↳ Warnings/Themes: PG. Fluff.
↳ Pairing: Dean Di Laurentis x Reader
↳ Words: 500 (BINGO!)
☁️: read about the event, here ❤︎
⏮ Prev 〣 Event Masterlist 〣 Main Masterlist 〣 Next ⏭
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Stepping out into the hallway to drop your rubbish down the chute was supposed to be a 30-second job. However, five minutes later, you’re still standing outside of your dorm room door in your pyjama shorts, your forehead pressed against the door as you let out a defeated groan. This is not how you planned your Sunday evening to go.
Your keys were inside. Your phone was inside. Your roommate was out at some party. The odds of you getting back into your room anytime soon were slim to none, and you couldn’t just sit on the floor waiting.
You bit your lip, a sudden thought of Dean popping into your head. You weren’t in a relationship... not yet, anyway. The two of you had been dancing around an unspoken attraction for weeks, trading flirty texts and banter across lecture halls, parties, and library ‘study’ sessions.
Taking a deep breath, you ran out of the building and jogged the short blocks over to the hockey house, shivering as the night air hit your legs. When you finally knocked the door, you felt sheepish. Coming here uninvited was a bold move on your part. But it was that, or the floor.
The door swung open, and you sighed with relief that it was Dean who opened it. He took you in, your pyjamas, bare ankles, and a thoroughly embarrassed expression, and his jaw dropped.
“Hi- are you okay?” Dean gasped, immediately reaching to pull you inside the warm foyer. “Where’s the rest of your clothes?”
“I locked myself out,” you mumbled, looking down at your feet.
“Oh, really?” He teased as he closed the door behind you. “You don’t need to make up an excuse to come over.”
Despite yourself, you laughed. “It’s not an excuse, Dean. My phone and my keys are genuinely locked in my room and I don’t know when my roommate will be back.”
Wordlessly, Dean shrugged out of his hoodie and threw it over your head. You were shivering. He guided you over to the sofa in the living room, urging you to sit. “You shouldn’t be walking alone in the cold and dark in your pyjamas,” he chastised. “You should have borrowed a neighbour’s phone and called me. I would have picked you up.”
“I didn’t think of that,” you grumbled.
He laughed as he turned on the TV, opening up Netflix. “Mind too consumed with running over here, huh?”
You pushed at his shoulder as he settled on the sofa next to you. “Besides, I don’t even know your number off by heart.”
“Learn it.” His eyes bore into yours; he was serious.
Hours later, the TV screen was softly glowing with the rolling credits of a movie neither of you had actually finished. You woke up to feel Dean’s chest rising and falling beneath your cheek. His arm draped around you. you didn’t move an inch, content to let the accidental sleepover continue as you drifted back off to sleep in his arms.
💭: Exactly 500 words let's all say well done me. if you enjoyed, please consider leaving a comment, ask, reblog etc, it means a lot xx
Requested By: @fromasgardandback
💭: you did bby, like seconds between them, it gave me a good laugh ❣️ hahaha
summary: he doesn't mess around when it comes to the light of his life (established relationship)
author's note: new obsession, so yk what's up, gotta write a fic abt it. One back and forth discussion with my sister, and we have this masterpiece. You're welcome.
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Music. Or rather, vibrations. Bass was pummelling through her body like a speeding truck. The thing they didn't tell you about college parties was that the music was always shit. Either some newly released rap song blaring on the speaker, or an EDM that she had come to memorise from hearing so many times. Every now and then, when a good song played, everyone seemed to enjoy their time a little more. Today was that exception.
In all honesty, the party wasn't even supposed to happen. But the end of the semester blessed the hockey boys with a reasonable excuse to round up whatever beers and alcohol they could find, let the word travel around campus and get everyone drunk as a final hurrah.
The jello shots were flowing through her veins, loosening her muscles just enough to feel alright about dancing. It was her and Allie between the mess of bodies in the living room. Their hands were intertwined as to not be lost amongst the people. They moved against each other. Drunken sways that she didn't entirely process.
John was in the kitchen, leaning against the edge of the island. Red solo cup in hand, backwards cap doing things to her mind that she couldn't entirely put into words as he talked to Garrett easily. She knew one thing, though. His mind could've been invested in whatever conversation they were having, but his eyes? Yeah, they were on her. When their eyes met, an easy grin lifted onto his face. Pride dripped off his teeth as he smiled into the cup, dark eyes following her as she moved around Allie. Mischief gleamed in her eyes. He quirked a brow.
That was their thing. It didn't matter where they were or who was around them; they'd find each other from across the room. If he were in a match and happened to catch her gaze in a crowd of cheering peers after a wicked goal, John would lower his head, even if it was the most minuscule amount, and raise a brow in her direction. You see me, baby? She'd smile in return. I see you, baby.
Allie's scoff from beside her broke her gaze away from John. "My god," She said jokingly, "You two are so sweet, it makes me want to throw up"
A laugh escaped her throat. She raised her hand, bringing Allie's along with it to gently spin her. "You're one to talk, Allie-cat. From what I hear, Di Laurentis is fitting into the boyfriend tag pretty well"
"Why not just ask Logan to be your boyfriend already? You two are practically married"
Her lips fell into a quiet pout as she shrugged. "We just...don't like the titles. And you know how it is with the hockey boys. Asking him to be my boyfriend is basically popping the question"
The music had seemingly slowed all together, something the couples would enjoy swaying to. She and Allie remained on the floor, talking quietly. Though she spoke, her words seemed to float away with a gust of misplaced wind. Her mind had begun to scatter upon the mention of 'boyfriends'. Allie's smile widened at the sudden dreamy look in her eyes.
Y/n was never one to date around. Not because she didn't want to. Because she was saving it -the love, the chase, the fall, and the complete and utter infatuation- for the one. She made that fact known to anyone she met, and soon the people around her seemed to understand that fact as well. She wasn't like 'that'. Then she met Allie and Hannah while she was working part-time at Malone's for a semester. Steadily, one party invite led to another, and that was how she found herself intertwined with John Logan. He was her brief break from ramrod-straight morals. Somehow, through the long hours of practice she'd sit through for the sake of being near him, the countless study sessions where he'd mindlessly remain by her side in the library, and the endless hours they'd spent talking at night long after they were meant to go to bed, John Logan had found a way around the set rules she had for herself, and crept into the crude little spaces of her heart with an ease she found difficult to understand.
"Just do it," Allie said after a while. "The guy's head over heels for you. I doubt he'd say no"
They laughed it off like any other time. Maybe she would, if the opportunity arose. And for a while after, everything seemed to be floating. The liquor had absorbed into her bloodstream, giving her just enough of a buzz that it was enjoyable. It seemed she was not the only one who was feeling it.
The joy was too brief. It all happened before she could really think. A hand began to snake around her waist. When she glanced over at the kitchen, John was still there with Garrett. The foreign touch drew a reaction from her that was so immediate it felt as though her soul had left behind her material body. She lurched forward, letting go of Allie's hand to strip the hand from her torso. There must've been a look of terror on her face because Allie's smile dropped.
As soon as she spun around, a huff of sour breath passed over her face. The eyes that stared back at her were entirely new. "C'mon, Doll. Dance with me, you know you want to"
"Call me that again and see what happens." Her voice was low, barely above a whisper. But it was the quietest creatures that were the most dangerous.
Allie held onto her wrist, staring wide-eyed between her friend and the man in front of her.
He huffed a laugh, raising his hands in mock surrender. But she knew guys like him. They were never ones to back off that easily. His eyes would continue to trace the lines of her body, leaving a trail of dirt down the skin she would scrub meticulously later. Intoxication was clear in his dilated pupils. He certainly didn't look like one of the regulars who stumbled into the hockey house's parties. Probably just came for the free booze and the ladies. If he was a regular, he wouldn't have tried what he did. Not with her anyway.
His hands had fallen from the surrender, and they were reaching towards her again. "Don't be like that, Doll-"
The words hadn't even formed in the air before she grabbed the front of his shirt between the balls of her fist, pushing him back. His leg caught the back of the coffee table, and he fell like a log. There was a large hollow echo. The alcohol certainly wasn't doing him any favours.
"Get the fuck off of me or get the fuck out" The voice that came out of her mouth sounded far different from her own. It cut through the air, leaving a visible mark.
Allie's soft voice rang in her ear. "Y/n..." It sounded far away, like her head was underwater.
That's when she realised the music had stopped. Everyone was frozen in their positions, all of them having turned in the direction of the commotion. Her direction. No one said a word. No one made a move. And yet the trepidation that crept up was undeniable. If was as if the universe was telling her something was wrong, but instead of a soft nudge, her whole body was being whipped around. Her neck was growing hot, the heat slowly spreading up to her face.
Normally, she wouldn't care much for the attention. Hell, she was supposed to care less because she was a little drunk. What did it matter? Guys could be weirdos, and the sound of such commotion had become such a usual thing that it no longer drew the attention that it used to. But doubt flooded the back of her mind. What if I was wrong? What if I overreacted?
John's face suddenly came into view. His brows were cinched tightly like he was looking at a car's engine, trying to figure out what the problem was. His hand rose to her cheek. "Baby, what's wrong? What's going on?"
She couldn't find the words. It felt like tiny needles were continuously poking at her skin wherever he touched. Something stood between the echo of his voice and her ear drum. Nothing felt like it was fully there.
Garrett had joined them in the living room, having picked the guy off the floor by his collar like he was a rowdy cat. "Come on. Get up, fella" His grip was as firm as his voice, eyes narrowed as they pointed down at the guy.
The mortification seemed to only grow as the seconds pass. Feeling was beginning to return to her hands and feet. Little stopped her from staying here, but a lot stopped her from bolting. Allie was still holding her wrist. John was blocking the way to the front door, and she knew it'd be useless trying to get past him without an explanation.
Garrett's gaze flickered between her and the guy. "What'd you do to her?"
"What I did to her?" He repeated in a tone of amazement, "I didn't do nothing, man! I was trying to show her a good time and the crazy bitch pushed me over!"
The blur only seemed to intensify then. Maybe it was the build up of tears in her eyes or her brain simply beginning to shut down, but everything seemed to be too slow. All she could make out was John rushing the guy, taking him off Garrett's hands.
If there was shouting, she couldn't hear it. John took him by the neck, dragging him out the front door before tossing him off the porch.
"No, no, no..." She muttered under her breath. Whatever was keeping her inside seemed to disappear in an instant. She carefully shrugged off Allie's hand, shoving past the crowd that was beginning to gather by the door. The air was like a shock of cold water. The sight in front of her was the ice that ran down her shirt.
John was hunched over the guy, the white ball of shirt in his hands stretching so much that it was beginning to rip. His other hand was in the air, reeling back to send another punch to the guy's face. The moon lit up the scene like a spotlight. And beneath the gleaming blades of grass, crimson blood coloured the front lawn in delicate specks. It almost looked staged how perfectly everything fell. John's fist hit the guy's face once more, causing another round of splattering to join the army that had begun to form. Her feet moved themselves. She stumbled far enough down the stairs to get a better look at the guy's face. There was little reminiscent of his strange eyes and unfamiliar structure os his features. His nose now had an uncomfortable bend in the middle. Broken, no doubt. The sight made the uneasiness in her stomach grow.
"Yeah? Call her a bitch one more time. Do it!" His roaring voice split the fuzz that had grown over her ears. It wasn't the same soft voice that was speaking to her moments ago. The flames, once so calm and easy, now roared with a fierceness that almost frightened her.
It took seconds for Garrett and Dean to rush past her on the porch. They were quick to pull John off the guy but the damage was already done. There was a man on their front lawn, bruised and bloodied.
After that, everything seemed to blend together. She wasn't outside much longer, having been pulled back into the house by Allie, and a shaken Hannah who was following behind her. Tucker kicked everyone out, managing to find the guy's friends who seemed less than surprised at the sight of their friend. With a promise to take him home, peace had somewhat returned to the house. Or at least the little peace they had managed to salvage.
"What the hell was that?" Dean breathed as soon as the last person left the house.
Allie looked at her for a second before noting she was in no state to speak. The hot embarrassment was still evident by her red cheeks, but there was also something else. She explained everything, sparing a glance to her friend every now and again to make sure she was still standing.
A moment of silence passed. No one knew how to react.
The tension only grew when her voice broke the surface. "Where's John?"
Garrett looked at her sympathetically. "He went upstairs. Look, y/n, I'd give him a minute to cool down-"
She was already half-way up the stairs by the time he finished his words. The door to the shared bathroom was ajar. The furious rush of the sink running told her he was right behind there.
When she pushed the door open gently, John was in front of the sink, running his busted knuckles under the running water. A grimace lay under his hardened expression, the one she had come to learn and peel back. Wordlessly, she closed the door behind her, reaching to turn the water off.
The pain in his eyes seemed to fade when she gently grabbed his hand. Her eyes ran over the split skin around his knuckles from the barrage of punches. She'd seen many of his hockey injuries before -nasty bruises, split lips, scrapes, tears- but this one felt different. She was the reason for it. Guilt built up like a ball in her throat. Though her chest was moving, little air entered her lungs. A low hiss escaped from his gritted teeth as she barely brushed a finger over the wounds.
"Sit down" She whispered, "We should clean it out before we wrap you up"
Rummaging through their tiny medicine cabinet, she found a half-evaporated bottle of alcohol that would work. He'd positioned himself on the edge of the bathtub. She gently took his hand once more, savouring the warmth that spread through her fingers that had become freezing from the blood that was rushing to her head. With a clean rag she found on the rag, she began carefully dabbing at the wound. Most of the blood had been washed off, but a redness still lingered from the exposed flesh. It was hard to control her face. Every time she'd touch the wound, a sharp pain would spike in her own knuckles. As if she were feeling it.
Her eyes would flicker up to his face every now and then. They'd watch his eyes, searching every crevice to find the winces he was hiding. A crease would form between his brows whenever he did. It was small, but it was something she'd taken note of. When his frown deepened, she sighed.
"You don't have to pretend with me, tough guy" She muttered. The attempt at being light-hearted seemed to fall on a half-hearted laugh.
John looked up at her. His uninjured hand caressed the back of her thigh. "I'm sorry about tonight, baby"
"There's nothing to be sorry about, Johnny" She furrowed.
When she continued to dab at his knuckles, he stopped her gently, taking the rag away before setting it down on the counter. Just as he had done earlier that night, he cupped her cheek, forcing her to meet his eyes.
"Did he hurt you? If he did, I'm getting other people involved. Hell, I'll go file a police report..."
Her hand rested on top of his. "No. No, he didn't hurt me. I just...freaked out. I was drunk, and I had no idea what I was doing. I pushed him off, but I think I overreacted. I don't know"
At her admission, John immediately stood, dark, furrowed eyes scanning her face like he was looking for a lost treasure. "This isn't your fault, baby"
"But it is," She started, frustration beginning to build in her tone. "If I hadn't lost my temper on that guy, maybe he would've just left me alone. Maybe none of this would've happened at all, and maybe there'd still be a party downstairs where people were actually enjoying themselves, and you wouldn't be hurt right now"
"This is nothing, y/n. I've gotten worse injuries," He argued.
"That's not the point. The point is that I wasn't thinking straight, and I ruined it for everyone"
John shook his head. "Don't say that. I don't care if someone accidentally bumped into you, or touched you by accident, or insulted you on purpose. Whatever happens, you handle it the way you think should be handled. And if you don't want to deal with it, you come to me, and I'll deal with it for you, okay?"
She was silent for a long while, just staring up at him with her eyes still glossy with tears. Her heart was rapping at her chest with desperate knocks. All these months and he still managed to make her heart pound. A small smile broke on her face. "Maybe Allie was right."
"About what?"
"About how I'm completely in love with you"
A huff of laughter left his lips as he pressed them to the corner of her mouth. "I don't need someone to know that."
Could you write one where the reader is Logan's girlfriend and Garrett's sister, and she's a figure skater and Phill is the one who coaches and choreographs her performances. One day, she messes up her choreography during a really important competition, and her dad completely loses it. He gets furious and tries to hit her (nothing too intense, just Phill being the asshole he is).
Then Logan and Garrett show up at the exact same time and immediately step in to protect her. I'd love to see Logan absolutely furious while defending his girl—like, full protective boyfriend mode. You know, something like, "Don't you dare lay a hand on my girl!"
Take Your Hand Off My Girlfriend
John Logan x Graham!Reader (y/n)
Summary: After y/n messes up the choreography during an important competition, Phil turns more furious than ever. Logan and Garett find y/n during the heated moment and help her.
TW: Phil Graham
Word Count: 2.4K
The applause sounded distant. Muted.
Y/N barely heard it over the pounding of her own heartbeat as she glided to the center of the ice for her final pose.
She already knew.
The mistake had happened barely forty seconds into the program.
One step.
One wrong step.
She’d entered the combination from the wrong edge, forcing her to improvise nearly twenty seconds of choreography she’d practiced thousands of times. Most people in the audience probably hadn’t noticed.
The judges had.
More importantly her father had.
By the time she stepped off the ice, her medal hopes had disappeared.
Commentators praised how well she’d recovered from the mistake.
Fans asked for photos.
Young skaters wished her luck next season.
Y/N smiled automatically through all of it.
She knew exactly what was waiting behind the scenes.
Phil Graham didn’t say a single word during scoring.
He simply stood. Turned. Walked toward the restricted hallway leading to the locker rooms.
“Y/N.”
His voice wasn’t loud.
It never had to be.
She followed.
—
The hallway was nearly empty. Only the distant hum of the arena echoed through the concrete corridors.
Phil stopped outside an unused dressing room. The second the door shut behind them, he rounded on her.
“What,” he asked quietly, “was that?”
Y/N kept her eyes lowered.
“I lost my timing.”
“You forgot the choreography.”
“I recovered.”
“You forgot.”
His voice sharpened on the last word.
“I know.”
“No.” He stepped closer. “You don’t.”
“I practiced it…”
“You embarrassed me.”
Y/N swallowed. “It was one section.”
“One section?”
His laugh held no humor.
“You think sponsors remember the clean triple after you butcher the program?”
“I’m sorry.”
“There it is.” Another step. “Always sorry.”
She instinctively took one backward.
Phil noticed.
“Oh, don’t start acting scared now.”
“I’m not.”
“Liar.”
“I said I’m sorry.”
“And I said sorry doesn’t win competitions.”
His hand shot out. Not striking. Grabbing.
His fingers wrapped painfully around her wrist. Hard.
“So maybe you’ll remember this next time.”
Pain shot up her arm. “Dad…”
“You want to skate professionally?” His grip tightened until she winced. “Then start acting like one.”
“Dad… you’re hurting me.”
“Good.”
Her eyes watered.
“Maybe pain is the only thing you’ll remember.”
She tried pulling away. His grip only became tighter.
“Stop moving.”
“I can’t…”
“You forgot twenty seconds of choreography because you got emotional.”
“I slipped.”
“You panicked.”
“I adjusted!”
“You failed.”
He yanked her forward.
The force knocked her off balance, sending her crashing against his chest before he shoved her back upright again.
Her wrist throbbed violently now.
“Dad…”
“Look at me.”
She couldn’t.
He grabbed her chin with his free hand.
“I said…”
The dressing-room door slammed open.
“What the hell are you doing?”
Both of them turned.
Logan stood in the doorway.
His chest rose and fell rapidly, like he’d sprinted the entire length of the arena.
His eyes landed on Phil’s hand gripping Y/N’s wrist. Then on the tears she’d clearly been trying to blink away.
Something in Logan’s expression changed.
Not anger.
Something colder.
More dangerous.
“Let her go.”
Phil barely looked at him.
“This is none of your business.”
“The second you put your hands on her…” Logan took one step into the room. “…it became my business.”
Y/N had never seen him look like this.
Logan was usually easy smiles and sarcastic comments. Quick to laugh. Quick to forgive.
That man wasn’t standing in front of her anymore. This Logan looked absolutely livid.
Phil scoffed.
“Stay out of family matters.”
Logan’s jaw tightened.
“I’ll stay out of your coaching.”
Another step.
“I’ll stay out of your parenting.”
Another.
“But you don’t get to hurt her.”
Phil’s fingers remained locked around Y/N’s wrist.
“I said let go.”
“Or what?”
Logan didn’t answer immediately.
His gaze stayed fixed on Phil’s hand.
When he finally spoke, his voice was terrifyingly calm.
“Take.”
A beat.
“Your hand.”
Another.
“Off.”
His eyes finally met Phil’s.
“My girlfriend.”
Silence stretched between them.
Phil sneered.
“She’s my daughter.”
“And she’s standing here telling you you’re hurting her.”
The words landed like a punch.
Y/N hadn’t even realized she’d said them out loud.
Phil looked back at her.
“You’ve got him fighting your battles now?”
Before she could answer another voice echoed down the hallway.
“Y/N?”
Garrett.
The three of them turned just as he reached the doorway.
He stopped.
His hockey bag slipped from his shoulder onto the floor.
His eyes immediately found Phil’s grip on Y/N’s wrist.
His sister’s watery eyes. The fear written across her face.
Garrett didn’t hesitate. He crossed the room in three long strides.
“What the fuck?”
Phil released her only when Garrett physically stepped between them.
Y/N stumbled backward.
Logan caught her before she could lose her balance.
“You okay?” he asked immediately, his voice changing in an instant.
Gentle.
Soft.
She nodded automatically.
Logan looked down.
Her wrist was already reddening. Angry fingerprints wrapped around it.
His stomach twisted. “You call this okay?”
Y/N instinctively pulled her arm behind her back.
“It’s fine.”
“The hell it is.”
Garrett turned slowly toward Phil. His expression was unreadable. Which somehow made it worse.
“What happened?”
Phil shrugged. “She needed correcting.”
Garrett laughed once.
Short.
Disbelieving.
“You grabbed her hard enough to leave bruises,” Logan spoke.
“She embarrassed herself.”
“No,” Garrett said quietly.
“You embarrassed yourself.”
Phil’s face darkened. “Watch your mouth.”
“No.”
Garrett took one deliberate step forward, “You watch yours.”
Logan felt Y/N trembling beside him.
Without saying anything, he reached for her hand.
Not the injured one.
The other.
His fingers threaded carefully through hers.
She held on immediately. Like she’d been waiting for permission.
Logan squeezed once.
“I’m right here,” he murmured without taking his eyes off Phil.
She nodded, breathing unevenly.
Logan continued.
“You don’t get to touch her.”
“I’m her father.”
“You’re supposed to protect her.”
The hallway fell silent.
Phil looked from Garrett to Logan standing protectively in front of Y/N to his daughter, who had unconsciously moved closer to Logan.
For the first time all afternoon, she wasn’t standing beside her father. She was standing behind someone else.
Logan didn’t look away. “If you ever put your hands on her again…” His voice remained steady, but there was enough steel in it that even Y/N felt herself go still. “…you won’t have to worry about whether I’m her boyfriend.” A long pause. “You’ll have to worry about me.”
No shouting.
No threats dressed up as bravado.
Just a quiet promise from someone who meant every word.
Phil held his stare for several tense seconds.
Then, with one last glare, he shoved past Garrett and disappeared down the hallway.
The door swung shut behind him.
Silence.
Y/N hadn’t realized she was shaking until Logan turned toward her completely.
His anger vanished the instant he looked at her.
“Hey.”
He lifted his free hand slowly.
Giving her every chance to pull away.
Instead, she stepped into him.
He wrapped his arms around her carefully.
“You’re okay,” he whispered into her hair.
“I’ve got you.”
Garrett moved beside them, resting a gentle hand on the back of his sister’s shoulder.
Caught safely between her brother and the man she loved, Y/N finally let herself cry, not because she’d lost the competition, but because, for the first time after a mistake on the ice, she wasn’t facing the aftermath by herself.
—
The hallway stayed quiet long after Phil disappeared.
Y/N still hadn’t let go of Logan’s hand.Not because she thought Phil would come back. Because her fingers simply wouldn’t unclench.
Logan noticed.
Without saying anything, he slowly turned his hand so their fingers intertwined more comfortably, rubbing his thumb gently across her knuckles.
“Hey.” His voice was barely above a whisper. “You with me?”
She nodded automatically.
Logan smiled sadly.
“I asked if you were with me.”
Another pause.
This time she actually looked at him.
“…Yeah.”
“There you are.”
His free hand came up to brush a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Only then did he notice tears still clinging to her lashes.
His heart twisted.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
Logan blinked. “What?”
“I’m sorry you had to see that.”
He stared at her like she’d started speaking another language.
“What are you apologizing for?”
She shrugged weakly.
“I didn’t want you to…” Her voice trailed off “…to see him like that.”
Logan’s expression softened even more “Sweetheart.” He cupped her cheek gently. “The only person who should be apologizing is your father.”
She shook her head.
“I ruined your afternoon.”
“You think this ruined my afternoon?”
A tiny nod.
Logan let out a quiet breath.
“You know what would’ve ruined my afternoon?”
She looked at him uncertainly.
“If I’d walked in five minutes later.”
The words settled heavily between them.
He leaned his forehead against hers.
“I don’t care about the competition.”
“I messed up.”
“I know.”
“I practiced that routine for months.”
“I know.”
“I disappointed everyone.”
“You disappointed absolutely nobody.”
She gave him a skeptical look.
“I watched you improvise almost thirty seconds of choreography without falling apart.”
A tiny smile almost appeared.
“That’s impossible to do and you did without loosing yourself. It was an intense moment and you handled well.” Logan continued, “I’ve seen hockey players cry because they broke a skate lace.”
That earned him the smallest snort from Y/n
“There she is.” Logan smiled. “I missed that.”
Y/N finally let herself smile, even if only a little.
Garrett, who had been politely pretending not to listen while collecting Y/N’s skate guards and jacket, walked over with her competition bag slung over one shoulder.
“I have one new rule.”
Y/N looked at him.
Garrett tossed her jacket gently into her arms.
“After competitions?”
She waited.
“You don’t go anywhere alone.”
She frowned. “Garrett—”
“I’m serious.”
He wasn’t smiling anymore.
“If dad wants to talk?” He nodded toward Logan. “You come find one of us first.”
“Garrett…”
“No.” His voice stayed calm. “You call me.” He pointed at Logan. “Or him.” Then back to himself. “I don’t care if I’m in the middle of practice. I don’t care if Logan’s asleep. I don’t care if we’re across the damn arena. His eyes softened. “You don’t have to deal with him by yourself.”
Logan nodded immediately. “If you text me one word…” He squeezed her hand. “…I’ll come.”
Y/N looked between them.
Her brother.
Her boyfriend.
Both standing there looking at her like protecting her wasn’t an obligation, like it was the easiest decision they’d ever made.
Her eyes stung again. “You guys are ridiculous.”
Garrett shrugged. “Runs in the family.”
Logan grinned. “I was gonna say handsome, but sure we can go with ridiculous if you want to.”
Garrett rolled his eyes. “Please don’t flirt in front of me.”
That finally pulled a genuine laugh from Y/N.
It echoed through the hallway.
Both boys visibly relaxed.
“There it is,” Garrett said quietly. “That’s the sound I wanted.”
—
Twenty minutes later they were finally outside. The cold evening air felt refreshing after the stuffy arena.
“So,” Garrett announced dramatically, stretching his arms over his head.
“I’m starving.”
“Me too,” Logan admitted.
Y/N nodded. “I could eat.”
Garrett looked between them. Then a slow grin spread across his face.
“…Actually.”
Logan immediately recognized that smile.
“No.”
“What?”
“I know that look.”
“I don’t have a look.”
“You absolutely have a look.”
Garrett slung Y/N’s bag into Logan’s truck before tossing Logan his keys.
“You two go.”
Y/N frowned.
“What about you?”
“I’m suddenly craving pizza.”
“So come with us.”
“Nah.”
“You just said you were starving.”
“I am.”
“So…?”
Garrett started backing away toward his own car. “I’ve decided I don’t want to third-wheel my little sister making googly eyes at her boyfriend all night.”
Y/N’s face turned bright red.
“We do not make googly eyes.”
Logan couldn’t help laughing.
“Oh, sweetheart.” He looked at Garrett “She’s in denial.”
“I noticed.”
“Garrett!”
He held up both hands innocently.
“I’m leaving.”
He pointed at Logan. “You.” Logan straightened. “Take care of her.”
Logan’s joking smile disappeared. “I always do.”
Garrett looked at him for one long moment. Whatever he saw made him nod once. “I know.” Then he looked at Y/N. “I’ll call you tonight.”
She smiled softly. “Okay.”
“And answer your phone.”
“I always answer.”
“You literally don’t.”
“I answer eventually.”
Garrett laughed.
“Good enough.”
With one last wave, he climbed into his car and drove away.
Silence settled between Logan and Y/N.
She watched Garrett’s taillights disappear. Then sighed.
Logan looked at Garett’s car that was leaving and said, “You two are disgustingly wholesome.”
She bumped his shoulder lightly.
“Says the guy who threatened my dad.”
Logan rubbed the back of his neck.
“…Yeah.”
“That was kind of hot.”
He nearly choked.
“…Excuse me?”
She looked away to hide her smile.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Oh, you absolutely did.”
A blush crept onto her cheeks.
“I take it back.”
“Too late.”
He laughed, relieved to hear something so normal after everything that had happened.
He reached for her hand again.
“Come on.”
“Where are we going?”
“Diner.”
She wrinkled her nose.
“In my sparkly skating dress?”
He looked her up and down dramatically.
“I don’t know.”
“What?”
“I think you’re underdressed.”
She laughed, shoving his arm.
“You’re impossible.”
“And yet…”
He lifted her hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss across her knuckles, the same wrist he’d watched her father grab only an hour earlier. This time, his touch was impossibly gentle.
“…I still get to take the prettiest girl in the arena to dinner.”
She looked at him for a long moment.
No fear.
No apologies.
Just warmth.
Then she leaned up onto her toes and kissed him.
It was soft.
Brief.
When she pulled away, Logan rested his forehead against hers with a grin.
“I’ve got one more rule.”
“Oh?”
“The next time you lose a competition…”
She groaned.
“I’m not planning on…”
“Hear me out.”
She smiled.
“I’m listening.”
“The first person you come find?” He brushed his thumb across her cheek. “Me.”
“And if I win?”
He smiled. “Then you still come find me.”
She laughed quietly. “Deal.”
Hand in hand, they walked toward the parking lot, leaving the arena. and everything that had happened inside it, behind them for the night.
summary: after weeks of running on empty, you let allie and hannah drag you out for a girls’ night. one drink turns into several, and soon logan, garrett, and dean are called in to collect three extremely drunk girlfriends. the night is funny until the alcohol strips away everything you have been trying not to say.
warnings: burnout, excessive alcohol use, depression, crying, emotional hurt/comfort, references to passive suicidal thoughts, the line “i don’t think i would be alive without you,” and a serious conversation about mental health. no vomiting and no explicit self-harm.
author’s note: this one became a lot deeper than the drunk girlfriend fic i originally planned. i wanted to show how burnout and depression can hide beneath jokes, partying, and acting like everything is fine. sometimes the scariest thoughts come out casually because saying them seriously feels impossible.
i write about these things because stories have always helped me feel less alone, and i hope mine can do that for somebody else too. this fic is not meant to romanticize drinking, depression, or relying on one person to stay alive. logan can love and support reader, but he cannot be her entire reason for surviving. the ending is about being heard, staying, and finally letting someone see how exhausted she really is.
please take care of yourself while reading. you deserve support even when your pain does not look dramatic enough to ask for it.
By Friday night, everything just feels exhausting.
Your laptop dies halfway through an assignment you’ve already rewritten twice. You forget to eat until almost four, then stand in the kitchen staring at a box of cereal because even pouring it into a bowl feels overwhelming. Logan texts after practice to see if you want to come over, and you spend ten minutes trying to reply without letting on how tired you really are.
Eventually, you just send him a picture of your ceiling.
logan: rough day?
you: rough life. dramatic sigh.
logan: want me to come over?
You almost say yes. Instead, you lock your phone and shove it under your pillow because you know exactly what would happen. Logan would show up with food. He’d sit on the edge of your bed and rub your back while you complain about being tired, and then you’d end up crying just because he asked a kind question in the wrong tone.
You care about him too much to let him see how close to the edge you’ve been all week.
That’s exactly why, two hours later, you’re standing in Allie’s bedroom while she tries to force you into a pair of silver boots.
“Your foot bends,” she says, gripping your ankle with the determination of a woman preparing to relocate a dislocated joint. “Stop fighting me.”
“I’m not fighting you. My body is rejecting them.”
“Your body has no taste.”
Hannah, sitting cross-legged on Allie’s bed with a glass of wine, watches the struggle over the rim. “I think losing circulation in both feet might make dancing difficult.”
Allie shoots her a betrayed look. “I thought you were on my side.”
“I’m on the side of keeping all ten of her toes.”
You finally wrench your leg free and nearly topple into the dresser. “I’m wearing sneakers.”
“You cannot wear sneakers with that dress.”
“I can do anything. I’m incredibly brave.”
Hannah snorts into her wine. Allie stares at you for another second before dropping the boot and pointing toward the door.
“Fine. Sneakers. But we are leaving before you crawl back into bed and disappear for another week.”
“I haven’t disappeared.”
“You answered my text yesterday with a thumbs-up.”
“That’s communication.”
“I asked whether you were still alive.”
You grab the wine bottle from Hannah and take a long drink directly from it.
Allie’s expression changes right away. She doesn’t get gentle, since Allie Hayes always chooses blunt concern over subtlety, but she does stop arguing about the shoes.
“That bad?” Hannah asks.
You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. “Nope.”
“That sounded convincing,” Allie says.
“I’m just tired. I need one night where nobody asks me about deadlines or my future or why I haven’t answered an email that has been sitting in my inbox for six days.”
Hannah holds out her glass, and you pour more wine into it.
“No deadlines,” she agrees.
“No futures,” Allie adds. “And absolutely no emails.”
You lift the bottle between you. “To making tomorrow’s problems significantly worse.”
“That is not what I—” Hannah begins.
Allie clinks her glass against the bottle. “I’ll drink to that.”
It turns out that drinking when you have barely eaten is remarkably efficient.
By the time you get to the bar, the wine has already warmed your stomach and taken the edge off everything that’s been bothering you all week. The music is loud enough that no one expects a serious conversation. The room is crowded enough that you can blend in without really being alone.
Allie buys the first round. Hannah buys the second. You lose track after a bartender places three violently pink drinks in front of you and Allie announces that they taste like “a slutty juice box.”
They do.
You drink two.
An hour later, Hannah is passionately explaining the plot of a book she read in high school to a woman she met in the bathroom. Allie is dancing with both arms above her head, her hair stuck to her lip gloss, and you are standing on the edge of the dance floor with your face tilted toward the flashing lights.
For the first time in days, your brain is quiet.
There is no assignment waiting. No unread message. No horrible heavy knowledge that morning will come and expect something from you again. There is only the bass vibrating beneath your shoes and Allie grabbing your hands, pulling you into the crowd.
“There she is!” Allie shouts.
“Who?”
“You!”
You laugh so hard you stumble into Hannah, who has returned from the bathroom with her new best friend’s entire relationship history.
“I like bathroom people,” Hannah tells you solemnly. “They’re honest.”
“Bathroom people are the backbone of society.”
“That’s what I said.”
Allie appears between you, flushed and shining. “Shots.”
Hannah points at her. “No.”
“Counterpoint: yes.”
“I’m with Allie,” you announce.
“You can barely stand.”
“I’m standing beautifully.”
To prove it, you straighten your spine and immediately sway sideways. Hannah catches your elbow before you can collide with a table.
“Beautifully,” she repeats.
The shot burns all the way down. You slam the tiny glass onto the bar and feel spectacular for approximately twelve minutes.
Then the room begins moving without you.
It’s not exactly spinning. It just feels like everything is a little delayed. Your legs take a few seconds to do what you tell them. Allie’s face keeps drifting in and out of focus. Hannah asks if you want water, and you tell her water is “emotionally boring.”
Your phone is in your hand, though you do not remember taking it from your bag.
There are six messages from Logan.
logan: having fun?
logan: tell Allie Dean says she’s banned from stealing traffic cones tonight
logan: apparently this is a real concern
logan: you alive, trouble?
You stare at the final message until the words blur together.
Alive.
A strange, sad feeling settles under your ribs. The alcohol has made you happy, but it’s also brought down every wall you’ve been holding up all week. Suddenly, you miss him so much it almost hurts.
You press his name and hold the phone to your ear.
He answers on the second ring. “Hey.”
“John.”
There is a brief pause.
Then his voice becomes much more alert. “Hi, baby.”
“I love you.”
“Love you too. How much have you had?”
You squint at the bar as though the empty glasses might provide a reliable inventory. “Some.”
“Some.”
“Drinks.”
“Yeah, I gathered that.”
You smile and lean your hip against the bar. “You’re so smart. That’s why I keep you.”
In the background, you hear male laughter and Garrett asking, “Is that her?”
Logan muffles the phone for a second. “Yeah, and she’s wrecked.”
“I heard that,” you complain.
“I know.”
“I am not wrecked. I’m having a girls’ night.”
“You called me, remember?”
Your eyes burn unexpectedly. “I wanted your voice.”
The teasing disappears from his voice. “Okay. You’ve got me.”
You press your fingers against your closed eyes. The room is getting too loud. Someone bumps your shoulder without saying sorry. Allie has climbed onto a low platform to dance, and Hannah is trying to convince her that this is how people break their necks.
“Can you come get me?” you ask quietly.
Logan does not hesitate. “Yeah. We’re coming.”
“We?”
“Garrett and Dean are here. Where are Hannah and Allie?”
You look toward your friends. Hannah has both hands wrapped around Allie’s waist while Allie argues with gravity.
“Being safe.”
“Jesus Christ,” Dean says somewhere in the background.
“Send me your location,” Logan tells you. “Stay with the girls. We’ll be there soon.”
“John?”
“Still here.”
“You’re my favorite.”
His voice softens. “You’re mine too.”
The three of you are sitting on the curb when the boys arrive.
Hannah has stolen your purse because you kept attempting to give cash to strangers. Allie is wearing one shoe and holding the other like a weapon. You are leaning against Hannah’s shoulder, humming along to a song playing faintly from inside the bar.
Dean gets out of Garrett’s Jeep first.
He takes one look at Allie and stops. “Where is your shoe?”
She lifts it proudly. “Here.”
“Why isn’t it on your foot?”
“Personal choice.”
“You’re standing on a public sidewalk.”
Allie looks down at her bare foot as though she has only just noticed. “Oh.”
Garrett circles the hood and crouches in front of Hannah. “Hey, Wellsy.”
Hannah smiles at him with slow, overwhelming affection. “G.”
“Yeah, that’s me.”
“You’re really handsome.”
Garrett glances over his shoulder at the others. “Finally, some recognition.”
“I always recognize you.”
“No, I mean—never mind.” He takes the purse from her lap and slings it over his shoulder without reacting to the bright pink strap. “Think you can stand?”
“Obviously.”
She cannot.
Garrett catches her under both arms before she reaches the pavement. Hannah dissolves into laughter against his chest while he mutters something about never allowing Allie to plan another outing.
Then Logan steps around them, and suddenly the whole noisy street feels like it’s just him.
He is wearing gray sweats and a Briar hockey hoodie, his hair still damp from the shower. His eyes find yours immediately, moving over your face, your clothes, your scraped knee from an incident you do not remember.
You smile so widely it hurts. “Boyfriend.”
“Girlfriend,” he says, crouching in front of you. “You look comfortable.”
“I’m on the ground.”
“I noticed.”
You throw both arms around his neck. The force nearly knocks him backward, but Logan steadies himself with one hand against the sidewalk and the other around your waist.
“You came,” you mumble into his shoulder.
“You asked me to.”
“I missed you.”
“I missed you too.”
“You smell good.”
“Thanks.”
“You always smell good. It’s suspicious.”
Behind him, Dean is attempting to put Allie’s shoe back on while she keeps moving her foot away.
“You’re being difficult on purpose,” he tells her.
“You like me difficult.”
“Not while I’m kneeling on a sidewalk that has probably seen three different bodily fluids tonight.”
Garrett guides Hannah toward the Jeep. “Nobody say bodily fluids. I don’t need anyone getting ideas.”
“I’m not throwing up,” you announce.
“Great,” Garrett says. “Thank you for the formal statement.”
Logan draws back enough to look at you. “Can you walk?”
You consider this carefully. “Can you?”
“Usually.”
“Show-off.”
He laughs, turns, and guides your arms around his shoulders. “All right. Up.”
The sidewalk falls away as he stands with you on his back. You tighten your legs around his waist and rest your cheek against him,feeling completely content.t.
“Logan,” Dean calls while wrestling Allie into the back seat. “Control your woman.”
“She’s not the one missing a shoe.”
“I found the shoe!”
“And yet it remains off your foot.”
The ride back to the hockey house is loud.
Hannah keeps telling Garrett that she likes his nose. Allie sings half the chorus of three different songs and becomes offended when Dean refuses to stop the car for French fries, even though Garrett is already driving to a twenty-four-hour diner.
You spend most of the ride folded against Logan in the passenger seat, your hand tucked beneath his arm so you can hold onto him.
The happiness starts to fade. In its place is that deep, loose sadness that comes with drinking when you’ve spent too long pretending you’re okay. You watch streetlights move across Logan’s face and feel your chest ache with everything you haven’t said.
At the drive-through, Logan orders enough food for everyone and adds your favorite without asking. Back at the house, the boys get water into all three of you and supervise as much food as can reasonably be managed.
Hannah falls asleep halfway through a sentence with her head on Garrett’s shoulder. Allie accuses Dean of being “aggressively beautiful” before allowing him to carry her upstairs.
Logan keeps you at the kitchen island until you have eaten nearly half your fries.
“One more,” he says.
“I’m full.”
“You said that before you ate the last four.”
“Those were emotionally necessary.”
“So is this one.”
He holds a fry in front of your mouth. You glare at him, then eat it.
“Manipulative.”
“I’ll live with it.”
When Logan finally takes you upstairs, you are exhausted enough that every step feels like walking through wet sand. He sits you on the edge of his bed and kneels to untie your sneakers.
You immediately place both hands in his hair.
He looks up. “What are you doing?”
“Petting you.”
“I’m not a dog.”
“You’d be a golden retriever.”
“That feels insulting.”
“It’s the highest compliment I have.”
He shakes his head, smiling as he takes off your shoes. Then he helps you into one of his shirts, turns away while you change out of your dress, and gently cleans the scrape on your knee with a damp cloth.
The sting makes you hiss.
“Sorry,” he says.
“You hurt me.”
“You fell outside a bar.”
“And now you’re attacking my wound.”
“Yeah, this is all part of my evil plan.”
He puts a bandage over the scrape and kisses just above it. The tenderness surprises you.
Your fingers curl into the hem of his shirt.
“John.”
He glances up immediately. “What?”
Your throat tightens. For a few seconds you cannot remember how to make the words come out without them sounding as frightening as they feel.
“You know,” you say, staring down at him, “I don’t think I would be alive without you.”
Logan goes completely still.
The room goes quiet. Logan doesn't move.
He stands and sits next to you on the bed, knees bumping yours. He doesn't look away. That almost makes it worse.
“Hey,” he says quietly. “Look at me.”
You try. Your eyes only make it as far as his mouth.
“I mean it in a nice way,” you mumble.
“I know you think you do.”
“You make things better.”
His hand closes around yours. “I’m glad I make things better.”
“You do.”
“But that scared the shit out of me.”
Your face crumples before you can stop it. “Sorry.”
“No. Don’t do that.” Logan slides closer, catching your face gently between his hands. “I’m not mad at you. I just need to know whether you’re saying you’ve been thinking about hurting yourself, or whether you’re drunk and trying to tell me you love me.”
Tears slip hot and embarrassing down your cheeks. “I don’t want to hurt myself.”
“Okay.”
“I just get so tired.” Your voice breaks. “Everything is so much all the time, and then you’re there, and it’s not as loud.”
Logan wipes under your eyes with his thumbs. He looks at you for a long moment, but he doesn’t say anything or treat you like you’re fragile.
He leans in, his voice steady but a little rough. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. But tomorrow, when you’re sober, we’re going to talk about how tired you’ve been. Not because you’re in trouble, but because I don’t want you to feel like you have to get this drunk just to tell me what’s going on. You don’t have to protect me from the hard stuff. I want all of you, even the mess.”
You lean forward until your forehead presses against his shoulder.
“Tomorrow sounds awful.”
“Probably.”
“Can we cancel it?”
“Nope.”
“I knew you were evil.”
“That’s me.”
His arms wrap around you, pulling you firmly against his chest. You clutch the back of his shirt and breathe him in, letting the last of the night dissolve.
After a while, Logan shifts you beneath the blankets and places the water bottle on the nightstand. He climbs in beside you, and you immediately wrap yourself around him, one leg over his and your face tucked beneath his chin.
“John?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re still my favorite.”
He kisses your forehead and holds you a little tight. “You’re still here,” he says quietly. He doesn’t say anything else. His hand finds yours under the blanket, his thumb moving back and forth, and you let yourself breathe in the quiet. The room settles around you, heavy and safe, and for once you don’t feel like you have to explain anything.
you get overwhelmed at a party, and john logan saves the day.
warnings: drinking, reader has a panic attack
word count: 839
a/n: kinda had a rough day and wanted to write something wholesome!!! <3
the hawks had just won a brutal game against eastwood and advanced to the frozen four. it had only taken an hour for sig tau’s basement to swarm with so many students that the air was thick from all the body heat.
you wince every time the pink strobe lights flash like lightening across your vision. the light illuminates the sweaty bodies jumping up and down on the makeshift dancefloor.
you look down at the beer in your solo cup bouncing along to the bass beat, and feel a wave of saliva flooding your throat.
you need to get out of here.
the edges of your vision turn soft. heart ticking like a timebomb in your chest.
you’re stuck, you realize. backed into a corner behind the beer pong table. you’d been waiting for john logan to come back from the bathroom. he should've been back by now. right?
your mind starts to whir with so many what ifs you can't even process them all.
what if he’s flirting with some puck bunny upstairs?
what if one of his friends is holding him hostage up there?
what if he decided he had more fun without you?
what if you die down here?
that's it. you were gonna be sick.
you set your beer down, and let out a shaky breath, before you bulldoze your way through the crowd. muttering hoarse apologies as you shoulder your way to the stairs.
your eyes are glued to your converse. watching them creek against the first steps, when you run face first into a hard chest.
you smell the familiar scent of diesel, ice, and cologne.
logan. thank god.
“woah– baby,” logan coos, "what’s the matter?"
his soft tone has tears pricking your eyes. everything, you wanna say. it's too much.
but logan is two steps ahead of you. his brows furrow as he steadies you. hands softly gripping your shoulders. grounding you.
realization floods his face when he sees that spacey look in your eyes. he's already grabbing your hand to guide you up the stairs when you decide to lie through your teeth.
“i’m fine, logan. let’s just go back down.”
he comes to a halt. turns around to cock an eyebrow at you. big hand still rubbing soothingly circles on the inside of your wrist. can feel your erratic pulse trying to break free from the soft skin of it.
“yeah, sure,” he rolls his eyes fondly, tugging you upwards. “c’mon, pretty girl. party's over.”
“but dean’s shirt is still on. seems like the party just started.”
logan doesn’t laugh at your sad attempt at a joke. he's too busy ushering you through a dimly lit hallway, and into the quiet of beau’s bedroom. “sit here, and wait for me.”
having something to do to, something to focus on finally has your heartbeat slowing down a couple paces.
you take your time admiring the top gun poster on the wall. smiling at the photos of beau's family spread across his desk.
meanwhile, logan doesn’t even bother throwing out half-assed goodbyes to the team as he hunts down your coat.
just tells garrett that he’s got to go. that he’ll tell him why he’s ditching the party tomorrow.
when you hear a knock at the door, it’s your turn to roll your eyes.
“come in, logan.”
he's got a winning grin on his face as he opens the door, waving the wool fabric in the air like a golden ticket. he gently sets it over your shoulders. bends down and presses a warm kiss against your forehead. ruffles your hair till he's satisfied.
“alright. i think it's time to go, baby.”
you follow loganout into the cold air, and the chill sobers you.
you ruined logan’s night, you think. he should be six shots deep right now. shitfaced and celebrating the win with his boys.
now that you think of it, you didn’t even see him finish a single beer.
“you should be in there, logan. i’ll take the bus. really, it’s not–”
his eyes narrow. he looks down at your thumb methodically pressing onto the joints of your fingers. hears the soft pops as your knuckles crack under the pressure.
“you really think i'm gonna let you take the bus alone on a friday night? you're hilarious. you should start doing stand up, baby.” he chokes out a laugh, wrapping a comforting palm around your hand.
your thumb hovers over your index finger.
“c’mon. get your cute ass in my car. i think that ice cream shop you like should still be open if we hurry.” he says it like it doesn’t set your cheeks ablaze. like suddenly your heartbeat isn’t buzzing in your chest for all the right reasons.
he stretches a long arm in front of you, and pops the passenger door open.
“you don’t have to baby me, logan. i’m a big girl,” you laugh, easing yourself down onto the leather.
“i’m not babying you,” logan lies cooly, softly shutting your door and jogging to the driver's side.
he hops in. reaches across your lap to buckle you in. “since when is it illegal to take my girl out for ice cream?”
“you’re impossible,” you smile, shaking your head. logan wraps a big arm around the back of your seat, and pulls out of the driveway.
pairing – garrett graham x briar media!reader
summary – a simple request for more social media content turns into garrett posting a shirtless gym video, an influx of very interested followers, and one extremely unhappy girlfriend.
warnings – suggestive humour, jealousy, possessive behaviour, shirtless garrett, sexual innuendo, swearing.
notes from me – i decided to whip up a quick lil SMAU for these babies!! the images don't necessarily depict what briar media!reader looks like, just more for the aesthetics and vibes 😌 not my best but i'm still getting the hang of SMAUs!!! based on this ask!!
navigation – masterlist |
to be notified when i post new fics, follow @kooksandpearls-library and turn on notifications! i no longer use a taglist for garrett fics.
summary: your boyfriend not having tiktok might be the best part of your relationship
cw/tags: swearing, slightly suggestive content, pet names used, no y/n, you have hair, not proofread, run on sentences!! ignore them pls! it’s my whimsy!!
1. More Athletic
“Beau!” A shit eating grin is already spread across your face as his name leaves your lips. A hum sounds from where he stands over the sink in the bathroom, brushing his teeth before bed. “Do you ever wish you were more athletic?”
You hear a quick spit, rinse, and jiggle in the bathroom and then Beau materializes in the doorway, shirtless, sweatpants riding low on his hips, and it takes everything in you not to practically drool when he leans his whole weight onto the frame. He raises a questioning brow at you, because obviously he had heard you wrong, and intentionally flexes his stomach muscles as he smirks, “what was that, baby?”
As you lean back on your elbows, Briar Football hoodie bunching around your shoulders and tiny shorts riding high on your thighs, you try to keep your composure, “do you ever wish you were more athletic?” the sentence doesn’t even fully finish leaving your mouth before Beaus rolling his eyes.
“Unbelievable,” is muttered quietly, he walks over to where you’re leaned on his bed, holding his hands out. You give him a look, one he throws right back at you with a shake of his outstretched palm. “Give me your hand, baby.”
As soon as your fingers touch his, he’s pulling you into him, one of your hands being placed directly onto his abdomen, feeling the ridged muscles underneath smooth, warm skin. The other hand holding loosely onto his thick bicep, not even close to being fully wrapped around the band of muscle.
Beau guides your hand down his stomach, making sure you feel every dip and crevice packed heavily with pure strength from long days at the field and weight training. His pretty brown eyes hold yours in a constant stare, and he looks quite smug that you’re awestruck at his blatant display of ego. Or maybe that’s how you always look when you touch him like this, usually he’s too busy with his mouth, hands, and… other parts of his body to see how you react every time he takes his shirt off, or shows off his thick thighs.
“Athletic? Really, baby? I’m as athletic as they come.” He punctuates his point by flexing his bicep, removing one of his hands from yours and physically moving your head so your eyes go from where they’re frozen staring at his eyes, wide with astonishment, to looking at his arm muscles. Tight and tan, veins running underneath his skin, and you swear you’ve never seen a sexier forearm in your life.
Heat licks at your spine, your stomach in knots at how fine this man is in front of you. Hair damp from his shower, minty breath fanning across your face, and a stupidly hot grin that says how right he knows he is sitting on his lips. You have half a mind to drop to your knees right now and give him the head of his life if it means he lets you keep touching him like this.
But the thought of your phone, recording from a hidden corner in the room, catching Beau getting his dick sucked is too much for you to handle, you should be the only one to see that. You’re quick to remove yourself from him, because touching him short circuits your brains sometimes, and giggle to yourself as you try to pass by him.
His eyes track you as you cross his room, and grab something hidden behind a pile of books, and then his hands go through his hair as he sighs dramatically when you hold your phone up, almost victoriously, “tiktok,” is all you say.
2. Wiping Kisses
The first time you do it, you’re walking back to your dorm from dinner. Your hand is held tightly in his, your path isn’t straight what so ever, always moving a little left, a little right, and a smile is plastered onto your face.
Beau had texted you after practice, saying he needed to see you or he might die due to his coach basically making him see god on the field. And then he had texted you again, when you didn’t answer within 2 minutes saying this was cruel and unusual punishment. And then he triple texted, and thats when you decided to make him suffer.
You tried to do it when he kissed you as he got to your dorm to pick you up, but he was stage 3 clinger Beau and there was no avoiding or wiping any of what he gave you in the first 20 minutes of him seeing you, not that you’re complaining. But after eating and catching up for over an hour, the plan is very much in motion to make Beau suffer just a little bit.
Beau, none the wiser, is already setting himself up for failure. He’s been slowly pulling you into his orbit for the past few minutes, hand holding turning to his arm loosely around your waist, then around shoulder. His bigger body steering yours to the ice cream shop that he likes but won’t admit to, always blaming your sweet tooth instead of his undeniably bigger one.
A kiss is planted directly onto your forehead, absentminded most likely, Beau says sometimes he physically can’t help that he has to love you out loud, and that includes subconscious foreheads kisses. Unlucky for Beau, you’re set on being a menace to him tonight, so your hand goes up to your head and smoothes away where his lips had just been. You think he didn’t catch it, too busy staring at a squirrel that’s a little too close for comfort and let your hand drop back to your side. Have to try harder next time.
The next peck is placed onto your check after you find your seat at the ice cream shop, Beau telling you to get comfy while he goes and orders for the two of you. Your hand is quick to wipe away the kiss while he’s still looking at you smile at him in thanks. He catches that one for sure, and his eyebrows furrow, “you good?”
You nod, “why wouldn’t I be?” Beau just shakes his head and then goes to get your ice cream.
You’re surprised you get away with the third, after ice cream and the walk home, you’re both settled onto your couch, a show that you watch together paused on the tv, ready to go with the new episode that dropped the night before, and your legs draped over Beau when he leans over you to land a quick smooch right on your lips. One of his hands goes to the back of your neck, smoothing over your hair and moving his lips gently against yours for a moment before returning to his spot.
The sleeve of your shirt meets your lips in the next second and Beau scans your whole body like you’ve committed a crime against him, but decidedly keeps it to himself as you start the show. He stealthily does a quick breath check, and as far as he can tell his breath is fine, and even goes as far as to smell his shirt and armpit when you’re busy fussing with the blanket you had been sitting on, he smells like his deodorant and cologne.
He hand soothes up and down your leg as he goes over everything he had done the past few days, practice, class, dinner with you twice, study, drinks with the boys on Saturday, he had a scrimmage on Monday that he had to cancel on you for because it ran late, you can’t be mad at him for that, could you?
Before he knows it, the episode is over and you’re yapping about everything that had just happened, usually he loves these yap sessions, usually he’s the main yapper. You’re getting up to grab a glass of water and he’s following you like a lost puppy when he makes a split decision to test his theory on how to tell if you’re upset or not.
His hand meets your back, then full circles to your stomach as he turns you, your back pressing firmly against the wall as his lips capture yours. The gasp you let out is delicious, his mind already too focused on how you’re feeling and not how you’re feeling about him. Your arms are around his neck immediately, and when his lips leave yours to trails down your jaw, you almost forget about the suffering you’ve decided on today.
One of your arms leaves his neck, the sleeve of your shirt gliding across your lips as his kisses trails, just to immediately stop at the sight in front of him, “what the hell, baby?” Beau takes 2 full steps back from you as you burst into giggles.
You’re fully bent over laughing as he stands there, a pout firmly on his mouth. “is this because of Monday? Baby, I had to stay late-“ you’re quick to cut him off with a kiss, more giggles escaping you as his hands find your waist.
“You triple texted.” You say, as if that’s an actual answer, and Beaus face screws up as he prepares to rant about the 12 texts he got while at practice yesterday that explained exactly why you should get a pet fish and every name you have listed in your notes app for said fish.
3. Current Boyfriend
After seeing Allie pull the Current Boyfriend Trick on Dean, you knew you had to move fast. There was a chance Dean would tell Beau about the horrible thing Allie did to him, “she basically said she wants to break up, bro,” and there was a chance Dean would forget all about it the second he walked into the Football house for the party that night.
It was a few hours before the party was due to start, and you were feeling mischievous. You had just finished up hair and makeup, when Beau walks into your room and plops directly into your bed.
“Baby, Dean wants to pregame here with you and the girls,” he says it like he’s delivering a punishment, and truly he is. You know that Dean likes your choice in pregame drinks more than the Football boys, and the fact that Beau has decidedly held himself hostage in your dorm for the past few pregames makes Dean want to be at yours more than the Football house. But Dean hogs the snacks and is loud, and gets mad when more than 3 Kesha songs play.
You flip flop the idea in your head, turning to Beau with a happy smile on your face, “he can come if you do a fit check with me,” a groan immediately leaves his throat, but he’s already standing up and offering you a hand before you can take him seriously. You know he would do one with you anyway, he loves to show you off.
You quickly get dressed, something cute and then you’re party ready, a whistle leaves Beaus lips as you do a little twirl for him and you can’t help but giggle. As you’re setting up your phone, Beau gets into position, he knows your habits by now, having done enough of these by now to know what angles you like and what side you prefer to stand on.
“Hey guys, here’s the fit check for tonight’s party! My tops Akira and bottoms are thrifted! Necklace is Kendra Scott! And this is my current boyfriend, Beau! Your turn!” you’re met with silence as Beau stars at you, mouth open.
“Beau, baby, your turn!” you smile at the camera, playing up your fit check as you push him forward a little. Beau igonores your recording completely, turning his whole body to you.
“Current?” He’s stunned to say the least and he looks genuinely upset. But the smile on your face doesn’t fade as you nod at him. Thank god for Dean and his short term memory loss.
“Yeah, current boyfriend. Where’s your shirt from? Cove?” You’re pulling at the bottom of his shirt but he’s stuck 10 seconds in the past, his head spinning slightly at the thought of him not ever being your significant other. He nods, and you think he’s catching up on the conversation, but then he turns to your desk and grabs something.
Before you can even blink he’s got your left hand held in his and a sharpie held to your left ring finger. He’s drawing a line around it with a big circle in the middle at the bottom of your finger. Now you’re the one shocked, mouth agap as he draws a ring onto your finger. When he’s done, he plops the sharpie back on your desk and gives you a quick kiss on the head before going back to your recording.
“Hey, I’m Beau, current boyfriend, future husband and father of her children, my shirt is from Cove and pants are old navy i think, my mom bought them last time she visited. Oh my chain, baby you bought this for me for our 2 year anniversary right?” the absolute shit eating grin on his face as he turns to you and sees your staring at your finger still is what gets your video to a million views by the end of the night.
let me know if you enjoyed!!! pls :) my requests are open too
♡ TW: nsfw, noncon, virginity loss, degradation, abuse of power, Christianity, blasphemy, medieval times, corrupt priest, torture devices, abuse, punishment, misogyny, public humiliation, execution of non-named characters
♡ FEM reader
A scold's bridle, sometimes called a witch's bridle, a gossip's bridle, a brank's bridle, or simply branks, is an instrument of mirror punishment utilized by the church to publicly humiliate women who speak out of turn.
And you’ve unfortunately been deemed one of them…
You can only regret it now—wish you’d kept your mouth shut—wish you’d just held your tongue and spared yourself the poetic justice. You’d even been warned—that’s the dumb part, the part that makes the regret even more bitter. You’d been told gossipping would only land you in a world of hurt, and you, brave-faced and foolish, had ignored the advice. And now you’re facing the consequences.
Branks, an awful contraption, act as a muzzle in an iron framework, caging the head—quite like a helmet—a heavy helmet. Tight and trapping, it’s enough to make your head ache after a mere minute of wear. But that’s not the worst part. No, the worst part is the bridle-bit—a metal wedge about two inches long and one inch wide in size, of which they slide into your mouth, pressing down on top of your tongue—silencing you entirely.
But being unable to talk is only the first and least of many discomforts—as it also makes your jaw cramp up, and makes a humiliating amount of drool run wild down your chin—making you look like some or other rabid street mutt that’s ben muzzled for its own good.
The chunky metal collar you’re made to wear doesn’t help negate that imagery, nor does the bell attached to it—drawing in the crowds to the town square where you’ve been put on display, fastened to the tron for public judgment and ridicule.
Oh, and they are full of it today.
Standing there, an army of justice—warped faces and pointed fingers. The kids throw rotten fruit, and the elders fouler words—calling you a Jezebel.
At least you’re not alone up there but sharing the burden with a handful of other miscreants. One’s bent over in the pillory beside you—another three stand next to him up on the gallows, shaking in their piss-soaked boots, noose loosely around their necks—soon-to-be hangmen.
Thank God the worst things are thrown their way—at least they’ll be set free of it soon.
The poor sinners hang there still as the sun starts to set and most of the crowd’s gone home for the day, crows picking at the jelly of their dead eyes while the town’s church officer leads you away by leash.
With your hands and arms bound behind your back, you stumble barefoot and gracelessly through the streets—yanked along all the way from the town square up the hill to the church at the top for your final ruling.
You’re made to kneel on the cobblestone where the clergyman chains your iron collar to the wall.
You’d always pitied those put in the jougs, though you’d also thought them deserving—never knowing you’d be one of them someday. Now you know first-hand what being deserving means. In a town as small as this, where word travels as quickly as you can speak them, only a few ill thoughts will turn everyone against you.
Everything is in a state of discomfort, but at least you’ve finally escaped the town people’s heckling—now secluded in the peaceful quiet of God’s house to reflect in solitude.
Or… at least, that’s the standard procedure for such offenses.
“Alright then, little magpie,” the church officer announces while unscrewing the cruel headpiece.
It’s surprising. You’d for sure thought he’d leave it on. It was your understanding that it’s common for the scold to wear the bridle until morning and only then be freed.
But in any case, be it by pity or mercy, you’re ever grateful nevertheless and won’t complain.
But then, promptly after freeing your mouth from the bit, the man takes hold of your exhausted jaw and gives you a grave warning in its replacement, “Speak out of turn again, and it will go back on for another day in the tron.”
Goosefleshed and ashen from the spoken threat, you do your best to abide by it and remain quiet like the other church mice.
To which the father hums pleasedly, “Nod your head for me if you understand now, magpie.”
You do, looking up at him obediently—hoping he’d see it as enough and deem your punishment fully served, maybe even remove your bonds and collar as well.
“Good.”
He smiles knowingly, then drops your head. Scoffing loudly, “But of course… a bitch will always prefer being free from the muzzle… Don’t necessarily make ‘em well-behaved.”
You flinch at the words, eyes wide, looking up into his gaze, feeling small under the weight as he leers down his nose at you worse than that of the crowd earlier.
But what really makes your stomach curl are his ringed hands and how they move to his robes.
“Let’s see if this newfound virtue of yours is true and not just another one of your brazen tricks, shall we?” he suggests, leisurely undoing the knots to his drapes.
“When I’m done, and if you have managed to hold your tongue, I’ll consider you disciplined enough to return home,” he explains, dropping his attire unceremoniously by his feet before taking hold of your chin again. “If not, the bridle will go back on, and we will continue the lesson in the morning and every day onward until your mouth is as honest as if in the confessional.”
Your eyes flicker between his and peaking forward, barely withstanding whimpering when laying your eyes on it—the thing below his belly nearing your face.
“Remember now, magpie, no making a sound—neither word nor moan. I want complete silence.”
The grip on your chin tightens, and your eyes dart back up to his.
“Now open that gossiping trap of yours and accept God’s judgment.”
His other hand holds it in a gentler caress from your face, giving it a few languid rubs before knocking it against your sealed lips, ordering them to open.
It shocks you—enough to have you swallow a gasp—almost making an illicit sound that would all but seal your fate with the scold’s bridle for another day of suffering.
“Did you not hear me, girl? I said–” Impatient and roughened by his anger, he lets go of your jaw and deals a sharp blow to your cheek next. “Open your no-good sinning mouth!”
The hand goes to your hair next, tangling within the tousled locks to give your scalp a hard tug.
Again you’re in danger of making a sound but manage to stifle it by screwing your eyes shut—quickly baring your tongue for the priest and pliantly accepting the salty offering placed upon it soon after as if receiving communion on any other Sunday mass.
“That’s it, magpie—” he says then, softer now in praise. “No more tall tales, no more nagging.” His grip eases up but remains to hold you steady as he slowly and rightfully slides his length down to the very back of your throat. Groaning, “Just be a good girl, now. Close your lips around me and suck—and you’ll soon be forgiven.”
You obey, locking your lips around him, tasting the sweat and tang, withstanding gagging as you force yourself into suckling and swallowing the foreign flavors down.
“Good. You see?” he sighs out in a groan, pleased while fucking your mouth.
Tangling both hands in your disheveled hair, he sets a rhythm of pulling you away and reeling you back in close—a tempo more than fair for an amateur throat like yours—only just deep and fast enough to make his weighty balls swing and graze your chin on every thrust.
“If all a woman does is run ‘er mouth—only using it to bitch and moan—they’ll never learn what it’s truly good for,” he gruffs, sinking deeper and settling there, holding your skull in place from pulling back. “But I’ll show yah—don’t worry.”
Your head soon heats up—bleeding red and thick with it—feeling tight and trapped and in dire desperate need to draw air—or at the very least, make some sort of discomforted sound in lack of it—yet under strict order to remain deadly silent.
“Good god, girl—I’m going all the way down that tight, hot guzzle—” he drawls, bullying deeper—and deeper. Hissing as he bottoms out, “Just the way God intended!”
His hips stutter, wearing your throat like a holster—lips stretched around his fat shaft, kissing his pubes with your nose buried in his well-fed belly.
With eyes rolling back beneath tightly shut lids, seeing spots of light in the enclosing void, you can’t help but flinch when hit with the glob of spit that falls and splatters between your brows. But at least the laughter that echoes throughout the church hall drowns out the sound of your heaving for air once he finally pulls out and frees your throat.
Maintaining a fist in your hair, he keeps you close—your temple to his hip, nose-kissing his strung shaft—struggling to catch your breath while his chuckles die down into humored hums.
“I’ve never had a throat that deep before,” he scoffs with a cruel smile—yanking your hair once again, pulling it back to make you face up. “One might call it witchcraft.”
Another hard slap is dealt in the same spot as earlier.
“Are you a witch maybe, magpie?”
And a third smack.
“Do I haf’to tie you to the stake next—have ourselves a roast?
Feeling your cheek sting white-hot, you shake your head—fighting to keep your whimpers at bay as silent tears dampen your cheeks—puffing up and rushing with blood post-strike, dulling to a numb yet lingering ache.
He doesn’t show mercy. Instead, it seems the pitiful display only makes him more rowdy—shoving you down to the cold cobblestone with an evil gleam in his eyes.
“Then let’s see you praise the Father,” he barks. “Bow and kiss his holy floor. I’ll judge whether you're a witch or not.”
You’re leash only barely gives you enough leeway to lower yourself. Hands remaining bound up tight behind your back, balled up and shaking in their knots as you bend over until your lips brush the dusty church stone.
“No, not a witch… but—” he hums, though not entirely convinced yet. “A true Christian would savor the taste of God's house.”
Your brows cinch, but you still do as suggested—producing your tongue and dragging it across the filthy tile—collecting dry silt and larger grains of sand—leaving behind a darkened wet trail on the otherwise ashen rock.
“That’s it, magpie,” the clergyman croons with a sneer. “Put that gossipping little tongue of yours to better use.”
You obey, eyes closed, continuing to lick the floor like a dog—fearing worse things would come if you didn’t. Wanting it all to be over and figuring if you just listen, it’ll be done quicker and as pain-free as you could hope.
“But do you deserve it?” he asks then, after a pause of watching you with his cock in hand, tugging it with raspy breaths getting rustier—continuing with a gritty tone, “An unwed woman can only serve the lord if she’s pure.”
His other hand returns to your hair for a third time, pulling you up by the tresses in a stinging grip.
“Are you pure, magpie?”
Goosefleshed by his darkened tone, you cower under his pointed glare. Keenly nodding your head as much as his hand allows.
Still, he doesn’t seem convinced. Huffing, “We’ll see.”
He drops you again. Now, with a new order, “Turn and bow with your tongue back on the floor.”
You do as he says, though shakily. Gut folding and churning within—throat tight, even under the metal collar, snaring—making your head pound with alarm as you shift on your knees until you’re facing the wall with your back to him, lowering your head down until your swollen cheek neatly squish against the cool stone—tongue splayed out on the earthy rock once again—with your rear raised for the priest’s inspection.
Your nails sink into your palms in the same painful crescents as before while the clergyman lifts your greyed and tattered frock like he’s unveiling a blushing bride—and, similarly to the groom, throws the skirt atop your sloped back, bunched up with the rest of your dirtied dress—leaving your legs and thighs and ass bare to his preying eyes.
He rumbles heavily, pleased by the sight of your pretty little virgin cunt—quivering in the crude and callous open air.
Crouched behind you in perfect level with it, you can all but feel his eager leer rake through you before his finger does—slicing through your pussy-lips and quickly disappearing inside your formerly untouched hole.
You flinch, squirming at the unfamiliar feeling—breaths damp against the ground as you await the verdict.
“It’s tight,” he grumbles, assessing you with a knuckle-deep digit, before scoffing, “But surely… no true virgin is this wet.”
Your eyes widen at the accusation, and he slips his finger out again and stands up with a sigh, “I can’t make sure with a finger alone.”
Then suddenly, he grabs onto of your hanches and lifts your hips higher until your thighs straighten up—and promptly lays his still-hard and hot-blooded member to rest between the cheeks. With his knees bent, a toppling tower over you, he slides through the crevice, rubbing upon your scrunched asshole as he does.
You stir for the first time, but his hold tightens in turn.
“Keep that tongue out, magpie. And don’t you dare make a single sound, y’hear? Or else the branks go back on.”
You fall still—scared in place—eyes screwed shut as his cock falls from the peak of your ass down to your glistened entrance, prodding the small opening with the tip, trying to force it inside, but kept at bay until the narrow ring of muscle finally gave and allowed him to tear through.
“Wheew—undoubtedly a virgin!” he whistles with his head gaining purchase. Groaning at the close fit. “Taut and tight and sensitive—and just perfect for taking seed.”
Meanwhile, you suck in a gasp—tongue still pinned to the floor—only barely managing to suppress the cry that had wanted to follow.
Choking it down, you nurse yourself through it with a string of deep breaths instead—even as he starts prying further inside—letting your cunt hold the head as he gives it shallow digs, working you open to take his full length.
“That’s it—good magpie,” he moans, pulling you back on his cock by your hips, treading you on like a sleeve. “Take it deep.”
He starts thrusting, and your breath weakens into thin stutters—tongue hanging limply from your mouth all on its own. Eyes glazed, looking toward nothing—rocked steadily as the corrupt priest pounds you like a cheap whore—sore cheek scraping against the stone floor.
And still, you’re silent—as if having taken a vow.
The only sounds echoing throughout the church are the clergyman’s grunts and the steady fwop fwop fwop of his balls clapping your sopping cunt—almost reminiscent of the church bell’s clangoring.
“Almost there now, magpie,” he chimes from above. “Milk my cock and take my seed in your womb, and you’re forgiven.”
It almost sounds too good to be true. Even as everything aches and you’ve become certain you might just remain mute forever onward, the thought of freedom is enough to bring new hopeful tears to your pitiful eyes. So, as the warmth of his release soils your inside, it’s also joined by overwhelming relief.
A moment or more passes. You don’t take your tongue off the floor, and he remains above you, pumping his load into your deep, dumping it all at depth as if burying some dirty secret.
At some point, he pulls out—cock now sluggish and spent. You feel its spillage matte on the inside of your thighs—also hidden as he drapes your skirt back in place.
Unbothered with his own clothes, he stands there before your bowed body—now with an accent of full-bellied satisfaction as he pronounces you free of sin in bad Latin—crossing his chest and kissing his knuckle before looking up to the ceiling at the God you’d grown sure he didn’t even believe in.
“Rejoice, magpie,” he mocks while leaning over you to untie your hands. “You’re now free to go.”
But as you lift your head, he still holds out on removing your collar.
Holding your chin instead, he looks down at you like before, saying, “But it would do you good to remember…” His free hand taps your cheek, softer now but hard enough to make you cringe. “You run that bitch mouth again, and in my church on your knees is where you’ll end up. Understand?”
And just like before, you nod your head for him—still as silent as a church mouse eager to escape the beast’s ugly jaws.
He seems pleased with that and gives you a crooked smile, purring, “Good.”
He then fishes the keys to your collar from his heaped robes and, at long last, unlocks it from your throat.
And by God, as you wobble out of the church, it feels as if you've been let free from hell.
♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist
♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist
Friday night should mean a cozy night in with a TV show and a bowl of ice cream. But instead, here I am, working late in the office, trying to finish a project to deliver to my boss by Monday morning. There’s no one else in the office, and when I finally finish up nearing midnight, the entire corporate building is empty, lights long dimmed.
I drag myself out of the building, ready to get home and collapse into bed to sleep for the entire weekend. The click of my heels is the only sound that rings through the night as I exit the elevator into the parking garage and let out a tired sigh into the quiet air.
I click my car fob and open my trunk as I approach the car, tossing my purse into the back and digging around to look for a pair of slippers to change into. I’m absolutely too tired to make the drive home in heels and the idea of fuzzy slippers around my feet is the only thing keeping me sane right now.
While I’m still bent over, buried head-first in my trunk, I suddenly feel a presence behind me. Before I can react, I feel the cold, hard press of metal against my back and the ominous click of a gun’s safety coming off. I freeze in terror and my throat pushes out a pathetic whimper of fear.
I hear a deep laugh echo around me and a man’s voice, “Stay still, princess. I’d hate to paint the inside of your trunk with your blood.” A big, warm hand presses against my spine, pushing me even further into the trunk while the gun digs uncomfortably against me.
I let out a choked gasp, “What do you want? Take my purse! I have cash, take whatever you want, please don’t hurt me!” My voice is shaky and I can feel tremors of fear wrack my body.
He laughs again. “Oh, princess, I don’t want money. But I will be taking whatever I want from you,” he purrs, the innuendo clear in his voice. His hand leaves my back to run down my body and he grips my ass hard before landing a harsh spank against me. I whine out a plea, “No! Please! Please, just let me go!”
“No can do, princess. A pretty little thing like you, all alone, in the middle of the night with no one around. It’s like you’re beckoning to me,” he growls as his hand continues to knead my ass over the skirt I’m wearing. Tears are in my eyes now as I stare blankly into my trunk, my face pressed against the rough car trunk mat.
Moments later, he threads a hand through my hair and grips me hard, pulling me out of the trunk and onto my feet. He spins me around and for the first time, I get a good look at him.
He’s huge, in both size and height, his massive frame towering over me. Even without the gun, he could probably break me easily, and that thought sends more fear slithering down my spine. His eyes are filled with a sadistic gleam that makes me want to curl up and hide. A harsh yank from his hand in my hair makes me cry out in pain and he leads me to the passenger side of the car.
“Get in the car and don’t do anything stupid. I’d hate to have to kill you before we have any real fun,” he says menacingly. I slide into the car on shaky legs and he slams the door shut. He makes his way to the driver side and without another word, he peels out of the parking garage.
A little while later, he pulls the car off the main road onto a tiny trail that I’d never even noticed before. Several minutes of random turns and paths in the pitch black forest that I would never be able to remember or identify bring us to a tiny little cabin. It would be quaint if it weren’t inhabited by the psychopath holding me at gunpoint.
He drags me out of the car, the gun never leaving my side and we step into the cabin. He herds me into the bedroom and the door clicks shut behind us. The room is awash in a soft yellow light and decorated in soft fall tones that, in any other circumstance, would be incredibly romantic.
He smiles with a sparkle in his terrifyingly sadistic eyes and a shiver runs down my spine. “Strip for me,” he says as he steps back to sit at the edge of the bed, gun still leveled at me.
I shake my head desperately, “No, please! Please, anything but that, please!”
He laughs at me, “Come on, pretty princess, I’m not a patient man. Either you strip for me or it gets ugly.”
Tears well up in my eyes and I blink them back. I glance towards the door, I’m closer to it than he is, maybe if I can surprise him, I can get out of the room before he gets a chance to stop me.
He sees my line of thinking and chuckles again. “You might outrun me but you can’t outrun a bullet, princess.”
His words land like a punch to my stomach and I look back at him with defeat. My shaky hands move to the buttons of my blouse as I comply with his initial request. He smiles.
I pull off my top and slide it off my shoulders before going to unzip my skirt and stand before him in my bra, panties, and stockings.
“Bra off, leave the rest on,” he says, his voice deep with desire. “Come here,” he commands, gesturing towards the floor between his legs with the gun.
I unclasp the bra and let it drop to the floor, where I fix my gaze. I pad towards him and stand in front of him for a moment before I lower myself down to my knees, my form fitting into his spread legs.
“Fuck, you look so good like this, princess. Such a good girl,” his deep voice sends shivers down my spine. I keep my gaze on the floor, not wanting to make eye contact with him. He doesn’t like that.
I feel the cold metal of the gun slide beneath my chin and I gasp as he raises my head with his gun. My wide eyes meet his and I see the satisfaction in his gaze as it locks onto mine. He leaves the gun against me as he jerks his chin downwards. “Take my cock out, princess.”
I glance down and see the outline of his hardness pressing against his pants. He looks huge. He sucks his teeth at me, “Come on, don’t keep me waiting now.”
My fingers shake as I undo his belt and the fastening on his pants before I reach in and pull his hard cock out. I let out a quiet whine when I see it. He is huge, tip already leaking precum and an angry shade of red that looks so mean. I shouldn’t be turned on by my attacker’s cock but I absentmindedly lick my lips and I catch the leer on his face that makes my thighs clench.
“You know what to do, princess,” he purrs, tangling his free hand into my hair. I give in and lean down to run my tongue gently along the vein that runs through his cock. He tastes divine, the clean smell of his skin combined with the warmth and weight of his cock in my mouth making my brain go fuzzy. I hear him groan above me, “That’s it, suck my cock, princess.”
I give him a few more kitten licks before I wrap my lips fully around the crown of his cock and suck. “Fuck,” his groan is guttural and his grip tightens on my hair. I moan softly around his cock and I feel him twitch in my mouth. I breathe in through my nose as I swallow more of his cock down my throat.
“Fuck, that’s it, good girl. Take my cock down your throat,” he groans and his fingers dig harshly into my scalp. I slowly work my way back up his cock and set a smooth rhythm, bobbing my head up and down and wrapping my hand around what doesn’t fit into my mouth. There’s a pleasant haze that surrounds me right now, his cock in my mouth and his fingers in my hair. I squirm a little on my knees, my pussy clenching as warmth settles into my core.
Suddenly, he yanks me off his cock without warning. I gasp and look up at him. “I want you to ride me,” he says, smirking at me and gesturing toward the bed with his gun. The gun that I’d almost forgotten about. Seeing it now sends another shock of fear through my body, pushing away some of the arousal from earlier.
He lays back onto the bed, sprawled out like a king, hard cock jutting out from between his legs. I absentmindedly clench my thighs together and I know he noticed because he laughs. “Come on, princess. I know you want to.”
I stand and slide my panties off before slipping onto the bed, slinging a leg over him to get situated. He stays still, watching me with a predatory look in his eye, gun now retrained on me. “That’s it, princess,” he purrs as I settle myself over him.
“Is your pretty pussy wet for me?” He asks. I want to lie and say no but it’s no use, I’m so wet I’m dripping all over him. I whimper and nod and he laughs again. “Better put that pussy to use then, come on, ride me, princess.”
I brace my hands against his chest and lower myself onto his cock. The delicious stretch of him filling me makes me whine and I dig my fingers into his chest. He moans at the feeling of my wet heat surrounding him and his hips come up to meet mine, forcing the last bit of his cock into me.
He feels so fucking good inside of me and every single cell of my body wants more. I let out a low moan as my hips start to move, every single movement making his cock rub up against my g-spot. “That’s it, ride my cock, princess.”
I let out a broken moan as my hips keep up their movements. My back arches and I let my eyes flutter closed as I lose myself in the sensations. Suddenly, I feel cold, hard metal brush against my clit and my eyes fly open with a cry.
I look down and my blood freezes when I see him, running the tip of the gun against my clit. He grins up at him, a maniacal gleam in his eyes. “Don’t stop now, princess. You’re doing so well, I’m gonna help you and play with this little clitty.”
I whimper as he pushes the gun harder against my sensitive, swollen nub, the friction making delicious shivers run up and down my spine.
“Come on, princess. You’re going to cum all over my cock while I rub your clit with my gun,” he says, each pass of the gun over my clit pushing me closer and closer to an orgasm.
The fear and pleasure mix into a dark combination that forces my body higher and higher. I can feel the cold metal of the gun warming against the burning heat of my cunt and every nerve in my body seems to be coiled tight as a spring. My hips are jerkily moving on top of him as I chase my own release.
Suddenly, he moves underneath me and slams him cock deeper into me while holding me down. I shatter with a wail as my pussy clenches around him. I hear his curse as his release quickly follows, his hips never stopping their relentless assault on me and the gun never moving off my clit as he fucks me through my orgasm.
Eventually, he pulls the gun away and I collapse down onto his chest, boneless and limp. I feel his fingers thread through my hair gently and his arm comes up to wrap around my body, keeping me pressed against his chest.
“Such a good girl for me,” he murmurs into my hair as he presses soft kisses into the crown of my head. I make a soft noise back at him and I hear him laugh softly and affectionately.
I stay in his arms a little longer before I raise my head to look at him. “Thank you, honey,” I say before pressing a sweet kiss onto his chest.
He hugs me tighter, “I’m glad you enjoyed it. I will say, you were in the office for so long, I was soooo bored waiting for you.”
I giggle at him, “If I’d known you were waiting, I would’ve finished faster.” He huffs and rolls his eyes, “Well I think I did a pretty good job helping you “glock” out.” He waggles his eyebrows at me and I choke out a laugh.
“Shut up and sleep.”
—
pls appreciate the title because i thought of it and just had to write something to fit it teehee
trouble going to sleep in ethan's bed as a protest when peter tells her to stop cuddling him in her sleep bc she moves a lot
did peter push you away and tell you to stop shaking the bed? yes.
did that mean he wanted you to leave the bed? no.
when he woke up and you were gone, long gone based on how cold and untouched your side was, he tried to piece together when he told you to get away from him.
there was no way you'd leave at three in the morning, you had to be in the house still. so, he made the rounds, all the couches clear, one last spot in his mind.
sure enough, back to back with a pillow wall, you shared ethan's bed. ethan was facing the wall, curled as far in as he could, while you stretched across your half.
peter scoffs, 'what the fuck is this?' no one moves. peter moves to pat his hand on your bum, you slowly rise but keep your eyes closed. you shove his hand off, 'not your girlfriend, peter will kill you.'
'no, peter will kill you.'
your eyes pop open, you make no gesture to move. 'you're the one that said to get away from you.'
'and you thought i meant go share a bed with my best friend?'
'ethan doesn't mind if i move around.'
'ethan's dead. ethan enters another realm when he sleeps.'
'and i don't bother him.'
peter's eyes narrow, 'you're about to bother me.'
'oh, so i bother you in bed and out, just admit you hate me.'
'hey,' peter leans down, brushing your nose with his, 'please get back in my bed, where you belong.'
'fine. but you're scratching my back til i fall back asleep.'
want a guy that will bully me just like i need, call me an easy little pervert, oh, and i actually like that, don’t i? how pathetic, getting worked up just from a little light bullying, it’s because i really am a pervert, huh? and way too eager, cause he can feel that i’m leaking through my shorts already, dipping his fingers in i’m soaked too, fuck, he can’t believe it was just. so easy to get me this wet, this hard too… even though it’s waaaaay smaller than his.
just to show me, i need him to slip his fat half-hard cock out through his fly, stroking it with the hand that was playing with my slick, wet cunt. i want him to point out that i’m staring and laugh at me as he strokes himself hard, that fuck, i’m giving him such a cockdrunk look already. i should just get on my knees if i want a closer look so bad—oh wow i’m actually doing it. fuck. he was just joking, but okay, be a whore then. and i’m watching him pull and twist his cock and soak it with his pre from his leaky tip and hearing the slap of his palm against his balls and way he grunts, and he can’t believe i’m actually drooling over how thick his dick looks at full length, that he can see me licking my lips…
is this what i want? he asks, pushing closer, tapping it against my cheek. hmm? what was that? he can’t hear me from down there, he says, pushing even closer, pushing his cock against my face. wait, god, am i seriously sniffing him right now? ohhh, one of those musk kink freaks, huh. i guess he’ll be generous—he grabs a fistful of my hair and pushes me into his crotch, pressing his fat, heavy nuts against my face, letting me huff his scent. this is what i wanted anyway right? to be smothered by his cock? oh my god—was that—it was a little muffled, but—did i seriously just say “thank you”?
he laughs again, saying he knew i was a desperate little slut but he didn’t know it was this bad. he holds me down there pressed tight against his groin a while. my head spins from inhaling his scent, the teasing, and my increasingly apparent need to get a deeper breath in. okay, okay, he says, pulling me back by my hair again. i can breathe a little. just for now. but i better put my mouth to fucking work when i’m ready, okay? can i do that for him?
of course i can. cause i’m an easy little slut who will do anything if you bully him right. and he knows that 💖
Roommates aren't meant to fuck. Things get messy and dramatic, and everything goes to shit. Roommates really shouldn't fuck.
If we lived together, you would regularly walk into the living room to find me jerking off. The sloppy, whorish moans of some pornstar on my phone and my legs spread apart on our couch as you watch my hand jerk back and forth. You'd find my bedroom door open constantly to find the same thing. The bathroom door as I shower and jerk off. Cum-stained tissues everywhere. Every time you'd find yourself wearing a tank top or shorts, or even a lovely, tight-fitting dress, you'd find me nearby, lewdly eyeing you up as I massage my cock through my pants.
Perhaps you'd finally break when you start finding your worn panties plastered in thick, sticky cum. And so you'd storm into my room, panties in hand, fully intending to set me straight. Except you'd walk in on my jerking off again. The resistance was doomed to die at the back of your throat from the moment you walked in.
"Well, I need somewhere to cum," I'd tell you, my cock in hand. "And if your panties are off-limits, your face is going to have to do." Roommates shouldn't fuck. Roommates really shouldn't fuck. Even as you crawl onto my bed slowly and press your face to my cock. All that pent-up neediness just overwhelming you now.
How dare this man be so audacious? Jerking off wherever he likes. Touching himself. Maybe you'd show him a thing or two yourself. And god. You really do need to cum, don't you?
I wonder how humiliating you'd find it to be completely ignored as a man jerked off onto your face. The slick, loud sounds of foreskin and precum as the porn resumes. You'd curse and swear at me in your mind, I'm sure. I really wouldn't care. I'd just want a place to blow my load. Your panties or your face, it wouldn't really matter as long as you understood your place. A cumrag.
You'd find yourself touching your cunt, almost grinding against your hand as your eyes lose focus. The veins and the ridges of my cock blurring into one thing. The need to just... kiss it a little, almost pushing you forward, but at the last moment you'd catch yourself. You can see everything. You'd seen me jerking off plenty of times, but never so close up.
"Get ready," I'd grunt. That'd be it. No other word of warning, and even that would come late. You'd barely have time to shut your eyes before you feel ropes of cum hit your face. A sticky, gooey, gross mess emptied all over your pretty fucking face. Unceremoniously, like some tissue. You'd feel it drip down, travelling the curve of your jaw. You'd feel drops of it against your lips, and you'd inevitably find your tongue snaking out to lick it off.
"Cool, thanks. You can go now," you'd hear me say, as you shuffle off back into the background. Used and thrown. In the bathroom mirror, you'd watch yourself slowly drawing my cum into your mouth.
Roommates shouldn't fuck. Roommates really shouldn't fuck... but maybe it was okay for roommates to be used as cumrags?
guy who notices a remote left on a bench, looking around for where it's come from and clicking it on-off-on-off trying to locate which TV or speaker it's connected, not hearing or seeing any difference as he turns volume up or presses the power button
...only when he presses the pause button, does he realise that the gym gets significantly more quiet.
like, really quiet.
no more metal clanks or grunt or chatter or squeaky footsteps of trainers against the rubbery floor...
because everyone is motionless.
it's uncanny. how still everyone is. and it's even weirder that he is the only one that's able to move.
he's hesitant in moving, yet as he moves he realises that everyone else remains frozen in time. only when he presses the play button of the remote does everyone begin moving again.
it's enough to send anyone into confusion, and so only after pausing and unpausing everyone many a time does the man realise that he's got the power to do anything.
nobody notices when he moves from one side of the rom to the other in the pause-time. nor do they respond to a tap on the shoulder done when they're frozen once they're back to their senses.
truly, this remote grants him the do whatever he wants with nobody noticing.
once he's gained enough confidence, that's when things start to get fun.
making out with someone when their body is frozen in time but their flesh is still pliable is an odd sensation, he realises, but he definitely finds it a lot more fun to move on to a girl who's halfway through a pullup - chin just pulled up the the bar - choosing to tug her vest down and remove her bra so that her tits can flop out on top of the black material - and when he unpauses his remote-
he does his best not to instantly drop his mouth to watch her return to motion, completing her pull up and lowering herself down - her gaze lowering to her chest & upon realising her breasts are exposed, letting go of the bar so that her tits ripple deliciously as she hits the floor, gasping and hastily pulling her vest away from her body to scoop her heavy boobs back behind the material of her top, covering herself up once more and spinning around to see whether anyone had seen her in her vulnerable state
of course, he had.
and his cock was hardened beneath his gym shorts in a way that made half his blood flow down to his shaft, the other half stimulating his brain and giving him the smart idea to pause the gym once more
he ran over to the same girl, deciding it would be fun to pants her and see how she responded to that, picking her up and placing her a few feet away from her original location so that now she was stood besides the weights in a more densely crowded area
that way, when he unpaused with the remote...
the girl looked confused initially, wondering why she was in a new location - before looking down and seeing her gym shorts down to her ankles in the wife gym mirrors to the side - catching peoples' gaze in the mirror, who ogled at her now bare ass, gasping and covering her mouth in horror before bending over to pull her shorts back up and protect her decency
PAUSE!
it's almost too fun to stop now, and so in the paused limbo, the man with the remote decides to take one of the men nearby and uncurl his fingers from his weights - instead taking both hands and repositioning his fingers, before sticking two from one hand into her pussy, another two into her puckered backhole, so that when he unpaused the man was horrified to see himself knuckle deep in a exposed woman in the gym, while the girl felt her holes filled and clench around two foreign fingers, before they were pulled out of her with horror and a confused stammer
the girl was confused and horrified and embarrassed
the fingerer was equally confused
and the rest of the gym that had seen was silently watching with wide eyes
the girl did the understandable thing of sprinting to the ladies room to process whether what had just happened was real - and being a gentleman, the man with the remote chose not to pause her.
instead, he simply slipped away into that same changing room a couple minutes later, when it seemed nobody else was heading in
walking into the ladies room, it was all empty, nobody in stalls, the main space, nor the lockers - only noise coming from a showerhead in one of the cubicles that had a flimsy plastic curtain for privacy.
it was obvious who was in there - the girl with the heavy tits and unlucky streak of being pantsed and humiliated in the gym just because she was in the wrong place at the wrong time
the man's hand curled around the remote in his pocket, getting ready to pause when he realised...
...he didn't have to pause it
nobody was heading in or out of the changing rooms - nobody would hear and there was no risk of anyone pointing him out as someone responsible for any of the indecent happenings in the gym...
and no, rather, he wanted to see the face of this girl as he terrorised her even further. she had such a cute little expression of horror and embarrassment as she would struggle to pull her clothes up - and the man couldn't held but wonder what that expression would look like if he were fucking her simultaneously
and so, the man took his shorts off, and his shirt - leaving the remote outside the cubicle before pushing past the plastic curtains and disturbing the girl having a peaceful shower to wash away her awful experience in the gym - naked and vulnerable in the shower cubicle, he firmly held her hands as she struggled and screamed - crying as she realised that her misfortune in the gym wasn't over just yet, as his hard cock rubbed her lower stomach and trailed further south as her babbles and cries rendered useless to putting this awful day to an end
if u cant tell from the writing quality - im so tired but feeling so horny n pervy - kinda wish i was getting played with and embarrassed and fucked in vulnerable positions rn
I don't sleep wearing many clothes. I like to feel sexy in what i wear to sleep though - which is why i have a range of silken little nighties that i alternate between. Each a different colour, but all the same components: two almost testingly thin straps, lace panel that fits snugly around my chest and holds my tits whilst the lower portion of my nightie is silk and flowy, ending just below my ass
the nightie sways and rides up my thighs as i waltz around my house in the little item of clothing, switching off lights and doing my last minute errands with such vigor that the silk jumps up and flashes the equally as revealing pair of panties i wear beneath the silk
and of course - when i sleep the nightie rides up and doesn't really cover anything... but that's fine... because who would be able to see it anyways?
Well, turns out the neighbour.
a middle age man, living alone who had a keen eye. who noticed every night how his young, slutty neighbour would step out of the shower and open her window with her towel wrapped around her middle - brushing her hair and then moving into her bedroom and hiding behind the curtain before reappearing downstairs - in the living room - wearing a tiny little nightie as she scampered from locking the front door to boiling her water for a hot water bottle, to closing her windows and turning her lights off...
he looked out for her every night, watching her do the very same bedtime ritual with his cock in his hand, honing in on how she would flash her panties when she turned quickly and the flowy material rose up - and the way the pep in her step had her tits bouncing beneath the lace hem of the nightie
one night i only realise once im tucked in bed that i forgot to lock my front door.
but the warmth of the bed and heaviness of my eyes had me able to convince myself: it's a safe neighbourhood... and ive never had any problems before... what are the chances someone would try break in just this once...? it's not that big a deal - i dont need to go down n lock it, i can just go to sleep and deal with it tomorrow morning...
though someone had in fact noticed that i'd left my door unlocked.
the neighbour was surprised to see that i'd forgotten a part of my nighttime ritual. locking the door. and i'd ascended up the stairs earlier than anticipated, leaving his hand holding his throbbing cock - unsatisfied - balls still full of cum and needing to find his release, still.
it was optimal, really
he could just wait for it to get a bit darker...
then open my front door - push the handle down quietly and shut it behind him, listening to hear if there was any noise within the house...
but everything within is dormant.
then walk up the stairs, down the corridor and to the right - to the room which he knew i slept in every night, wearing a nightie that didn't properly cover me.
he pushed the door open and felt heartrate shoot up as the door emit a squeak.
but no noise or sound of agitation followed from inside the room.
stepping around the door - he saw her body.
sprawled across the bed, nightie riding high on her thighs, lying on her side with her tits spilling from the hem of edge of her nightie -
there i lay.
my neighbour advanced the room, standing besides the sleeping girl. fingers tracing the bedside table, his hand knocked into a medication bottle - and picking it up to read, it read melatonin
what good news for him. he could do almost anything tonight and not wake her.
as if testing that hypothesis, the neighbour rolled her onto her back using her shoulder and watching as her breast bounced as her back hit the mattress, and she remained unconscious
she was so much more vulnerable and delicious when she was only a foot away from the neighbour.
now that he could see the bruise on her inner thigh and floral pattern across the lace chest part of the nightie - just sheer enough to allow him to see her dark nipples beneath the material
as if to really test whether she was asleep or not, the neighbour freed his cock and let it slap down onto her face - his balls sagging and sitting on her cheek whilst his cock lay against the other part of her face
it was so territorial. being able to put his cock on her face - mark her as his. his phone came out - taking a picture with flash of the sleeping girl with his cock against her face before proceeding to take a video - handling his cock from the base and rubbing it over her face, smushing her cheek with the stiff apendage and stroking his tip over her lips, letting the little bit of moisture from her parted lips wet the tip of his cock
he couldn't help his hands from ripping her lacey front down, exposing those pillowy tits and kneading them roughly with his palms - pinching them with his fingers and rolling those hard nipples between his thumb and index, feeling his cock twitch as she stirred slightly and let out a laboured breath
maybe she was having a wet dream.
the neighbour didnt know and didnt care.
he pulled her panties to the side and couldve moaned at how delicious she looked - her panties slick and a slimy tendril attaching her soaking pussy to the wet panties, her clit and hole gleaming in the barely lit room from her arousal
he couldn't stop himself.
his cock pressed against the slickness of her pussy, and he rubbed. he gyrated his cock back and forth against her folds, making lewd noises that made his balls twitch, cum fill his cock as he spat on her pussy and let his cock mix her slick with his fluids, the warmth of her pussy contrasting the unawakedness of the sleeping girl
he cant hold it much longer -
his balls tighten and he stuffs his head into my pussy, my unprotected, unsuspecting pussy as his cock splurges his seed into me and his heart pumps whilst he fills my pussy with his load and realises what he's done
my body stirs and he feels the need to leave.
just one picture - he lowers his camera to my pussy and the flash illuminates the cum that seeps from between my folds
and on the way out, he cant help but spot the keys hung besides the door. labelled house keys.
he cant stop himself from plucking them from where they rest, promising himself another experience like this one again as he shuts the door behind him, leaving me to turn over in my bed and wonder why my bedroom door has been left open before i doze off again
reminder to send rape threats and brutal messages of what you'd do to me in my inbox or messages <3
pairing – garrett graham x nursing student!reader
summary – after ten hours under hospital lights, the body makes the decision before the brain can catch up: go home to garrett.
warnings – post-shift exhaustion, tired driving, hospital mentions, mild confusion.
notes from me – requested soooo long ago i'm sorry babe!! but here's some NS!reader and garrett fluff 😌
word count – 1.1k
navigation – masterlist |
The drive back from the hospital exists mostly in fragments. The green glow of the dashboard. Her indicator clicking for several seconds after she has already changed lanes.
The heater blowing directly into her face because cold air feels medically irresponsible at six in the morning, even though the warmth keeps making her eyelids drag lower at every red light. Her scrub top scratches beneath her jacket.
Her ponytail has been pulling at the same patch of scalp since midnight, and the backs of her knees ache with that strange, deep heaviness that comes from standing for ten hours beneath fluorescent lighting while pretending crackers eaten beside a medication trolley count as dinner.
She normally takes the bus. The bus requires no decisions beyond getting on and trying not to fall asleep against a stranger.
But Garrett has started paying for food with the irritating consistency of someone who refuses to call it paying for her food. He orders too much. He already has his card out. He tells her she can get the next one and then develops selective amnesia when the next one arrives.
Somewhere between takeaway containers appearing after placement and Garrett filling her fridge shelf with things that contain actual nutrients, she has stopped watching the fuel gauge quite so closely.
So she drives.
She pulls into a driveway just after six with no real memory of choosing it. The engine goes quiet beneath her, and she sits behind the wheel for several seconds with both hands still resting on it, staring at the dark garage door while her body waits for further instructions.
Eventually, she gets out. Her bag catches on the handbrake. She nearly shuts the car door on the hem of her jacket, corrects it with the slow dignity of someone completing an advanced clinical procedure, then walks toward the porch with her keys already in her hand.
The lock opens. Inside, the hockey house is awake in that unpleasant, predawn way usually reserved for airports and men with scheduled ice time. The kitchen lights are on. Something is sizzling in a pan.
Logan's standing at the island in grey sweats, eating eggs directly from a plate with his fork held like a shovel, while Dean leans against the counter in half his practice gear and drinks coffee from a mug that says WORLD’S BEST MOM.
Both of them look up when she comes in.
Dean lowers the mug. “Hey?”
She shuts the door behind her, then remains there with one hand still on the knob. Her hospital badge swings lightly against her chest. “Hi.”
Logan pauses mid-chew.
Dean’s eyes move over her slowly–the creased scrubs, the puffer jacket hanging open, the dark half-moons beneath her eyes, the fact that one of her shoelaces has come undone without her apparently noticing. “You good?”
She frowns at him. It takes more effort than it should. “Why’re you in my house?”
Logan stops chewing completely.
Dean glances at him. Logan glances back. Whatever silent conversation passes between them isn't reassuring.
“Your house,” Dean repeats.
“Mhm.” She steps around the shoes near the door and begins moving toward the stairs. Her shoulder clips the wall on the first attempt. She corrects her trajectory without acknowledging it. “You’re being really loud.”
“Okay,” Logan says carefully. “Sorry.”
Dean watches her start climbing. “Should we stop her?”
Logan looks toward the stairs, then at the fork still suspended in his hand. “From going to Graham’s room?”
“Good point.”
She reaches Garrett’s door and opens it without knocking. Garrett jerks around so quickly the towel around his waist nearly loses its argument with gravity.
He has another towel in his hands, halfway through rubbing his damp curls dry, his bare chest still shining slightly from the shower.
“Hey–!” His hand catches the knot at his hip. Then he sees her properly and the alarm leaves his face in pieces. “Oh. Hi, baby.”
She stands in the doorway, blinking at him.
Garrett drops the second towel onto his desk chair. “You good?”
Her brows pull together. “Baby, why’re you in my dorm?”
For one second, Garrett only looks at her. Then his mouth presses inward around a smile he's clearly trying not to let become disrespectful.
“Baby,” he says gently, coming closer, “you came to my house.”
She stares at him. Garrett waits.
“Oh,” she says eventually. “Did I?”
“Mhm.” The smile reaches his eyes now, soft and helpless and much too fond for six in the morning. He takes her bag from her shoulder before the strap can slide down her arm and sets it beside the dresser. “You did.”
She looks past him at the unmade bed, his Briar hoodie thrown over the desk, the textbook facedown beside his pillow. Familiar enough that her body had apparently navigated here without consulting anybody.
“I came home,” she murmurs, more to the room than him. “To your house.”
Garrett’s expression changes so quietly she nearly misses it. His hand settles at her elbow, warm and steady.
He guides her toward the bed without making the sentence any bigger than she can hold right now. “Sit down.”
She sits immediately, knees parting around his legs when he crouches in front of her. Garrett unties the lace she's been dragging across the floor, then pulls off one sneaker, then the other, setting them neatly beside his bed.
His thumbs press briefly into the arches of her socked feet before he stands. He bends and kisses the top of her head.
“Go shower, baby,” he murmurs into her hair. “Then go to bed.”
She tips her face up toward him. “I’ll… see you later?”
“You will.” His palm smooths once over her ponytail, then he kisses the same spot again, slower this time. “Quickly, though. Before you fall asleep in your scrubs and convince me hospital germs are part of this relationship now.”
Her eyes close for a second beneath his mouth. “They’re not germs. They’re microorganisms.”
“Sorry. You're so right.”
She nods like he's made an excellent point, then stays seated.
Garrett cups her jaw gently. “Shower.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Now, girlfriend.”
Her mouth twitches. She stands, sways slightly into him, and Garrett catches her around the waist without comment.
Downstairs, Dean shouts, “Did she know where she was?”
Garrett looks toward the door. “No.”
A pause, then Logan calls, “That’s kind of cute, man.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Garrett says, but his hand tightens warmly at her waist as he walks her toward the bathroom.
to be notified when i post new fics, follow @kooksandpearls-library and turn on notifications! i no longer use a taglist for garrett fics.
Someone needs to write some Hannah x reader x Garrett stories. I love poly stories. I've seen a few Dean x reader x Allie stories but I have NOT seen any Hannah x reader x Garrett stories yet. I would also love to see some smutty stories with them.
Quietly Yours {Dean Di Laurentis x mute!reader} Part 1
Masterlist
Summary: Everyone at Briar knows Dean Di Laurentis. Nobody knows you. Not because you aren't friendly, but because people tend to make assumptions the moment they realize you don't speak. Some think you're shy. Others think you're rude. A few even assume you're deaf. You're used to correcting people with a tired smile and a note on your phone. Dean is no different...at first. Until he realizes your silence never stopped you from laughing, teasing, arguing, or caring. He starts discovering that you've always had a voice. It just isn't spoken.
Warnings: mentions of being mute, misunderstandings
The first thing people noticed about Briar University was the hockey team.
The second thing they noticed was the noise.
Music drifted from open dorm windows. Students hurried between lectures with coffees balanced precariously in one hand and textbooks tucked beneath the other. Someone was always laughing. Someone was always shouting across the quad. Somewhere, a fraternity was already planning the next party despite it only being Tuesday afternoon.
It was loud.
For most people, it was comforting.
For you, it was simply another part of campus life.
You sat beneath the sprawling oak tree in the middle of the quad, your back resting against the rough bark as you highlighted another page of your literature textbook. Around you, students passed by in clusters, conversations blending into an indistinct hum that you barely paid attention to anymore.
You could hear every word if you wanted to.
You just rarely had any reason to join in.
A vibration buzzed against your thigh.
You pulled your phone from your pocket and smiled.
HANNAH: Meet me after my psych lecture? Coffee?
Your fingers flew across the keyboard.
Y/N: Only if you're buying.
Three little typing dots appeared almost instantly.
HANNAH: Absolutely not.
You rolled your eyes affectionately before slipping your phone away.
Hannah Wells had been one of the first people at Briar to treat you normally. She'd never spoken slower because you were mute. Never exaggerated her mouth movements. Never assumed you couldn't hear. She looked at you when she talked, gave you time to respond, and had even learned enough ASL to hold a conversation when your hands were full of books.
You appreciated that more than she probably realized.
Closing your textbook, you gathered your belongings and headed toward the English building.
Your next lecture started in ten minutes.
"Dean."
Dean Di Laurentis looked up from where he was lounging across two seats in the lecture hall.
"What?"
Garrett Graham dropped into the chair beside him with his usual unimpressed expression.
"You've got thirty seconds before Professor Reynolds gets here."
Dean grinned.
"That's plenty of time."
"For what?"
"I don't know yet."
Logan snorted from somewhere behind them.
"That's the most Dean answer I've ever heard."
Dean shrugged without an ounce of shame.
Life was good.
The hockey season had started well.
Classes weren't killing him.
The girls at Briar still smiled whenever he walked past.
Honestly?
Things were exactly as they should be.
Then someone slipped into the row in front of them.
Dean barely glanced up before something caught his attention.
She wasn't talking.
Not unusual.
Except...
She wasn't with anyone.
She placed a notebook neatly beside her laptop, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and began arranging highlighters with almost surgical precision.
Dean frowned.
She was pretty.
Really pretty.
Soft-looking sweater, headphones looped around her neck, backpack covered in tiny enamel pins from different classic novels.
Definitely not someone he'd seen at one of the hockey parties.
"Huh," he muttered.
Garrett followed his gaze for half a second.
"What?"
"Nothing."
Garrett gave him a look.
"You're staring."
"I'm observing."
"You're staring."
Dean ignored him.
The girl still hadn't spoken to anyone.
Not even when another student accidentally knocked one of her pens off the desk.
She simply bent down to pick it up before offering the apologetic student a small smile.
No words.
Interesting.
By the end of the lecture, Dean had learned exactly one thing.
She took incredibly neat notes.
He'd spent half the class pretending to pay attention while actually trying to figure out who she was.
When everyone began packing up, Dean made his decision.
"I'm going over there."
Garrett sighed dramatically.
"I wish you wouldn't."
"You always say that."
"Because you always embarrass yourself."
Dean flashed him a grin before hopping over the row.
He landed beside her desk just as she zipped her bag closed.
"Hey."
She looked up.
Bright eyes met his.
For a brief second, she simply blinked.
Dean smiled, resting an elbow casually against the desk.
"I'm Dean."
She stared at him.
No smile.
No greeting.
Nothing.
He chuckled awkwardly.
"Tough crowd."
Still nothing.
Dean scratched the back of his neck.
"Okay... either you're not interested, which, fair enough, or—"
She reached into the front pocket of her backpack.
For a split second Dean wondered if she was grabbing headphones to ignore him.
Instead, she pulled out a small laminated card.
She handed it to him.
Confused, Dean took it.
Neatly printed across the front were the words:
Hi! My name is Y/N. I'm mute, which means I can't speak. I can hear you perfectly well. I communicate using American Sign Language, writing, or my phone. Please be patient—I promise I'm not ignoring you.
Dean read it twice.
Then looked back up.
"Oh."
His face immediately flushed.
"Oh, wow."
He winced.
"I am so sorry."
Your lips curved into a small, reassuring smile.
You shook your head before pulling your phone from your pocket.
A few quick taps.
You turned the screen toward him.
You're okay. You didn't know.
Dean let out the breath he'd apparently been holding.
"I thought you were just... ignoring me."
Another tap.
Happens more often than you'd think.
Dean laughed softly.
"I definitely feel like an idiot now."
You tilted your head.
Another message appeared.
Not yet.
He blinked.
Then another.
You'll become an idiot if you keep apologising.
A laugh burst out of him before he could stop it.
"Fair enough."
For the first time, your smile widened enough to reach your eyes.
Dean noticed immediately.
He wasn't sure why, but it felt like he'd won something.
"I'm Dean," he repeated, slower this time, pointing to himself.
You watched the gesture before typing again.
I know. The entire campus knows who Dean Di Laurentis is.
He placed a hand dramatically over his chest.
"Ouch."
You raised a single eyebrow.
Dean laughed again.
"You've got jokes."
You simply shrugged.
The silence between you wasn't awkward.
It wasn't uncomfortable.
It was... easy.
Students streamed around the two of you, filling the hallway with conversation, footsteps, and laughter. Neither of you seemed in any hurry to leave.
Dean realised something then.
Most conversations were filled with people waiting for their turn to speak.
This one wasn't.
Every time you typed something, he read it carefully. Every time he spoke, you watched him with complete attention before responding.
For the first time in a long while, Dean felt like someone was actually listening to him.
"So..." he said after a moment. "Can I walk you to your next class?"
You looked at your timetable, then back at him.
A teasing smile tugged at your lips as you typed.
Only if you promise not to flirt with every girl we pass.
Dean gasped in mock offense.
"I don't flirt with every girl."
You held his gaze for exactly three seconds.
Then slowly looked around the crowded hallway.
Back at him.
One eyebrow arched.
Dean sighed dramatically.
"...Okay, maybe most of them."
Your silent laugh escaped as nothing more than a warm breath and shaking shoulders, but it was infectious enough that Dean found himself laughing too.
He fell into step beside you as the two of you headed down the corridor.
Neither of you noticed Garrett and Logan watching from the lecture hall doorway.
Logan smirked.
"That's gotta be a new record."
Garrett folded his arms.
"For what?"
"Dean met her less than five minutes ago..."
Logan watched as Dean slowed his pace without even seeming to realize it, matching yours perfectly.
"...and he's already walking at her speed."
Garrett looked over at the pair disappearing into the crowd.
A knowing smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
