summary: logan keeps cancelling on your date nights, you get tired of missing him. 2k words.
warnings: smut! mdni! oral male receiving, piv. protected sex!
John Logan is nothing if not a man with enough drive to accomplish both his most relevant passions — playing hockey and being with you, though you think he’s been seriously lacking on the latter issue lately.
“Let me guess,” you say as soon as you pick up the phone, his pretty face on the screen through a FaceTime call, “You’re not making it tonight. Again.”
Logan’s lips twist into a guilty smirk, “I’m really sorry, honey. Birdie asked to reschedule our training for tonight.”
It’s the third time Logan cancels on you for training ever since the Briar U Hawks lost two games in a row earlier this month, when he started dedicating all his free time into extra practices, hitting the gym and refining his moves. You’re understanding, of course you are, you know how much of Logan’s entire future (and yours, by association) depends on him catching the eye of professional hockey teams and how he’s been going after his dream for years with your full support. But when your only time seeing your boyfriend is reduced to aftergame’s reunions with all his teammates and pizza on their couch after training, your restraint starts growing thin. Right now, it’s really just a sliver, already midway through cracking.
In other words, you’re climbing up the walls, feeling so very needy.
You roll your eyes, “Logan, you said we were going out tonight,” you protest in your sweetest voice, “That little restaurant right outside of Briar, remember? We would have all night to ourselves…”
“I know, I know.” He shakes his head, running a nervous hand through his hair, “I’ll make it up to you, yeah?”
You sigh, “Yeah, okay. Text me later?”
“You know I will,” he says, a tiny wink thrown at you before he says his goodbyes and hangs up the phone.
Dropping back into bed with a huff, you close your eyes remembering your excitement for tonight. Some alone time with Logan, a warm-toned Italian place with a glass of wine and all the night that’d follow once you got him all to yourself, a turmoil building in your underbelly thinking of how your date night could’ve went if it wasn’t—
“You know what, fuck that” you say to yourself, urging your own legs into moving out of bed. You’re not staying the night letting your needs simmering under your skin because of some fucking practice he doesn’t even need.
If Logan won’t come to you, you will make him.
You knock erratically on the front door, hoping you’re not too late.
“Hey,” Garrett appears behind it, the familiar sound of Summer Nights coming from the TV inside immediately giving away that you’re interrupting something, “Logan’s not home yet.”
“I know,” you smile widely, “I’m on a mission.”
He stares for a second, waiting for you to explain what you actually mean, then ultimately deciding he maybe doesn’t need to hear it, “Alright,” he moves away, giving you the space to walk into the house, “Come in.”
“Thanks,” you bump his shoulder, skipping over to Hannah sitting on the couch, pressing a quick kiss on her cheek, “Hi babe, can’t talk– Things to do.”
“Go, you,” she says, not moving in the slightest but to blow a kiss in your direction as you go up the stairs.
Logan’s room is far from perfectly tidy, but you recognise it as an organized mess, with piles of clothes on top of the bed and all his mispaired socks and sneakers in a corner. You look at the clock on his bedside table, a red 8:43 blinking at you. Birdie still has some senses and would want to be home before 9 p.m., so he can’t be that far now. You gotta get moving.
You start with the clothes, going through them until you find his red and blue hockey jersey, dropping it aside as you move the pile into the nearest chair. Then you focus on getting the right lighting, turning on his lamp and closing all the windows’ curtains, leaving only a soft glow being cast over the room. Sexy, you think.
Now, with the bed all to yourself and the perfect atmosphere, you strip.
Logan feels like he just got run over by a flock of hockey players. He’s exhausted, and all he wants is to take a warm shower and lay on his bed, to call you so he can hear your voice before he falls asleep. Fuck, he misses you.
He knows he’s been lacking, genuinely, and a little side note lies on the back of his mind, urging him to make really nice dinner plans soon. Because it’s not like he doesn’t care, it’s just the way he operates, overthinking his future and overworking on it until it burns him out, happening more frequently than he’d like to admit and yet, every single time, there you are to offer him some care.
As he opens the door to find you on his bed, he wonders if he’s burning more quickly than usual, already hallucinating your showing.
“Hey,” you say, a hint of sultry hiding behind a mischievous smile.
“How—” He starts saying, voice getting cut off as his eyes wonder over what’s in front of him. You and your bare legs, his hockey jersey barely covering your thighs as your upper body rests on his pillows, a dream come true, “What—”
“You can just say hi back, you know?”
“Hi,” he breathes out, “I wasn’t expecting to find you here.”
“I know,” you move, lifting up as your legs go under you, knees on the bed, “I just really missed you.”
Logan approaches the bed, his face slightly apologetic, “I missed you too, honey, I’m sorry—”
“You don’t need to apologize,” you raise your hands to reach out to him, hands gripping on the hem of his shirt and pulling him closer. “You’re working so hard lately.”
“Still, I shouldn’t—”
“Logan,” you cut him off, your fingers lazily moving under his shirt as you smile up at him, “I know.”
He drops his bag, hand reaching to touch your face, his thumb moving over your cheek, “You can be mad, honey. You should be mad.”
You keep your stare on his face as your nails start scratching his high hip, giggling when you see his shoulders visibly shaking as a shiver goes up his spine.
“I’m not mad,” you say, lifting up his shirt. Slowly, you move a bit closer, pressing a kiss against Logan’s skin, right on top of a newfound bruise, “Your muscles must feel so sore right now.”
He nods, a sight coming out of his mouth, “A– A little, yeah.”
You press another kiss over his stomach, and another on his hipbone, “Take your shirt off?”
He doesn’t need you to ask again, hands flying to pull his shirt up making you smile at his disposition. Instead, you press your smiling face onto his side, kissing him all the way up to his chest.
“Let me take your mind off of all this, yeah?,” you say, lips hovering over his ear, “Would you like me to?”
He wants to scream God, fucking yes, please. All he needs is to take his mind off of it. Some grounding, some deep breaths and something, anything coming from you. Logan lulls his head back, “Yeah– Yeah, I’d like that.”
You smirk against his neck, hands travelling down until you reach his belt, undoing it. Your fingers sneak into his pants, palming him over his boxers,
“Happy to see me, yeah?”
He chuckles, a low laugh strangled by another sigh, “You’re mean.”
“Am I?”
“No,” he turns his head to you, his hands in your face as he pulls you closer, “No, not at all. Want me to lay in bed?”
You shake your head, “Hm-hm. Want you standing right there in front of me.”
Logan’s skin is warm, and the usual strong scent of his cologne is just barely there after hours of training. Still, you can taste it as you lick down his neck, your kisses down his sternum encouraged by his soft moans.
You hook your pointer finger on the waistband, “This okay?” He nods and you pull it down, his cock springing out of his boxers. You wrap your hand around the base, a slow stroke towards the head.
“Fuck,” he moans, “Fuck, baby.”
Your thumb travels over his shaft and Logan gasps, his hand moving to your shoulder for support. You smirk, enjoying watching his undoing. You stroke it a couple times more, and with a lick of your lips you press a quick kiss to the head, then another, and another until your tongue licks a strip from his base until the very top, mouthing it.
Logan grunts, his hand moving up from your shoulder to the back of your head, gently pushing you down. You let him guide the rhythm, you’re not in a rush nor trying to torture him, you just wanna make him feel good, watching his lips parted open and knees buckling.
“You’re so good, honey,” he says, “Such a perfect mouth, fuck.”
You pull away once you feel his grip tightening, pressing a kiss on the inside of his thigh. Instead of saying anything, you simply move from your knees to laying down onto his bed and a little head nod urging him to join you.
Logan crawls up to you, his hands finding your waist and lifting up the jersey you’re wearing. He kisses your stomach, lips following his hands travelling up until you’re just as bare as him.
“You’re fucking perfect,” he mouths in between kisses all throughout your upper body, nibbling on your breasts.
You lock his legs behind his back, stopping him from moving away from you, “John, baby,” you mutter against his skin, “Want you inside.”
He groans against your skin, “Box’s in the top drawer.”
You stretch your arm, grabbing a condom from the box and handing it to him. Then, disintangling your legs, you watch him as he puts it on and strokes it one, two times. Logan’s hands go to your knees, pushing them open,
“Okay?”
“Yeah, please,” you urge him, legs bending up as he grabs your thighs and pulls you closer. Gently, he positions himself right over your entrance and nudges in. He moves agonizingly slowly, and you whimper for him to fill you.
“Shhhh, babe,” he coos, moving his body down chest to chest, his arms supporting him on each side of your body, “Let me be gentle. I’ll fuck you so nicely.”
You lift up your hip, grinding against his body as he pushes and chasing a warmness growing on your underbelly. Logan’s face hides in your neck whispering, “I fucking love you,” he keeps repeating, “You’re so good, baby. Fuck, I’m so close.”
His hand leaves your side to travel down your body, two fingers in your clit as he keeps pounding into you, faster and faster every time you buckle up in moans.
“Hmph, Logan…” you mumble, lips chasing him, “Oh, I’m gonna—”
“Come, sweetheart,” he kisses you, again and again, “Come for me, baby. You did so good, I wanna make you feel good. Come, please,” he says as his fingertips move faster, his hips slowing down in his thrusts. You groan, throwing your head back as you let it out completely, body shaking with added pleasure as you feel Logan’s grip on your skin when he comes too.
“Oh, my god,” he murmurs through deep breaths, “Baby.”
You let out a giggle on your comedown, your hands finding his cheeks pulling him in for a number of kisses, one, two, three, a hundred pecks over his lips and nose.
“I missed you,” Logan says in between them, “I really did. I’m never canceling on you again, okay? Goddamn, I’m never stepping foot on the ice again.”
You laugh, shaking your head, “Don’t be ridiculous. Maybe just leave a day or two for date nights over the week?”
“Yeah, fuck—” He nods, “Abso-fucking-lutely.”
“And maybe keep your promises when you ask me to dinner,” you gently pinch his nose, “No more sugar talking.”
Logan smiles at you, then moves to give you a deep, passionate kiss, then a second one on the corner of your mouth, “You’re sweet enough, anyway.”
notes: likes, reblogs and thoughts are appreciated (and please nice to me! i'm a bit stiff with writing smut but really wanted to try this one out). thank you for reading!
Summary: Logan and the reader had a massive fight a week ago and haven't spoken to each other since. They cross paths at a party in the hockey house and Logan loses his shit watching you talk to someone else.
Pairings: john logan x gf!reader
Word Count: 5.4k (not proof-read)
Warnings: filth. absolute porn with some plot, MDNI (stay away children) little bit of angst. angry sex turned mushy. edging.
💌: I watched a video of angry logan and it made me lose my shit y'all. This is based on what i think angry logan would be like. This might have some plot holes pls ignore i was in the pits. (If y'all wanna watch the video, i reblogged it right before this post 😋) Also might write a short prequel to this, like what exactly happened in the fight, angst central station babayyy
The music from the off-campus hockey house wasn’t just simply filling the room, it was pulsing through the walls, rattling the windows, and vibrating through Logan's boots, the bassline matching the rhythm of his heartbeat. The bass was loud enough to blur conversations into background noise, but somehow every laugh, every shout, every burst of drunken cheering only seemed to increase his irritation.
The hockey house was packed full of drunk students, who were definitely going to regret the decisions made under the influence.
Someone was winning a beer pong game in the kitchen, their teammates erupting into cheers loud enough to make Logan lose his mind; another group was singing terribly to music that wasn't even playing. Couples squeezed past one another in narrow hallways, red cups spilling onto hardwood floors that had long since become sticky with alcohol.
The entire hockey team was there.
Garrett had his arm lazily slung around Hannah while Dean argued with Allie over some ridiculous card game. Tucker was laughing so hard he nearly dropped his drink, and Birdie was already halfway to being completely hammered. To everyone else, it was another Briar party.
But for John Logan, it was pure torture.
He stood near the kitchen island, one hand shoved into his jeans pocket while the other loosely held a sweating beer bottle he had long forgotten, opened twenty minutes ago. His beer was warm and untouched. His jaw had been clenched for so long it physically hurt.
He had plans to get absolutely hammered tonight, a small break after a whole week of extra practice, but all that went down the drain the moment he entered his living room.
Garrett noticed before anyone else did. Every few minutes, his eyes flicked toward Logan with increasing concern. He knew the expression that Logan had written all over his face. Logan wasn't just quiet, he was dangerously quiet, his shoulders completely locked and his jaw tightened, his fingers gripping the beer bottle so hard his knuckles were turning whiter by the second. It meant he was on a warpath.
Eyes fixed on one thing, he wasn’t listening to the music or whatever bullshit Dean was spewing in a drunken haze, his eyes were focused towards the corner of the living room, refusing to look away.
Garrett followed his gaze. ‘Oh, shit.’
His entire universe had narrowed down to a single corner of the living room.
To you.
You looked beautiful without even trying, a simple outfit that somehow made every other girl at the party disappear. Your hair was slightly messy from dancing; your cheeks were flushed with the light pink colour he loved.
For the first time in the past seven days, you looked happy, carefree, and peaceful.
A whole week.
Seven days since your fight.
Seven days since you both screamed until neither of you had anything left to say.
Seven days since he convinced himself that walking away was the mature thing to do.
For one brutal, agonizing week, Logan was trying to do the right thing. He was staying away. After that massive, exhausting fight about his erratic training schedule, the constant media pressure of the upcoming NHL draft, and the heavy cloud of your own insecurities, he convinced himself that you needed space. He thought he was being unselfish. He thought he was protecting you from the chaotic vortex of his life.
He repeated those excuses so many times that he almost started believing in them.
Almost, almost being the key word.
As he stared down at you, he was getting more and more pissed, not at you, rather, at the guy standing next to you.
He was some guy from a fraternity, probably rich, Logan could tell by the perfectly styled hair, the pearly white sneakers, and the expensive casual jacket. He was leaning in way too close, his mouth practically brushing your ear, to be heard over the speakers. He said something to you, flashing a dazzling practiced smile, and you giggled. Not the polite little laugh you gave to strangers. This was a real laugh, your head tilting back, your smile actually reaching your eyes.
The insides of Logan’s stomach twisted violently.
The guy smiled wider, looking at your lips. He said something else. You playfully rolled your eyes before nudging his shoulder slightly. It was innocent, most probably, but Logan couldn’t tell, he was already raging because jealousy had already painted everything in him red.
It felt like a physical blow to his chest. A toxic, overwhelming wave of pure, unadulterated jealousy flooded his veins, turning his blood to fire.
Watching another man step into the vacuum he had left behind, watching someone else try to make you laugh, try to catch your eye, try to charm his way into your life.
‘Who the fuck is he?’ the question echoed inside him.
‘Get the fuck away from her.’ The thought screamed through Logan’s head, obliterating every shred of his logic, his patience, and his self-control.
Garrett quietly appeared beside him, ‘You okay?’
Logan didn't answer.
‘Logan.’
Still nothing.
And then, the frat guy reached out. It was a casual, fleeting movement where he just had his hand resting on the bare skin of your forearm to emphasize a point, but to Logan, it was no less than a declaration of war.
It was gasoline thrown onto an open flame. His breathing had gone frighteningly slow.
The kind of calm that always came right before he lost every ounce of self-control.
Garrett looked from Logan to you, then back again. ‘Oh no, don't do it, Logan.’ Garrett muttered, trying to get him to stop.
He set the beer bottle down on the counter with a heavy clink and started moving.
He didn't politely navigate the crowded room, he cut through it. People instinctively stepped aside as the 6’2 hockey player cut a straight line across the living room, his broad shoulders forcing a path through laughing strangers who suddenly stopped laughing the moment they saw his face. He bumped a freshman out of the way without looking, his eyes locked entirely on the target.
His eyes never left yours. Never leaving the man standing far too close.
Before the guy could slide his hand down to your wrist, Logan stepped directly into the space between you and him, physically blocking the guy from your line of sight, his broad shoulders creating an impenetrable wall. A solid wall of muscle, anger, and barely restrained jealousy, his shadow falling over you.
The conversation around you died instantly.
‘Hey,’ Logan's voice cut through the noise like a blade; it was low, dangerous, and deep with an intensity that made the air feel suddenly thin. ‘We need to talk. Right now.’
Not a request. A demand.
You gasped, stumbling back half a step as the sudden, overwhelming scent of cedar cologne, and familiar warmth filled your nostrils. Your eyes traveled up his chest, past the silver chain resting on his tense collarbone, only to find Logan staring down at you. His dark eyes were flashing, wide and wild with a possessive anger that made your stomach do a violent flip. You knew that look very well, ‘Logan?’, you breathed, your heart suddenly hammering against your ribs. Then, your own defensive walls flew up, ‘What the fuck? What are you doing? I'm in the middle of a conversation.’
‘I don't care,’ Logan breathed, not breaking eye contact with you for even a fraction of a second. He tilted his head just enough to address the guy behind him, his tone dropping into a lethal, quiet growl, ‘Walk away, man, right now. Unless you want a problem.’
And every person standing close enough to witness it immediately understood one thing, the party was about to become the least interesting thing happening in the house.
You stared at him in disbelief. Every muscle in his body looked coiled so tightly you thought he might actually snap.
The guy beside you awkwardly cleared his throat, looked at Logan’s rigid posture, the clenched fists at his sides, and the terrifying look of the massive hockey player ready to tear someone apart. He raised his hands in a mock gesture of surrender, ‘Uh man, I was just- easy man, no trouble,’ he muttered, quickly melting back into the safety of the crowded living room. He disappeared into the crowd so quickly it almost looked like he had been swallowed by it.
You rounded on Logan immediately, ‘Are you completely insane?’, you yelled, the words hitting hard as the sheer audacity of what he just did hit you. ‘You don't get to do that Logan. You can’t just march over here, act like a caveman, and scare off people who I'm talking to! We are on a "break" Logan! Isn’t that what you wanted?’
‘A break does not mean you let some idiot frat guy put his hands on you, in MY house!’, Logan yelled back, his voice thick with a mixture of rage, desperation, and suffocating jealousy.
Garrett leaned against the kitchen doorway with Hannah beside him, both of them watching carefully. Dean muttered something under his breath. Allie stood there with a hand on her mouth. Tucker was in the backyard, tending to a puking Birdie.
The room suddenly felt far too aware of the two of you. Logan noticed it too. He exhaled sharply through his nose.
‘We are not doing this out here’, he said, his voice low enough that only you could hear. ‘Come with me.’
Before you could fire back another retort, ‘I'm not asking.’
‘And I'm not agreeing.’
His hand found your wrist, his fingers curling loosely around it. His palm was warm against your skin, his grip firm enough to stop you from storming off but loose enough that you could've pulled away if you'd really wanted to.
‘Come on,’ he muttered through clenched teeth. You rolled your eyes, giving an exaggerated tug against his hold.
‘Logan.’
‘Five minutes.’
‘You don't get to-’
‘I'm asking for five damn minutes.’
‘John.’
‘Please.’
The word stopped you. Not because it was loud. Because it was broken. He sounded broken and he never sounded like that before.
‘I'll walk.’ you said quietly.
He yanked you forward, turning on his heel and pulling you up the stairs of the hockey house.
He reached the end of the hall, kicked his bedroom door open with the heel of his boot, pulled you inside, and slammed the door shut behind him. He threw the lock with a sharp, definitive click, instantly silencing the outside world in the safety of his room.
The sudden silence in the bedroom was heavy; it felt as if you would explode any given moment, charged with electricity.
‘Don't you dare touch me when you're acting like a lunatic,’ you breathed, pulling your arm back the moment he released his grip. You backed away until the edge of his wooden desk pressed against your lower back, crossing your arms tightly over your chest. You were trembling, a mix of adrenaline, anger, and a deep, agonizing hurt threatening to spill over. ‘You don't own me, Logan. You don't get to dictate who I talk to, who I smile at, who I want.’
‘You think I want to feel like this?’ Logan exploded. He couldn't stay still. He began pacing the length of the hardwood floor like a man losing his bearing, his fingers aggressively gripping and dragging through his dark hair, disheveling it.
He stopped abruptly, pivoting to face you, his chest heaving violently under his shirt. ‘I’ve been going out of my mind for the goddamn week! I haven't slept a full night. I can't focus on the ice, Jensen chewed my ass out twice today because I'm completely checked out. And why? Because every time I close my eyes, I wonder what you're doing. And then I walk into my own living room and see you smiling at some guy who doesn't know a single real thing about you? Some guy who looks at you like you're some prize he can just casually win for the night?’
‘He is my classmate, Logan! We were literally talking about the syllabus for a group project!’, you shouted back, tears of frustration and hurt stinging the backs of your eyes. ‘But you wouldn't know that, because instead of talking to me like a normal human being, you just explode! You panic, you push me out, you tell me you need to focus on your future, walk out on me and then you get mad when I try to just exist in the same room as you!’
‘Because the thought of you not being in my life is killing me,’ Logan bellowed, his voice cracking on the last word. His admission hung in the air, raw and bleeding.
In two long strides, Logan closed the distance between the two of you. He didn't stop until he was looming over you, his shadow completely enveloping you. He was so close you could feel the radiating heat of his body, could see the tiny amber flecks in his dark eyes, wild with an agonizing vulnerability.
‘Even the thought of it makes me physically sick to my stomach,’ he whispered, his jaw trembling, ‘I saw him touch your arm, and I lost my shit, I wanted to destroy everything in sight. I'm sorry I'm a mess. I'm sorry I don't know how to handle this perfectly or calmly. But don't you dare stand there and act like what we have is just some casual thing you can walk away from.’
God, he looked so hot. Jealousy was such a good look on him, it practically made your mouth water. It was as if he sensed you being turned on by his outburst, or maybe he just saw the way you squeezed your legs together when he came closer to you; nothing went past this man.
‘You're mine,’ he muttered, his voice dropping an octave, turning rough and gravelly. ‘I don't share, baby. You know that very well.’
Oh, this motherfucker knew all right. He knew what he was doing; he knew what this was doing to you.
Your breath hitched. The anger in his eyes wasn't a turn-off for you, not even close, and he knew that. The raw, possessive intensity of it sent a thrill straight down your spine, going places that made you want to jump his bones. Your eyes dropped to his chest, focusing on the way the silver chain rose and fell with his heavy breathing. Without thinking, you reached out, your fingers hooking around the cold metal of the chain, tugging him just a fraction of an inch closer.
‘Then do something about it, John,’ you challenged, your voice a sultry whisper, ‘Stop pacing and show me. Prove it to me. Prove that I’m yours.’
The anger was still there, buzzing like a live wire between your bodies, but it was twisting, morphing into a desperate, passionate hunger that neither of you could fight anymore.
Logan’s eyes darkened to black. He clenched his jaw so hard, you could see the muscle tense, and for a split second, the room went entirely still. And then, he snapped.
In one fluid motion, his hands gripped your hips, fingers digging into your supple bottom. He didn't just pull you in, he lifted you completely off your feet from the table, your legs wrapping around his waist like clockwork, and crowded you back onto the mattress. The impact wasn't enough to hurt, cushioned by the heavy blankets, but it was authoritative enough to make you gasp. Before you could even blink, Logan was hovering over you, pinning your wrists on either side of your head with a grip like iron.
‘You want me to do something about it?’ he growled, his face inches from yours. His chest was pressed flush against yours, the ribbed cotton of his tank top hot against your skin. ‘You think this is a game, baby?’
‘I think you're all talk right now,’ you rasped out, intentionally baiting him.
Logan let out a low whisper, ‘Yeah, baby?’ that vibrated directly against your ribs. He released one of your wrists, only to slide his hand up to cup your jaw, his thumb pressing firmly into your cheek to tilt your head back. He stared at your cheeks squished between his fingers, and suddenly he came down on your mouth with a ferocity that stole the oxygen right out of your lungs.
It wasn’t a gentle kiss. It was punishing and demanding. He tasted so good. Oh! How much you had missed him.
His tongue parted your lips with zero hesitation, claiming your mouth with a rough dominance that made your toes curl. You tried to arch up into him, but his weight was like a heavy anchor pinning you down. The feeling of his tongue exploring the crevices of your mouth made you unbelievably down bad for him, you moaned against his mouth.
When he finally pulled back for air, his lips were wet and his breathing ragged. The silver chain dangled down, the cold metal brushing against your collarbone, creating a shocking contrast to the burning heat of his skin. Fuck, him looking like this was doing things to you. ‘Logan, off’, you whimpered, your fingers instantly finding the hem of his black tank, wanting it off, wanting to feel him against you.
‘No honey’ he muttered, grabbing your hands and pinning them back above your head. He looked down at you, a wicked smirk playing on his lips despite the lingering tension in his shoulders. ‘I'm still mad at you. You don't get to dictate the pace tonight, you're going to be a good girl tonight and you're going to listen.’
He shifted his weight, his knee forcing your legs apart as he wedged himself between them. The friction of his jeans against you felt unbearable. Logan reached down, his fingers working the button and zipper of your skort with a rough impatience. He didn't bother being gentle as he tugged the fabric down your legs and tossed it carelessly onto the floor, along with your revealing top.
You were left in your underwear, completely exposed to his burning gaze. Logan took a moment to look at you, his eyes sweeping over your body with an intensity that made you flush from head to toe. ‘Beautiful,’ he muttered, though his voice was still rough around the edges, ‘So fucking beautiful and all mine.’ His lips find your neck, finding your sweet spot almost instantaneously, sucking softly which unravels you even more as you wither under him, trying to get a semblance of relief.
‘John, please’
‘You drive me insane, you know that?’, his mouth crashes onto yours as you gasp into him, fingers curling into his black tank which is fitting him so well that it makes your mouth water. You tugged on his hair, eliciting a guttural groan from his throat, his mouth moving from your now swollen lips to your neck, then chest , leaving a string of deep red marks, his hands feeling up your body once more, your nerves heightened with every grab and squeeze. You're whining, teeth clashing as he's biting at your bottom lip.
Your hips moving against him, grinding softly against him and he pulls away, ‘What did I tell you baby? It sure is a shame that you acted out today, you could've gotten my mouth or my fingers, I know how much you love those’ he begins, crawling on top of you, the dip of his weight pushing you back down.
‘But you're just going to get my cock, deep and rough until I make sure you aren't able to walk for a week straight.’
With that, your legs are pulled apart, panties practically ripped from your lower half as he throws them to the side like he's tearing open a christmas present.
Your bra is gone in what feels like seconds, making things easier and a lot more satisfying for him. His hands on your body feel hot and rough, but so right in so many ways. His aggressiveness only turns you on more, you're soaked and practically leaking down your thighs, moving and clamping your legs together to get some sort of relief from the emptiness you've felt all week.
His hands grip your tits vicariously as he starts to knead them, suck and bite them, making you whimper out as he runs his hands down your hips. He is latched onto your chest as if it's something he has been craving for so long, leaving red harsh hickeys all over.
‘Such a pretty body baby. I'm going to prove just how much you're mine, can't wait to ruin you.’ Your heart is hammering in your chest so loud you can hear it beating in your ears, and suddenly he's leaning up, one hand cupping your cheek, covering the side of your face as his lips harshly connect back to yours.
‘Will you let me?’ he almost whispers, eyes darkened with desire and hunger. You can't help but to feel warmth wash over your entire body as you look up at him. You know that he's asking for your permission, your consent king. Only John can make angry sex consensual, and the thought makes you giggle a little.
‘Yes john, I want you.’ He didn't waste any more time. He stripped off his own sweatpants, leaving him in all his glory. The sight of him, broad, muscular, clad only in that black tank and the damn silver chain, was enough to make your mouth go dry. He looked completely feral. As he took off his boxers, you saw his cock spring up, looking so hard, all red, angry and delicious.
And in an instant, your legs are being wrapped around his muscular torso, heels digging into his tailbone as he places one arm to your side and the other gripping the swell of your soft hip as teases your clit with it, you arched into his touch, a choked sob escaping you as his dick found your clit, rubbing softly, making you wither under him with a soft string of curses leaving your mouth.
‘John, please,’ you begged, your hips moving instinctively.
He hooked his hands under your knees, pushing them back toward your chest, opening you up completely to him. Taking his cock into his hands, he positioned himself, eyes locking onto yours. There was no hesitation, no slow teasing anymore as Logan pushed forward, driving himself deep inside you in one heavy thrust; he slammed into you.
A loud gasp tore from your throat, your fingers instantly flying up to grip his shoulders as your fingernails dug into the taut muscles of his back, but he didn't even flinch from it. He stayed still for a moment, letting you adjust to his size, his chest heaving against yours. The silver chain swung gently, resting against your throat. You wrapped one hand around the metal links, holding him close, his cock stretching you out and filling you up with a sweet stinging sensation as you got used to the feeling.
‘Fuck, you're so tight,’ Logan groaned, his eyes closing for a brief second as he fought for control, pulling himself out and glancing down at the glistening wetness that is coating his dick before pushing himself back in, your hand clawing his back and holding him even closer by the chain.
The only thing you can focus on is the gorgeous man on top of you, his sturdy body hovering over yours as he begins to pound into you. ‘John, oh god fuck’, you cry out, feeling so full of him. The pace he set was punishingly fast and rough, a brutal, driving rhythm, his hips slamming against yours with a raw force that had the bed creaking loudly against the wall. Every thrust was deep, hitting the exact spot that sent electric shocks of pleasure through your entire body. You were completely at his mercy as he gripped your waist, his large fingers digging into your skin to hold you as he hammered into you. He was taking all his frustration, all his jealousy, and pouring it into you.
‘Look at me baby, I bet you talked with him on purpose huh baby? Just to feel my cock? Just to get me riled up into fucking you till you're shaking like a mess under me? Sneaky princess, ’ he coos, reaching up to stroke your bottom lip with the pad of his thumb as he looks at you as if you're the best meal he's had all week.
You can't even muster any words, not when he's fucking you like this, so hard that the bed is practically moving off its hinges and if you tried to speak, all that came out was whimpers and moans. Your eyes are rolled back as you arch your back, feeling him even deeper inside. He then glances down, slowing his pace as he takes one of your hands off his shoulder and places it on your lower abdomen. He looks back up at you with cocky, treacherous eyes, his large hand placed up on yours as he presses down against your belly, resuming his pace fucking you into the mattress. ‘You feel that baby? I’m all the way up there, princess. Pussy is made for me, isn't it?’
You can't contain the whimper that spills out from your throat as he lets you grip his shoulder again. He takes full pride in seeing you quiver and shake under him, cheeks all red and flustered, eyebrows pulled together as your eyes roll back in pleasure. ‘Please, please don't stop baby, fuck’, you beg, needing to feel full of him for as long as possible. You felt him hit the soft spot inside you and let out a hard whimper, crying out his name.
‘Am I gonna make you cum, baby? Are you gonna make a mess around my cock?’ He's kissing your neck now, warm wet lips on your skin as he nips and sucks at your sweet spot.
‘Yes, y-yes! Fuck, Lo, please let me cum.’, you whimper, trying to hold on to him as best as possible as he fucks you exactly how you like.
‘If you can hold out, I'll let you cum the second.’, he says back, voice husky and rough as his forehead gleams with the layer of sweat making him look ethereal, as his painfully handsome face hovers only inches away from yours. You squeeze out a small yes, one of his hands moving in between the two of you. You suddenly become hyper aware of what he's about to do.
Two fingers are placed on your sensitive clit, before he begins rubbing in harsh, sharp circles. ‘Fuck, Logan, I can't last when you, oh fuck’, you moan, nails digging into his bulging biceps as he holds himself up, one arm between your bodies as he continues to make your mind melt into a puddle.
‘Hold it.’ his voice is demanding and serious, eyes looking into yours with such intensity. Your bottom lip is between your teeth as you struggle to hold in your orgasm. ‘That's it, baby, hold it for me, ’ he encourages, taking his hand off and watching you come back down from the edge.
He dips down, taking your breasts in his mouth to keep you preoccupied before he denies you another orgasm. You moan out, hands flying to his dark array of curls. You nearly cry as he takes his mouth off and brings his hand back down between your legs, taking a hold of your clit. ‘Logan, please, I can't-’ He interrupts you with a rough kiss. You can't help but nod as you look at him, cheeks flushed and lips swollen, pupils blown out in a feral state as his heavy body ruts against yours, hips working at an impossibly fast pace.
Even with how rough he's being, you can still feel warm on the inside from the closeness between the two of you. You can feel every muscle flexing underneath his skin, his tummy pressed up against yours and his thighs rubbing up against the outside of your own. Your walls stretch around him, and wetness makes his movement so utterly smooth, coaxing his cock deeper. He wont admit but he has needed you this whole meek. It felt as if it had been ages since he had you under him like this, a quivering mess. He needed to let out some of the anger, and hell, even the fear.
You are the only thing that makes him feel better, nothing else will ever or could ever put him at ease like you do.
‘Logie fuck, please let me cum.’ you were so wet and incoherent, your wetness leaking all over him, making it so slick and easy.
He clenched his jaw, trying to stay focused as the effects of his own pleasure were getting the best of him. You simply have something no one else does, the feeling of you is not only one of a kind, but something he won't ever be able to get enough of.
‘Hold it baby, just a little bit longer.’ and you did, you tried your best to hold it together, your lower abdomen screaming for release, the build up was such a euphoric high, that everything around you felt unreal, especially Logan, until he stopped for the second time. Leaving you with an empty feeling as his pace shifted once again. You whine at the feeling of another edge that he left incomplete.
He slings your legs over his wide shoulders, the new position allowing his cock to hit the bundle of nerves resting deep within you.
‘Oh, yes Loge- fuck.’, you cry out, his massive hands gripping your thighs as he looks down watching himself disappear in you.
‘Look at how beautiful you are baby, can't even stay mad at you, can I?’ he coos, kissing right above your left knee as he fucks you into oblivion. At this point he couldn't even hold up his act.
You feel that burning pressure in your abdomen again, tingling prickling you in your oversensitive areas. You can tell he's close too, just by the way his face pouts, and his cheeks get sucked in. He gets this look in his eyes and starts making some noises which are music to your ears. The sight of him fucking you with such relentlessness and rigour does something to you, you start to unravel, the buildup becoming too much to handle.
‘I cant- please Logie please- please-’ he cuts you off, rubbing up and down your thighs softly, still fucking you at a pace too hot to handle, ‘Come for me, my sweet girl’
And you're completely done for, your legs attempting to clamp together as the blissful feeling washes over you, hitting you so so hard after two denied orgasms, radiating up your spine as your walls convulse around him. Looking at you unraveling under him, he can't hold it in any longer either, not with moans escaping your lips and his name rolling off your tongue in such a sweet way.
He holds you tight as his chest heaves up and down, body stiffening and breath halting for a moment as his hips bucket into you, filling you up.
‘Oh fuck- Oh fuck baby’, he groans his eyes squeezing shut and lips parting with laboured breaths as his voice becomes shaky.
He slowly pulls out of you, leaning down, taking your body into his arms as he lays down on the bed, as soft kisses are pressed to your shoulder and neck.
‘Baby, you okay? Was that too much?’ he coos in your ear as you pull up to reality, your face cupped in his hands.
‘I'm okay Logie, just a little spent.’ you nuzzle your face in his neck, taking in his warmth.
‘I missed you so much,’ he whispered as his fingers intertwined with yours.
‘I saw him making you laugh,’ he admitted. ‘And I realized something.’
‘What?’
‘I would rather fight with you for the rest of my life than spend another day pretending I don't love you.’
You looked down at your joined hands and then looked back up at him, ‘You don't get to fix this overnight. I'm still very mad at you y’know’
‘I know, you should be.’
‘No disappearing, No deciding what's best for me without talking to me.’
‘Never again baby.’
Outside, the party carried on.
Inside, neither of you cared.
For the first time in a whole week, the silence between you wasn't filled with anger.
It was filled with the promise that this time, neither of you was walking away.
tags: MINORS DNI, exes to lovers, POV third person, no use of y/n for reader-insert, backsliding, smut, unprotected p in v, oral sex (fem receiving), squirting, semi-public sex, angst, jealousy
word count: 7.6k
summary: She and Garrett have been broken up for six months, and try as she might, she can’t seem to orgasm with other guys. So is it still backsliding if she’s really desperate?
notes: cross-posted on ao3; this was getting way too long so i decided to cut it and post the first part now lol. also i feel like i should make a separate garrett masterlist already?? cause i’ve been writing him like crazy lately; title from Audrey Hobert’s “Sue Me” ; banner from @uzmacchiato
The problem with having Garrett Graham as her ex-boyfriend is that she can’t escape him. Not in Briar, at least. Everyone in all her classes talks about him like he’s some kind of collegiate hockey god, especially when he finally got drafted by the Boston Bruins the summer before their junior year. No one else knows how they’ve been bugging him since he was a freshman–the same age his dad went pro. No one else knows how torn up he is between finishing his degree or giving in to the pressure. Or they might. But she would bet anything that no one knew the gritty details in the way she does.
Because she was there massaging his shoulders after every practice; icing his bruises from being slammed against the boards too hard; holding him as he talked through the pros and cons of his decisions; crying with him while he worked through his trauma from his dad.
That’s the most difficult part, she thinks. Knowing every little thing about somebody one second and having to act like they’re a stranger the next. She constantly reminds herself that she’s the one who broke up with him; she had taken the shears to cut their entangled strings clean. That was it. Two years of love and adoration undone by a measly “I can’t do this anymore.”
Now, six months in its wake, she can finally say that she’s okay. Mostly. Sure, some nights, she feels his absence like a limb and it gets so fucking lonely she has to physically stop herself from calling him, but her new routine without Garrett Graham by her side has been partly tolerable. The first few months were the worst. It’s like she sees him in every corner of the campus; some days, even when she stays locked inside her dorm, she hears a laugh in the hallways that sounds too much like him that she has to put on headphones at full blast to distract herself.
And it’s not like she can avoid him forever. Their friend groups overlap. She shares a class with half of his teammates. But the first time she had convinced herself it was fine to go to a party Garrett and his friends are also attending, she’s inside the random frat house for exactly three minutes when she sees him take another girl up the stairs. It’s the first proof that he really isn’t hers anymore. The pain hit her gradually at first, like everything is in slow motion. And then she drops her red cup to the floor and books it out of there, crying all the way back to her place and feeling like she’s taken a knife to the chest. That’s when she promised herself to do what she can to make sure their paths don’t cross again. Garrett’s moving on; she’s allowed to do that too.
So she tries going out. She says yes to every date offer, smiles at guys in bars, even lets some of them take her home. But the other problem with having Garrett Graham as her ex-boyfriend is that he’s ruined her for other men. And, for a reason only god and Garrett can probably answer, she can’t fucking orgasm with other guys.
The first time she hooked up with someone else, a little over two months after they broke up and just three days after seeing him with that other girl at the party, she had brushed it off as a fluke. One night stands were always hit or miss, anyways. So what if she had the worst sex of her life? What did she expect, letting Frank from Econ take her home? And so, a month later, at a frat party her friends dragged her into, she let another random guy go down on her in the upstairs bathroom and–nothing. She doesn’t finish again. She’s frustrated enough that she buys a whole drawer of toys. If other guys can’t do it for her, then she can do it for herself. She’s a strong, independent, modern woman.
But nothing.
Again.
It happens enough times that she has to call it for what it is: her new reality. A reality in which Garrett Graham is no longer hers, and in which orgasms have completely evaded her.
And now it’s six months later, and her friends are bugging her about going to another party. Only–
“You know why I don’t wanna go,” she says, pointedly flipping through another page in her history textbook. Her exam isn’t for another week, but who says she can’t do some advanced studying?
Anna drags the book from her. “Babe. It’s been six months. Why are you still letting him win?”
That makes her glare up at her. “Who said it’s a competition?”
“Everyone,” Dylan says with a laugh. “Break-ups always are. Besides, you’re the one who broke Garrett Graham’s heart. Why do you have to go into hiding?”
“Stop saying his full name like he’s some celebrity. And I’m not going into hiding,” she shakes her head, drumming her hands on the table lightly. “I just don’t feel like seeing my ex-boyfriend on the prowl. Is that so bad?”
They share a look before turning towards her. “Yes!”
She thinks she needs better friends.
“That means he won! You’re the one affected!” Anna says.
Dylan nods in agreement. “Why not turn it around on him? Pull a guy right under his nose at a house party he’s hosting. You’re hot; you can definitely do it.”
She almost spills the truth right there; how she’s given up on casual hook ups because they always end the same way–the other guy panting like a dog and her wishing she was literally anywhere else. Sex isn’t fun anymore. Now she’s just horny and alone with nothing to do about it. But even just thinking about her little (try: huge) sex problem is embarrassing enough; literally no one can know, and it’s with that in mind that she carelessly agrees to go to the hockey house party.
Just because she’s not looking to hook up doesn’t mean she can’t look like she is. And maybe some part of her hopes Garrett sees her from afar, the tight black cut out top that accentuates her breasts, the eye make-up that never fails to make her look sultry, the low-waisted jeans exposing her belly button piercing. Maybe it is a competition. And, she realizes while applying a final coat of her lipstick, she’s tired of losing.
The second the hockey house comes into view, regret pounds in her blood. The porch is too familiar. There’s that wooden bench she once sat on at two in the morning, drunk out of her mind, watching Garrett fumble with the keys. It had taken him a long time to coax her into sitting, his hands warm on her shoulders. When she finally obeyed, he had kissed her forehead for no reason other than because she was right there and he wanted to.
One quick glance at the driveway and she immediately spots Garrett’s jeep parked in its usual spot. The same jeep she had ridden in almost every day once, to class or to the rink or to whatever new coffee shop or restaurant she wanted to try out. She had kept a stock of her chapstick and emergency kit in the glove compartment; a mid-size pouch with her feminine products and a change of clothes. She wonders when he got rid of them. If he ever did.
The lump in her throat intensifies.
Some days, she feels totally okay. Like she’s completely washed him off. During those days, she even lets herself hope a little–that she’d have that kind of love again. That there will be other boys who will make her heart sing just as loud and make her skin vibrate against her bones. Because it can’t be just Garrett. Because if it’s just him then that means she already lost him and she’ll never get that again.
And then there were the bad days; the ones where one glance at a spot they once stood at all pressed together is enough to derail her entire week. That one corner of the library. The parking spot near the social sciences building. The tunnel at the rink. She’d spend hours in bed, locked in her dorm, staring at the ceiling as if the water stains there held the answer on why it still hurts. Why she still feels his absence like a gaping hole in her chest.
She had done the breaking, yes. Nothing new with a little self-harm.
The first thing she registers the second Dylan swings the door open is the pounding music, some techno club hit that works really great for running and other sweaty activities. The living room is packed, several people crowding the air hockey table and squeezing together on the couch. It’s a relief, honestly. The hockey house is more familiar to her when it’s just her and Garrett and his roommates; quiet mornings before they all drag themselves in the backyard for their workouts, warm coffee with her legs tangled with Garrett’s while they wait for Tucker to finish cooking breakfast.
Crowded is good. Crowded won’t make her think about cuddles on the couch and the candid polaroid picture Jules took of her and Garrett in sophomore year that used to be pinned to the fridge.
“All good?” Anna asks.
She smiles, a little too wide to be genuine. “Yeah. Totally. I just need a drink, stat.”
The kitchen is slightly less crowded, but the people occupying the space certainly aren't making things better.
Logan’s the first one who spots her, probably because Tucker is busy leaning over the stove and Dean is preoccupied being Dean (which means he has his tongue stuck down a girl’s throat with no care for an audience). He says her name in shock, looking at her like he’s imagining things other people can’t see. Valid, probably, since the last time he saw her here, she was frantically packing her things while trying not to collapse on her knees, Garrett trailing after her with his hair messed up and his eyes swollen. “You’re here.”
That makes Tucker look up at her. His eyes widens immediately. “Hey!”
“You’re back for real?” It’s Dean this time, pulling away from the girl he’s making out with just long enough to narrow his eyes at her playfully.
“This is an open-invite party, right?” She shrugs, reaching over the sink to get a bottle of beer.
Her eyes flicker to the fridge. Post-it notes. Practice times. Random magnets. Definitely no polaroid pictures. Logan gestures for her drink, holding up a bottle opener. She hands it over absentmindedly.
“Yes,” Logan agrees, though she hears a catch in his voice. “It’s just. You know. You haven’t really been back since–”
“Since you broke our captain’s heart and cost us four consecutive games,” Dean butts in, lips pulled to a smirk.
She knows he means nothing by it, if only for the fact that he actually looks pretty delighted at her being there. For a time, she had tried avoiding Garrett’s friends as well, a combination of thinking they hated her for hurting him and just avoiding Garrett by proximity fueling her decisions. But in the two years that she was with Garrett, Logan and Tucker and even Dean had become her friends, too. Sure, they don’t exactly hang out anymore, but she still thinks of them as such.
“And after this welcome party, I probably won’t be back at all,” she says with a faux grin, taking back her beer from Logan and raising it up. “Cheers, guys.”
She squeezes back to the living room where her friends are already dancing on the makeshift dancefloor. If she’s proud of herself for not asking about Garrett, then that’s between her and the god currently playing with her life.
Dylan cheers once she reaches them, holding her hand up and jumping in place.
She laughs at how ridiculous her friend looks. “How are you halfway drunk already?”
“Talent,” she answers with a bright grin.
Anna tugs the both of them closer by their tops. “Hottie alert. 5 o’clock.”
They all turn in that direction, easily spotting a guy who looks so much like the textbook definition of frat boy it almost makes her laugh. “Cliche.”
“You hets are killing me,” Dylan mutters, taking a swig of her beer. “But since we are trying to find a hook up for you, I guess he isn’t that bad.”
Anna almost jumps in place. “His hair is so tall he’s giving 2012 One Direction a run for their money. And look at his little frat shirt.”
“You’re impossible,” she laughs, but lets her eyes trail over the guy’s figure anyway. He’s cute, she guesses, in that no-strings-fun kind of way. But she’s not really looking to get disappointed tonight.
Anna basically deflates at her lack of interest. “Oh, well. The night is young. Shots?”
“That, I can get behind,” she points, and with that her friends somehow manage to procure a bottle of tequila and tiny red plastic shot glasses.
The pour is messy, dripping over her hand in a way she knows will be annoying later when it dries sticky. But her friends are having fun. The music is loud enough to forget anything she wants to forget. With a reluctant smile, she raises the cup up and downs the shot swiftly.
Her face is still screwed up from the taste when the song abruptly changes.
Heavy 80s electric guitar fills the air. A few people groan at the vibe change. Most are too drunk to care. And she freezes on the spot, one hand still holding onto the empty plastic cup, the back of her head burning.
She doesn’t need to turn around to know who she’s going to see.
It’s not that Garrett Graham is predictable, or that he’s deliberately making an entrance. It’s just that she had spent a good part of two years knowing him like the back of her hand.
“Oh shit,” Dylan almost chokes on her beer, basically confirming her thoughts.
Her shoulders tense and then straighten. Her heart is pounding louder than the classical rock song on the speakers. With a clench of her jaw, she turns around, and there he is.
Garrett Graham.
The love of her life.
The man she left.
The annoying part is that he isn’t even looking at her. Probably has not noticed her yet. And how could he, with over four girls surrounding him, two of whom are holding onto either of his arms like he’s a messiah.
The annoying part is that she expected this. It’s his house, after all.
The annoying part is she’s strung like a bow, the past orgasm-free six months making her feel like her skin is melting off, and the only man she’s sure can solve her problem is looking way too good and forbidden in the low light of the party he’s technically hosting.
He moves his head slightly to the right, and the chain around his neck catches light. That fucking chain.
She takes another swig of her beer.
“You okay?” Anna asks, voice more careful and less on-the-verge-of-drunk this time.
“Fine,” she grits out. “Perfect.”
Garrett says something unintelligible and the girls around him burst in laughter, loud and screechy enough to reach her ears.
“I think we’re gonna need more shots,” Dylan says wryly, already tilting the tequila bottle in her hands.
It’s there, with her hand outstretched while her friend pours liquor into her empty shot glass, that Garrett looks in their direction. Their eyes meet immediately. She’s not even embarrassed about getting caught looking. He’s looking too. His eyes don’t widen. His body doesn’t tense up. From anyone else’s point of view, it’s like he doesn’t react at all.
But like she said. She once knew him like the back of her hand. And people don’t change that drastically in just six months. So she sees the falter; the movement of his Adam's apple; the twitch in his fingers against the beer bottle. She files these observations in the corner of her mind labeled in red capital letters: DO NOT THINK ABOUT HIM, even though she absolutely still does. Because no amount of time or distance will ever erase him from her flesh.
Dylan, because she was there when they broke up and had rubbed her back while she sobbed and had been around her and Garrett more than Anna ever had, clocks the barely-interaction with a grimace. “Yep. Definitely need more shots.”
She’s not drunk. Not yet. But she’s slowly getting there. There’s something about the loud music, the constant jump-dancing, and the sweat that makes it easier to let go. Most of it probably has to do with the fact that she feels the weight of Garrett’s gaze in the back of her head like a locked target.
“He’s still looking,” Anna says lightly, peering over her shoulders.
She brushes the comment off. “I need a drink.”
Her friends look at the still half-filled cup in her hand.
“I meant water,” she corrects with a roll of her eyes. “Be right back.”
She accidentally meets his eyes again on her way to the kitchen. Yep. Definitely still looking, though he’s still managing to converse with the puck bunnies all over him. Good to know he can still multitask.
The kitchen looks relatively the same as earlier, if a little messier. Dean’s disappeared; he’s probably upstairs with his puck bunny of the night already. Logan is nowhere to be found too. Only Tucker is there still, leaning against the counter and doing something on his phone.
She makes a beeline for the fridge. Like she expected, the mini bottles of water they always stock up on during parties are right there in the designated compartment. The familiarity is enough to make her pause.
“Cutting off already?” The voice makes her jump, one hand flying to her chest in an attempt to settle her heartbeat. She doesn’t want to turn around to see him. She doesn’t want to talk to him or hear his voice or even breathe the same air as him. That was the plan; that had been the plan since she saw him with that girl at that party and decided that if she ever wants to move on, then she needs to cut him from her spleen completely.
But that was before she let herself be dragged to his house. His party. She knew this was coming. Maybe a part of her wanted it, even, if only to prove something. She’s just not sure if it’s proving that she’s moved on or that she’s still stuck where she was six months ago, broken from the loss of him.
When she turns, she does so slowly, making sure her feet are planted on the ground. She closes the fridge behind her with her foot and uses it to steady herself, leaning her back against the cold metal, unmindful of the magnets digging into her skin.
This is the closest they’ve been since the break up, so she doesn’t punish herself much for taking her time perusing his appearance.
Black sweater tight around his biceps. Dark jeans. That fucking chain. Hair messy and curled and falling to his forehead. Neck slightly glistening with sweat. He looks good enough to eat. Not that she can do anything about that observation.
“And you?” She says when she finally finds her voice. Her eyes flicker to the crowd of girls he left behind in the living room. “Bored already?”
“No,” Garrett says, voice rough. Under his gaze, her clothes feel too much. The cut-out top feels too revealing, her exposed belly button too cold. She doesn’t want him thinking she dressed up for him, even if she technically did. “Not even close.”
They’re silent for a few seconds, just staring each other down. And she hates this. Hates that it feels this tense. That it’s this awkward. Silences between them used to be comfortable and peaceful. There was a time when they didn’t need words at all. He would raise an eyebrow at her and she’d smile at him. He’d give her a look and she’d kiss it off his face. Squeeze her hand and hold entire conversations in that touch. Now, it feels like a performance; like they’re two souls who used to know everything about each other meeting in another life with different bodies that are strangers.
If she knew it would be this devastating to see him again, she never would have come at all. Because underneath the bitterness and the pretense that she’s moved on, the love is still there, beating stubbornly in her veins. The care and the regret and the hurt. She wants to ask him how he’s been. She wants to know every single thing that happened to him in the last six months down to the minute detail. She wants to say sorry for breaking both of their hearts. She wants him.
His mouth twitches, like he’s about to say something. And then a girl stumbles into the kitchen, his name on her glossy lips and her hands reaching for his arms, and she realizes with a start that she can’t want him. Not anymore.
She looks at the girl’s manicured nails pulling at his sweater and feels a pang in her chest so violent she has to swallow back a gasp. Her eyes raise to his, and he’s already looking at her, eyebrows furrowed and his face pained.
“Yeah,” she whispers with a small smile. “Yeah, I can see that.”
She pushes off against the fridge and walks off, back to the living room where it’s safe because Garrett’s not there with his soft eyes and his unreadable face.
“You okay?” Dylan asks when she reappears. “You get your water fine?”
Something in her face must betray her, because Dylan and Anna share a concerned look before pulling her close. “Oh, babe.”
Anna pulls back enough to study her. “You wanna go? We can go.”
“No,” she shakes her head, letting out a shaky breath. Her eyes flicker towards the kitchen, where Garrett is talking closely with the same girl–Kendall, if she remembered correctly. She’s heard about her. They’ve been spotted together enough times that people think they might be seriously dating. Which is fine. It’s none of her business. “It’s a party. I want to have fun.”
Something catches her eye. Spiked up hair, frat shirt, tall and built and perfectly distracting. She lets herself smile slowly, giving her friends a knowing look.
After all, if Garrett can have his fun, then why can’t she?
Cliche frat boy almost makes it too easy.
He’s the one who approaches her, first of all, though she and her friends strategically chose to dance within his line of sight. He’s polite, a little shallow, and he keeps glancing down her boobs every minute like he’s afraid they’re going to be taken away. He’s pretty enough, she decides. She’s not looking for anything other than a distraction, anyway, and she’s not expecting him to blow her mind. Not with her track record the last six months.
Still, when he leans down to speak against her ear, her eyes cut to Garrett’s figure a couple of feet away, no girls around him this time, his arms crossed in front of his chest and his back leaning against the wall. He’s already looking at her. “You wanna dance?”
“Sure,” she grins, downing another shot before letting him lead her to the middle. She meets Garrett’s eyes again as they’re making their way to the dancefloor, and against her better judgment, she raises an eyebrow at him challengingly. His jaw tenses, the grip on his beer bottle tightening. Satisfaction pangs in her stomach, low and hot.
The bass is heavy and thudding, the perfect background noise to grinding under the guise of dancing. She immediately turns to press her back against cliche frat boy’s front, his hands falling to her hips and helping her sway in time with him.
She throws her head back, resting it on his shoulder and exposing the long line of her neck. He ducks almost immediately, lips brushing against her skin. “You’re so hot.”
“Thanks,” she laughs. The words do nothing to her as expected. But Garrett’s gaze feels heavy, and it’s enough to keep her going.
Cliche frat boy’s hands go higher, going from her hips to her stomach. She knows he wants her. Can feel it tenting against his jeans and pressing onto her back. Knows his hands are itching to cup her breasts. She’s debating whether the distraction is worth the disappointment when she feels a hand grip her wrist, gentle but firm and all-too-familiar.
“Come on,” Garrett says, voice a low grumble and eyes dark and muscles tense like he’s readying himself for a fight.
He drags her away from cliche frat boy, the hand on her wrist burning each second the contact lasts. From behind them, she hears cliche frat boy let out a noise of protest, but like always when Garrett is close enough to touch, everything else falls away, muffled and silent, her whole focus shifting on him and only him.
“What the hell, Garrett?” She manages to say, trying half-heartedly to tug her hand free.
“Let’s go,” he says again, still in that rough, final tone she shouldn’t find so sexy but somehow does.
He leads her to the coat closet, tugging gently until she’s safely inside and closing the door behind her with a flourish.
“What is your problem?” She hisses, finally snatching her arm away. Her other hand wraps around the wrist he held, not because it hurt, but because it singes with the memory of his touch.
Garrett turns away from her, hands on his hips, shoulders heaving up and down in time with his heavy breaths. The closet is cramped. She can’t remember the last time she’s been inside; probably the winter of her freshman year when she was still pretending she was a guest at the hockey house and not someone whose clothes belong in the spare drawer and hanging space her boyfriend provided for her. But the distance between them is small enough that her senses are assaulted with his scent. She’s suddenly all too aware of him; of how much space he’s taking up, of how she feels each breath he takes like a gunshot.
“Garrett,” she calls, finally making him turn back around. But he still doesn’t say anything, eyes dark and face pinched like he pulled a muscle.
Finally, after a few silent seconds, she sighs in defeat, announcing, “I’m leaving.”
He moves so quickly she barely registers it, and before she knows it, one of his hands is on the door beside her head, trapping her in place.
“Garrett,” her voice is low now, barely a whisper. She feels his hot breath fan against her face and almost closes her eyes.
She watches him swallow like it pains him to do so. His eyes are dark, a bit wild around the edges, like something inside him has been flayed open.
“You can be with whoever the fuck you want to be with,” he tells her quietly, voice rough and serious, making her pause in place. “But don’t do it in front of me. Don’t be cruel.”
A shaky breath leaves her mouth before she can control it. She reads the pain and anger and jealousy on Garrett’s face like a book. It’s the first glance of the real Garrett she’s had in months, the Garrett that was hers completely and encompassingly, and the sight goes straight to her core.
She feels weak and tired and not at all in control, and it’s with resigned acceptance that she throws her arms around his shoulders, gets on her toes, and kisses him.
She can tell that the kiss catches him by surprise, because she feels him inhale sharply through his nose. For a moment he just stands there, one hand still pressed to the door and another falling limply at his side, lips barely moving against hers. And then his brain finally catches up to him, and suddenly he’s backing her into the door even further, hips pressing into hers, his tongue darting out to trace her lips.
“Fuck,” he pulls away enough to mutter, both of his hands coming up to cup her jaw. When he presses their lips together again, it’s wet and messy and makes a whimper sound from her throat.
She hitches one leg up, anchoring it on his hip. He thrusts forward, and the feeling of his hardening cock on her center even through the fabric of their pants is enough to make her head fall back against the door, her mouth opening with cry.
“Are you drunk?” Garrett asks against her lips, like he can’t possibly pull away or else she’ll disappear right in front of him. “How much have you had to drink?”
She uses one hand to pull at his sweater’s neckline, kissing him chastely. “I’m not drunk.”
“How much have you had to drink?” He asks again, voice more serious, the hand he’s using to support her leg clenching against her skin. She feels the grip burn through the denim of her jeans.
She raises one hand to grip the back of his neck. “Enough to still know what I’m doing.”
She goes to kiss him again, but he pulls his head away, making her sigh in frustration. “What are you doing?”
Her hips shift against his, impatient and needy. She pulls him closer, until her lips are brushing against his again, not quite a kiss, but close enough. “Please,” she whispers. His other arm snakes around her waist. “Please, Garrett. I need you.”
“Yeah?” He asks, voice a little broken.
She kisses him, quick but deep, tugging out his lower lip with her teeth as she pulls away. “So bad. I haven’t–I couldn’t–”
“What, baby?”
The nickname makes her thighs clench together, an action that he doesn’t miss judging from the way his eyes go even darker.
“Don’t make it a thing,” she almost whines, her hand squeezing the back of his neck. “I haven’t been able to–not since you.”
The words are vague and confusing and embarrassing, but Garrett gets what she’s trying to say immediately. His eyes widen visibly. His chest puffs out. His face does something annoying–all smug and possessive and so Garrett she could almost cry.
“No?”
She shakes her head. “I tried, but I couldn’t–”
His eyes flash at that. “Oh, did you?”
She tightens her hold on him, throwing her pride to the window long enough to whimper out, “Please, baby–”
His mouth cuts off the words from her lips, one hand coming up to squeeze her breast. She moans out loud instantly, hips continuing to gyrate against the obvious tent in his pants. One of his hands began to fumble with the button of her jeans, another traveling up her back under her top and unclasping her bra expertly.
“You’ve probably been so frustrated, huh?” He says lowly, pressing a kiss to her cheek almost delicately, a huge contrast to the way his hands are now tugging her jeans and panties urgently down her legs. “All those boys not knowing how to handle you.”
She hums, kicking her jeans off one leg and not bothering to take it off completely.
He kisses her again on the mouth, all heat and confidence. “Don’t worry, baby. I got you.”
And then he drops to his knees.
Garrett’s always been a generous lover. She had never felt like he was prioritizing his needs above her own. She was a virgin when they first got together, but their first time was a fairytale when compared to all the other first time horror stories she’s heard over the years. He never skimps on foreplay. He always makes sure she feels good, often double checking if she’s okay with what they’re doing even in the middle of doing it.
And Garrett, because he’s been made specifically to torture her and ruin her for other men, is ridiculously gifted in the art of cunnilingus.
He eats pussy the same way he plays hockey. Controlled. Focused. One goal in mind.
The first swipe of his tongue has her bracing herself with one arm to the wall and one hand pressed to her mouth to muffle the squeak that involuntarily leaves it. He looks up at her from in between her thighs, his lips pulled into a smirk so annoying it makes her roll her eyes, which only serves to make his eyes light up even more.
He guides one of her legs so it can rest over his shoulders, pressing soft kisses and nibbling at the skin of her thighs before going back to her center. She’s dripping, almost embarrassingly so. He gives another experimental lick, this time the tip of his tongue snagging on her swollen clit, and she jolts in place hard enough to knock her back against the door. Anyone walking by outside would know exactly what’s going on, and she can’t bring herself to care.
“You good?” He asks, eyes catching hers in the dim light of the coat closet.
The question does something to her chest. Melts it into something stupid. Makes her kind of want to cry for different, more pathetic reasons. She nods once, because she can’t trust her voice not to betray her. He looks like he sees through her, anyway, because something in his eye changes, the once dark and lustful look transforming into something warmer. More reverent.
When he leans down again, she thinks the world stops just a little. Nothing else matters more than his tongue licking up her cunt, the two fingers he suddenly thrusts inside that she greedily sucks up. He finds that sweet, spongy spot inside her instantly, because of course he does, because he’s Garrett and he knows her just as much as she knows him, even after six months of no contact.
For a moment, the closet is filled with the filthy, wet sounds of him eating her out and his fingers scissoring her open, her breath punching out of her throat with each stroke in quiet “oh’s” that only makes him more enthusiastic. And then his lips close around her clit and he sucks, and the world turns white.
The orgasm catches her off guard. After six long months without it, her body reacts before her brain can, and her mouth lets out the loudest screech she’s ever made, loud enough that Garrett’s eyes widen from below her, though he doesn’t stop with his ministrations. He laps at her like he’s been starving for it, fucks her with his fingers like it’s the last time he’ll ever get to do it. It takes a couple more seconds, and then she’s twitching again, her cunt pulsing around his fingers for a second orgasm that’s even stronger than the first.
She can’t help it. Her mouth drops open with another cry and she squirts all over his face.
“Fuck,” she gasps, legs twitching, trying to move away. “I’m sorry. I–”
His hand grips her leg tightly, voice rough and broken with want. “Don’t. Fucking–don’t.”
He presses frantic kisses all over her thighs, her hips, her legs, her belly button piercing, spreading her wetness all over. He stands up with shaky legs and tugs her forward until his mouth is on hers and she’s tasting herself on his tongue.
“Fuck, baby,” he hisses, already turning her over and bending her, guiding both of her hands to brace at the door. “That was the hottest fucking thing–I can’t–I need to be inside you. Please.”
She hears his pants and belt hit the floor. She’s still trembling from her long-awaited orgasms, but at least she has enough sense to ask, “Condom?”
A pause.
He lets out a loud groan. “I don’t have any.”
“Are you serious?” She turns her head back to look at him incredulously.
He looks physically pained, his eyebrows knotted together and his jaw clenched. “I have some in my room.”
She looks down pointedly at their states of undress.
“Fuck, I know,” he hisses, throwing his head back in frustration. But they’re too close together, so the movement only serves to press her bare ass against his hard cock, making him choke on air. “Shit. Shit. Shit. What do you–I need you to decide because I can’t–”
His hips give an involuntary thrust that has her gasping out loud.
“I’m clean,” she says, and the words shouldn’t feel that heavy given the situation, shouldn’t sound as vulnerable as it does. But Garrett raises his head to look at her like she’s rewired his brain. Like what she said meant something different. “I’ve never gone without. Not since–well, you know.”
Her heart pounds in her chest heavily. Garrett looks wrecked; like the admission undoes him even more than the sex. When his hands find their way to grip her hips again, they’re trembling almost violently.
“Me too.” He shifts until he’s close enough to press a kiss on her shoulder. “Fuck. Me too.”
She bends over again, more purposefully this time. “Please, Garrett.”
He exhales through his nose. “Where do you want me?”
She wiggles her ass against him. “Inside, please. Need to feel you inside. ‘M so empty.”
Garrett makes a sound at that. Rumbling and raw from the back of his throat. He squeezes her hips again, once, then twice, and then one of his hands disappears to guide himself to her entrance.
“Like this?” He whispers, rubbing the head of his cock over her clit and making her bite her lips in an attempt at being quiet. “Are you sure?”
She nods, breathless. “Please.”
The first press inside has her eyes rolling back. Garrett groans, hands gripping her hips tight enough that the skin around his fingers go white. He goes slowly, making her clench around every inch like he’s branding his cock inside her permanently. He might as well have been. It feels like forever before he finally bottoms out, nudging against her cervix and making her choke out his name.
“Fuck,” he breathes out, the entirety of his torso pressed against her back. “You feel so good. Shit.”
She shuts her eyes tight if only to stop herself from tearing up. “Please move.”
He presses another kiss, this time to her jaw. And then he pulls out almost all the way before snapping his hips back.
“Ah,” she cries out, fingers flexing against the door. Her breasts bounce from the impact, and Garrett reaches up to cup one in his hand. They’re both still wearing their shirts, although her bra is unclasped and hanging loosely from her shoulders.
It’s never felt this good with anyone else, and some part of her itches to tell him exactly that. That she’s never felt so owned; that he’s the only one who can take her to this place.
He pinches her nipple, lips hovering close to her ear. “Fuck yes. Feel me?”
“Uh-huh,” she chokes out, her knees shaking and her cunt clenching even tighter around him.
“You’re perfect,” Garrett grits out, pressing another kiss to her jaw, his thrusts never missing the fast rhythm he set. “I’ve never—fuck. I missed you so bad.”
Her lip trembles at that. “I missed you, too.” Her voice is raw and wet and ugly and he hears it exactly for what it is. His hands turn gentle, until he’s pulling out just enough to get her to turn around.
He walks them backwards, one of his hands reaching for a random coat and throwing it on the floor. He doesn’t let go of her even as he guides them both down to the floor, the makeshift blanket out of the winter coat scratching their bare legs.
“Come here,” he rasps out, pulling her until she’s straddling his lap. “Ride me. Please, baby.”
This time it’s her that reaches down to guide his cock inside her. She sinks down on him fast and efficiently, their open mouths pressed together, breathing against each other. The stretch burns something delicious, the angle getting him so much deeper.
“You feel even bigger like this,” she gasps out, her arms hugging his shoulders for support. “You’re so deep.”
The familiar Garrett Graham smirk paints over his face. “Yeah?”
“Garrett,” she cries, hips faltering.
He holds her steady. “Shh. I got you.”
He begins lifting her up and down his cock, his hips thrusting up to meet her every time. She can’t even pretend to be quiet anymore. And Garrett can’t pretend he doesn’t love it; how out of control she is. How raw and genuine.
He shifts a little bit, and the change in angle gets another screech from her throat. “Fuck. Yes. Right there. Don’t stop.”
Garret kisses her, messy and wet, his tongue pushing past her lips and teeth. She moans against his mouth, beginning to feel that familiar tightening in her stomach again. Garrett must sense that she’s close again too, because he pulls away from her lips to say, “Come on. You gonna squirt again? You know you want to.”
“I don’t—“ she grips his hair with both hands, head tossing back. “I don’t know if I can.”
“Of course you can, baby,” he tells her, voice almost condescending. “Here you go. Let me help you. Wanna feel you squirt around my cock.”
He reaches down and rubs his thumb against her clit. The reaction is instant: a scream gets caught in her throat, her open mouth pressing against Garrett’s forehead, her pussy pulsing and clinging onto his cock almost violently. She makes a real mess of it; her thighs and Garrett’s wet with her release.
It lasts longer than is probably healthy. And Garrett fucks her through it steadily, her entire body twitching with aftershocks. His jaw is cinched tight, lips pursed in concentration. She clenches her pussy around him, and a broken groan erupts from his chest.
“I’m– close,” he grits out, pace unrelenting and making her feel lightheaded from overstimulation. “Where can I…?”
She drags him by the neck for another messy kiss. “Inside. Please. Wanna feel you fill me up.”
“Jesus,” Garrett chokes out, the words doing their intended effect. His thrusts falter once, twice, and then he’s painting her insides with his cum, so deep she’s convinced her stomach bulges with it. “Yeah. Take it, baby. Take it all.”
Her eyes closed shut at the feeling, the warmth of it, the closeness she wasn’t sure she’d ever feel again. For a moment, none of them move, even as she feels him softening inside her. Her arms are still around his shoulders, hugging him to her, and his have moved to close around her waist.
“You good?” Garrett asks after a few seconds, one hand coming up to rub her back gently.
She nods, still lightheaded and breathless. “Yes. Just. I need a second.”
His chest rises up and down harshly as well, evidence of how winded he is, but Garrett only tightens his arms around her and pulls her even closer. “Okay.”
The music from the party continues to thrum outside the closet. She doesn’t know how they can get out with their dignities intact. She doesn’t know if she’ll ever find the strength to pull away from him. It was hard enough the first time.
Garrett moves his head, and then he presses a lingering kiss to her forehead. “Listen—“
A loud knock comes from the closet door, making the two of them jump. “Yo, are you guys done? I need my fucking coat.”
She doesn’t recognize the voice, but the interruption is enough to startle some sense into her.
“Oh my god,” she says, fighting back a whimper when she shifts her hips to pull herself off of Garrett.
He looks at her, face blanched and eyes trying to catch hers. “Hey, wait—“
But she’s already hopping around to put her pants back on. It’s uncomfortable; her thighs are still messy with their combined release. But her fingers are trembling and her chest feels like it’s caving in and she needs to get out of this damned closet and this damned house.
Garrett stands slowly, tugging his pants in place. He runs a hand through his messed up hair, silently watching her panic. Her lips are as swollen as his is, both their necks painted with bites and their skin littered with bruises invisible to the eye but ones they both know will last even longer.
Another loud knock.
“Hold the fuck on,” Garrett snaps, letting one hand pound back on the door once to highlight his words.
She finally stops fumbling, her jeans and her top firmly put in place, her hair finger-brushed, looking as put together as she can manage. She still can’t meet his eyes when she croaks out, “I’m sorry.”
Garrett exhales loudly, tilting his head to the ceiling and closing his eyes in defeat. “You’re running again.”
The fact that he doesn’t pose it as a question stings even more. Like he should have known better. Like she had already hurt him once, so this one’s on him.
She wraps her arms around herself. Her eyes burn, tears clouding her vision. “This shouldn’t have—we shouldn’t—Garrett.” The helpless way she says his name makes his face twitch. “This was a mistake. We’re supposed to be moving on.”
“Stop,” he rasps out, face all screwed up and refusing to look away from her. “If you’re leaving, just go. You don’t need to say anything else.”
“I’m sorry,” she ducks her head, crying softly now. She still feels his touch and his kisses like they’re ironbranded on her skin. Garrett still doesn’t look away; that’s the part that gets to her.
Summary: john is insecure, don't know what for/ you show john just how sexy he is.
Pairing: sub!logan x y/n!reader
Warnings: MDNI, unprotected sex, lots and lots of dirty talk, fuck buddies in love (maybe) but SUB LOGAN
Word Count: 2.8k
💌: thoughts were thunk. i will not be elaborating further.
John was quiet, unusually quiet, surrounded by all his friends, all cramped into a booth at Malone's.
Normally, he would have some smart ass comment ready, a crooked grin that made everyone roll their eyes before laughing anyway, or an annoying abbreviation that no one would understand.
But tonight? He barely spoke, you counted him saying a total of 5 sentences all night, and for a man who never shuts up, that is highly alarming.
You noticed it the second Garrett made another joke about Dean getting attention from half the girls at the bar. Then Hannah laughed about how Birdie had somehow become ‘mysteriously hot’ according to campus sources.
And then, Tucker teased Logan, it was harmless, all in good fun but you saw the shift in his tone, his jaw set in a tight clench.
‘C'mon, Loge, you're slipping man, it used to be you who couldn't walk ten feet without someone asking for your number’
Logan forced a laugh, you could see his fake smile appearing almost flawlessly in front of his friends, ‘Guess I've lost my touch, Tuck’
Everyone laughed and moved on, it was a joke which passed.
You didn't.
The apartment was dark when you got home after work. All the lights were off, which felt odd considering that Logan left an hour before your shift. He should've been here, you had sent him a text.
‘John?’ no reply.
Five minutes later, you found him, sitting on the edge of the bed with his elbows on his knee, all the lights switched off.
He didn't even turn the lamp on. He was dressed down from his hockey gear, all showered, sitting in your robe.
‘You're hiding’, he took a deep breath as his shoulders rose and fell in a tired sigh.
‘I'm not hiding’
‘No?’ ‘No’
You leaned against the doorframe, clearly unconvinced, ‘So you just like sitting in total darkness at 9pm with your head down in your hands?’
Silence. Only his soft breaths audible, as if he was trying to control his breathing.
You didn't say anything, you didn't pressure him to speak, you knew he would come around on his own, in his own time.
Eventually, he spoke so quietly that you almost missed it, ‘Do you ever wish I looked different?’
‘What?’ your expression softened as he kept looking down at his hands, not being able to match your gaze.
‘I mean’ he rubbed the back of his neck, oh poor baby he was so nervous, ‘Dean is, well Dean’
‘And?’
‘And Birdie now has this new music angle to him, which props to him is actually so good’
‘Mhm’ you walked closer.
‘Garrett's built like a tank and he's just y’know’
‘I don't’ he chose to ignore your comment
‘And Tucker’ he continued shrugging, ‘Hell, Tucker could flirt with a brick wall’
He laughed, no humor in his voice, again a fake laugh. You just looked at him, staring with concern.
‘I don't know,’ he shook his head violently.
‘You do know’ He closed his eyes, you knew him so well.
‘I just’, his voice caught, ‘I don't feel like I have an angle y'know? Nothing that makes me stand out?’
The confession/question seemed to get serious as you saw his shoulders get rigidly hard, the closed off posture familiar to you, over years of knowing him and being fuck buddies for the past nine months.
‘When we're all together’, he shook his head as if that would make it better, ‘I look at them, and then I look at me’
Finally, he looked up, meeting your eyes. He looked so distraught and doe-eyed your knees wanted to buckle on the spot, your baby, look at him being so small.
‘I don't understand why you picked me’, the room instantly felt completely still, your heart lurched at the thought of him feeling that way, not waiting any longer, you crossed the distance between you without saying a word.
John instinctively straightened as you stopped in front of him, looking up at your all doe eyed and so so dumb, it made you want to edge him for hours as he begged you to let him cum, fond memories playing in the back of your mind.
As you met his gaze, he immediately looked somewhere else, always trying to hide from you.
‘Eyes on me, baby’ his gaze lifted immediately, you could see that he trusted you, complete, unquestioning trust.
‘Why would you want me over them? They're all so much hotter than me’ now, this got you. All that was playing in your head was the sad music with the guy shouting ‘my shayla’.
‘John Logan, baby, don't tell me, you don't think I find you sexy?’
‘I mean, uh-’ he struggled to answer.
‘Johnny, you've got to be kidding me. You are the sexiest man I've ever met, the sexiest man I've ever seen,’ you tell him, turning your body towards him, sitting down towards him as your face gets closer to his, and grazing your fingertips lightly up and down the spine.
‘y/n, just because you're fucking me doesn't mean you have to talk me up’ He tells you, and you can see embarrassment and self-consciousness rear its ugly head inside him.
You stared at him for a long moment before saying slowly, ‘It means just that, baby. You told me that you're comfortable around me because I always let you know how I feel, so how about this, you laying in my bed like this, in my robe, all naked and all for me is driving me fucking feral. I came home with no panties on because I knew you would be here waiting for me. You're the only man ever to give me five orgasms in one night’
Your hand had drifted down the robe, slowly inching towards his cock, its outline starting to show underneath the robe as he took your words in. You put your hand over his increasing erection, over the robe, rubbing lightly, watching his face do that thing that you love.
You smirked at him, ‘I come home with no panties and it took me only two minutes to give you a hard on like this and then you think that I don't find you sexy? I'm offended baby’
‘hey’ he says warningly.
You bite your lip, moving swiftly. You climb on top of him, straddling his legs. You can see the excitement in his eyes, but you also notice how softly he looks at you. How your words are truly affecting him.
‘God Johnny, you have no idea how crazy you drive me’ you say, dipping your head so you can nuzzle your nose against his neck. He lets out a long breath, ‘Soft skin just begging to be touched’ as you nip and suck a dark spot in a place that only belongs to you. Your eyes flashed to him, ‘Your cock is the only one that makes my mouth water, and practically drool over you. And Fuck baby, when you're so focused on your workout, you don't even realize all of the compromising positions you're doing in front of me. Such a tease, John’ you tut, still not fully sitting down on his lap, his cock springing up to brush against you through the robe.
‘Fuck’ He breathes out as your tongue flattens and licks up the edge of his ear, slowly biting as you grip his shoulders in a way that gets him tense, nails digging into his shoulder blades.
The tiniest whine escapes him as he opens his neck up to your lips, and you almost want to shove his cock inside you immediately, wanting to feel him grow inside you, but you hold back, you're on a mission today.
You sit up straight and look down at him, chest rising and lowering fast, lips parted as he stares back up at you, your hands squeezing his shoulders as your legs tighten around his waist, making you squirm as his hands fly down to grip unto your legs, wanting you to sit on his ragingly hard cock still covered by that damn awful robe.
Your fingertips ghost over his cloth covered chest, wanting to get it off and see him in his full glory, rock hard for you and those rock hard abs which are right there for you to touch. Your hands enter inside his robe as you feel the ridges and crevices of his muscular chest, his abs which are moving due to his heavy breathing, ‘You've got every asset, baby. Not only is your back delectable, but these abs, holy fuck’, you groan, nails scratching all over. A small huff leaves his lips, making you crack a smile.
‘Baby stop teasing me’
‘Yeah? Then what does my good boy want me to do?’
His hands still gripping your thighs as if he'll fall without their support, he tries to push you down to sit on him properly, to get a hint of relief.
You lower yourself on his robe, feeling the familiar structure of his cock, clothes yet so good. Just the feeling of your damp, pantyless cunt on him is enough for him to let out a loud whimper, ‘fuck princess’
‘Fucking hell, look at you baby, so pretty and so sensitive my pretty boy, always moaning and whimpering for me. It really aids my ego’ as you grind on him a little, before pushing him down on the mattress, ‘Hell, I'm just talking to you and you're rock hard under me baby, can practically feel every vein here.’
You start to open his robe from his upper body, still sitting directly on top of his hard erection, as you get a view of his chest and abs, immediately kissing and licking him alI over, sucking and biting his pretty chest, leaving hickeys all over him.
He audibly whines as you get off him, moving down to the main event.
But you don't stop with your tongue and lips until he's bucking up towards your face as you keep going lower. You graze your lips up his abs, as you remove his robe completely, his hard-on bucking up, freed from restraints. You look at him as if you're going to devour him whole, taking in all of him in his glory, breathing shallow, chest covered with hickeys given by you, cock hard as a rock, the veins all angry and red, his face so pretty and all fucked out, pinkish hue, wet hair UGH.
‘Look at you baby, fuck looking at you makes me wanna do unimaginable things with you. How can you think that you're not sexy, baby, look at you, I really want to take a picture of you like this. It's making me gush down my thighs’
Logan feels like this is a fever dream, such pornographic words falling out of your mouth, usually he's the one worshipping you like the goddess you are but today you've got him in a chokehold.
He feels himself get ever harder at your words, if that is even possible.
He watches you take him in your hands as you start to jerk him off, teasing his top with your mouth, as he bucks his hips up out of instinct, ‘fuck baby, please-'
‘Please what?’
‘Please suck me off baby,’ he whines, ‘i need your mouth’
‘But only good boys get what they want. Have you been a good boy baby?’ you keep rubbing him all the right ways as he withers under your touch,
‘I've been such a good boy baby, please’
‘Gold boys don't doubt themselves baby’
‘please- please, baby, fuck I'm dying here’, hearing his desperate please and looking at his hips bucking wildly, you can feel yourself drip down your thighs.
‘Fuck’ you breathe out, your patience wearing thin, you trace your tongue up his length, ‘Can feel you so hard baby, how can you possibly think you're not sexy when you've got me like this? I want my mouth to be on every inch of you all the time. Couldn't even decide if I wanted to suck you off over and over until your begging me to stop or fuck you so hard till you're leaking out of me’
And you start to bob up and down, and all Logan can do is whine, moan and quiver under your touch as his hands grip your hair to keep them out of your way. He sees you looking up at him with your big brown eyes and it makes him buckle, he feels himself getting fuller and ready to blow.
As he feels himself getting closer, he tries to lift you back up and capture your lips with his, but you back away to tease him, ‘Hmm, I almost forgot your lips, baby’
He whines again, trying to catch your lips once more, as you grind on him, his cock rubbing up in all the right places but then you stop, ‘Don't be greedy Johnny. Don't you wanna hear how much I adore your lips?’
He nods her head mindlessly, muttering out a ‘Please’ as he tries to get you to move against him, hands gripping your hips, making you hornier looking at his desperation. Even in this state, he's listening to you so intently, taking in your affirmations so greedily.
‘Just look at them’ you practically slur as focusing on his lips, absentmindedly grinding on his cock ‘So full and red, meant to be wrapped around me. Maybe one day I'll take a picture of you eating me out, show you how they're truly meant to be.’ You stop grinding,
‘Show you proof that you're the sexiest’ you shuffle a bit as you guide his tip at your soaked entrance, ‘most delicious’ as you slowly push down into him, gasping a bit at how full you feel ‘most sought after man I've ever encountered’
Oh you're so fucked, as you move up and down on his cock, he moans your name repeatedly. You curse silently and roughly say, ‘No wonder so many girls are trying to fuck you. Bet they can just imagine how pretty your voice sounds as you moan their name’
You slam down harder, your hips moving at a pace that's unbearably good, causing him to buck his hips up into you, ‘But I'm the lucky girl that gets you, right? I'm the only name you're moaning out. I'm the only one you get hard for. Right, baby?’
He's so pussy drunk, only nodding his head, ‘Only you, baby, fuck’
You can't hold yourself back anymore, your lips crash into his and you share the dirtiest kiss you've ever experienced. You quicken your rhythm, as he bucks his hips into you at a pace controlled by you.
His lips feel so needy, never letting you leave him for too long. It's dizzying as you gasp for air, but delve your tongue into his mouth to caress. You're breathless and so close to cumming, your pulsating pussy squelching and dripping him in and out with such ease, but you're not done with him just yet.
He's a moaning mess under you, quivering, bucking and moaning your name, curses again and again as if it's some mantra, his head moving to the side, face scrunched up in pleasure. You know he's close as you quicken your pace saying, ‘You want to cum, baby?’
‘Yes’ he whines, ‘Please, please, I need it.’
‘Say it’
‘Please make me cu-’
‘No’ you interrupt him, ‘admit you're sexy. That you're every woman's wet dream’
You can see him trying to resist, the sliver of her consciousness holding him back.
You whisper into his ear, ‘So stubborn. You want to cum, yeah? Maybe I'll just get off and leave you hot and wet and-’
‘No, no, no, need to cum, baby’
‘You know what I want to hear. Gotta know you believe me when I say it’ you nip at his jaw, keeping you both edging even though your bodies are practically vibrating with need.
‘I'm sexy. I'm sexy’ he breathes out.
‘And?’ you taunt.
‘I'm every woman's fuck, every woman's wet dream’ he groans.
‘Yes, you are, my good boy’ you coo in his ear, and within seconds you're both drowning in your orgasms, faces just inches away from each other the whole time. As he shutter against you, cock burning and pulsing inside you as you collapse on top of him and breathing into his neck.
He's muttering praises and thank you's to you in his dazed state. It's the smallest peck against your neck and when you look down at him he's smiling up at you looking so fucked, face still flushed, and whispers, ‘Thank you, baby’
blurb: john logan has always been good at hiding behind a grin, but after one bad practice, he finds himself at your door, needing the only person who knows when he’s not okay.
warnings: 18+ mdni, explicit smut, unprotected sex, finishing inside, soft/domestic intimacy, emotional vulnerability, comfort after a bad practice, praise/reassurance, heavy kissing, slight dirty talk, established trust/feelings
꒰১Taglist໒꒱ @littlemissclairebiggs
The knock came later than it should have.
You knew it was him before you opened the door, partly because John Logan had a habit of showing up at ridiculous hours like your room belonged somewhere on his route home, and partly because no one else knocked like that. Two taps, a pause, then one more, as if he was giving you a chance to ignore him while hoping you wouldn’t.
When you pulled the door open, he was standing in the hall in a Briar hockey sweatshirt and gray sweatpants, his hair still damp from the shower, curls darker around his forehead. Usually, he came with a grin already waiting for you. Usually, his mouth tilted like he knew exactly what you were going to say before you said it.
Tonight, the grin was there, but it was tired.
“Miss me?”
You leaned your shoulder against the doorframe and looked him over. The set of his jaw. The way one hand was shoved into his pocket while the other dragged over the back of his neck. The forced ease in his voice, laid on too smoothly to be real.
“Rough night?”
Something flickered across his face.
For half a second, he looked like he might deny it. You could practically see him reaching for a joke, something charming and careless enough to make you roll your eyes and let him in without asking anything else. Then his shoulders dropped, barely, like even pretending was too much work.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Something like that.”
You stepped back.
Logan came in without another word, brushing past you with the familiar clean scent of soap, cold air, and whatever detergent clung to his sweatshirt. He didn’t flop dramatically onto your bed like usual. He didn’t steal a sip from the water bottle on your desk or make a comment about how you always had the good snacks hidden somewhere. He just stood in the middle of your room for a second, looking too big and too restless for the space.
You closed the door behind him.
“Shoes off,” you said gently.
His mouth twitched. “Bossy.”
“Always.”
This time, the almost-smile reached him a little more. He kicked off his sneakers and left them near the door, then looked at your bed like he wanted to crawl into it and disappear.
You didn’t make him ask.
You climbed in first, pulling the blanket back, then held the corner up for him. Logan stared at you for a second, and there was something painfully soft in his expression before he moved. He slid into bed beside you, careful at first, like he didn’t want to take up too much room, which was ridiculous because John Logan had never known how to be small a day in his life.
You fixed that for him.
You reached for his wrist and tugged until he came closer, until his body settled beside yours and the mattress dipped under his weight. He let out a breath when you tucked yourself into him, your leg sliding between his, your knee pressing against his thigh. His arm came around your waist almost immediately, heavy and warm, pulling you in until there was no polite space left between you.
His chest pressed to yours. Your hand found the back of his neck, fingers slipping into the damp hair there. His forehead hovered near your temple before he finally let it rest against you.
For a while, neither of you said anything.
You just let him breathe.
His body was tense at first, muscles drawn tight like he was still bracing for a hit that had already happened. One of his hands spread across your lower back, then shifted, then stilled, like he couldn’t decide whether he needed to hold on or let go. You traced slow lines along the back of his neck with your fingertips, not trying to fix him, not trying to pry anything open. Just reminding him that he was there. That you were there. That the room was quiet and nothing was being asked of him.
After a few minutes, his grip changed.
It softened.
His thumb slipped beneath the hem of your shirt and brushed once over your skin, absent and careful. His face turned slightly into your hair, and the next breath he took sounded less like something he was forcing.
“You don’t have to talk about it,” you murmured. “But you can. Only if you want to.”
Logan was quiet long enough that you thought maybe he wouldn’t.
Then he said, “Practice was brutal.”
You kept your hand in his hair. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” His voice was low, rough around the edges. “Couldn’t get my feet under me. Couldn’t finish anything. Coach was on me the whole time, which, whatever, that’s his job, but…” He stopped, exhaling hard through his nose. “I don’t know. Everything felt off. Like the second I messed up once, I couldn’t stop thinking about it, and then I kept messing up because I was thinking about it.”
You nodded against him. “That happens.”
“I hate when it happens.”
“I know.”
His fingers flexed on your back.
“I’m supposed to be better than that,” he said. “I know it was just practice, but it didn’t feel like just practice. It felt like everyone could see it. Like every bad pass, every missed shot, every stupid mistake was lit up in neon.”
You pulled back just enough to look at him.
Logan didn’t meet your eyes at first. He looked past you, toward the wall, jaw working as if he regretted saying so much. In the low light of your room, he looked younger somehow. Not less handsome, because that would be impossible, but less untouchable. Less like the boy who smiled at everyone and got smiled at in return.
More like someone who was tired of being watched and still feeling unseen.
You slid your hand from his hair to his cheek, guiding his gaze back to yours.
“John.”
His eyes found you.
“You work hard,” you said. “Every day. Even when you’re tired. Even when you’re frustrated. Even when nobody’s clapping for it or making a big deal out of it, you’re still showing up and trying to be better.”
His throat moved.
You stroked your thumb over his cheek. “One rough practice doesn’t erase that.”
He stared at you like he didn’t know what to do with tenderness when it was handed to him so plainly.
“And for the record,” you added, softer now, “your effort doesn’t go unnoticed. Not by me.”
The room went very still.
Logan’s eyes dropped to your mouth, then came back up again like he was trying to be good, like he was trying not to use kissing you as an escape route. But this time, it didn’t feel like running. It felt like he had been standing outside in the cold all night and you had just opened the door.
“Say that again,” he whispered.
Your heart squeezed.
“Your effort doesn’t go unnoticed,” you repeated.
His hand slid up your back, slow and firm, gathering the fabric of your shirt beneath his fingers.
“Not that part.”
You knew what he meant.
You smiled faintly. “Not by me.”
Something in him gave.
Logan kissed you carefully at first, which somehow made it worse. Made it sweeter. His mouth brushed yours once, then again, warm and searching, like he was asking whether he was allowed to need this. You answered by pulling him closer, your fingers curling at the back of his neck, and the quiet little sound he made against your lips went straight through you.
The kiss deepened slowly.
His arm tightened around your waist as your mouths opened together, the tip of his tongue sliding against yours in a way that made your stomach dip. It wasn’t rushed, not yet. It was warm and aching and almost too intimate, the kind of kiss that made it impossible to pretend this was casual. His hand moved from your back to your hip, then down to your thigh, pulling your leg higher over him until your bodies tangled more completely beneath the blanket.
You felt him everywhere.
The hard line of his chest against yours. His knee between your legs. His fingers pressing into your thigh like he needed proof that you were real and still there. Your own hands moved over his shoulders, then down his chest, feeling the strength beneath his sweatshirt, the tension that still hadn’t fully left him.
You kissed him until his breathing changed.
Until his lips grew hungrier against yours.
Until the softness became heat.
Logan rolled carefully, taking you with him, shifting until you were half beneath him and half wrapped around him, your back sinking into the mattress while one of his hands braced near your head. He broke the kiss only long enough to look at you, his eyes dark and open in a way that made your chest ache.
“You make it quiet,” he said.
Your fingers paused on his jaw. “What?”
He swallowed, then leaned down until his forehead touched yours.
“In my head,” he murmured. “You make it quiet.”
You didn’t have anything clever to say to that. You didn’t want to. So you kissed him again, slower this time, pouring every answer you had into the press of your mouth against his.
Logan made a low sound and gave in.
His body settled more heavily over yours, not crushing, just present, warm and solid and needy in a way he didn’t bother hiding anymore. His mouth moved from yours to your cheek, then to your jaw, then lower, leaving a trail of open-mouthed kisses along the side of your neck. Your head tipped back before you could stop it, giving him room, and you felt the curve of his smile against your skin.
“There you are,” he murmured, but it wasn’t teasing.
It was reverent.
Your hands slipped beneath his sweatshirt, palms flattening over the warm skin of his back. He shivered at the touch, then kissed your neck again, slower, like he was learning where you were most sensitive and committing it to memory. His hand moved over your waist, your ribs, your hip, not careless, not greedy, but full of want. Like he was touching you because he couldn’t quite believe he was allowed to.
You tugged lightly at his sweatshirt.
Logan lifted enough to let you pull it up, but before it could go anywhere, he stopped. His eyes searched yours.
“Is this okay?”
The question came out quiet. Serious.
It melted you.
You nodded, brushing your nose against his. “Yes.”
His gaze dropped to your mouth again. “Tell me if it’s not.”
“I will.”
Only then did he let you pull the sweatshirt over his head.
It landed somewhere near the foot of the bed, forgotten the second his mouth found yours again. Skin met skin beneath your hands, his body warm from the shower and the blankets and the way he kept pressing closer like he couldn’t get enough. The kiss turned messy, full of tongue and breath and fingers gripping tighter than before. He caught your lower lip between his, then soothed it with another kiss, and you felt him smile when your nails dragged lightly down his back.
“Careful,” he murmured.
“You don’t like it?”
His answer was another kiss, deeper than the last.
You laughed softly against his mouth, but the sound faded when his hand slipped under your shirt, his palm spreading over your waist. His touch was slow, giving you every chance to pull away, but you only arched closer, letting your body answer for you. Logan’s breath hitched. His forehead dropped to your shoulder for half a second, like he needed to collect himself.
“You have no idea what you do to me,” he said.
You turned your face toward his, lips brushing his ear. “Then show me.”
Logan didn’t need to be told twice. He let out a shaky breath, his lips leaving your ear to find yours again in a kiss that was deeper and hungrier, yet still laced with a desperate tenderness. His tongue swept against yours, tasting of longing and a sharp need to be as close to you as physically possible. Your hands slid up from his shoulders, fingers tangling deep into the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him down and anchoring him to you.
He groaned into your mouth, a low vibration that you felt in your own chest. His hand, which had been resting on your waist, slid further up under your shirt, his palm hot against your skin. He didn't rush. He traced the curve of your ribs, his thumb brushing the underside of your breast through your bra, sending a jolt of heat straight to your core.
You shifted beneath him, your legs tangling with his, your thighs brushing against the soft fabric of his gray sweatpants. You could feel the hard length of his cock pressing against your hip. You arched your back, pressing your chest against his bare skin, needing to feel the beat of his heart against yours.
“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered against your lips, his voice thick and strained. He pulled back just an inch, his eyes searching yours. Finding no hesitation, he leaned down to kiss the sensitive dip of your collarbone, his breath hot and ragged.
“I’ve got you, Logan,” you murmured, your voice a soft reassurance. You ran your hands down his back, feeling the ripple of muscle as the tension finally started to bleed out of him. “I want you. All of you.”
That was the breaking point. Logan let out a choked sound, his movements becoming more urgent but remaining gentle. He pulled back just enough to lift your shirt over your head, tossing it aside. He lingered for a moment, just staring at you with a look of pure reverence.
His hands moved to the clasp of your bra, clicking it open with focused precision. As the fabric fell away, he leaned down, his mouth finding your nipple and sucking it softly. You gasped, your fingers tightening in his hair, pulling him closer.
“Please,” he breathed against your skin, his voice a needy plea.
You reached down, your fingers hooking into the waistband of his gray sweatpants. You slid them down his legs, kicking them away until he was completely bare, his cock springing free, hard and pulsing. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him flush against you, the friction of skin on skin making you both shiver.
Logan braced himself on his elbow, looking down at you, his expression open and vulnerable. He guided himself to your entrance, pausing for a heartbeat, his eyes locked onto yours.
“Is this okay?” he whispered.
“Yes,” you breathed, tilting your pelvis up to meet him. “Please, Logan.”
He pushed inside slowly, a long, steady slide that filled you completely. Logan closed his eyes, his forehead dropping against yours, a long, shuddering exhale escaping him. He stayed still for a moment, just breathing with you and letting the feeling of the union sink in.
He began to move, slow and rhythmic. He kissed you deeply, his tongue dancing with yours, while his hands cupped your face, holding you gently. You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him down so there was no space left between you.
“Logan,” you whispered, your voice breathless as you pulled him closer. “Right there. Don't stop.”
Logan let out a low, needy moan, burying his face in the crook of your neck. He picked up the pace, his movements becoming more fluid and more desperate as the tension built. You met every thrust, your nails digging lightly into his back, urging him on. The heat between you climbed, a slow burn that finally ignited into a blinding flash of pleasure.
Logan stiffened, his muscles locking as he came inside you, a deep, guttural groan echoing in the quiet room. You followed him seconds later, your body pulsing around him in waves of release that left you both breathless and shaking.
As the world slowly came back into focus, Logan didn’t pull away. He collapsed softly on top of you, careful not to crush you, his heart hammering against your ribs. He stayed there for a long time, his face hidden in your neck, his breathing slowly evening out.
Eventually, he shifted, rolling to the side but keeping you tucked firmly against his chest. You both slid under the blankets, the cool air of the room contrasting with the radiating warmth of your bodies. You stayed tangled together, limbs entwined, the silence of the room now peaceful.
Logan let out a quiet breath, the kind that sounded like he had finally stopped holding himself together. His arm stayed wrapped around you beneath the blankets, his thumb moving slowly against your side while his lips brushed your temple once, then lingered there.
“I love you,” he murmured.
It came out so softly you almost thought you had imagined it. Not planned. Not dressed up with confidence or charm. Just honest, slipping out of him in the quiet because there was nowhere else for it to go.
You lifted your head from his chest, and Logan looked down at you like he was waiting for the words to scare you away.
They didn’t.
Your hand came up to his jaw, your thumb brushing over his cheek. “I love you too, Logan.”
His eyes softened all at once. The last bit of tension left his face, and he pulled you in closer, tucking you back against him like he could finally rest now that you knew.
For the first time all night, he looked like he could finally breathe.
Im bored so i was like you know what let’s try writing it let me know what you think, this is just a little sneak peek and PLEASE be honest if this is complete trash tell me so I don’t waste my time lmao
The first thing Julia noticed about the house as she pulled into the driveway and shifted her car into park was that the left railing of the porch was hanging on by a single nail, and the three bottom steps looked like they were rotting by the minute.
She sat there for a second with her hands still on the wheel, staring at it like maybe if she stared long enough it would get better.
It did not get better.
She sighed, turned the car off, and stepped out.
The heat hit her immediately, thick and heavy, the kind that made everything feel a little slower than it should. Her duffel bag slid off her shoulder as she shut the car door with her foot, and she looked up at the house again.
This definitely was not a good sign for what the rest of it was going to look like.
Not enough to be alarming.
Not enough to make her turn around, call her parents, and admit defeat on day one.
But enough that when she stood in front of it with her keys in her hand, she had a very honest thought.
This house has seen things.
Julia adjusted her bag again and stepped closer to the porch.
“Okay,” she said, like the house might answer. “It’s not that bad.”
The porch creaked under her weight as she walked up the steps carefully, like she was testing a theory. The wood shifted slightly, but held. Barely.
The paint on the siding was faded in uneven patches, like the house had given up on trying to look consistent years ago. One of the front windows had a long crack running through it, sharp and jagged, like frozen lightning.
But it was hers.
That part still felt unreal.
Cheap didn’t usually mean good. Julia knew that. She had grown up around renovation projects, the kind where weekends disappeared into hardware stores and paint fumes. Her parents had flipped houses like it was normal, like it was just what people did when they got bored.
Two older brothers who treated sanding floors like a personality trait had not helped.
She wasn’t scared of work.
She just didn’t want to be wrong.
The lock stuck when she tried it, then finally gave way with a reluctant click.
The door swung open.
Inside smelled like old wood and dust and something faintly metallic she decided not to think about too hard.
She stepped in and paused.
Boxes were stacked everywhere. Living room. Kitchen. Hallway. It looked like someone had taken her entire life and just dropped it inside the house without asking where anything should go.
“Right,” she said quietly. “That’s… great.”
The air inside was cooler than outside, but not in a comforting way. More like the house was holding its breath and didn’t know if it should keep doing that.
Sunlight came through the front windows in long strips, catching dust in the air. The floors were scratched but solid. The kind of solid that meant the house had been through things but was still standing out of spite.
There was potential here.
That was the word she settled on.
Potential.
She dropped her bag by the stairs and stood in the middle of the room for a moment, just looking around.
No roommate. No shared kitchen disasters. No hallway noise at midnight. No passive aggressive notes about dishes left in the sink.
Just her.
And a house that needed everything.
Outside, somewhere close enough to notice but far enough to ignore, a door slammed.
Then another.
Laughter followed, loud and overlapping, the kind of noise that belonged to more than one person at once. A group. Probably guys. Definitely loud.
Julia paused and glanced toward the side window.
She could not see much through the curtain, but she could see enough. Another house. Bigger. Cleaner. Lived in like it belonged to people who did not have to think about fixing it.
Someone yelled something she could not make out.
Then came the sound of something hitting pavement. Maybe a stick. Maybe something worse. Followed by more laughter.
Of course.
She looked away.
“Not my problem,” she said, like she was reminding herself.
Then she turned back to the boxes.
OKAY I know Logan isn’t in this at all but this is just the beginning if it’s not horrible let me know and I might keep writing idk
can someone, anyone PLEASE write a story where a girl moves in right next door to the boys and it’s like a major fixer upper so she got it for cheap that’s why she’s living by herself and a few days after she moves in she’s in the yard working on something, literally anything and Logan sees her working in the yard and she’s kind of struggling so he goes over there and he’s like hey I live right next to you. I’m Logan do you need any help and obviously she thinks he’s fine cause he is duh so she’s like oh my gosh that would be great and then like he starts helping her with yard work and things around the house then she’s suddenly seeing him work out in the backyard and like it’s just so cute and like slowly fall for each other but they’re like scared to say anything and then she starts going over to his house cause like he invited her like hang out with everyone and it’s just like a slow burn and he’s always helping her with things around the house and I think it would just be really cute
PLEASE SOMEONE TELL ME YOU SEE THE VISION🙏🏼🙏🏼
I can’t write for shit so I can’t write it myself but I feel like it would be such a cute series
If this is already out please for the love of god tell me what it is because this is a NEED!!!!
I Can Fix That - a John Logan x F!reader one shot.
a/n: ok so I watched Disney movies all day & Holes was on and all I could think of during the Sam and Ms. Katherine montage/backstory was John Logan and reader flirting with each other by you giving a bunch of tasks and he just wants to be around you and for you to be taken care of so he does all of it with a smile and an ‘I can fix that.’
warnings: 18+ ONLY — typical shirtless shenanigans, longing, fix it felix, handyman!logan, neighbors, strangers to lovers, descriptions of sexual acts, teasing, dirty talk, making out, fingering, oral (f!receiving) protected sex, p n v. he talks you through it cause it's john fucking logan, of course he does.
You'd moved into the old McAllen home that was next to the boys' house last semester and run into nothing but issues since you'd signed the lease. Within the first three months of living there, your water heater had gone out, the garbage disposal stopped working and on warm nights, sometimes the air conditioning would go on the fritz, leaving you in sweltering heat and being miserable in your underwear while laying on top of your bed.
Your landlord was absolutely useless and you were probably on a list of dozens of other properties that were probably experiencing the same issues. And for a while, you just grit your teeth and dealt with it the best you could.
One day, you'd finally had enough and got your dad's old toolbox out of your storage and decided to try to figure out the AC unit on your own. A decision that you instantly regret once you get the thing open and see the wires and metal.
But it was at least eighty degrees inside of your house, your outfit of the day consists of a pair of cut of denim shorts and a bikini top. Your hair is up as high off your neck as it can get and you're still sweating. You groan at the tangled mess of wires and are about to give up and just live in the nude this summer when you hear a voice behind you.
"Need a hand?"
You turn to see the Captain of the Briar U Hawks, John Logan with his sunglasses up on his forehead. He looks concerned at how you're holding the tool in your hand and how much electrical you're around right now.
"My air conditioning blows but it's not cold," you explain desperately, "I'm dying," you confess. Hastings has been in the middle of an unseasonably warm heat wave. By mid day, it's over one hundred degrees and at night, even with the sun down it's around eighty five and it's very humid.
Logan winces and drops his backpack, "Yikes," he says and steps forward, taking the pair of pliers from your hand and eyeing them up with a soft chuckle. He drops them gently into the toolbox and moves a few things around before he finds a flathead screwdriver.
"I can fix that," he says as he manages his hand inside of the opening you'd just found earlier. He flicks his wrist and the screwdriver hits something metal and he looks underneath the unit before he gives a quick nod. "Go in, see if it's cold," he tells you and you walk around to the back door of your two bedroom little starter house.
You don't know much but it was a senior who graduated who'd lived here last — but you do know that student did not take care of the place. You'd spent the first few weekends of your first year here pulling weeds, throwing away old furniture and giving the place a thorough scrub down.
It wasn't much but it was yours and you were proud of it.
As you step into the living room, you walk up to the wall where an air vent is sitting at the top, you stand up on your tipped toes and hear the air conditioner start to whir outside and air kicks out of the vent.
And it's hot.
You huff. And just as you're about to call out that it didn't work, your fingers cool down slightly. It's working and it's getting colder.
For the first time in three weeks, you would be able to sleep in an air conditioned house. You could kiss him right now and you don't even officially know his name.
Sure, you're not stupid. Anybody with eyes on campus knows who John Logan is. But at the end of the day, being his neighbor has made him incredibly human. You've seen him stumble out of the front door ten minutes late for his first class, taking out the trash in his boxers, you've seen him say goodbye to countless women, usually in the early morning hours. John Logan didn't do morning afters, you'd noticed.
Realizing you sound like a fucking stalker; you shake your head and rid your thoughts for a second. You step back outside and give him a gracious smile.
"It's working now, holy shit," you gush. "Thank you so much —" you trail off.
"John," he places a greasy hand on his chest and it leaves a stain. "Logan, that's what everybody calls me," he nods. "You renting?" he motions to the house with the screwdriver still in hand.
"I'm Y/N, yeah, until grad," you nod gently. "I'm a sophomore."
"Locking a place down already," he nods appreciatively at the house then back at you. His eyes linger for a beat longer than appropriate and he clears his throat as if to let you know that he's aware he's messing this up. "Smart move," he says. "Me and the guys rent too, same; til we're outta here," he smirks.
You've had a few classes with a few members of the hockey team and they all seemed nice enough. Their playboy personas definitely preceded them.
"Well hey, listen, if you ever need anything around the house like this kinda thing," Logan taps the air conditioner, "Lemme know, it's kind of my hobby," he confesses.
You raise an eyebrow, "Yeah," you nod slowly. It couldn't hurt to have someone who actually knew the names of what the fuck fixed things. "Thanks, I'll keep that in mind," you smile.
He picks his backpack back up and places the screwdriver back in the toolbox, shutting the box. "Have a good day," he smiles sweetly before walking across the street and up the stairs to the hockey house.
You pick up the toolbox and walk back into your house, making a silent vow to yourself that you'd only ever call John Logan in case of emergency.
About a week later, you're working on the garden in the front yard that's by your door when you see the shadow of someone who's standing behind you. You squint gently before tilting your head over your shoulder and catching a glimpse of Logan.
You hadn't been avoiding him per say, you had just been going about your day to day life. But you had been noticing that he had been outside more, working out in the backyard and you could have sworn he'd been staring over at your house a few times.
He's shirtless, sweaty and has a bandana on that's damp at his forehead. His athletic shorts are hanging low on his hips and you can see the little trail of hair that goes from his belly button dow—
"How's the AC?" he asks, hands on his hips and you turn back to your pruning, desperate for a distraction. He's asking such a simple and innocent question and your thoughts are racing about how strong he was. You wondered if he could bench press you, but a voice sounds inside of your head.
Holy shit, Y/N, not fucking now.
You nod your head, "It's great, thank you again," you say again.
He shakes his head like it was nothing.
"I was headed to the hardware store this morning," he says and you're wondering why he's telling you when he motions to your back fence. "When I was over here last week, I noticed you're missing a couple of slats," he shrugs. "I can fix that."
You look over towards where he's pointing and sure as shit, there's about four broken or missing slats to your fence scattered along the back wall. You sigh. You haven't been in the backyard much yet this spring and are afraid of what you're going to have to face when you finally do get around to it.
"I could pick up a couple of boards," Logan offers nonchalantly. "Our shower keeps getting clogged," he says and he instantly knows that his roommate Dean is the culprit. "Since I'm there already," he trails off and glances at you.
You blink.
"Oh, uh, yeah - that would be great," you say with a shake of your head. This guy was too good to be true. You smirk gently when he nods happily.
"Cool," he says as he reaches back and pulls the t-shirt that's hanging from his pocket out and over his head in a swift motion. Like he's done it all his life.
"I'll be right back," he tells you with a wave before turning and jogging towards his pickup.
Forty minutes later, Logan is carrying plywood back into your jungle of a backyard. He sees the weeds and laughs, giving a low whistle.
"Lemme guess," you say with a sly smirk and he grins back at you.
"I can fix that," he nods once.
"At least on that one, I can help," you say as you watch him start to line up the boards in the missing spots. He measures twice, you notice.
You excuse yourself after a minute and go inside to lean against the kitchen counter.
John Logan is in your backyard, fixing your fence. The only thing that could make it better was if he was shirtless, you think as you make your way to the sink, looking out the window that sits in front of it.
Oh, and just like that..
Logan grabs the hem of his baby blue t-shirt and rips it off, tossing it to the side and you groan internally. You look down and see your hands clutching the counter.
"Fucking hell," you grumble softly. "This is torture," you mumble as you watch his shoulder blades flex as he starts to hammer in nails.
You search the kitchen for some way to show your appreciation and find some lemonade in the very back of the fridge. You see a chunk of ice in it floating so you know it's good. The iceberg clinks around the glass pitcher walls as you find a glass.
You hastily pour, looking out at him and biting your bottom lip. He has no fucking business coming to do chores at your house looking this fucking good, you think to yourself and place the pitcher down on the counter.
You inhale slowly and realize your hand is shaking. Like your entire body is slowly starting to gravitate towards the idea of reaching out and touching him.
You steady yourself before walking outside as calm as you should be with a hot guy working in your backyard, shirtless.
The sound of nails grounds you and you clear your throat and he turns, offering a genuine grin at the glass of lemonade.
"Oh, fuck yeah," he says and drops the hammer to the ground, taking the glass and chugging half in one go. He gasps as he takes a deep breath and nods in appreciation. "That's delicious," he says before his eyes widen and he rubs his temples, "Fuck that shit's cold," he laughs through his temporary brain freeze. "Thank you," he nods and takes another sip, slower this time. He's learned his lesson.
You laugh softly, "Are you kidding me? Thank you," you motion to the three new fence posts that are already in place.
"Ah, it's nothing," he waves. "I'd rather do this and be outside than fishing condoms out of the shower drain," he says and when you give a confused look he shakes his head. "Don't ask," he warns.
You hold your hands up in surrender and laugh once and Logan smirks.
He likes the sound of your laugh.
"So, next weekend I've got an away game," he says matter of factly. "But the weekend after that we're home, I could come and help you with some of this stuff," he kicks a bush that's just given up on the will to live.
You nod gently, "That would be great, I'll get out here next weekend and try to get some out of here before you come back," you offer and he shrugs.
"No worries if you don't," he says quietly. "I could get this clear in an afternoon, couple of hours if I loop a couple of freshman into helping," he smirks.
"That's cruel, even for freshman," you reason with a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips.
He lets a beat pass before gazing around the backyard and he states boldly, "So no boyfriend around to help ya."
It's more of a statement than a question and you don't know how to respond.
Your eyes widen slightly at his forwardness before laughing softly. Something you did when you got uncomfortable. You shift between your feet and shake your head.
"Nah," you say simply and leave it at that. John Logan doesn't need to know your entire relationship history since coming to Briar.
He eyes you up suspiciously before turning back to the fence, "Well, I'll get this last one done and get out of your hair," he says dismissively. He kneels down and grabs the hammer again, digging into his pocket for a handful of nails. He sticks a few between his teeth by their flat heads and he starts to hammer them into the wood and with each hit, you feel the opportunity of getting to know Logan more slip away until two weeks from now.
"Hey, can I get your number?" You ask suddenly between hits and he raises an eyebrow and looks over his shoulder at you. He's got a look that screams curiosity and maybe even excitement at the idea of you asking for his number.
Before he can get too cocky, you follow up with a bold faced lie, "My water heater has been weird lately—" you say quietly and make a mental note to go in there before he comes to fix it and fuck it up somehow. "In case it blows up or something while you're gone.." you trail off and place your hands in your pockets.
His lips slowly pull into a sly smirk and he nods, "Yeah, I can give you my number," he winks. "In case something blows up," he confirms before hitting the final nail on the head and placing the hammer into the toolbox at his feet. "Done."
You hand him your cell phone and quietly watch him type in his name and number before handing it back to you. He hit 'call' and 'end' quickly so that he'd have your number as well — he wasn't dumb. He wasn't going to wait for something to break to talk to you again.
"Thanks again," you tell him as you walk him towards the front of the house. He's wiping his face with his bandana that he's removed from his head. His hair is slightly sweaty and sticking to his forehead, he puts his hands in his t-shirt and lifts it up to wipe his face even better and you get a good glimpse of his abs before the shirt falls back down.
"Yeah, of course — get inside into that air conditioning," he tells you seriously. "It's getting fucking hot," he grumbles. He loved spring and summer but not when it was as hot as Hell outside, literally. He could feel the thickness of the air when he inhaled and that was something he'd learned that he did not like since this heat wave had begun.
You smirk gently and nod your head, "Yeah, you too," you muse and he waves you off.
"I'll talk to you later," he promises and crosses the street and you stand there for a moment, looking at your feet for a second before going inside and plopping onto the couch trying not to imagine him naked.
You end up taking an hour long cold shower.
It's only four days later when you're sitting in your bed, trying to read a book. Your eyes scan the same paragraph for the sixth time, trying to force yourself to comprehend.
You've been thinking about John Logan since the fence fixing and it was starting to consume your day to day life. In the middle of lectures, just as you were disassociating to your professor's monotone, you'd get a glimpse of the dimples behind his back that were more pronounced whenever his arms were above his head.
At the end of a long day, you would come back to your house and look over to the hockey house; wondering what he was doing.
Your phone vibrates on your thigh and you look down.
It's late, Hannah had already said goodnight a few hours ago and that was the only person that you been talking to that day. You close your book and place it to your side, looking at your phone screen.
Logan: Just checking in to make sure nothing has imploded on you before I head to bed — thought I heard a bang.
You smirk slowly and resist the urge to kick your feet at the sight of his text. No, this isn't an elementary school crush, no — you were fully lusting over John Logan and he was seemingly interested in seeing what could be between you two.
You slowly type back, "Nothing here at least from what I can tell, I think you're in the clear…"
And instantly, those three little dots slowly pop up and you inhale slowly.
Logan: That means nothing coming from you: I saw how you hold a pair of pliers. If you're trying to reassure me, you're doing a terrible job.
A grin pulls at your lips and you lean back in your bed against the headboard.
"Who needs to know how to hold a pair of pliers when they live next door to Fix-It Felix," you respond with a GIF from Wreck it Ralph. He gives a 'haha' to the image before responding quickly.
Logan: I'm not gonna be here forever — unlike some of my teammates, I take my schooling very seriously. I'm not planning on being here for a decade. When I graduate, you're fucked. 😭
You laugh and roll your eyes.
"Good thing I have your number then, huh?"
He starts typing but the dots disappear and you stare, waiting for them to show up again.
They don't.
You exhale and let your head fall back between your shoulders against the headboard.
Another vibrate.
Logan: What are you up to? Me and the boys just got back from Malone's & I'm about this close to refereeing a rock, paper, scissors tournament, I think.
You smirk and debate how you want to play this. You could easily turn this into a flirtatious conversation — ask Logan to come across the street and keep you company. Or you could stay just like you were, just talking. It seemed like a win win either way. You're in your thoughts when the phone vibrates again in your palm.
Logan: JK, Dean passed out on the couch and Garrett decided he's headed to bed. Another fun night at the Hockey House!
"Sounds like a blast, more fun than I'm having," you hit send and then send another message. "I'm trying to read a book but my mind is just elsewhere, I guess…" and you add a shrugging emoji to make sure he knows you're not being blatantly flirtatious.
Logan: Hate that for you. What's up? Something on your mind?
You swallow and stare at the message.
Yeah, you think to yourself, you.
And your thumbs start to move mindlessly, "Just nothing is keeping my attention and I just feel restless."
Logan: Except me.
And you can see the smug ass smirk that's probably on his face right now across the street.
You stand up and pace back and forth as you think of how to respond.
You type back with one word.
"Apparently."
Logan's little dots pop up and taunt you with what you imagine his response could be. He could be smug, he could be completely disinterested and respond with a 'quit it, freak' or worse, he could be totally fucking into it.
Logan: I can fix that.
And your heart skips a beat as you text back to explain yourself and you delete what you've got, going for a third attempt at an excuse when your doorbell rings.
Your stomach falls into your ass as you slowly lift yourself up off the bed and walk down the hallway towards the front door. Through the decorative windows at the top of the door, you can see the very top of Logan's head, moving back and forth.
You slowly reach out and open the door, looking at the hockey captain who has his hand behind his neck and he gives a gentle smile.
As you watch him, you rack your brain for everything and anything that could be considered 'broken' so that you can keep him here as long as you could, but he simply shrugs his shoulders and leans against the door frame.
He's switched out of his clothing from this evening at Malone's and is now in a pair of gray sweatpants, the drawstrings hanging between his thighs. His t-shirt is one size too big for his frame — either he doesn't care about flaunting his muscles or he doesn't realize how fit he truly is.
"I know nothing's broken," he states matter of factly. "Can I come in anyway?"
Instead of speaking, you probably couldn't if you tried right now, you simply step to the side and motion for him to come inside. He does so with a smile and looks around as soon as he's inside.
"Can I get you anything?" you ask him quietly and he shrugs his shoulders and shakes his head.
"Nope," he says, popping the 'p' as he shoves his hands into his jeans pockets. "I'm all good, I uh, just wanted to see you," he confesses.
"Me?" you ask with a surprised look on your face. Logan could get any girl on campus with a bat of those long eyelashes and that stupid lazy smirk that he's got on his face whenever he looks at you.
"You," he nods with the same surprised look on his face, laughing softly. "Yeah, you," he states with a shrug. "Truth be told," Logan sighs dramatically and leans against the kitchen island, arms against his chest. "I haven't been able to stop thinking about you since you were trying to fix your AC," he tells you as if it's no big deal that he's been thinking about you for weeks.
There's a slight skip in your heart's rhythm when you think about if he's had the same type of thoughts about you?
He watches you intently as you stand in the doorway of the kitchen, staring at him with your mouth slightly agape.
"Y/N, you gotta give me something to work off of here," he begs gently with a pleading look in his eyes and you shake your head in disbelief.
"Sorry," you say simply with a blink, "I just… think my brain short circuited," you joke but you feel like doing literally anything but laughing. John Logan has been thinking about you, you remind yourself and you swallow before feeling yourself returning into your own body again. "Thinking about me," you try out quietly as you start to step towards him. "Like how?"
Logan stares at you as if you're a piece of prey as you step closer, dark eyes locked on your frame as you saunter towards the island. He bites down on his bottom lip gently, "Oh, if I told you you would think that I'm insane," he warns.
Eyebrows lifting slightly, you gaze up at him curiously and tilt your head to the side, "Try me," you say in an encouraging tone.
Logan swallows. Hard.
"I've been thinking about you—" he inhales sharply as if he really is considering doing this. He looks down at you and reaches over, grabbing your waist and tugging you between his legs. His hands find your hips as his thumbs gently graze at your hip bones. "In the worst fucking ways possible," he says, "—which is a problem because I haven't even taken you out on a proper date yet."
Ah, you think. A romantic, how sweet.
You smirk gently, "Oh, shit," you say in a low tone. "That bad, huh?"
Logan groans and shakes his head, "Like right now, all I wanna do is put you up on this counter and have my way with you," he says in a voice just above a whisper. He pulls his right hand up and strokes your cheek as if he's testing the waters. "I've been thinking about how badly I wanna fuck you," he confesses and your cheeks flush.
Your lips curl up into a smirk and you lean in, whispering into his ear. "I'm afraid I have some bad news for you," you say softly and he looks down at you with furrowed eyebrows.
"What? What's the bad news?" he asks, worry in his voice.
"I've been thinking about that too," you say. "And then you kept coming over shirtless and shit looking like a Ken doll," you groan and rub your hand over your face.
"Can I at least be a GI Joe?" he asks and you roll your eyes.
Logan's eyes light up slightly and he reaches forward, capturing your lips against his. He takes a step and spins you around, effectively caging you in against the countertop. Your tongues play against each others and both of his hands slip up to either side of your neck, deepening the kiss. After a moment, his hands slide down to your hips and he grabs you tightly, fingertips digging into your pajama bottoms and lifts you. He plops you right on your ass onto the counter, legs dangling and he steps between them effortlessly.
Your mind is fucking racing right now as his hands start to roam up and down your sides over your pajamas. Finally realizing what's going on, your arms instantly go around his neck and your leg hooks around his waist and pin him against the counter. He groans into the kiss slightly and lets his hand slip up your shirt.
His palm brushes against your breast and rolls your nipple gently between his index finger and thumb and he grins against your lips at the noise that comes out of your mouth.
You reach up and let your hand rake through his hair, sighing into the next kiss that he plants on your lips. He then breaks away, trailing kisses down your jawline as his hand switches over to your other breast and starts giving it some attention as well.
Logan's hands pull at the hem of your shirt and his eyes meet yours, asking silently for your approval before continuing on.
When you nod, he has the green light and he yanks the fabric up and over your head with no flair. He's too excited to be pulling out all the moves even though he knows he needs to slow the fuck down and savor this moment.
His lips graze down your jawline and down onto your neck and he nips gently at your pulse point before he sucks gently to ease the pain. Your lips part and you exhale, tilting your head to the side to give him the best angle of your neck that he can get.
You secretly hope he leaves marks. You want to walk around campus with makeup poorly covering his little claims on your body — at least the ones that are visible.
Logan's eyes drift down to your tits and smiles appreciatively. "Jesus," he breathes out as he reaches behind his neck and tugs at the collar of his own t-shirt. He throws it to the side and your hands rest on his muscular chest, fingers tracing the silver chain that he wears every day.
He presses you up against his chest and he closes his eyes, resting his forehead against yours as your hand slowly slides down between his pecs to his abs. Your fingertips slowly trace small little circles along the muscles and his flinches his belly away from you instinctively before you smirk up at him and let your hand rest at the waistband of his sweats.
You watch his face intently as your hand palms against his dick through the fabric and you can feel him tense underneath you instantly. He sucks in a deep breath of air and grunts gently.
"You gonna tease it or you gonna play with it?" he asks gently, a slight challenge in his voice. He's never going to not be a smart ass when it counts.
You grin, letting your fingers curl around his fabric covered length. He hisses and closes his eyes, shifting his hips forward into your hand and he groans.
"Y/N," he warns, "I've wanted this all week," he tells you and you give him a sympathetic look.
He looks at you with a smile that shouts two can play that game and lets his fingers hook into the elastic of your shorts. In one swift motion, he's got you naked sitting on your kitchen counter and you feel like a million bucks as you sit in front of him with that grin.
He's looking at you like he's hit the lottery and he licks his lips before he leans back in, "You're fucking perfect," he whispers genuinely into your ear.
He grabs your thighs and wraps your legs around his waist and tugs you closer, picking you up off the counter with ease and walking you towards the living room where he saw a couch earlier that seemed like it would give him enough room for what he wanted to do to you.
He lays you gingerly back against the couch cushions, dropping to his knees on the floor in front of you and nudging your knees apart with his shoulders. Logan's lips plant kisses up your thighs and just as he's about to reach your center that's throbbing at this point, he hovers and hesitates.
Logan's dark eyes stare down at your pussy, all wet just for him, and he blows air against your exposed clit before he goes to your other thigh and starts to kiss down towards your knee. You whimper and squirm underneath him and lift your head up off the couch.
"Fucking tease," you mumble with a sigh and he laughs between your thighs, laughing and leaning in. His lips place a gentle kiss at your clit before he lets his tongue lap in lazy circles against you.
His tongue moves just like a skater on the ice and you can't help but fall back against the cushions as he starts to inch you closer to an orgasm. His arms wrap around your ass and tugs you down onto his tongue, humming happily as he eats you out.
Your hand reaches down and grabs a handful of his hair and as he slips a finger inside of you, you tug in approval. A shaky sigh escapes from your lips as he throws your knee over his shoulder, burying his face deeper.
Your eyes widen as he starts to suck at your clit, a second finger added to the mix with a moan from you giving him encouragement every step of the way. The way your hips are starting to roll against his fingers makes him grin and his cock twitches between his legs.
Not now, Logan says to himself as he curls his fingers up just right and rubs against your spot.
"That's right," Logan nods, eyes dark. "You like that?"
Your head bounces like a bobblehead.
Logan shakes his head down at you, pressing his fingers deeper. "Say it," he says.
"I like it," you say eagerly and he smirks gently at how much control he has right now in this moment — even though he knows you can switch that dynamic around real fast.
He curls his fingers and pumps his fingers out as he sucks at your clit again, looking up at you.
Jesus Christ, John Logan between your thighs looking up at you may be the sexiest thing you've ever seen in your entire life.
"Fuck," you manage out a moment later as he keeps his motions going, leaning up though and grinning down at you.
"What's up, baby?" he asks in that snarky little tone that makes you clench around his fingers slightly. "Mm, you're close, aren't you?" he asks.
You nod weakly and Logan lifts a finger to his earlobe.
"Use your words, princess," Logan growls gently as he tilts his ear down towards you.
"I'm gonna come," you breathe out, your fingertips digging into his forearm.
Logan grins, "Good, let go for me," he says softly into your ear, "C'mon, let me have it," he tells you.
Your eyes close and you whimper as your thighs quiver around his fingers and he slows his fingers yet adds an entirely new sensation at this moment: his thumb, rubbing gently against your clit steadily.
He holds you as you tense up under him, kissing any inch of your body that he can get his lips on as you ride out your high.
"There she is," he grins once you seemingly come back down to Earth and you giggle softly, leaning in and kissing his lips roughly.
Logan leans back into you and kisses you back before pulling away and exhaling. He glances down and bites down on his bottom lip.
"You're not done," he tells you quietly as he wraps his hand around the base of his cock and gives it a slow pump. His eyes are locked on you and you sit up slowly, grinning.
You lean over him and open your coffee table drawer, reaching in and grabbing a condom before taking the wrapper between her teeth and tearing it open.
Logan's seen women trying to make condoms sexy a hundred times but you, however, are the only one to succeed. He bites harder into his bottom lip as he pumps his cock once more, watching as you grab the latex and line it up with him.
He groans as you slowly roll the condom down with your hand, gripping him as you slide down and grinning up at him as you notice him twitch.
He crawls up onto the couch between your thighs and lets the head of his cock rub against your wet folds teasingly.
Your eyes roll at the feeling and you reach down to grab his forearms that are braced on either side of you.
And with one swift thrust, Logan pushes inside of you and you moan softly.
He pauses when he's fully inside of you and gives you a second to adjust before he rolls his hips back - only to thrust right back in. His head drops back between his shoulders and he groans.
You wrap your legs around his waist and he buries himself inside of you with each thrust, each one growing more and more passionate. He's savoring this moment just as much as you are, you notice, as he looks down at you as if he's memorizing this. The way your tits bounce with each thrusts, the sound that your bodies are making as they collide or maybe even how you feel.
"Just like that," you egg him on as he angles his hips just right and you feel a sudden sensation building in your stomach.
He beams at your words and tries to hit that spot over and over and over again.
He groans slowly, "You look so gorgeous like this," he tells you. And you don't care how many girls he's told this to before, you believe him. And your hands slowly reach up to your tits, squeezing them together as he brings your knees up to your chest and continues to pound into you.
You groan and know that you're on the edge and it's way too fast for your liking but you have no say in the matter. Logan for all intents and purposes has full control of you and this moment and you wouldn't have it any other way.
He leans down and kisses your lips as he bucks his hips, his thrusts getting more and more desperate and ragged as he rocks his hips back and forth. When he feels your thighs shake again and your breathing hitch, he groans deeply into the kiss and his hips start to slow down, looking down at you. His eyes lock onto yours as he fills the condom, moaning and kissing your jaw again.
And you two lay like that, just together, chest to chest on the couch, catching your breath. A comfortable silence falling between you two. You quietly wrap an arm around his shoulders as he places kisses against your collarbone, slipping out of you a moment later.
You sit up and Logan instantly walks over to the kitchen and grabs the roll of paper towels. He peels the rubber off of his dick and cleans himself off quickly and hands you the roll of towels for yourself.
He pulls his sweats back over his hips and he sits on the couch, running his hand through his hair and exhaling contently.
"You good?" he asks gently after a beat and you offer a grin that makes him laugh. "Jesus," he laughs, "You keep looking like that and I'm gonna get you for three tonight," he grins and leans in, pecking your lips.
"What's wrong with that?" you ask with a small smirk.
Logan chuckles lowly and swats at your thigh, "Nothing, but I'm gonna get hooked," he smirks. "And then you'll never get rid of me," he shrugs quickly.
"I thought I already couldn't get rid of you," you muse and he leans in, tickling your sides and making you writhe underneath him in an entirely different way.
"So I'm gonna take you out to dinner tomorrow night," he tells you simply, tracing circles up and down your arm.
You laugh gently at the shift of conversation.
"I'll see if I can pencil you in," you say gently. "Have you seen my backyard?"
He smirks, "Alright, fine, instead of going out for dinner, we'll get some take out and we can work in the backyard and get some work done before I head out on the road," he says, like it's the easiest decision to make.
You purse your lips and nod, "I don't think my sprinkler system is even hooked up," you muse after a minute and Logan hums behind you, hugging you tight to his body as he shrugs.
"I can fix that."
a/n: well, here we are hussies, (jk lol) I hope that you enjoyed my first smutfic in a HOT ASS minute. what a muse, huh? is he just not the finest hunk in the world? the things i'd do-- and with that, i'm headed to bed. let me know what you think -- as always, requests are OPEN and I'm always willing to take your suggestions! who knows -- maybe this becomes a mini-series in and of itself depending on how ya'll like it!
i love you all so very very much! thank you for reading!
pairing – garrett graham x nursing student!reader
summary – post-fever softness makes everything feel a little too intimate, so naturally, the solution is a list of new things to try in bed. for research purposes, obviously.
warnings – 18+, explicit smut, multiple sex scenes, sexual experimentation, praise kink, dirty talk, handcuffs/restraints, mirror sex, protected sex.
notes from me – wheewwwww i got carried away!! but i promised up to date NS!reader & garrett smut so here we are!! set in the days after patient zero!!
word count – 14.9k
navigation – masterlist |
For three days after her fever, Garrett handles her like someone has slapped a little fragile sticker between her shoulder blades and told him he’ll be fined by the universe if he ignores it.
It’s not bad. It’s Garrett, so it’s still annoying enough to keep her grounded. He still steals bites of her food without asking and texts her things like u alive? when he knows she’s in lab and cannot answer, and he still makes obscene comments about her scrubs with the straight-faced confidence of a man who thinks being hot should count as a mitigating factor in court.
But there’s a softness threaded through him now that keeps catching her wrong. His hand lingers at the small of her back before he moves away. He asks if she’s tired before he tries to kiss her properly. He watches her face too closely, like he’s waiting for some delayed fever confession to climb out of her mouth and make both of their lives complicated.
Which is rude, honestly, because she barely remembers saying anything.
There are flashes. Heat. His hoodie under her cheek. The sitcom playing too quietly from her laptop. Garrett’s hand in her hair. The horrible, half-dreamed shape of her own voice asking something pathetic and vulnerable enough that her waking brain keeps trying to lock the memory in a cupboard and then sit in front of it with a chair.
Something about girlfriend. Something about not being enough. Something about wanting him. None of it is clear enough to prosecute, thank God, and Garrett, mercifully or cowardly or both, hasn’t brought it up.
Instead, he’s become gentle. Careful in a way that makes her want to climb the walls and kiss him stupid at the same time.
By Friday night, her roommate is gone for the weekend, her fever has been well and truly dead for two full days, and Garrett’s in her dorm bed with his jeans open, his shirt somewhere near her desk chair, and his mouth hot against hers like his whole body is trying to prove he can behave without actually behaving.
The room is dim except for her lamp, one of those stupid little warm bulbs that makes everything look softer than it has any right to. Her clean laundry is still folded in a basket by the wardrobe because she’d been very ambitious about domestic maintenance for exactly twelve minutes before Garrett texted that he was outside, and now her bra is on top of a pile of socks, which feels like a metaphor she should probably not unpack.
Garrett’s above her in nothing but black briefs and his half-open jeans shoved low on his hips, one knee between her thighs, one forearm braced beside her head, kissing her like he’s got nowhere to be and no one to prove anything to except the very smug part of her that knows he missed this.
She’s in a little bralette and underwear, both soft and pale and not technically chosen for him, except that’s a lie and they both know it. His hand skims her side, fingers spreading over her ribs, thumb brushing the underside of the bralette but not pushing. Careful. Again.
His mouth follows the line of her jaw, then her throat, then the little hollow beneath it, and every place he kisses, he pauses like he’s checking whether her body agrees.
It does. Loudly. Embarrassingly. Her body is a traitor with excellent taste.
“Garrett,” she mumbles, fingers sliding into his hair as he kisses lower, over the rise of her chest, down the strip of bare stomach between the bralette and her underwear.
His curls are soft between her fingers, still a little damp from the shower he took after practice, and when she tugs lightly, he hums against her skin in a way that makes her toes curl against the sheets.
“Yeah, baby?” he murmurs, mouth moving over her stomach, one hand warm on her hip.
She looks down at him. Big mistake. Terrible idea. He’s all broad shoulders and messy curls and dark eyes lifted to her from her own body, his mouth shiny from kissing her, his expression soft enough to be dangerous and smug enough to be Garrett. He presses another kiss beside her navel, then another, slower, like he’s decided to make patience everyone’s problem tonight.
She swallows. “So, I, uh. Saw a TikTok today.”
Garrett pauses with his mouth against her stomach. For one second, neither of them moves. Then he lifts his head. “A TikTok.”
“Mhm.”
His brows rise. “Should I be scared?”
“Not scared.” She bites the inside of her cheek and immediately ruins any chance of seeming casual by smiling. “Maybe interested.”
Garrett’s hand tightens once at her hip. “Okay.”
“It was one of those list things.”
“List?”
“Yeah.” She shifts under him, partly because she’s suddenly very aware of how naked she almost is and partly because Garrett looking curious while half on top of her is genuinely hazardous. “Like… sex positions to try with your partner or whatever.”
Garrett’s face does something. A flicker at the corner of his mouth, his eyes dipping for half a second like he heard it and filed it somewhere warm and stupid. Then his grin starts, slow and bright and ruinous. “You have a list.”
“I might have a little list.”
“A little list.”
“Don’t say it like that.”
“I’m not saying it like anything.” He crawls back up her body, which is a deeply unfair move because it makes the mattress dip and her knees part around his hips before she’s formally authorised the decision. His mouth hovers over hers. “I’m just processing that you have a list of sexy shit you wanna try.”
She rolls her eyes, but her cheeks are already hot. “It’s not, like, laminated.”
“Disappointing.”
“I didn’t make a spreadsheet.”
“Honestly? Also disappointing.” Garrett kisses the corner of her mouth, then her cheek, then hovers there with his smile brushing her skin. “What’s on it?”
She laughs, breathy and nervous and already half gone from the way his body is pressing hers into the mattress. “I’m not telling you everything at once.”
“Oh, so there’s an everything.”
“Maybe.”
His mouth finds hers again, a little deeper this time, tongue sliding over hers until the laugh in her throat turns into something softer. His hand slips up her side, thumb brushing the edge of her bralette, and she arches before she can pretend she doesn’t want him to notice. He notices.
When he pulls back, his grin is lazy. “Do I get to have a list?”
She blinks. “Do you have a list?”
“I could make one.”
She giggles, and the sound feels stupidly light in the room after all the fever-weighted softness of the last week. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” He kisses down her jaw again, speaking against her skin. “Sexy shit to try with my not-girlfriend.”
She pinches his shoulder. “Don’t be weird.”
He laughs, catching her wrist and pinning it gently beside her head for exactly one second before letting go because he’s still pretending to be civilised. “You started it.”
“I said partner. Very normal word. You’re my… sex partner.”
“Mhm.” His mouth brushes her ear. “Very normal.”
Her stomach flips, but she refuses to give him the satisfaction of seeing it too clearly. “Okay, then. We make lists.”
Garrett lifts his head and looks at her like this is a challenge, which is funny, because most things are a challenge to Garrett. Hockey. Trivia. Her pretending she doesn’t want to stay over. The concept of not eating the last garlic bread. “Okay,” he says. “Let’s make lists.”
She smiles before she can stop herself. “Okay.”
His gaze drops to her mouth. “But I’m finishing this first.”
The list starts as a joke. That’s what she tells herself later, because jokes are useful and safe and have exits on every side. It starts in her notes app with her lying on her stomach in bed while Garrett sprawls shirtless beside her, one hand shamelessly on her ass and the other holding his own phone like he’s doing important scholarly research instead of googling sex positions with the terrifying seriousness he usually reserves for game tape.
It stops being a joke about twenty-four hours later in Garrett’s room, when she’s naked on her knees on his mattress and he’s standing in front of her in nothing but boxers, his hand in her hair, and the air between them has gone too warm to be funny in any normal way.
“Are you sure?” she asks, kissing up the hard line of his stomach because her mouth has decided to be brave even if the rest of her is still catching up. His skin is warm under her lips, the muscle there tensing each time she drags her mouth higher. He smells like clean laundry and boy and the last faint edge of his body wash, and her knees sink into his comforter when she shifts closer. “Like, actually sure?”
Garrett looks down at her, and for all his earlier grinning, his expression goes steady at once. His fingers card gently through her hair, pushing it back from her face so he can see her properly. “I won’t drop you, baby.”
She presses her lips together, trying not to let the words reach anywhere embarrassing. “You swear?”
His mouth softens. “I swear.”
“I’ve watched you drop your phone on your own face twice.”
“That was different.”
“How?”
“My phone doesn’t hold on with its legs.” His thumb drags over her bottom lip, slow and warm, and her mouth parts before he even tells her to. Garrett’s eyes darken. “Open.”
She does. His thumb slips into her mouth, pressing lightly against her tongue, and the sound he makes is low enough that her thighs tighten around nothing.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, watching her suck around it with a kind of focused hunger that makes the whole room feel smaller. Her hands move to his boxers, fingers pawing at the waistband, and Garrett huffs a quiet laugh through his nose even as his jaw tightens. “Needy.”
She looks up at him around his thumb.
His eyes flick over her face, then down her body, and whatever joke he had ready seems to leave him. “Fuck,” he says softly, more to himself than her. “Look at you.”
She pulls back, lips wet, cheeks hot. “Stop.”
“No.” He bends, catches her mouth in a quick, firm kiss that tastes like him and the fading pressure of his thumb, then straightens to shove his boxers down. “Not a chance.”
There’s something wildly intimate about it, which makes no sense because they’ve been naked together enough times now that her dignity should have built a tolerance. But Garrett standing there in the middle of his room, hard and flushed and looking at her like she’s the thing he wanted most after a day of hockey and noise and pretending to be normal, makes something warm and syrupy move low in her belly.
He rolls the condom on with practiced hands, and she tries very hard not to stare at his forearms because she’s an evolved woman with goals. She fails.
Then Garrett looks at her and grins. “Up.”
She blinks. “What?”
“You’re the one with the list.”
“Oh my God.” She laughs, but she stands anyway, the cool air of his room brushing over her skin. Garrett’s gaze drops, then lifts again, and his throat works once. He’s seen her naked. He had his mouth between her thighs less than an hour ago. There’s no rational reason for him to look at her like he’s just discovered a new and deeply unfair law of physics.
“Holy fuck,” he says, shaking his head slightly. “You’re unreal.”
Her instinct is to hide behind both hands, which is inconvenient because Garrett’s already stepping in and lifting her like she weighs less than his gear bag. She gasps, hands flying to his shoulders, legs wrapping around his waist on reflex as he catches her beneath her thighs.
The movement is so easy it steals the air right out of her. He’s solid and warm and strong under her hands, holding her against him in the middle of his room like this is completely reasonable.
“I’ve got you,” he says instantly, because her fingers have dug into his shoulders. “Hey. I’m not gonna drop you.”
She nods, breathing a little too fast. “Okay.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Her legs tighten around him anyway.
Garrett’s smile flickers, fond and a little wrecked. “There you go.”
It takes a second to line up. Longer than either of them probably pictured when they’d put it on the list with far too much confidence and no engineering consultation. She has one arm looped around his neck, the other reaching between them with a concentration that makes Garrett bite his lip like he’s very nobly not making a comment. When she finally gets him right there, when the head of him presses hot and blunt against her, both of them go still.
“Okay?” he asks, voice rough.
She nods against him. “Mhm.”
He lowers her slowly. The first inch makes her breath catch. The next makes Garrett swear under his breath, his hands tightening under her thighs, his forehead dipping to hers.
By the time she’s seated fully, stretched around him with nowhere to go but him, her nails are in his shoulders and her mouth’s open on a sound she has no hope of controlling. “Oh, holy fuck, Garrett.”
“Shiiit,” he groans, the word dragging out of him like it hurts a little, like even Garrett, with all his stupid confidence and stupid shoulders and stupid ability to lift her like she weighs nothing, has been caught off guard by the feel of her sinking all the way down. “Baby.”
For a few seconds, that’s all they manage. Breathing. Foreheads pressed together. His mouth parted against hers without quite kissing, her fingers digging into the back of his neck, her body trying to make room for him while every nerve lights up with the obscene reality of being held up and full and wrapped around him in the middle of his room.
There’s nowhere to hide from it like this. Only Garrett’s hands under her thighs, Garrett’s chest against hers, Garrett inside her, thick and deep and making her feel so completely split open that her next breath comes out as a tiny, ruined sound against his mouth.
His arms flex beneath her. She feels it everywhere, the strength of him, the easy violence of his body held back on purpose. In the hard bracket of his hands under her ass, in the way his stomach tightens against hers, in the controlled little shake of his breath as he keeps himself still and lets her have the second to adjust.
He’s warm all over, skin damp already, his jaw tense beneath her cheek when she presses her face into him. It shouldn’t be hotter that he’s being careful. It shouldn’t make her clench around him just because he’s holding himself back. But it does.
Garrett feels it. His breath punches out of him, rough and pleased, and one of his hands tightens under her thigh. “Fuck,” he murmurs, mouth brushing her cheek. “You’re killing me.”
She laughs, except it catches halfway and turns into a moan when she tries to move. It’s tiny at first, barely more than a shaky lift of her hips and a slow sink back down, but the angle is so deep that her whole body goes loose and hot around it.
Garrett follows immediately, not taking over, not yet, just rolling his hips up to meet her with enough pressure that her mouth falls open against his shoulder.
“Oh my God,” she pants into his skin, the words muffled and useless.
“Yeah?” His voice is strained and pleased, his mouth at her jaw, her cheek, the corner of her mouth, wherever he can reach without losing his grip on her. “This on your list?”
She tries to laugh again, but he lifts her like it’s nothing and brings her back down onto him, slow enough for her to feel every inch and hard enough that the laugh breaks into a helpless, wet little moan.
Her legs clamp tighter around his waist, heels digging into the backs of his thighs like she can keep herself steady through force of will and extreme personal denial. “Shut up.”
“No, I’m serious.” His grin brushes her mouth, smug and breathless and already half-wrecked. Then he does it again, hands spreading beneath her, lifting, lowering, fucking her with this awful, effortless control that makes her feel completely weightless and completely owned by gravity at the same time. “Good list.”
“Garrett,” she whimpers, and she hates how thin it sounds. Hates it for about half a second, anyway, until his mouth closes over hers and he swallows the next one like he wanted it.
“I know, baby.” His kiss is messy immediately, all teeth and tongue and hot breath, his lips dragging against hers while he keeps moving her over him, while she keeps breaking little sounds into his mouth because the angle is insane and his hands are under her and he’s really, actually fucking her while holding her up like it costs him nothing. Like she’s something he can carry and ruin and keep safe all at once. “I’ve got you.”
He says it, and he means it, the way one hand shifts higher up her back for support while the other stays under her thigh. It makes the whole thing hotter, which feels unfair. It should just be athletic. Ridiculous. A stupid TikTok list turned into two adults discovering their own overconfidence. But Garrett’s care always has a way of making her dizzy. The strength is hot. The gentleness is worse.
She kisses him harder, whining against his mouth. “More.”
Garrett’s eyes flick to hers. “More?”
“Please, baby.”
His jaw flexes. The baby does something to him every time, like he hasn’t heard it a hundred times already, like each one lands fresh somewhere under his ribs. “Okay,” he says, voice low. “Hold on.”
She barely has time to tighten her arms around him before he turns them, lowers one knee onto the mattress, and brings her down to the bed without slipping out. It should be clumsy. It’s not. He presses her into the sheets, keeps one arm under her waist to hold her flush, and then starts moving properly.
Harder. Faster. Garrett shifts his weight properly over her, one forearm braced near her head, the other hand gripping her hip, and the first real thrust punches the air out of her in a sound that makes his jaw go tight.
“Oh,” she gasps, hand flying to his shoulder, nails catching there. “Fuck, okay.”
Garrett’s mouth twitches like he wants to be smug about it and is too busy trying not to lose his own mind. “Yeah?”
“Don’t yeah me.”
He laughs once, breathless and low, then does it again, driving into her with enough force that her whole body slides half an inch up the sheets. His skin damp under her hands, her thighs tight around his hips, the mattress shifting beneath them, the room narrowing to the slick drag of him inside her and the way Garrett knows, without asking, exactly how much harder she wants it.
He catches her by the hips before she can slide too far, dragging her back down onto him with a rough little sound that lands somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “There,” he mutters, mouth dropping to her chest. “Keep moving away from me.”
“I’m not,” she says, except her voice is useless and thin because his mouth has closed over one nipple and his hips are still moving, slow for two strokes, then hard on the third like he’s testing what gets the prettiest sound out of her.
“You are.” His teeth graze lightly, enough to make her back arch and her fingers twist in his hair. “Bed’s shit.”
“It’s your bed.”
“Exactly.”
She laughs, and it breaks apart when he sucks harder, when his hand slides from her hip to the back of her thigh and hikes her leg a little higher, opening her up just enough that the next thrust hits deeper.
Her laugh turns into something humiliatingly close to a sob, her head tipping back into the pillow, throat exposed. Garrett feels the change in her body before she can say anything. She knows he does, because his rhythm stutters for half a second, then sharpens.
“Oh my–” Her hand yanks at his hair. “Garrett.”
“I know.” His voice is rough against her chest, lips dragging over damp skin as he kisses across to the other side. “I know, baby. Right there?”
She nods too fast, breath coming in broken little pulls. “Yeah. Yeah, right there.”
His hand tightens under her thigh. “Good.”
Then he gives it to her. Properly. No more careful half-measures, no more adjusting, no more pretending this is anything except exactly what she asked for when she looked up that stupid list and imagined him strong enough to hold her, dirty enough to make it fun, careful enough to make it safe.
He fucks her into the mattress with a rhythm that’s hard and steady and so specifically Garrett it makes her chest ache around the pleasure: cocky, controlled, listening to her body like it’s another language he’s decided to learn fluently.
The headboard smacks once against the wall. Neither of them stops.
Garrett’s eyes flick up for half a second, mouth curving against her breast. “Gonna wake up the whole house.”
She makes a weak, breathless sound that might have been a laugh if he hadn’t rolled his hips at the end of the next thrust. “Don’t care.”
“No?” He lifts his head, curls falling over his forehead, face flushed and bright and ruined in the lamplight. He looks too pleased with her. Too affected by her. His hand slides up her side, over her ribs, thumb brushing the underside of her breast before he ducks down and kisses her hard enough that her next moan is muffled into his mouth. “I can tell.”
The bed knocks again, softer this time but still loud enough to make the room feel obscene around them. Her cheeks burn, but her body answers before her shame can do anything useful, tightening around him so suddenly Garrett groans into her mouth and loses the rhythm for one desperate second.
“Fuck,” he breathes, forehead dropping to hers. “You like that?”
“Don’t.”
“You do.” He kisses her again, messy and open-mouthed, hips still working into hers, his hand sliding under her waist to pull her down every time the force sends her inching up the sheets. “Like when everyone knows?”
“I like when you shut up.”
Garrett laughs, but it comes out wrecked because she clenches around him on purpose this time, petty and soaked and pleased with herself. His eyes darken immediately. “Oh, that’s cute.”
“It was.”
“It was mean.”
“You deserved it.”
“Probably.” He shifts his weight, plants one hand more firmly beside her head, and changes the angle just enough that the next thrust makes her mouth fall open around no sound at all. His grin flashes, there and gone. “There she is.”
Her body knows him now. She knows the flex of his back under her palms before he drives in harder. Knows the way his breathing goes rough when she drags her nails down his spine. Knows that if she hooks her ankles tighter at the base of his back, he’ll swear under his breath and press closer, like he cannot help following any invitation her body gives him.
And he knows her too, knows when the noises she makes are for show and when they’ve been pulled out of somewhere helpless, knows when to kiss her, when to tease, when to slide a hand between them because she’s close enough to start getting frustrated and too stubborn to ask nicely.
His fingers find her clit with slick, sure pressure, and her whole body jolts. “There,” he murmurs, mouth brushing hers. “That what you needed?”
She nods, but it’s not enough for him. It never is when he gets like this, when his voice drops into that low, focused captain thing that makes her body go soft and obedient before her pride has even opened its mouth.
“Words, baby.”
“Yes.” It comes out as a whine, thin and wrecked, her hips lifting into his hand. “Yes, fuck, please don’t stop.”
Garrett’s expression does something hot and awful, satisfaction and restraint moving across his face at the same time. “Not stopping.”
He doesn’t. He keeps the pace hard, keeps pulling her back down when the mattress tries to steal her away from him, keeps his thumb moving in tight, steady circles while his mouth works over hers, her jaw, the side of her neck. The headboard knocks again, a dull, repetitive sound that should embarrass her more than it does, but all it does is make the whole thing feel dirtier, funnier, more real.
Garrett breathing hard above her. Her thighs trembling around his waist. The sheets twisted under her shoulders. His hand on her hip, her hand in his hair, the bed giving them both away with every other thrust. She laughs once, breathless and half-delirious, because the sound of it is ridiculous.
Garrett lifts his head, eyes narrowed but smiling. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re laughing?”
“The bed.”
He huffs a laugh too, then drives into her hard enough to make it knock again on purpose. Her laugh snaps into a moan so fast his grin turns devastating. “Still funny?”
She grabs his face and kisses him instead of answering. He takes it with a groan, mouth hot and wet over hers, thumb pressing a little firmer until the pleasure coils too tight to laugh through. It gathers low and bright, every thrust shoving her closer, every circle of his thumb making her thighs shake harder around him.
She starts making those small, broken sounds she always hates afterwards and always gives him anyway, because Garrett knows exactly how to get them now. Knows the angle. Knows the pressure. Knows the way to murmur, “Good girl, that’s it,” right against her mouth so the words go straight through her.
“Baby,” she gasps, head tipping back. “I’m–”
“I know.” He kisses her hard, swallowing the rest, his hips never slowing. “Come on. Let me feel it.”
It hits her with his name in her mouth and her nails dragging down his back, her whole body locking around him before it breaks open. Garrett groans like the feeling has been dragged out of his chest, his thrusts turning rougher for a second as she tightens around him, shaking under him, her legs clamped so hard around his waist she has no idea where she ends and he starts. His hand stays between them, working her through it until she whines from the too-much edge of it and shoves weakly at his wrist.
“Okay,” he breathes, kissing her cheek, her mouth, the corner of her jaw. “Okay, I’ve got you.”
He follows a few thrusts later, hips stuttering deep, face dropping into the side of her neck as his whole body goes tight above her. His hand slides out from between them and under her waist again, holding her there, holding himself there, breath hot against her skin while he rides out the last of it with a broken little curse muffled into her throat.
For a while, neither of them speaks. There’s only the heat of him over her, the damp press of their skin, the distant house noise blurred behind the rush in her ears, and her own breath coming back in useless pieces. The headboard has stopped knocking. The silence after it feels almost funnier than the sound did.
Garrett lifts his head first. His curls are a disaster. There’s a flush high on his cheekbones, a scratch blooming red over one shoulder where her nails caught, and his eyes are bright with exertion and laughter and something softer underneath it, the thing he keeps trying to sneak into their sex like she won’t notice if he kisses her through it.
“Told you I wouldn’t drop you,” he says.
She stares at him for half a second, still boneless, still full of static, still trying to remember what bones are for.
Then she laughs so hard she has to cover her face. “Shut up.”
He grins and kisses her hands, then the inside of her wrist, then lets his mouth linger there like he can feel her pulse still racing under his lips. “Great list.”
The pink fuzzy handcuffs are, in her defence, objectively funny. They look like something from a bachelorette party that got lost on the way to good taste: fluffy, ridiculous, aggressively pink, dangling from her finger while she stands at the foot of her dorm bed in a matching set that’s definitely chosen for him this time.
Soft pink lace, tiny straps, little bow between her breasts that she had stared at in the mirror for a full minute before deciding it was either sexy or humiliating and she was no longer interested in the difference.
Garrett is sitting up against her headboard in his boxers, shirtless, hair mussed, one arm stretched lazily along the pillows like this is all very amusing to him. His mouth twitches the second he sees the cuffs swinging from her finger.
“Very funny, baby,” he says, chuckling. “Put the cuffs down. C’mon.”
She lifts her brows. “You promised we’d do our lists.”
“I did.”
“This is on my list.”
His gaze drops over her body, then comes back up slightly slower. The amusement is still there, but it has taken a sharp turn into something else. “Baby, I’ll break them.”
“Then don’t.”
He laughs, already reaching for her. “That’s not how it works.”
“Ah-ah.” She steps back out of his reach, spinning the cuffs once more around her finger. “No touching. Cuffs, Garrett. Please.”
The please does what she hoped it would. His tongue runs over his bottom lip, eyes moving over her again, pausing at her chest, her stomach, the little strip of skin above the waistband of her underwear. He exhales through his nose like a man making a grave mistake on purpose. “Fine. Jesus. Fine. Okay. Just once, though.”
Her smile breaks wide. “Fuck yes.”
“You look way too happy about this.”
“I am happy.”
“You’re gonna get cocky,” he mumbles.
She climbs onto the bed and straddles him, knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his thighs. “Hands, babe.”
Garrett gives her a look, but he lifts his hands. “If Dean ever hears about this, I’m moving countries.”
“Dean is absolutely hearing about this if you annoy me.”
“Cruel.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Wrists.”
He lets her cuff one wrist first, watching her face instead of what she’s doing, which makes her fingers clumsier than they should be. Then she loops the chain through the metal of her headboard, brings his other wrist up, and cuffs that one too. For a second, the room feels suspended around the tiny click.
Garrett tugs experimentally. The cuffs hold. His brows lift.
Her grin turns slow. “Oh?”
He tugs again, a little harder. The headboard creaks softly, but the cuffs stay locked. “Huh,” he says.
“Huh?”
Garrett’s eyes slide back to hers. “You researched.”
“I’m a nursing student. I believe in preparation.”
“You’re so dangerous when you’re organised.”
She rolls her hips over him, just once, and whatever he was about to say disappears into a rough little sound that does a truly wonderful thing to her nervous system.
Garrett’s head tips back against the headboard, throat working, arms flexing above him on instinct before the cuffs stop him from doing anything useful with them. The sight of him like that – Garrett Graham, cocky, pretty, captain-of-everything Garrett Graham, restrained against her dorm bed with his jaw tight and his body already betraying him – sends something hot and bright kicking low in her stomach.
It’s not delicate. It’s not subtle. It’s the kind of feeling that makes her want to laugh and bite him at the same time.
“Oh,” she says, delighted, because she has absolutely never been more pleased to learn anything in her life. “You like this.”
“I like you in that,” he says, voice already lower, eyes dropping to the pink lace stretched over her chest and then dragging back up like it takes effort. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”
She grinds down again, slower this time, letting herself feel all of it: the hard line of him through his boxers, the damp heat of herself pressing through the thin lace of her underwear, the way his thighs go tense beneath her knees.
Garrett’s jaw tightens. His hands shift above him, instinctively trying to come down to her waist, to her hips, to any of the places he usually grabs when he wants to pretend he isn’t being bossy about it. The cuffs catch with a tiny metallic sound.
He groans. “Baby.”
“Yeah?”
His eyes lift to hers, dark and sharp under the mess of his curls. “Don’t say yeah like that.”
She leans in and kisses his neck, smiling against the jump of his pulse. “Like what?”
“Like you’re about to be a pain in my ass.”
“I am.”
It turns out being in control is fun in a very specific, scientifically alarming way. Garrett doesn’t give up control easily. He still talks. Still smirks. Still looks at her like he’s a few seconds away from saying something so smug she’ll have to ruin his life on principle.
He still tries to guide her with his voice when his hands can’t do it, little murmurs of there you go and c’mon, baby, like he thinks he can captain his way out of handcuffs. But there’s something delicious about the cracks in him. The little ones. The ones she has to be close enough to catch.
The way his breath catches when she drags her mouth under his jaw, right where he always goes a little still. The way his stomach tightens when her nails trail lightly down his sides. The way his hips lift before he can stop them when she rocks down harder and lets the wet lace drag over him.
She knows the spot just below his ear that makes his mouth go quiet for half a second. Knows that if she scrapes her teeth lightly along the tendon in his neck, he’ll inhale through his nose and pretend it didn’t just ruin him. Knows that his ribs are ticklish if she’s mean about it, but the sharp little dip beside his hip isn’t ticklish at all. That one makes him swear. That one makes his hands pull at the cuffs hard enough that her headboard gives a tiny warning creak.
She kisses down to find it because she is, at her core, committed to education.
Garrett’s whole abdomen jumps when her mouth lands there. “Fuck.”
Her smile presses into his skin. “There?”
“Don’t sound so proud.”
She presses another kiss to his skin. “I’m learning.”
“You’re abusing privileged information.”
“You volunteered as a patient.”
“That was different.”
She licks a slow line over the same place, just to watch him lose the rest of the sentence. His head thumps back against the headboard, and his arms go taut above him, shoulders bunching, biceps flexing in a way that makes the pink cuffs look even more ridiculous and somehow much hotter.
She shouldn’t be into the contrast. The big hockey captain and the fluffy restraints. The absurdity of it. The fact that he could probably destroy her entire bed frame if he really wanted to, and instead he’s sitting there letting her take him apart one wet kiss at a time because she asked nicely and wore something pretty.
It makes her feel dizzy with power. Or maybe just horny. Probably both. The distinction feels as fuzzy as the cuffs.
She moves back up his body slowly, taking the long way because she can. Mouth over the hard line of his stomach. Tongue tracing the centre of his chest. A kiss pressed over his heart, which is beating faster than he would ever admit to under normal circumstances. Then lower again, because she wants to hear what he does when she changes her mind without warning.
Garrett watches her, eyes half-lidded and furious with wanting. “You’re having way too much fun.”
“I’m touching you.”
“You know what you’re doing.”
She lifts her brows as she settles back over his lap, grinding down just enough to make his breath go rough again. “Do I?”
The look he gives her should count as a clinical warning sign. “Baby.”
She laughs, breathless now, because it’s hard to stay completely smug when the friction is doing terrible things to her too. She can feel herself getting wetter, can feel the slick heat of it through the lace, can feel the way Garrett feels it every time she rolls her hips over him because his eyes keep dropping to the place their bodies meet.
There’s no way to be dignified about it. She doesn’t even want to be dignified about it. She wants to be exactly this: half naked in her own bed, Garrett cuffed to the headboard beneath her.
She leans back on her hands and does it again, slower, pressing herself down against him with a little sigh she doesn’t bother hiding. Garrett’s mouth parts. His hips lift, chasing it, and the cuffs clink again when his hands pull against them.
“Jesus,” he says hoarsely. “You’re soaked.”
Her cheeks warm instantly, which is deeply annoying considering she’s just been licking his hip like a lunatic, but the embarrassment only makes her press down harder. “You can feel that?”
He gives her a look. “Baby.”
“Right. Stupid question.”
“Not stupid.” His eyes drag down her body again, stopping shamelessly between her thighs. “Just really fucking hot.”
The praise does something awful to her. Her hips stutter before she can smooth the movement out, and Garrett catches it, his mouth curving despite the fact that he’s currently restrained and suffering. That’s unacceptable. She reaches behind herself and unclasps the bralette just to wipe the look off his face. It works.
Garrett whines.
It’s small. Barely there. More breath than sound. But it’s absolutely a whine, and they both hear it. The room hears it. The pink handcuffs hear it. Somewhere in the universe, probably, Dean gets a chill and doesn’t know why.
Her mouth drops open. “Did you just–”
“No.”
Her whole face lights up. “You did.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“You whined.”
Garrett tugs at the cuffs, arms straining, the muscles in his shoulders jumping beautifully. “You gotta be kidding me.”
She lets the bralette fall onto the bed beside them, then settles back over him naked from the waist up, smiling like this is the best night of her life. It might be. She’s not ready to rule it out. Garrett stares at her chest like he’s been wronged by the existence of hands he cannot use, and the look on his face is so good that she rocks down again just to see what else she can get out of him.
His eyes squeeze shut for half a second. “Please.”
The word lands rough and low, dragged out of him by the slow grind of her body over his, by her breasts bare in front of him, by the fact that she keeps leaning close enough for him to feel but not close enough for his mouth to do anything useful. Her stomach flips so hard she almost takes pity on him immediately.
“Please what?” she asks, because she’s become a villain.
Garrett opens his eyes. “Don’t do that.”
She tilts her head innocently. “Do what?”
“Make me say shit while I’m cuffed to your bed.”
“Maybe I like when you say shit while you’re cuffed to my bed.”
His laugh comes out as something rough and disbelieving. “You’re way too into this.”
“Maybe you are too.”
“I’m not the one doing evil little victory laps on someone’s dick.”
She grins, bright and pleased, and bends to kiss him, but she stops just short of his mouth. Garrett lifts his head automatically, trying to close the gap, and she pulls back.
“Oh, you’re a nightmare,” he mutters.
“I’m having fun.”
“I can tell.”
She kisses him then, finally, because the wanting on his face has started making her own body feel too tight to keep teasing without relief. Garrett meets her hard, mouth opening under hers, kissing like he can make up for everything else he’s not allowed to do.
His tongue slides over hers, hot and impatient, and when she grinds down against him at the same time, he makes a sound into her mouth that goes straight through her.
She pulls away before she can lose the advantage entirely, breathless and smiling. “You’re easy.”
His eyes narrow. “Careful.”
“You’re cuffed.”
“For now.”
The for now shouldn’t make her wetter. It does anyway, because she has terrible instincts and Garrett’s voice has gone all low and promising. She slides down his body before he can see too much of her reaction, kissing his chest, his stomach, the places she already knows will make him twitch.
She drags her nails lightly down his sides and feels him inhale sharply. Kisses the faint line of muscle above the waistband of his boxers and watches the muscle in his thigh jump.
“C’mon,” he says, and the way his voice has gone thin at the edges makes her smile against his skin. “Stop fucking around.”
“But I’m having fun.” She mouths over him through the boxers, slow and filthy, letting her lips drag over the hard shape of him while Garrett’s head tips back again.
His hips lift once, restrained and desperate, and she places one hand firmly on his lower stomach to push him back down. The fact that he lets her do it makes heat flare through her so sharply she almost forgets what she’s doing.
“Stay still,” she murmurs.
Garrett laughs, but it is not an especially stable sound. “You’re giving orders now?”
She looks up at him from between his thighs. “Do you want me to stop?”
“No.” Immediate. Hoarse. Honest enough to make her grin.
“Then stay still.”
His jaw flexes. “Yes, ma’am.”
She has to look down for a second, and Garrett sees that too, because even handcuffed and half out of his mind, he is still terribly observant.
“Oh,” he says softly. “You liked that.”
She ignores him, which is difficult because her face is hot and her pulse is everywhere, and tugs his boxers down just enough to free him. Garrett hisses when the cool air hits, then swears under his breath when she wraps her hand around him.
She knows this too now. The weight of him in her palm. The way he likes her grip firmer than she’d expected the first time and the way his breath changes when she twists her wrist near the head.
She knows that if she looks up at him while she does it, he gets that particular dark-eyed, ruined expression like he’s trying to decide whether to praise her or bite through the headboard. She knows he likes her mouth at the base, likes her tongue slow up the underside, likes when she kisses him there almost sweetly because it makes him say her name like a warning.
So she does all of it.
Garrett’s head hits the headboard with a dull thump. “Fuck.”
She licks up the length of him slowly, watching his stomach tense, watching his hands curl uselessly into fists above him. The cuffs pull tight around his wrists, the pink fluff shifting against his skin.
His mouth is open now, breath coming rough, and she can feel the power of it again, the strange hot thrill of having him this undone and unable to do anything except take what she gives him.
She kisses the head of him, then looks up. “Condoms in the top drawer?”
For a second, Garrett just stares at her like his brain has disconnected from language entirely. Then he blinks. “Mhm.”
She lifts her brows.
He swallows hard. “Yeah. Top drawer. Jesus Christ.”
She retrieves one, rolls it on with more confidence than she feels, and enjoys the way Garrett watches every second of it with his hands still cuffed above his head and his patience visibly dying in stages. Then she stands at the edge of the bed and slides her underwear down her legs.
Garrett stares. “Let me out.”
“No.”
“Please.”
She steps closer. “You agreed.”
“I agreed before you took your bra off.”
“That sounds like poor planning.”
He laughs once, helpless and strangled. “Baby, c’mon. This is– fuck, let me touch you.”
The wanting in his voice nearly does it. Nearly. But she climbs back into his lap instead, wraps one hand around him, and sinks down slowly while Garrett watches with his mouth open and his arms straining against pink fluff and metal.
The first slide steals the smugness from her face. It drags the air out of her, turns the room syrup-thick and quiet, makes her hands flatten against his chest for balance. Garrett groans beneath her, eyes half-lidded now, his voice softening into something wrecked.
“There we go,” he murmurs. “Atta girl. You got it.”
Her forehead drops to his. “Don’t.”
“What?” His smile is lazy, but his voice is still rough. “You do.”
She starts riding him slowly, because slow is all she can manage at first. Every drop of her hips makes them both breathe harder. Garrett’s hands flex uselessly above him, and she can feel how badly he wants to touch her in the way his body keeps trying to rise to meet hers. The power of it goes straight to her head. Or between her legs. Possibly both.
She kisses him, sloppy and warm, and he kisses back like he’s trying to make up for the lack of hands with his mouth alone. His tongue slides over hers, his teeth catching lightly at her bottom lip, his praise murmured between kisses until her thighs start to shake from the effort of keeping the pace.
“Garrett,” she breathes.
“I know. Baby, I know.” He tugs hard at the cuffs, and this time the headboard gives a tiny, ugly creak. “Fuck, I need–”
The second tug snaps something. There’s a sharp little crack, a burst of pink fluff, and then Garrett’s hands are free.
She barely has time to laugh before his hands are on her. Everywhere. Waist, back, hips, thighs, one palm sliding up her spine and the other gripping her ass to drag her down harder as he thrusts up. The suddenness of it makes her gasp, and Garrett swallows the sound with a filthy, grateful kiss.
“Took you long enough,” she manages against his mouth.
His eyes flash. “You planned that?”
“I hoped.”
“You little shit.”
She grins, and then he rolls her under him so fast the room tips sideways and the broken cuffs tumble somewhere near the pillows. His mouth is on hers before she can fully land, his body pressing her into the mattress, hands finally free to touch every place they had been denied.
It’s messy after that. Laughing into kisses. Garrett muttering about property damage against her throat. Her nails digging into his back while he drives into her with the kind of pent-up rhythm that makes the bedframe rattle and the broken cuff chain clink pathetically beside her ear.
“Worth it?” she gasps.
Garrett kisses her hard enough to make her forget the question for a second. “So worth it.”
The next list item is a disaster before anyone is naked enough to justify the confidence with which they approach it. They’re in Garrett’s room at the hockey house, both already flushed and laughing, her hair a mess from his hands and the sheet pulled up under her arms because the boys are all in the house somewhere and she’s not giving them a free show even by accident.
Garrett’s sitting beside her with his phone in one hand and the kind of serious frown he gets during game review, except the screen isn’t showing hockey tape. It’s showing two people arranged in a position so anatomically confusing that she’s starting to suspect one of them may not have bones.
“So I think my head goes there,” she says, squinting at the picture, “and your… leg? Goes there?”
Garrett tilts the phone. “Baby, this is some Twister bullshit.”
“It’ll be hot, though, right?”
“Oh, totally.” He nods with absolutely no credibility. “Are you sure that’s your head? I feel like that’s my head.”
They both lean closer.
“Uhhhh,” she says.
Garrett turns the phone sideways. “Maybe?”
“Let’s just try. See what happens.”
“That’s how people end up in urgent care.”
“You’re very negative tonight.”
“I’m naked and being asked to solve, like, geometry.”
They try anyway, because they’re idiots and also optimistic in a way that should probably concern someone. It lasts less than forty seconds. Her knee ends up somewhere near his ribs, Garrett’s foot slides off the mattress, and at one point she says, “Ow, your dick is poking me,” in a tone so betrayed that Garrett collapses against her shoulder laughing.
“It’s supposed to,” he says.
“Not there!”
“Okay, wait, move your leg.”
“No, baby, your leg goes there.”
“My leg doesn’t bend there.”
“It does. You’re an athlete.”
“I’m a hockey player, not a pipe cleaner.”
She tries to twist, immediately loses balance, and they half-collapse sideways in a tangle of limbs and sheets and Garrett making a wounded sound because her elbow has landed somewhere unkind.
For a few seconds they just lie there laughing, her hair all over her face, his arm trapped under her back, the phone somewhere near his hip still displaying the smug instructional image of two people who clearly have more core strength and fewer trust issues with furniture.
“That was a disaster,” she says into his chest.
“Holy fuck.” Garrett’s still laughing, one hand coming up to push her hair out of her mouth. “I think we invented a new injury.”
She lifts her head, and more hair falls into her face. Garrett’s smile changes before she can say anything else.
It goes softer. That sudden, quiet Garrett softness that keeps arriving in the middle of ridiculous things and making them feel less like distractions and more like evidence.
He brushes her hair back carefully, thumb skimming her cheek. “There,” he murmurs. “That’s better. Can see you now.”
Her laughter thins into something warm under her ribs. She smiles. “You’re being weird.”
“I’m fixing your hair.”
“You’re looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
She doesn’t answer, partly because she doesn’t know how to say it without dragging the fever memory into the room by its ankles. Like you remember what I said. Like you’re scared I’ll disappear if you move too fast. Like you want to call this something and also don’t know where to put your hands once you do.
Instead she kisses him. Garrett responds slowly this time. His hand slides to the back of her neck, and she melts into him with a little sigh that he catches in his mouth. Somewhere between one breath and the next, the stupid position is abandoned completely.
The phone drops to the floor. The sheet slips down. Garrett rolls over her with a care that makes her chest ache, settling between her thighs, his forehead resting against hers.
“Is this on the list?” he asks, but his voice is quieter now.
She smiles against his mouth. “No.”
“Good.”
He pushes in slowly while they’re kissing, and the whole room seems to exhale around them. It’s not the athletic, ridiculous heat of the standing thing, all sweat and strength and her legs locked around his waist while he held her up. It’s not the bright, sharp thrill of the cuffs, the stupid pink fluff against his wrists, the sound Garrett made when she took her bra off and he realised there were consequences to letting her have ideas.
This is slower. Closer. Almost unfairly quiet after the laughing. The kind of hot that doesn’t arrive like a hit so much as a hand sliding under her ribs and staying there.
He eases into her one careful inch at a time, and she feels every part of it. The stretch of him, thick and slow, making her body open around him with a deep, aching pull. His chest pressed to hers, skin warm and slightly damp from all the failed manoeuvring they had just done.
Her calves sliding along the backs of his thighs. The soft scrape of his stubble near her mouth when he kisses her again, distracted and hungry but not rushing. His breath is in her mouth, unsteady enough that she can tell he’s having to fight himself a little, and that might be the worst part.
Garrett careful is devastating in a way Garrett cocky never quite manages, because cocky Garrett is easy to roll her eyes at. Careful Garrett gets under her skin and starts touching things she hasn’t signed off on.
Her hands clutch at his shoulders at first, nails pressing into muscle, then soften there when he stills halfway and lets her breathe through it. He knows her body now. He knows when she needs a second because the angle is deeper than expected, knows when the little sound in her throat means good and when it means wait, knows the difference between her grabbing at him because she wants more and grabbing because she needs to steady herself.
He can read it all too well, like he’s been studying her with the same stupid focus he brings to hockey tape, except instead of plays and coverage, it’s the way her thighs tense around his hips, the way her mouth parts when he shifts a little too perfectly, the way her fingers slide into his hair when she stops trying to act unaffected.
Garrett watches her face the whole time. His eyes track everything: the flutter of her lashes, the way her brows pinch, the moment her breath catches when he presses deeper.
She wants to make a joke about it. She really does. Something about pupil response, maybe. Something about documenting his creepy eye contact in the chart. Something sharp and light enough to cut the feeling before it gets too big.
But then he bottoms out and stills, fully inside her, his forehead pressed to hers, his mouth open on the same breath as hers, and the joke dissolves.
“Okay?” he murmurs.
She nods. “Yeah.”
His hand cups the side of her face, thumb brushing once along her cheekbone. “Yeah?”
It should be annoying, the double-checking. It should make her roll her eyes and tell him she’s not made of glass. But the second question lands softer than the first, somewhere low in her chest, because he’s not asking like he doubts her. He’s asking like he wants the answer to reach all of her before he moves.
She wraps her legs around his waist and pulls him closer. “Garrett.”
That’s answer enough.
His hips move slowly at first, a shallow drag out and then back in, and her whole body reacts like he has touched a live wire. Her toes curl against the backs of his thighs. Her fingers tighten in his hair. A sound slips out of her, small and breathy and embarrassingly honest, and Garrett’s eyes flicker like it hits him somewhere tender.
“Fuck,” he whispers, almost reverent, and then kisses her.
He kisses her through the next stroke and the next, deep and messy but unhurried, like he has nowhere to put all the tenderness except her mouth. There’s still heat in it. The slow, slick push of him inside her, the drag of his hips, the way his pelvis presses against hers every time he settles deep enough to make her breath catch.
But it’s threaded through with something softer that makes it worse. His hand stays at her face. His thumb moves at her cheek. His other arm slips under her shoulders, gathering her closer instead of pinning her down, like he wants less space between them than the laws of bodies will realistically allow.
She moans into his mouth when he changes the angle, hips rolling instead of thrusting, and the pleasure goes deeper, warmer, spreading through her instead of snapping bright. Garrett hears it immediately. Feels it. His forehead brushes hers as he does it again.
His mouth drags over hers, not quite a kiss, more breath than anything. “Right there?”
She nods, because words feel like a lot of admin for a body currently full of Garrett Graham. “Mhm.”
He smiles faintly against her mouth. “That’s not words.”
“You’re inside me. Be grateful for what you get.”
The laugh that breaks out of him is low and warm and wrecked, and it rolls through his chest into hers. “There she is.”
She smiles too, but it falls apart when he keeps moving, slow and deep, each stroke hitting that same spot until the room blurs at the edges. Her hands slide down his back, learning him all over again in this quieter rhythm.
The flex of muscle under her palms. The faint dampness between his shoulder blades. The place low on his spine where pressing her fingers in makes him exhale harder. She knows his body now too. Knows the small, involuntary hitch in his breath when she tightens her legs around his waist. Knows that if she drags her nails lightly up the back of his neck into his hair, his rhythm will stutter for half a second before he recovers.
Knows that the softest version of his name, said right into his mouth, will make his eyes open like he needs to see her when he hears it. So she says it. “Garrett.”
His eyes lift to hers immediately.
His expression flickers like he regrets asking for this kind of closeness the second he gets it. Like it does something to him too. Good. Fair. She shouldn’t be the only one suffering through whatever this is with her entire body open and her heart making horrible choices under his ribs.
He keeps looking anyway. Keeps moving. Keeps his forehead close enough that every breath belongs partly to the other person. The sounds are different like this too, softer and more dangerous. The quiet slick of their bodies moving together. The little catch in her throat every time he fills her.
Garrett’s rough exhale when she tightens around him. The bed shifting under them, not slamming now, not giving them away, just rocking faintly with the slow pressure of his hips. It’s so intimate she almost wants to laugh, except laughing would require oxygen she no longer has.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she whispers, because self-preservation has arrived late and underqualified.
Garrett’s mouth brushes hers. “Like what?”
“Like…” She loses the sentence when he pushes in deep and stays there, grinding just enough to make pleasure flare hot and low. Her nails dig into his back. “Fuck.”
His lips curve, but he doesn’t turn it into a joke. He kisses the corner of her mouth instead, then the edge of her jaw, then back to her lips. “Like what, baby?”
“Like you know me.”
Garrett goes still for half a breath. She feels the words land between them. Her chest tightens and her hands soften against his shoulders, already wanting to take it back, already wanting to bury it under a joke or a kiss or the entire hockey house collapsing through the ceiling.
Then his hand slides from her cheek to the back of her neck, holding her there gently. “I do.”
Oh. That’s worse. That’s much worse.
She closes her eyes before he can see what it does to her, but Garrett makes a soft sound and kisses the corner of one eye, then the other, like he’s not letting her escape even that way.
“No,” he says, mouth brushing her skin. “Look at me.”
Her eyes open.
Garrett’s face is right there, flushed and serious and too beautiful in the dim mess of his room. He looks down at her like the whole list, the jokes, the cuffs, the stupid impossible Twister position, all of it has somehow led them here: his body moving inside hers, her legs around his waist, the two of them breathing into the same small space and pretending this is only sex with increasingly poor evidence.
He starts moving again, slower than before. Deeper. His hips roll into hers in a rhythm that makes heat gather thick and steady in her belly. Her mouth falls open against his.
Garrett kisses her between strokes, sometimes catching her bottom lip between his, sometimes missing because one of them breathes wrong, sometimes just resting there with their mouths touching while he fucks her so slowly she feels every inch of him leave and every inch come back.
Her body starts to tremble under him. His hand slides down her side, over her hip, then back under her thigh to hold it higher around his waist. The shift opens her more, lets him press in deeper, and the sound she makes is so helpless she turns her face into him on instinct.
Garrett follows, mouth at her ear. “There?”
She nods against him, breath shaking. “Yeah. Don’t stop.”
“I won’t.” His voice is rough now, control starting to fray at the edges. “I’ve got you.”
The words shouldn’t still work on her. They have heard them too many times. On the stairs, in his room, when she was sick, when she was tired, when she was trying to pretend she wasn’t falling apart in ways he could see anyway.
But they do. They go straight through her, softening some part of her body that hadn’t realised it was braced, and the pleasure rises hard in the space it leaves behind.
Garrett’s breathing changes when she starts getting close. He gets quieter first, then more focused, like he’s listening to her with his whole body. His thrusts stay slow but grow heavier, each one pushing a small sound out of her, each one making her grip him tighter. Her fingers slide into his curls and tug, enough that his mouth parts on a groan.
“Baby,” he says, and it sounds less like a warning than a plea.
“I’m close,” she whispers.
“I know.” His forehead presses to hers again. “I can feel it.”
The words tip her closer than they should. Maybe because he says them like he loves feeling it. Like her body giving him that much honesty is doing something to him too. His hand comes between them, not rushed, not frantic, fingers finding her with the same slow certainty as his hips, and she nearly sobs with the relief of it. “Garrett.”
“I know.” He kisses her, swallowing the broken little sound that follows. “Come on. Stay with me.”
She does. Barely. Her eyes stay open because he asked, because his are open too, because there’s something almost unbearable about watching his face as she comes around him. It’s quieter than the others, because it seems to take her under instead of throwing her over.
A slow, deep pull through her whole body, her mouth open against his, her thighs tightening around his waist, her nails pressing into his shoulders as everything inside her clamps down and then melts.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, voice rough against her lips. “Good. Fuck, baby, that’s it.”
She shakes through it under him, forehead still touching his, breath breaking in little pieces into his mouth. He keeps moving, slow and careful, working her through the last of it until she whines softly and her hands slide from his shoulders to his chest in a weak little push.
“Okay,” he whispers. “Okay.”
He stills inside her for a second, breathing hard, jaw tight with the effort of holding back. She sees it now because she knows him. The tension in his neck. The way his arms tremble slightly where he’s braced over her. The restraint cutting through him because he waited for her and now the waiting is catching up.
Her hand cups his face. Garrett’s eyes flick to hers.
She kisses him softly. “You can.”
Something breaks in his expression. A tiny surrender, a flicker of relief and want and that same dangerous tenderness, and then he moves again. His mouth dropping to hers as his rhythm finally loses its careful edges. She wraps her legs tighter around him and takes him through it, kissing him while his breath turns ragged, while his hips stutter, while he comes with her name muffled into her mouth and his hand tangled in her hair.
After, he lowers himself onto her carefully, enough weight to make her body sink into the mattress and go loose beneath him, enough warmth to keep the room from floating away.
His face is tucked into the side of her neck, breath hot and uneven against her skin, and she can feel the slowing pound of his heart through his chest where it’s pressed to hers.
For a while, neither of them speaks. The house makes noise around them, distant and muffled. A door shuts somewhere. Someone laughs downstairs. The world continues to exist in a deeply inconsiderate way, even though her body feels wrung out and glowing and her brain has gone soft at the edges.
Garrett’s hand moves first, a lazy stroke along her side, then back up. His thumb brushes beneath her ribcage, almost absent. She drags her fingers through his curls, slow and loose, feeling the dampness at his hairline, the warm weight of him, the way his mouth presses once to her throat without any heat behind it now.
Her chest aches.
“That wasn’t on the list,” she says eventually, voice raspy.
Garrett huffs a quiet laugh into her neck. “No?”
“No.”
His head lifts enough for her to see his face. His eyes are heavy, mouth soft, curls an actual disaster. “Should we add it?”
She looks at him for half a second too long. Then she smiles, small and helpless. “Maybe.”
Garrett’s thumb brushes her cheek. “Yeah?”
She kisses him before the word can become anything else.
The next item is his. She’s sitting on his bed in nothing but his jersey, bare legs folded under her, hair loose over her shoulders, one sleeve slipping down enough that the collar has gone wide and soft across her collarbone.
She’d had placement and couldn’t make the game, which had annoyed her more than she expected because she’s now the kind of person who wants to watch a man she’s not dating get violent on ice for school spirit.
She’d made it to the hockey house after her shift anyway, showered in his bathroom, found his home jersey folded over the back of his desk chair, and made a decision she’s not prepared to defend in a court of law.
Garrett stands there with his gear bag still over one shoulder, hair damp from the post-game shower, tie loosened, suit jacket open, the bruised line of his mouth parting around nothing useful.
She smiles. “Hi, Captain.”
His eyes drop over her once. Twice. The second time is worse because it’s slower, like he’s making himself understand every detail before he reacts. Then he sets his bag down very carefully, as if sudden movements might spook either of them.
“You read my list,” he says.
She nods. “Mhm.”
His mouth curves, but there’s heat under it now. “Yeah?”
She rises onto her knees when he walks over. Garrett cups her jaw, thumb brushing under her chin with a touch that’s gentle and possessive and still a little fragile in the places she’s started to recognise.
“Hi,” he says, softer.
Her smile turns real. “Hi.”
He kisses her slowly at first, which is rude given the jersey and the fact that his hands are now sliding down her sides like he’s confirming there’s nothing underneath it. His tongue brushes hers, deep and unhurried, and she moans into his mouth before she can pretend to be casual. Garrett’s hand tightens at her waist.
When he pulls back, his eyes flick toward the full-length mirror leaning against the wall near his dresser. Her stomach dips.
Garrett sees it. “Tick two things off tonight?”
She looks at the mirror, then back at him. “What?”
He tilts his head toward it, and the warmth in her belly turns nervous and sharp around the edges.
“Garrett,” she says, suddenly aware of her bare thighs, the wide fall of his jersey, the way the mirror would catch everything. “I dunno. That’s like… a lot.”
His thumb comes under her chin, guiding her eyes back to his. “It’d be hot,” he says, but not carelessly, like he’s offering her a version of herself he already sees. “You look so sexy, baby.”
Her mouth presses together. She wants to say no on instinct, not because she doesn’t want it, but because being watched is one thing and watching herself be wanted is another. Garrett’s gaze moves over her face, patient beneath the heat.
“If you hate it, we stop,” he says. “List rules.”
A laugh slips out of her before she can stop it. “We have rules?”
“We should. Given the property damage.”
“The cuffs were cheap.”
“My wrists weren’t.”
She smiles, and the nerves loosen by a fraction. “Okay,” she says, quieter. “Yeah. We can try.”
Garrett kisses her again, warm and pleased, then climbs onto the bed behind her. He sits with his back against the headboard and spreads his legs around hers, pulling her back against his chest so she’s settled between his thighs facing the mirror.
The reflection catches them at once: Garrett in his half-unbuttoned dress shirt and suit pants, hair messy, mouth at her temple; her in his jersey, bare legs, eyes a little too wide, hands resting uncertainly on his thighs.
His arms wrap around her. “You good?”
She nods, leaning back into him. “Mhm.”
“Words, baby.”
Her throat works. “I’m good.”
“Okay.” His mouth brushes her ear. “Eyes on the mirror.”
The mirror catches everything. His jersey hanging off her shoulders, too big and soft and unmistakably his. Her bare knees parted between Garrett’s legs. His hand spread low over her stomach, big and warm and casual in a way that’s not casual at all.
His dress shirt open behind her, white fabric wrinkled from where she had grabbed him earlier, his tie gone somewhere near the end of the bed, his hair still damp from the post-game shower and curling messily over his forehead.
But worse than all of that is her own face. The way she’s already flushed. Her mouth parted slightly, her eyes too wide, her head tilted back just enough against Garrett’s shoulder that she can feel his smile near her temple before he even says anything.
“Oh,” he murmurs, like he’s made some fascinating discovery. “Look at you.”
“Don’t– don’t use that– tone.”
“I have a tone now?”
“You have several.” Her voice comes out thinner than intended because his hand has started moving under the jersey, palm sliding over the bare skin of her thigh. Over the outside first, maddeningly slow, like he has all night and knows exactly how badly she does not.
Garrett’s mouth brushes the side of her neck. “Name one.”
“Smug.”
“Mhm.”
“Bossy.”
“Sure.”
“Annoying.”
His hand slips higher, thumb tracing the crease where her thigh meets her hip, and the rest of the list disappears out of her head like someone’s opened a window. Garrett sees it happen in the mirror. She knows he does, because his smile deepens against her skin.
“Forgot one,” he says.
She swallows. “What?”
“Useful.”
Before she can argue, his hand slides inward. Her breath catches hard enough that her shoulders lift. The touch is still over the surface of things at first, his fingers dragging through the slick heat of her with an almost lazy confidence, gathering what her body has already given him and making sure she sees it.
In the mirror, she watches his wrist disappear beneath the hem of the jersey, watches the fabric shift over the movement of his hand, watches her own knees part wider without him having to ask. Her body just does it. Traitorous and eager and very invested in making Garrett’s ego worse.
“There,” he murmurs, right against her ear. “Look at that.”
A tiny sound leaves her, mortifyingly soft, and she immediately tries to close her eyes because this is too much, seeing herself react. Seeing the way her hips tip forward. Seeing Garrett behind her watching the same thing, his gaze fixed on the mirror like he cannot decide what he likes more: the way she looks or the fact that she has to look too.
His fingers still.
Her eyes fly open again on instinct. “Garrett.”
“Uh-uh.” His voice is low and warm, amusement dragged rough around the edges. “Eyes open.”
She makes a frustrated little noise, but she looks.
“Good girl.”
The words hit so cleanly that her thighs tense around his hand. Garrett huffs a soft, pleased laugh against her cheek, and it should annoy her. It also makes her so wet she feels it, the embarrassing slick pulse of her body answering him before she can pretend not to like being told what to do.
“I hate you,” she whispers.
“No, you don’t.” His fingers move again, slower now, two of them sliding through her, parting her gently, not quite giving her enough pressure, only enough to make her hips chase his hand. “You love when I’m helpful.”
“This isn’t helpful.”
“It’s on the list.”
“This was your list.”
His mouth presses to the side of her neck, a wet, open kiss that makes her head tip back further against him. “And you still put the jersey on.”
Her reflection betrays her again. Her mouth twitches before she can stop it.
Garrett catches that too. “Exactly.”
“You’re so full of yourself.”
“Baby, you’re sitting between my legs in my jersey looking at yourself while I touch you.” His fingers dip lower, circling once, twice, slick and teasing, and her answer turns into a shaky inhale. “I feel like I’ve earned a little confidence.”
She wants to hide her face in his shoulder. Wants to turn around and kiss him until the mirror stops being a problem. Wants to make some smart remark about how this is deeply psychologically unethical, actually, because no person should have to process being aroused and perceived at the same time.
But Garrett’s arm tightens around her waist, keeping her back against him, and his hand moves with more purpose now, fingers sliding over her clit in a slow, sure circle that makes the room tilt.
The mirror catches that too. The way her spine arches. The way the jersey pulls tight over her chest before slipping loose again. The way her hands grab at his thighs on either side of her, fingers digging into the firm muscle there because she needs somewhere to put the pressure.
Garrett’s face is partly hidden behind her shoulder, but she can see enough: the dark focus of his eyes, the set of his jaw, the way his mouth parts slightly when she moans.
“Fuck,” he says quietly, like the sound has done something to him. “That’s so hot.”
She whimpers, and the noise embarrasses her enough that she tries to press her lips together.
Garrett notices immediately. “Nope. Don’t get shy now.”
“I’m naked under your jersey in front of a mirror while you–” Her sentence falls apart when he presses a little firmer, his touch slick and precise, circling right where she needs it. “Fuck.”
“While I what?” he asks, absolutely delighted in the most ruinous way. “Finish the sentence.”
“Garrett.”
“Come on, future nurse. Use your words.”
Her head rolls slightly against his shoulder, half laugh, half moan. “You’re fingering me in front of a mirror.”
His eyes flash in the reflection. “Mm,” he hums, voice dropping into something rougher. “I am.”
The bluntness of it sends heat tearing through her so fast she actually gasps. Garrett’s grin fades into something hungrier as his fingers slip lower again, teasing at her entrance, one finger pressing in slowly while his thumb keeps lazy circles over her clit.
It’s obscene how well he knows the rhythm now. That focused, unfair Garrett competence turned onto her body, like he’s memorised every place that makes her breath catch and every angle that makes her stop being difficult.
He presses one finger inside her, slow enough that she has to watch the reaction move across her own face. Her lips part. Her brows draw together. Her hands tighten hard on his thighs, and Garrett groans softly in her ear like he feels it too.
“There you go,” he says. “Look how pretty you are when you stop arguing.”
“I’m still arguing.”
“Sure.” His thumb circles again, and the argument turns into a tiny, broken sound. “Very convincing.”
She would kick him if she had access to her legs in any meaningful way. Unfortunately, her legs are busy trembling open between his, and Garrett seems very aware of that. His free hand slides from her waist to her thigh, palm flattening over the inside of it, pushing it gently wider.
“Garrett,” she breathes, because the sight of it – his hand between her legs, his jersey bunched over his wrist, her thighs spread open over his lap – makes something hot and helpless twist low in her belly.
“I know.” His voice softens instantly, even though his fingers don’t stop. “It’s a lot.”
She nods, breath shaking.
His mouth touches her cheek. “Too much?”
“No. Just–” Her hips twitch when he curls his finger inside her, and her voice thins into something useless. “Just don’t stop.”
“Wasn’t planning to.”
He adds a second finger slowly, watching her face as he does it, and the stretch makes her head tip back against his shoulder with a moan she cannot swallow. Garrett’s arm comes around her more securely, hand sliding up to rest just under her ribs, holding her steady while his other hand works between her legs.
The position makes her feel pinned and supported at the same time, exposed and safe in a way that should not be as hot as it is. She can feel his cock hard against her lower back through his pants, can feel every rough breath he takes when she moves against his hand, can feel the tension in his body like not fucking her immediately is requiring actual athletic discipline.
“You’re shaking,” he murmurs.
“You’re very observant.”
“Clinical skill.”
She laughs, breathless and wrecked, and the laugh breaks when he curls his fingers again. “Don’t use my thing against me.”
“Baby, your thing is currently using my thing against you.”
“Oh my God.” She tries to twist enough to glare at him, but he catches her chin with the hand that had been holding her waist and turns her face back to the mirror.
“Ah-ah. Watch.”
Her body sparks so hard at the gentle grip under her jaw that she goes quiet for half a second.
Garrett feels that too. His thumb strokes once along her chin. “There. Good.” His voice dips. “You like that.”
Her face burns. “Maybe.”
“You can say yes.”
She watches herself swallow in the mirror. Watches his hand at her jaw, the other between her thighs, the rise and fall of her chest under his jersey. Watches the way her own hips roll into his hand without permission. It’s humiliating. It’s filthy. It’s so much hotter than she expected that it makes her throat feel tight.
“Yes,” she whispers.
Garrett goes still for one tiny, charged second behind her. Then he kisses the side of her face, soft and devastatingly pleased. “Good.”
The praise slides through her like a match strike. He starts moving his fingers again, deeper now, slow in a way that makes every curl and drag feel deliberate. His thumb keeps circling her clit, steady enough that the pleasure starts building in a humiliatingly unavoidable climb.
Her thighs tremble open. Her hands leave his legs and grab at his forearm instead, nails pressing into skin, to have something solid while the rest of her goes liquid. The mirror becomes impossible and addictive.
She keeps looking away for half a second and then looking back, dragged there by Garrett’s voice, by the sight of his hand disappearing under the jersey, by the way his eyes stay on her reflection like he wants her to see what he sees. The proof of it is right there. She’s not imagining the way he looks at her. It’s all in the mirror, undeniable and awful and gorgeous.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Right there, huh?”
“Yes.” The word breaks on the end when he presses his thumb harder. “Yes, there.”
His mouth touches the shell of her ear. “Good girl.”
Her body clenches around his fingers.
Garrett inhales sharply. “Fuck. You like hearing it when you can see yourself, don’t you?”
The question is so filthy, so Garrett in its mixture of smug and observant and devastatingly accurate, that her whole body flushes hot from chest to thighs. She makes a wounded sound and turns her face toward his neck, but his hand at her jaw keeps her from fully hiding.
“Eyes,” he says, softer this time.
“I can’t.”
“You can.” His lips brush her cheek. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”
The words go straight through her, warm, loosening something in her that had started to brace against the intensity. He slows for a second, easing the pace until her breathing steadies a little. His fingers stay inside her, pressed deep, thumb resting lightly over her clit, giving her a second without taking the feeling away.
“Garrett,” she says, and her voice comes out small.
“I know.” His cheek rests briefly against hers. In the mirror, they look almost sweet if someone ignores the fact that his hand is under his jersey between her legs and she’s visibly seconds away from losing her mind. “You’re doing good.”
Garrett’s fingers start moving again before she can deny it, slow at first, then with that same steady rhythm that makes her body start climbing before her brain can catch up. He knows the way her knees pull up slightly when she’s close, the way her breath breaks into smaller pieces, the way she stops trying to be funny because her body is too busy telling the truth.
“Look at yourself,” he says, voice low. “Look how badly you want it.”
She whimpers. The sound comes out open and needy and so unlike the version of herself she tries to be most of the time – competent, composed, useful, not visibly desperate in a hockey jersey – that seeing it happen almost tips her over by itself.
Garrett’s hand at her jaw slides lower, fingers resting along the side of her throat. Gentle. Careful. Thumb under her chin, keeping her face angled toward the mirror. It makes her whole body spark. The pressure is barely pressure at all, but it’s enough to make her aware of her pulse under his fingers, of the fact that he can feel how fast her heart is going, of the way he is holding her together while taking her apart.
“Watch,” he murmurs.
The orgasm builds in a slow, filthy climb that makes her lose track of everything except the mirror and his hand and his voice. Her thighs shake open around his wrist. Her hips rock into his fingers in small, helpless circles. Her head tips back against his shoulder, mouth falling open, and Garrett stays right there behind her, chest solid, lips at her cheek, hand at her throat, talking her through every second like he knows exactly how much she needs the thread of his voice.
“That’s it, baby. Right there. Don’t hide from me. Fuck, you’re so pretty like this.” His fingers curl, thumb pressing steady over her clit, and her whole body jerks. “There you go. That’s it. Keep looking.”
She tries. She really does. But when the first wave hits, her eyes flutter shut on instinct, pleasure pulling tight and hot through her belly, down her thighs, up into her throat until his name breaks out of her in a sound she will absolutely be embarrassed about later.
Garrett’s voice is immediate, soft and firm at her ear. “Look at yourself.”
Her eyes open. She watches the second one take her. Watches her own face crumple, watches her mouth open around a broken moan, watches her body shudder against Garrett’s while his fingers keep moving inside her.
The sight makes it sharper somehow. Stranger. Hotter. Like her body seeing itself give in only makes it give in harder. She grabs at his forearm, nails biting lightly into his skin, hips rolling helplessly into his hand while he murmurs praise against her cheek.
“Good girl. Yeah, just like that. Fuck, baby, there you go.”
She comes apart in his lap, shaking and soaked and boneless, his jersey bunched high over her thighs, his hand at her throat gentle but steady, his mouth pressed to the side of her face like he wants to be as close as possible for the whole thing.
Garrett works her through it until the pleasure turns too sharp, until her thighs try to close around his wrist and her hand flies down to grab his.
“Okay,” she gasps. “Okay, oh my God, okay.”
He eases away immediately, fingers slipping out of her with enough care that she still shivers. His hand slides over her thigh instead, warm and soothing now, while the one at her throat softens into a stroke beneath her jaw. For a few seconds, she just sits there panting against him, staring at the reflection of herself wrecked in his jersey and Garrett behind her looking like he may never recover.
His eyes are dark in the mirror. His mouth is slightly open. His chest rises and falls hard against her back, and when his gaze drops to his own jersey bunched up around her hips, his jaw flexes like he’s actively reminding himself not to pounce.
She swallows, still trembling. “You’re staring.”
Garrett’s laugh is rough enough to barely count. “Yeah.”
“You’re meant to say no.”
“I’m not lying to you while you’re sitting on my lap like that.”
She turns in his lap before she can think better of it, knees pressing into the mattress on either side of his thighs, the jersey falling messily around her hips. Garrett’s hands come to her waist at once.
His fingers are still slick. The thought hits both of them at the same time, judging by the way his eyes drop to his hand and then back to her face. She should say something clever. Instead she grabs his open shirt and kisses him.
Garrett laughs into her mouth, startled and pleased. “Hi.”
“Did you–” She kisses him again, then pulls back enough to breathe. “Did you win? I forgot to ask.”
He stares at her for half a second, then laughs properly, head tipping back against the headboard. “We did.”
She nods, trying to look serious and failing because she’s still half trembling. “Good.”
“Good?”
“Yeah.” Her hands slide down to the buttons of his shirt, clumsy with urgency. “Can you please fuck me now?”
Garrett’s laughter cuts off into a groan. “Jersey stays on.”
She grins. “Yes, Captain.”
His eyes close for one brief second like he needs divine intervention. Then he grips her hips and flips her onto her back so fast she squeals, the sound breaking into giggles when she lands against the pillows in a mess of bare legs and Briar blue.
Garrett comes over her immediately, suit pants shoved down, shirt hanging open, mouth already finding hers. “You’re trouble.”
“You made the list.”
“You wore my jersey.”
“You left it out.”
“I live here.”
“Convenient.”
He kisses her until she stops laughing and starts making those softer sounds into his mouth, the ones that make his hands less patient.
When he finally pushes into her, jersey bunched around her waist, mirror catching the angle of his body over hers from across the room, he lowers his forehead to hers and smiles like he knows exactly what she’s about to say.
She says it anyway, breathless and warm and stupidly happy under him. “Great list.”
Garrett laughs against her mouth, then drives into her deep enough that the next word vanishes completely.
“Best one yet,” he murmurs.
She wraps her legs around his waist and doesn’t argue.
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pairing – garrett graham x kitty!reader
summary – four attempts, four interruptions, one very cursed hockey house, and garrett learning that privacy might be the real fantasy.
warnings – 18+, smut, interrupted sex, semi-public sex, car sex, use of vibrator, hickeys, dirty talk, praise, jealousy/possessive behaviour, strong language
notes from me – THIS WAS SO FUN i love kitty!! based on this ask, thank u so much babe!!!
word count – 8.2k
navigation – masterlist |
The first time, Garrett genuinely thinks he might die in his own bedroom, which feels dramatic until she rolls her hips down again and his entire nervous system gives up on dignity.
She’s in his lap with one knee planted on either side of him, skirt shoved high around her thighs, one hand fisted in the front of his shirt and the other buried in his hair like she’s not kissing him so much as trying to make a point with her mouth.
His room is dark except for the lamp on his desk, this warm, lazy spill of gold catching on the damp shine of her lips every time she pulls back to breathe.
Somewhere downstairs, the house is being stupid in the way the hockey house is always stupid after midnight – doors slamming, Logan laughing too loudly, Dean yelling something that sounds legal in no state, Tucker probably trying and failing to impose order – but Garrett can barely hear any of it through the blood thudding in his ears.
He has one hand locked around her waist and the other flattened low on her back, guiding her down against him, not that she needs much guidance. She’s doing it on purpose now. Slow, mean little grinds that drag the seam of her panties over him through his sweats and make him lose a bit more of his mind every time.
He’s hard enough that it’s almost painful, hot and trapped and pressed right up against her. Her mouth curves against his when he groans, like she’s won something.
“You’re so loud,” she murmurs, nipping at his bottom lip.
Garrett’s fingers dig into her hip. “You’re sitting on my dick.”
“Barely.”
“You want me to apologise?”
“I want you to do something useful.”
He huffs a laugh, except it comes out rougher than he means it to because she grinds down again at the same time, and his head knocks back against the wall behind his bed. “Jesus Christ.”
She leans forward and kisses the sound out of him, messy and open-mouthed, teeth catching, tongue sliding over his like she’s trying to shut him up and make him worse at the same time.
It’s very effective. Annoyingly effective. Everything with her is like that. A fight. A dare. A little bit of blood under the nail. She kisses him like she’s still pissed about something he said three hours ago and intends to take payment directly out of his spine.
Her mouth leaves his and drags down his jaw. Garrett feels her smile against his skin right before her teeth sink into the side of his throat.
“Hey.” His hand tightens at her waist. “Don’t.”
She hums, entirely unbothered, and sucks harder.
“Seriously?” he says, voice strained because it’s difficult to sound authoritative when her hips are still moving and her mouth is hot on his neck. “You’re gonna make me look like I got attacked.”
She pulls back just enough to look at the mark blooming under his jaw, pleased with herself in a way that makes his stomach go tight. “You did.”
“By a girl who keeps saying she’s not my girlfriend.”
Her eyes flick to his. “You keep saying that.”
Garrett’s mouth opens, then closes, because he hates when she does that. He hates it even more because she doesn’t look hurt. She looks smug and hot and a little too bright around the eyes, like she’s waiting to see if he’ll flinch first.
So he does what he always does when she gets too close to the thing under the thing. He smirks.
“Yeah, well,” he says, sliding both hands under her skirt now, palms spreading over the backs of her thighs. “You keep leaving claw marks on my back, Kitty.”
Her whole face changes.
Garrett feels the satisfaction of it before she even speaks, because she goes still over him for one sharp second, mouth parting in outrage, eyes narrowing. “Don’t call me that.”
He grins. “What? Thought Dean said it was cute.”
She punishes him immediately by grinding down harder. His fingers flex, dragging her closer, and her expression tips from smug to hungry so fast it almost makes him dizzy.
“Yeah,” she whispers, mouth brushing his. “That shut you up.”
“You’re such a brat.”
“You love it.”
Garrett wants to deny it. It’s sitting right there, easy and obvious, the kind of thing he could toss back without thinking. Except her nails scrape lightly down the back of his neck, enough to remind him she could, and the truth moves through him in a warm, humiliating rush.
He does. He loves the mouth on her. Loves the attitude. Loves that she’ll glare at him from across a room like she wants to throw something at his head and then end up in his bed twenty minutes later making that soft, ruined little sound into his mouth.
He settles for kissing her again, because that feels safer than saying any of it. She melts for about half a second before biting his lip.
“Fuck,” he mutters, laughing into the kiss. “You’re impossible.”
“You’re slow.”
“I’m trying to be nice.”
“Don’t.”
His hand slides between them then, and that finally steals the next smart thing out of her mouth. Her breath catches against his cheek as his fingers find the damp heat of her through her panties, and Garrett goes a little quiet.
For all his cocky bullshit, for all the easy flirting and the grin that gets him out of most trouble he doesn’t deserve to escape, there’s a second when he touches her like this where the performance drops clean off his face. Like the fact that she wants him still catches somewhere under his ribs.
Her hips twitch into his hand.
“Oh,” he says, low, smugness returning because he’s Garrett and therefore deeply committed to being unbearable. “That’s why you’re being mean.”
She grabs his jaw. “I’m always mean.”
“Not like this.”
“Garrett.”
“Yeah?”
Her voice thins at the edges, but her glare stays intact, which is honestly impressive. “If you tease me right now, I’ll kill you.”
His thumb presses in a slow circle that makes her lashes flutter. “You say that a lot for someone currently trying to fuck me.”
“Trying,” she repeats, breathless and furious. “Exactly. And yet here we are. Discussing.”
Garrett’s mouth twitches. “Fair.”
He hooks his fingers into the edge of her panties and tugs them aside, and the room seems to shrink down to the tiny space between their bodies. Her hands slip from his jaw to his shoulders.
Her mouth opens but nothing comes out. He can feel how wet she is, how hot, how close she already is to losing patience completely, and it does something stupid to him. Something possessive and bright and not casual at all.
She lifts on her knees when he guides her up, one hand braced against the wall beside his head, the other still on his shoulder, nails biting. He shifts beneath her, pushing his sweats down just enough, breath already jagged.
“C’mon,” he murmurs. “There you go.”
Her chin drops, her forehead nearly touching his. “Garrett.”
“I’ve got you.”
Her mouth twists like she wants to say something bitchy and can’t quite find it. That gets him more than anything. Her quiet. Her body trembling over his. The scrape of her nails at his shoulder, the hickey pulsing warm under his jaw, her skirt bunched around her hips, his name barely holding itself together in her mouth.
He lines himself up, one hand gripping her thigh, the other holding her panties aside, and she starts to sink down.
The fire alarm screams.
For one whole second, they both freeze in absolute, biblical disbelief.
Then Garrett flinches so hard his head smacks the wall. She jerks over him with a gasp, grabbing his face like she can hold the moment in place with both hands and sheer fucking will.
“No,” she says.
Garrett blinks at her through the shriek of the alarm. “What?”
“No.” Her grip tightens on his jaw, eyes wide and glassy and furious, her whole body still hovering right above him. “No, Garrett. Please. Please, ignore it.”
He stares at her. “Ignore the fire alarm?”
She nods eagerly. “Yes.”
Downstairs, Tucker yells, “OH, FUCK!”
Garrett’s eyes close.
She immediately shakes his face. “No. Look at me. Tucker says that when he finds expired hummus.”
“Baby.”
She whines softly. “Don’t baby me. We’re busy.”
“Someone might be on fire.”
From below them comes Logan’s voice, ragged with panic and laughter. “WHY IS THERE A PLATE IN THE OVEN?”
Then Tucker again, louder and more horrified. “WHO PUT A PLASTIC PLATE IN THE OVEN?”
Garrett exhales through his nose like he’s trying to summon a version of himself with morals. Unfortunately, the version of himself under her right now is hard, half-undressed, and seriously considering whether smoke inhalation is that bad.
She makes a wounded sound and drops her forehead to his shoulder. “I hate this house.”
“I know.”
“I hate your friends.”
“I know.”
Downstairs, Dean screams, “IT’S NOT MY PLATE!”
That finally does it. Garrett groans, deeply and from the soul, and helps her off his lap before one or both of them dies in the least sexy way possible.
She climbs off him with all the grace of a furious cat, yanking her skirt down, hair wrecked, mouth swollen, and Garrett nearly walks into his dresser trying to pull his sweats up over an erection that has every right to file a formal complaint.
She points at him with one trembling finger. “If this is Logan’s fault, I’m putting his head in the oven.”
“Maybe don’t threaten murder while the fire alarm’s going off.”
“I’ll be quick.”
They make it to the hallway half-dressed and murderous. Smoke curls faintly up the stairs. Dean’s halfway up already, looking delighted until he sees her crooked skirt, Garrett’s flushed face, the hickey darkening under Garrett’s jaw, and the general aura of interrupted sex radiating off both of them like a gas leak.
Dean’s mouth opens. Garrett points at him. “Don’t.”
Dean looks at the hickey. Then at her nails. Then at Garrett’s sweats. His whole face lights with reverent horror. “Oh my God.”
She points at him. “I will push you down these fucking stairs.”
Dean steps aside immediately. “Understood.”
The second time, Garrett locks the bathroom door with such focus that she almost feels bad for him.
Almost.
He twists the little button on the knob, tests it once, then tests it again, jaw set like he’s securing a submarine hatch instead of the upstairs bathroom in a house where the towel rack’s been broken since October.
She stands near the sink in one of his Briar shirts and nothing else, watching him with her arms crossed and her mouth doing the thing it does when she’s trying not to laugh at him and failing beautifully.
“Wow,” she says. “You’ve grown so much.”
Garrett turns. “I’m being proactive.”
“You’re being traumatised.”
“By your inability to finish a sentence without insulting me?”
“By your idiot roommates.”
He points at her. “You like them.”
“I like Tucker. Logan’s useful for entertainment. Dean’s a cautionary tale with hair product.”
Garrett tries not to laugh and loses. “That’s mean.”
The bathroom is full of steam, the mirror fogged at the edges, the bathwater high and hot and carrying the faint clean smell of whatever body wash she stole from him because, according to her, his was annoyingly good and therefore community property.
Garrett’s gone a little overboard, which she will absolutely make fun of him for later if she survives the night with any dignity left. Candles on the sink. Towels stacked near the tub. His phone facedown on the counter like he doesn’t trust it not to ruin his life.
It is, despite everything, kind of sweet.
Which is dangerous. Sweetness always is with him. It sneaks up under the banter and the hooking up and the stupid public insistence that they’re not dating, and then suddenly he’s making a bath, checking the lock twice, putting her water bottle on the sink, and setting Douglas on the folded towel beside the tub like that’s not the most damning piece of evidence in the entire room.
Garrett’s busy pretending to adjust the temperature of the water, one hand under the tap, jaw set in that deeply masculine way men get when they’re doing something domestic and hoping no one points it out.
So she leans her hip against the sink, arms crossed, and says, “This is a lot of effort for a girl you’re not dating.”
Garrett stills. Barely. The tiniest pause of his hand under the water, the flicker of his eyes toward Douglas on the towel, then to her, then away again like that tiny purple traitor has exposed him.
“That’s not effort,” he says, turning the tap off. “That’s preparation.”
She raises an eyebrow. “For the girl you’re not dating.”
“For the girl who keeps complaining that my house is ruining her life.”
“It is ruining my life.”
“You’re welcome to leave.”
She lifts her brows.
Garrett looks at her, at the shirt falling high on her thighs, at her bare legs, at the mouth he’s already kissed swollen twice tonight, and immediately seems to regret giving her any kind of exit option. His jaw shifts. “Just… not right now.”
A smile pulls at her mouth. “Use your brain next time.”
“Bossy.”
“Proactive.”
His mouth curves despite himself as he steps into her space, hands finding her hips under the shirt like they belong there, like they’ve mapped the exact place his thumbs should sit and neither of them is going to talk about what that means. “You gonna keep running your mouth, or are you getting in?”
“You made a whole setup. I’m appreciating the ambience.”
He tilts his head. “You’re mocking me.”
“I’m moved.”
“You’re a liar.”
She grins, and he kisses it off her before it can get any worse, mouth warm and open against hers, one hand sliding up the side of her waist. For a second the room narrows to steam and skin and the soft press of his thumbs beneath her ribs. Then her nails drift down his back, slow and deliberate, catching over the raised scratches she left there last time. Garrett’s whole body gives one sharp, quiet reaction against hers.
“Careful,” he says, voice lower.
She smiles into his mouth. “Does it hurt?”
“A little.”
“Good.”
“Jesus.” He pulls back just enough to look at her, incredulous and turned on and visibly annoyed about both. “You’re insane.”
“You keep inviting me over.”
“Yeah, well.” His eyes drop to her mouth. “I’m stupid.”
“Finally, common ground.”
He mutters something under his breath that she doesn’t catch before he kisses her again, rougher this time, like he’s punishing her for being right. His hands slip under the hem of the shirt and drag it up her body, and the second it’s over her head, Garrett forgets how to finish whatever insult he’d clearly been building toward.
It happens so plainly she almost laughs. His eyes drop, throat working once, hands settling at her waist like he needs somewhere safe to put them before they get him into trouble.
She tilts her head. “You okay?”
His eyes flick up. “Fine.”
“You look pained.”
“Because you’re naked and still talking.”
“That usually upsets you?”
“It does when the talking is happening instead of the bath.”
She glances toward the tub, then to Douglas, still waiting innocently on the towel. “You brought him out and everything.”
Garrett’s face tightens in immediate betrayal. “Don’t make it weird.”
“Weird?” She looks offended. “That’s Douglas.”
“I know his name.”
She grins. “You should. You helped name him.”
“I said it as a joke.”
“And then it stuck. That’s how naming works.”
“I didn’t think I’d be standing in my bathroom months later listening to you talk about him like he’s a close personal friend.”
“He’s been very supportive.”
Garrett gives her a flat look. “He has a charging cable.”
“He has stamina.”
“I have stamina.”
She lets her eyes drag over him, slow and deeply unfair, until his expression shifts by a fraction. “Do you?”
Garrett’s hands tighten on her waist. “Get in the bath.”
She laughs, and he guides her in with both hands like he knows full well she might climb right back out just to spite him. The water closes around her hot enough to pull a sigh out of her, and a second later Garrett is sliding in behind her, knees bracketing her hips, chest warm against her back.
For a second, she lets herself settle. Lets her head tip back onto his shoulder. Lets his hands move over her stomach under the water, slow and broad, like he’s smoothing out every sharp edge she keeps trying to put between them.
Then he reaches past her for Douglas. She opens one eye. “Be respectful.”
Garrett’s mouth brushes the side of her neck. “I’m always respectful to Douglas.”
“You called him a tiny homewrecker last time.”
“He knows what he did.”
“You were jealous.”
He scoffs. “I was not jealous of a vibrator.”
“You sulked.”
“I was catching my breath.”
“You glared at him.”
“He was smug.”
She laughs, and Garrett bites gently at her shoulder, enough to make the laugh catch. The vibrator hums to life in his hand, a low, familiar buzz that has heat pulling through her before he even touches her with it. She knows he feels the shift in her body, because his arm slips across her waist and his mouth settles at her ear.
“Still talking?” he murmurs.
She swallows, already hating how much rougher her voice sounds. “Still waiting.”
His smile presses into the side of her throat. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Poor baby.”
She turns her head just enough to glare at him. “Don’t start.”
Garrett drags Douglas slowly up the inside of her thigh, nowhere near where she wants him, the absolute bastard. “Thought you wanted me to use my brain.”
“I want you to use your hand.”
“That’s demanding.”
“That’s proactive.”
His laugh is low against her ear, and then his mouth drops to her shoulder, open and warm, as he finally guides the vibrator higher.
“Fine,” he murmurs, voice gone rough in that way that makes her thighs want to part before she’s decided to let them. “But if you’re gonna keep defending him, I’m making him earn his place in this relationship.”
She goes still against him. Garrett goes still too, just for a second. The word hangs there in the steam, soft and stupid and too close to something neither of them has agreed to say out loud.
Then she clears her throat, eyes fixed very hard on the fogged mirror. “That what we’re calling it?”
His mouth brushes her shoulder again, slower this time. “Don’t get cocky.”
“I think Douglas should know where he stands.”
Garrett exhales a laugh against her skin, and when he speaks again, his voice is lower, threaded through with heat. “Right now? Between your legs, if you stop arguing with me.”
The words skim hot along her wet skin, and the laugh she tries for comes out smaller than planned, caught somewhere between her throat and his mouth on her shoulder.
His arm slides across her middle, dragging her back more firmly against him, the hard line of his chest pressed to her spine, his thighs bracketing hers under the water while Douglas traces a slow, maddening path up the inside of her leg.
He’s being awful about it, of course. Deliberate. Patient in a way that feels less like restraint and more like cruelty, brushing close and then away, letting the vibration skim over places that make her stomach tighten before he eases off again.
His mouth keeps moving along her neck, open and lazy, kissing beneath her ear, then the hinge of her jaw, then the spot just below it he knows makes her lose half a thought if he gets his teeth there.
She tries very hard not to squirm, because letting Garrett Graham know he’s getting to her is basically handing a loaded weapon to a man who already thinks he’s hot shit with a sniper rifle.
Unfortunately, her body has no loyalty. Her thighs shift under the water. Her fingers curl against his forearm where it’s locked across her stomach. Garrett feels both. His mouth curves against her neck.
“Garrett.”
“Mm?”
“Stop playing.”
“I thought you liked playing.”
“I like finishing.”
His breath catches against her ear in a laugh, low and rough enough to make her toes curl beneath the water. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “I’ve heard.”
She reaches back to smack his thigh, but he moves Douglas exactly where she needs it and her hand clenches instead, nails scraping into his skin beneath the water.
The sound that leaves her is immediate and humiliatingly soft, and Garrett goes still for half a second behind her, like he wants to feel it all the way through. Like he wants to press pause on the exact moment she stops being difficult and starts melting.
“There,” he says, lips brushing her ear. “That what you wanted?”
She refuses to answer, mostly because she can’t.
Garrett’s free hand drifts up her stomach, slow and wet and broad, palm sliding over her ribs like he has all the time in the world.
She feels the shape of his fingers before he reaches her chest, the heat of his hand closing over her, and her head tips back against his shoulder before she can stop it. His thumb brushes once, almost lazy, and her whole body answers so sharply that water laps over the edge of the tub.
“Oh,” he murmurs, much too pleased. “There too?”
“Shut up.”
His mouth presses to her temple, soft enough to be insulting under the circumstances. “You’re so easy to annoy.”
“You’re so easy to hate.”
“Yeah?” His hand tightens over her breast, enough to make her breath hitch. “This feel like hate?”
She would love to say something devastating. She has, in theory, a whole personality built around saying something devastating. But Douglas is buzzing steadily between her thighs, Garrett’s hand is warm and sure on her chest, and his mouth is at her ear, and the only thing her body manages is a thin little sound that makes him groan like it’s done something to him too.
He turns the setting up one notch. Her hips jerk. Water spills over the side again, hitting the tile in a soft slap. Garrett’s arm tightens across her waist, holding her there against him, not forcing, just grounding, making it impossible for her to arch away from the pressure even when it starts to burn low and bright through her stomach.
His fingers knead at her chest, thumb dragging in a rhythm that has her eyes rolling back before she can even pretend she’s above it.
He notices immediately, because he notices everything when it comes to getting under her skin. “Oh, you liked that.”
“Don’t.”
“You did.” His mouth brushes the shell of her ear, smug and breathless at once. “Fuck, baby, you really liked that.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.” He shifts Douglas slightly, pressing it in tighter, and her whole body jolts against him. His hand slides from her breast to her throat for half a second, just holding her there, tipping her face back enough that his mouth can drag over her jaw. “You’re dripping all over my hand.”
The sound she makes would be embarrassing if she had enough air left to care. The steam has gone thick around them, clinging to her skin, turning the mirror to a blur.
Her body feels loose and tight at the same time, everything warm and wet and pulled so sharply toward the ache between her thighs that she can barely keep track of where she ends and Garrett starts.
His chest is hard behind her. His breath is hot against her ear. His hand returns to her chest, greedy now, less patient, fingers squeezing and stroking like he’s finally losing the thread of his own control.
“Garrett,” she whimpers, and hates him a little for the way his breath catches when she does.
“Yeah, baby.” His voice drops even lower, rough enough to scrape. “I know. I’ve got you.”
“No, you don’t.”
A laugh breaks out of him, bitten off and dark. “You’re arguing with me right now?”
“You’re being smug.”
“I’m being useful.”
She tries to glare at him over her shoulder, but he presses Douglas just right and her face crumples before she can get the look properly arranged. Garrett’s mouth catches at her cheek, then the corner of her mouth, kissing whatever broken little sounds spill out of her as her thighs start to tremble under the water.
“There we go,” he murmurs. “That’s it. Let me have it.”
Her fingers claw at his thigh. His breath hitches hard.
“Careful,” he grits out, and she can feel exactly how much he means it by the way his hips shift behind her, the hard press of him against her lower back, his control fraying in quiet, satisfying little pieces.
She would absolutely mock him for that if her body didn’t choose that exact moment to climb right to the edge. Everything narrows. The bath, the steam, his mouth, his hands, the buzz pressed exactly where she needs it.
Heat coils so tight in her stomach it almost hurts, her back arching against him, chest pushing into his palm as her head falls to his shoulder. She hears herself moan, high and helpless, and Garrett makes this ruined sound against her neck like it’s taken something out of him.
“Oh, baby,” she gasps, the words slipping out before pride can catch them.
Garrett’s hand tightens on her breast. “Fuck. Say that again.”
“No.”
“Brat.”
“Garrett–”
“I know.” He kisses beneath her ear, voice low and filthy-soft, all smugness burned down to want. “I know. You’re right there, aren’t you?”
She nods because words have become unreasonable.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, pressing Douglas in that tiny, perfect angle that makes her whole body go taut. “There you go. Come on. I’ve got you. Just like that.”
Her nails dig into his thigh hard enough that he swears under his breath, but he doesn’t stop. If anything, he holds her closer, mouth at her ear, hand on her chest, the other steady between her thighs, dragging her right up to the edge with a patience that feels like punishment and devotion at the same time.
“Garrett,” she gasps.
“I know. I know. There you go–”
A knock hits the door once, and the handle turns, and then Dean walks in.
The scream she lets out isn’t human.
Garrett shouts at the same time, jerking so hard the vibrator slips from his hand and disappears into the bath with a traitorous buzzing splash.
She lunges upright, foot sliding, hair going completely under for half a second before Garrett grabs her around the waist and hauls her back against him.
Water sloshes everywhere. The candles flicker. Dean stands in the doorway with one hand over his eyes, which would be more useful if he had done it before seeing both of them naked and morally compromised.
“OH FUCK– I’M SORRY, DUDE– AH– FUCK!”
“DEAN!” Garrett roars.
She spits bathwater out of her mouth and whips around with her hair plastered over one eye. “WHY WOULD YOU WALK IN?”
“I KNOCKED!”
“YOU OPENED WHILE KNOCKING!”
“I THOUGHT IT WAS EMPTY!”
“THE DOOR WAS LOCKED,” Garrett yells, voice cracking with the kind of rage that only comes from a man interrupted twice in one night.
Dean’s hand remains over his eyes. His entire body is angled away from them in a panic. “IT WASN’T!”
Garrett looks at the lock. The little button has popped out. For a second, the three of them stare at it.
Dean backs up, shoulder hitting the doorframe. “I didn’t see anything.”
“You screamed ah fuck,” she snaps.
“I saw movement!”
“You saw tits, Dean.”
“I saw–” Dean stops himself, visibly choosing life. “I saw nothing. I’m blind. I have never had eyes.”
“GET OUT,” Garrett and she yell together.
Dean slams the door behind him.
The bathroom goes silent except for the steady drip of water onto the tile and Douglas buzzing somewhere under the surface like the last surviving member of a shipwreck.
She sits upright between Garrett’s legs, soaked, furious, hair in her face, chest heaving. Her skin is hot from the bath and hotter from embarrassment, every inch of her buzzing with a need that has nowhere to go now except rage.
Garrett’s arm is still locked around her waist. His other hand is braced on the tub like he’s trying not to lose his mind. Then she feels his shoulders shake. Slowly, she turns her head.
Garrett presses his lips together.
“Don’t,” she hisses.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m not laughing.”
“You’re laughing with your whole stupid body!”
That does it. One laugh gets out of him, low and helpless, and she stares at him with the flat, dead-eyed fury of a woman who has been edged and then waterboarded by bathwater in front of Dean Di Laurentis.
Garrett tries to kiss her shoulder. “Baby–”
“No.”
He attempts another kiss. “I’m sorry.”
“No.”
“I’ll kill him.”
She glares at him. “That doesn’t help me now.”
His mouth twitches again.
She points toward the door, hair dripping onto his arm. “I hate this fucking house.”
The third time, they try the porch because both of them have started confusing desperation with creativity.
The house is quiet behind them for once, and that should be the first warning. Nothing good ever comes out of the hockey house being quiet. It means someone is dead, asleep, or about to emerge at the exact wrong time with cereal.
But the back porch has the fire pit going, the night air is cool, and she’s tucked sideways against Garrett on the outdoor couch wearing his sweatshirt and a little skirt because she decided to wear it specifically to make his life worse.
Now the firelight is moving over her bare thighs, over the cuffs of his sweatshirt swallowed around her hands, over the dark mark on his jaw that he’s already checked twice in his phone camera and complained about three times.
Complained is maybe generous. He keeps touching it like he’s annoyed, then glancing at her like he wants her to do it again.
So she does. She leans in while he’s mid-sentence about practice and puts her mouth under his jaw. Garrett stops talking immediately.
Her lips curve. “What were you saying?”
“Nothing.”
“No, keep going. I’m listening.”
“You’re not listening.”
“I’m multitasking.”
He tilts his head back despite himself when she kisses lower, teeth grazing his throat. His hand slides from the back of the couch to her thigh, warm palm settling under the hem of the sweatshirt where it’s ridden up. “Don’t leave another one.”
She sucks at the skin just beside the first mark.
“Jesus.” His fingers dig into her thigh. “You’re doing it on purpose.”
“Obviously.”
“Why?”
She pulls back, eyes flicking over the fresh bloom of colour. Possessive satisfaction warms under her ribs, sharp and embarrassing, so she hides it behind a shrug. “You’re pretty when you’re marked up.”
Garrett stares at her. “That might be the most concerning compliment I’ve ever gotten.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I have a game this week.”
“Wear a turtleneck.”
“I’m a hockey player.”
She laughs and kisses him properly, swallowing whatever else he was going to say. His mouth opens under hers instantly, because for all his complaining, Garrett kisses her back like an addict with a grudge.
One hand hooks around her waist and pulls her closer until she’s half in his lap, her thigh over his, her body angled toward him in the warm orange spill of the fire.
It had started innocent. They were supposed to be sitting outside because she’d dramatically announced she needed air that didn’t contain Dean.
Garrett had brought her his sweatshirt without saying anything, which was annoying because it made her chest feel soft in a way she didn’t want to examine. They’d been fine for maybe ten minutes. Fifteen, if she was generous.
Then he’d stretched his arm behind her, all broad shoulders and lazy mouth and stupid sweatpants, and she’d remembered she had hands. Now one of those hands is slipping down his stomach.
Garrett catches her wrist before she reaches the waistband. “Here?”
She blinks at him. “You shy?”
“No.”
“Private?”
He gives her a look.
“Right.” Her mouth twitches. “Stupid question.”
His eyes narrow. “You’re enjoying this.”
“I’m coping.”
“You’re coping by jerking me off on the porch?”
“I’m resilient.”
Garrett’s laugh breaks when she twists her wrist out of his grip and palms him through his sweats. His head falls back against the couch, jaw going tight, and the sight of him like that – exposed throat marked up by her mouth, hair messy, lips parted around a breath he clearly doesn’t want to give her – makes her feel a little vicious. A little drunk, even though she isn’t.
“There he is,” she murmurs, kissing the corner of his mouth.
“Don’t get smug.”
“Too late.”
“You’re such a brat.”
“You keep saying that like it’s going to hurt my feelings.”
“It’s not supposed to hurt your feelings.” His voice drops as her hand slips under his waistband. “It’s supposed to make you behave.”
She wraps her hand around him properly, and Garrett’s hips lift a fraction into her palm before he can stop himself. She smiles. “How’s that going?”
“Fuck.”
“Not well?”
“Shut up.”
She kisses his neck again, softer this time, then ruins the softness by dragging her teeth over the mark she made. Garrett’s hand flies to her hip, gripping hard enough to pull a pleased little sound out of her. He hears it. His eyes open, dark and focused.
“Come here,” he says.
“I am here.”
“No.” His hand slides to the back of her thigh. “Here.”
She lets him drag her into his lap because she’s generous and because her patience has been burned down to ash by this house. Her knees bracket his hips, skirt riding up, the fire hot at her back and Garrett hotter under her.
His hands shove beneath the sweatshirt, finding bare skin, and his mouth catches hers with none of the carefulness he sometimes tries to pretend he has.
They kiss hard and messy, the kind of kiss that tastes like irritation and wanting and the leftover sweetness of the soda she stole from him earlier. She strokes him slow just to hear the way his breath catches, and Garrett bites gently at her bottom lip in retaliation.
“Inside,” he mutters against her mouth.
“No.”
His brows pull together. “No?”
“We go inside, someone walks in.”
“We stay outside, someone walks out.”
“Then be quick.”
Garrett makes a sound like that suggestion has physically hurt him. “You’re killing me.”
“You’ll live.”
“Barely.”
“Good.”
He laughs, rough and gone, and his hand slides higher under her skirt. She shivers so hard he feels it. The cocky look on his face softens for half a second, not into anything sweet exactly, but something lower, warmer, more dangerous to her than smugness.
Then the sliding door opens.
“Ugh,” Tucker says from behind them. “Are you kidding?”
They freeze. Tucker is standing in the doorway in sweatpants and a hoodie, holding a bowl of cereal like a man who’s walked into war with Cheerios as his only weapon. His face isn’t shocked, it’s tired. Deeply, spiritually tired.
Garrett’s eyes shut. Her hand is still down his pants. Tucker looks at it.
She removes it very slowly, with as much dignity as a person can have while straddling a not-boyfriend on patio furniture.
“Tuck,” Garrett says, voice strangled.
Tucker points his spoon at them. “No.”
“Go away,” she says.
“This is a communal space.”
“It’s currently occupied.”
Tucker gestures with his spoon. “It’s the porch.”
“Then close your eyes on your way through.”
“I live here.”
“So do I,” Garrett snaps.
Tucker looks at Garrett’s lap, then at her skirt, then at Garrett’s neck, where the hickeys are now definitely visible in the firelight. His expression goes flatter. She reaches for the nearest cushion and throws it at him. Tucker dodges it with annoying ease.
“I’m just trying to eat cereal,” Tucker says.
“And I’m trying to get laid,” she fires back. “We all have dreams.”
Garrett makes a choked sound that might be a laugh and might be him giving up on life.
Tucker blinks at her. Then, because he’s Tucker, he actually considers this with more empathy than the situation deserves. “Yeah, okay. But maybe not where we keep the grill.”
“It’s off.”
“That is not the point.”
Garrett drags a hand over his face. “Can you just go inside?”
“I came outside because Logan fell asleep on the couch with a plate of nachos on his chest and Dean is trying to convince him it’s a weighted blanket.”
She stares. “I’m moving out of this house and I don’t even live here.”
Tucker nods once, like this is fair. “Valid.”
Garrett looks murderous. “Tuck.”
“I’m going.” Tucker lifts the cereal bowl in surrender. “I’m going. I’m just saying, there are other locations.”
“We tried the bathroom,” she says sweetly.
Tucker winces. “Right.”
“And the bedroom.”
“Also right.”
“And now, apparently, the porch is under federal protection.”
Tucker pauses at the doorway, thinking. Then he says, “Car?”
Garrett goes still. She turns her head toward him.
Tucker shrugs. “What? I’m problem-solving.”
The fourth time, Garrett parks at the back of the west lot behind the rink, under a dead light near the far fence where nobody has any reason to be unless they’re committing a crime, hiding a body, or making the sort of sexual decision that can only come after being interrupted three times by men with no respect for romance.
Garrett cuts the engine. The car settles into darkness. For a second, neither of them moves.
Then she starts laughing. It comes out half-hysterical, half-furious, her head tipping back against the passenger seat while Garrett sits behind the wheel with one hand still on the keys and the other over his mouth like he’s trying not to join her.
The rink’s dark behind them, the lot mostly empty, rain shining faintly on the blacktop. It smells like cold air and leather and the faint mint of the gum Garrett had been chewing before she leaned across the console at a red light and ruined it for him.
“This is insane,” she says.
Garrett looks at her. “We can go back.”
She stops laughing immediately. “Don’t be stupid.”
His mouth curves. “There she is.”
“I swear to God, Garrett, if you call me Kitty right now, I’ll leave.”
“No, you won’t.”
She glares at him.
He grins wider, because he’s very brave for a man one wrong word away from dying in his own car. “You’re too horny to leave.”
Her mouth drops open. “I’m too horny?”
“Yeah.”
“You dragged me to a parking lot like a criminal.”
“At Tucker’s suggestion.”
She gestures vaguely. “Which makes this worse.”
“You got in the car.”
“You said please.”
“I said please once.”
“You said it twice.”
His expression shifts, smile sharpening. “You counting?”
She unbuckles her seatbelt. “I’m about to start counting how many times you don’t make me come tonight.”
Garrett’s face changes so fast it’s almost worth the entire miserable evening. The grin drops. His eyes go darker, mouth parting around a breath he doesn’t quite take, and then his hand’s on her thigh, tugging. “Come here.”
She makes him wait three seconds purely because she can.
His jaw ticks. “Baby.”
“Oh, now you’re polite?”
“Now I’m desperate.”
That does something terrible to her stomach. She climbs over the console and knees him in the thigh, because his car isn’t designed for dignity and neither of them has any left anyway.
Garrett catches her with both hands around her waist, laughing into her mouth until she bites his lip and he groans, the sound low and immediate and so satisfying she almost forgets to be mad.
“Back seat,” he says.
“If you make me climb again–”
“I’ll do the work.”
“You better. Captain.”
His eyes flash at that, because she knows exactly what she’s doing, and he does too. He gets them into the back with slightly more athleticism than the situation deserves and significantly less grace. His shoulder hits the door. Her boot catches on the seatbelt. She laughs breathlessly and calls his car a hostile environment. He tells her she’s the hostile environment. She tells him he loves it. He doesn’t answer quickly enough.
That silence is loud. She looks at him in the dim.
Garrett looks back, his face close, one hand braced beside her head and the other on her waist, thumb slipped under the hem of her shirt. His hickey-dark throat moves when he swallows. There are faint red marks at the side of his neck where her nails had caught earlier, and the sight of them makes something low in her go hot and possessive.
“Don’t look so proud,” he mutters.
“I made those.”
“Yeah, no shit.”
She bites her lip. “They look good.”
“I look like I fought a raccoon.”
“A hot raccoon.”
Garrett stares at her. “That’s what you’re going with?”
“I’m under pressure.”
He laughs, and she kisses him before it can turn into another thing, because if they start bantering too long, something will explode. Possibly her. Possibly him. Possibly the car.
His mouth opens under hers, and suddenly all of it comes rushing back: his bedroom, the fire alarm, the bath, Dean’s scream, the porch, Tucker’s spoon, every almost, every ruined edge, every time she had been right there and yanked back by this stupid house and its stupid men and their stupid timing.
She pulls at his shirt. Garrett helps, yanking it over his head and tossing it somewhere near the front seat. Her hands are on him immediately, palms over his shoulders, down his chest, nails scraping just enough to make his breath catch.
“Careful,” he says, but it comes out weak.
She kisses beneath his jaw. “You keep saying that.”
“You keep not listening.”
“You keep liking it.”
His hand tightens on her thigh. “You’re gonna be impossible after this.”
“After what?”
He drops his forehead to hers, breathing hard. “After I finally fuck the attitude out of you.”
For once, she has no immediate comeback.
Garrett notices. His mouth curves, slow and devastating. “Oh?”
“Don’t look smug.”
“You got quiet.”
“I’m thinking.”
“No, you’re not.”
She kisses him hard enough to knock his head back against the seat. It turns rougher after that, hotter, both of them finally too impatient to make a performance out of pretending they’re not. Clothes get pushed aside instead of properly removed. Her hand slips between them, his fingers dig into her hips, the windows fogging at the edges while the cold presses black and distant outside.
Garrett keeps kissing her like the world might interrupt again if he lets go for even a second. She keeps marking whatever skin she can reach – his jaw, his throat, the hinge of his shoulder – because some ugly, honest part of her wants evidence. Wants him walking into that locker room tomorrow with her mouth on him whether he calls her his girl or not.
He hisses when her nails drag down his back. “Fuck, baby.”
She stills, looking at him through the dark. “Too much?”
His hands pause on her waist. It’s the first real pause of the night, the first careful thing either of them has done since he locked the bathroom door. His breathing is uneven, eyes searching her face.
“No,” he says, quieter. “Just– fuck.”
Her mouth softens before she can stop it. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” His thumb strokes once along her hip, almost absent. “You’re good.”
The tenderness of it is so rude she has to kiss him again. Garrett pulls her closer, and this time, when he shifts beneath her, when he guides her hips and she sinks down onto him at last, the sound that leaves both of them is wrecked enough to fog the whole car.
For a second, neither of them moves. She stays braced over him, forehead pressed to his, mouth open around a breath she can’t seem to finish. Garrett’s completely still underneath her, every muscle locked, hands gripping her like he’s afraid the universe is going to reach through the roof and drag her away.
“Oh,” she whispers, and then hates herself for how small it sounds.
Garrett’s eyes shut. “Yeah.”
“Garrett,” she whimpers.
“I know.” His voice is rough, almost unrecognisable. “I know, baby. Fuck, I know.”
She starts to move and his head tips back against the seat, throat exposed, all those marks dark against his skin. It makes her dizzy. Or maybe that’s him. The heat of him. The fullness. The way his hands guide her down into the rhythm like he’s been thinking about it all night because he has, because they both have, because every interrupted moment is suddenly living under her skin at once.
“Finally,” she breathes, half laugh, half moan. “Holy fuck.”
Garrett laughs too, but it breaks when she rolls her hips. “Yeah. Finally.”
“You feel–” She cuts herself off, nails digging into his shoulders.
He lifts his head, eyes dark and focused. “Say it.”
“No.”
“Brat.”
“Don’t call me–”
“Wasn’t gonna.” His mouth brushes hers. “Not this time.”
That lands somewhere stupid and soft in her chest, which is inconvenient, so she moves harder. Garrett groans, low and filthy, hands sliding down to grip her ass and pull her into him. The car rocks faintly.
Her palm slaps against the fogged window for balance, leaving a streak through the condensation. He kisses her neck, then her jaw, then her mouth, swallowing the sounds she doesn’t bother holding back anymore.
“God, I missed you,” he says, like it slips out before he can check it.
Her hips falter for half a beat. He looks up at her, breathing hard, hair messed by her hands, mouth swollen, hickeys blooming along his throat like a confession neither of them has to make out loud.
She swallows. “You saw me two hours ago.”
“Not like this.”
The answer moves through her like heat. She kisses him because she doesn’t know what else to do with it, and Garrett kisses her back with both hands pulling her down, his body meeting hers in this desperate, perfect rhythm that makes the whole night narrow to his mouth and his hands and the slick slide of them finally, finally getting what they want.
“Come on,” he murmurs against her lips, voice ragged. “That’s it. Take it.”
Her fingers twist in his hair. “Don’t tell me what to do.”
His laugh turns into a groan when she clenches around him. “You sure?”
“Garrett.”
“Yeah, baby.” His hand slides up her back, holding her close. “I’ve got you.”
She’s so close it’s almost mean. Her body tightens around it, breath breaking, forehead falling to his shoulder. Garrett’s hand presses at the base of her spine. His mouth is at her ear, saying things too low and filthy and soft to survive outside the car, and her nails rake down his back hard enough that he swears.
“Fuck,” he gasps. “There’s my girl.”
The words hang there between them, fogging up the windows, pressed into the leather, warm and reckless and absolutely not casual. Then she lifts her head, eyes narrowed even though her mouth is swollen and her breathing is ruined. “Your girl?”
Garrett stares at her.
She can feel him still inside her. Can feel the tremor in his hands where they hold her. Can see him deciding, right in front of her, whether to deflect or deny or be brave for once in his stupid life. His jaw shifts.
Then someone knocks on the window, three sharp taps. Everything in the car dies. Her whole body locks on top of him. Garrett’s eyes close like he’s been abandoned by God.
Through the fogged glass, a flashlight cuts white across the back seat. Another knock.
A muffled voice says, “Campus police.”
She drops her forehead onto his shoulder. Garrett’s hands are still on her hips. His breathing is still rough. The car is still hot and fogged and full of every terrible, unfinished thing between them.
For one long, awful second, there’s only the sound of rain dripping off the roof and the distant electrical buzz of the dead parking lot light.
Then she lifts her head just enough to look at him, hair falling around her face, cheeks flushed, mouth swollen, eyes wide with disbelief and the last remaining thread of her patience snapping clean in half.
Garrett swallows.
She whispers, very softly, “Oh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
to be notified when i post new fics, follow @kooksandpearls-library and turn on notifications! i no longer use a taglist for garrett fics.
c/w ᝰ.ᐟ oral sex (m. receiving), shower sex, unprotected p in v (consensual condom removal), using the shower head, dirty talk, praise, possessive!dean, pet names (baby, angel, bunny <- jokingly, sweetheart + no y/n), teasing, multiple orgasms, mild choking, wrist pinning, overstim., playful power dynamics, language + he fell first + he’s been pining ever since ⋆˙⟡♡
“You’re gonna love it,” he mumbles as he turns the handle, water spilling from the showerhead, introducing one of his favorite ways to hook up like the two of you don’t spend half your time together in here already.
“Never have I ever,” you laugh, stumbling a little as you kick off your bar heels.
“Really? It’s a crowd favorite,” he mumbles as he tugs down his jeans and boxers. “Shower sex is seemingly the third hottest thing, after me, then you.” He winks at you as he holds up a number one with his calloused finger before pointing in your direction, waiting for you to crack.
“You’re so annoying,” you laugh.
“You’re number one—”
“I caught that. Thank you.”
“Hot as fuck,” he breathes out, his dick already painfully hard. He glances down at himself before looking back up at you. “I’m excited. Can you tell?”
“A shame you’re so nonchalant,” you giggle as your dress falls into a puddle at your feet.
A dramatic moan rips out of his throat. You slap your palm over his mouth and his blue eyes twinkle on yours.
He peels it off his lips, amusement flickering across his face. “You can be rough with me, bun. I can take it.”
“Bun?” You echo with a raised eyebrow as you unclasp your bra.
“Bunny,” he grins, his eyes zeroing on your tits as the lace material falls as well. “Fuck me,” he mutters under his breath, his rough fingers reaching out, looping around the band of your panties at your hips, tugging them lower. A deep groan rumbles out of him, vibrating against your lips.
He dips in kissing his way up your stomach, over your chest, up your neck, his hands resting against your back, pulling you into him.
“I was minding my business, Di Laurentis. You are the one that begged me to come here—”
“I did,” he answers honestly. “And aren’t you glad you did?” The look he gives you makes your heart flutter, dimples popping into his cheeks. “You love me.”
“I like you,” you say, fighting a grin.
“Give it another week. You’ll be at the bar next weekend fighting for my attention. I know it. I’m perfect.” His mouth curves. “Boyfriend material.”
“Boyfriend material? Says the man that’s never asked me on a date,” you whisper as your lips press against his neck. You feel his pulse race and, as cool as he’s playing it, you can tell he’s nervous.
“Lies. Didn’t know that was still an option,” he says as your mouth traces a path over his chest and stomach as you sink to your knees. “You gonna say ‘yes’ this time?”
“You’re keeping score?”
“I always keep score,” he huffs out a breath.
Your fingertips skim along the sharp lines of his hips, making the muscles in his stomach tighten. “You’re growing on me, Dean. What can I say,” you whisper.
“Oh?” His eyebrows lift as a stupid-excited laugh slips out of him. Steam curls through the room as the water grows warmer. “You know what?”
“What?” You murmur as your hand wraps around the base of his cock. His breath catches in his chest when you press a kiss on his tip.
“I…” He mumbles, watching you lay out your tongue and glide up the side of him. The thought dies behind his eyes in real time. “S’unimportant,” he murmurs as your lips wrap around him.
You take him in your mouth inch by inch, his lips parting, brows softening. The wet sounds of your mouth on him leave him reaching out and squeezing the edge of the sink for support, his other hand resting on your head.
“There is no way you’re gonna stand there and pretend you don’t know what you’ve been doing all night,” he grits out.
You pop off his cock and the breath punches out of him, spitting on his dick before you smile, stroking him lazily with your fist. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Liar,” he grins. “You spent three hours winding me up.”
“I did not.”
“You absolutely did,” he snorts. “You love that shit.”
“Maybe a bit,” you whisper, your breath ghosting across him and making goosebumps fan across his tanned skin.
“Knew it.” Dean smirks, that smug little look he had when he walked out with his arm around your shoulders at Malone’s tugging at his lips again.
“I was just having fun,” you look up at him through your lashes, far too innocently for how you’re working him in your hand.
“Trust me, I noticed. Love when you tease me—love when I get anything from you.”
You roll your eyes, warmth pooling in your cheeks, running your nails up his thighs.
“I’d sit through another three hours of it.”
“That so?” You ask.
“Mhmm,” he hums as his hold on your head gets tighter, guiding you back toward him. You wrap your lips around him and his jaw clicks, eyes rolling back in his head when you let him use you a little. The head of his cock kisses the back of your throat, spit seeping from the corners of your lips.
“So fuckin’ good at suckin’ cock, baby. Jesus Christ,” he rambles breathily, thrusting deeply a few more times before giving you back the reins.
You moan around him and his eyes screw shut, the thick muscles in his thigh shaking as his dick swells on your tongue.
“Not gonna last if you let me use you like this. I’m gonna—Fuck,” he gasps when you release him from your lips, stroking him with your tongue flat and your breasts pressed together.
“Shit, baby,” he groans, white ropes of cum landing on your tongue and chest as steam hangs heavy in the air.
Dean catches your wrists, pulling you up off your feet and into his arms. You wrap your legs around his trim waist, melting into him as he breathes laboriously, coming down from his high.
“Goddamn, baby. You’re so fuckin’ good at that,” he mumbles breathlessly. “Do you know how good you make me feel?”
You hum into the kiss, catching his bottom lip between your teeth as he steps into the shower with you.
The water is warm, remnants of his release rise off your body, swirling down the drain. He tilts in, tongue slipping in your mouth before your lips even touch.
Your gasp breaks the kiss as your back presses against the cool tile wall, so cold it sends shivers straight through you.
Dean reaches for the shower head, taking it off the base and turning it to a steady stream. He sets you down on your feet and your brows furrow in confusion because no matter how many times you've found yourself in Dean Di Laurentis's shower, he's never done this.
He kicks your foot out gently. The corner of his mouth curls as he sees you start to put the pieces together.
“Dean?” You breathe out a laugh.
“You ever done this before?” His voice drops as he grips the detachable shower head in one hand, the other pinned just over your shoulder as he looks down at you.
“I mean maybe,” you admit.
“Well,” he laughs, clearly excited by the idea. “We’re gonna have to talk about that later. No one’s ever done it for you?” His eyes flick down as the warm water sprays against your thigh, working upward.
You bite your lip and shake your head ‘no’.
“How romantic,” he whispers. “I’m your first and only. Love that for me.”
“Shut up,” you chuckle, your focus falling to the narrow space between you.
You gasp when the water hits your pussy, surging over your clit and making your knees buckle. Your arms quickly wrap around his neck for support, a moan echoing through the bathroom.
“Baby… Fuck, baby. Too much?”
You shake your head rapidly, feeling your heartbeat climb, nails clawing into his skin. “So good,” you pant. “Don’t stop.”
Dean moves his arm from the wall to your waist, drawing you closer, rocking slowly, increasing and decreasing the intensity, making you throw your head back in pleasure. Dean’s lips quickly lock onto your skin, kissing you harshly before biting down, making you cry out.
He watches your face as you drift closer and closer to your breaking point.
You feel your pleasure building fast, the pressure mounting stronger than anything you’ve felt in a while.
“You like that, huh?” He grunts.
”Mhmm,“ you whimper as your vision starts to cloud.
“I can’t wait to fuck you, baby. This is just a warm-up—”
“Dean!” You cut him off, crying out in pleasure as you wrap your arms tighter, nails digging into his shoulder blades. He lets out a devilish laugh, forcing the stream a little closer. “D-Dean,” you stutter.
“What, angel?” Your body jolts as you fight him slightly in overstimulation, continuing to ride the waves of your orgasm, pussy clenching around nothing. ”Does it feel good, baby?“
“Yes, fuck!”
“Then just take it,” he soothes, your heart pounding in your chest as you reach for air. Dean returns the water head to the base, cranking up the heat, pressing you into the wall once more as you continue to kiss, ears ringing, body tingling head to toe.
“Fuck me?” You whimper, desperation laced in your tone, but he’s already reaching above the shower, patting around the windowsill until he finds a condom.
He brings the package to his teeth and tears it open, watching as you roll it on, the thick weight of his cock squeezed in rubber.
Dean reaches down, taking a grip on your thigh, looping it in his bicep, muscles flexing as he lifts you slightly.
“Shit,” you whine as he circles your sensitive clit with the ribbed rubber on his tip, making him smirk. Dean traces the tip through your folds, teasing your entrance.
“Dean. Please.“
“Please what?” He teases you again.
“Fuck. Me.”
“Baby…” He lets out a gravelly laugh. “Beg harder.” Dean swipes his head across your clit again, making you gasp.
”Dean, can you please fuck me? Ple—” He thrusts his cock into you, rutting up, breasts pressing flush to his broad chest as he steals your breath.
Dean grabs your ass and picks you up swiftly, causing you to sink deeper on his cock and moan onto his lips.
He pins you to the wall, tilting in, drilling you into the tile quickly. His strokes are merciless, incredibly deep as you cling to his shoulders again. The hot water cascades down your body, flowing between the two of you, the sensation on your clit alone almost enough to send you over the edge. But it’s not enough. You want to feel him.
“Baby,” you murmur and he melts at the sound of your voice, pushing himself even closer. “Can we… I—” Your voice stutters with each snap of his hips.
“What is it, sweetheart?” He murmurs against your mouth.
“I wanna feel you—”
His hips lose their rhythm and his reaction speaks for itself, but he’d never leave it like that. “You serious?” He pants, and you can hear the smirk in his voice.
“Please,” you whisper, and he growls out a breath. “Is that okay?”
“Begging too? Fuck me. You even gotta ask?”
“Take it off,” you whisper, and the look on his face is so pleased it nearly makes you laugh.
“Hands against the wall,” he mumbles, chuckling under his breath when he sees your legs trembling after he pulls out.
He grabs the condom by the tip, tugging it off, letting it slip down the drain without a second thought.
Dean grabs your hips impatiently, bullying you toward the wall before pressing himself deep. Your eyes slam shut as you tip your face toward the ceiling. Your mouth falls open as his big hand comes up, curving around your shoulder, the other drifting to your waist, using his hold to fuck into you harder.
“Holy fucking shit,” he pants, every muscle at work, water flying with each rough clap of his hips against your ass, his blonde fringe, wet and messy when you look over your shoulder, his parted lips curling into a smirk.
“Dean…” You sigh, feeling yourself about to cum again, your head throbbing with your heartbeat.
“Yeah? That’s the spot, huh?”
“Yeah,” you whine, cock-drunk, thighs quivering uncontrollably, making you lose your rhythm.
“Let me, baby. Let me,” he groans.
Dean fucks into you, striking the perfect angle, making your muscles tense up. “Shit… Right there, Dean. You’re gonna make me cum.“
“Pussy was made for me. Cum on my cock.”
You let out a cry far louder than intended in a house full of hockey boys. You cover your mouth with the back of your hand.
Dean quickly grabs your wrist, pulling it away from your mouth, shaking his head ‘no’ as he tacks it and the other to the small of your back.
“Never do that again,” he pants through parted lips, punctuating each word with a rough snap of his hips.
The knot in your stomach tightens—threatening to snap. “Dean,” you gasp.
“Me too, baby. Fuck. Me too,” he moans, as his hand shifts from your shoulder to your neck, squeezing just enough to have your eyes rolling back.
Your orgasm spills over, your hand coming back to wrap around his wrist, pussy squeezing him so tight he’s hissing out a breath.
“That’s it… Good fuckin’ girl.”
His hips snap into you one last time, filling you with his warmth, his blunt nails digging into your skin as his rhythm stutters out.
You can feel everything at this moment—the spasm of your sex and the throb of his cock. Your head falls between your shoulders in exhaustion, but he uses his hold on your neck to guide you back to his lips instead.
A soft laugh escapes him against your mouth, your post-sex giggles bouncing off the walls of the shower as you soften into his arms.
“Aren’t you glad you came home with me?”
You go to say something smart, but he kisses you instead, stealing the words before they leave your mouth. He turns you back toward him, not letting you get far at all. His big arms wrap around you, holding you close as he presses a kiss to your forehead.
“What I tell you, huh?” He grins, still trying to catch his breath. “Shower sex is hot.”
“Mhmm,” you hum into yet another kiss and he can’t stop grinning.
“Tomorrow. Seven PM. You and me. What do you say?”
Your lips brush over the top of his, the tension between you thick and charged as you make him sweat it out a little more. His fingers flex against your waist.
“Okay, Di Laurentis,” you say, unable to hide your smile.
“That a yes?” He asks.
“That’s a yes,” you answer, and he sighs in relief.
“I mean did you wanna hear the speech I had in case you said ‘no’ again?”
“Was it good?” You taunt.
“Amazing—pathetic as hell,” he answers simply, his hand following the rush of water down your skin.
Your fingers drift into his hair, tugging at the root and he smiles, the stupid-pretty dimples popping yet again, making you absolutely weak.
“See? You love me.”
“I like like you at best,” you smile, matching his hushed tone.
And for the first time all night, Dean goes quiet. A smile pulls at his lips as he tilts in, cupping your cheeks in his hands.
“No shit? Like like, huh?” He teases against your mouth, chuckling when he says it back. “That’s pretty goddamn close if you ask me—”
“Don’t start,” you whisper, fighting a smile before he kisses you.
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