of desks. Usually, your spot was second row, left side—the place you always shared with your best friend. But now? The thought of sitting there made your stomach twist. Should you take it anyway, claim your ground, and glare if she had the audacity to join you?
Before you could decide, a warm hand brushed against the small of your back.
“Over here.” Theodore murmured, voice low but commanding. He didn’t give you room to argue, guiding you through the rows with a confidence that ignored every curious glance that followed. You ended up in the second-to-last row, his chosen territory.
You dropped your bag to the floor and slid into the seat he indicated, shooting him a quick, reluctant smile. Almost instantly, you became acutely aware of the heat of his knee brushing yours beneath the desk.
Theodore leaned back in his chair with practiced ease, stretching his arm just far enough to rest casually along the back of yours. “That’s better,” He said, deliberately louder now, his voice carrying through the classroom. His smirk deepened, “Need my girl next to me.”
The effect was immediate. The two Hufflepuff girls in front of you whipped their heads around under the pretense of adjusting their books. They tried to be subtle, glancing sideways from the corners of their eyes, but the way their shoulders pressed together and their whispers turned sharp made it obvious who they were talking about.
Theo noticed too. His smirk widened, one eyebrow arching as if to say exactly as planned.
You resisted the urge to elbow him in the ribs, ducking your head instead as heat crept up your neck. Subtle was not in Theodore Nott’s vocabulary, apparently.
Your heart jumped when the door opened again and she walked in—your ex–best friend, sliding into the classroom like nothing had happened. She looked tired, as she always did on mornings like this; Charms was the earliest class on your schedule, and she never managed breakfast before dragging herself out of bed. No, instead she always smuggled in a handful of Honeydukes’ cockroach clusters, nibbling on them through class.
And sure enough, there they were, sitting in a paper bag on her desk.
Your lips curled into a knowing smirk.
How could she be so careless? She knew you better than anyone—had known every one of your tricks, your habits, your moods. She should have known you wouldn’t leave her unpunished.
You waited until Professor Flitwick had begun explaining wand movement on the board, until the room was full of the faint swish of quills and the scratching of parchment. Then, when her hand dipped into the bag, you flicked your wand under the table. A silent transfiguration. Smooth, clean, precise.
She popped the cluster into her mouth. Chewed once.
And then froze.
Her eyes widened just a fraction, and then she gagged, clapping a hand over her lips. You bit down on your own smile as, with a sharp cough, she spat onto her desk—not a melted chocolate, but a fat, wriggling cockroach that skittered across the wood.
The room erupted.
Screams, laughter, the scrape of chairs as people leapt away. Someone shouted, “Bloody hell, they’re moving!” as two more clusters in the bag twitched and burst into chittering, crawling life. Your ex-best friend shoved her desk back in panic, her face pale as the cockroaches spilled out in a wave across the floor.
You didn’t react like the rest of them, watching as chaos struck and she turned green in the face, barely able to breathe. You lifted your feet and bag from the ground, careful to avoid all the cockroaches that seemed to multiply from her bag—the replenishing charm you cast on the bag doing wonders.
Theodore didn’t even glance at the teacher; instead, his attention was entirely on you, on the way your chest rose and fell, eyes still sharp, just barely contained.
With a single fluid motion, he pulled your chair a little closer, resting your legs in his lap. You froze, breath hitching, heat crawling up your spine—but there was no time for that. The room still hummed with whispers and laughter, and you could feel every pair of eyes glancing back at the scene.
“Elegant work, sweetheart.” He murmured low, the words meant only for you. His fingers brushed lightly along your ankle, light enough to be intimate, heavy enough to claim attention.
You suddenly understood why in the olden days showing ankle was considered scandalous, judging by the set of shivers Theodore's thumb against your ankle had sent up your spine.
“Detention! For eating in class and causing this disruption! Minus ten points!” Professor Flitwick’s squeaky voice rang across the room.
You fought the grin tugging at your lips, eyes sliding back to your former best friend, who sat frozen, cheeks burning with humiliation.
Oh, poor girl.
That pitiful, shocked face only made you hate her more.
The library was quiet, the soft rustle of pages and the occasional scratch of quills filling the otherwise hushed room. You were bent over a stack of textbooks, notes scattered across the polished wooden table, eyes straining to keep focus as the afternoon sunlight streamed through the tall windows.
You were so absorbed in your work that you didn’t notice the shadow falling across your page. A soft, familiar warmth pressed against the back of your chair, and a low chuckle reached your ears.
“Can’t study forever, you know.” A deep voice murmured.
Before you could turn around, a pair of lips pressed gently against the top of your head. A small, contented sigh followed as Theodore rested his chin lightly on your shoulder.
“Missed you, sweetheart.” He said softly, his words meant only for you, though the air between you carried them enough for nearby students to murmur.
You froze for a heartbeat, pencil hovering mid-note, then tilted your head slightly, allowing him the small indulgence. His hand slid to rest on yours, fingers brushing against your notes, grounding you in the moment.
A few whispers floated through the library, subtle but unmistakable: “Is that…?” “Theodore Nott and—” “Wow.”
The heat rose in your cheeks, but it wasn’t embarrassment—it was the thrill of being seen with him, the quiet intimacy, the silent power you both held over anyone watching.
Especially the power it held over you.
You didn't know how he was able to touch you so intimately, pretend like you had a long history, hold you close and fake that look in his eye that made you feel like you were the center of his universe.
It was baffling.
Theodore rested his head for a moment longer before leaning back just enough to peer at your notes, “Though… you’re really focused, aren’t you? I’d almost feel guilty interrupting.”
You gave a small smile, eyes still on your parchment, “You could say that, yeah.”
He chuckled, nudging your shoulder gently with his own, “Then I’ll just keep you company… silently.”
And with that, he settled next to you, close enough that his warmth was constant, silent enough that you could still work—but every so often, he leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple or brushing a strand of hair from your face.
Then you sensed movement behind you. Glancing up, you caught sight of your ex and your former best friend sneaking into the room, eyes immediately locking on you and Theodore.
They didn’t just glance—they stiffened, shoulders squared, and suddenly it was like a performance. She leaned close to him, laughing a little too loudly, brushing against him in a way that screamed look at us, we’re happy, look at what you’re missing. Your ex mirrored her, puffing out his chest and whispering something that made her giggle.
It was painfully obvious—they wanted you to see them, to feel jealous, to react.
You didn’t.
Instead, you reached up, grabbed Theodore by the collar, and pulled him down into a deliberate, teasing kiss, letting them watch the undeniable spark between you. He responded immediately, moving his hand to your waist, deepening the kiss and cupping your cheek.
But of course, they weren’t going to give up that easily. Determined to “out-do” you, they moved to the far side of the library, your ex hugging her from behind and peppering kisses to her neck as she giggled. They ducked into the alcove at the back that was notorious for students fooling around.
Theodore raised a brow, lips curling into that maddeningly flirtatious smirk, leaning to press his lips to your ear, “What do you say, love? Feel like beating them at their own game? I’m sure we’d have a better time anyway.”
You chuckled, shaking your head, trying to ignore the heat crawling up your neck.
With a subtle glance toward the librarian’s desk, you caught Madam Pince’s attention. Quietly, you waved her over, corners of your mouth tugging into a grin.
“Oh, you love it.” You murmured, still holding his hand. You pointed to the bookshelf where they were hiding, leaning back with a sly grin.
What happened next was beautiful chaos.
A shriek echoed through the library—sharp, furious, unmistakably theirs. Madam Pince’s voice rang out, shrill and indignant: “What on earth are you two doing in here?!”
You and Theodore exchanged a glance and stifled laughter as you heard her yelling, her wand flashing to confiscate their belongings, and chasing them down the aisles, half-dressed and completely humiliated.
The whispers and stares of the other students only added to the spectacle. You suppressed another laugh as you watched points being deducted from their house records, their humiliation complete.
For now.
The stands were packed, the cold wind whipping your hair around your face as you and Theo leaned against the railing, watching the match unfold below. You watched as your ex’s team began collecting points, you and Mattheo booing their every move at the top of your lungs.
“YOU CALL THAT FLYING?!” Mattheo yelled, and you cupped your hands around your mouth, “MY GRANDMA CAN FLY BETTER THAN THAT!”
You coughed—cold air and screaming taking their toll—before a scarf was gently draped around your neck. You turned in surprise to see Theodore, not even looking at you, more intent on wrapping it carefully so it covered your ears and nose without smothering your mouth. When it proved impossible, he conceded and settled for placing a warming charm on you.
You smiled bashfully, hiding your pink cheeks in the scarf, “Thank you.”
“Anytime, bella.”
“Disgusting behavior in public.” Mattheo muttered under his breath, earning a soft chuckle from you.
Everything seemed normal—until the golden blur began acting strangely.
Even for a snitch, its movements were erratic. But this was worse than usual. It seemed to purposefully avoid the opposing team, darting exclusively toward your ex’s side. The match ground to a halt as the players floated to a stop, confusion spreading across the pitch. Madam Hooch called everyone together, frowning as she tried to assess the situation.
When the groundskeepers and referees inspected the field, the truth became clear: the snitch in play wasn’t real. Someone had swapped it.
Confusion rippled through the stands as whispers grew louder.
“Where’s the real Snitch?” The head referee demanded, scanning the players.
A quick locating spell revealed it immediately—tucked neatly in your ex’s bag, as if he had accidentally carried it with him. The real snitch sat there, innocently gleaming in the sunlight, waiting to be discovered.
A collective gasp swept through the crowd. Every eye in the stadium turned to him.
Your ex’s face drained of color, hands fumbling over the bag in shock. “I—I didn’t—!” He stammered.
But the damage was already done. The spectators murmured furiously, teammates muttering accusations, and whispers of “he cheated” began circulating instantly.
Theo leaned back against the railing, smirk spreading across his face, and whispered in your ear, “Are you enjoying the show, my love?”
You bit your lip and nodded, trying not to laugh aloud, and reached for his hand under the railing, giving it a subtle squeeze. No words were needed—the humiliation was working exactly as planned.
“Due to tampering with the snitch, it’s an automatic loss for Ravenclaw—Hufflepuff wins!” Madam Hooch announced, confirming the disaster.
“Another impeccable plan. I’m impressed,” Theo murmured in your ear, voice teasing, “You make it look easy.”
The crisp Hogsmeade air nipped at your cheeks as you stepped off the train, Theodore’s hand sliding easily into yours. The village was bustling with students, their laughter echoing over the cobblestone streets, but all you could feel was the warmth of his grip and the soft pull of his presence beside you.
Theodore was actually the one to suggest that you guys spend the day together. At first, you were going to opt out, feeling bad that the last couple weeks had been revolving around you and wanting him to get some time with his friends but he insisted, saying that you couldn't spend your Hogsmeade apart or people would talk.
You couldn't argue with that.
But even then you found yourself looking forward to it.
Despite this being only a temporary arrangement with no feelings behind it, Theodore was actually great company. He was thoughtful and considerate, he liked hearing you talk and a quality people didn't really appreciate a lot was that he was hilarious.
You couldn't go five minutes without him prompting a belly laugh from you.
You paused in front of a small shop, your eyes catching a delicate necklace in the display window. A thin chain with a tiny, intricate charm glinting in the sunlight—it was beautiful. Your breath caught.
“Oh… that’s gorgeous.” You murmured, pressing your palm lightly against the glass.
Theodore leaned over, following your gaze. His eyes softened when he saw the necklace, “You like it?”
“I do… but…” Your voice trailed off as you peeked at the price tag. Your eyes widened, “but I do not love the price tag.”
The bell above the shop door jingled as you both entered. You wandered near the counter, trying to convince yourself it was just a dream. Theodore approached the shopkeeper, exchanged a few words, and before you could even process what was happening, the necklace was being handed to you in a small, neatly wrapped box.
You stared at it, then at him, “No… no, you can’t. This is way too expensive. I can’t—”
“It’s only ten Galleons.” He said, clearly perplexed by your reaction.
“Only… ten Galleons?” You repeated, your voice rising slightly in surprise, “That’s… that’s like… my entire pocket money for the next two months!”
Theodore smirked, as if your shock were the most amusing thing he’d seen all day, “Yes, and? You’re my girl. You like it, you get it. What’s the problem?”
The problem was you weren't really his girl.
So, why was he going out of his way to behave like you were? This was a question that had stayed in your head since that first night in Hogsmeade. What was he getting out of this? Why would he be so readily enthusiastic in your plan when it was clear you were the only one truly benefitting from this?
When you met his eyes again, stormy blue that looked green in some lights, the questioned died on your tongue.
Because whatever the reason, you weren't sure you wanted him to stop.
You stared at him, half in disbelief, half in awe, “You—really? You’re just… giving it to me?”
You laughed, shaking your head in disbelief as you let him fasten the necklace around your neck. The charm glinted against your chest, and the warmth of the gesture left you grinning.
When you turned to meet his eyes again, you smiled bashfully up at him before leaning in to press a soft kiss against his cheek.
Theo froze in surprise the second your lips touched his cold skin, and the sight of his startled expression made something warm bloom in your stomach.
It wasn’t like you hadn’t done more than that—in fact, in your persistence to prove to your exes that you were well past moved on, you’d taken to making out with Theo in nearly every public space Hogwarts had to offer. And if it wasn’t that, it was the way he always had an arm around you, casual and possessive, no matter where you went.
So the fact that something as small as a cheek kiss could knock him off guard made you smile. Made you feel like all the intimacy you shared wasn’t just a front. Wasn’t all fake.
“Thank you.” You whispered.
You settled cross-legged on the soft carpet of the Slytherin common room, leaning back against Theodore’s legs as he sat comfortably on the couch. His hands were busy in your hair, while his scarf lay draped across your lap. Carefully, you threaded the fringe at the end of the scarf, showing him how to braid it so he could mimic the motion on your hair.
“So then you take this left strand and bring it over—it becomes the new center strand—and then you bring the new right strand and bring it over.” You explained, feeling the occasional tug on your hair. You immediately noticed the braid slipping.
“It keeps slipping… your hair is too greasy.” He muttered, brow furrowed.
You scoffed, feigning offense, “I think you mean… smooth and silky.”
“This isn’t working.” He grumbled, letting go of your hair and starting over, separating it into three neat parts.
“Baby, this is the easiest braid ever. You’re going to faint when I teach you about a Dutch braid.” You teased, tugging gently on a strand to demonstrate.
Before he could respond, the door creaked open and Mattheo sauntered in, smirk plastered across his face. “Ohhh, what do we have here?” He drawled, “(Y/N) (L/N), Hogwarts’ first houseless student considering we never see her in her own common room, and Theodore Nott, her loyal… dog.”
He then grimaced at the sight of the two of you, “Can y’all not do this in a public space? Some of us think the sight of happy couples is enough to induce projectile vomiting.”
Theo didn’t flinch, though the corner of his mouth tugged into a small smirk. You felt a small thrill as his thumb grazed the space under your ear, leading to your neck, grounding you in the moment.
You raised a brow, voice dripping with mock menace, “You really wanna piss me off when I’m at prime height to punch you in the balls?”
Mattheo rolled his eyes and collapsed onto the couch, still grinning, “You’re coming to Theo’s birthday next Friday, right? Considering you practically live here.”
You hesitated, unsure, “I… I don’t know. I mean—”
Theo leaned over you, pressing a soft kiss to the crown of your head. “You'll be there right?” He murmured, voice low and coaxing, the simple gesture making your chest tighten, "Please?"
You bit back a smile, looking up at him, and realized there was no way you could say no—not when he asked like that.
You stepped into the Slytherin common room, barely able to hear your own thoughts over the bass that rattled the walls. It thudded deep in your chest, vibrating through your bones as you descended the staircase to the dungeons.
The room was packed, bodies moving together in a blur beneath the strobing lights, faces indistinguishable in the chaos. But your eyes found Theo instantly. He was surrounded by his friends, laughing at something Mattheo said, until his gaze landed on you.
His entire expression shifted—lit up like you were the only thing in the room. Without a second thought, he left them behind and crossed the room to meet you at the base of the stairs.
His eyes swept over your little black dress, the necklace he gifted you resting prettily on your collarbones, and his hands found their way to your waist—low, possessive, warm against the thin fabric,
"Che bella, carissima."
"Happy birthday, Theo." You murmured, your palms resting lightly against his chest.
"Grazie, dolcezza." He replied, voice low and smooth as he leaned in. His mouth met yours without hesitation, your fingers sliding into his hair. Lip gloss smudged against his skin, and the artificial taste of lollipop lippie flooded both your mouths.
If you hadn’t been so caught up in the kiss, maybe you would’ve questioned it. Why you were kissing Theo when neither your boyfriend nor your best friend was anywhere in sight. Why you were feeding into the rumor mill in the shadowy corner of the common room instead of center stage where everyone could see.
Maybe you would’ve wondered why you shaved your legs, wore the dress that made your breasts look perfect, took extra time curling your hair, and reached for the expensive perfume you saved for special occasions.
But with Theo’s fingers brushing bare skin along your spine—thanks to the low back of your dress—those thoughts didn’t stand a chance.
You pulled away, laughing softly at the sight of glittery gloss smeared across his lips. You tried to wipe it away with your thumbs, but that proved nearly impossible when he kept catching your fingers in quick kisses.
"I have a present for you." You whispered, revealing the small gift bag you’d kept tucked behind your back. Theo pressed a kiss to your temple before taking it, digging through the tissue paper until he pulled out a steel flask—cool, heavy, and etched with intricate designs like something stolen from an ancient temple.
When he felt the liquid slosh inside, he unscrewed the cap and took a sip, brows lifting in surprise when the familiar taste hit his tongue.
"I cast a replenishing spell on it," You explained, "When it runs out, it’ll refill on its own."
His lips curved in a slow smile, still holding your gaze.
"I was just thinking about that day you said you’d miss my cocoa," You added, "So…I thought you’d appreciate it."
Theo chuckled quietly, looking down at the flask with an expression you couldn’t quite read—something deeper than amusement.
"Do you…not like it?" You asked after a beat.
He shook his head immediately, "I adore it, pretty girl."
Before you could respond, Mattheo’s voice cut through the music.
"If you guys are done ASSAULTING OUR EYEBALLS—" You both rolled your eyes in perfect unison, "—IT’S TIME FOR CAKE!"
You followed the crowd toward the long table where the cake waited, candles flickering under the dim lights. You expected to melt into the group somewhere between Enzo and Blaise, but before you could even drift in that direction, Theo’s hand shot out, curling firmly around your wrist.
“Where do you think you’re going, Dolcezza?” He murmured, tugging you to stand at his side—his spot—right in front of the cake.
“Theo,” You hissed under your breath, “it’s your birthday, I should be—”
“You're exactly where you should be.” He cut you off smoothly, eyes glinting in the candlelight. His hand didn't lift from your waist, keeping you pinned to his side, the faint smell of smoke and cocoa clinging to him like a second skin.
You didn’t have time to argue before Blaise slid over, holding out a small slip of parchment and a quill, “Here you go, mate."
Your brows furrowed, “What’s this?”
Theo took the quill without hesitation, his head bending low as he scribbled something on the paper in quick, sure strokes.
“It’s an old Nott thing,” Mattheo explained, “Birthday boy writes down a wish, folds it, and keeps it with him until it comes true. You’re not supposed to tell anyone what it is.”
Theo didn’t even glance up, just folded the parchment neatly, tucking it into the inner pocket of his jacket with deliberate care.
“And you keep it on you?” You asked, curiosity getting the better of you.
“Always,” Theo said simply. His gaze met yours, sharp enough to make your stomach twist, “A wish doesn’t work if you let it out too soon.”
You should’ve looked away, but there was something about the weight of his stare—like whatever he’d written down was more dangerous than anyone else in the room realized.
“Now,” Mattheo groaned, breaking the tension, “can we please sing so I can eat some damn cake?"
You laughed, but your mind was already racing, replaying the way Theo’s lips had curved just slightly when he’d sealed the parchment away.
And for the first time, you wondered if that wish had anything to do with you.
The common room was a haze of dancing bodies, flashing lights, and the faint tang of cider and punch. You’d just come back from the corridor with Theo, the warmth of his hand still lingering on your waist, when Mattheo leaned over with a mischievous grin.
“You need to try this,” He said, holding out a tall glass filled with a neon-colored drink. At the bottom, a small, bright candy rested like a hidden treasure, “It’s our latest cocktail—sweet and sour. The sweetness of the drink with the sour candy at the bottom is fucking good.”
You raised an eyebrow, examining the glass that looked radioactive, "This looks cursed."
"It's good, baby," Theo said smoothly, eyes sparkling as he handed you the glass, “You should give it a try.”
With a shrug and a laugh, you took a sip. At first, it was sweet, almost pleasant. Then your tongue hit the candy, and your eyes widened in shock. Your face scrunched up immediately.
“Oh—oh my god,” You choked out, spitting it back a little, "This is awful! I feel like I'm sucking on a lemon!"
Theo chuckled low, leaning closer, his hand brushing against yours as he reached for the glass. “Give it here.” He murmured, voice teasing.
You held the candy between your teeth, letting him tilt your head and take it into his mouth. The kiss that followed was slow, teasing, and intimate, the world around you fading as he skillfully removed the candy without breaking the connection between your lips. Your hands found their way into his hair, fingers tangling naturally like it does whenever you kiss.
When he finally pulled back slightly, forehead resting against yours, his eyes shone with playful delight, "You're crazy," He said, swishing the candy around in his mouth, "This is delicious."
"You two are disgusting." Mattheo muttered again, shaking his head.
You’d slipped out into the quieter corridor for a moment’s reprieve. The cool dungeon air was a relief after the heat of the crowd.
You were seated on one of the stairs, catching your breath, when footsteps echoed down the hall. You didn’t turn, but the scent of Theo hit your senses the moment he draped his jacket around your shoulders and settled beside you.
“Hi.” You murmured, leaning your head down to rest on your knees, offering a small, tired smile.
“Hi. You alright?”
You nodded, “Just a little tipsy. I needed some air.”
“Oh, I know just what to do about that.” He teased, reaching into his jacket and pulling out the flask you had gifted him. You chuckled as he opened it, handing it to you, steam curling into the cold air. You took a few sips, letting the warmth spread through you.
“When I said I was going to miss your cocoa,” He began, a hint of mischief in his voice, “I didn’t mean you should give me a lifetime supply.”
Your brows furrowed, a pang of worry settling in your chest. Did he not like the present?
"I don’t want the flask if it means you won’t be around to share it with me,” He said softly, leaning closer so only you could hear, “I’ve always just wanted you."
You took a sharp inhale, your heart beginning to pound against your ribcage.
"Are—Are you being serious?"
He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he reached into his pocket and held something out between two fingers—a folded slip of parchment, worn at the edges, looking as though it might crumble if handled too roughly.
You frowned, “What’s this?”
“My birthday wish from last year.” He said simply.
You blinked, “Won’t giving it to me mean it won’t come true?”
His lips curved into that maddening, calm smile, “Take a look.”
You hesitated, then unfolded the paper. The ink was slightly smudged, but the words were unmistakable:
I wish for (Y/N) to notice me.
Your stomach flipped in disbelief, “Theo…”
“I’ve been in love with you for as long as I can remember.”
The air seemed to thin around you, your pulse loud in your ears, “You… you’re serious?”
He nodded, “I’ve felt this way for a long time. I thought last year would finally be the year I made my move, but then you started dating him, and I thought I lost my chance.”
“I didn’t know you felt that way.” You whispered.
“I was ecstatic when you finally turned your attention to me that night. Not the way I wanted at first, maybe, but I was never going to let that chance get away from me.”
You didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, your chest tightening with a mix of disbelief and relief. Theo’s eyes were locked on yours, calm and steady, but filled with something so raw it made your heart thrum.
Your hands trembled slightly as you reached up to brush a stray lock of hair from his face, fingers lingering at his jaw. “So… all of this—” you gestured between the two of you, “—the fake dating, the kissing, the… everything… it wasn’t just to get back at them?”
He chuckled softly, shaking his head, “No. That part was fun, I’ll admit. But it wasn’t the real reason I wanted to be close to you.” His hand slid over yours, palm warm against yours, grounding you, “I’ve wanted this… wanted you… for longer than you can imagine.”
Your heart lurched, a mixture of relief and longing flooding through you, “Theo…”
He leaned closer, forehead resting against yours, voice just above a whisper, “So, what do you say? No more pretending. No more games. Just… us.”
Something inside you broke—years of tension, uncertainty, and longing unraveling in a single heartbeat. You cupped his face in your hands, leaning into him fully, “Okay,” You breathed, “Just us.”
His grin widened, a triumphant glint in his stormy eyes, and he kissed you—slow, deep, and deliberate, every touch and press of his lips sealing the promise between you. No pretense, no lies. Just the two of you, finally, fully together.
The two of you stayed there for a while, wrapped in each other’s warmth, the distant thrum of the party fading into nothing. The world had narrowed to just you, just him, and the long-awaited start of something neither of you wanted to hide ever again.
Bonus:
Breakfast in the Great Hall felt different that morning.
You’d think that after months of this routine with Theo, another morning spent at his side wouldn’t feel so significant. But it did. Everything felt sharper, warmer. You didn’t feel like you had to prove anything anymore. You didn’t feel like you had to put on a show. The hand holding yours was hidden beneath the table, but you didn’t care if anyone saw—or if they didn’t. It didn’t matter anymore.
And yet, despite everything shifting, you and Theo were still the same—falling into that easy rhythm, voices low as you traded quiet jokes. Only now, you noticed the way it felt different. How intimate it was when Theo’s gaze lingered not just on your eyes but flickered, unconsciously, down to your lips. How he looked at you like you were the only thing in the room, even in the middle of the bustling Hall.
How had you missed all the signs before?
Theo was brushing a crumb from the corner of your mouth with his thumb when the bliss cracked.
“Everyone!”
The word boomed too loud, slicing through the clatter of cutlery and low chatter. Your entire body stiffened before you even turned around. Of course. Him.
Your ex stood in the aisle, puffed up with self-importance, chest thrown back like he’d just mounted a stage. He had that smug gleam in his eyes, the kind that screamed he’d practiced this speech in the mirror ten times over.
“I think it’s time you all knew the truth about Theodore Nott and (Y/N) (L/N).” He announced, every syllable dripping with fake triumph. He cut a sharp look at you, then Theo, then back to the sea of students now staring.
The Hall quieted, curiosity winning out. Even the Gryffindors craned their necks, waiting for drama.
“They’ve only been pretending to date,” He declared, letting the word hang in the air, “To make me jealous.”
His voice swelled with self-satisfaction, like he’d just solved some grand mystery.
Your hand tightened around Theo's.
“You don’t have to keep pretending just to get back at me. I get it. I was angry too when we ended, but—” He paused, putting on his most magnanimous smile, “I’ll forgive you. I’ll take you back.”
The silence that followed was… brutal. Half a beat too long.
Slowly, you let your gaze drift—not at him, but across the Hall, to where his so-called new love sat, her expression crumbling as her boyfriend publicly begged for you.
A smirk ghosted across your lips, satisfaction unfurling in your chest. I warned her, you thought. You told her he’d betray her the same way he’d betrayed you. You’d just assumed he’d run to someone new. But no—he’d come crawling right back. Pathetic. Maybe you really were just too good to forget.
A ripple of laughter broke out along the Gryffindor table. Somewhere down the line, a Ravenclaw girl snorted so hard pumpkin juice sprayed out of her nose. Even some of the Slytherins traded incredulous looks, smirks curling as if to say, is he serious?
"He has officially lost the plot." Someone muttered loud enough for half the Hall to hear. Someone else chortled in response.
Your ex’s confident smile faltered.
Blaise Zabini leaned lazily on his elbows, his voice carrying just enough to cut through the hush. “Pretending?” He gestured toward you and Theo with a casual flick of his hand. “Mate, the whole castle’s been gagging on their PDA for months.”
Someone else piped up, "Yeah. If that’s pretend, then they deserve Oscars. The way he looks at her—like she’s the only thing in the world—you’d have to be blind to miss it.”
You chuckled, dropping your gaze from the pathetic sight in front of you and turned back to your current boyfriend, who only smirked at you, though you could see the tenderness that lay underneath, "See? Everyone else could see I was gone for you before you did."
Bonus bonus: (Ten years later)
The day you first kissed Theodore Nott was arguably one of the worst days of your life, despite all the good that eventually came from it. The betrayal of seeing the person you loved cheat on you with your best friend was a wound so deep it had reshaped you.
Theo had always claimed he was glad he’d never experienced anything like it. Until the same thing happened to him.
“This is killing me,” He muttered, pacing the length of your shared bedroom like a man awaiting his execution. His hands dragged through his hair, his voice raw, “I hope you know that.”
Your throat tightened, but you forced an eyeroll, masking your sympathy with irritation, “Theo, it’s not that big of a deal. Will you stop getting your knickers twisted?”
He whirled on you, eyes blazing. “Not a big deal? Not a big—” He broke off, laughing bitterly, “You were so betrayed when this happened to you that you practically tore their lives apart. And now you expect me to just—what? Pretend I’m fine?”
You scoffed, folding your arms, “We are not comparing the biggest betrayal of my life with your daughter having a crush on Mattheo.”
The air went still.
Theo staggered back a step, like you’d struck him. His face twisted in horror as his hand clutched his chest. “Don’t say it out loud.” He croaked, his voice breaking.
He looked genuinely wounded, muttering under his breath as though mourning a death, “I raised her better than this…She used to want to marry me!”
Before you could roll your eyes again, the shrill ding-dong of the doorbell cut through the tension.
Theo froze mid-step, every muscle in his body going taut. Slowly, his head turned toward the door like a man staring down a firing squad.
And then—
“HE’S HERE!”
Your three-year-old's shriek echoed down the hall, followed by the thunder of little feet pounding against the floorboards. She practically skidded into the foyer, hair wild, socks sliding on the wood as she lunged for the door.
“Bianca, you know you're not allowed to open the door without us!” Theo barked, but it was too late.
The door swung wide.
Mattheo Riddle stood there, casual, self-assured, hands shoved in his pockets. A faint, rakish smirk tugged at his lips. With the leather jacket and helmet under his arm, it was easy to see why your daughter was utterly smitten. Had you not known the fool he was during school, you might have been just as captivated.
“Hi.” He drawled, eyes immediately landing on his god-daughter.
“UNCLE MATTHEO!” Bianca squealed, launching herself into his arms without hesitation. He caught her with practiced ease, lifting and spinning her once before settling her on his hip.
Mattheo shifted her higher onto his hip, grinning like he owned the place, “And who’s my favorite girl?”
“Me!” She squealed, giggling as she buried her face into his shoulder.
Theo’s jaw clenched so tight you swore you heard it crack. His knuckles whitened at his sides, and he took one menacing step forward like he was about to snatch his daughter back by force.
Mattheo, utterly unbothered, tilted his head, smirk widening. “I see someone’s cranky.” He teased lightly, holding Bianca closer with a teasing flourish.
"(Y/N) did not go through 14 hours of aggravating labour for this horrendous display."
“Now you know how I felt all those years back at Hogwarts, watching you two glued to each other’s lips like a bad romance novel.”
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There's a thin line between love and hate, especially when it concerns Gally.
A/N: I've re-watched the three Maze Runner movies and now I'm obsessed and getting back onto the TMR fantrain so bear with me and the future fics I've already got saved in my drafts TT 3 TT
------
You hate him with all your heart.
Truthfully, honestly. There isn’t anyone you hate more than this stupid asshole that thinks that he’s the centre of the earth.
You met him only when he’d been brought in by Lawrence and a few of his other guys, having been there just for a few weeks prior. Thinking that this might be your chance to make a new friend, you’d sidled over to him with a small smile as you asked for his name. That didn’t go as smoothly as you thought when he just grunted out his name in response and turned away from you like you were a pest instead.
But it isn’t just that. It’s the way he says your name in that really aggravating tone that grates at your nerves. It’s the way he always insists it’s your fault when you’re out on missions and come back with no updates. It’s the way he bullies you and calls you names whenever your paths cross and it makes you want to gouge his eyes out. It’s enough to say that you know Gally now and you know exactly what he’s made of. That, and the fact that you’d stay far away from him as you possibly could if that was an option.
“You’re loading it up wrong shank-face,” he’d tell you as you were re-filling your gun.
“Shut up Gally, I’m doing it properly.”
“Don’t come crying to me when the gun doesn’t work.”
“It’s none of your business if it doesn’t work.”
“It is my business if you’re gonna—“
“Right that’s enough,” your mentor and leader called Jared had to step in, like he did numerous times, to get you to cool off. You’d storm away in a fit of annoyance and irritation, hating how easily Gally got under your skin.
It’s been a few weeks since weird sightings of stray immunes have circulated the area and in reply to this, Lawrence had set you up for a mission with Gally to scout the outer walls of the Last City. That had only caused you to grumble about the unfairness of the situation.
“Why do I have to go?” Your eyes narrow at the familiar tall figure lingering in your peripheral. Gally is busy setting up his weapons as you try to plead your case, seemingly uncaring about your protests, “and with him of all people? We don’t work well together Lawrence—“
“Everyone else is taken or busy with other tasks. Meaning that only you two are free,” Lawrence cuts you off without a hint of sympathy, “so either you do as you’re told or you can leave Y/N. As simple as that.”
In the end you have no choice but to abide by his rules, strapping up your weapons and defenses before Gally calls out your name. You turn just in time to catch the water bottle he sends your way, yelping in the process.
“You’re looking a little distraught, shank-face,” he smirks at you from where he stands loading up the provisions, “scared of what you’ll find out there? If you ain’t good enough, just don’t come and waste people’s time.”
“Nobody asked for your opinion, ugly brows.”
“I’m just worried you might slow me down. I’m not a goddamn babysitter.”
“I didn’t ask for one, now will you shut up and stop talking?”
“I’m surprised these two haven’t killed each other off yet,” murmurs one of Lawrence’s men.
“Killed or kissed you mean,” Jared lets out a chuckle.
These words are enough to cause the others to look at him with shocked faces, “what do you mean?”
“Isn’t it clear?” Jared motions towards the two currently bickering, “bet that by tomorrow night these two will get together.”
“I bet they last a week before they kiss.” Another says.
“Oh come on, I’m betting two weeks. Gally isn’t that type of guy.”
“What about me?” Gally’s voice causes them all to shut up, looking at him with guilty smiles and with shakes of their heads.
“Nothing to worry about Maze boy,” Jared flicks him off with a wave of his hand, “now off you go, both of you. And I expect some good news when you return.”
“Of any kind,” someone adds quietly, to which they all cackle.
You’ve toured the city a million times before in search of any kind of entrances that might lead to the inside, where all of Wicked laid. So it’s nothing out of your depth to follow Gally around as you survey the area and scout for more sources of information.
In all honesty, touring with Gally isn’t that much different from anyone else. On the contrary, Gally’s determined nature conjoined with his natural physical ability to excel just renders him an even more ideal battle partner. Not that you’ll ever tell him that. It will surely come bite you in the ass later when you least expect it.
You’re almost at the perimeter when you notice something off about one of the citizens. It’s a little girl, her face contorted in a grimace as she holds her hands in front of her tummy. For a moment, she sways in the middle of the crowd and you’re about to dismiss it, when another figure stalks in and takes a swipe at her with a stick.
The girl yelps as the stick hits her knees, crumbling to the floor like a sack of bones.
Before you know it, you’re sprinting towards her, anger flaring through your chest as your hands steady themselves on the gun. You barely hear Gally’s voice as you stumble in front of the kid just in time to point your weapon at the older man.
“What do you think you’re doing?” You hiss at him.
The man’s eyes widen. He takes a step back, “no no, get away from her, you don’t understand—“
“Understand what? That you were going to beat her to death?” You click your gun into place, “nice try old man, now tell me—“
“Get away from her!” He yells at you, “she’s not normal! She’s—“
And a growl erupts from behind you. You swivel around in panic, eyes going wide upon noticing for the first time the dark patch close to her eyes.
The Flare.
The girl twitches. A small sob falls from her mouth. Your heart jumps to your throat, stumbling back half a step as weird animalistic noises echo from her mouth.
And then, she pounces.
You yell out something— you’re not too sure what — and are about to knock her on the head as she throws herself at you—
A bullet explodes on the right side of her brain and she falls to the ground like a puppet.
You stare at her for a minute. One more.
Your gaze slowly trails up to see familiar booted feet.
“What were you even thinking?”
Gally’s voice is usually deep. But this time, even you can’t stand up to the anger simmering in his voice. It’s dark and holds some kind of laced savagery that makes your toes curl in apprehension.
He takes your silence as guilt before grabbing onto your arm and roughly pulling you out of the crowd. He doesn’t stop and for once you don’t fight him, still not over the shock of seeing that poor girl’s face, the crazed look in her eyes. You’re so deep in your thoughts that you don’t realize you’re at your truck until Gally practically throws you against its side.
Your back digs into the metal and you grunt at the impact, the ache stinging your spine. But before you can do anything else, huge palms come to a rest on either side of your head.
Gally leans into you, so close that you can feel the heat radiate off him in waves.
“What the fuck was that about?” He growls, voice dropping even lower.
Somehow, it causes a shiver to run up your spine. Not one of fear, something else. Something that makes your stomach squeeze into knots.
“I—“ for once, you don’t seem to have any words. Instead your head turns away from Gally’s eyes as you bite down onto your lower lip, “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry? You’re sorry?” He scoffs, laughs to himself before his gaze hardens once more, “sorry for what Y/N? For almost getting yourself killed? Are you insane?! She could’ve literally infected you and you—“
“I didn’t know she was infected.” You tried to protest.
That seems to aggravate him even more, “You didn’t even bother to check!” His nostrils flare.
“Well I said I’m sorry!”
“Sorry’s not going to cut it if you turn into one of those Cranks you stupid slinthead! You need to be more responsible! I literally turn away for one minute and you’re—“
“Oh stop exaggerating Gally. I was trying to protect her—“
“Yeah and look how that ended!”
You snap, “why are you so pissed? It was an accident and I already said sorry!”
“It’s not just that Y/N!” He yells with such emotion that his face flushes red, “What if I wasn’t there? What would you have done then?!”
“Why the fuck do you care? You wanted me gone—“
Your words cut off in mid-conversation when his large hands suddenly cup your face before pulling you in to crash his lips against yours.
Your eyes widen, brain freezing, as butterflies erupt through your stomach.
Wow.
Is this what a kiss is?
And this is Gally, kissing you like he means it.
It's almost like time has stopped.
Heart pounding, your body slowly melts against his. You’re in a trance-like state, watching yourself crumble under his fingertips that he places right under your jaw, his other hand sliding down to your hip to pin you in place.
The kiss is surprisingly gentle yet firm. His mouth moves slowly, hesitantly, almost like he fears breaking you. And yet, when you respond with a soft movement of your own, the rumble of his chest has your stomach squeezing with adrenaline.
You’re not too sure what’s happening. Here you are, with the world’s biggest dick, kissing him like he’s your lover when all you’ve ever wanted was to kick him in the face for being a class A asshole.
But it’s weird because this, however, feels so right. Like you’re meant to be locking lips, like he doesn’t want anyone else in his arms but you. And when he cages you in his hold with even more intensity it makes you gasp, causing him to slip his tongue into your mouth with an ease that has you parting like melted butter.
Slowly, your hands trail up to his chest, grabbing hold of his dark tunic and tugging slightly as his teeth suckle onto your bottom lip. A noise echoes from the back of your throat and he growls in response, pressing you even harder so that your head tilts back against the truck’s surface.
You need air at some point and so break away from him with a small gasp, chest heaving.
Gally doesn’t hesitate. He dives down to press a kiss to the side of your jaw, down your neck, imprinting his mouth over your skin over and over again in a way that has your body shuddering with delight. Big hand sliding down to the back of your neck to pull you even closer into him, the young man’s lips find a soft spot at your pulse point, causing a whine to fall from your lips at his action.
His chest rumbles in satisfaction and before you know it he’s back to kissing you. This time it’s more heated; mouths clashing and teeth clicking and tongues battling.
And then, the reality of the situation hits you straight in the face.
You freeze. What in the shucking world are you even doing?
You’re making out with Gally, right beside your truck. In broad daylight.
The thought alone makes your hands push him away and your lips disconnect with a small ‘pop’ sound.
You’re gasping for breath at this point, eyes wide as they flutter up to lock onto his own and you’re surprised at what you find there.
There’s some sort of softness, genuine care and something more, something darker that you can’t really put your finger on.
It makes you want him.
You want him.
Shuck’s sake.
“Y/N—“ Gally starts but you’re already moving out of his hold, slipping away from his warmth and suddenly it feels a little too cold.
You shake your head at him, decide it’s best to keep your eyes away as you open the door to the passenger seat, “let’s go. We have a mission to finish.”
You don’t want to talk about it.
————
It’s been days.
Days since the incident.
Days since you’ve been trying to get Gally out of your head.
You don’t understand why he’s having such an effect on you. Theoretically speaking, you should’ve bashed his head in and turned him over to Lawrence for sexual assault.
But you haven’t, and he’s also probably questioning why.
As a result, you’ve done everything in your power to avoid him. You wake up thirty minutes earlier to eat your breakfast so that you don’t have to bump into him at the table, you take the first errands that come to you — the boring ones like refilling tanks and getting the food supplies and guarding their premises. All that so that you don’t have to deal with Gally’s bullying.
Well, not that you’ve heard from him much either.
“What happened between you two?” Jared asks one evening as you help him move the supplies fresh from the last raid from the Last City.
“What?” You stare at him blankly, “what are you talking about?”
“You and Gally. You had a fight or something?”
“When are we not?” You snort, though you can’t deny the flush creeping up your neck as the memory of Gally’s body against yours resurfaces.
“Well I know you fight, but you’ve been ignoring each other.”
“And? Why is that a concern? Shouldn’t you be glad there’s less noise?”
“You’ve got a point I suppose.”
You don’t tell him it’s because you’re nervous of all the things that keep flashing through your head. You don’t tell him about how you keep on thinking of Gally’s mouth on yours, the lingering taste of him like a ghost along your lips. You don’t have to and you don’t want to, because you know that it’s going to entertain an idea far too surreal and ridiculous for you to think about.
It isn’t until a few days after your little mishap that Gally finds you in the storage room. You’ve woken up early to help the newest recruit unpack the food supplies just loaded into the main building dock, only to find out that he had this massive crush on you.
So you’ve been trying to bat him off all morning despite his most desperate attempts.
“Just give me a chance Y/N,” he says as he takes a box from your hands with a wink, “I promise I won’t make you regret it.”
You snort, “no thanks,” and turn back to keep unloading.
But he makes a grab for your hand. You yelp, pulling it out of his grasp, “what do you think you’re doing—“
“You think you’re so tough huh?” He makes another grab for your forearm this time and cages you into his grip. You try to wriggle out to no avail, his fingers squeezing so hard that you let out a cry of pain, “ow—“let me go, asshole.”
“Not until you agree.”
Your glare deepens, “I said no.”
He pulls you closer, stinky breath washing over your face and making you want to barf, “did I tell you how sexy you are when you try to act all tough and shit? I mean that’s literally—“
“Get your hands off her.”
He freezes. You do too.
You recognize that voice. You could've recognized that anywhere.
Your head tilts over.
Gally.
Oh.
Eyes widening at the sight, you quickly pull your arm away when the newbie drops it in shock.
“Move away,” Gally’s voice drops an octave and causes a string of butterflies to erupt through your chest, “now.”
The newbie frowns, “Who’re you to boss me around?”
“I said: Now.”
And maybe it’s the fact that Gally seems to straighten when he says it so it looks like he’s towering over the other boy, but the latter mutters a curse word under his breath and finally relents, throwing you a scowl in the process as he ducks out of the storage room.
You can’t help but lock eyes with your savior, though quickly averting your eyes in embarrassment as you resume stacking boxes after boxes. You hope that he’s just going to turn around and act ignorant, just like these past few days.
“Y/N.”
You don’t answer, resolutely trying your best to act busy.
“Y/N.”
Maybe it’s the way he says your name that makes you turn impulsively. Your eyes flit to his face, then look back down to his chest. A safer bet, “what?”
He takes a step closer, and another, and another. You swallow thickly, feeling your throat clog up with emotion as you stumble back against the boxes until no escape seems available.
Why is it that you’re always getting trapped by him?
“W—What is it?” You stammer out in hopes he can’t hear how wild your heart is beating, "What do you want?"
He lets out a soft sigh and seems to drop his shoulders in defeat, opening up his palms in a sign of defeat, "I just--I think we need to talk."
"There's nothing to talk about."
"Y/N--"
"No Gally," you whip around then with eyes narrowed into slits and your fists curled beside you, "if this is about what happened in the Last City, I don't want to talk about it. It was a stupid shucking mistake and--"
"Stop using Glader slang," he interrupts like a smart-ass and you all but growl at him in irritation, "it doesn't suit you."
"Oh shut up already," you whip around and decide that it's useless to try and have a civil conversation. You'd rather focus your energy on finishing off your task.
But seems that he's determined to bug you, for you feel the warmth of his hand imprint itself on your forearm before he's tugging you. Not too harshly, gently enough that you could've stopped if you wanted to.
You let yourself turn around, cursing inwardly at how the closeness between your two bodies is rendering you a little breathless, a little weak in the knees. He's so close that you have to tilt your head up to look at him, and what you see in his gaze makes your heart skitter.
"It wasn't," he murmurs, "a mistake."
"It was a mistake," you shoot back straightaway, "we can just forget about it--"
"I don't want to. I--" he clears his throat, looks away for a second. And when his eyes find yours once again you feel your breath catch in your throat because he's looking at you in a certain way. That way. With the same kind of tenderness that makes you want to wrap your arms around him and bury your face into his chest and smell the earthly, Gally scent that had wrapped around you back when you'd kissed--
No.
You almost smack yourself, horrified. What in the world are you thinking?!
"I like you, Y/N." Gally’s voice jerks you back to reality, “I like you a shuck lot and—“
“Don’t,” you press a finger to his lips as you try desperately to put some distance between, shaking your head in horror, “no no, you don’t like me. You like me ‘cause I’m the only girl around here and it’s just your hormones talking—“
He shakes you off, “what are you on about?” He frowns before grabbing both your hands to cage them in his grip, “I know what I feel Y/N. Don’t tell me otherwise—“
“Gally please,” you scramble for coherent thought but logic is slipping away by the second. Even more so when he’s tugging you gently to him, even more when his face is a picture of softness and affection, “we hate each other’s guts—“
“I never said that.” He pauses to read your expression, fear suddenly flickering in his expression, “do you hate me?”
“I—“ the words get tangled in your mouth. You want to tell him you hate him, loathe him with all your heart and that you just want him gone and that you hates his kiss.
But you can’t.
Because it’s a lie, the truth is that you think your heart beats for him. You’re not sure since when, but that kiss had confirmed it surely enough: you like Gally more than you think you do. And that thought is terrifying.
You’re so close to him that if you let your hands drop they’ll brush against his chest, so close that you can feel his warm breath fanning across your skin and the heat of his jody permeating to yours.
Ducking your head in embarrassment, you bite down onto your lower lip.
“Answer my question, Y/N.”
You swallow thickly, “I—I don’t know.”
Gally looks down at you still, not giving you the easy way out you would’ve preferred and you find yourself crumbling under his stare.
“No,” you whisper, “I don’t hate you.”
He shifts a little closer still, eyes flitting down to your lips in a silent question.
Your breath catches. Your mouth parts. His scent wraps around you like a soft cocoon.
And then you’re lifting yourself up to kiss him.
He makes a noise of surprise at the back of his throat and you grin to yourself, loving that you caught him off guard. But that doesn’t last, for his big hands quickly drop yours to wrap around your waist before pulling your body to his and kissing you like he hasn’t seen you in ages, like he’s missed you, like he wants to do this forever.
Gally, you soon realize, kisses with his entire intention, not leaving one part of your mouth untouched and adamant on making you go pliant in his hold. You allow yourself to back up as he prods you, until your back hits one of the storage boxes hazardly stacked one atop the other, and Gally doesn't hesitate to press his chest against yours as a soft moan echoes from the back of his throat.
As his lips curve against yours in the most intimate of manners, your hands seem to take on a life of their own as they travel up his chest, caress the broadness of his shoulders, before wrapping around the back of his neck and teasing the soft baby hairs found there. You feel him grinning into your mouth and soon enough you're grinning too, foreheads pressed together as you catch your breath.
"Not bad at all," Gally murmurs, stealing a kiss from you and causing your face to flush deep red, "for someone who can't load a gun properly."
"I can too load my gun properly," you pinch him playfully and he responds with laughter.
That's when you hear your mentor's voice booming with surprise from the front entrance of the storage room:
"Well look what we have here! I told you guys they wouldn't last a week!"
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