Hudson Williams sharing his award with Connor Storrie.
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@jupiter-sky
Hudson Williams sharing his award with Connor Storrie.
LAZY KISSES WITH GARRETT GRAHAM
1k words, a teensy bit suggestive, 16+
author's note — this is my first time writing for Off Campus, let me know if you'd like to see more <3
"Baby," Garrett practically croons when he sees you, leaning his elbows on the railing of the staircase. "Where've you been?"
You try and fail the urge to let your eyes travel downwards, the trail of hair from his chest to the waistband of his sweatpants, the ridges of muscles very much evident, especially because he isn't wearing a shirt.
"Studying," you reply, in a duh tone of voice, taking the steps one at a time to reach him. He winds his arms around your waist, fingers splaying on the exposed skin of your abdomen, brushing your hip bone.
You melt at the soft touch, and he leans down to press a kiss to the tip of your earlobe. "Do you have no shirts?" You tease quietly, letting out a soft gasp when his kiss grows fervent. "... I should buy you some."
Your boyfriend lets out a little scoff, tugging you closer to his front. "I have enough shirts, honey," he breathes, lips moving up to the underside of your jaw. "C'mon," he coaxes, pulling away much to your chagrin; to you letting out a soft, irritated whine. "Upstairs. Don't you wanna get comfy?"
How can you possibly resist, especially when his hands are on you, and he's using that tone, which begs to be listened to? You let out a little hum of affirmation.
i would love any good plot you can write with john logan 🙈
I've never been a fan of Logan while reading the books (not hating him either!), but show Logan is a vibe
—
Your car hated late November nights. Especially when a light layer of snow dusted the road.
‘’Come on, come on,’’ you said, coaxing the engine to start as you turned the key.
Snow was sprinkled on the windshield and the air biting, making you regret taking your car out tonight. You should have stayed in your dorm instead of having dinner at your parents’. But you were craving your mom’s butter chicken and her apple crumble, which she happened to be making tonight.
The engine coughed again — weak, stubborn, like it was thinking about it.
You tightened your grip on the steering wheel.
‘’Please,’’ you muttered, softer now, less like a command and more like a plea.
. ⋆ ⁺₊ ❅ . NO HOCKEY PLAYERS
━━ john logan x graham!reader ; wc 3.5k tw ; mention of parental abuse ( phil graham ) , secret relationship/brothers best friend , kissing , unedited part one \ part two \ part three
You should have been asleep.
Honestly, you had every intention of staying asleep.
Overheard | D.D.L.
A/N: another fic i've had written for months! so excited to finally be sharing these and to have a growing audience for them! thanks to everyone who has been liking and sharing my dean fics, it means so much and it's great to have a little motivation to get back into writing. more off-campus content to come! <3
summary: you overhear a conversation from dean's friend's that you weren't exactly meant to hear
word count: ~2.8k
warnings: MDNI 18+ talks of sex, descriptions of sexual acts (not full on smut but describing past experiences), insecure reader, asshole friends, comparing new relationship to past ex
Dean was out late since he had a game with the Hurricanes, but he told you that you could stay in his room at the guys’ place until he got back. You had dinner by yourself, deciding on McDonald’s since the rest of the guys were out of the house, though once you settle in bed, two hours before Dean is expected to be home, you hear the door open.
Jack Abbot (The Pitt) x fem!reader
Jack doesn't realise he's in love because loving you is a second nature to him
By the time anyone noticed it, it was already far too late for Jack Abbot.
Not that he knew that.
That was the problem.
Jack didn’t realize he was in love with you because loving you had quietly become as automatic as breathing.
It lived in the unconscious things.
The instinctive things.
The things he did before his brain had time to catch up.
Like carrying an extra coffee onto the floor every single shift because you always forgot breakfast when you were running late.
Like automatically checking the trauma board for your name before he checked his own assignments.
Like knowing the exact look on your face that meant you were overwhelmed versus irritated versus one badly phrased sentence away from crying in the medication room.
He just… knew you.
The same way he knew how to intubate.
The same way he knew the sound of a crashing patient monitor.
Effortless. Embedded.
Natural.
So when people started looking at him strangely whenever you were mentioned, Jack genuinely had no idea why.
PROFESSOR’S DAUGHTER
Pairing: Garrett Graham x Professor!Daughter!Reader
Summary: Garrett Graham, Briar’s star hockey player, breaks every rule he’s ever had when he falls hard for his strict literature professor’s daughter.
Garrett Graham had rules. Simple ones. Keep your head in the game. Don’t fuck around with girls who complicate shit. And never, ever, get involved with anything that could torpedo his shot at the NHL.
But rules were for the locker room. Not for the moment he walked into Professor Langley’s Advanced Lit seminar on a rainy Thursday and saw her.
You.
You were sitting in the front row like you belonged there, legs crossed under a short plaid skirt, a notebook already open, pen tapping absently against your lip. Your hair was pulled back in a messy bun, a few strands loose like you’d given up fighting them halfway through the day. When Professor Langley—tall, stern, tweed-jacketed—walked in and immediately said, “Everyone, this is my daughter, visiting for the semester. She’s auditing. Be nice,” Garrett felt the floor tilt.
Your eyes met his for half a second. You smiled. Polite. Curious. Completely unaware that you’d just become the most dangerous distraction on campus.
Garrett dropped into his usual seat near the back, heart hammering harder than it did before a championship game.
Fuck.
The first real conversation happened two weeks later.
Garrett was in the library at 11 p.m., half-dead from practice, trying to finish a paper on The Great Gatsby that he’d been avoiding like the plague. You were three tables away, surrounded by highlighters and open books, earbuds in, nodding along to whatever you were listening to.
When the library lights flickered in warning—closing soon, you glanced up, caught him staring, and pulled one earbud out.
“Garrett Graham, right?” Your voice was softer than he expected. Warm. “Hockey guy. My dad complains about you missing deadlines more than he complains about the Bruins.”
Garrett grinned despite himself. “That sounds about right. You here to rat me out?”
You laughed, low and genuine. “Nah. I’m here because my apartment’s too quiet and I needed caffeine and bad decisions.” You held up a half-empty iced coffee like evidence. “Also, Gatsby’s kind of an asshole, but I can’t stop reading.”
“Same,” he admitted, sliding into the chair across from you before he could think better of it. “Daisy’s worse, though.”
You tilted your head, studying him. “Most jocks don’t read Fitzgerald for fun.”
“Most professors’ daughters don’t sit in the back of the library looking like they’re plotting a heist.”
You smirked. “Touché.”
That night you talked for forty minutes until security kicked you both out. You argued about whether Nick Carraway was reliable, about hockey versus literature, about how your dad once made you read Moby Dick at age twelve as “character building.” Garrett walked you to your car even though it was pouring, hoodie pulled over his head, laughing when you cursed at the rain ruining your notes.
He went home and jerked off in the shower thinking about the way your wet shirt had clung to your chest. Then he felt like an asshole.
It became a thing.
You started showing up at the same library table. Sometimes you brought snacks. Sometimes he brought coffee. You teased him about his messy handwriting. He teased you about the color-coded notes that looked like a NASA control room. You told him about growing up with a literature professor dad and how every dinner was a debate, how you’d moved away for undergrad but came back this semester because your mom was sick and someone needed to be close.
Garrett told you about the pressure. The draft. The way his father still called him weekly to remind him not to “fuck it up like he did.” He’d never told anyone that shit, not even his boys on the team.
One night, after a brutal loss, he found you waiting outside the rink in a Briar hoodie two sizes too big. You didn’t say anything about the game. Just handed him a hot chocolate and said, “Walk with me.”
You ended up at the pond behind campus, sitting on the cold bench while the moon cut silver across the ice. Your shoulder pressed against his. He could smell your shampoo, something citrusy and clean.
“I hate losing,” he muttered.
“I know.” Your hand found his, tentative. “But you’re still Garrett fucking Graham. Even when you lose, you’re still… you.”
He turned his head. Your faces were inches apart. Breath visible in the cold. For a second he thought about kissing you. Really thought about it, about how soft your mouth looked, how your eyes had gone dark and wide.
Instead he squeezed your hand and walked you home.
The tension built like a storm.
You started coming to games. Sitting in the stands with a scarf and a Briar hat, cheering like you’d been doing it your whole life. After one particularly ugly win, the team went to Malone’s. You showed up because Logan texted you (traitor), and suddenly you were squeezed into the booth between Garrett and Tuck, laughing at their stupid stories.
Dean kept shooting Garrett knowing looks. “Prof’s daughter, huh? Bold, G.”
“Shut up,” Garrett muttered, but his hand had found your knee under the table. You didn’t move it away.
Later, when the bar was loud and warm and everyone was half-drunk, you leaned into his side. “My dad would kill you.”
“I know.”
“I don’t care.”
Garrett’s heart slammed against his ribs. He looked down at you, at the way your lips parted just slightly, and he was gone. Completely, stupidly gone.
He kissed you outside in the freezing parking lot, pressed you against his truck, hands in your hair, tongue sliding against yours like he’d been starving for it. You made this soft, surprised sound that went straight to his dick. When you tugged his jacket closer, he groaned into your mouth.
“Fuck, baby,” he whispered against your lips. “I’ve wanted this for weeks.”
You smiled, breathless. “Then stop talking and do something about it.”
He didn’t take you home that night. Too risky, your dad lived ten minutes from campus. Instead he drove to the team house, snuck you up the back stairs while the boys were still at the bar, and locked his bedroom door.
The second the lock clicked you were on him. Hands under his shirt, mapping the ridges of his abs, the V that disappeared into his jeans. Garrett walked you backward until your knees hit the bed and you both tumbled down, laughing into each other’s mouths.
He took his time undressing you. Reverent. Kissing every inch he uncovered—collarbone, the swell of your breasts, the soft skin under your ribs. When he pulled your panties down and saw how wet you already were, he cursed.
“Jesus Christ. Look at you.”
You were flushed, breathing hard, eyes glassy. “Garrett… please.”
He ate you out like a man possessed. Slow, filthy licks, two fingers curling inside you while his tongue worked your clit. You came with your thighs clamped around his head, biting your own wrist to stay quiet. He didn’t stop until you were shaking.
Then he was inside you.
Raw and bare. He knew he should grab a condom but the thought of anything between you felt wrong. You didn’t stop him. Just wrapped your legs around his waist and whispered, “I’m on the pill. I want to feel you.”
Garrett fucked you deep and steady, one hand braced beside your head, the other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise. Every thrust dragged a moan out of you. The bed creaked. Your nails raked down his back.
“Look at me,” he growled when your eyes fluttered shut. “Want to see you when you come on my cock.”
You did. Eyes locked on his, lips parted, crying out his name as you clenched around him. He followed right after, burying himself to the hilt and spilling inside you with a groan that sounded like it hurt.
Afterward he held you against his chest, fingers stroking your spine. Neither of you spoke for a long time.
“I’m fucked,” he finally whispered.
You laughed softly. “Yeah. Me too.”
The secret lasted three weeks.
Stolen moments in his truck. Quickies in empty classrooms after hours. Late nights where he’d sneak into your apartment when your dad was at a conference. You’d ride him slow on your tiny couch, whispering dirty things in his ear while he gripped your ass and tried not to come too fast.
You were addictive. The way you quoted poetry while he was balls-deep inside you. The way you wore his jersey to bed. The way you looked at him like he was more than hockey, more than the next big draft pick.
But secrets on a small campus don’t stay secrets.
Your dad found out on a Wednesday.
Garrett was in Langley’s office for a paper extension when the professor’s phone buzzed. A text. From you.
Running late. Garrett’s coming over for dinner tonight. Be nice.
Langley stared at the screen. Then at Garrett.
The silence was lethal.
“You’re seeing my daughter.”
It wasn’t a question.
Garrett didn’t flinch. “Yes, sir.”
Langley removed his glasses slowly. “She’s not some puck bunny, Graham. She’s brilliant. She’s going to grad school. She doesn’t need a distraction who’ll be gone to some NHL city in six months.”
The words landed like checks into the boards. Garrett felt every one.
“I’m not going to hurt her,” he said quietly. “I love her.”
The admission shocked him as much as it did Langley. But it was true. He’d fallen so hard he didn’t even remember the fall.
Langley studied him for a long moment. “Prove it.”
That night at dinner was the most awkward hour of Garrett’s life.
You sat beside him, thigh pressed to his under the table for courage. Your mom—sweet, sharp-eyed—kept the conversation going. Your dad grilled him about everything from his GPA to his future plans. Garrett answered honestly. No bullshit.
After dessert, when your parents went to the kitchen, you dragged him onto the back porch.
“He’s not going to kill you,” you whispered, hands on his chest.
“He might.”
You kissed him softly. “I love you too, you know. I didn’t say it back earlier.”
Garrett’s chest cracked open. He pulled you in, kissing you deeper, tasting the pie on your tongue and the future on your lips.
Spring came.
Garrett’s team made it to the Frozen Four. You were there in the stands for every game, screaming his name. When they won the championship, he skated straight to the boards, pulled you down for a kiss in front of twenty thousand people and the ESPN cameras.
Your dad was in the family section. He didn’t smile. But he didn’t look murderous either.
Later, in the hotel room, Garrett stripped you out of your Briar gear and made love to you slow and sweet. No rush. Just skin and breath and the certainty that this was real.
“I’m getting drafted,” he murmured against your neck. “But wherever I go, I want you with me. Grad school. Long distance. Whatever it takes. I’m not doing this without you.”
You cupped his face, eyes shining. “I’m in, Graham. All the way.”
Two years later, Garrett was playing for the Bruins. You were in grad school in Boston, living in a tiny apartment that smelled like books and his cologne. Your dad still gave him shit at family dinners, but there was respect there now.
Garrett proposed on the ice after a home game. Same spot where he’d first kissed you in front of the world. He dropped to one knee in full gear, ring box in his gloved hand.
You said yes before he even got the question out.
Later that night, tangled in sheets, sweaty and laughing, he kissed the ring on your finger and whispered, “Told you I’d prove it.”
You smiled, the same smile that had ruined him in that lecture hall years ago.
“Best bad decision I ever made.”
Dahling you simply must read this book! It’s all about this devious little caterpillar who simply gorges himself on all manner of divine things
Love Is Too Weak Of A Word
Pairing: Frank Langdon X fem!Reader
Summary: Four times Frank realizes he loves you and the first time he finally says it.
Warnings: divorced!Frank, S2 Frank, new-ish relationship, mentions of Frank’s back pain and addiction, some cursing, a couple uses of y/n, kissing and crying.
Word Count: 2.5K
read on ao3
the gif below does not belong to me
There's only me and you
jack abbot x f!reader
summary: what is supposed to be the happiest day of your lives leaves jack in complete frustration. you assure him that you love him just the way he is and that he isn’t any less for needing to take a break.
cw: loss of a limb and how it affects someone even years later, insecurities (jack), just lots of angst but so much fluff and comfort too!! wedding day troubles
wc: 1.7k
a/n: almost made myself cry when I came up with this idea
now playing: Coming Up Roses – Harry Styles
Dressed in white silk and delicate lace, you were grinning ear to ear. You had practiced your soft smile in the mirror a million times, wanting to look gracious and delicate in your wedding photos. But now that the vows have been exchanged and you’ve danced yourselves into the night, the happiness practically spilled out of you.
Jack’s face almost mirrored yours—just with tiny differences. While the moisture dampening your hairline stemmed from your carefree twirling on the dancefloor, sometimes in your husband’s arms, other times surrounded by your friends and family, sweat pearled down his temples from pure exhaustion. The light that lit up in his eyes when you walked down the altar has dimmed a little with every passing hour, just as the muscles in his jaw had grown tighter.
being a fat little girl is like being christ on the cross
fat girls are stronger than any us marine
fat girls are stronger than christ on the cross
♡ things a man provides ♡
♡ pairing: jack abbot x fem!reader
♡ synopsis: after catching you on tinder at work, jack puts himself on a mission to get you off of the obnoxious app & into a meaningful relationship with him instead before it's too late. learning you've never so much as been on a date before & are doubtful about ever finding someone worthwhile, he expends every effort to win you over.
♡ content: jealous!jack, jack treats you to dinner on the roof, buys you flowers, spoils you with attention etc, fingering, dacryphilia (kinda), pet names, teasing, flirting
♡ a/n: based off this request, ty!
With forearms planted atop the back of the office chair you occupy, Santos peers over your shoulder as you swipe left.
And left.
And left.
And—
"Oh, he's cute," she remarks.
Looking up from the rolling computer cart Jack stands at, he eyes the two of you from over the rim of his glasses.
Pushing the phone back in her direction for a closer look, you half turn toward her with a raised brow.
"I was talking about the dog," Trinity explains.
You roll your eyes, then swipe again.
"Honestly, you'd have a better time picking up a guy from Chairs than Tinder. Least that way you can test him for drugs and STDs before taking him home like a stray." After drumming her hands against the back of your seat, she steps away.
₊⊹ BUDDY KNOWS BEST !
PAIRING: Jack Abbot x GN!Resident!Reader.
SUMMARY: When an angry patient attacks you at work, you do everything in your power to hide how bad it is from Jack. Unfortunately for you, his dog, Buddy, knows best, and is quick to alert him to how bad things are as soon as he gets home.
NOTES: Aggressive patient, physical injury, Jack has a retired military dog, the dog is very protective of reader, hurt/comfort, established relationship.
NAVIGATION | PITT MASTERLIST | KO-FI
a/n — technically a part two to dog’s best friend, but can absolutely be read as a standalone !
“I just need you to stay seated for a second, alright?” you say, voice soft, even, the same tone you use with every difficult situation, steady and careful without ever sounding condescending.
The patient doesn’t like it. You see it in the way her shoulders tense, the sharp turn of her head, the flicker of something reactive and unpredictable behind her eyes.
“Don’t tell me what to do.”
“I’m not,” you reassure gently, hands visible, posture open. “I’m just trying to help you, ma’am.”
The metal tray is already in her hand before you fully register it.
OH WE ARE SO FUCKING GOATED
I’m gonna nut. I’m gonna nut. I’m gonna nut.
WHAT DO YOU MEAN THEYRE PUTTING SHAWN HATOSY ON THE QUINN APP????? (it’s audio porn btw)
Abbot putting their heads together... OH BOY I'M HAVING A FIELD DAY