nina

28, f, she/her • its basically a f1 blog at this point

[kooksandpearls]

𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

all my princess!reader & garrett graham fics gathered in one place.

𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 – extras · moodboards · asks · yapping · drabbles · spotify

𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐬 – the deal · best girl · show me

𝐛𝐥𝐮𝐫𝐛𝐬 – white tank · sit still · pink top · hands on

𝐧𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 – masterlist · choose your reader masterlist

[kooksandpearls]

garrett graham ❄︎ white tank.

pairing – garrett graham x princess!reader summary – best friends with no boundaries should probably think harder about thin white tank tops and unrestricted dorm access. warnings – sexual tension, nipple piercing mention, strong language, suggestive references notes from me – two glasses of wine in and finished this 🥴🥴 based on this ask!! this was so fun to write lmao. nothing i love more than garrett being whipped! word count – 1.7k

navigation – masterlist |

It’s an objectively terrible idea to be braless in a white tank top when Garrett Graham has unrestricted access to your dorm room.

This isn’t information she’s had occasion to seriously consider before, mostly because Garrett having unrestricted access to her dorm room has been a fact of life for so long now that it no longer registers as a boundary issue and more as an annoying environmental condition. Like humidity. Or campus squirrels.

Garrett comes and goes because he’s Garrett. Because they’ve known each other since freshman year orientation, when he spilled iced coffee down the front of his own shirt and still somehow managed to flirt with the girl handing out student ID lanyards. 

Because he’s carried her laundry basket up three flights of stairs without being asked, eaten half her cereal with his hand in the box, fallen asleep facedown on her rug during finals week, and once let himself in at one in the morning because she texted him that she thought there was a weird sound in the hallway and he arrived in grey sweats and slides with his hockey stick in hand, and the kind of serious expression that made her forget to be embarrassed for a full eleven seconds.

So, no. She doesn’t think about the tank top.

She thinks about philosophy notes and the fact that her car’s being held hostage in the hockey house driveway while Logan fixes it, which so far seems to involve standing over the open hood with Tucker, a YouTube video, and the blind male confidence of men who have never met an engine problem they couldn’t make worse. 

She thinks about the rink, because Garrett’s supposed to take her there before his late skate and she’s supposed to sit in the stands with her laptop and pretend she doesn’t secretly like the smell of cold air and rubber mats and hockey boys yelling obscenities at each other.

She’s hunched over her desk in jeans and the white tank, hair clipped messily up off her neck, one bare foot tucked under her thigh, when the door opens behind her with exactly zero hesitation.

“Okay, so Logan says your car’s making this noise,” Garrett says, already halfway inside, “and I told him that’s not a fucking diagnosis because cars make a lot of noises, and then he got offended like I was disrespecting his craft, which is rich because his craft is apparently–”

He stops. He stops like someone’s walked into the room and slapped the sentence directly out of his mouth.

She looks over her shoulder, pen still between her fingers. “What?”

Garrett’s standing just inside her doorway in his Briar hoodie and track pants, duffel bag hanging off one shoulder, curls still damp from a shower or the snow outside or whatever irritatingly athletic thing he was doing before this. His mouth is slightly open. His eyes are very much not on her face. 

They flick down again, fast and guilty and not guilty enough. “Dude,” he says.

Her eyebrows pull together. “What?”

“When the fuck did you get your nipples pierced?”

For a second, the room goes very still around the heater rattling under the window. Then she looks down at herself. And, okay. Fine. The tank top is thinner than she remembers. 

The little metal bars are pressing faintly against the cotton, visible enough now that he’s said it, and her whole body does this annoying internal jump, not embarrassment, because Garrett has seen her in bikinis and sick and wearing a face mask that made her look like a swamp creature. 

But it’s something. A hot little awareness under her skin, as if the room has suddenly learned a new angle. She turns back around too quickly and scoffs, because dignity is mostly just committing to a tone before your pulse can betray you. “Months ago.”

Garrett nods once. Slowly. Like he’s received devastating news from a doctor with poor bedside manner. “Months ago.”

“Yes?”

“So for months you’ve just…” He looks at the ceiling, then the wall, then her face, where he very clearly intends to remain through force of character alone. “Right. Right. Cool.”

She narrows her eyes. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“That wasn’t nothing.”

“What?” he says, and the innocence would be more convincing if his ears weren’t faintly pink. Garrett Graham, Briar hockey captain, man who has smiled his way out of consequences that would have ended lesser men, is standing in her dorm room looking like his entire operating system has crashed over a white tank top.. “I’m just processing information.”

“You’re being weird.”

He presses his lips together and shakes his head. “I am being so normal right now.”

“You walked in here, stared at my chest, and short-circuited.”

His gaze drops for half a second again, involuntary and hopeless, before snapping back up. “Because you weaponised casual nudity.”

“I’m wearing a shirt.”

“That’s a suggestion of a shirt.”

She barks a laugh before she can stop herself, sharp and disbelieving.

He points at her like that proves something. “See? You know.”

“I know you’re an idiot.”

“I know a lot of things,” he says, still looking pained. “Unfortunately, I now know one more.”

There’s no reason for that to make heat crawl up the back of her neck, except that Garrett has shifted against the door without seeming to realise it, shoulders broad enough to make the frame look underprepared, one hand gripping the strap of his duffel. 

He’s trying very hard to turn this into a bit. She can see the effort in the slant of his mouth, in the way his eyes keep dragging back to hers like he’s hauling them up with a rope.

She stands from the chair, mostly because sitting there suddenly feels weirdly vulnerable and also because she genuinely does need to change before they leave. “I’m not going like this. Relax.”

He exhales through his mouth, cheeks puffing slightly. “Thank God.”

Her eyes narrow again. “Excuse me?”

“Nothing.”

She crosses her arms across her chest, which does nothing for his cause. “No, go on. Thank God why?”

He lifts both hands, palms out, the duffel sliding down his arm. “Because I wasn’t in the mood to fight someone tonight.”

She stares at him. He stares back, dead serious for about two seconds before his grin starts sneaking in around the edges, all stupid golden-boy charm and teeth and the unbearable confidence of a man who knows exactly how often he gets away with saying things like that.

“Oh my God,” she says flatly. “You are so annoying.”

“I’m protective.”

“You’re annoying.”

“Those overlap.”

“They don’t.”

“With me they do.”

She rolls her eyes so hard it almost hurts and walks past him toward her bedroom, close enough that her shoulder brushes his arm. It’s nothing. It’s normal. They’re always touching in ways that don’t count, or didn’t count, maybe, before Garrett noticed her piercings and temporarily lost access to the English language. 

But now the brush of him feels too present, the warmth of his hoodie against her bare upper arm registering with an irritating amount of detail. She pulls a jersey over the tank first because it’s closest, the fabric falling big over her hips and smelling faintly like laundry detergent and that cold rink smell Garrett always carries around like a second cologne. Then she grabs a jacket from the chair, shoves her arms through it, and gives herself exactly half a second in the mirror to look normal.

She looks normal. Mostly. Her face is a little too warm, but Garrett doesn’t get to know that.

When she comes back out, he’s leaning against the wall near her door, scrolling on his phone with an expression of intense concentration that’s almost definitely fake. He looks up when she enters.

And then just looks. His eyes move over the jersey, the jacket, her face, the way she’s tucked her hair back from her cheek with the annoyed efficiency of someone pretending she’s not just changed clothes with a man in the next room thinking about her nipples. His mouth does something small and private before he catches it.

“What?” she says.

He shakes his head once. “Nothing.”

“You keep saying nothing in a way that feels suspicious.”

“That’s because you’re paranoid.”

“That’s because you’re being weird.”

He pushes off the wall and opens the door for her. “I’m never weird.”

“You’re being weird right now.”

“I’m being gentlemanly.”

“You let yourself into my dorm.”

“Gentlemanly after the felony.”

She snorts and walks past him into the hall. His hand lands at the small of her back as she goes. Warm through the jacket. Familiar enough that she shouldn’t notice it. She does anyway.

Garrett closes the door behind them and, as they head down the hall, slings his arm around her shoulders like he’s done a thousand times before. Heavy and easy and a little too smug. 

She groans immediately, mostly for self-preservation. “You’re very touchy tonight.”

He hums, pleased with himself in a way she can feel through his ribs against her side. “Mhm.”

“That wasn’t an answer.”

“Wasn’t trying to be.”

She tips her head back enough to glare at him. He’s already looking down at her, grin lazy now, but his eyes are still doing that thing. Brighter, sharper, like something ordinary has been tilted a few degrees and he’s pretending he hasn’t noticed the whole room slide.

“You’re unbearable,” she says.

“I’m driving you to the rink out of the goodness of my heart.”

“Because Logan broke my car worse.”

“Allegedly.”

She shoots him a look. “Garrett.”

“Fine. Probably.”

She huffs, but she lets herself lean into him by half an inch because the hallway is cold and because his arm is warm and because, irritatingly, he smells good. He squeezes her shoulder once, casual enough to be deniable, except his thumb brushes the side of her neck afterward, small and absent and not absent at all.

They make it to the stairwell before he says, “So. Months, huh?”

She stops on the top step and slowly turns her head. He’s staring straight ahead now, mouth twitching.

She points at him. “Do not.”

“I’m not doing anything!”

“You’re thinking loudly.”

“I’ve suffered a shock.”

“You saw the outline of jewellery through a shirt.”

“Exactly. I’m suffering here.”

“You’re such a loser.”

“Maybe,” he says, then glances down at her, all grin and trouble and something warmer under it that makes her stomach dip in a way she fully intends to ignore until death. “But I’m your ride, so be nice to me.”

She starts down the stairs before he can see her smile. “I liked you better when you couldn’t speak.”

“Yeah,” Garrett says behind her, voice rough with laughter. “Me too, actually.”

❄︎ ❄︎ ❄︎

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[kooksandpearls]

garrett graham ❄︎ show me.

pairing – garrett graham x princess!reader summary – nerves bring the night to a pause, only for trust, curiosity and garrett’s complete lack of pressure to turn it into something even more intimate. warnings – 18+, explicit sexual content, mutual masturbation, nudity, dirty talk, praise kink, nipple piercing stimulation, consensual dominance, manhandling, masturbation discussion, orgasm, aftercare notes from me – as requested here!!! i am s o o o down bad for them 🙂‍↕️ word count – 5.6k

navigation – masterlist | princess!reader masterlist

The hockey house is too quiet for what they’re doing. There’s no Logan yelling at a video game, no Tucker opening and closing cupboards, no Dean wandering into Garrett’s room without knocking because he’s never accepted that doors are intended to prevent entry.

They’re all still at the Sigma house, where the party is probably entering the stage of the night involving broken furniture and someone insisting they can perform a backflip.

She should feel relieved. Instead, the absence of everyone else seems to have made the room smaller.

Garrett is sitting against the headboard with one leg stretched over the mattress and the other bent slightly beneath her, his hand warm against the back of her neck while he kisses her like the last thirty minutes have been leading to this rather than the two of them abruptly abandoning a frat party under separate, extremely unconvincing pretences.

She had told Claire she was tired. Garrett had told Dean he needed to check whether the back door was locked.

Now she’s kneeling beside Garrett on his bed, her bare knees sinking into the comforter, sneakers abandoned near his desk and the short skirt of her cream dress gathered dangerously high around her thighs.

The dress has tiny black polka dots and a halter neckline tied behind her neck in a soft bow. It had looked sweet in her dorm mirror, feminine enough to make her feel polished despite the fact that the back barely covered the top of her underwear.

Garrett had stared at it when he picked her up. He’s considerably less subtle now.

His mouth moves over hers slowly, his tongue catching against her own while his fingers slide through the hair at the nape of her neck. She has one hand twisted into his shirt and the other against the hard plane of his chest, feeling his heart beating beneath her palm with the same fast, uneven rhythm as hers.

It feels so fucking good. That’s part of the problem.

She’s kissed men before. She’s kissed a lot of men, actually, some of them long enough that she learned the precise point where their technique would stop improving and she could begin calculating how much sleep she would get if she left immediately afterward.

She knows how to have sex. She knows how to make the right noises, move at the right moments and smile afterward as if the whole thing has been mutually transformative rather than something she endured with polite enthusiasm. She knows how to fake an orgasm convincingly enough that nobody has ever requested additional evidence, then collect her clothes and move on with her life.

Garrett already knows the noises she makes when she actually comes. He knows the difference.

The thought sends another nervous flutter through her stomach, irritatingly delicate compared to the heat gathering lower down.

Garrett’s thumb strokes beneath her jaw. His lips catch her lower one and tug gently before releasing it, drawing a soft sound from her that he answers with a quiet hum. He shifts his weight and catches her around the waist.

She moves without resisting when he pulls her over his thighs, settling astride his lap while his back presses more firmly into the headboard. The position brings her directly over the hard shape beneath his jeans. Her breath catches.

Garrett’s hands disappear beneath her dress. His palms slide up the bare skin of her waist, broad and warm, gathering the soft fabric as they go until the skirt bunches around his wrists. He traces the curve above her hips, then tucks both thumbs beneath the thin elastic sides of her underwear.

He doesn’t pull them down. He only strokes there, small movements against the delicate skin at the front of her hips while he kisses the corner of her mouth.

Her stomach tightens beneath his hands. Garrett pauses. The kiss breaks slowly. His face remains close enough that his nose brushes hers, dark eyes moving over her expression while his thumbs go still inside the waistband.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” she insists, although the words emerge too quickly and slightly breathless, which means they sound exactly like every other time she has said she’s fine while visibly not being fine.

Garrett draws one hand from beneath her dress and cups her chin. His thumb passes over her bottom lip, smoothing across skin already swollen from kissing. “Princess.”

She looks at his shoulder instead of his face. His black shirt is slightly wrinkled beneath her fingers, the collar pulled sideways from where she has been holding him. “I’m just a little nervous,” she admits.

Garrett nods once. There’s no laugh. No smug comment about her being the one who dragged him out of the party or climbed into his lap. His thumb moves over her lip again, gentler now. “Baby, we don’t have to have sex tonight.”

Her gaze lifts to his. “We don’t?”

His eyebrows pull together. “No.”

“But…” She glances toward his closed bedroom door, as though Logan, Dean and Tucker might materialise behind it if she references their absence too directly. “The house is empty.”

“That doesn’t mean we need to have sex.”

“Oh.”

Garrett studies her face. “Okay?”

She nods slowly. “Okay.”

His brow remains furrowed. He strokes the centre of her lower lip once more, watching the small drag of his thumb as if he’s trying to smooth the uncertainty out of her by hand. “I’m serious.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

She huffs, but her chest loosens enough for a little more air to enter it. “I don’t know. I thought you’d be annoyed.”

“Why would I be mad?”

She shrugs, the movement small beneath his hand. “I dunno.”

Garrett’s expression changes in a way she cannot name without becoming uncomfortable. Something soft and unhappy crosses his face before his mouth curves, not quite into his usual grin but something close enough to make the room feel familiar again.

“I’m not mad,” he says. “I like having you half-naked in my bed whether or not there’s a scheduled activity.”

Her mouth twitches. “Scheduled activity?”

“Sex.”

She presses her lips together, trying not to smile. “I understood.”

“Good. Didn’t want to overwhelm you with the terminology.”

She rolls her eyes, properly this time.

“There she is,” he murmurs.

She leans forward and kisses him. Garrett makes a pleased sound and settles his hand back at her waist, allowing her to choose the pressure, the pace, the slow movement of her mouth against his. 

The butterflies don’t disappear, but they loosen, turning warmer and less frantic beneath her ribs. She kisses him again, then once more because his mouth is soft and hot and his lower lip fits perfectly between hers.

“I like kissing you,” she whispers.

Garrett’s eyes remain closed for half a second after she pulls back. “Yeah.”

She waits.

He opens one eye. “What?”

She huffs. “That’s all?”

“What do you want, a written review?”

She pinches his side.

He laughs, catching her wrist before she can do it again. “I like kissing you too, princess.”

“Good.”

“Great.”

“Perfect.”

“Glad we cleared that up.”

She presses her smile into his mouth. Knowing he’s not waiting for anything seems to have removed the imaginary timer ticking somewhere in the room. She can kiss him without wondering when the kissing is supposed to become something else. She can sit on him and feel his erection beneath her without believing it’s become her responsibility.

Which, naturally, makes her want to get naked. She keeps kissing him as she reaches behind her neck and catches one end of the halter tie. The bow slips loose beneath her fingers. Garrett notices when the front of the dress begins to soften against his chest.

His hand closes around her waist. She draws the ties forward and pulls the dress up. The cream fabric slides over her hips, catches briefly at her breasts, and then disappears between them in a soft, polka-dotted heap.

Garrett stares. She’s left sitting in his lap wearing only a tiny pair of cream underwear, her nipples already hard in the cool room, the silver bars glinting faintly beneath the light from his bedside lamp.

“Hi,” she says.

Garrett’s eyes drag upward with visible effort. “You’re evil.”

“You said you liked having me half-naked.”

“That was before you launched a targeted attack.”

She smiles, pleased, and reaches for the hem of his shirt. Garrett grips the fabric himself and drags the shirt over his head in one impatient movement. His hair catches in the collar and springs free in complete disarray. She laughs.

“What?”

“Your hair.”

“You’re naked,” he mumbles. “I don’t care about my hair.”

He tosses the t-shirt toward his desk without looking. It lands nowhere near it.

She places both hands against his bare chest. Garrett’s warm beneath her palms, skin smooth except for the faint roughness of hair beneath his navel and the small marks hockey has collected across his body without permission. A fading bruise sits over one rib. There’s a pale line near his shoulder she has seen a hundred times at pools and practices, although touching it now feels like learning it again.

Garrett’s hands return to her hips. She kisses him harder. The relief of having nowhere to get to makes everything more intense. His mouth opens beneath hers. His fingers spread over the bare curve of her ass, drawing her forward until the damp centre of her underwear rubs over the hard length trapped inside his jeans.

Her lips part on a moan. Garrett does it again.

She begins moving without waiting for him, rolling her hips into the pressure, arms winding around his shoulders as she grinds against him. The denim is rough through the thin fabric between her legs. Every slow drag catches against her clit and sends another bright pulse of pleasure through her.

Garrett groans into her mouth. “Fuck,” he breathes.

His head lowers to her chest. He catches one breast in his palm and closes his mouth around the piercing.

Her entire body jolts. “G.”

He hums around the metal, the vibration moving straight through her. His tongue traces the bar before he sucks carefully, one hand holding her hip steady while she continues grinding over him.

Her forehead drops against his curls. The room contracts around the wet pull of his mouth, the heat of his body beneath hers and the heavy friction building between her legs.

This is what she likes most about him. Not only that he knows what he’s doing, although he does, which remains both deeply satisfying and personally irritating. It’s the way he makes the constant noise inside her head go quiet.

Garrett puts his hand somewhere and her body stays there. He tells her to look at him and she does. He catches her jaw, her hips, her wrists, and suddenly she doesn’t have to manage the angle or the rhythm or what expression belongs on her face. She doesn’t have to orchestrate her own pleasure while guiding a man toward the conclusion that he caused it.

She can simply let him handle her. Garrett releases her nipple with a soft, wet sound and moves to the other. His thumb circles the one he has abandoned, keeping the metal slick beneath the pad while his tongue finds the second bar. She whimpers and tightens her thighs around his hips.

“That good?” he asks against her breast.

“Yes,” she gasps.

His teeth graze her nipple. The rest of the complaint dissolves. Garrett laughs softly and turns them.

One second she’s above him, fingers twisted into his curls, and the next her back meets the mattress. He follows her down, fitting himself between her thighs while his mouth travels over the centre of her chest.

She stares at the ceiling as he kisses beneath her breasts, along her ribs and over her stomach. His hands hold her hips in place, thumbs moving absently along the elastic of her underwear.

By the time his mouth reaches the skin below her navel, she’s breathing too quickly again. She pushes herself upright, and Garrett glances up.

His face between her thighs does something dangerous to the rhythm of her heart, but her hands have already reached for his jeans. She catches the button and begins working it open.

Garrett straightens immediately. One hand closes around her jaw, fingers firm beneath her cheeks, and he kisses her. Deep. Slow. Thorough enough that the button remains trapped uselessly beneath her thumb while his tongue slides against hers and the hand at her face keeps her exactly where he wants her. Her thoughts blur.

When he finally pulls back, her lips chase his before she can stop them. Garrett’s thumb presses gently at the corner of her mouth. “Thought you didn’t want to.”

“I…” She glances down at his open fly, then back at him. “I don’t know.”

He watches her. She hates how easily he can see the confusion inside her, the desire winding itself through relief and nerves until she cannot tell where one stops and another begins.

“I want you,” she says, because that part is true. “I just don’t know if I want to, like…”

“Have sex.”

She nods.

“Okay.”

Her brow furrows. “But I don’t want to stop.”

“I didn’t say we had to stop.”

She blinks at him. Garrett’s head tilts slightly. His gaze shifts over her face, then down the length of her body, lingering where her thighs remain open around his hips.

“I have an idea.”

She nods immediately.

His mouth twitches. “You don’t even know what it is.”

“I trust you.”

The words leave her without ceremony. Garrett goes still for one quiet moment. Then he bends and kisses her, softer this time, once against her lips before sitting back on his knees. “You get yourself off, yeah?”

Heat crawls across her chest. “Yeah.”

“Mhm.” He drags the sound out, visibly pleased with the information. “Well, show me.”

Her arms loosen. “What?”

“Show me.”

Her stomach drops pleasantly. Garrett holds her gaze. There’s no mockery in his face, though his eyes have darkened and his mouth keeps threatening a grin.

“And I’ll show you,” he adds.

She looks down at the shape straining against his jeans. Her thighs press together without permission.

Garrett notices. “Interested?”

She nods.

“Words.”

“Yes.” Her voice comes out softer than intended. “Okay.”

He kisses her again as if rewarding the answer, his hand sliding into her hair while his mouth opens over hers. She feels him reach between them and push his jeans down, fabric dragging over his thighs before he breaks away long enough to stand at the edge of the bed.

She watches him strip. His jeans pool around his ankles. He steps out of them, then hooks his thumbs beneath the waistband of his black boxers and pulls those down too. Her breath catches.

She’s seen his cock before, held it and taken it into her mouth in the bathroom at Malone’s, but the cramped stall and the urgency of kneeling between his legs hadn’t allowed her to properly consider the fact that he’s… big.

Garrett’s proportionate to the rest of him, which isn’t comforting when the rest of him is built to drive grown men into plexiglass.

Garrett catches her staring. “Problem?”

“No,” she shakes her head. “Just observing.”

He grips himself loosely, giving one slow stroke that makes his stomach tighten. “Observing what?”

She looks at him. “You know.”

His grin appears. “I’d still like to hear it.”

“Absolutely not.”

He drags his bottom lip through his teeth. “Worth a shot.”

She shakes her head, but her hand has already found the side of her underwear. She lifts her hips and shimmies the fabric down her thighs, kicking it toward the foot of the bed. Garrett’s grin disappears. His gaze travels between her legs and remains there.

The attention makes her want to close them, because nobody has ever looked at her as though the sight itself is doing something to them. Garrett reaches down, catches both her ankles and pulls her toward him. A startled laugh escapes her as her body slides over the comforter, stopping at the edge of the mattress with her knees bent and Garrett standing between them.

“Bossy,” she says.

He wraps one hand around himself. “You love it.”

She opens her mouth to argue, but Garrett strokes once, slowly, and the words disappear. His fist moves from the base to the head, thumb sweeping through the wetness already gathered there. The muscles in his forearm tighten. His lower lip catches between his teeth for half a second before he releases it.

Her mouth goes dry.

“Go on, baby.”

She lets her knees fall wider. Her hand slides down her stomach, fingertips brushing over skin still sensitive from his mouth. Garrett watches every inch of the movement.

She finds her clit and begins circling slowly. Pleasure moves through her at once, less sharp than Garrett’s fingers but familiar, controlled. Her body knows her own touch. She knows the exact pressure to use, the rhythm that will carry her there if she keeps it steady.

The difference is Garrett. Garrett standing over her naked, stroking his cock while his eyes remain fixed between her thighs.

“Fuck,” he says quietly. Her fingers falter. He gives himself another slow stroke. “Don’t stop.”

She resumes, cheeks hot.

“That’s how you touch yourself?”

She nods.

“Words, princess.”

“Yes.”

“Show me properly.”

The instruction sends heat pouring through her. She presses more firmly, circling in the rhythm she uses alone beneath her blankets. Garrett’s breathing changes.

His fist moves faster, not much, but enough to make the muscles low in his stomach flex with each stroke. She watches the head disappear into his hand and emerge again, wet beneath the lamplight.

“You think about me when you do this?” he asks.

Her eyes lift to his. “Sometimes.”

“Sometimes,” he repeats.

She bites the inside of her cheek.

Garrett tilts his head. “How many times is sometimes?”

“Garrett.”

“Every week?”

She says nothing.

His grin grows slowly. “Every day?”

“No.”

“That answer came suspiciously fast.”

She speeds up her fingers, partly because pleasure has begun coiling low inside her and partly because it’s becoming difficult to maintain an argument.

Garrett watches her thighs twitch. “What do you think about?”

“You know what.”

“I know what you told me before.” His thumb brushes over the head of his cock. “My hands on your tits. My mouth.”

Her breath stutters.

“What else?”

She shakes her head.

“Come on, baby. You can lie in my bed with your legs open and touch yourself while I jerk off, but you can’t tell me what you think about?”

The words move through her like another hand. She circles herself harder. “You holding me down.”

Garrett’s fist tightens. “Yeah?”

She nods.

“Moving you around?”

“Yes.”

“Putting you where I want you?”

Her hips lift faintly into her own hand. “G.”

“Thought so.” His voice has dropped lower, the amusement thinning beneath something rougher.

She watches his hand slide over himself. His shoulders are tense, broad beneath the low bedroom light, curls falling over his forehead as he looks down at her. He wants to touch her. She can see it in every small movement he refuses to make – the way his free hand flexes at his side, how his body leans toward the mattress before he corrects himself, the dark concentration in his eyes whenever her fingers slip lower and gather more wetness.

But he doesn’t reach for her. He gave her an idea. He gave her a boundary inside the moment, and he keeps it even while his breathing turns uneven. The restraint is so much hotter than touching would have been. She drags her fingers through the wetness and returns to her clit.

Garrett groans. “Jesus Christ.”

Her head presses back into the mattress. “You’re staring.”

“You’re putting on a show.”

“You told me to.”

He huffs. “Best decision I’ve ever made.”

She laughs breathlessly, but the sound breaks when she finds the right pressure again.

“That’s it,” Garrett murmurs. “Keep doing that.”

Her eyes drift closed.

“No, look at me.” They reopen immediately. Approval flashes across his face. “Good girl.”

Her stomach clenches so sharply that her thighs shake.

Garrett sees it happen. “There we go.”

“Shut up,” she mumbles. 

“You’re lying there touching yourself because I told you to, and you still think you’re in a position to boss me around?”

She makes a soft, frustrated noise.

“Yeah,” he says, stroking himself faster. “That’s what I thought.”

Pleasure builds steadily beneath her fingers, every circle tightening the coil inside her. She watches Garrett’s fist move, watches the muscles in his thighs tense and the bead of sweat beginning to shine faintly at his temple.

His bottom lip disappears between his teeth again. She’s never seen him like this. Not in the bathroom, where she had been too focused on doing everything correctly, and not the morning he fingered her, when he had kept all his attention fixed on her.

Now she gets to watch pleasure move across his face without disguise. His jaw loosens when his hand twists near the head. His brows draw together whenever he strokes down more firmly. His breathing leaves him in quiet bursts through his nose until she moves her fingers faster and a rough sound breaks from his chest.

“Fuck, princess.” She whimpers. “Look so pretty like this,” he says. “All spread out for me.”

Her fingers slip slightly.

Garrett’s eyes sharpen. “Keep going.” She obeys. “That’s my girl.”

The pressure climbs higher, her stomach tightening beneath the remains of his release-free touch. She bends one knee farther, heel digging into the edge of the mattress as her hips begin moving faintly beneath her hand.

Garrett watches.

“What would you usually do?” he asks.

She pants through the next circle. “What?”

“When you’re alone. What else do you do?”

She shakes her head, unable to organise an answer.

He tilts his head. “You use a toy?”

“Yes,” she breathes.

“What kind?”

Her face burns. “A vibrator.”

“Where is it?”

“My dorm.”

“Shame.” She lets out a broken laugh. Garrett strokes himself harder. “Next time, bring it.”

The phrase next time sends another pulse through her.

“You’d like that, huh?” His voice has become rougher, words breaking slightly around his breath. “Letting me watch you use it?” She nods. “Maybe I’ll hold it for you.” Her fingers press harder. “Keep you still while I make you come with it.”

“Garrett.”

“Or make you hold it and tell you when you’re allowed to finish.”

The pleasure spikes. Her back arches slightly from the mattress.

Garrett groans. “Fuck. You like that.”

She cannot pretend otherwise. “Yes.”

“Course you do.”

She’s never been spoken to like this without finding it embarrassing. Other men have tried. They have repeated phrases clearly acquired from pornography, asked questions they didn’t wait for her to answer and called her names that felt disconnected from everything happening inside her body.

Garrett knows where the words need to land. His bossy best friend, who wants control over every detail until his hands close around her and take the responsibility away.

Her fingers move faster. The orgasm begins approaching in heavy, gathering waves, her muscles tightening around nothing while the wet sound of Garrett’s fist fills the space between her breaths. “G,” she whimpers.

“I know.”

“I’m close.”

“Yeah?”

She nods quickly.

Garrett’s head tips back for half a second, throat working. “Me too.”

His hand speeds up. She watches him, mesmerised by the slight loss of control in his body. His hips begin meeting his fist in small, involuntary movements. His free hand grips the edge of the mattress beside her thigh hard enough that his knuckles pale.

He still doesn’t touch her. “Don’t stop,” he says.

“I’m not.”

“Come on, baby. Let me watch.” Her body tightens. “That’s it.”

She circles herself faster, no longer capable of maintaining the slow performance of showing him. Her thighs shake, knees drawing inward before she forces them open again.

Garrett notices. “Keep those legs open.”

She moans.

“Good girl.”

The orgasm breaks through her. Her mouth opens around his name as pleasure pulses hard beneath her fingers, hips jerking upward from the mattress. She half rolls onto her side automatically, curling away from the intensity while a broken moan leaves her.

Garrett catches her. His free hand closes around her hip and pulls her flat onto her back again. “No, stay there.”

The firm movement sends another aftershock through her. She gasps, fingers still pressed uselessly between her thighs while her body continues fluttering around the remains of the orgasm.

Garrett steps closer. His fist moves once, twice, faster now, eyes fixed on her face as his breathing fractures. “Fuck.”

His body tightens. Warm release spills across her stomach, landing in thick streaks over the soft skin below her navel. Garrett groans, head dropping forward, his hand slowing as the last of it pulses over her.

For several seconds, neither of them moves. Her chest rises beneath the silver bars through her nipples. Garrett’s does the same above her, shoulders shifting with every unsteady breath. The room smells like sex despite the fact that, technically, they have still not had it.

A laugh bubbles out of her. Garrett looks down. She presses the back of her wrist to her mouth, but another giggle escapes anyway, loose and delighted from the endorphins still moving through her.

His mouth curves. “Good?”

She nods, hair shifting against his mattress. “So good.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

Garrett wipes his hand against the inside of his discarded boxers, then drops onto the mattress beside her with all the grace of a man whose legs have temporarily resigned.

The bed bounces beneath his weight. She turns her head toward him. His face is flushed, curls damp near his temples and chest still rising too quickly. He stares at the ceiling like it’s witnessed something life-changing.

She shuffles closer and settles the side of her head against his shoulder. Garrett’s arm lifts automatically around her. Neither of them speaks for a moment. His fingers move slowly over her upper arm while their breathing returns to normal. Downstairs, the refrigerator makes a loud mechanical hum and then stops.

She glances down at her stomach. “G.”

“Mhm?”

“You’ve got to clean me up.”

Garrett closes his eyes. “Gimme a second.”

She giggles again. “You made the mess.”

“I’m aware.”

Her nose scrunches up. “It’s getting cold.”

His eyes open. “That’s disgusting.”

“It’s true.”

“Can you give me thirty seconds to recover from the most intense mutual-masturbation experience of my life?”

She tips her face toward him. “The most intense?”

Garrett looks down at her, completely serious. “By a humiliating margin.”

Her smile spreads.

“Don’t get cocky.”

“I’m not.”

He nudges his nose into her hair. “You are. I can feel it happening.”

She traces one finger absently over the centre of his chest. “You were staring at me.”

“You were naked and touching yourself,” he mutters. “What did you expect me to look at? The curtains?”

“They’re nice curtains.”

“They came with the house.”

“You should wash them.”

“There she is,” he says, laughing softly as he catches her hand. “Back for twelve seconds and already assigning chores.”

She threads her fingers through his. “You like me bossy.”

Garrett brings their joined hands to his mouth and kisses her knuckles. “I like you all the time. The bossiness is an extra.”

The softness of the answer catches beneath her ribs. She looks back down at her stomach so he cannot watch it land. Garrett notices that too. His arm tightens around her briefly before he sits up with a groan and reaches for the tissues on his nightstand.

“Elegant,” she says.

“You want a warm towel?”

“Yes.”

He pauses with the tissue box in his hand. “Seriously?”

“You asked.”

“I was being sarcastic.”

She waits. Garrett stares at her. Then he drops the tissues and climbs out of bed. Her grin widens. “Thank you.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Nobody likes cold tissues.”

“Nobody else orders room service after getting come on them.”

She grins. “I’m your best girl.”

He points at her as he pulls on his boxers. “Weaponising my own words against me is low.”

“You love me.”

Garrett stills for barely a fraction of a second. It’s nothing. A tiny interruption in the movement of his hand as he pulls the waistband over his hips. So brief she could almost convince herself it didn’t happen.

Then he shakes his head and reaches for the door. “Unfortunately,” he says.

She throws a pillow at him. Garrett catches it against his chest, grinning, then tosses it back onto the bed before slipping into the hallway.

She listens to his footsteps move toward the bathroom. Her dress remains crumpled near the headboard. Her underwear has landed beside one sneaker, while the other shoe is somehow beneath Garrett’s desk. His clothes are scattered across the floor. The lamp casts everything in warm, uneven shadows.

Nothing has happened the way she expected. There was no awkward attempt to pretend Garrett’s size didn’t make her nervous. No pressure to continue because the house was empty and they had already taken their clothes off. No need to monitor his pleasure while manufacturing her own.

Garrett had watched her come and known it was real. The thought should leave her feeling exposed. Instead, she sinks deeper into his pillow and smiles at the ceiling.

He returns a minute later with a warm washcloth in one hand and a bottle of water tucked beneath his arm.

“You took forever.”

“I had to wait for the water to heat up.”

“Excuses.”

Garrett climbs back onto the mattress and catches her knee when she starts to close her legs. “Hold still.”

She goes still. His eyes flick toward her face, amusement warming them, but he doesn’t comment. He cleans her stomach carefully, the cloth soft and warm against oversensitive skin. Then he folds it and wipes gently between her thighs where her own release has dried tacky against them.

Her stomach turns over at the quiet intimacy of it. Nobody has ever cleaned her up before. Most men have barely noticed there was anything to clean.

Garrett finishes, tosses the cloth toward his laundry basket and hands her the bottle of water. “Drink.”

She twists the cap and takes several obedient swallows.

He shakes his head. “More.”

“You’re very demanding for someone who claims I’m bossy.”

“Drink your water, princess.”

She drinks again, mostly because the low instruction does something pleasant to the remains of her nervous system. Garrett lies beside her and pulls the comforter over them. She sets the bottle on his nightstand, then curls into his side, one bare leg sliding over his.

His hand settles on her hip. “You okay?” he asks.

She nods against his shoulder. “Yeah.”

“No regrets?”

She thinks about it. “I regret that you know how often I masturbate.”

“I don’t know how often. You refused to provide figures.”

She grins. “And I’ll continue refusing.”

“We’ll see.”

She smiles into his skin. Garrett’s thumb begins moving in slow strokes over her hip, exactly where it had rested inside the waistband of her underwear before he noticed she was tense.

“You still nervous?” he asks.

“A little.”

“About what?”

She lifts her head. He’s looking at her seriously, curls pushed away from his face and all the sharp hunger from earlier softened into patient attention.

She could say his size. She could say their friendship. The deal. The unsettling fact that sex with him will not allow her to hide inside a performance because Garrett will keep looking until he finds the truth.

Instead, she touches the small gold hoop in his ear, turning it lightly between two fingers. “You pay too much attention.”

His eyebrows rise. “That’s a complaint?”

“I haven’t decided.”

Garrett studies her face for a moment, then turns his head and kisses her fingertips. “Take your time.”

The answer settles through her more deeply than anything dirty he said earlier. She lies back down and presses a kiss against his shoulder.

Outside, a car passes along the road, headlights briefly sweeping across the curtains. Somewhere across campus, their friends are still drinking inside a crowded fraternity house, entirely unaware that Garrett is naked beneath his comforter with her polka-dot dress tangled near his pillow.

The secrecy sends a final, lazy spark of excitement through her. She smiles against him. “Dean’s going to know.”

“Dean thinks he knows everything.”

“He saw us leave.”

“I told him I was checking the door.”

“You left a frat party to check the door at your own house?”

Garrett frowns toward the ceiling. “It sounded better when I said it.”

She begins laughing. Garrett catches her around the waist and rolls her beneath him, pinning her lightly into the mattress while she squeals.

“You’re becoming irritating,” he informs her.

“Becoming?”

His mouth twitches. She looks up at him, bare chest warm above hers, one forearm planted beside her head and his knee resting carefully between her thighs. The nervous flutter remains, but it no longer feels like something warning her to leave.

She slides both arms around his neck. “I like kissing you.”

Garrett’s expression softens. “Yeah?”

She nods. He lowers his mouth to hers, slow and warm and smiling slightly when she kisses him back.

“Good,” he murmurs. “Because that’s all you’re getting tonight.”

She catches his lower lip between her teeth. Garrett groans. “We’ll see,” she whispers.

His eyes narrow with immediate understanding. “Bossy.”

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[kooksandpearls]

garrett graham ❄︎ best girl.

pairing – garrett graham x princess!reader summary – a little jealousy, a risky bathroom invitation and the newest addition to a very secret deal. warnings – 18+, smut, oral sex, public bathroom hookup, praise kink, jealousy, secret friends with benefits. notes from me – i am so down bad for them. based on these asks combined, thank u babies!! xx word count – 5.8k

navigation – masterlist |

The puck bunnies start looking at her before Garrett even finishes buying his first beer. Not all of them, obviously. She isn’t unreasonable, despite what Garrett claims whenever she asks him to carry something that weighs more than a handbag or move his car because she doesn’t like reversing around it. 

Most of the girls gathered at the far end of Malone’s bar are perfectly occupied with their own drinks, their own conversations and the collection of Briar hockey players taking up the largest booth in the room.

But two of them keep glancing over. One is blonde, wearing a black top with complicated straps. The other has dark hair swept over one shoulder and lip gloss bright enough to reflect the neon beer signs. They look at Garrett. They look at her. They lean closer to each other. Then they look at her again.

She lowers her eyes to the drink sweating beneath her fingers and drags the little black straw around the ice, pretending the movement requires considerably more concentration than it does. The white dress had felt like a very good decision in her dorm room.

It’s still a good decision, objectively. The lace is soft rather than bridal, fitted through her waist with long sleeves that flare slightly around her wrists, and the skirt is short enough to make her check the back of it whenever she bends. It finishes just beneath the curve of her ass, revealing a lot of bare thigh above her boots, and the square neckline sits low without doing anything particularly dramatic.

Except, apparently, inspire hostility in women she’s never spoken to.

“You have to use actual butter,” Claire is saying beside her, halfway through a story about her roommate attempting to make cookies with vegetable spread. “She said it was basically the same thing.”

“It isn’t,” she says automatically, still watching the ice turn. “That’s hateful.”

“Thank you.”

“Did they spread?”

“They became one large cookie.”

The girls laugh, and she smiles with them because she likes Claire, and Nina, and the other two girls from her behavioural economics seminar whose names she only learned properly tonight. 

They’re nice. They asked her to come out after class, complimented her dress and ordered a round of cocktails that arrived the colour of cough syrup and tasted considerably better.

She should be having fun. She is having fun. She is simply also aware of Garrett standing ten feet away with three women arranged loosely around him.

He isn’t doing anything wrong. That’s important. Garrett is leaning against the bar in a dark green sweater with the sleeves pushed to his forearms, listening to one of the girls talk while he waits for the bartender. His posture is relaxed, one ankle crossed over the other, his mouth occasionally curving around an answer she can’t hear over the music.

Normal Garrett behaviour. Infuriatingly charming, but normal.

Two days ago, he had made her come with his fingers in his bed and then solemnly shaken her hand on a secret friends-with-benefits agreement while she was still naked from the waist down.

They haven’t discussed exclusivity. They haven’t discussed anything, actually, except secrecy, not ruining the friendship and the statistical likelihood of Logan walking in on them. Garrett had kissed her again afterward, slow enough to leave her thoughts pleasantly scrambled, then gone downstairs to make eggs while she searched for her underwear beneath his desk.

Since then, they’ve exchanged approximately fourteen completely ordinary texts, sat together through one lecture and watched half a movie with Tucker on the opposite couch.

Garrett had kept his hands to himself throughout both activities. Mostly.

His palm had rested on her knee beneath the lecture table for eleven minutes while Professor Ellis explained loss aversion, but that could technically fall under existing best-friend touching. So could the way he pulled her feet into his lap during the movie and rubbed his thumb over her ankle. Probably.

She had expected the deal to feel more obvious. A secret buzzing beneath every conversation. Some dramatic shift in the air whenever they looked at each other.

Instead, Garrett still steals bites from her plate and tells her she’s dressed inappropriately for the weather. She still orders him around and complains when he chooses action movies. He still calls her princess with the same insufferable curve to his mouth.

The only difference is that she now knows what his fingers feel like inside her. Which, admittedly, is not a small difference.

The blonde at the bar touches Garrett’s arm. Barely anything. Her fingers settle briefly near his elbow while she laughs, then remain there for half a second longer than a person needs for balance.

Something tightens beneath the lace at her ribs. She takes a drink. The glass is almost empty.

Garrett glances toward the booth where Dean is saying something with both hands, Logan is stealing fries from Tucker’s plate and Tucker is pretending not to notice. None of them know. Every time she looks at them, she remembers Garrett saying Tucker will figure it out, and feels as though the responsible man in question can see directly through her dress and into the handshake agreement lodged somewhere behind her sternum.

Tucker looks toward her now and lifts his chin in greeting. She wiggles her fingers at him. The two puck bunnies look over again.

This time, one of them says something into the other’s ear. The blonde’s mouth curves – not quite a smile, not quite anything she could reasonably take offence to – and she feels the expression anyway, a tiny cold scrape beneath her skin.

She doesn’t understand why they dislike her. She has occasionally interrupted hook ups, yes, but only because she needed something, and Garrett has always complained before giving it to her. That’s hardly her fault. He’s a grown man with free will and an entirely functional ability to tell her no, even if he almost never uses it.

She doesn’t flirt with the team. She doesn’t hang off Garrett at parties more than she hangs off Garrett everywhere else. She has baked for all of them equally, excluding Tucker’s birthday cake because he requested lemon and Garrett claimed lemon cake tastes like cleaning supplies.

They have no reason to glare at her like she’s broken into the hockey house at night and stolen him from beneath a glass display case. The thought makes her throat feel thick in a way she resents.

She turns back to Claire, who’s now explaining that her roommate ate the tray cookie with a fork over the sink, and laughs at the appropriate moment. It comes out a little softer than intended.

Across the room, Garrett looks up. He finds her immediately.

It’s annoying how quickly he can do that in a crowded bar, as though some portion of his attention remains permanently hooked into her and only needs the smallest tug. His gaze moves over her face. The smile leaves the corner of his mouth.

He tilts his head. The gesture is slight. Questioning. You good?

She could shake her head and let him come over. He would. It wouldn’t matter that he was mid-conversation or that the puck bunnies were watching. Garrett has already demonstrated that he will abandon a blonde with her tongue in his mouth because she asks him to drive her home.

That’s not what she wants. Or it’s not all she wants.

Her thumb finds her lower lip. The baby-pink acrylic rests lightly between her teeth as she watches him, mind skittering past every sensible option and landing somewhere warm, reckless and privately satisfying.

She points at her phone. Garrett’s eyebrows rise, but he nods and pulls his from his pocket. She looks down quickly, opening their messages beneath the table.

Her last text to him is from this afternoon.

princess: are you picking me up tonight

garrett: thought you were going with your class friends

princess: i am princess: but are you picking me up

garrett: sure

Her mouth twitches despite herself. She types with both thumbs.

princess: bathroom?

The message delivers. She bites her thumbnail again and watches his face across the bar. Garrett feels his phone vibrate, glances down and goes completely still. His eyes lift to hers. She widens her own innocently.

He looks around the room once, taking in the crowded bar, the booth containing every person they know and the girls still standing close enough to read his drink order. Then he types.

garrett: now? garrett: with everyone here?

She reads it, looks up and gives him one small shrug. Garrett stares at her.

She can almost see the machinery moving behind his expression. Captain Graham considering risk, strategy and whether the lace hem sitting directly beneath her ass has declared war on him.

His tongue presses against the inside of his cheek. Then he nods. Pleasure unfurls warm and immediate through her stomach.

She ducks her head before her grin can become embarrassing and finishes the last of her drink, the melting ice knocking against her teeth. “I’m going to go pee, girls,” she says, sliding off the barstool and smoothing both hands down her skirt. “Won’t be a second.”

“Okay, babe,” Claire says, still invested in the cookie catastrophe. “We’re ordering shots when you get back.”

“Nothing cinnamon.”

“That was one time.”

“It tasted like a candle.”

Nina laughs and catches her wrist briefly. “Your dress is so cute, by the way.”

The compliment lands more deeply than it should. “Oh. Thank you.”

She squeezes Nina’s fingers, then turns toward the back of the bar. Malone’s is crowded enough that getting anywhere requires patience, strategic shoulder turns and a willingness to accept that somebody else’s beer will eventually touch you. She slips between two men arguing about basketball, passes the table near the pool cues and rounds the narrow corner leading toward the bathrooms.

The hallway is dimmer, the music reduced to a thick pulse through the walls. A neon arrow hums above the doors, red light spilling over the scuffed floor.

She has just reached the women’s bathroom when a hand closes around her wrist. She squeals.

Garrett catches her around the waist before the sound has finished leaving her and pulls her backward through the door. Her boots skid across the tile. She twists against him, laughter bursting out when he shoves the door closed with his shoulder and steers her toward the last stall.

“You scared me!”

“You invited me into a women’s bathroom,” he says, dragging the stall door open. “I’m under pressure.”

“You could’ve said hello.”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

He pulls her inside after him and locks the flimsy door. The stall is barely wide enough to hold one person comfortably, never mind Garrett’s shoulders, her dress and the substantial amount of poor judgement pressing them together.

She doesn’t give him time to complain. Her hands slide around the back of his neck and she kisses him. Garrett’s surprise lasts less than a second. Then his palm settles over the small of her back and he bends her into him, answering with a low hum that vibrates against her mouth.

There. That’s what she wanted.

Garrett’s mouth warm over hers and his body filling every available inch of the stall, his fingers spreading possessively against the lace at her waist as though he’s been waiting for an excuse to touch her too. She rises onto her toes, chasing him when he pulls back enough to breathe.

“This is so risky,” he murmurs, but he sounds pleased about it.

She shakes her head and kisses him again, softer this time, catching his lower lip between hers. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Talk.”

Garrett’s mouth curves. “You dragged me into a bathroom to shut me up?”

“I just wanted you to myself.”

The grin disappears. One second it is there, bright and smug and completely Garrett, and the next his face stills as though she has pressed her palm flat against something vital.

“Holy shit,” he says.

Heat reaches her cheeks. She immediately regrets speaking in full sentences. To avoid looking at him, she turns her mouth to his jaw, kissing the warm skin beneath it. His stubble catches faintly against her lips. She follows the line toward his ear, breathing in soap, beer and the clean cold scent that always seems trapped in his clothes from the rink.

Garrett’s hand tightens around her waist. “You’re jealous.”

She kisses the spot beneath his ear. “No.”

“You are.”

“Not even.”

“Princess.”

She sucks gently at his neck. Garrett’s head tips back against the stall wall with a quiet knock. His fingers thread into her hair, careful of the curls she spent forty minutes arranging, though his restraint doesn’t extend to the fist closing slowly near her scalp.

“Holy shit, baby,” he says, laughing under his breath. “You’re jealous.”

She pulls back enough to glare at him. “I’m not jealous.”

“You texted me ‘bathroom’ because girls were talking to me.”

She gives him a look. “They were looking at me.”

“Who?”

“The puck bunnies, Garrett.”

His eyebrows pull together. “What about them?”

“They’re mean to me.” The words come out smaller than she intends, stripped of all the bright irritation she had prepared around them. Her fingers catch in the front of his sweater. “Don’t like it.”

Garrett’s expression shifts. Something warm moves behind his eyes, but not pity. She would hate pity. It’s closer to recognition – the quiet click of him finally understanding why her shoulders had been sitting too straight at the bar.

His thumb brushes through the hair near her temple. “What’d they say?”

“Nothing.”

“Then what’d they do?”

“They keep looking at me and whispering,” she murmurs.

“Maybe they’re talking about your dress.”

She sighs. “They don’t like my dress.”

“Well, I fucking love your dress.”

“That isn’t the point.”

“It’s a strong point.”

She tries to scowl, but his mouth is already tilting again, not mocking her so much as coaxing her back toward herself. “G.”

His hand slides from her waist to her hip, fingers curling just beneath the tiny lace skirt. “You’re my best girl, yeah?”

The words settle into her with humiliating ease. She nods. Garrett studies her face, waiting. “I know,” she says.

“Good.”

He kisses her forehead first, which is obnoxiously tender and completely unfair, then catches her mouth before she can complain. The kiss deepens quickly, his tongue sliding against hers as he presses her back toward the metal partition.

She grabs his sweater and pulls him closer. Garrett groans, low enough that she feels it in her chest. His palm moves down her thigh, slipping beneath the lace hem until his fingers reach the soft curve of her ass.

The contact makes her stomach clench. She lifts one knee against his hip, and Garrett catches it automatically, holding her leg in place while his mouth moves to her neck.

“Wait,” he says suddenly.

She blinks up at him. “What?”

He takes one step back, which is all the stall permits, and looks between them. Her dress has ridden high enough that another inch would expose the pale-pink underwear she selected with considerably more optimism than she admitted to herself.

Garrett drags both hands over his face. “No.”

Her brows knit. “No?”

“I’m not fucking you for the first time in the bathroom at Malone’s.”

She looks around. The scratched metal walls are covered in faded stickers and someone’s declaration that Tyler from Sigma is a liar. Toilet paper trails from the dispenser. The lock has already shifted twice beneath the weight of Garrett’s shoulder.

“Right,” she says.

“Yeah.”

“Good point,” she concedes.

“Thank you.”

She lowers her leg and smooths the skirt down, thoughtful for approximately two seconds. Then she reaches for his belt.

Garrett’s breath catches. “Oh?”

The buckle slides loose beneath her fingers. She pulls the leather free with more confidence than she currently possesses and starts on the button of his jeans. His hand closes around her wrist.

“Princess.”

She looks up. The expression on his face makes her pulse jump – surprise, want and something careful beneath both, as if he is trying to determine whether this is another part of the deal they forgot to negotiate.

“I want to,” she says quickly.

Garrett releases her wrist, but his fingers stay curled loosely around it. “Yeah?”

“Yes. But I, um…” Her courage catches somewhere behind her teeth. She looks down at the open buckle, then at the tiled floor, which is thankfully cleaner than expected but still part of a public bathroom. “Ugh. This is embarrassing.”

“What is?”

“I don’t really do this.”

He glances around the stall. “Hook up in a cubicle?”

“Well, yes. Obviously.” She tugs at the hem of his sweater, unable to keep her fingers still. “But, like, give head.”

Garrett goes silent. She makes herself look at him again. His mouth is slightly open. For perhaps the first time in the history of Briar University, Garrett Graham appears to have no immediate response available.

“I’ve done it,” she continues, because silence has always made her fill it, usually beyond the point of wisdom. “I just don’t normally. Because sometimes men get weird about it, and also my ex used to push my head, which I hated, and one guy made this horrible noise the entire time, like he was doing an impression of an injured bear, so I stopped because it wasn’t exactly, like, enriching my life.”

Garrett’s jaw hardens briefly at the mention of her ex, but she keeps going before he can turn it into a separate issue.

“But I want to be good.” Her voice softens without permission. “For you.”

Every thought behind Garrett’s eyes seems to leave at once. She can actually see the moment the sentence reaches him.

This is Garrett, who has spent three years being told where to drive, what to order, when to move his legs because she wants the other end of the couch and whether his room smells unacceptable. Garrett, who gets called disgusting if he drinks from her water bottle after practice and receives detailed instructions whenever she lets him help in the kitchen.

Now she’s standing with one hand halfway into his jeans, looking up through her lashes and asking to be good for him. He swallows.

“G?”

“Yeah.”

“Can I?”

His eyes close for half a second.

“Will you help?”

“Yeah,” he says again, voice rougher. His hand rises to her face, thumb brushing once over the corner of her mouth. “Yeah, course, baby.”

She smiles, relieved enough that it reaches her eyes, then lowers herself carefully onto her knees. The tile is cold even through the thin lace beneath the hem of her dress. Garrett immediately strips off his sweater and drops it in front of her without being asked. She looks up.

“For your knees.”

Her chest goes warm. “You’ll be cold.”

“I’m about to have other problems.”

She bites back a smile and settles onto the sweater. From this angle, Garrett looks even larger than usual. His thighs crowd the narrow space between the toilet and partition, jeans sitting open at his hips, one hand braced against the wall above her. She slips her fingers beneath the waistband of his boxers.

He exhales slowly. She draws him out.

The first thing she thinks is that he’s bigger than she expected, which feels ridiculous because Garrett is over six feet tall, built like somebody designed him specifically to collide with other men for entertainment, and has never possessed a modest physical feature in his life.

The second thing she thinks is that she shouldn’t have worn lip gloss. Garrett watches her face closely, reading every tiny shift the way he does when she claims she’s fine and he knows she’s not.

“You good?”

She nods.

“Words.”

“Yes.” She wraps her hand around him tentatively, watching his stomach tighten. “I’m good.”

His head drops back. “Oh, fuck.”

A pleased little thrill moves through her. That was barely anything. She strokes him once, slowly, learning the weight and heat of him in her palm. His breathing changes immediately, deepening through his nose.

She looks up again. “Like that?”

Garrett’s eyes return to her face. “Yeah.”

“Just yeah?”

He laughs once, breathless. “Princess, I’m trying not to die here.”

She smiles and does it again. His fingers flex against the stall wall. There’s something almost intoxicating about the reaction. Garrett’s usually impossible to unsettle for long. He flirts through embarrassment, jokes through pain and turns most situations into something he can control with a grin.

Now she has one hand around him and his face has gone carefully blank with concentration. Her thumb brushes experimentally over the tip. Garrett swears.

“Too much?”

“No.” The answer comes fast. “Definitely not.”

She watches a bead of wetness gather and glisten beneath the harsh bathroom light. Her mouth feels suddenly dry.

“Lick it, baby,” Garrett says softly.

The instruction sends warmth low through her stomach. She leans closer and touches the tip of her tongue to him. His hips jerk before he catches himself. She pulls back, startled.

“Sorry.” His hand immediately leaves the wall and settles against the side of her head without pushing, fingers spreading gently through her hair. “Sorry. You okay?”

She nods, fighting a smile. “You moved.”

“Yeah, turns out that felt good.”

“Helpful feedback.”

“Happy to provide it.”

She licks him again, slower this time, tracing through the wetness before circling the head.

Garrett’s hand tightens faintly in her hair. “Yeah,” he breathes. “Like that.”

Praise blooms beneath her skin. She repeats the motion, watching his face as she learns what makes his jaw flex and his breath catch. There’s an unexpected satisfaction in it, not only the physical act but the certainty that every sound belongs to something she has done.

She wants more of them. She closes her lips around the tip. Garrett makes a low, broken noise and turns his face toward the partition. Her eyes widen.

He glances down and sees her expression. “Don’t look so pleased with yourself.”

She hums experimentally around him. His hand slaps flat against the wall. The sound echoes through the stall. Somebody enters the bathroom. Both of them freeze. Heels click across the tile. The outer door swings shut, muffling the music again.

“Oh my God,” a woman says near the sinks. “He literally told me he was twenty-three.”

“He looks thirty,” another voice answers.

Garrett looks down at her. She looks up at him with his cock still between her lips. His eyes go almost black. A laugh threatens somewhere in her chest, but she swallows it before the movement can become dangerous.

The women continue discussing the ambiguous age of a man named Bryce while Garrett’s thumb brushes slowly along her cheekbone.

“You wanted risky,” he whispers.

She draws back just enough to whisper, “You agreed.”

“Because I’m weak.”

“That sounds personal.”

One of the women turns on the tap. Garrett bites down on the inside of his cheek, trying not to laugh. She uses the moment to take him into her mouth again.

His amusement vanishes. Her hand works at the base while she lowers her mouth a little farther, careful, trying to remember what she knows and what she’s always hated. She keeps her movements slow enough to remain comfortable, tongue pressing along the underside.

Garrett’s fingers remain in her hair, but he doesn’t guide or push. He lets her choose every inch, his palm warm against her scalp, thumb stroking whenever she pauses.

“That’s so good,” he murmurs, barely audible beneath the running water. “Fuck, princess. Just like that.”

The words move through her faster than the drink did. She looks up.

Garrett stares down at her, chest rising beneath his t-shirt, curls already disordered from the way he keeps dragging his free hand through them. There’s nothing smug in his expression now. Only open disbelief and want.

“That’s my girl,” he whispers.

She takes him deeper. His eyes close. The women leave eventually, still debating Bryce, and the outer door swings shut behind them. Garrett exhales as if he has been holding his breath for several minutes.

She pulls off him with a quiet pop and wipes the corner of her mouth with one finger. “Am I doing it right?”

His eyes open. “Are you–” He cuts himself off and stares at her. “Baby.”

“What?”

“You’re on your knees in that dress, sucking my dick in the bathroom while our friends are twenty feet away.”

She blinks. “That doesn’t answer my question.”

Garrett laughs, but the sound fractures halfway through when she strokes him again. “Yes,” he says. “You’re doing it right.”

“Could be better.”

“Of course you’d turn this into homework.”

She pouts. “I like constructive feedback.”

“You’re insane.”

“That isn’t constructive.”

He bends slightly, fingers still threaded through her hair. “Use your hand where your mouth doesn’t reach.”

She does. His eyelids lower.

“And keep your tongue there,” he says, tapping his thumb lightly against the side of her jaw. “Yeah. Good girl.”

Her thighs press together beneath the dress. Garrett notices.

His mouth curves faintly. “You like that?”

She refuses to answer and takes him back into her mouth.

“Thought so.”

She wants to roll her eyes but lacks the coordination. Instead, she focuses on him, alternating the slow pull of her mouth with the movement of her hand. Garrett talks her through it in fragments, each instruction rougher than the last.

“Little slower.” She slows. “Fuck. Yeah.” Her tongue moves over the same sensitive place again. “Right there, baby.”

The praise keeps her eager, every broken breath encouraging another careful experiment. She learns that he likes when she twists her wrist slightly, when she keeps her tongue flat beneath him and when she looks up.

Especially when she looks up.

“Jesus Christ,” Garrett mutters the third time their eyes meet. “You have no idea what you look like.”

She releases him long enough to breathe. “Good?”

“Fucking devastating.”

Her mouth curves.

“There she is,” he says, thumb brushing her swollen lower lip. “Knew you were getting cocky.”

“I’m not cocky.”

“You’re smiling.”

“Maybe I’m having fun.”

His hand slides from her hair to cup her cheek. “Yeah?”

She nods and turns her mouth into his palm, kissing the base of his thumb before taking him back between her lips.

Garrett groans. “Fuck, princess.”

The sound is louder this time. Loud enough that somebody passing in the hallway outside might hear if the music drops. She should care. Instead, the danger sharpens everything – the cold tile beneath his sweater, the bass trembling faintly through the metal partition, the taste of him on her tongue.

Garrett begins to lose the careful stillness in his body. His hips flex faintly toward her mouth before stopping, thighs tightening beneath her hands. His fingers return to her hair, gathering it away from her face while she moves faster.

“I’m close,” he warns.

She looks up without stopping.

Garrett’s jaw clenches. “You don’t have to swallow.”

The fact that he says it now – when she can feel how close he is, when every muscle in his body seems held together by effort – makes something soft press against the inside of her ribs.

She draws back. “I want to.”

His eyes search hers. “Sure?”

“Yes.”

He strokes her cheek once. “Okay.”

She takes him back into her mouth, more certain now, her hand tightening around the base. Garrett’s control frays quickly after that. His breaths turn uneven. His head tips back against the partition and his fingers close carefully in her hair, not directing, only holding on.

“Just like that,” he says, voice breaking low. “Fuck, good girl. Keep going.”

She does.

“That’s it, baby.”

Her name almost leaves him, but he catches it somewhere behind his teeth, replacing it with a rough groan as his body tightens. He comes with one hand braced against the wall and the other cradling the back of her head. She swallows, surprised by the warmth and salt but determined, taking everything until his breathing stutters and his grip loosens.

When she finally pulls away, Garrett looks down at her as though she’s just performed an advanced medical procedure with no training. She wipes her lower lip with her thumb. He stares at the movement.

“Come here,” he says.

His hands find beneath her arms and lift her before she can protest. She squeaks as her boots slip against his discarded sweater, then lands upright against his chest.

Garrett kisses her immediately. There’s no hesitation about where her mouth has been, nothing but his fingers cupping her jaw and his lips opening warmly over hers. She melts into him, smiling halfway through when he backs her against the stall door.

He pulls away enough to breathe, forehead dropping to hers.

Her hands smooth down his chest, pleased and a little dazed. “Was that okay?”

Garrett lifts his head. “Okay?”

She nods.

“Baby.”

“What?”

“Do you understand I almost blacked out?”

A giggle slips from her. “You did hit the wall a lot.”

“I was fighting for my life.”

“You’re dramatic.”

“You just–” He stops, apparently unable to describe what she has just done without violating public decency laws that no longer seem relevant. “In the dress.”

She looks down at herself. The skirt has twisted around one thigh, lace rumpled from kneeling. “Do I look bad?”

“You look like I need to lock you in my car before anyone else sees you.”

Her grin widens.

Garrett catches it and narrows his eyes. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Get all pleased with yourself.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

She reaches down and begins tucking him carefully back into his boxers.

Garrett looks at the ceiling. “Jesus.”

“What?”

“You switching back to organising me immediately is deeply confusing.”

She frowns. “Your jeans are open.”

“I’m aware.”

“You look indecent.”

“I wonder how that happened.”

She buttons his jeans, threads the belt back through the buckle and gives it one firm tug before fastening it. “There,” she says. “Fixed.”

Garrett looks down at her hands, then at her face. “Thanks, Mom.”

Her mouth falls open. “That is disgusting.”

“You were being bossy.”

“You’re never touching me again.”

He grins. “Sure.”

“I mean it.”

“Of course, princess.”

She bends to retrieve his sweater, but Garrett catches her around the waist and lifts her away from the floor before she can reach it. 

“I can pick it up.”

“You’re not kneeling on the bathroom floor again.”

“I was on your sweater.”

“Yeah, and now my sweater has Malone’s bathroom on it,” he grumbles.

“That feels like your sacrifice.”

He sighs, retrieves it himself and rolls it into a loose bundle beneath one arm. When he stands, she reaches toward the mirror-less metal wall and tries to smooth her hair by feel.

Garrett watches for a moment, then carefully tucks one displaced curl behind her ear. “You look good,” he says.

“My lip gloss is gone.”

“Tragic.”

“My liner’s probably smudged.”

He gasps. “Life-ending.”

She pokes him in the stomach. “You’re so annoying.”

“There she is.”

“There who is?”

“My terrifying best friend.” His hand slides beneath the back of her dress and taps her ass once, quick and warm. “Thought I lost her for a second.”

She spins toward him with an offended gasp. “Do not mess up my skirt.”

Garrett grins, fully recovered now that she is correcting him again. “See you out there.”

“You’re leaving first?”

“Unless you want to walk out together holding hands.”

Her eyes widen. “Are you insane?”

“That’s what I thought.”

He unlocks the stall and checks the bathroom before stepping out, sweater tucked beneath his arm. At the main door, he looks back. She’s still standing inside the stall, lace dress rumpled, lips pink and eyes bright, trying to smooth the hem over her thighs.

Garrett shakes his head slowly.

“What?” she whispers.

“Nothing.”

She narrows her eyes. “That’s suspicious.”

“Fix your face, princess.”

Her mouth opens. He slips through the door before she can answer. She waits thirty seconds, mostly because that feels strategic, then leaves the stall and moves to the sinks.

The mirror confirms that she looks suspiciously happy. Her lip liner has smudged at one corner. Her gloss is completely gone. Several curls near the back of her head are flattened where Garrett held them, and her cheeks remain flushed enough that no amount of cold water will make her appear as though she has merely used the bathroom in a conventional manner.

She opens her tiny bag and begins repairs. Lip liner first. A little concealer beneath one eye where her mascara has transferred. Gloss. She fluffs her hair with both hands, repositions the neckline of the dress and smooths the lace skirt carefully over her hips.

By the time she steps back, she looks normal again. Better than normal, actually.She smiles at herself, small and private.

Her phone vibrates on the counter.

garrett: you’re evil garrett: tuck asked why i’m carrying my sweater garrett: i said i spilled something on it

She types back.

princess: technically true

Three dots appear immediately.

garrett: you’re disgusting

Her smile widens.

princess: you liked it

The dots disappear. Reappear. Disappear again. She can picture Garrett sitting at the booth, probably staring down at his phone with his ears pink while Dean tries to read over his shoulder.

Finally, the response comes through.

garrett: deadass best thing that’s ever happened to me

Warmth spreads through her so quickly she has to press her lips together. Another message arrives.

garrett: hurry up garrett: puck bunnies are looking at me

She rolls her eyes.

princess: tell them you’re busy

There’s a longer pause. Her heart gives one hard little beat beneath the lace.

garrett: oh am i?

She stares at the screen. They have a deal. Friends with benefits. Secret. No drama. Nothing else changes.  She touches the edge of her thumbnail to her teeth, thinking, then types.

princess: for tonight

Garrett reacts with a thumbs-up first. Then removes it.

garrett: bossy

She puts her phone away and walks back into the bar. The music swells around her as she rounds the corner. Claire and Nina are still at the bar, four bright shots arranged in front of them. The boys remain in their booth. Dean is halfway through a story. Logan is eating something that does not appear to belong to him. 

She keeps her expression sweet and blank. Garrett sits at the end of the booth, one arm stretched along the backrest, looking in every way like a man who has spent the past five minutes discussing hockey rather than being sucked off in a women’s bathroom.

Except his gaze catches hers. His mouth curves. Something smaller, warmer and entirely private. The puck bunnies follow his eyes. She feels their attention land on her again, but it doesn’t scrape this time.

Her stomach turns soft. She returns to her friends, slides onto the barstool and picks up the shot Claire pushes toward her.

“What took you so long?” Nina asks.

She glances toward Garrett over the rim of the glass. He’s already watching her.

“Line,” she says smoothly.

to be notified when i post new fics, follow @kooksandpearls-library and turn on notifications! i no longer use a taglist for garrett fics.

[kooksandpearls]

garrett graham ❄︎ the deal.

pairing – garrett graham x princess!reader summary – months of staring, jealousy, interrupted hookups, and one very dangerous sleepover finally turn garrett and his best friend into friends with benefits. warnings – 18+, explicit smut, fingering, nipple piercings, praise kink, dirty talk, friends with benefits, alcohol/weed mentions. notes from me – AHHHH finally got something out for princess!reader!! i feel like i'm ticking off each trope with each of my !readers hahaha. as requested here, my loves! word count – 10k

navigation – masterlist |

They’ve just escaped a ninety-minute lecture on behavioural economics that Garrett attended physically and she attended with the kind of detailed, colour-coded devotion that makes her notes resemble something sold in a university gift shop. 

The air outside is sharp enough to turn their breath white, the campus paths crowded with students funneling toward the dining hall, everyone bundled in jackets and scarves and expressions of private academic misery.

Garrett walks beside her with his backpack hanging from one shoulder, hands shoved into the front pocket of his Briar hoodie, nodding at the right intervals while she explains the tragic consequences of substituting almond flour without adjusting the moisture content of a cupcake recipe.

“They taste fine,” she says, stepping neatly around a patch of slush while Garrett walks directly through it. “Actually, they taste really good. They’re just very…” She pauses, making a shape with both mittened hands. “Dense.”

“Dense,” Garrett repeats.

“Yes.”

He huffs a laugh and reaches for the back of her jacket when she starts drifting toward the edge of the path, steering her around an oncoming cyclist without interrupting her baking autopsy. 

She moves where he puts her automatically, continuing as if this is a completely normal thing for another person to do with her body. Which, for them, it is. “I think the baking powder was old, but I only bought it last month, so maybe it’s the flour. Or the oven. The ovens in my building are fucked.”

“Thoughts and prayers.”

She bumps her shoulder into his arm. “Do you think the guys would eat the failed ones?”

Garrett looks down at her. Her woollen hat is pale pink, naturally, with a little pom-pom on top that keeps brushing his shoulder whenever she moves closer to avoid someone. “Dude, Logan ate a chicken wing he found under the couch.”

Her nose wrinkles. “How long had it been there?”

“We didn’t ask.”

“Why wouldn’t you ask?”

“Sometimes knowledge is a burden, princess.”

She rolls her eyes at the nickname, although she stopped seriously protesting it somewhere around the hundredth time he used it. Now she mostly makes a face because he seems disappointed when she doesn’t. “So that’s a yes?”

“That’s an enthusiastic yes. Bring food into that house and they’ll build a religion around you.”

She nods, satisfied. “Okay. I’ll bring them around tonight. Maybe I’ll do another batch too, so you can compare them.”

“You want us to conduct a cupcake trial?”

She nods. “I want constructive feedback.”

“We’re not qualified for that.”

“You’re constantly giving opinions nobody asked for. I think you’ll manage.”

Garrett grins, holding the dining hall door open. “After you, Your Highness.”

“You’re so annoying,” she says, sailing past him into the warmth.

It hits them immediately, thick and overheated after the cold outside, carrying the smells of coffee, fried food, tomato sauce and approximately six hundred damp winter coats. 

She unwinds her scarf as they join the queue, still talking about whether sour cream might work better than yoghurt, while Garrett collects two trays from the stack and begins assembling her lunch with the efficient resignation of someone who knows exactly how this works.

She doesn’t ask him to. She hasn’t asked him in years. She just follows beside him, pointing out what she wants occasionally, although he already knows she’ll take the soup if it’s tomato, the pasta if it isn’t visibly congealed, the little fruit cup without melon because she claims melon tastes like wet disappointment. 

He puts a bowl of tomato soup onto her tray, adds a grilled cheese, grabs the strawberry yoghurt before she notices it’s there and trades the banana from her fruit cup for the grapes in his because she likes those better.

He does all of this while complaining about Coach.

“I’m telling you, he’s on my ass because I missed one pass yesterday,” Garrett says, balancing both trays against his forearms as they move through the crowd. “One. We still scored on the next shift.”

She grabs two forks and slides them onto the trays for him. “Was it a bad pass?”

“That’s not the point.”

She giggles. “That means yes.”

“It wasn’t bad. It was... slightly overly optimistic.”

She gives him a look. “You passed to nobody.”

“There was supposed to be somebody there.”

“Was there?”

Garrett looks at her.

She smiles sweetly. “Just gathering information.”

He mutters something about betrayal and carries their food toward the quieter side of the hall, waiting while she chooses a table near the heaters before setting her tray down in front of her. She immediately steals one of his fries, because their careful food allocation system only applies when she benefits from it.

Garrett sits across from her, stretching one long leg beneath the table until his sneaker knocks lightly into her boot. “Anyway, Coach acts like I personally invented turnovers. He kept me after practice for twenty minutes going through film.”

She makes a sympathetic noise around a bite of grilled cheese, shrugging out of her jacket as the heat begins sinking through her sweater. “He’s riding you because he knows you can take it.”

“Great. Inspiring.”

“No, I mean it.” She drapes the jacket over the back of her chair and smooths her hair down where the hat flattened it, leaving herself in a fitted pale-pink top that clings softly to her body. “He knows what you’re capable of, G. That’s why he notices when you’re even slightly off. It would be worse if he stopped caring.”

Garrett, who has been reaching for his drink, misses the straw entirely. The top is long-sleeved. It covers her from her collarbones to the waistband of her jeans. There’s nothing objectively scandalous about it, except that she’s not wearing a bra and the metal bars through her nipples are pressing clearly against the thin fabric.

He has seen this before. Technically.

The white tank top incident happened months ago, and since then he’s become painfully aware that the piercings exist beneath multiple items of her wardrobe. He's seen them through sweaters, dresses and the tiny pink top that nearly caused him to commit several felonies at his own party.

But awareness hasn’t produced immunity. It's produced a highly specific form of suffering.

She’s still talking, entirely unaware that the captain of Briar’s hockey team has been rendered incapable of operating a straw. “You’re the captain. He expects more from you because everyone else takes their cues from you. That doesn’t mean you played badly. It means one slightly optimistic pass from you matters more than five terrible ones from Dean.”

Garrett nods slowly.

Her eyebrows lift. “Are you listening?”

“Yep.”

“What did I say?”

“That Dean sucks.”

“Garrett.”

His gaze drops again before he can stop it. The little bars make subtle shadows beneath the pink fabric, more suggestion than display, which is somehow worse. He thinks about her dorm room. The white tank. The way she had crossed her arms and accidentally made the situation more obscene. He thinks about what the metal would feel like against his tongue.

Her fork clicks against the bowl. “Eyes are up here, loser.”

Garrett drags his attention back to her face. She’s staring at him with an expression that is mostly unimpressed, although colour has crept faintly along her cheekbones.

“Yeah,” he says, clearing his throat. “Totally. Sorry.”

“You’re such a guy.”

“In my defence–”

“There isn’t one.”

“In my defence,” he continues, “you brought weapons into a family dining establishment.”

Her mouth twitches. “I’m wearing a shirt.”

“We’ve had this argument.”

She tilts her head. “And you lost it.”

“Did I?”

“Yes.”

He leans back in his chair. “Interesting. Doesn’t feel like losing from where I’m sitting.”

She kicks him beneath the table, but her lips have curved around the edge of her spoon. She would never tell him, obviously, because Garrett already possesses enough confidence to power a medium-sized city, but there’s something satisfying about watching his eyes betray him. 

She knows what she looks like. She chose the shirt this morning, stood in front of her mirror and watched the pink fabric settle over her chest, the piercings just visible enough that nobody could reasonably accuse her of doing anything deliberate. Nobody except herself.

It’s been months since a man made her come. Not since she has come, technically. Her vibrator is dependable, discreet and considerably less likely than most men to ask whether she’s close after thirty seconds of mediocre effort. 

But it’s been months since someone else managed it, and the last hookup had ended with her staring at a boy’s ceiling fan while he treated her left thigh like it contained a secret combination.

She’s had sex. It’s been fine. Fine in the way a cafeteria sandwich is fine: technically sustaining, occasionally pleasant, never something she dreams about later. Garrett, unfortunately, has appeared in those dreams.

Brief, treacherous images that arrive while the vibrator hums between her legs and she’s already warm and pliant enough not to push them away. Garrett’s mouth at her chest. Garrett’s broad hand flattening over her stomach. Garrett saying princess in that lower voice he uses when he stops teasing and means something.

The first time it happened, she had been so appalled that she stopped immediately. The third time, she came hard enough to kick the blankets onto the floor.

Now he’s sitting opposite her, trying not to stare and failing so openly that warmth pools low beneath her stomach. He drops his eyes to his food like he’s imposing discipline on himself, jaw moving as he chews, ears faintly pink.

She takes another spoonful of soup and watches him over the rim. Interesting. Maybe she doesn’t need to stop wearing the shirt after all.

A week later, Garrett has his tongue in another girl’s mouth when she decides she wants to go home. The two things are unrelated. Completely.

She’s been ready to leave for at least ten minutes, which is a reasonable amount of time to spend standing in the corner of an aggressively expensive fraternity house, pretending she cannot see her ex-boyfriend sitting across the room with his new girlfriend folded prettily into his lap.

The fact that Garrett is making out with a blonde against the kitchen counter has nothing to do with it. Nothing at all.

The party has that sticky, overripe feeling they all develop after midnight, when the floors have become tacky with spilled beer and the music is loud enough to flatten every conversation into shouting. Someone has knocked a decorative framed photograph off the hallway wall. 

A group of freshmen are playing a drinking game with rules that seem to involve pointing at one another and screaming. The air smells like vodka, perfume and the warm electrical threat of an overloaded speaker.

She’s wedged between Tucker and Logan on a sagging couch, her legs crossed beneath a short black skirt, trying to contribute to a conversation about whether a hot dog qualifies as a sandwich while three girls near the drinks table keep glancing in her direction and whispering.

They’re hockey girls. They attend every party, know every player’s schedule and become visibly displeased whenever she sits too close to Garrett. She’s never done anything to them. Except perhaps exist in his immediate vicinity.

One of the girls looks her up and down, her attention lingering on the leather jacket buttoned over the baby-pink crop top beneath it, then turns away with a small curl of her lip.

“Did she just roll her eyes at me?” she asks.

Tucker, who’s absolutely seen it, becomes very interested in the label on his beer. “Didn’t notice.”

“Liar.”

“I’m practicing peace.”

Logan glances between her and the girl. “Maybe she has something in her eye.”

“Both eyes?”

“Serious condition.”

Across the room, Garrett’s hand slides along the blonde’s waist.

Her stomach gives one hard, unpleasant twist. Which is stupid. Garrett hooks up with people. She knows this because she has interrupted him during hookups frequently enough that Dean once suggested they install a traffic-light system outside his bedroom. 

Garrett has never cared. If she needs a ride, his notes, help moving furniture or someone to kill a spider while another girl is in his bed, he complains loudly and then does whatever she wants.

He always puts her first. That’s simply how their friendship works.

The blonde curls her fingers into Garrett’s hair, tugging his head down to deepen the kiss, and something inside her turns hot and mean.

She stands.

Logan looks up. “Where’re you going?”

“Home.”

“Tuck can call you a car.”

She shakes her head. “Garrett drove me.”

Both boys look across the room.

Tucker rubs his mouth. “He appears occupied.”

“He won’t mind.”

Neither of them answers, because they have witnessed this particular ecosystem before and understand that interfering would only put them closer to the blast radius.

She crosses the room, stepping around another couple making out. Garrett doesn’t see her coming. His back is partially turned, one arm braced beside the blonde’s shoulder, his mouth moving slowly against hers while she presses into him with considerable enthusiasm.

She taps him on the shoulder. “Garrett.”

He hums without pulling away.

Her jaw tightens. “Garrett.”

He breaks the kiss just enough to glance over, lips swollen and curls mussed beneath the blonde’s hand. “What?”

“I want to go home.”

His eyebrows knit, focus dragging slowly into place. The blonde uses the pause to kiss along his jaw, her glossy mouth leaving a faint pink mark beneath his ear. “Make Dean drive you.”

“Dean disappeared twenty minutes ago to have sex with someone.”

Garrett squints past her into the crowd. “Twenty minutes?”

“Yes.”

“Great. He’ll be back any second.”

The blonde laughs against his neck. It’s not even particularly mean, but it lands that way.

She folds her arms, leather creaking softly at the shoulders. “Garrett.”

“What?”

“Please. I want to go home.”

The blonde’s hand tightens at the back of his neck. “She can get an Uber.”

Garrett’s eyes move to her face properly then. He knows her too well. That’s the problem with best friends. You can arrange your mouth into something neutral and keep your voice level, but they know where to look for the cracks. 

His attention traces the stiffness in her shoulders, the way she has tucked one thumb beneath the cuff of her jacket and begun worrying the leather, the fact that she’s refusing to glance toward the couch where her ex is practically eating his new girlfriend’s face.

“You good?” Garrett asks.

“I’m fine. I just want to go.”

His mouth flattens slightly. “What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Princess.”

“Nothing happened.” She hates the tiny strain in her own voice, hates the sympathetic crease already forming between his brows. “Forget it. I’ll walk.”

“Great,” the blonde says. “Bye.”

She hooks her fingers around Garrett’s neck and tries to pull him back down.

Garrett resists without seeming to think about it, his body going still beneath her hand. He looks from the blonde to his best friend, who’s already turned away, spine straight as she begins weaving toward the front door alone.

The desire he’d been nursing all evening evaporates so quickly it’s almost impressive.

“Hey,” the blonde protests when he steps back. “Seriously?”

“Yeah, no. Sorry.” Garrett grabs his jacket from the counter and follows. “I’m driving her.”

“She’s being dramatic.”

He stops. It isn’t anger. Garrett’s anger is colder than most people expect, shaped by years of learning precisely how dangerous loud anger can become. His face empties instead, the easy warmth dropping out of his eyes as he looks back at the girl.

“She’s my best friend,” he says. “Don’t make me choose.”

The girl gives a short, disbelieving laugh. “What the fuck?”

He catches up with her outside, where she’s standing at the foot of the porch steps with her arms folded against the cold and her chin tipped stubbornly toward the road.

Snow crunches beneath his shoes as he approaches. “You seriously gonna walk?”

She doesn’t look at him. “Maybe.”

“In that skirt?”

“I have legs.”

He scoffs. “You also have no survival instincts.”

She finally glances over, eyes narrowing. “Go back inside, Garrett.”

“No.”

“You were busy,” she mumbles. 

“I’m aware.”

“She seemed nice.”

“She wasn’t.”

She huffs, kicking some snow with her shoe. “She was nice before I interrupted you.”

Garrett exhales through his nose and holds out his jacket. She stares at it. “Put this on.”

“I have a jacket.”

“Yours ends at your ribs.”

She looks down at herself. “It’s cropped.”

“It’s useless.”

She makes an offended little sound but lets him drape the heavier coat around her shoulders anyway, swimming briefly in the dark fabric while he guides her toward the car with a hand at her back. 

The contact is firm and familiar, his palm fitting into the curve above her skirt as naturally as if it was designed for him. Neither of them mentions the girl again.

Inside the car, Garrett turns the heat on high and pulls away from the curb while she works his jacket off, the leather one following because the warmth blasts through the vents almost immediately.

She tosses both into the back seat and settles into the passenger side in only a pink top. Garrett looks over. The car jerks toward the centre line.

“Jesus Christ.” She grabs the door handle. “Are you trying to kill us?”

He corrects hard, tires hissing over wet asphalt. “What the fuck are you wearing?”

“A top.”

“That’s not a top.”

The baby-pink material is thin and fitted, cut just beneath her chest with narrow straps and a low neckline. Under the shifting orange light from the streetlamps, the metal through her nipples presses visibly against it, small hard bars beneath soft cotton.

Garrett fixes his eyes on the road with the rigid concentration of a man attempting to land an aircraft during a storm. She watches the muscle tick in his cheek. Interesting.

She adjusts the seat belt so it sits between her breasts, making the fabric pull tighter. “Sorry for interrupting.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“You were having fun,” she murmurs. 

“I was making out with someone.”

“That’s usually considered fun.”

He glances at her for half a second, catches the faintly innocent widening of her eyes, then looks forward again. “You wanted to go home.”

“You didn’t have to take me.”

“Yes, I did.”

She frowns. “Why?”

“Because you asked me to.”

The answer is so simple that it presses strangely beneath her ribs. She tucks one leg beneath herself, turning slightly toward him. The skirt rides higher over her thigh, although this is a natural consequence of sitting and not something calculated to make his grip tighten around the steering wheel.

“You always do what I ask?”

“No.”

She bites back a smile. “You do.”

“I absolutely do not.”

“You’re driving me home after I interrupted you with a girl.”

He frowns. “You were upset.”

“I said I was fine.”

“You say you’re fine when you’re actively on fire.”

“I do not,” she frowns. 

“You cried because Starbucks discontinued your syrup.”

“It was seasonal and I was hormonal.”

He laughs, the sound breaking some of the tightness between them. “You’re ridiculous.”

She looks out through the window before he can catch the smile tugging at her mouth. The campus passes in wet, blurred ribbons of light, bare trees black against the snow.

When he pulls up outside her dorm, she gathers both jackets but keeps his around her shoulders as she opens the door.

Garrett leans across the centre console. “Text me when you’re upstairs.”

“I’m ten feet from the entrance.”

“Text me anyway.”

She looks at him, his face softened by the dashboard glow, curls still messed up from another girl’s hands. The sight should bother her more than it does. Or perhaps it already bothers her exactly enough. “Thanks, G.”

“Don’t mention it.”

She climbs out, then bends to look back inside. The neckline of the pink top shifts. Garrett’s gaze falls. She catches him. His eyes lift slowly to hers, entirely unrepentant now.

She smiles, small and sweet. “Eyes up here, loser.”

“Go inside, princess.”

She closes the door before he sees how pleased she is.

A few weeks later, she’s on the hockey-house living-room floor with Dean asking why the puck bunnies hate her.

It’s nearly three in the morning. The party has contracted into its final, strange form, leaving behind twelve people who either live there, are sleeping with somebody who lives there, or have become too comfortable to understand that they should go home.

Music plays quietly from somebody’s abandoned phone. Empty cups crowd the coffee table. A girl is asleep beneath Tucker’s good throw blanket, which he keeps glancing at as if worried she might stain it with unconsciousness. 

Logan sits cross-legged on the couch eating chips directly from the bag, while Dean sprawls in an armchair with one ankle resting on the opposite knee, looking far too alert for someone who has consumed enough alcohol to tranquilise livestock.

She sits on the floor between Garrett’s legs, her back against the couch, the hem of her little black dress riding high over her thighs. 

Garrett’s been quieter than usual tonight and drunker than normal, although the two things appear to be related. His knees bracket her shoulders. Every few minutes, the inside of his calf brushes her arm when he shifts.

Dean studies her over the rim of his cup. “Why do the puck bunnies hate you so much, dude?”

She frowns. “They hate me?”

Dean immediately winces. “Oh. That’s– hate is probably too strong.”

She frowns. “You just said hate.”

“I’m drunk. I don’t know what I’m saying.”

She turns to look at Logan and Tucker. Both avoid her eyes with the speed of men who have already decided Dean can die alone.

“They hate me?” she repeats, voice small.

Garrett’s arm drops around her shoulders before anyone answers, heavy and warm as he hooks her back against his chest. “Don’t worry about it.”

She holds onto his forearms. “I’m not worried. I’m asking.”

“Same difference.”

She tilts her head back to look at him. His face is upside down from this angle, curls falling over his forehead, cheeks flushed slightly from alcohol. “That isn’t an answer.”

“Don’t need one.”

“Garrett.”

He tightens his arm around her and presses his mouth briefly to the top of her head, an absent gesture that makes Dean’s eyebrows climb before he wisely takes another drink.

Tucker clears his throat. “They don’t hate you.”

“They just don’t love how close you are with the team,” Logan says, aiming for diplomacy and landing somewhere near the border. “Especially Garrett.”

She twists around enough to look at him. “Why?”

Four male faces regard her in exhausted silence.

Dean waves one hand vaguely. “Because you’re always here.”

“You’re always here," she replies.

“I live here.”

“So does Tucker. They like Tucker.”

Tucker blinks. “Thank you?”

“And Logan.”

Logan nods seriously. “I’m very popular with women.”

“They don’t want to sleep with Tucker,” Dean explains.

She rolls her eyes. “They definitely do.”

Tucker’s expression becomes pained. “Please stop including me.”

Garrett’s hand spreads over her upper arm, thumb rubbing slowly through the thin fabric of her dress. “Doesn’t matter whether they like it. You’re not going anywhere.”

The certainty in his voice settles low in her chest.

She looks down at her hands. “I want to be friends with them.”

Dean’s face softens, the drunk sharpness slipping away. “Why?”

“Because I’m friends with all of you, and they’re always around, and it’s awkward when they stare at me.”

“They’re jealous,” Logan says.

“Of what?”

Again, silence.

Garrett reaches down and takes her cup before she can finish what remains in it. “You’ve had enough.”

She makes a small noise of protest. “That was mine.”

“You’re stoned.”

“I’m also thirsty.”

“That’s vodka.”

“Vodka’s a liquid.”

Tucker gets up and returns from the kitchen with a glass of water, holding it out. “Here.”

She accepts it with both hands. “Thank you, Tuck. You’re my favourite.”

“Bullshit,” Garrett says behind her.

She drinks, then settles back into him, pleasantly heavy and loose. Somebody changes the subject. Dean begins recounting an experience with a girl who asked him to keep his socks on because his feet were distracting, which turns into a discussion about weird hookup requests and then, somehow, whether women can tell when a man is faking confidence.

She listens with her cheek resting against Garrett’s knee, mind drifting slowly through the conversation. The weed has softened the room around its edges. Garrett’s fingers move through the ends of her hair without rhythm, gathering strands and letting them slide away.

“Women can always tell,” she says eventually.

Dean points at her. “See? This is valuable research.”

“You’re terrible at hiding when you don’t know what you’re doing.”

“I always know what I’m doing.”

She laughs. “That’s exactly what a man who doesn’t know what he’s doing says.”

“What about Garrett?” Logan asks.

Garrett’s hand stops in her hair.

She looks up. “What about him?”

“Can you tell when he doesn’t know what he’s doing?”

“I’ve never seen him have sex.”

Dean nearly chokes on his drink. “Thank Christ for that.”

She tilts her head. “I’ve walked in after. And right before.”

“That’s still too much information.”

She thinks about it, lips pressing together. “Garrett usually knows what he’s doing.”

Garrett’s fingers resume moving, slower now. “Usually?”

She shrugs, her shoulder sliding beneath his palm. “I don’t know. Men are generally disappointing.”

The room stills almost imperceptibly. Dean lowers his cup. “In what context?”

Her brain, softened by weed and exhaustion, allows the truth to slip out without consulting the part responsible for dignity. “It’s been so long since a man made me come.”

Every pair of eyes turns toward her. She blinks at them. Then the sentence reaches her.

“Oh,” she says. “Fuck. Did I say that aloud?”

“Very much,” Tucker answers.

Logan nods, eyes wide. “Clear as day.”

Dean looks somewhere between fascinated and afraid for his life. “Do you often think things like that while we’re talking?”

“I didn’t mean to.” She covers her face with both hands. “Disregard it.”

Garrett has gone completely still behind her.

Heat moves up her neck despite the fog in her head. “Seriously. Everyone forget it.”

“Already gone,” Tucker says kindly.

“Never happened,” Logan agrees.

Dean taps his temple. “Deleted.”

Garrett says nothing.

The conversation restarts with the brittle enthusiasm of people attempting not to acknowledge a live grenade beneath the coffee table. She sinks lower against the couch, mortification gradually fading beneath the warm drag of exhaustion.

By four, the remaining guests have either left or collapsed into various corners. Garrett nudges her shoulder. “Come on.”

She looks up at him through heavy eyelids. “Where?”

“Bed.”

Her mouth curves before she can stop it. “Wow. Buy me dinner.”

“You ate half my fries earlier.”

“So romantic.”

He gets to his feet and pulls her up by both hands. The room sways gently. She bumps into his chest, laughing when he catches her around the waist.

“No way you’re going home like this,” he says.

“I could walk.”

He raises his eyebrow. “You can barely stand.”

“I’m standing right now.”

“Because I’m holding you.”

She peers down at his arms around her. “Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh.”

He guides her upstairs, one hand firm at her waist while she climbs with exaggerated care. 

In his room, he shuts the door and pulls a clean hoodie from a drawer, tossing it onto the bed. “You can sleep in that.”

She picks it up and presses it to her nose. “Smells like you.”

Garrett turns his back so quickly it might qualify as evasive action. “Change.”

She stares at the broad line of his shoulders beneath his sweater. “You’ve seen me in underwear.”

“Not tonight.”

“Why not tonight?”

“Because you’re high.”

She laughs to herself and reaches behind her for the zipper of her dress. Garrett stays facing the wall while fabric whispers down her body, collecting around her boots. She steps out of it, unhooks her bra and lets it fall onto the pile, then pulls his hoodie over her head.

It hangs to mid-thigh, thick and warm, the sleeves swallowing her hands.

Garrett throws a pair of boxers over his shoulder without looking. They land against her face. “Rude.”

“Put those on too.”

She tugs them over her underwear, rolling the waistband once so they stay up. “You can look now.”

He turns cautiously.

His gaze moves over her in a single, helpless sweep: bare legs, his boxers sitting low on her hips, his hoodie hanging loose enough that one shoulder has slipped through the collar. Her hair is mussed. Her mouth is pink from drinking and biting at it all night.

Garrett looks away first.

“Your turn,” she says.

He points toward the bed. “Get in.”

“I want to watch.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because you’ve told an entire room you haven’t come in months and now you’re wearing my clothes.”

She considers that. “That’s true.”

Garrett rubs both hands over his face. “Jesus Christ.”

He steps into the small closet alcove, although the door doesn’t close properly and the angle leaves him partly visible in the mirror beside his dresser. She sits on the edge of his bed and watches him pull his sweater over his head, the muscles in his back shifting beneath smooth skin. His pants follow, pushed down over narrow hips and strong thighs until he stands in black boxers.

Her mouth actually waters. Garrett glances toward the mirror. Their eyes meet in the reflection. She doesn’t look away. His jaw flexes.

For one suspended second, the room seems to narrow around them, warm and quiet and threaded through with everything they have been pretending not to notice. Then Garrett grabs shorts and a t-shirt, pulling them on with unnecessary force.

When he returns, she’s still sitting upright, staring at him.

He points toward the opposite side of the mattress. “You stay on your side. I stay on mine.”

Her stomach drops with stupid disappointment. She had been almost certain he was going to kiss her. Maybe not certain. Hopeful enough to feel embarrassed now.

She climbs under the covers anyway, watching him turn off the lamp before lying beside her with a cautious strip of mattress between them.

The darkness makes her braver. “I could be your fuck bunny.”

Garrett goes rigid. “What?”

She rolls onto her side to face him, struggling to arrange the words through the pleasant fog in her skull. “Your puck funny.”

“What?”

“No. Fuck punny.” She frowns. “That isn’t right either.”

“Go to sleep.”

“Puck bunny,” she says triumphantly. “I could be one.”

His voice is tight. “You’re a stoned bunny.”

“I’m a horny bunny.”

Garrett makes a sound that seems physically painful. “Well, sleep, horny bunny.”

She huffs, rolls away from him and buries her face into his pillow. “You’re no fun.”

“I’m being responsible.”

“Boring.”

“Goodnight, princess.”

She intends to say something cutting. Instead, she falls asleep halfway through the inhale.

The fourth time, she wakes with Garrett hard against her ass and his arm wrapped tightly around her waist.

For several soft, disorienting seconds, she doesn’t remember where she is. There is only warmth – the heavy comforter tangled around her calves, a broad palm spread low across her stomach, slow breath disturbing the hair at the back of her neck.

Her mouth tastes faintly like vodka and sleep, her limbs weighted with the pleasant remains of the weed, and she's wearing far more fabric than usual in bed because Garrett’s hoodie has bunched around her hips sometime during the night, leaving one bare thigh tucked between both of his.

Then he shifts behind her. The hard length pressed into the curve of her ass moves with him, unmistakable even through his shorts and the boxers he made her pull over her underwear, and every blurred piece of the night before snaps sharply into place.

His room. His bed. Garrett standing half-naked inside the shallow cupboard while she watched through the mirror. Her own voice declaring that she was a horny bunny before she passed out facedown against his pillow like the sophisticated, sexually irresistible woman she so clearly is.

She should be mortified. Instead, heat gathers between her legs with embarrassing speed.

Garrett’s body is curled around hers as though neither of them spent several careful minutes negotiating opposite sides of the mattress. His chest is firm against her back, one knee wedged between hers, his face pressed into her hair.

The position is intimate in a way that should feel unfamiliar, except everything about him already belongs inside the architecture of her life. His arm around her. His hand on her waist. His clothes against her skin. Garrett is always touching her, always letting her lean, climb, tug and settle wherever she wants.

The only new thing is how badly she wants more.

His breathing is still deep and even. She lies perfectly still, staring at the thin bars of morning light stretching across his wall while her pulse begins beating in places it has no business being this early. Garrett’s hand flexes against her stomach, fingers spreading as though even asleep he is making certain she’s still there, and the movement draws the hoodie upward another inch.

She could leave it alone. She could untangle herself, find her dress and spend the rest of their friendship pretending she never woke up with his erection pressed against her while yesterday’s confession sat between them like a match beside gasoline.

It's been so long since a man made her come.

Garrett heard her say it. Garrett, who stared at her piercings through the pink top in the dining hall until he forgot how drinking straws worked. Garrett, who abandoned a girl mid-hookup because she asked him to drive her home. Garrett, who had clenched his jaw when she offered to become his puck bunny and then tucked her into his bed instead of taking advantage of how stoned she was.

Garrett, who is hard against her now.

She moves before she can talk herself out of it. Only slightly at first, a slow backward press of her hips that could almost be blamed on sleep. The reaction is immediate. Garrett’s breathing catches against her neck, his entire body tightening behind her, though his hand remains motionless across her stomach.

Her lips curve against the pillow. She does it again.

This time she rolls her hips deliberately, letting the soft curve of her ass drag against him through the thin layers separating them. Pleasure flickers low in her belly from the pressure of his thigh between hers, nowhere near enough but more than enough to leave her suddenly, painfully aware of how wet she's becoming.

Garrett wakes with a rough inhale.

“Shit.” His arm loosens and his hips jerk back as though he's touched something hot. His voice is wrecked by sleep, low enough that it moves through her body before the words fully register. “Sorry. I didn’t–”

She has spent months wondering what his mouth would feel like. She has spent weeks wearing thinner tops and pretending not to notice every stolen look.

She has spent an entire night aching beneath his attention, only for him to place an honourable strip of mattress between them and tell her to sleep.

She's finished waiting. She rolls over, fists one hand into his curls and kisses him.

Garrett goes completely still beneath her mouth. For one terrible heartbeat, he doesn’t kiss her back. His lips are warm and slightly parted, his body rigid beside hers, and humiliation begins crawling up her throat – but then she hooks her leg over his hip, presses herself against the hard shape beneath his shorts and makes a small, impatient sound into his mouth.

Something in him gives. His hand clamps around her waist and he kisses her back so hard that the breath catches in her chest. There's no careful, uncertain exploration, no fumbling attempt to determine whether best friends are allowed to do this.

Garrett kisses her like he's already imagined it too many times to need instructions, his mouth opening over hers, tongue sliding hot and sure against her own as he rolls her beneath him.

The mattress dips. His body settles between her thighs, broad and heavy enough to make her feel trapped without placing his full weight on her, and the sensation empties her head of everything except him.

Her Garrett. Her best friend, who carries two trays through the dining hall because she doesn’t like balancing her soup. Who knows she wants the strawberry yoghurt and hates melon. Who always does what she asks, even while complaining like she has sentenced him to hard labour.

Except he isn’t waiting for her instructions now.

She reaches for his face, wanting to pull him closer, but Garrett catches her wrist and presses it into the mattress beside her head. The abrupt restraint sends a sharp pulse of heat straight through her.

He pulls back just enough to look at her, his chest rising hard beneath his shirt. His curls are ruined beneath her fingers, his mouth flushed from hers, but his eyes are startlingly clear now, fixed on her with an intensity that makes her stomach clench.

“Tell me to stop,” he says.

She shakes her head immediately.

“Words, princess.”

“No.” Her voice emerges breathless and embarrassingly soft. “Don’t stop.”

His gaze drops to her mouth. “You sure?”

“Yes.”

She expects him to tease her. Instead, something almost hungry passes over his face, quick and raw before his mouth comes down on hers again.

She melts beneath him. There's no other word for it. All the sharp little remarks she might ordinarily use to protect herself disappear the moment Garrett’s hand tightens around her wrist.

Her body seems to understand the arrangement before her mind catches up: Garrett above her, Garrett in control, Garrett deciding how fast and how hard while she clings to him and lets him.

He shifts his hips, pressing himself firmly between her thighs. A thin whimper escapes her.

Garrett stills for half a beat, as if the sound surprises him. Then he does it again, slower this time, grinding the thick ridge of his erection directly against the place already pulsing beneath her underwear.

Her free hand flies to his shoulder. “Garrett.”

“What?” he asks, mouth brushing the corner of hers. The word is too calm for what he's doing.

She cannot remember what she intended to say. He moves again and her head falls back, throat exposed to him, every nerve beneath her skin drawn tight.

His lips find the sensitive place beneath her jaw. He kisses it once, then opens his mouth against her neck, teeth grazing softly enough to make her toes curl inside the sheets.

“This is what you wanted?” he murmurs.

She nods.

His fingers tighten around her wrist. “Wanted me to wake up and fuck around with my best friend?”

The filthy edge to the question sends another helpless noise from her throat. Garrett has always had a dirty mouth – on the ice, during video games, whenever Dean says anything remotely provocative – but she's never heard it aimed at her like this, lowered against her skin until the words feel like touch.

“Yes,” she whispers.

“How long?”

She turns her face toward him, cheeks hot. “I don’t know.”

“Bullshit.”

His other hand slides beneath the hem of the hoodie, palm moving slowly up her bare stomach. She feels every roughened patch of his skin, every subtle drag of his fingers. The hoodie lifts with his wrist, cool air following the heat of his hand.

“Months,” she admits.

Garrett’s mouth stops against her throat. The silence lasts only a second, but she feels the answer move through him. His hips press more firmly into hers. His breathing roughens.

“Months,” he repeats.

She nods, suddenly unable to meet his eyes. “Since you– saw me... the tank top. Maybe before.”

His thumb traces beneath her breast. “You’ve been thinking about me since then?”

Her body arches toward his hand without permission. “Garrett, please.”

“Thinking about what?”

She squeezes her eyes closed. She cannot say it while he's looking at her like this. Not when the fantasies felt illicit even alone in her dorm, her vibrator between her legs while she imagined his dark head lowered over her chest.

Garrett releases her wrist only to catch both hands together and press them above her head with one of his. His other hand cups her breast beneath the hoodie, warm and possessive, thumb finding the metal bar through her nipple as though he has known exactly where it would be all along.

He strokes it once. Her entire body jerks beneath him.

“Oh.”

Garrett exhales through his nose, the sound nearly a groan. “That sensitive?”

She nods, breathing too quickly. He rolls the piercing gently beneath his thumb, watching her face while pleasure sparks through her in sharp, bright bursts. Her thighs tighten around his hips. The friction between them makes her ache, but he refuses to give her the rhythm her body is beginning to chase.

“Was this it?” he asks. “You thinking about my hands on these?”

She tries to pull her hands free, because she needs something to hold onto. He keeps them pinned easily.

“And my mouth?” His thumb circles her nipple. “You think about that too?”

“Yes.”

The answer breaks out of her before embarrassment can stop it.

Garrett’s eyelids lower. “Fuck, princess.”

He pushes the hoodie higher, baring her breasts completely. The fabric gathers beneath her raised arms, leaving her trapped inside his clothes and exposed beneath his gaze. Garrett simply looks for a moment, and the undisguised want on his face makes her feel more naked than she is.

She has seen him stare before. Across dining tables. From the driver’s seat. In her dorm room when the white tank turned translucent beneath the light.

This is different. There's no joke waiting behind his eyes, no exaggerated plea for her to cover up before he fights somebody. His attention moves over her slowly, the muscles along his jaw tightening as he takes in the silver bars and the way her nipples have already hardened under his hands.

“I knew they’d look good,” he says, voice rough. “Didn’t know they’d look this fucking good.”

Her stomach turns molten. “G.”

He lowers his head. The first touch of his tongue is directly over the metal.

She gasps, back lifting from the mattress, but his hand keeps her wrists firmly above her head. Garrett traces the bar with the tip of his tongue, slow enough that she can feel the contrast of warmth and cool metal, then closes his mouth around her nipple.

Her eyes fall shut. “Oh my God.”

His groan vibrates through her breast. He sucks with controlled, deliberate pressure, tongue moving around the piercing while his free hand cups the other side, fingers kneading the soft weight before his thumb begins teasing that bar too.

Every fantasy she has had was inadequate. None of them accounted for the size of him over her, the scratch of morning stubble against her skin or the way he keeps grinding lazily between her legs while his mouth works at her chest. None of them sounded like Garrett groaning because he finally has her nipple on his tongue.

Her hands strain uselessly in his grip. “Please.”

He lifts his head, lips wet, eyes dark. “Please what?”

She looks down between them, frustrated tears almost prickling at the corners of her eyes from how badly she wants him. “Touch me.”

“I am touching you.”

“You know what I mean.”

His mouth curves slightly, but there's none of his usual bright humour in it. “Ask properly.”

Ordinarily, she would tell him to go fuck himself. She would roll her eyes, call him an idiot and take whatever she wanted through persistence alone. Now, with her body shaking beneath him and his thumb sliding over her piercing, there is nothing she would not say.

“Please touch me,” she whispers. “Please, Garrett. I need you.”

His expression changes again, satisfaction and something heavier moving beneath it. “There’s my good girl.”

The praise pours through her like heat.

Garrett switches breasts before she can recover, mouth closing around her other nipple while his hand slips back down her stomach. He hooks his fingers into the waistband of the boxers she borrowed and drags them slowly over her hips, leaving her underwear beneath.

She lifts herself immediately to help him.

“Eager,” he murmurs against her skin.

She cannot summon enough dignity to deny it. “Yes.”

He pushes the boxers down her legs and tosses them aside. Her knees fall open around him almost instinctively, the pink fabric between her thighs already damp enough to cling.

Garrett looks down. A sharp breath leaves him. She feels the attention like another touch, direct and scorching. Some small remaining instinct makes her knees begin to draw inward, but Garrett catches one and presses it back into the mattress.

“No.”

The single word makes her still.

His palm slides along the inside of her thigh, spreading her wider as he settles beside her. “You wanted my attention so badly, you can take it.”

Her lips part. He keeps his eyes on her while his fingers reach the damp centre of her underwear, pressing lightly through the fabric.

Pleasure jolts through her. Her hips lift toward his hand, searching for more before she can pretend otherwise.

“Look at you,” Garrett murmurs. “All that bossing me around, and this is all it takes?”

She shakes her head, though she has no idea what she's denying. He moves his fingertips in one slow stroke and her breath trembles out of her.

“Please,” she says again.

His eyes snap back to her face. The sound seems to affect him every time, as though he's never heard her ask instead of demand and has already become addicted to it.

Garrett hooks his fingers beneath the waistband and draws her underwear down. She helps impatiently, kicking the fabric away the moment it reaches her ankles. The exposure should embarrass her, but the only thing she can think about is his hand returning to her.

It does. His fingers slide through the wetness between her thighs, unbearably gentle at first, gathering it slowly as though he has all morning to learn her.

Both of them exhale.

“Jesus,” Garrett says softly.

She grips the sheet beside her, already fighting the urge to lift her hips into his palm. “What?”

“You’re fucking soaked.”

Heat burns across her face, but he sounds pleased rather than mocking, his voice roughening as he strokes through her again, spreading her open with two fingers and watching the slick gather against his hand.

“This all for me?”

Her eyelids flutter. “Maybe.”

Garrett looks up at her. “Maybe?”

His thumb drags over her clit, slow and deliberate, and her whole body jerks.

“Yes,” she gasps.

“Yeah?” He circles again, firmer this time, mouth curving when her thighs twitch around his wrist. “You get this wet thinking about me?”

She swallows, embarrassment dissolving beneath the ache building low in her stomach. “Sometimes.”

“Sometimes,” he repeats, like he doesn’t believe a word of it.

His middle finger presses against her entrance, not entering yet, just teasing there while she tries not to move. She fails almost immediately. Her hips tilt toward him, chasing the pressure, and Garrett lets out a low laugh that makes everything inside her tighten.

“Look at you,” he murmurs. “Can’t even wait for me to put my fingers inside you.”

“Garrett.”

“What, princess?”

“Please.”

He slides one finger into her slowly. Her mouth falls open.

The stretch is slight, nowhere near enough, but the feel of Garrett inside her – Garrett, her best friend, the man she has imagined with his hand between her legs more times than she would ever admit aloud – makes a thin, breathless whimper escape her.

His eyes sharpen instantly. “That’s the noise you make?”

She turns her face into the pillow, mortified, but his free hand catches her jaw and draws her back.

“No. Don’t hide.”

He pushes his finger deeper, curling it inside her, and her lashes flutter as pleasure sparks hard through her.

“G–”

“There?” he asks, already doing it again.

She nods quickly. “Yes. Right there.”

Garrett keeps his eyes on her as he begins moving, drawing his finger almost all the way out before pushing it back inside, slow enough at first that she feels every inch of it, every deliberate curl and drag against the place that makes her stomach tighten. Her legs fall wider.

“Good girl,” he murmurs.

The praise pours straight through her. She moans, soft and helpless, and Garrett’s jaw flexes like the sound hurts him.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “You like that?”

She can barely answer. “Yes.”

“Like me telling you how good you’re being while I finger you?”

Her hips rock into his hand.

Garrett smiles, dark and pleased. “Yeah. Thought so.”

He adds a second finger. The fuller stretch makes her gasp, fingers flying to his forearm as he pushes them into her together, watching her face the entire time. “Oh my God.”

“Too much?”

She shakes her head frantically. “No. No, don’t stop.”

“I’m not stopping.”

His fingers begin fucking into her properly then, the rhythm steady and deep, his palm pressing against her clit every time he pushes back inside. The wet sounds are obscene in the quiet room, each slick thrust loud enough to make heat crawl over her chest.

Garrett hears them too. “Listen to you,” he says, voice dropping lower. “So fucking wet for me.”

She whines, head falling back as his fingers curl harder. “Garrett, please.”

“Please what?”

She has no idea. More. Faster. Everything. “Please make me come.”

The words leave her on a broken breath. Garrett’s expression turns almost feral.

“Yeah?” His fingers drive into her again, faster now, finding the exact angle that makes her thighs shake. “You need your best friend to make you come?”

She nods, unable to stop the sounds spilling from her.

“Say it.”

“I need you.”

“Need me how?”

Her nails dig into his wrist. “Need your fingers. Please, G, please–”

He groans and kisses her hard, swallowing the next whimper as his hand works between her legs. His fingers thrust deep and curl with every stroke, firm and controlled, while his thumb finds her clit and begins circling in time with them.

The pleasure climbs so quickly she can barely breathe. She clings to his shoulder, moaning into his mouth as he fucks her with his fingers, every thrust sending another hot pulse through her.

He knows exactly when to speed up, when to press harder, when to drag his thumb over her clit in tight, relentless circles that make her hips buck helplessly against him.

She had wondered whether this would feel awkward. Whether she would become too aware of every ordinary thing she knows about him – how he takes his coffee, the face he makes when he loses at cards, the exact pitch of his snore after an away game.

Instead, it feels terrifyingly natural. He knows her even here. He feels the way her body clenches around his fingers before she can tell him she needs more. He hears the pitch of her moans changing and immediately fucks into her harder, curling his fingers against the spot that makes her vision blur.

“Garrett,” she whimpers.

“I know.”

His voice is rough now, every ounce of control in his hand rather than his mouth.

“You’re taking me so well,” he murmurs, watching his fingers disappear inside her. “Fuck, princess. Look at you.”

She squeezes around him, and his breathing stutters.

“That feel good?”

“So good.”

“Better than those other guys?”

The question should make her laugh. Instead, the jealousy underneath it sends heat through her. “Yes.”

“How much better?”

Her voice breaks when he drives his fingers into her again. “So much.”

Garrett’s mouth brushes her ear. “That’s because they didn’t know what to do with you.”

His fingers curl. She cries out softly.

“Didn’t know you needed someone to take their time,” he continues, filthy and tender all at once. “Someone to keep going when you start getting all sensitive.”

Her thighs begin trembling. “G, I’m close.”

“Yeah, you are.”

He fucks his fingers into her faster, thumb moving firmly over her clit while she writhes beneath him. She tries to turn her face away, overwhelmed by his attention, but Garrett catches her jaw again.

“Look at me.”

She forces her eyes open. The approval in his expression nearly destroys her.

“That’s it,” he says softly. “Want to watch you come on my fingers.”

Her stomach tightens violently. The pressure becomes almost unbearable, pleasure building so hard and fast that panic flickers through her. “G–”

“I’ve got you.”

She shakes her head, fingers closing around his wrist even as her hips keep meeting every thrust. “I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.”

“It’s too much.”

“No, baby.” He presses a kiss against her cheek, then the corner of her mouth, never slowing his hand. “You’re just not used to somebody doing it right.”

A broken whine escapes her. Garrett smiles against her skin.

“That’s it. Let me hear you.”

Her legs try to close around his hand, but he shifts between them, using his body to keep her spread open while his fingers continue fucking into her.

“Don’t run.”

“I’m not–”

“You are.” His thumb presses harder against her clit, and her back arches. “Stay right here. Take it for me.”

She nods frantically, tears prickling at her lashes from the intensity.

“Good girl.”

The praise hits at the exact moment his fingers curl deep inside her. The orgasm tears through her. Her body clamps hard around his fingers, a cry breaking loose before Garrett covers her mouth with his.

Pleasure pulses outward in fierce, breath-stealing waves, her hips jerking helplessly against his hand while he keeps fucking her through it.

“That’s it,” he murmurs against her lips. “Come for me.”

She whimpers into his mouth, fingers tangled desperately in his shirt as another wave rolls through her.

“Fuck, you’re squeezing me so tight.” His voice is wrecked now, proud and filthy. “Such a pretty fucking girl.”

The words make her clench around him again. Garrett groans and slows his fingers only slightly, dragging the orgasm out while she shakes beneath him, every stroke making her twitch and gasp.

“G– please–”

“I know, baby.”

She tries to curl away when the pleasure turns too sharp, rolling onto her side with a broken sound, but Garrett follows her, arm wrapping around her waist while his fingers remain inside her.

He gives her one last slow curl. Her whole body shudders. Then he finally stops. For several seconds, she cannot speak.

Her heart pounds beneath the hand he settles over her ribs. Her face is pressed into his pillow, chest rising in shallow, uneven breaths, Garrett’s body warm along the length of her back.

He withdraws his fingers carefully, and she whimpers at the sudden emptiness.

Garrett kisses her shoulder. “That okay?”

She lets out a weak, incredulous laugh. “Okay?”

Garrett’s mouth moves against her skin. “Need to know.”

She turns her head enough to look at him. His expression has softened, the sharp control from moments before giving way to the Garrett she knows – the one who checks that she has texted after walking ten feet into her building.

“That was so good,” she whispers.

The admission makes his grin appear slowly. Stunned and pleased, as though he cannot believe he's the one who finally gets to see her like this. “Yeah?”

She nods, too blissed out to pretend otherwise. “Really good.”

“Shit.” He drops his forehead between her shoulder blades with a quiet laugh. “I’m barely awake.”

A giggle escapes her, loose and helpless. “Me too.”

When she shifts, she feels how hard he still is behind her. She turns in his arms and reaches for him immediately, wanting to give back even a fraction of what he has just done to her, but Garrett catches her wrist before she can get beneath his waistband.

“We’ve got time for that.”

She frowns. “But you didn’t–”

“Later.”

“Garrett.”

He kisses her before she can argue, slower now, his hand cradling the side of her face. “You were the emergency.”

A stupid, warm ache opens beneath her ribs. She studies him when the kiss ends. His hair is a mess from her hands. His mouth is swollen. He's still her best friend, entirely and unmistakably, except now he's held her down and made her come so hard she briefly forgot her own surname.

Nothing is broken.

The room is still his room. The radiator still clicks beneath the window. Downstairs, somebody drops something heavy and Logan groans loudly enough to be heard through the floor.

She still knows him. Maybe she knows him better now.

“Can we be friends with benefits?” she blurts.

Garrett blinks at her.

She pushes herself higher on the pillow, ignoring the fact that the hoodie is trapped around her elbows and her underwear is somewhere near his desk. “It makes sense.”

“Does it?”

“Yes.” She gestures vaguely between them. “You can actually make me finish. Apparently very easily, which is irritating, but useful.”

“Useful,” he echoes, mouth twitching.

“And I won’t have to interrupt your hookups anymore.”

“You’ll absolutely still interrupt my hookups.”

“There won’t be hookups to interrupt,” she says, then pauses. “I mean, unless you still want to hook up with other people. We haven’t discussed exclusivity. This proposal lacks detail.”

Garrett laughs softly, staring up at the ceiling for a second before looking back at her. “You’re negotiating naked.”

“I do my best work under pressure.”

His hand slides along her bare waist beneath the tangled hoodie, thumb moving in a slow, absent stroke that makes her want to climb back on top of him.

“Friends with benefits,” he says.

She nods. “Nothing else changes.”

“Secret?”

“Definitely," she nods. “But Logan will walk in on us within a week.”

“Probably.”

She smiles. “But until then, nobody knows.”

Garrett watches her for a long moment, something unreadable sitting quietly behind his eyes. “And if it gets weird?”

“We stop.”

“No drama," he tilts his head.

“No ruining the friendship,” she agrees. “It’s us. We’ll be fine.”

The words feel true while she says them. Garrett holds out his hand.

She looks down at it, then back at him. “Are we seriously shaking on this?”

“It’s an agreement," he shrugs.

“You just made me come while holding me down.”

“And now I’m being professional.”

She laughs and places her hand in his. His fingers close around hers, warm and firm, his palm roughened in familiar places. He gives her one solemn shake without taking his eyes off her.

“Deal,” he says.

“Deal.”

Garrett releases her hand only to slide his arm around her waist and pull her beneath him again. She squeaks, laughter catching in her throat when he settles between her thighs, mouth already lowering toward her chest.

“What are you doing?”

“The deal started.”

“It started ten seconds ago.”

“Long ten seconds.”

His lips close around one of her piercings. Her hands fly into his hair and the argument dissolves into a breathless moan.

Garrett smiles against her skin. “Thought so, princess.”

to be notified when i post new fics, follow @kooksandpearls-library and turn on notifications! i no longer use a taglist for garrett fics.

[andy-15-07]

The Puppy Mistake

Pairing: Garrett Graham  x Reader

Word Count: 1203

Request open!

Off campus masterlist

Garrett had made a lot of bad decisions in his life.

Most of them involved late-night food, bad betting ideas, or trusting Dean Di Laurentis with anything important.

Taking you “just to look at puppies” should have been added to the list.

It started that afternoon when you were scrolling through your phone on the couch and found a post from the local shelter. There were a dozen rescue puppies packed into one too-small frame, all little paws and floppy ears and hopeful eyes. You made a noise so soft Garrett almost missed it.

Almost.

He looked up from the kitchen. “What?”

You lifted your phone and pointed at the screen. “Look.”

Garrett walked over, wiped his hands on his sweatpants, and leaned down to inspect the picture. His face changed instantly.

“Oh no,” he said.

You looked up at him. “What do you mean, oh no?”

He stared at the photo like it had personally attacked him. “You know exactly what I mean.”

You bit your lip. “They’re cute.”

“Cute is an understatement.”

You smiled, already dangerous. “I’m not getting one.”

Garrett gave you a look. “You just said that in the tone people use right before they get one.”

You frowned at him. “I’m serious.”

“So am I.” He nudged your knee with his. “We can’t get a dog right now.”

“We’re not getting a dog,” you said, trying very hard not to laugh at how defensive he sounded.

“Good.”

“I just said we were going to look.”

Garrett narrowed his eyes. “Looking is how it starts.”

You grinned. “You’re being dramatic.”

“I’m being realistic.”

You held up your phone again and zoomed in on one tiny black-and-white puppy with oversized ears. Garrett went very still.

“That one,” he said quietly.

You blinked. “What?”

“That one is dangerous.”

You laughed. “He’s literally sleeping.”

“Exactly. That’s how they get you.”

You stared at him for a beat and then made the mistake of saying, “You’re more affected by this than I am.”

That got him.

Garrett looked offended on principle. “No, I am not.”

You raised a brow. “You’ve been staring at the same puppy for four minutes.”

He crossed his arms. “Because I’m being supportive.”

“You’re being weak.”

That made him laugh, and his expression changed in a way that made your stomach turn over a little because he had that soft look he got whenever you were teasing him and he was trying not to smile too hard.

“Well,” he said, reaching for his phone, “if we’re going to look, we should at least do it properly.”

You narrowed your eyes. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” he said, already opening the shelter’s contact page, “we should ask a few questions.”

You blinked. “Garrett.”

“What?”

“We are not adopting a puppy.”

He looked at you with the confidence of a man already losing the fight and not caring. “You say that now.”

You laughed and tried to snatch his phone, but he lifted it out of reach, grinning when you glared at him.

“Garrett.”

“I’m just asking about availability.”

You pointed at him. “You are not being normal.”

He shrugged. “Never claimed to be.”

That evening, you insisted on going to the shelter “just to look” in person, which Garrett claimed was how all bad decisions began but followed you there anyway with one hand in yours and the other in his pocket like he was trying not to look too eager.

The second the volunteer brought out a room full of puppies, you both lost the last bit of restraint you had left.

There were tiny barks, tiny paws, tiny tails whipping back and forth so fast they were blurs. You crouched immediately, laughing when one puppy stumbled over its own feet trying to get to you.

Garrett stood behind you with the same expression on his face he wore after a goal. Totally wrecked.

“Oh no,” he whispered.

You looked up at him, smiling. “What?”

He pointed at the smallest puppy in the group, a scruffy little thing with big brown eyes and a tail that never stopped moving. “That one just picked you.”

You looked down. The puppy had crawled into your lap like it had made a decision.

Your face went soft immediately. “Garrett.”

He crouched beside you and reached out one cautious finger. The puppy immediately licked his knuckle.

Garrett stared at it like he had been personally betrayed by his own heart.

You bit your lip. “You look emotional.”

He gave you a deadpan look. “I’m not emotional.”

“You’re staring at a puppy like you’re about to cry.”

“I’m not.”

The volunteer nearby smiled knowingly and said, “He picked you too, I think.”

Garrett looked up at her. “That’s very rude.”

You laughed so hard you nearly tipped sideways, and the puppy used the opportunity to crawl into Garrett’s lap before he could stop it.

He froze.

Then he looked down.

Then the puppy yawned and tucked its head under his hand.

Garrett went absolutely still.

You stared at him in delight. “Oh my God.”

He looked up, horrified. “Don’t.”

“You’re in love.”

“I am not.”

The puppy pressed closer.

Garrett’s face lost the last of its resistance. “This is unfair.”

You were laughing now, full and helpless, because he looked completely defeated in the most charming way possible. “You were the one who said we should just look.”

He pointed at the puppy like it had ambushed him personally. “This is not looking. This is a trap.”

The volunteer smiled and asked, “Would you like to fill out an application?”

Garrett opened his mouth, clearly preparing to say something sensible.

Then he looked at the puppy again.

Then at you.

Then back at the puppy.

And when he finally looked at the volunteer, his voice came out much softer than he had intended.

“Yeah,” he said. “I think so.”

You stared at him.

He turned slowly toward you and immediately saw the expression on your face.

“What?” he asked cautiously.

You smiled. “You came here to look.”

He closed his eyes briefly. “Don’t say it like that.”

You grinned. “And now you’re filling out adoption forms.”

“It was one puppy.”

“Mm-hm.”

He sighed, but there was no real regret in it. Not when the puppy was already asleep in his arms like it had known all along where it wanted to be.

By the time you were leaving, the volunteer had promised to call once the papers were processed, and Garrett was carrying the puppy in a little borrowed blanket while you walked beside him still laughing at the absurdity of it all.

“You said no dog,” you teased.

Garrett looked down at the sleeping bundle in his arms and then at you. “I said we weren’t getting a dog.”

You smiled. “That sounds suspiciously like a loophole.”

He shook his head, but he was smiling too now, soft and helpless and absolutely gone for the tiny animal tucked into his chest.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I’m aware.”

And because the puppy had fallen asleep in his arms and his face had gone all warm and fond and completely ruined, you decided right then that Garrett Graham had never really had a chance.

[dos-bit]

Did It Work?

pairing: Garrett Graham x fem!reader 

summary: Garrett’s girlfriend is about to start her period and just read an article that promised an orgasm can help period cramps. Garrett and his fingers are all too happy to help her test this theory.  

warnings: smut, discussion of period/cramps, cursing/dirty talk, kissing, fingering (18+ content, MDNI) 

author’s note: I know this works for some people, but for others orgasming can actually make period cramps worse, so… don’t take this as law or anything lol (also this is the first Off Campus fic I've posted, hiii!)

word count: 2k 

navigation: my full masterlist 

It’s a lazy autumn Saturday in the living room of the hockey house. Gentle rain patters against the windows. College football announcers murmur on the TV, the volume turned down low. You’re sprawled across the couch half scrolling on your phone, half researching a psychology assignment that’s due next week. Garrett sits next to you with his laptop, dark eyes focused as he reviews film from a recent Briar hockey game. The other three boys are scattered around the room — Logan studying, Dean texting, Tucker trying to pretend he isn’t napping.

It’s a cozy scene. It would be the perfect Saturday. Except for one thing.

You’re supposed to start your period today. And your lower abdomen is feeling more uncomfortable by the minute.

Partially with cramps.

Partially with desire for your boyfriend. 

It’s becoming more and more difficult to keep your eyes off of him. At first, you’d been focused on your assignment; you were making progress. But now, every time Garrett shifts, your gaze immediately cuts over to him without really even realizing you’re doing it. You swallow as you watch his thick fingers tap out something on the laptop keyboard. As he reaches up to push a dark curl off his forehead. As he leans on the arm of the couch and his bicep flexes…

Garrett turns to you and your eyes widen, thinking you’ve been caught staring. But he merely says, “I’m going to make a snack. Want anything?”

You shake your head no.

“Food? I’ll take some,” Dean says.

“You have legs. Make your own,” Garrett immediately fires back. He closes his laptop, stands up, and starts toward the kitchen.

On the way, he lets his hand brush against your shoulder. A simple touch. Innocent. Completely appropriate for the living room full of his teammates. 

But in your current state, it makes your nervous system combust.

You wait as long as you can, which turns out to be approximately two-and-a-half minutes. Then you drop your phone onto the couch cushion and follow Garrett into the kitchen.

He’s standing at the far counter, spreading mayonnaise on a slice of bread with a packet of deli ham open next to him. He glances over his shoulder as you come in. “Change your mind?”

“No, I’m okay.” You walk up behind him and slide your arms around his waist, turning your head to rest against the back of his shoulder. When he says, “What’s up?”, you feel it as a deep rumble that goes straight to your core.

“Just missed you.” You nuzzle deeper into his shoulder and, after a moment, add, “I’m about to start my period, and I’m having cramps.”

“I’m sorry, baby.” Garrett sets down the knife he’d been using and turns in your arms so he’s facing you. His big hands settle at your waist, rubbing gently up and down. “You need ibuprofen or something?”

You squirm a little. “So… I was reading this article that said an orgasm can help. With cramps.”

His eyebrows lift slightly. “That so?”

You nod, uncomfortable under his steady gaze. You drop your eyes lower, fiddling with the loose strings at the waistband of his gray sweats. “Like, it relaxes your pelvic muscles, and blocks pain signals by releasing endorphins…” 

There’s a beat of silence. You sneak a glance back up at Garrett’s face. His mouth twitches, amused.

“This is all very fascinating, baby. But I haven’t heard a question.”

You should’ve known he was going to make you do this. Right in the middle of the hockey house kitchen, in broad daylight. You’re embarrassed, but frankly, you’re also getting too needy to really care. So you take a deep breath and let the words rush out: “Please will you take me upstairs and fuck me with your fingers and make me come?”

Garrett’s eyes immediately darken, his fingers tightening around your hips. “That what you want, baby?” he says, voice rough. 

You nod. “Please, Garrett,” you say, your voice coming out smaller than you intended. 

He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple visibly moving, and puffs out a deep breath. “Yeah, baby. Fuck. I’mma take care of you. C’mere.”

His hands slide under the curve of your ass, lifting you, and you push off the floor to help him, wrapping your arms around his neck. You can’t help the gasp that escapes you when you wrap your legs around his waist and the friction hits right where you need it. 

“Sensitive?” Garrett murmurs, looking pleased. You let out a little whine and bury your face in his neck. But he’s right: Just that small slide of pressure felt so good, you rock your hips back into his almost unconsciously, seeking the feeling again.

“Holy fuck,” Garrett groans. “Upstairs, right now.”

He expertly navigates toward the stairs with you in his arms, clinging to his hard body.

“Dean, don’t eat my sandwich!” he yells over his shoulder as he starts up the stairs. A faint “huh?” floats up from the living room. Garrett doesn’t stop to elaborate or explain. He’s on a mission now: up the stairs, down the hall, and into his bedroom, where he shuts the door and then immediately turns to press you against it.

The first touch of his lips is confident and sure, mouth sliding over yours with that familiar cocky heat. You tangle your hands in his hair as you kiss him back, eagerly opening your mouth under his. He moves to press his lips along your forehead, your cheek, the line of your jaw until you make a little frustrated sound.

“I know,” Garrett says into your neck. “I’ve got you.” He pulls away from the door and carries you across the room, a little unsteady now, like the kissing has thrown him off balance too. He bends low over the bed and gently sets you down. You pull his face to yours, planting messy kisses along his jaw before he can get away.

But he doesn’t try to pull away, just scoots you up the bed until your head is resting on a pillow. He settles beside you and slots one muscular thigh in-between your legs, pulling a gasp from your lips. One of his big hands slides slowly under your old Briar University T-shirt, moving gently over bare skin until it reaches your breast.

“Garrett,” you moan, back arching into his touch.

 “No bra?” he says, voice low, as his fingers continue exploring. You whine, rocking down onto his thigh. His gaze flashes to yours, dark and amused. “Be patient, baby. I told you I’m gonna take care of you.”

But it feels like a long time — long enough that you’re practically panting with need — before Garrett decides he’s kissed you enough, that he’s paid enough attention to your chest, that it’s acceptable to move lower. At last, he hooks his fingers in the waistband of your leggings and pulls them all the way off, your underwear coming with them. 

“My pretty girl,” he murmurs, spreading you open with a hand on your inner thigh. He glances up at your face. “Still want it?”

You need it so badly, you could scream. “Don’t ask stupid questions,” you try to snap at him, but the phrase breaks in the middle when his thumb ghosts over you, so light it was barely there at all.

Without breaking eye contact, Garrett puts his thumb in his mouth, wetting it thoroughly with his tongue. Then he reaches down and presses it firmly, directly over your clit.

Your hips jerk violently. You cry out into the quiet bedroom.

“Feels good, hmm?” Garrett says with satisfaction. He moves lower, bringing his thumb all the way over you in one firm drag. You fist your hands into the sheets.

“So good,” you whimper. “Need more.” 

“More?” Garrett leans his upper body down, getting closer to your face. “Like this?” 

He kisses you at the exact same time he slides in a finger, swallowing your moan. Your hips buck again — you can’t help it, you’re getting worked up much quicker than usual — and Garrett brings his other arm to your lower abdomen, splaying a large hand across your stomach and pressing you into the bed. 

“Stay still,” he says into your mouth. He pumps his finger in and out, slow and filthy. You squirm against his hold, moaning at the delicious pressure that’s already building. “Can you take another?”

“Yes. Please.”

Garrett slowly slides in another finger, watching your face the whole time. He looks just as focused as he did earlier when he was reviewing game footage. Your lips part around an overwhelmed moan. The boys downstairs can undoubtedly hear you, but by this point, you don’t even care.

Garrett begins moving his fingers in and out, finding a rhythm that makes the pressure quickly build. He brings his thumb back to your clit and you gasp as he starts circling the area. It doesn’t take much time before your breath is coming in short, desperate puffs and your thighs are starting to tremble around his hand.

“Garrett,” you manage to squeak out, eyes squeezing shut.

“I know, baby. Come on. Let go. I’ve got you.”

It only takes a few more strokes of Garrett’s fingers and then you’re shattering around him, moaning his name as you break. Everything is concentrated in your core, an explosion of tingling pleasure that takes over every one of your senses. Stars explode behind your eyelids and your back arches as much as possible with Garrett still pinning you down. 

He works you through it, attentive through every wave of pleasure, his deep, calm voice keeping you grounded through the overwhelming sensation. “Fuck, look at you. My pretty girl. Just like that. Feels so good, yeah? There you go, baby.”

At last, you come down from your high, breathing heavily. Garrett gives you one last stroke and gently pulls his fingers out. You whine softly and he smiles, moving up your body to kiss you.

“That was really fucking hot,” he whispers after a minute.

“You’re hot.”

He smirks. “I know.”

You tuck your head into his neck and the two of you lie there in silence as you regulate your breathing, still recovering from your orgasm. Your body feels blissfully warm and relaxed. After a few minutes, Garrett says, “So did it work?”

You twist your head to look at him. “Did what work?”

“The orgasm-before-your-period thing. Are your cramps better?”

“Oh.” You haven’t spared a single thought for your cramps since Garrett picked you up in the kitchen. You place a hand on your stomach, considering. The cramps you were having earlier seem to be completely gone. 

You let out a crestfallen sigh. “No, I don’t think it worked.”

Garrett looks genuinely disappointed for you. “Shit. I’m sorry, baby.”

“Yeah.” You give it a second. Then you glance back up at him, mischief dancing in your eyes. “I think we’re going to have to try it again. You know, just to really be sure.” 

He stares at you. Then he bursts into laughter. “You little—”

“For science! For the greater good of women everywhere!” you protest. 

But it’s too late. Garrett is already diving back in, his hips grinding against you while his mouth gets to work on your neck, and you know it’s going to be a long next round.  His sandwich is definitely going to be gone by the time you get back downstairs.

[jupitercomet]

Sweet Boy | Love Island!Garrett

SUMMARY Garrett goes to embarrassingly great lengths to get you to call him a certain pet name again.

CONTENT love island au, fem reader, use of pet names (sweet boy), short and sweet, barely edited

A/N this is very short sorry, but it's just something small I thought would be funny lol

love island masterlist

The first time it happened was in a moment so inconspicuous, it was almost offensive. Because maybe, if it had happened in a grander way, Garrett could have capitalized on it more—or at least, have been more prepared for it.

Instead, it happens right as the lights in the bedroom turn on and all the Islanders start getting up for the day. 

Garrett stretches, letting sleep cling to him for just one more moment before sitting up. Next to him, you’re splayed out in a way that almost doesn’t look comfortable, having decided at some point in the night that his forearm was a better pillow than the five on your bed.

Your eyes squint slightly at the light and he can tell you’re starting to wake up so he leans over, pressing a greeting kiss to your lips. You hum against his mouth, the sound vibrating between you as he coaxes you out of sleep. You’re warm the way people always are when they first wake up, a toasty comfort lingering on your skin, and when he pulls away, you’re blinking up at him sleepily. 

And then, in a voice that’s small and groggy and drips from your lips like grenadine, it happens.

“Hi, sweet boy.”

Garrett thinks it’s unfair of you to do this to him so early in the morning, when his curls are still a frizzy mess on his head and he hasn’t even wiped the sleep from his eyes. You don’t even seem to fully register what you’ve said—or the way Garrett freezes and his chest stutters—blinks slowing as you start to slip under the warmth of the blankets again. 

He wants the memory etched into his brain—you half-asleep, your face still puffy, wearing a sweet smile as the sound of those words, shaped by your voice, fills his ears until he can’t hear anything else. There’s not a single part of him that feels normal about this. In fact, the only thought he can seem to form fully is that he wants to take you, your blankets, and at least eight water bottles and not leave your bed for a very long time. 

And so Garrett says the only thing that a man who feels like his heart is going to explode can in this situation.

“...My arm’s asleep.”

After that morning, you don’t call Garrett “sweet boy” again. The memory seems to have completely slipped your mind—like the only reason you had said in the first place was because sleep had lowered your inhibitions. And he tried an embarrassing amount of things to get you to call him it again, purposefully trying to be extra sweet, like maybe if he was so overwhelmingly sweet, you’d have no choice but to never call him anything else again.

And in return he gets your happy giggles and pleased kisses and a few confused glances because sometimes he kind of overdoes it and makes you wonder why he’s acting so weird, but never the two words he’s hoping for. Of course, he could just ask you to outright, but Garrett hasn’t fully discarded his self-respect (having to verbally ask you to call him “sweet boy” would be embarrassing) and besides, he wants you to say it because you want to, not because he wants you to (having to verbally ask you to call him “sweet boy” would be embarrassing).

But Garrett is a man of science, so he thinks that, sometimes, the best way to get a desired outcome is to recreate the situation in which it happened. And so he starts trying to wake you up before you have the chance to do it yourself, in hopes that you’ll be tired enough to call him it again.

“Garrett.” You groan into your pillow when you’re dragged out of sleep by the feeling of him kissing along the side of your neck.

After three nights of this, it was starting to become noticeable and—given how late you all often had to stay up some nights to get all the shots production wanted for each episode—incredibly unwelcome.

Garrett doesn’t respond, pressing slightly firmer kisses against your skin as he pulls the blanket back from where it’s wrapped around your shoulder.

“If you make me open my eyes and the bedroom light is not on right now, you’re sleeping outside.”

You feel his lips still against you.

Unfortunately the damage had already been done and you heave a breath, flipping around in his hold so that you’re facing the suddenly very guilty looking man you’ve allowed into your bed. It’s somewhat difficult to make out his features—because it is not morning and the bedroom lights are not on—but even in the dark, the unhappy furrow of your brows is obvious.

He tries to lean forward to soften you with a kiss, but is quickly thwarted by a hand to the face as you shove him away.

“Uh-uh,” you whisper stubbornly. “Why am I awake right now?”

Garrett winces. “Baby—,”

“Nope. Try again.”

You’re still glaring at him and Garrett has to look away, looking around helplessly. He hopes that the discomfort that’s coloring his face bright pink isn’t noticeable.

Every explanation he comes up with in his head sounds more embarrassing than the last—because how exactly does he say that he’s resorted to setting his internal clock back an hour to try and get you to call him a pet name again.

“I’m not kidding. If you don’t explain yourself, I will make you sleep outside.”

Garrett groans, burrowing his head into the crook of your neck—which you let him—so that he doesn’t have to face you. “Will you just say it?”

“Say what?” You ask in a baffled whisper.

He makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a whine, but isn’t and he’ll deny it to anyone who says that it is.

“Don’t make me—,” He huffs. “You’re not fair, you know. I’ve been trying everything, but you just won’t say it. So I thought that—,”

“Garrett, what—?”

“Nooo.” This time it definitely is a whine but, in Garrett’s defense, waking up this early to wake you up this early was also tiring for him. “Stop calling me that.”

You’re too tired for this, trying to piece together whatever Garrett is talking about with a half functioning brain. “Stop calling you your name?”

You feel him nod into your shoulder.

You blink slowly. “So what am I supposed to call you, then?”

Garrett lets out a humiliated grumble into your skin. He genuinely can’t believe that you’ve reduced him to this.

“What… What you called me before…”

“What I—?” Your brows knit in thought, fighting through the remnants of sleep to recall what he’s talking about. “What? Sweet boy?”

Garrett’s arms tighten around you. 

You bring one of your hands to your mouth to try and muffle your incredulous laughter. “That’s what all this has been about? Why didn’t you just ask?”

“No way—,”

“Why not, sweet boy?” You tease.

A strangled sound leaves his mouth as words fail him and this time you aren’t able to muffle the laughter that spills out of your lips.

“You’re such a simp.”

Garrett sits up indignantly. “I am not a—!”

“Hey guys.” Kendall’s voice suddenly pulls you both back to the shared bedroom. “It’s great that you were able to figure that out—Which, cute of you, Garrett. Unbelievably pathetic, but cute—But now, can you please shut the fuck up and let us sleep?”

please don't copy, repost, or feed my work into ai, thanks!

iylm taglist (this taglist is now full): @staticgladiatordesolation @anyasthoughts @ethanthequeefqueen @legendarychrattgirl @haylee04 @ivysprophecy @avengersheart @jchameleon @serendididy @whysoanxious @prisciliamunoz @saamanthaag3 @nikfigueiredo @waitingforsmartpeople @plants-w0rld @canupourme14theroad @ivy-stuffs @donaldsonsgirl @yazzy1004 @rrosiitas @queenmariahh816 @kennedy-brooke @moonymoo1 @outpostsworld

[f1hazexoxo]

the distance between us - LN1

when your relationship gets distant, Lando doesn't think you'd be the one to "leave" from it. ─────────────────── pairing: boyfriend!lando x fem!reader contains: swearing, angst, happy ending tho word count: 2.1k authors note: hii im back once again :) i decided to make my own headers from now on, not sure how i feel about it but lmk if you like it!! im gonna be back tomorrow with a request, enjoy reading x ─────────────────── The house you shared with Lando was quiet with only the faint sound of the TV playing, and to be honest you got used to it. Every day was the same: wake up, simulator, training, go to sleep, repeat. You didn't blame him, really, it was his job afterall right? But where do you fit in this routine?

Your relationship with Lando seemed too perfect at first. You supported him whenever you could, constantly going to his races and spending most of your weekends with him or his family. He always surprised you with dates, little gifts, or trips for the two of you to get away from all the chaos surrounding you.

You yourself don't even know where it went wrong. All of those little surprises? Gone. All of your little cute plans together? Also gone. At first you shrugged it off, of course he's a world champion, of course he has to train more and focus on his work, but aren't you atleast a little priority aswell?

As you got more and more lost in your thoughts, the front door opened, revealing an exhausted Lando. He dropped all of his stuff on the floor as he let out a big sigh, taking his shoes off. After a few minutes that felt like forever he finally looked at you, furrowing his eyebrows. You were all dressed up, your heels tossed on the floor, and all of your favorite jewelries shining on your skin, which meant one thing: You were going on a date. Atleast you were supposed to.

"Well hello" you finally spoke, breaking the silence. You watched as the realization slowly hit his eyes, his expression changing for a second then going back to neutral.

"Fuck, I'm sorry, I lost track of time-"

"And you didn't check your phone?" you interrupted him, your voice changing from neutral to annoyed.

You watched as he took his phone out and turned it on, the loud message notifications appearing repeatedly on his screen. You sent him a bunch of messages hours before, asking him where he was, and finally if he atleast cancelled the table he booked.

"You know what, nevermind" you said as you stood up, going into your shared bedroom. He was standing there confused, and you expected him to go after you, to apologize, but he didn't. He continued his night routine as usual, not even acknowledging the fact that he completely stood you up. You quickly washed your makeup off and did your skincare, getting into bed before him and turning to the side. At this point you still had a tiny bit of hope that he will apologize, he will tell you that he's sorry, but as he got into bed he just turned into the other side, quickly falling asleep from the tiring day he had. And that's when you realized that this isn't what you want.

This wasn't the first time that he forgot about a date, or you in general. All those times he insisted you to go to the paddock just for him to be gone for the whole day, all those times he promised he will take you out somewhere just to say that he is tired, even going as far as to cancel a trip with your family just to go out with his friends instead cause he "didn't see them in a while", leaving you to go alone. You were never mad when he went out with his friends, it was the opposite actually, but when you hadn't spent quality time in months you expected him to prioritize you and go with you instead.

As you heard his quiet breathing behind you, you couldn't help but let out a faint sob. This didn't feel like a relationship anymore, it basically felt like you two were just roommates. He got comfortable in the relationship and knew that you wouldn't leave him, atleast that's what he thought, but you were going to prove him wrong. You closed your eyes but you couldn't sleep, your thoughts running constantly, not knowing what to do next.

-

The morning sun shined through the curtains, lighting up the dark room and waking you up. You expected to feel an empty bed behind you but to your surprise Lando was still behind you, sleeping peacefully. And maybe it wasn't the right thing to do, but you felt like he needed a wake up call. You quietly got ready, packed some of your stuff and quickly grabbed a piece of paper and a pen, writing a note and leaving it on the counter.

Lando woke up to the thud of the front door, frowning at the bright light coming from the window. As he looked over he was even more confused about seeing your side of the bed empty, quickly getting up.

"Babe?" he called, but it was dead silent. There wasn't a sing of you anywhere, no matter how much he paced around the cold apartment. As he arrived in the kitchen he saw a small piece of paper on the counter, walking towards it and picking it up.

"Lando, I'm tired of feeling like a burden, and let's be honest, that's what I am to you now. This is not just about yesterday's date, it's about the fact that you haven't acknowledged my presence at all in the past few days and we hadn't spent quality time in months. This doesn't feel like a relationship to me, and this is certainly not what you want right now, so I'm going back to my parents house. I need some time away to think about things, please don't contact me until then, I'll be back when I'm ready to talk. Be safe"

"What the fuck" was the first thing that left his lips as he read the note. The first thing he did was pull out his phone to call you, how did you even expect him to not contact you in a situation like this? As he tapped your number on the screen it went straight to voicemail, same with the numerous texts he sent that never ended up being delivered. He ran a shaky hand through his hair and thought about picking up his car keys and just going after you, but he knew if he did that you would probably end things right there, and he didn't want that. So, he waited.

-

Two weeks passed by, and to you, it was quite comforting. You finally weren't left alone in an apartment for most of the day, and you could properly focus on your work without your thoughts wandering off somewhere else.

To Lando, it was hell. There wasn't a day he didn't think about you, and these two weeks were exactly what he needed to realize just how much you actually meant to him. All those nights he went back to the apartment, just to lay in the bed alone and think about all those times he left you disappointed. You were right, he did get comfortable. He was used to going back home to you no matter how many useless excuses he made, the cold hard truth finally slapping his face. It was race week in a few days, he couldn't get distracted. But he also couldn't bear the thought of you not being there. Even if he didn't pay much attention to you sometimes, the fact that you were there comforted him. But what's going to happen now?

You already had the tickets and passes to Hungary, and you thought of giving them to someone else, but you felt like you were ready to finally see him now, so you ended up going there afterall. You didn't want to distract him, but at the same time you still wanted to be there for him. So, you got ready, packed your suitcase and booked a room for a seperate hotel, going over all the possibilities of how to go there without you being noticed by anyone.

The most logical solution was only going for the race day, so although you arrived in Budapest on friday, you stayed in your hotel and watched the race from the TV. Surprisingly Lando got pole, but you didn't know that you were more happy about it than he was. Although he was supposed to celebrate, he couldn't help but scan his eyes around the paddock, looking for any sign of you being there. He even approached a random girl that looked like you from behind, just to end up apologizing when realizing it was someone else.

The race day arrived, the sun lighting up the racetrack across Budapest with Lando's car already positioned up from the front of the grid. You arrived in the paddock an hour before the race started, when you knew there are already preparations so you won't see him. You sat in the McLaren hospitality, with the engineers and team members greeting you, asking where you were yesterday. You made up a quick excuse, something about busy days, and quickly went upstairs to sit in the room to watch from the big screen.

As the race intensified it didn't shake Lando up at all, and he ended up winning the grand prix. You were really proud of him, and although you wanted to stay lowkey, some team members went up to you and encouraged you to watch the ceremony from the stands. You went downstairs, but what you didn't expect was the fact that all of them pushed you forward, so you were standing in the front row for the whole ceremony.

As Lando received the trophy and held it in the air, he looked down at his team members, then his heart skipped the beat. There were a bunch of engineers and team staff around, but he could notice you anywhere, no matter how big the crowd was. You smiled at him and clapped, not hiding the fact that you were extremely proud of him. His expression softened, and he stood still, not taking his eyes off you, the sweet moment interrupted by the loads of champagne poured down his face and neck.

As the celebrations and media duties went down he rushed across the paddock, looking for you. He ran to the garage, asking everyone where you were, afraid like he won't see you again. You were on your phone back in the hospitality scrolling on social media, when you heard the door open.

Lando stood there completely frozen, not knowing what to do. Should he hug you? Kiss you? Do you want to break up with him right now?

You were just staring at each other for a bit until he finally slowly approached you, pulling you in a tight hug, like you were going to disappear infront of him anytime soon. You hugged him back, not caring about the fact that he was still sticky from the champagne.

"I'm so fucking sorry Y/N" was the first sentence that left his lips, still not breaking free from the hug.

"I'm so so sorry. I took your love for granted and I'll never forgive myself for that" he continued, the words taking him way too much effort considering that he just ran across the entire paddock. "I love you more than anything else and these past few weeks were hell, I never want to lose you again, I'll do anything to make us work again"

As he said those words you pulled away from the hug, cupping his face between your cheeks, wiping down a single tear that fell from his eyes.

"Lando-"

"I promise I'll make up all those dates, and it will never happen again, I really want to make you happy. I always wanted to make you happy, I really hope you never doubted that, I just got way too carried away knowing you always forgave me for all the times I messed up. I know I don't deserve it but-"

"I forgive you Lando" you cut him off. Seeing him so worried, you couldn't help but feel bad for him, and you felt the sincerity in his words. "But if this happens again-"

"It won't" he didn't let you finish. "It really won't Y/N. I was so fucking scared you never want to see me again, I never want to feel like that ever again"

"You promise?"

"I promise."

And after three whole weeks, you finally kissed him. Winning a race didn't even come close to the feeling of your lips finally touching his, as he completely melted under your touch. You both knew he still had a lot of things to prove, but in this moment, this is all that mattered. ───────────────────

[verstappenpiastrif1leclercc]

Storytime

hi lovies there is the final part it’s been such a rollercoaster but I’m glad you all stuck with me :)

“She’s still alive by the way.”

The words hit like a gunshot.

Oscar moved instantly.

Not toward her.

Past her.

Into the bedroom and froze.

Blood covered the floor beside the bed.

Your phone Your wedding ring One of your earrings.

But no you.

His breathing turned ragged immediately.

“Where is she.”

The stalker watched him lovingly.

It was genuinely horrifying.

“I knew you’d look for her first.”

Oscar turned toward her slowly.

And she visibly reacted to his face.

Because there was nothing human left in it now.

No warmth.

No restraint.

Nothing.

Just devastation.

Just violence barely contained beneath skin.

She stood carefully.

“I cleaned some of the blood” she whispered “I didn’t want you to see how much there was.”

Oscar looked like he might kill her actually kill her.

His voice came out terrifyingly quiet.

“Where. Is. My. Wife.”

The woman smiled shakily.

Then pointed toward the bathroom.

The door at the end of the hall was nearly broken off its hinges.

Blood smeared across the wood.

Oscar ran.

His shoulder slammed into the half destroyed door hard enough to rip it open fully.

Then he saw you and the sound that left him didn’t even sound human.

You were curled against the bathtub unmoving.

Blood soaked through your shirt.

Across the floor.

Under your body.

Your skin looked ghostly pale beneath the bathroom lights.

“Oscar.” the stalker said softly behind him. “I stayed with her after.”

He dropped to his knees so hard they cracked against tile.

“Oh my god.”

His hands hovered over you helplessly.

Too much blood.

There was too much fucking blood.

He touched your face carefully.

Cold.

Your eyelashes fluttered weakly.

Alive.

Thank god.

Thank fucking god.

The breath Oscar released sounded broken.

Completely broken.

“Baby.”

Your lips parted slightly at the sound of his voice.

Tiny.

Weak.

“Osc.”

That nearly destroyed him more than seeing the blood.

His forehead pressed against yours instantly.

“I’m here.”

His voice cracked apart.

“I’m here baby I’m here.”

Behind him the woman started crying.

Not normal crying.

Obsessive.

Emotional.

“I took care of her for you are you proud of me??”

Oscar went still.

Slowly he turned his head toward her while still holding you.

The woman stood in the doorway clutching the bloody knife against her chest.

Smiling through tears.

“I stopped the bleeding after” she whispered desperately. “See I could have stabbed her more but I didn’t for you.”

Oscar stared at her in absolute horror.

And for the first time.

He realized she was completely insane.

Not angry.

Not jealous.

Delusional.

The woman took another step toward him.

“I can help you fix this.”

Oscar shielded your body instinctively.

“Don’t.”

One word.

Sharp enough to cut.

She froze immediately.

Tears spilled down her face.

“I didn’t mean to hurt her that badly.”

Oscar looked down at the blood soaking through his hands.

Then back at her.

Something inside him snapped visibly.

“You stabbed my wife.”

The woman started shaking.

“You loved her too much.”

Oscar stood so suddenly she flinched backward.

“You broke into my home.”

Another step toward her.

“You watched us.”

Another.

“You touched her.”

The woman started crying harder.

“I did it because I love you.”

Oscar exploded.

“THAT IS NOT LOVE.”

The scream echoed through the apartment violently.

The woman looked stunned.

Like nobody had ever raised their voice at her before.

Oscar’s chest heaved.

His eyes bloodshot now.

“You left her here to die.”

The woman whispered something then.

Small. Childlike.

“But you came home to us.”

And somehow.

That was the creepiest thing she’d said all night.

Because she genuinely believed this entire thing was romantic.

Sirens suddenly wailed outside downstairs.

The stalker’s expression shifted instantly.

Panic.

“No no no.”

Oscar didn’t even remember calling emergency services.

He must have.

At some point.

His hands were covered in blood when he looked down at his phone.

The woman backed away shaking violently.

“They’ll take me away from you.”

Oscar turned back toward you immediately instead.

Nothing else mattered.

He dropped beside you again just as your body jerked weakly from pain.

Your eyes barely opened.

Confused.

Distant.

“Osc.”

He grabbed your hand instantly.

The relief on your face seeing him almost killed him.

You tried to speak again but coughed instead.

Blood stained your lips.

Oscar broke.

Actually broke.

“No no no no.”

His voice shook violently now.

He pressed trembling kisses against your forehead over and over.

“Stay awake.”

“Please stay awake.”

“Please baby.”

The stalker watched from the corner smiling faintly through tears while police pounded against the apartment door outside.

And even then.

Even surrounded by blood and sirens and destruction.

She still looked at Oscar like she loved him.

The pounding on the apartment door grew louder.

Police shouting in French from the hallway.

Heavy footsteps.

Radios crackling.

But inside the bathroom everything felt far away.

Muted.

Oscar could barely hear any of it over your breathing.

Or rather.

How little of it there was.

His hands pressed desperately against your wound trying to stop blood that kept slipping through his fingers anyway.

Your skin felt freezing now.

Too cold.

“Oscar” you whispered weakly.

His entire face crumpled instantly.

“I’m here.”

You blinked slowly up at him.

Dazed.

Like you were struggling to stay conscious.

The stalker watched from the doorway with tears still running down her cheeks.

And somehow she still looked jealous.

Even now.

Even after all this.

“He never looks at me like that” she whispered to herself.

Oscar ignored her completely.

His forehead pressed shakily against yours.

“Stay with me baby.”

“Please.”

“Please.”

Your hand twitched weakly against his wrist.

And then your eyes rolled back.

Oscar froze.

The entire world stopped.

“Hey.”

Nothing.

“Hey.”

Panic exploded across his face instantly.

“No no no no.”

He shook you gently.

Too gently.

Terrified of hurting you more.

“Baby open your eyes.”

Nothing.

The monitor attached by paramedics suddenly shrieked from beside him.

One of them cursed sharply.

Everything erupted into chaos.

“Move.”

“We’re losing her.”

Oscar physically recoiled.

Like he’d been shot.

“What.”

Hands pulled him backward while paramedics crowded around you.

You looked so small suddenly.

Too pale.

Too still.

Oscar’s breathing turned ragged instantly.

“No.”

One paramedic started chest compressions.

Another ripped open medical packaging.

The bathroom filled with frantic movement and shouted instructions.

Oscar stared at you in complete horror.

“No no no.”

“No.”

The stalker began crying harder in the corner.

“I didn’t want this.”

Oscar turned toward her so violently the paramedic holding him almost lost grip.

“You did this.”

His voice cracked apart.

The woman shook uncontrollably.

“I just wanted you to see me.”

Oscar looked genuinely sick hearing that.

“You stabbed her because you wanted attention.”

“She took everything from me.”

Oscar snapped.

“YOU NEVER HAD ANYTHING.”

The bathroom went silent for half a second.

Even the stalker looked stunned.

Oscar’s chest heaved violently.

His face wet with tears now.

“You watched us.”

“You terrorized her.”

“You broke into our home.”

His voice dropped lower.

More dangerous.

The stalker blinked.

Confused.

Oscar looked at her with absolute disgust.

“I wish I could kill you but unfortunately I respect women too much to hurt them but I’m going to make sure you will never see me ever again.”

The woman’s face crumpled.

“No.”

“Yes.”

Oscar laughed once.

Broken.

Cruel.

The woman started shaking harder.

“You’re lying.”

Oscar pointed toward you.

Toward the blood.

Toward the destruction.

“My wife was scared.”

“And she still had more humanity in her than you ever will.”

The stalker let out this horrible wounded sound.

Like something inside her had shattered.

And for the first time all night.

She looked afraid.

Not of the police.

Not of prison.

But of Oscar.

Because he was looking at her now like he truly hated her.

Not passionately.

Not emotionally.

Coldly.

Like she disgusted him.

The paramedic suddenly shouted.

“We’ve got her back.”

Oscar spun around instantly.

“What.”

Your body jerked weakly beneath the medic’s hands.

A coughing gasp tore from your throat.

Alive.

Alive.

Oscar nearly collapsed.

A broken sob ripped from his chest as he stumbled back toward you.

“Oh my god.”

His shaking hands grabbed your face carefully.

“You scared me.”

His forehead pressed against yours again.

He was crying openly now.

No restraint left at all.

“You can’t do that to me.”

“You can’t.”

Your eyes fluttered weakly open.

“Osc.”

That one word destroyed him.

The elevator downstairs dinged loudly as more officers flooded the floor.

The stalker suddenly panicked.

“No.”

Police grabbed her arms immediately.

She screamed violently.

Not scared.

Desperate.

“Oscar wait.”

He didn’t even look at her.

“I love you.”

Nothing.

They dragged her backward through the apartment while she fought against them hysterically.

“I did this for us.”

Oscar finally turned then.

Slowly.

The entire apartment went still.

The stalker looked relieved immediately just from him acknowledging her.

Then Oscar spoke.

And every single word landed like a knife.

“If you ever loved me.”

His voice was ice cold.

“You would’ve loved her too.”

The woman completely broke.

A scream tore from her throat so raw and devastated it barely sounded human as police dragged her away down the hallway.

Her cries echoed through the building long after she disappeared.

Then silence fell.

Only rain against the windows now.

Only your weak breathing.

Oscar looked down at you again.

At the blood soaking his clothes.

Your wedding ring still sitting abandoned on the bedroom floor.

The life you both almost lost tonight.

And suddenly he started shaking again.

Hard.

You weakly reached for his hand.

He grabbed yours instantly.

Tight.

Desperate.

Like he thought you might disappear if he let go.

The paramedics carefully lifted your stretcher.

Oscar refused to release your hand even when they started wheeling you away.

“Sir we need space.”

“No.”

His voice was immediate.

Terrifyingly firm.

“I’m going with her.”

They rolled you through the destroyed apartment slowly.

Past shattered glass.

Broken furniture.

Bloodstained walls.

Pieces of your life everywhere.

Camera flashes exploded outside the building from gathering paparazzi and neighbors.

Oscar immediately stepped beside the stretcher shielding your body from every camera instinctively.

Fury radiated off him.

One photographer shouted his name.

Oscar ignored all of them.

His entire world was on that stretcher.

The elevator doors opened.

You looked up at him weakly as the paramedics rolled you inside.

“Oscar.”

He climbed in beside you instantly.

“I’m here.”

Your trembling fingers tightened around his.

“Don’t leave.”

And that finally shattered whatever composure he had left.

His eyes closed briefly as tears slipped down his face again.

“I won’t.”

He kissed your forehead carefully.

Then whispered against your skin.

“Never again.”

The hospital room was dark except for the soft orange glow of Monaco’s city lights outside the windows.

Rain still tapped quietly against the glass.

But it no longer sounded terrifying.

Not anymore.

Oscar sat beside your hospital bed with his fingers threaded tightly through yours like he physically could not let go.

Because honestly.

He couldn’t.

Not after tonight.

His hoodie sleeves were still stained with your blood.

There was dried blood beneath his nails.

His curls were messy from running his hands through them every thirty seconds.

He looked exhausted.

Destroyed.

And yet the second your eyes fluttered open again his entire face softened instantly.

“There she is.”

His voice cracked a little saying it.

You smiled weakly.

“Hi.”

Oscar laughed quietly.

Actually laughed.

The sound shaky with relief.

“Hi.”

You stared at him for a second.

Really stared.

At the dark circles beneath his eyes.

The dried tear tracks on his face.

The way he kept rubbing his thumb against your knuckles over and over like grounding himself.

“You stayed.”

His expression immediately fell apart a little.

“Of course I stayed.”

You swallowed slowly.

“They stitched me up ugly.”

That earned the tiniest smile from him.

“Baby you almost died and that’s your first concern.”

You shrugged weakly.

“I’m serious.”

Oscar leaned forward in his chair until his forehead rested gently against yours.

“You’re alive.”

His voice dropped softer.

“That’s literally all I care about.”

The monitor beside you beeped steadily in the quiet room.

For a moment neither of you spoke.

Then suddenly.

Oscar’s shoulders started shaking.

You blinked in surprise.

He was crying again.

Silent this time.

Like he’d been holding it in for hours and physically couldn’t anymore.

“Oscar.”

“I thought I lost you.”

The words came out broken instantly.

Raw.

He squeezed your hand tighter.

“When I saw all that blood.”

“When you stopped breathing.”

His face crumpled.

“I actually thought my life was over.”

Your chest hurt in an entirely different way now.

You carefully lifted your free hand toward his face.

Oscar immediately leaned into your touch like he needed it.

“You didn’t lose me.”

His eyes shut tightly.

“You scared the shit out of me.”

You laughed softly.

Tiny.

Weak.

But real.

And somehow that laugh completely destroyed the tension in the room.

Oscar let out this breathless half laugh half sob before standing suddenly and leaning carefully over the bed to kiss you.

Slowly.

Like he was terrified you’d disappear.

His hand cupped your jaw gently while the other stayed wrapped around yours.

You could taste salt from his tears.

“ i love you” he whispered against your lips. “So much.”

You smiled sleepily.

“I know.”

That made him laugh again.

A real laugh this time.

Quiet.

Warm.

The Oscar you knew.

Not the shattered terrified man from the apartment bathroom floor.

He climbed carefully into the hospital bed beside you despite the nurses protesting earlier that evening.

One arm wrapped around your waist carefully avoiding the bandages while your head rested against his chest.

And for the first time since this entire nightmare started.

You both finally slept.

Together.

Safe.

Years later.

The apartment looked different now.

Not Monaco anymore.

Warmer somehow.

Lived in.

Soft music played quietly from the kitchen while rain tapped peacefully against the windows.

Oscar was stretched across the couch beside you in grey sweatpants and glasses scrolling through emails on his laptop while your legs rested over his lap.

Domestic.

Comfortable.

Safe.

You were half paying attention to TikTok when suddenly a familiar headline appeared on your screen.

“Formula One star’s wife survives real life stalker attack.”

Your eyes widened.

“Oh my god.”

Oscar looked up immediately.

“What.”

You were already laughing.

“No way somebody made a true crime storytime about us.”

Oscar’s expression changed instantly.

Not angry exactly.

Just tired.

You clicked the video anyway.

A dramatic voice filled the living room.

“She found the stalker sitting on the bed wearing her husband’s hoodie.”

You burst out laughing.

“Oh my god they make it sound like a Netflix documentary.”

Oscar did not laugh.

At all.

You glanced over.

And immediately noticed the tension in his jaw.

The way his hand had stopped moving entirely on the laptop keyboard.

The tiny shift in his breathing.

Years later and it still affected him.

Not because he missed it.

Not because he was scared.

But because remembering that night still hurt.

Still brought him right back to that apartment.

That blood.

That voicemail.

You softened instantly.

“Hey.”

Oscar looked over quietly.

You locked your phone and set it aside before scooting closer toward him on the couch.

“I’m okay.”

His eyes flickered over your face automatically like checking.

Still a habit.

You gently took his hand and placed it on your chest right over your heart.

“I’m here.”

“I’m alive.”

“And your psycho fan is rotting in prison.”

That finally earned the faintest smile from him.

Tiny.

“You’re making jokes about it now.”

“She wore your hoodie. That’s objectively embarrassing.”

Oscar groaned quietly.

“Don’t remind me.”

You laughed again before leaning over to kiss him softly.

This kiss felt different from the hospital one years ago.

Not desperate.

Not terrified.

Just love.

Warm familiar love.

Oscar melted into it instantly.

One hand sliding around your waist pulling you into his lap while the other cupped the back of your neck carefully.

When you pulled away he rested his forehead against yours.

“You know I still check the locks three times before bed.”

“I know.”

“And I still hate when you’re home alone.”

“I know.”

His thumb brushed absentmindedly over the faded scar near your side through your shirt.

The scar he still looked at sometimes when he thought you weren’t noticing.

You kissed him again softly.

“Oscar.”

“Hm.”

“She didn’t win.”

His eyes met yours slowly.

You smiled.

“We did.”

Something in his expression softened completely then.

All the leftover fear.

All the guilt.

All the horror from years ago.

Not gone entirely.

Maybe it never would be.

But softened by time.

By healing.

By you still being here.

Oscar pulled you closer against his chest until you were practically folded into him beneath the blanket.

“You know” you murmured sleepily, “if someone makes a movie about this they better cast me hot.”

That startled a laugh out of him so sudden he nearly choked.

“You are hot.”

“Good answer.”

He rolled his eyes affectionately before kissing the top of your head.

Outside rain continued falling softly against the windows.

But now.

It just sounded peaceful.

And wrapped safely in Oscar’s arms while he held you like something precious.

You realized the storm finally belonged in the past.

tag list yay!!!

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[moonlightproblems]

Hiii could you make a Lando, George or Oscar x reader in which him and the reader (either friends in denial of feelings to one anothers or already dating, up to you) are walking down the paddock after a long media day, everyone has left, it's late at night, and the readers feet are un absolute pain from heels (which reader did not bring spare shoes for) and the driver offers to carry her? Just something really cute like that!

Even if you can't, thank you for taking your time to read this!

Late Nights and Tired Feet

Lando Norris x Girlfriend!reader

Synopsis: Lando walks you through the empty paddock after a long media day, notices your heels are killing you, and refuses to let you take another step. He carries you all the way to the car and gently settles you into the passenger seat, taking care of you the way he always does.

Moonlight Radio: hi, this was a cute one - I hope u like it!

PATREON: Exclusive Content

ʙᴇ ɴɪᴄᴇ ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ɪɴᴛᴇʀɴᴇᴛ. ᴛʜᴇ ɪᴍᴘᴀᴄᴛ ɪꜱ ʙɪɢɢᴇʀ ᴛʜᴀɴ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛʜɪɴᴋ ♡

The paddock is almost unrecognisable at night - quiet, dim, stripped of the chaos it held only hours ago. Hospitality lights glow like distant lanterns, and the asphalt still radiates leftover warmth from the day. It feels like the world has finally exhaled.

You walk beside Lando, heels clicking sharply with each step. It’s a sound that usually feels confident, purposeful - but tonight it’s just painful. Every stride sends a sting up your calves, and you’re starting to regret every life choice that led to you not packing spare shoes.

Lando glances over, hands tucked into the pockets of his hoodie, curls messy from tugging off his cap too many times. He looks tired in that soft, end‑of‑day way, but his eyes keep flicking down to your feet.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low.

“Yep,” you lie, trying to keep your face neutral.

He slows, watching you walk. “You’re limping.”

“I’m not limping.”

“You’re absolutely limping.”

You try to walk normally - which only makes it worse. He stops completely. You take two more steps before realising he’s no longer beside you.

You turn back. He’s standing there with his arms crossed, one brow raised, looking at you like you’re the most stubborn person alive.

“Come here,” he says.

“No.”

“Come here.”

You shuffle back toward him, trying not to wince. He steps closer, hands gentle on your hips.

“You should’ve brought spare shoes.”

“I know.”

“You always bring spare shoes.”

“I know.”

He kisses your forehead, soft and warm. “Alright. Up.”

You blink. “Up?”

He turns around, crouching slightly, offering his back. “Get on.”

“Lando, no.”

“Lando, yes.”

“I’m wearing a dress.”

“And I’m wearing a hoodie. We’ll survive.”

You laugh despite yourself, but he stays there, waiting, patient and stubborn. The paddock is empty enough that no one will see - and even if they did, he wouldn’t care.

“I’m heavy,” you murmur.

He glances over his shoulder, eyes warm. “You’re not. And even if you were, I’d still carry you.”

Your chest tightens. He says it so simply, like it’s the easiest truth in the world.

You sigh, giving in, and climb onto his back. His hands hook under your thighs, lifting you effortlessly. You wrap your arms around his shoulders, cheek pressed to the side of his head. He smells like cologne and garage air - metal, rubber, adrenaline.

He starts walking again, steady and sure.

“See?” he murmurs. “Should’ve done this ten minutes ago.”

You nudge your nose against his jaw. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Yeah, but you love me.”

You tighten your hold. “I do.”

He smiles - you can feel it. “Good. Because I love you too. Even when you make terrible footwear choices.”

You groan. “Please don’t roast me while I’m literally on your back.”

“No promises.”

He carries you past the darkened garages, past the empty pit lane, past the lingering scent of burnt rubber. His thumbs brush slow circles into your skin, adjusting his grip every now and then to keep you comfortable.

When you reach the exit gate, he shifts you enough that you can see his face. His cheeks are flushed from the walk, curls messy, eyes soft in the dim light.

“You okay now?” he asks.

You nod. “Better.”

He kisses your cheek - slow, lingering. “Good. I’ve got you.”

And he does.

He carries you all the way to the car, not letting you down until he’s right beside the passenger door. He lowers you gently, hands steady on your waist as your feet touch the ground for just a second - just long enough for him to open the door.

Then he scoops you up again, one arm under your knees, the other around your back, lifting you like it’s nothing.

“Lan-“

“Nope,” he says, already leaning in to set you down on the passenger seat. “Feet are retired for the night.”

He adjusts your dress so it doesn’t catch, makes sure you’re comfortable, buckles your seatbelt for you with a soft click. His fingers linger at your shoulder for a moment, warm and careful.

“There,” he murmurs. “Safe.”

You look up at him, heart full. “You’re too good to me.”

He grins, leaning in to kiss your forehead. “That’s the job.”

He closes the door gently - not the usual slam, but a soft, protective push - before jogging around to the driver’s side. And even through the window, you can see it:

That little smile he only ever wears when he’s looking at you.

ᴘᴀᴛʀᴇᴏɴ: ᴇᴀʀʟʏ ᴀᴄᴄᴇꜱꜱ, ᴇxᴛᴇɴᴅᴇᴅ ꜱᴄᴇɴᴇꜱ, ᴇxᴄʟᴜꜱɪᴠᴇ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ: ʀᴀɴɢɪɴɢ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ꜱᴍᴜᴛ ᴛᴏ ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ, ꜰʀᴏᴍ ꜱᴏᴄɪᴀʟ ᴍᴇᴅɪᴀ ᴀᴜ’ꜱ ᴛᴏ ꜰᴀᴋᴇ ᴍᴇꜱꜱᴀɢᴇ ᴀᴜ’ꜱ - ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴘʀɪᴏʀɪᴛʏ ʀᴇϙᴜᴇꜱᴛꜱ

ᴀʟʟ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇꜱᴇ ᴡᴏʀᴋꜱ ᴀʀᴇ ᴍʏ ᴏᴡɴ - ɪ ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴀʟʟᴏᴡ ᴀɴʏᴏɴᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴄᴏᴘʏ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋ.

ɪᴛ’ꜱ ɴᴏᴛ ʜᴀʀᴅ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ᴋɪɴᴅ, ᴛʜɪɴᴋ ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ᴄᴏᴍᴍᴇɴᴛɪɴɢ.

[angeenrose]

charles leclerc x fem!reader — bf!charles headcannons (sfw & nsfw)

warnings : smut, oral sex (m receiving and f receiving), dirty talk, possessive behavior, jealousy, emotional withdrawal, unprotected sex

word count : 1.1k, masterlist, a/n : my apologies for posting sm smut im having tm fun writing it 😭😭😭

bf!charles who learns your coffee order by the second week and never gets it wrong. not in a performative way. he just pays attention. on race weekends he'll have it waiting in his driver's room before you even wake up, still hot, exactly how you take it. doesn't mention it. just slides it toward you when you walk in.

bf!charles who is embarrassingly bad at texting back during race weekends but will call you the second he's out of debrief.

voice low, tired, still in his fireproofs.

"tell me something normal," he says.

he means: ground me. remind me there's a world outside this paddock.

bf!charles who plays piano when he can't sleep. you'll wake up at 3 a.m. to something soft drifting from the living room half a melody, something he's working out. he doesn't notice you leaning in the doorway. his shoulders are loose for the first time all week.

the monaco apartment is all dark except for the lamp over the piano. he's in sweatpants, barefoot, hair unstyled. the piece is slow. minor key. you don't recognize it.

his hands pause. "did i wake you?"

"keep playing."

he does. you sit on the floor with your back against the couch and close your eyes.

bf!charles who gets quiet after bad races. not cold, just somewhere else. don't push. sit next to him. let him find his way back. he always does, and when he surfaces he'll pull you into him like you're the first solid thing he's felt in hours.

bf!charles who is surprisingly clingy in private. hand on your thigh under every dinner table. arm hooked around your waist while he brushes his teeth. he'll be half asleep and still reach for you, fingers finding the hem of your shirt, palm flattening against your stomach like he needs the contact to settle.

bf!charles who teaches you to drive stick in an empty parking lot outside.

“clutch first, then gas. slowly. voilà, like that."

he's a terrible backseat driver anywhere else, but when he's teaching? zen.

bf!charles who gets jealous but won't say it. he just goes quiet. jaw a little tighter. finds you later with a hand on the small of your back that's more possessive than usual. if you ask, he'll deny it. if you push, he'll say, "i don't like sharing your attention." says it like it's a fact. like commenting on the weather.

the party is loud and someone, you didn't catch his name, has been talking to you for too long. funny guy. keeps touching your arm.

charles materializes at your elbow. doesn't interrupt. just stands there, sipping his drink, and the guy trails off mid sentence.

later, in the car: "you did that on purpose."

“did what?" innocent. dimples showing.

bf!charles who is a menace in the morning. wakes up early, disgustingly cheerful, already been for a run. you're still half dead, face in the pillow, and he's sitting on the edge of the bed pressing cold fingers to the back of your neck just to watch you squeal.

bf!charles who calls you “mon cœur” when he's feeling soft and “bébé” when he's teasing but when he's inside you, it's always your name. never anything else.

bf!charles who is vocal in bed but not loud. low, breathless, right against your ear. filthy in french when he's close. words you only half understand but feel anyway, the shape of them in his mouth, the way his voice cracks on the last syllable.

bf!charles who eats pussy like he's got something to prove. slow at first. almost reverent. kissing the inside of your thighs before he even gets close to where you want him. committed. patient. he learns you by sound and response, what makes you gasp, what makes you grab his hair, what makes you go silent and still. he'll stay there until your legs shake and then he'll keep going.

his shoulders are between your thighs. you can't see his face. you can feel his stubble, his breath, the flat of his tongue.

"charles—"

he hums against you. doesn't stop. one hand splayed over your hip to hold you down, thumb stroking the bone there like you're something breakable.

you’re not being handled like something breakable.

"right there?" he murmurs, pulling back just enough to speak, mouth shiny.

“yes, don't stop, don't—“

bf!charles who gets hard from going down on you. every time. you'll reach for him after and he's already there, aching, a damp spot on his boxers. "that's what you do to me," he says. almost accusatory. like you should take responsibility.

bf!charles who loves when you go down on him but has trouble letting go of control. he'll try to stay quiet, jaw clenched, one hand fisted in the sheets. then you'll do something with your tongue and his hips will jerk and he'll breathe "putain" through his teeth. after, he pulls you up and kisses you deep, doesn't care where your mouth's been.

the lights are low. he's sitting on the edge of the bed, and you're on your knees between his. his hand is in your hair. not pushing. just… there. fingers threading through, catching lightly.

"regarde-moi," he says. look at me. his accent thickens when he's turned on.

you look up. his pupils are blown. the eye contact nearly undoes him. you see it happen, see his mouth go slack.

"merde."

bf!charles who runs hot. literally. you'll wake up sweating under the duvet because he radiates heat like a furnace. great in winter. in monaco summers it's a war crime. he thinks it's hilarious.

bf!charles who remembers everything. the name of your childhood pet. your mom's birthday. that thing you mentioned once three months ago about a book you wanted to read. it shows up on the nightstand, no note, no fanfare.

bf!charles who is fiercely protective of your privacy. won't post you without asking. shuts down interview questions about his personal life with that polite, impenetrable smile. his world is loud and fast and always watching. you're the quiet thing that's just his.

bf!charles who fucks like he qualifies. precise, intense, a little obsessive about getting it right. he pays attention to what works. adjusts. tries again. afterward he's the softest version of himself, forehead pressed to yours, still breathing hard, asking if you're okay like the answer matters more than anything.

bf!charles who can't keep his hands off you on yachts. something about the sun and the salt and your skin. he'll find you on the deck and pull you below, fingers already working at the ties of your swimsuit. "we have guests," you say. "they'll survive," he says. his mouth is on your neck before the door clicks shut.

[mrsfancyferrari]

Appendix Twins

Summary: When your appendix suddenly ruptures, your boyfriend Carlos becomes softer than ever

Song: Sure Thing – Miguel

Author’s note: Please like, reblog and share this! 🤭🫶

Word count: 2.5k

MASTERLIST - F1

The rain over Milan was heavy enough to blur the streetlights into bruised smears of yellow and grey, casting long, melancholy shadows across the floor of the hotel suite.

It was supposed to be a quiet weekend—a rare three-day pocket of time carved out between the British Grand Prix and the frantic, suffocating build-up to Monza.

You had spent the afternoon curled up on the oversized leather sofa, wrapped in a plush duvet, half-watching a rerun of an old race while Carlos sat at the sleek mahogany desk by the window, meticulously going over data sheets with his laptop glow illuminating the sharp angles of his face.

It was a domestic scene you had grown to cherish over the past two years.

The soft scratching of his pen against paper, the occasional heavy sigh when a telemetry graph didn't match his expectations, the comforting scent of his Tom Ford cologne mixed with the fresh rain drifting in from the cracked-open balcony door.

Then, the world tilted.

It didn't begin as a roar. It began as a whisper—a dull, stubborn ache tucked low on the right side of your abdomen. You shifted, pulling your knees closer to your chest, assuming it was just a strange cramp from eating too much of the heavy risotto you’d ordered room service for the night before.

You ignored it. You took a sip of lukewarm water and tried to focus back on the screen.

Ten minutes later, the whisper became a knock.

You uncurled yourself slowly, placing a palm against your lower right side. The skin felt hot to the touch. A cold sweat prickled immediately at the nape of your neck, soaking into your hairline.

You let out a shallow breath, trying to steady yourself, but the movement—even just the expansion of your lungs—sent a sharp, white-hot needle piercing through your flesh.

"Everything alright over there, cariño?"

Carlos’s voice cut through the ambient hum of the room. You blinked, your vision briefly tunneling at the edges. When you looked up, he was already standing by the desk, his pen set down, his dark eyes narrowed with an immediate, instinctive concern.

Formula 1 drivers are trained to read tenths of a second, to notice the slightest twitch of a steering wheel or a microscopic drop in tyre pressure. It took him less than that to realize something was profoundly wrong with you.

"My stomach," you managed to say, your voice sounding thin and terrified even to your own ears. "Carlos, it really… it hurts."

In two long strides, he crossed the room, dropping to his knees beside the sofa.

The sleek, composed athlete vanished instantly, replaced by a man whose entire universe had just narrowed down to the pale, trembling face of the person he loved.

His hands hovered over you for a fraction of a second, hesitant, terrified of causing you more pain.

"Where does it hurt, amor? Show me," he urged, his voice dropping into that low, soothing cadence he only ever used with you when the world outside became too loud.

You raised a trembling hand, pressing your fingers against your lower right abdomen.

The moment you applied the slightest pressure, a scream ripped itself from your throat—a sharp, ragged sound that startled even you. It felt as though someone had driven a red-hot poker straight through your core.

Carlos flinched as if he had been struck himself. The color drained entirely from his face, leaving him looking ghostly under the hotel lights. His instincts—honed by years of high-speed survival—took over, but this time, the panic was raw and entirely unguarded.

"Okay, okay, don't move. Don't touch it," he murmured frantically, his large, warm hands gently pulling yours away and holding them in his own. His palms were clammy. "Look at me. Look at my eyes. Breathe with me. Deep breath in…"

You tried, but the pain was a physical wall blocking your lungs. You shook your head, tears spilling hot and fast down your cheeks. "Carlos, it feels like it’s… it’s on fire. I can't…"

"Shh, mi vida, I’ve got you. I’ve got you," he whispered, pressing a desperate, trembling kiss to your knuckles.

Without a second thought, he scooped you up into his arms. Even in your agony, you could feel the tremor in his muscles—not from your weight, but from pure adrenaline and terror.

You cried out again as the motion jarred your abdomen, and Carlos squeezed his eyes shut in pure anguish, murmuring apologies in a rapid-fire mix of Spanish and English against your hair.

He carried you straight to the bed, laying you down with the utmost gentleness, as though you were made of spun glass.

He ripped his phone from his pocket with shaking fingers, dialing the team doctor with one hand while using the other to stroke your hair back from your sweaty forehead.

"Marco? Yes, it's Carlos. Listen to me, it's Y/N. Severe lower right abdominal pain, acute tenderness, vomiting is starting—yes, she just threw up in the bathroom sink—cold sweats. No, we're at the hotel. Get an ambulance here now. No, now, Marco!"

He ended the call without waiting for a reply, tossing the phone aside so hard it bounced off the duvet and onto the carpet. He was back on the edge of the mattress instantly, hovering over you like a protective shield.

"The ambulance is coming. They'll be here in five minutes, amor. Just stay with me. Talk to me. Tell me what you want me to do."

"It hurts so much," you sobbed, curling into a tight fetal position despite his gentle murmurs of no, please don't move, let me help.

Carlos’s lower lip trembled. It was a sight that broke your heart even through the haze of agony—the fearless, aggressive racer, the man who stared down 200-mph walls of carbon fiber without flinching, looking entirely helpless and broken because you were in pain.

He climbed onto the bed beside you, ignoring the protocol, the team schedule, the rain, the rest of the world.

He slid one arm carefully beneath your shoulders and the other under your knees, pulling you flush against his chest in a desperate bid to absorb your suffering.

"I know, corazón. I know. I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere. Look at my eyes. Focus on me," he pleaded, his voice cracking. He pressed his lips repeatedly against your temple, your cheek, your forehead, whispering every term of endearment he knew. "I'm so sorry. If I could take it from you, I would do it in a second. You know that, right? Por favor, look at me."

You forced your eyes open, meeting his dark, swimming gaze. The raw vulnerability there was staggering. He looked softer than you had ever seen him—stripped of the media training, the driver persona, the competitive edge.

Here, in the dim light of a Milan hotel room, Carlos Sainz was just a man utterly terrified of losing the most important part of his life.

"Don't leave me," you whispered.

"Never. Never in a million years," he vowed fiercely, his chest heaving as he held you tighter, mindful not to press too hard against your burning side. "They're going to fix you, and then I'm going to take care of you. Whatever you want. Ice cream, movies, a whole year off. I don't care about the championship right now, I don't care about anything. Just you."

The sirens started wailing in the distance, cutting through the steady drumbeat of the Milan rain. The sound grew louder, closer, until the flashing red and blue lights painted jagged, rhythmic patterns across the ceiling of the suite.

"They're here," Carlos murmured against your hair, his voice thick with unshed tears. "We're going to the hospital now. I'm going to hold your hand the entire time. You're going to be okay."

The sterile smell of the hospital was an assault on your senses—bleach, antiseptic, and cold metal.

The hours that followed were a chaotic blur of white coats, blinding overhead lights, frantic questions shouted in rapid Italian and English, and the sharp, burning pinch of an IV needle sliding into the back of your hand. Through it all, Carlos was an unmovable anchor.

He never let go of your hand. Even when the nurses tried to maneuver the gurney down the narrow corridors, even when they wheeled you into the harsh, intimidating environment of the pre-op staging area, his fingers remained firmly locked with yours. H

e wore a blue plastic surgical cap perched awkwardly on his messy dark hair and a paper gown over his clothes, looking completely out of place and yet entirely dedicated.

"Mr. Sainz, you'll need to wait in the designated family area once we take her in," a nurse said gently, placing a hand on his shoulder.

Carlos shook his head, his jaw tightening into a stubborn line that you knew all too well. It was the same expression he wore when arguing strategy with the pit wall. "No. I stay until they put her under. And I want to be in the recovery room the second she opens her eyes."

The nurse, recognizing the absolute, immovable authority in his voice—and perhaps recognizing the face beneath the cap—softened and nodded. "Alright, just the prep room. Then you wait outside."

They rolled you into the operating theatre. The room was freezing, filled with gleaming stainless steel and massive overhead shadowless lamps. Your teeth began to chatter, a mixture of the progressing infection and sheer, unadulterated fear.

Carlos was beside you instantly, leaning over the gurney so his face blocked out the terrifying machinery above. He cupped your face in both hands, his thumbs gently brushing away the dry tracks of tears on your cheeks.

"Hey," he whispered, his voice steady now, though his eyes still betrayed the storm within. "You're doing so well, mi vida. The doctor is brilliant. It's a simple laparoscopic procedure, remember? In and out. And then when you wake up, I'll be right there with your favorite chamomile tea and a mountain of pillows."

"I'm scared, Carlos," you whispered back, your eyelids feeling heavy as the preliminary sedatives began to creep into your bloodstream.

"Don't be. Save your energy for healing," he said, pressing a long, tender kiss to your forehead, lingering there until the anesthesiologist tapped his shoulder. He pulled back slowly, but not before pressing one final, lingering kiss to your lips. "I love you. So much. I'll see you on the other side."

"Love you…" you murmured, before the white noise of the room swallowed you whole and the darkness rushed in.

When you woke up, the first thing you noticed was the silence.

The frantic hum of the hospital machinery was muffled, replaced by the quiet, steady beep of a heart monitor. The blinding lights were gone, substituted by the soft, warm glow of a bedside lamp.

Your throat felt like sandpaper, and a dull, throbbing ache radiated from three small incisions taped across your abdomen, but the white-hot agony of the ruptured appendix was gone.

You shifted slightly, wincing at the pull of the stitches, and a rustling sound immediately filled the room.

"Hey."

You turned your head sluggishly. Sitting in a stiff plastic chair pulled flush against the side of the hospital bed was Carlos. He looked thoroughly wrecked.

The surgical cap was gone, his hair was sticking up in all directions where he had repeatedly run his hands through it, and deep, dark circles shadowed his eyes.

He was still wearing his crumpled clothes from the night before, but the moment he saw your eyes flutter open, his face lit up with a light so radiant it chased away the chill of the room.

In an instant, he was leaning over the bed, his hands framing your face with infinite care.

"You're awake," he breathed, a massive sigh of relief rushing out of his lungs like he had been holding his breath for hours. "Oh, thank God. Dios mío, thank God."

"Carlos…" Your voice came out as a pathetic croak.

He didn't hesitate. He poured a small cup of water, inserted a bendy straw, and guided it carefully to your lips. "Slowly, cariño. Just a sip. That's it."

You swallowed the cool water, feeling it soothe your parched throat. You blinked up at him, taking in the state of him. "How long have you been here?"

"Since they wheeled you out," he said softly, smoothing a stray lock of hair away from your forehead.

He didn't mention that he had refused to leave the recovery room doors, that he had argued with three different administrators just to stay by your bedside the moment you were transferred, or that he hadn't slept a wink. "Since the beginning."

"What time is it?"

"It's four in the morning." He smiled, a soft, tired, utterly devoted smile that melted every remaining trace of fear in your chest. "The surgery went perfectly. The doctor said it was a close one, that it had just ruptured, but they cleaned everything out. You're going to be completely fine."

You let out a long breath, your hand moving weakly across the sheet until your fingers brushed his. He immediately intertwined his fingers with yours, lifting your hand to press a soft kiss against your knuckles.

"You look terrible," you murmured, a weak smile tugging at the corners of your lips.

Carlos let out a breathy, exhausted laugh, resting his forehead gently against the back of your hand. "Yeah, well, my girlfriend tried to appendix-assassinate herself in the middle of a rainstorm in Milan, so excuse me if I didn't get my beauty sleep."

You chuckled, though it pulled at your stitches, making you hiss softly.

Carlos was instantly alert, his posture stiffening, his eyes wide with concern. "Does it hurt? Do you want me to get the nurse? More pain meds?"

"No, no, I'm okay. Just… a little sore." You reached up with your free hand, gesturing for him to come closer.

He didn't need to be asked twice. He abandoned the stiff plastic chair entirely, carefully maneuvering his long frame onto the narrow hospital bed beside you, making sure not to put any weight on your right side.

He slipped his arm under your shoulders, pulling you gently against his chest so your head rested right over his heart.

It was cramped, and the hospital bed was notoriously uncomfortable, but as Carlos wrapped his arms securely around you, burying his face in your hair and pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your crown, you had never felt safer.

"I was so scared," he whispered into your hair, his voice cracking just a fraction, the armor completely gone now that the crisis had passed. "When I saw you in that pain… I didn't know what to do with myself."

"I know," you murmured, closing your eyes and listening to the steady, reassuring thrum of his heartbeat beneath your ear. "I'm sorry."

"Don't ever be sorry for getting sick," he scolded gently, tightening his embrace just a fraction. "Just… don't scare me like that again, okay? Promise me."

"I promise," you whispered.

Outside the window, the heavy Milan rain had finally stopped, leaving behind the quiet, fresh stillness of a clearing dawn.

Inside the small, sterile hospital room, wrapped in the protective warmth of the man who loved her fiercely, the world felt entirely right again.

"Go to sleep, Carlos," you mumbled, feeling the heavy pull of exhaustion dragging you back under. "You need to rest, too."

Carlos pressed one last, lingering kiss to your temple, his breath warm against your skin. "I'm not going anywhere, mi amor. Sleep. I've got you."

And as you drifted off into a deep, healing sleep, you knew he meant it.

[norcigs]

MORNING

synop: soft sleepy morning sex

warnings: fem reader, pnv, unprotected sex, really romantic, softcore prn, husband/wife talk, pet names (baby, pretty girl, and more), light praise

👒: 2.5k words

the morning drifted in slow and syrupy, edges blurred like paint on wet paper. the bed cradled you, soft and heavy. lulling your body into stillness, your limbs slack, your eyelids unwilling to open.

the static light of the sun peeking into the room from between the blinds was dreamy. weight rested across your tummy as you rolled to lay on your back. eyes drifting lazily over the ceiling fan– still not really awake.

lando’s arm had found its home across your torso, hand tucked under your waist like it belonged there. he always held you like that, as if you might slip away if he let go– even in sleep. 

his face is tucked sweetly into the side of your neck. his nose brushing the delicate skin, it might have ticked if you weren't so comfortable. your skin tingled, but there was nothing left to feel except the soft hum of satisfaction.

you watched him with all consuming love. his tanned skin against yours, the windswept curls hanging sleepily against his forehead. his hand clenched around your waist– featherlight but claiming. 

his eyes blinked open, wonderfully slow. you watched as his consciousness started kicking in. watched as alertness eased into his facial expression. watched as his first decision of the day was to look over to you.

your eyes connected, filled with sleep and something much deeper. he smiled, seeing you were awake, leaning down to kiss you. lips connecting as you could still taste his smile. 

“good morning pretty girl” he said against your neck as he rolled to lay atop you. resting his waist between your legs, your hands found his hair. 

he hummed contently as your nails scratched light lines in his scalp. joints and limbs relaxing impossibly more, all but melting into you. 

“love you” he said, coated in that morning voice that made you just a bit dizzy. 

he turned his head up to rest his chin between your breasts. you looked down at him, adoration seeping from every one of his pores. in another life, you might have been worried about how you looked from this angle. but not now. not with him, not like this.

“love you more” your lips twitched, wanting to kiss him, but being too happy to move. “you look so hot like this” your hand moved to his face. lightly resting against the bow of his cheek. fingertips ghosting over the bridge of his nose, and the divot around his eyes. 

he couldn't take it anymore. he muscled himself up to be mouth to mouth with you. kissing you with dreams still lingering on his tongue. mouthing slow, and honestly. 

your hands dragged up his sides, really savoring every moment. the kiss held something quiet but burning. you felt it start in your heart and spread throughout you like the warmth of a fever. 

wet lips dancing with one another, as if the stars had made them a pair generations ago. his body was tired, still magnetized to the bed. but with your lips on his, he felt like he could do anything.

reality blurred in and out. time and space contorting into something less linear. like your mind and thoughts had been completely taken over. taken by his mouth, and how it moved against yours. 

he pulled away just long enough to look at you. faces only a foot apart, his eyes studied you. they flicked between different parts of your face, like in just that amount of time, he had forgotten how breathlessly beautiful you were.

every time he saw you felt like the first. especially in moments like these. moments of you that were entirely his own. moments that made him think about forever.

the way he looked at you, like you really mattered, like you were the only thing that had ever mattered at all. 

“wan you to be my husband, need to wake up to you like this every mornin,” you whispered, splittering with desperation that pooled in the deepest part of your stomach.

his mouth was on you nearly before you could finish. kissing you with just a fraction of more pace. more friction. 

“don't talk like that” he told you between kisses. never wanting to be separated by more than an inch. 

he had managed to climb himself up your body. the lower part of his stomach resting just against your crotch. you hadn't noticed it before. your bodies were just close together, and there was no intention behind it. 

now it was the only thing you could think about. your hips flinched before you could stop them. grinding, just a fraction, against him. embarrassment flooded over you like cold water. 

followed quickly by mind numbing heat. lando’s hands had moved to your hips, gripping you tight as he adjusted you both.

pressing his bulge against your sex with the perfect amount of force. friction bumping your clit.

his hips found a slow and agonizing roll. eyes never unlocking from yours. boaring into you with such intensity you felt your head spin. 

he dipped his head to kiss you again. slower, somehow softer. sleep still hung thick in the air as both of your bodies begged the other for support. lando held himself up by his arms, legs still flaccid against the mattress. 

rutting against you, using it to keep himself up right. his lips slurred whilst you kissed. he didn't care how he kissed you, neither of you did. the only thing that mattered was that he was kissing you. 

the length of his cock dragged against your clit, parting your folds as he pushed more into you. you were gasping into his mouth. hips stuttering and breath catching. opening your eyes to see him smirking down at you. pure joy plastered across his face as he had you like this.

exactly where he wanted you.

he dropped his head to your shoulder and continued teasing you through your shorts. you could feel his smile against you, but it all felt too good to care.

the fluidity of the light and colors of the room made you question if this was a dream or not. your blinks were still slow, tired. but every bit of brainpower you had was focused entirely on the outline of lando’s cock sliding between your sex. 

“you gonna let me fuck you?” his voice was ragged, and muffled against you. “gonna let me take you right here, first thing?” he teased.

your head was nodding before you had really even comprehended what he was saying. looking up at him with big wet eyes. you looked almost… pitiful. some dangerous mix of love and desire grew beneath the hardness of lando’s cock. 

he hooked a finger inside your shorts. the back of his knuckle gliding against your slick. wet and leaking through your underwear. your mouth shot open as you felt starved for his touch.

using his thumb to push your shorts and panties to the side, he slowly dipped his middle finger inside of you. teasing the edge with just the tip, and slowly letting you suck him in. your wet heat making it easy for him.

taking his finger so well, he was buried completely inside you and you were still insatiable for more. he pulled it out, as slow as the morning creeped along. diving back in and curling to hit a sweet spot.

a moan was pushed from you. his mouth hovered just against yours. letting you make noise, but being just close enough it was nearly kissing. he looked down at you through hooded eyes. 

your legs separated, opening yourself for him more. your cunt relaxed as he pumped torturously slow in and out of you. you leaked, more lubricant than you needed now. tempting him, daring him to fuck you. 

your brows crinkled and eyes fluttered languidly. the tip of his finger continuously curling into that one spot. 

he pulled from you completely, and you looked like you might cry. devastated at the loss of him. you just looked so sweet, lan couldn't help but reconnect your lips. needing to taste how beautiful you looked. 

he held you, weakly, but enough. you were mush and pliable to his hands now. willing and wanting to do anything he asked. 

his hand raised to your mouth. separating your lips and lightly setting them against your bottom one. you took his soaked fingers in your mouth before you even realized what was happening. 

expecting to find his lips, but finding the taste of your own pussy had you purring against him. you sucked his finger clean without hesitation. air escaped lando’s mouth like he had just seen something holy. 

you let your eyes shut again. content with his fingers in your mouth and the weight he applied on top of you and against your crotch.

he moved to free himself. pulling his plaid pj pants down just enough to have himself springing out. his thumb held your clothes to the side of your slit, the rest of his hand gripping your thigh with strength that would hurt if you didn't need this. 

he grunted as he laid his cock against you. glistening with arousal, he pushed it through your folds, the tip dipping in just barely. enough to give you a jolt of electricity. 

“say what you said earlier” he lined himself up with your hole. you knew what he meant. Instantly. 

“want you to be my husband” your eyes gleamed up at him. his hips moved faster than his head. sinking into you the second that word left your mouth.

every inch sunk inside of you with ease, aided by your begging wet walls. a moan left lando as his eyes rolled back so gently before he closed them. head falling back to your shoulder. letting you support him.

he stayed still, for you both to adjust. you adjusted to the stretch his cock gave you, pleasure tingling at the edges of the pain until it was all you could feel. he adjusted to the pressure and heat of your cunt. doing everything he could to not finish inside you right now. 

but the way your cunt was throbbing around him. maybe you wanted him to.

when he convinced himself he was ready, he could take it, he pulled his hips away just a bit. snapping them back against you the second he felt cold air around his drenched cock. the shift of cold air to your heat was brain numbing. 

his dick moved and twitched against the nerves deep inside you. sleep and pleasure mixing to have you nearly nonverbal. just moans and mewls escaping you as his tip pulled away again. 

he pushed back in, slower now, staring at your heat from his lazy positioning. 

“god, you feel so fucking good”

his mouth parted as you enveloped him again. a weak breath leaving him as your pussy opened even more for him. loosening to take him, to keep him in you as long as possible.

“that's it baby,” his hips found a steady rhythm. only pulling halfway out before he was diving back into you for more. the pattern was slow, stable. soft popping noises every time his hips collided back with yours.

your hands scratched at his neck where his hair ended. keeping him flush against you, relying on him as you supported half of his weight. he perked up enough to look at you. lips brushing against yours, as his pace never changed. 

“again,” the look in his eyes held every other word he might have used to explain. 

“my husband” your eyes lulled, focused only on him, a gentle gaze that held nothing but truth. “you're gonna be,” you leaned forward, kissing him. wet and still, speaking through shared saliva. “my husband.” 

he grunted into your shoulder. head collapsing back down, as the noise was strangled and unstoppable. gritted teeth and a locked jaw couldn’t keep him quiet when he had you spread open like this, begging for forever.

he moved his other hand to wrap under your thigh. spreading them both to be as wide as comfortably possible. your shorts snapped back against him, attempting to close you off, but his cock had other plans. 

he still fucked gently into you, your shorts and panties now dragging along the side of his shaft. a sharp hiss, too much friction. he swore against you. picking up pace to the one you liked. 

angling himself to hit that spot, the one that sent you tumbling over the edge faster than you wanted. he split you wide, faster now, more desperate. you fisted his hair at the back of his neck. 

he had to close his eyes, seeing you was too much. he didnt want to finish before you, but the way you looked right now was fucking exhilarating. 

you clenched around him with muscles too deep for you to be controlling. he knew what that meant. he knew you better than you knew yourself.

“gonna make you my pretty little wife,” his voice was honey dipped and laced with sleep, yet rough at the edges with desire stronger than you could imagine. 

pleasure exploded through you with force. starting from the outer lining of your cunt and pulsing through your body like a heartbeat. your arms and legs wrapped around him and squeezed. clenching every part of you, holding him like a vice. 

you clung to him like you might lose yourself if you didn't. like he was the only thing keeping you together. your ears rang, eyes shut so tight it hurt. every part of you was wound up to its tightest setting, pleasure running its course. 

until you felt warm spurts of lando’s love coat your insides. sending a part of himself so deep neither of you could reach it. touching nerves that had never been stimulated. he came on top of you with a fragile moan. broken yet entirely whole. 

the tightly bound coil loosened as waves of bliss crashed over you. gentle euphoria took hold of your entire body, rocking you in and out of consciousness. 

lando’s breath was the first thing that clawed you back to reality. his face was flushed, ears red and eyes blown like you were god herself. he dipped down to kiss you, his pace slowing to a still. 

his tongue cradled yours delicately. curling and flicking to feel every part of your mouth. 

he pulled away, smiling lazy, but drunk with love. the sleepy morning tugged on his eyelids, asking them to close. 

he laid his head to your chest, listening to your heartbeat. so real, so you. it pulled him deeper, closer, to the spot in your heart that was made for him. 

you smile down at him, his breath keeping you present in the moment. softly in and out, lungs filling and expanding. so alive, so him.

[withloveiriss]

ah that’s more like it 🙂‍↕️ iris whoring around before bed is back in business

[fleurfiles]

how to get the girl (back) 𓂃 garrett graham

୧ ‧₊˚ everyone knows that garrett graham is great at hockey. he’s great at winning. he’s also great at being a boyfriend...well, at least he thought he was. he never would've expected to fall down to the tier of a 'bare minimum boyfriend', and when he realizes he's done it, he's got one shot and getting you back with the help of his teammates.

pairings & aus: garrett graham 𝑥 fem!reader

warnings: some angst, happy ending. hockey boys being hockey boys. sweet graham because that's who he is (we love him)

gabi's quick thoughts: hello hiii!! this is my first off campus fic and i really hope you enjoy :) i love this series to absolute death, this is ur sign to watch it if you haven't !!!

word count: 4.7k

garrett graham masterlist ‧₊˚ full masterlist

“I’m about to seriously kill my boyfriend.”

This whole conversation, your best friend was only partially listening, but you could practically feel her presence shift from the bathroom next to you, her usual scurrying around and the racket caused by all of her jewelry and beauty products coming to an unsettling halt. Never in her life has she been this quiet. 

Your fingers tighten against the counter that you’re leaning across while a defeated sigh emigrates from your throat, passing your trembling lips. You’re beyond the point of irritation, your right hand balling into a fist, softly banging against a CD on Jess’s desk. When the red-head doesn’t respond rapidly enough to your frantic complaining, your banging crescendos, shattering the CD completely in half.

“Jessica!” You screech, upstanding to your full height, “Are you even listening?”

She trudges out the bathroom with a bundle of pink jumbo hair rollers buried in her wrapped arms, one of them imprisoned between her teeth. You grimace as she walks towards you, arms unfurling and setting the curlers down rather harshly. She removes the one expanding her jaw, wiping it on her outfit and setting it on the counter.

Your head droops to your chest in defeat and exasperation, stiffening up when you hear Jess’s phone ring, making you jolt up. You feel your heart shift, a physical display of your desperate hope that she won’t answer. Her eyes meet yours and quickly drift down to the vibrating device, and for a second, she considers, but she thinks slow and moves even slower. The vibrations and the gentle lyricism of a Sade song come to a halt and the phone call ceases, and you almost sigh with relief.

If you were being truthful with yourself, you wanted so badly to beat a dead horse with your roommate, just for a minute longer than the six days you already have been-- but it wasn’t like you didn’t have a reason to.

Garrett Graham was on thin ice, and it wasn’t the kind that a puck slides around.

You were running out of patience with him, though you always made sure to try and be the physical embodiment of gentle forgiveness. But at some point it started to make you sick, not physically, but rather emotionally. Men are already dense enough, boyfriend or not, so the time Graham had in order to make it up to you was exponentially running out.

See, he didn’t actually do anything. The problem lied within what he wasn’t doing. 

“Okay,” you watch as Jessica moves slow, groaning like an elder, folding herself into her chair as she rests interlocked palms on her jean-clad knees, and she offers you her gaze, “You’ve got my full attention. What did he do now?”

Though her words weren’t exactly inviting, you knew she was open to hearing you complain for the hundredth time, which, even if she wasn’t, you were going to speak anyways.

You rest on the counter of her desk and settle there, taking a deep breath to ensure you don’t say anything you’d heavily regret. A pause finds you and you wait until you think maturely enough to roll into conversation. After a few seconds, the right words fall through your head, and you begin to speak, slowly as you try not to reek of anger.

“I seriously don’t know what his problem is,” you passively roll your eyes, “I mean…okay, it started with the practice thing. I understand I can’t see him everyday, but what the hell could he be doing after he’s done? He goes home and sleeps without even texting or calling.”

Jess huffs, “He doesn’t even--”

“No, he doesn’t. On top of this, he ghosted me at our coffee spot and said he had to practice before a game even though he already did, and said we’d catch up ‘another time.’ Another time? Who do I look like?”

Your roommate stiffens a laugh that manifests itself as an obnoxious snort, “Clearly the girl he’ll see another time.”

“Not funny.”

“Sorry,” she mumbles, “Continue.” 

“Right. And most of all, he knows how much I adore when he gets me flowers, yet I can’t remember the last time he has. It’s not a materialistic thing-- like it’s really not-- it’s just something that makes me feel loved, and I don’t think I’ve felt that in weeks. He’s just…” You pause, salt water filling the beds of your eyes, “It feels like he doesn’t really like me. Don’t get me wrong, I know that he loves me, but it feels like he’s just…comfortable. He’s not trying.”

Jess’s hands slide from her chin to her eyes, submerging her cheeks in between both of her palms. She sighs lowly, “I hear you, babe, I really do…but have you told him like, any of this? I’m not sure how much good it’s doing you just to keep telling me about it. I’m not the one who did the shit you.”

That makes you laugh, your hand coming up to rub your nose. “I shouldn’t have to tell him. He should know.”

“Sweetheart, men don’t know anything.”

You nod in agreement, rolling your eyes to banish the last of your tears. Your shoulders rise and fall along with your chest in complete defeat, and you want to say something, but you don’t know how and it’ll just end up being another venting session that had a means to an end, and you’re tired of that. You weren’t quite ready to confront Garrett about this, so the least you could do is take time and distance yourself to think before you got hurt further, and that was the last thing that you wanted. 

The ice is cold. It’s much colder when you aren’t on good terms with your girlfriend.

Garrett genuinely can’t focus. The entire time he’s been resting on the bench, he’s had two sips of water and probably fifty interrupted breaths because he’s so anxious, but he almost feels like he can’t be because he brought it on himself.

He’s also unreasonably tired, which isn’t completely unlike himself, but he’s more exhausted than he usually is. If he was being completely honest, there were a lot of things wrong. He was barely catching up with schoolwork, slipping up on the ice (and not because he had bad balance), and damn-near barely alive throughout the day. He felt like he was just good enough to get by. 

His thoughts run, and they’re all about you.

It’s like a gut punch when he realizes how he’s been treating you. It sincerely wasn’t his intention, and he knew that he could do better, it was just that he was so overwhelmed with everything but you that it somehow became the one thing he was neglecting. He was doing his best to even keep his head above water, floating in a pool of responsibilities that were borderline too much to handle, which wasn’t a good excuse, at least not to him. He wasn’t sure if there was one that would justify kicking your girlfriend to the curb.

As his thoughts find themselves on another path that led absolutely nowhere, a partially worried Dean nudges the curly headed boy’s shoulder, and Garrett jumps slightly at the unexpected touch. He’s almost irritated and it’s clearly shown on his visage, and the blonde makes a confused face at him.

“What’s up with you?” He aggressively sends his hand up to clap at Garrett’s shoulder, “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” Garrett mutters, because apparently that’s the only answer he knows how to give.

Dean stares at him. “You literally look like you’re about to throw up.”

“Thanks.”

“Anytime.”

Garrett rolls his eyes, but the reaction doesn’t have much weight behind it. Normally, Dean’s teasing would annoy him enough to pull him out of his head, but even that isn’t working right now. There aren’t enough distractions in the world to get his thoughts to deviate from what they are, the ones that keep rolling around in his head and only amplifying in worry. He’s treating you badly, and he feels even worse than you do about it, if possible. 

Silence is the only solace Garrett has right now. If he talks, he’ll get emotional, and it’s not really the time to do all that in the middle of practice, as if he’d do it outside of the rink. Sometimes he needs to be pried open and the worst possible moment it could happen is right now, so he stays quiet for as long as he can to avoid any confrontation about how he’s really feeling underneath this seemingly mellow yet content attitude.

Tucker, Logan, and Dean all talk amongst themselves while the others skate around the ice, the sound of piercing frost acting as a mediator between Garrett and his own head. He’s just glad he’s let off the hook for a second, trying to calm himself down before having to go back out there.

Five minutes pass. Then ten, and the brunette doesn’t know how much he can take. As much as he doesn’t want to, he sighs out, because he feels like he no longer has a choice.

“We’re fighting.”

Dean leaves whatever conversation he was engaging in, his eyebrows lifting. “You and her?”

Garrett nods, almost like it hurts. He’s so defeated he doesn’t even know the first thing he should do, especially now, when thousands of things need his full attention. But he does know that he doesn’t want you to be upset with him, so he’s gotta do something.

“Since when?”

Garrett opens his mouth, about to give him an answer, but then realizes that he doesn’t actually know. Has it been since yesterday? A week? Two? Hell, has it already been a month?

He thinks for a second and really tries to pry some sort of timeline out of his tangled head, but he comes up with nothing and shrugs his shoulders to show that. He wants so badly to remember to try and work things out, but he genuinely can’t remember the last time this mess wasn’t actively happening or how it even began. He sighs.

“I don’t know,” he says quietly, and it only makes him feel worse. See, Garrett never forgot things when it came to you, no matter how miniscule it was-- so the fact that he couldn’t even remember the last time you were on good terms was saying something. He felt shitty for it, but the longer it let it simmer, the worse it would get, and he didn’t want to risk losing his girlfriend over something that could be fixed with just a little effort.

“Dude,” Dean huffed, resting his head in his hand as he wiped his forehead that crinkled in confusion, “What did you do?”

“I…I didn’t do anything, I don’t think..”

“Right,” the blonde sat up to look at Garrett, “That’s probably the problem.”

“What’s going on?” Tucker chimes in, leaning forward to eye the two boys, which caused Logan to lean forward to listen in. Garrett immediately rolls his eyes because he didn’t necessarily want to talk about it in the first place, and it didn’t feel like letting them in on the details, but he was left with pretty much no other options.

“Garrett fucked up.” Dean presses his lips together, and Tucker immediately grunts and shakes his head while Logan raises an eyebrow, clearly puzzled. Though nobody knows any actual details yet, the two boys on the end of the bench feel like Dean knows more information than they do.

“What do you mean he fucked up?” Logan finally asks, and Dean leans in while Garrett falls back and rests his head, looking at the ceiling with his eyes glued shut. He literally couldn’t get out of this.

“I don’t know what he did.”

“He didn’t tell you?” Tucker questions.

“No, but why don’t we ask him?”

Garrett shakes his head. “Please do not ask me what’s wrong.”

“Oh no,” Dean reassures with a smirk, “We’re gonna ask. So, what happened?”

Garrett doesn’t speak for a minimum of ten seconds before he realizes that his three knucklehead friends don’t know how to take a soft ‘no’ for an answer. He needs help and even though he’d rather die than talk about it, he’s lost all hope, so he sits up, adjusts his position, and starts talking. 

“We were good, okay? But I guess I got so swamped with the games, practice, schoolwork, shit…I don’t know. I’ve been neglecting my relationship I guess, and I think she’s really mad at me. I haven’t gotten her flowers, I haven’t been texting or calling her, I just feel like shit. I need to do something.”

“Obviously you need to do something,” Logan speaks out, raising his hand up, “You can’t just ignore her. She isn’t some hookup, she’s your girlfriend.”

“Right. So do something.”

“Not helpful, Dean.” Tucker sucks in a breath. 

The boys think amongst themselves for a minute, trying to conjure up a plan to help Garrett get you back. There’s a two minute brainstorming intermission before Logan decides to give up an idea first. 

“I think you need to plan something,” he starts, scooting closer to improve the impact of his words, “Don’t just go to her dorm and talk to her. You need to take her out and text her to be ready, and take her somewhere nice. Y’all’s spot isn’t enough.”

“Agreed.” Dean nods, “Date first, then you talk. Make sure you get her flowers, the biggest bouquet you can find. Don’t slack on a damn thing.”

Garrett’s head drops like a broken hinge, still listening, but his heart is pierced and hot. He doesn’t know how you’ll react or if you’ll want to see him at all, but he has to try and he knows that. The three boys give him more insight on what to do and not to do, and he’s got the gist. Dress up, send you a text, pick you up with the flowers, and explain how he’s feeling. He’s got everything but that last part.

That’s kind of hard for him. He tries to and you usually appreciate it, but he doesn’t know if you’ll be as receptive this time because it’ll come off as an excuse rather than an explanation. However, he knows that if he doesn’t try to fix this, he’s going to be single in about twenty-four hours. So he gets up off his ass, walks out of the rink, and starts thinking of his plan.

It’s 5:47pm and you haven’t eaten all day. 

You’re curled up underneath a blanket that generates way too much heat for the spring, but you’re so ridiculed with anxiety that your body feels cold to the touch. You try to distract yourself from what’s the reality around you by trying to read a romance novel, but you’ve been stuck on page sixteen for an hour, and that’s when you finally give up.

Jess is fast asleep in her room, and after your conversation earlier, she pretty much told you that your last and final resort was to just tell Garrett how you were feeling, and that’s what you decided to do.

You were going to give it one more day before finally speaking up. This impromptu silent treatment was meaningless and truthfully quite confusing, and you were at your breaking point. You loved Garrett, but you were restless from worrying about this…whatever ‘this’ even is. 

You’re about to try and fall asleep when your phone pings with a text, and you expect it to be one of your friends or a notification from social media, but your eyes widen when Garrett’s contact flies across your screen.

You really didn’t mean to be rude, but you didn’t have any other words to say. You figured you’d talk about it when you got to whatever destination Garrett had planned on taking you, and you prayed that for his own sake, it wasn’t the cafe. You’d probably kill him if it was.

Slightly against your will, you get up sluggishly and start getting ready, rumbling through your closet to find something that’s classified as “nice.” It takes a second, but you finally settle on a little black dress that Jessica bought for you freshman year, and it was a miracle that the thing still fit. 

You undress and slip the fabric on, tugging at the ends to bring its length to maximum potential. Padding over to your vanity, you throw on some mascara, lip gloss, and tussle at your hair. Of course, Graham didn’t give you any notice for this, hence this is the first time he’s talked to you in like two days, which was already working you up, because why is this the thing that broke your brief moment of no contact? 

At 6:55, Garrett is at the door. He raises his fist up to knock, breathes in, and his arm slaps against his side. He feels stupid-- he’s in a dress shirt with pants that almost seem too formal, his hair is gelled back, and he’s holding a huge bouquet of your favorite flowers that were a little bit too much financially, but that didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he had a chance to get you back. He was going to. He had to.

He finally knocks softly, but you still hear it. Apparently Jess did too because you see her sleepily waltz out of her bedroom, rubbing her eye with a grunt as she approaches your door, “Who is it?”

“Garrett.” You say bluntly.

“Oh,” she exclaims all sultry-like, “You gonna let dipshit in?”

“We have a date,” you say, and you leave it at that. You slip some kitten heels on and grab your bag, reaching for your perfume. You spray it twice and exit your doorframe, walking up to the wood that separates you and your boyfriend.

You open it slowly, and Garrett’s whole face lights up when he sees you. Unfortunately, you’re not sure if you can say the same. He’s holding your favorite flowers though, so you give him one brownie point for that as you take them out of his hands, “Thank you, they’re beautiful.”

“Hi,” he starts awkwardly, giving you a dopey smile, “Um…I have reservations. At Blackwood Steakhouse. I want to talk to you.”

“Okay,” you nod, “We can talk.”

Garrett’s honestly satisfied at the fact that you even agreed. You leave your flowers behind and remind Jess to throw them in some water and a vase, and then you’re off.

The walk to Garrett’s car was dead silent, and the drive to the restaurant likewise. You assumed he’s saving all the talking for when you’re at the dinner table so you didn’t try to break the silence, instead, you enjoyed it. You sat and thought about how you were going to word things, how you were going to say it, and by the time you start finding your words, you’re pulling into the parking lot.

Garrett backs into a spot with one hand, and as you look over, you can’t deny how handsome he looks. He’s freshly shaven and he smells like something woodsy and a mix of sandalwood, and the mixture makes your nostrils flare. His hair is gelled the way you like and he’s got rings on, which is something that’s rare, but you always appreciate. He looks a little too good right now.

You’re supposed to be mad, but you’re not sure how long that’s going to last.

He puts the car in park and immediately opens the door, absolutely adamant that he wants to save all the talking for the table. He slams his door shut and comes around the vehicle to open your own, and you thank him under the mask of your breath.

The both of you venture towards the door, and this restaurant looks way above your tax bracket. There’s beautiful dimmed lights that hang across all of the ceilings with booths and tables that have ridiculously expensive placemats and silverware setting atop them. You look around as Garrett leads you both to the front desk where he checks in for the both of you, the waitress grabbing your menus and sitting you down at a table near the small stream that they have flowing outside.

The waitress leaves you two, and Garrett pulls your chair out and gestures for you to have a seat. You give him a small smile in thanks and he settles into his chair in front of you, folding his hands and elbows on the table.

“That’s bad etiquette.”

“What?” He exclaims, his eyebrows twitching.

“Setting your elbows on the table is bad etiquette.”

He shifts and rests his palms in his lap. “Sorry.”

You let out a genuine laugh and he smiles at that, and you involuntarily return it. It’s so very hard to be frustrated with him when he’s sitting right in your face, looking like he does with pure genuineness.

“Baby--”

“I’ll start,” you interrupt, “Garrett…I love you. You know this. But I feel like I have no idea what’s going on with you lately. I mean-- first, it was the fact that we stopped calling and texting as much, which was fine, because I figured you had a lot on your plate. Then I noticed I hadn’t gotten my usual flowers yet, and you’ve never forgotten them, but again, it’s a material thing and I wasn’t too worried about that. It’s just…I…I mean, we haven’t had any contact in two days. Why? I didn’t want to be a bother but it’s so abnormal for you to do that. Please just tell me what’s going on.”

He pauses and sucks in a breath, preparing the speech he’s already recited to himself and the boys for the hundredth time. “First off, I just wanted to say that I’m sorry, honey, I really am. I’ve just been…”

There’s nothing that follows. You scoff.

“Are you cheating on me?”

Garrett’s eyes nearly blow out his head. “What?!”

“It’s a simple question,” you shrug, “So answer truthfully.”

Your boyfriend’s whole expression completely drops, and for the first time in a while, you watch him get completely and utterly serious. “No, I’m not cheating on you.”

“Okay,” you drag out slowly, “Then please tell me what the hell is going on, because this doesn’t make any sense.”

There’s another interlude of silence and you nearly lose your mind. Just as you’re about to completely fly off the handle, your boyfriend finally speaks.

“I’ve been going through a lot,” he starts, and you can tell it’s genuine, which makes you lean in and listen, “Mentally, I mean. Um, I’ve been struggling on the ice and with academic stuff. I’m always lagging behind and my dad’s on my ass. I’m sorry, it really isn’t an excuse to treat you badly and I’m sorry. I really am. I just don’t know…how to ask for help sometimes.”

“It’s just me, Garrett.”

“I know.” He nods.

You let him think for a second. “You can’t push me away when things get rough, okay? That hurts. I’m supposed to be someone you can lean on and I don’t want you to feel like you’re by yourself in any of this. I’m always right here, okay?”

“I know,” Garrett agrees, shifting in his chair, “I don’t like talking about this stuff, because every time I do, it comes out wrong. I think I got used to dealing with things on my own. I’m so, so sorry, baby. I do love you and I know you’re there for me, it’s just difficult to try and fix so many things at once.”

You hum. “I understand, and I love you. You’ve gotta learn how to trust me with these things, though. If you run every time something happens, then there’s no way for me to help you. I always want to be there for you, no matter what it is. Okay?”

“Okay, yeah,” he nods, “I know. I’m going to do better, I promise. This won’t ever happen again. I’ll…I’ll be more open next time.”

“You better.”

Garrett lets out a laugh, “No more bullshit. I don’t like hurting you.”

You snort. “I’d seriously hope not. I’m not really into the whole masochist thing.”

A round of giggles fill the air, and you shortly realize that Garrett is just staring at you. No words, no movement, just his eyes glued to you like you’re something foreign.

“Hello?” You question, waving your hand in front of his face as you watch him blink, “Babe?”

“Sorry, you just look so good.”

You roll your eyes, though a smile tugs at your lips. You throw your hand at him, “You’re lucky you’re off the hook now.”

“No, seriously,” he starts, his eyes still darting all over you, “You look beautiful. I missed you, and I missed us.”

You give him a cheeky grin, “Missed you too.”

“Did you like your flowers?”

“I loved them. They’re beautiful.”

Garrett gives you a small nod, “I’m glad you did. It took me forever to make the bouquet.”

Your eyebrows lift. “You made it?”

Garrett’s expression immediately shifts into something almost coy, which is funny considering he’s anything but. This dude can walk on a rink and have hundreds of people cheering for him, but he crosses the line at flowers?

“Yeah.”

“You arranged flowers?”

“I did.” He shrugs, looking at anything but your face.

A laugh slips out of you, “Garrett Graham, you arranged flowers? All for me? Wow, you’ve never done something like that before.”

He finally looks up at you, faux offended. He pretends to grab his chest in hurt, “Why are you saying it like I’m incapable?”

“I mean, you are.”

“I’m not.” He protests.

“When have you ever cared for a plant?”

There’s complete silence after that, but you look up, and Garrett’s trying his best not to laugh, pretending to look at whatever stupidly expensive, pretentious art they have hanging on the walls.

You shake your head with a giggle, “I appreciate the effort, babe.”

“I was trying to make them look all nice,” he says, a small smile pulling at his lips, “I wanted them to be perfect for you.”

You smile.

“I hope you know you didn’t have to go and get some expensive bouquet for me, right?” you say softly. 

“I know.”

“Flowers don’t fix all problems.”

“I know,” Garrett looks down at your intertwined hands, then at your face, “I just wanted you to know I was thinking about you and that I really was sorry. I know I haven’t been showing that enough lately.”

Your chest tightens. You don’t respond and Garrett notices that you’re out of words, and that’s okay.

“I missed you,” he admits quietly, “A lot.”

Your expression softens, “I missed you too.”

A comfortable silence settles between you before Garrett clears his throat.

“Also,” he drags out the vowel, “I need you to know that this was not um…entirely my idea.”

Your eyes narrow. “What? What are you talking about?”

“I was at practice and Dean could tell that I was upset, and of course the rest of the guys wanted to be nosey, so I gave in and told them. And um…they made this stupid ass plan, a note, actually--”

You blink, “The guys helped you plan this?”

“Yes.”

“So this wasn’t from the heart.” You fold your arms over your chest, half-serious.

“No, it was!” Garrett assures, “They just helped me out a bit. They were actually helpful.”

“I’m not sure if I consider them to be very helpful.”

He laughs, pulling his phone from his pocket, swiping it open and clicking on his notes app, “They made a list.”

“A list?”

“Yes, but don’t judge.” He makes you promise, and you do as he hands you his phone. You eye the top and immediately chuckle up.

How To Get The Girl (back)

Right.

“Who made this?” You inquire, and Garrett shrugs.

“Dean started it, but the rest of them added things. They were a little too serious about this, but I gave them credit where it’s due.”

You nod, as you keep reading, but your eyes especially pause on rule three.

“Number three: flowers are good, but communication is better.”

You reach across the table for Garrett’s hand, squeezing it gently. You can’t help but smile-- though his friends were usually complete imbeciles, they knew how to lock in when it really was important, and it made you happy that your boyfriend had such supportive friends. “I’m really glad you listened.”

His eyes meet yours, offering you a sweet smile.

“I’m glad you gave me the chance to.”

[mochisainz]

handsome attentive oscar

[what-even-is-thiss]

“Your pets only love you because you feed them”

Yeah well that’s also how your relationship with your parents starts out but more stuff happens after that doesn’t it