MoMo

26 She/They Minors DNI (You will be blocked) This is a blog strictly for my obsession with living in my imagination, fandoms and fanfiction! 💜

[myguiltypleasures21]

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[nottsnymph]

Sometimes the house became almost painfully quiet when Simon was away. Not the good kind of quiet, the kind that settled softly over the room and let you breathe for a while. This was different. A strange, persistent silence that felt like something was missing from the walls themselves, like the whole place had forgotten how to sound like home.

You did your best to fill it.

Books, music, little cleaning spurts that turned into reorganizing entire shelves, and, most often lately, cooking. Cooking helped. It gave your hands something to do and your mind something to focus on. It was soothing, for the most part, until you made something you knew Simon would have loved, and there was no one there to tease, taste, or steal the first bite.

Still, tonight’s recipe had gone well. The kitchen smelled warm and rich, all garlic and herbs and something sweet lingering underneath. You stood there with a plate in one hand, ready to finally serve, when you heard it.

A shuffle. Then a low groan from the front door.

Your whole body went rigid.

Simon was not supposed to be back for another week. You were alone. No guests, no deliveries, no reason for anyone to be at the door at all.

Someone was breaking in. Shit.

You went cold all at once, every lecture Simon had ever given you on self defense flashing through your mind, but panic left no room for careful thinking. You grabbed the plate tighter, your knuckles whitening around it, and moved before your brain could catch up.

The lock rattled, the door bursting open and you swung.

The plate shattered spectacularly against the head of the very tall intruder.

For one breathtaking second, you stood frozen, half expecting a stranger, a threat, anything else.

Instead, a familiar grumble filled the doorway, "Fucking hell."

Your soul left your body.

“Simon?” you gasped, throwing your hands up in horror as adrenaline shot through you so fast your fingers trembled.

He staggered inside, a duffel bag slipping from one shoulder and thudding to the floor. One hand braced against the wall, the other pressed to the side of his head.

“Are you okay?!” you gasped.

“I got smashed with a plate. What ya think?” he muttered, eyes shut tight.

“You were supposed to be back in a week!”

“Mission ended early,” he said with a pained groan.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Wanted t’ surprise ya.”

You stared at him.

Then gestured wildly at the ceramic graveyard on the floor.

"That is objectively the worst possible strategy for someone who constantly tells me to be careful because of all the enemies you've made."

He gave you a flat look. “Nice. Blame the victim.”

"The victim broke into the house like a raccoon with military training."

He huffed "rude."

“Just go sit down,” you said, already ushering him toward the sofa. “I’ll get the first aid kit.”

He kicked off his boots with a grunt and dropped onto the couch like all the bones in his body had collectively decided to quit. By the time you returned, kit in hand, he looked tired in that deeply worn-out way that made your chest ache, guilt gnawed at you like a tiny feral creature.

"Si, I'm so sorry," you blurted the second you sat beside him. "I genuinely thought someone was breaking in and then the door opened and I panicked and my body moved before my brain did and I hit you and—"

"It's alright, swee’heart," his voice came soft, steady.

You worked carefully, cleaning the scratches on his forehead and the small cuts along his shoulder. He didn’t even flinch much, though he did keep staring at you with that quiet, warm look that always made you feel like you were the only light in the room.

“Been through a dangerous mission,” he said, “an’ get home to get clocked by me wife.”

“It wasn’t on purpose,” you said, glaring at the cotton pad like it had personally offended you.

“Never said it was.”

“You are being very smug for a man who got ambushed by dinnerware.”

He huffed a laugh. “Usually wives greet their husbands with kisses and hugs. Not ceramic warfare.”

“I was trying out a new greeting method.”

He raised one brow. “Next time, how about a pan to the face?”

You let out a helpless laugh. “Shut up.”

“You hit me.”

“I thought you were breaking in!”

“Still counts as domestic violence, luv.”

You snorted despite yourself, and he looked absurdly pleased with that.

Once you finished, he leaned back into the couch with a long sigh, still horrified and still trying not to laugh at the stupidity of this entire situation. He tilted his head toward you.

“On the bright side,” he said, “I do know for certain you’re safe when I’m gone.”

[dhazefawn]

⠀˖⠀⠀છ⠀⠀𝐺ARRET 𝐺RAHAM as your boyfriend ﹙✹﹚

ᰋ ˓ ♡ 𝑓awn’s notes ㆍ‎ just started watching off campus, and it gave me some inspiration to write hcs!

· boyfriend!garrett is the kind of boyfriend who shows love through actions because words have never come easy to him, but he’s learning. he stumbles through emotional conversations, jaw tight and eyes fixed somewhere over your shoulder, but he’s trying, and that’s what matters.

· boyfriend!garrett’s primary love language is physical touch. he’s almost always touching you—hand on your lower back, thigh pressed against yours, fingers tracing patterns on your arm. he’s not even conscious of it half the time; it’s just instinct.

· boyfriend!garrett gave you a nickname early on and refuses to let it go. he uses it exclusively in public, but when it’s just the two of you, he switches to your actual name in this specific tone that makes your stomach flip every single time.

· boyfriend!garrett remembers everything. that cafe you mentioned months ago? suddenly there’s a pastry from it on your desk. your class schedule, your work shifts, your exam dates. small details you casually mentioned, then he brings them up later to show he was listening.

· boyfriend!garrett’s second language is acts of service. he drives you anywhere, picks up your favorite takeout when you’ve had a bad day, clears the snow off your car before you even wake up. makes sure you have snacks when you’re pulling all-nighters.

· boyfriend!garrett is actually domestic. grocery shopping together becomes a tradition, he tries to put the most unexpected items (which you two might never use) in the cart just to make you laugh. he’s a blanket thief and will wrap himself around you like a koala in his sleep. don’t tell his teammates, but he actually enjoys cuddling.

· boyfriend!garrett gets teased by his teammates for being whipped. he doesn’t care. he just grins and says, “jealous?” and goes right back to having his hand on your knee under the table.

· boyfriend!garrett is protective without being controlling. if some guy gets too close at a party, he appears out of nowhere with his hand on your lower back. he doesn’t make a scene—just looks at the guy with that quiet intensity that makes them back off. he trusts you completely; it’s them he doesn’t trust.

· boyfriend!garrett gets jealous rarely but intensely. his entire demeanor shifts, jaw tightens, shoulders square, voice drops. he won’t start a fight (learned that lesson) but he’ll get you out of there immediately and ask later, if that person bothered you.

· boyfriend!garrett struggles with vulnerability. he was closed off for so long that letting you in took time, but once he does, he’s all in. he tells you about his father on his own terms, usually late at night when it's dark. he lets you see him upset. he actually asks for comfort when he needs it, which was impossible for him before.

· boyfriend!garrett isn’t great with words (see above), but he tries. he tells you things he’s never told anyone—about his mother, his father, the guilt, the anger. when he does say “i love you,” it’s quiet and genuine and he means every word.

· boyfriend!garrett wants to make you feel good—it's genuinely important to him. if you’re not enjoying something, he stops immediately. “tell me what you want.” and he actually listens. gets off on getting you off.

· boyfriend!garrett has an insane schedule. practice, games, travel, press. but he makes time. he texts you before and after every game, no matter what. if you can’t come to his games, you get a play-by-play recap later. he actually wants you at the games—says he skates better when he knows you’re watching.

· boyfriend!garrett on game days: pre-game is focus mode. you get a quick kiss and “i’ll call you after” before he’s gone. win means he’s hyper and tactile, wants to celebrate with you—picks you up, spins you around. a loss means he's quiet, needs space but wants you nearby. he doesn’t want to talk about it, just wants you there. either way, he’s coming home to you.

· boyfriend!garrett has a whole playlist of 80s rock he’s been curating since he was a kid. lynyrd skynyrd, journey, boston, the works. he’ll put it on during late nights when you’re both just spending time together, and he gets this soft, shy look when you sing along to a song you know. he won’t say it out loud, but those quiet moments with you, music playing low and your head on his shoulder, are the closest thing to peace he’s ever known.

· boyfriend!garrett’s worst fear is hurting you. he’d rather leave than become his father, and you have to remind him that’s not who he is. he wants a future with you. house, dog, the whole thing. but he’s terrified to say it out loud. he’ll say it eventually, though, when it’s just the two of you.

ㅤ ׅ ۫ 𐂯ᩙ᩠𓏼 ׄ ♡゙ ̹ ̜ㅤ ݁ ˖ special moments 𝑓t. 𝑔arret⠀.ᐟ

the puck hits the back of the net and the arena explodes.

garrett doesn’t hear any of it. the roar of the crowd, the announcer’s voice, his teammates slapping his back. it all fades into static. his eyes are already scanning the stands, searching through the sea of faces until he finds you.

you’re tucked away in the third row, wearing his jersey, jumping up and down with your hands in the air. your smile is so wide he can see it from here.

his arm lifts before he can think about it. he points at you—that one was for you. the grin that breaks across his face is the one he reserves just for you.

a few guys on the bench notice. tucker hoots. logan rolls his eyes but he’s smiling.

garrett doesn’t care. he skates toward the bench with that same grin still on his face, and when he glances back at you one more time, you’re still looking at him like he hung the moon.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ z 𐰁 z‎

“you’re doing it wrong.”

“i’m literally standing still.”

“you’re standing still wrong.”

you glare at him from your spot against the boards, legs wobbling beneath you. garrett skates backward with infuriating ease, hands outstretched, that stupid smirk on his face.

“c’mon,” he says. “just push off. i’ve got you.”

“you said that ten minutes ago and i almost fell on my face.”

“you didn’t fall.”

“almost is the key word.”

he laughs, and it’s warm and genuine and makes you want to wipe that smug look off his face. but then he’s right in front of you, close enough that you can see the flecks of gray in his eyes, and his hands find your waist.

“trust me,” he says, softer now. “i won’t let you fall.”

you take a breath. you push off.

his hands stay on your waist the whole time, guiding you, steadying you. he skates backward in front of you, watching your feet, correcting you with small nudges. when you wobble, his grip tightens. when you find your balance, his thumbs trace circles on your hips.

you make it halfway around the rink before your legs give out. he catches you instantly, arms wrapping around you, pulling you against his chest before you can hit the ice.

“told you i had you.”

you’re both laughing now, breathless and a little ridiculous, and he kisses your forehead like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“you owe me,” you say, still catching your breath.

“yeah?”

“yeah. next time, you teach me how to fight.”

he snorts. “you want to learn how to fight?”

“if i’m dating a hockey player, i should probably know how to throw a punch.”

he grins, wide and boyish. “deal.”

he doesn’t let go of you for the rest of the night.

✏ 𝒹𝗁𝖺𝗓𝖾𝆑𝖺𝗐𝗇───all rights reserved; even when credited, these works are not allowed to be reposted, translated, modified or fed into ai ࣭‎ ‎ ‎ ౄు

[reader-who-writes]

Sick part II - Garrett x Reader

Author's Note: The second and final part. Possible Trigger Warning: Hospitals. Part one is here.

The next time I woke up, my head was pounding again…and calling my name. No, wait, that wasn’t my head, it was the door, someone was at my door.

The knock came again, sharper this time.

I pushed myself up too fast and had to stop halfway to the door, palm flat against the wall while the room tilted.

Another cough ripped through me before I could speak. Whatever I tried to say came out wrong and immediately turned into more coughing.

By the time I opened the door, I wasn’t really standing so much as staying upright by accident.

“You look like shit…” Garrett decided.

I tried to answer and only got as far as shaking my head before I had to turn away again, coughing hard enough that my vision blurred at the edges.

“I mean this with nothing but love, but that’s disgusting.”

I started to head back to my room.

Garrett followed.

“Have you been asleep since our call last night?”

“No, I've been out at the clubs," I say sarcastically, glaring at him.

He came to sit on the edge of my bed, tenderly lifting his hand to my sweaty forehead. He pulled it away and went rummaging through my bathroom until he found the thermometer.

“Open up.”

"I'm not a kid Garrett. I can do it myself," I huff, taking the thermometer away from him.

When the thermometer beeped, Garrett snatched it out of my mouth to read it. 

“Shit, your fever's 103”

I groan in acknowledgement.

“You should leave.”

“Not a chance. Is there anything you need?”

“You’re going to get sick.”

“I doubt it. I have an ironclad immune system.”

“Garrett…”

“I have spent the last 36 hours wanting nothing more than to be here taking care of you.”

"You're impossible."

"So I've been told."

I heard him moving around my apartment, opening cabinets and drawers as he searched for things. A few minutes later, he returned carrying a damp washcloth and a glass of water.

As I sat up, I had another coughing fit. My entire chest burned.

"Easy, easy."

I felt Garrett’s hand rub circles on my back while I struggled to catch my breath. By the time it passed, tears were streaming down my face.

"That bad?" he asked quietly.

I nodded.

He pressed the cool washcloth against my forehead. The relief was immediate.

"Better?"

"A little."

"Good."

I cracked one eye open. Garrett busied himself cleaning up the disaster zone that had become my room. Empty medicine packets disappeared into the trash. Used tissues followed. He gathered my dirty dishes from the desk and carried them to the kitchen.

"You don't have to do all this," I mumbled.

"Sure, I do."

His voice was soft.

"You'd do it for me."

When he finished, he took a seat at the edge of my bed, “Please let me take you to the doctor, this isn't normal.”

“I’m sick”

“Even when you’re sick, the things you’re doing shouldn’t take this much effort. You walked twenty feet to answer the door and looked ready to collapse."

"I didn't collapse."

"You literally had to lean against the wall."

"Details."

"You're exhausted, you’ve had a fever for days, you can't stop coughing."

"You're overreacting."

"Am I?"

Garrett wasn't smiling anymore.

"It's a cold."

I opened my mouth to continue my argument, but another coughing fit cut me off. This one was worse. The pressure in my chest felt crushing. Every breath rattled. By the time it finally stopped, I was gasping for air.

Garrett's expression went from concerned to alarmed.

"Jesus Christ."

"I'm fine."

I wasn't.

The room tilted slightly, and dark spots danced at the edges of my vision. I closed my eyes until they disappeared. When I opened them again, Garrett was staring at me.

"What?"

"You're breathing weird."

I frowned.

"What does that even mean?"

"It means you're breathing weird."

"Very descriptive."

"It sounds like you're wheezing"

Garrett watched me for a moment.

"You're avoiding deep breaths."

"What?"

"Every time you cough, you stop yourself from inhaling all the way."

I looked away.

"It hurts, doesn't it?"

I didn't answer.

"Y/n…"

I sighed.

"My chest is sore."

"From coughing?"

"Probably."

The uncertainty must have shown on my face because Garrett's expression darkened. He reached for my hand, his thumb brushing over my knuckles.

"We're going to the hospital."

"Garrett..."

"Baby, look at me. You're scaring me."

For the first time since he got here, there wasn't even a trace of humor in his voice, and I knew I’d lost this fight. I let my head fall back against the pillow. Garrett was already moving. He grabbed my shoes from beside the door and my sweatshirt from the back of a chair. Then he disappeared into the bathroom and came back with my wallet and phone. He knelt beside the bed.

"Can you stand?"

"Yes?"

"That's not supposed to be a question."

I sighed.

"I'm just tired."

Garrett held out his hands.

"I know. Let's try."

The second my feet touched the floor, the room spun. I swayed slightly before righting myself.

"Whoa."

"I'm okay."

"You almost face-planted."

"I did not."

"You absolutely did."

I leaned heavily against him while waiting for the dizziness to pass. Garrett didn't comment on how much of my weight he was supporting. That worried me more than if he had.

I forced myself away from him and started walking out to his car. The cool night air hit my face the moment we stepped outside. Instead of helping, it made me cough. By the time I got into the passenger seat, I was exhausted. He buckled me in himself.

"Garrett."

"What?"

"You're being weird."

His hands paused. For a second, he just looked at me. The parking lot lights illuminated the worry on his face. And suddenly I realized just how scared he was.

"Hey," I said quietly.

His jaw clenched.

"What?"

"I'm okay."

The look he gave me said he didn't believe that for a second. He shut the passenger door and rounded the front of the jeep. The drive was unusually quiet. Every few minutes, Garrett’s eyes flicked toward me. Making sure I was still awake, still breathing. Normally, I would have made a sarcastic comment, but the pain and exhaustion stilled my tongue.

The hospital finally came into view. Relief washed across Garrett's face so quickly that it broke my heart.

"See?" I said weakly. "We're here. Crisis averted."

Before he could respond, another coughing fit hit. This one was worse than the others. When it finally passed, I looked up to find Garrett already out of his seat and coming around to help me.

"I can walk."

"I believe you,” he said as he wrapped his arm around my waist, guiding me to the doors. 

The bright fluorescent lights made my headache instantly worse, causing me to groan. The waiting room wasn't particularly busy, which seemed to be the only thing going in my favor. The receptionist looked up as we approached.

"What brings you in tonight?"

I opened my mouth.

Garrett beat me to it.

"High fever. Constant coughing. Chest pain. Trouble breathing. Exhaustion"

I shot Garrett a look.

Traitor.

"Have a seat for just a moment."

She picked up the phone. Within minutes, a nurse appeared with a cart to take my vitals.

"Hi, sweetheart. Let's check a few things."

I offered my finger, and the nurse clipped the monitor on. The number appeared almost immediately.

90%.

Her expression remained professional, but she straightened slightly.

"Okay."

Then she took my temperature.

"One hundred and two point seven."

Garrett muttered something under his breath.

The nurse glanced between us.

"Let's get you back."

I frowned.

"Already?"

Normally, emergency rooms took forever.

The nurse gave me a small smile.

"Already."

Garrett's hand immediately found the small of my back as we followed her through a set of double doors. 

“Actually, I’m going to have you sit in one of the wheelchairs.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“Hospital protocol.”

Within minutes, I was being wheeled back to a room.

The nurse took vitals, asked questions, and clipped monitors to various parts of me while Garrett hovered nearby.

The doctor listened to my lungs for less than a minute before ordering a chest X-ray.

My stomach dropped.

Garrett's hand immediately found mine.

Twenty minutes later, I was back in the exam room after the imaging. Garrett sat beside the bed, knee bouncing restlessly. For the first time since we'd arrived, neither of us joked. We just waited and I fought to keep my eyes open.

The doctor returned carrying a tablet. "You have pneumonia, and with oxygen levels where they've been tonight," the doctor continued, "we're going to admit you for observation and start treatment immediately."

"What?" I blurted.

Garrett squeezed my hand.

Hard.

“We’ll get you a nebulizer treatment, put you on the nasal cannula. Give you some strong antibiotics and wait for that fever to break…you should be out of here tomorrow.”

When he left, I couldn’t stop the tears. 

"Hey."

Garrett's voice was gentle.

I turned my face away.

"Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Look at me."

His chair scraped against the floor.

A second later, he was sitting on the edge of the bed.

"Baby."

I shook my head, fresh tears spilled down my cheeks.

"I don't want to be here."

The confession came out sounding far more pathetic than I intended.

"I know."

"I hate hospitals."

"I know that too."

The nurse came in with the nebulizer and started the IV antibiotics and saline. While she was working, Garrett pulled his phone out and updated the group chat. 

Garrett: She’s been admitted to the hospital. 

The nurse hooked up the nasal cannula before exiting the room. Garrett put his phone away, ignoring the incessant buzzing.

"You okay?"

"No."

"Fair."

The fever had begun making me feel strangely emotional. Everything felt overwhelming. The oxygen. The IV. The diagnosis. The realization that I had actually been sick enough to get admitted. I stared at the wall.

Garrett stood and carefully climbed onto the narrow hospital bed beside me.

"Garrett."

"What?"

"The nurses are going to yell at you."

"Then we'll both have something to complain about."

I was too exhausted to protest when he wrapped an arm around my shoulders. For the first time all day, my body began to relax. The steady beep of the monitor filled the room. Garrett's thumb traced lazy circles against my arm. A kiss landed against my forehead.

"Hey, Garrett?" I asked through the sleepiness.

"Hm?"

"Will you still be here when I wake up?"

The question slipped out before I could stop it.

Garrett looked at me like the question broke his heart.

"I'm not leaving."

At some point, I must’ve drifted again, because the next thing I registered was voices in the hallway and the absence of Garrett beside me.

Logan.

Dean.

“…you can’t just text ‘she’s been admitted to the hospital’ and then go radio silent,” Logan argued.

“She has pneumonia and low oxygen,” Garrett said. Flat. Controlled. Too controlled.

A pause.

Then Dean, quieter than usual: “Shit.”

“Her fever finally broke though, and they think she’ll be able to leave here tomorrow morning.”

“That’s good,” Logan decided. 

The curtain shifted slightly. Dean stepped in first, hesitating when he saw me.

“You couldn’t have waited until after hockey season to catch the plague?” he joked. 

“Sorry, Dean-o, my immune system doesn’t look at Garrett’s calendar,” I answer before breaking out into a coughing fit.

Dean grimaced and Garrett pushed past him coming back to my side, rubbing my back.

Garrett was instantly at my side. “Hey—easy. You good?”

“I’m fine,” I wheezed.

Garrett was already pouring me a glass of water.

Logan sat down. “So, uh… pneumonia. That’s pretty serious.”

“Yeah,” I said weakly. “Apparently, my lungs opted out of the group project.”

Dean winced. “That’s… actually kind of impressive in a horrifying way.”

Garrett shifted closer immediately. “Don’t encourage her.”

“I’m not encouraging her,” Dean said. “I’m acknowledging her dedication.”

Garrett finally looked at him. “Not helping.”.”

Garrett shook his head, but I saw it—he was trying not to smile.

Dean grinned. "For what it's worth, we're glad you're okay."

The room went quiet for half a second.

Then Dean ruined it.

"Because if you died, Garrett would've made it everybody's problem."

Garrett threw a pillow at him.

Dean barely dodged it.

"See?" he said. "Everybody's problem."

Everyone broke out into laughter, even Garrett, and any anxiety I had faded away.

[reader-who-writes]

Sick part I- Garrett x Reader

Author's Note: I don't typically write with multiple perspectives...but I think it works for this one. This is part 1 of 2

If three months ago someone had suggested Garrett Graham would spend an entire bus ride checking his phone instead of watching film, I would've laughed.

Yet he'd texted me three times before they even crossed the state line.

Garrett: Did you eat?

Garrett: How's the fever?

Garrett: Answer your phone, sweetheart.

Me: Did you eat?

Me: How’s the bus?

Me: How’s film? 

Garrett: Touche’

I'd finally convinced him to get on the bus by promising I'd spend the weekend sleeping, drinking fluids, and not doing anything stupid.

Garrett's jersey hung over the back of my desk chair where I'd left it the night before. I stared at it for a second. Since we'd started dating, I hadn't missed a single game. This would be the first.

I missed him. I'd spent most of the week keeping my distance, dodging kisses and batting away his attempts to take care of me. The last thing either of us needed was for him to catch whatever plague had taken up residence in my lungs.

By Saturday morning, I couldn't make it past the kitchen before my knees hit the counter.

The mug of tea stayed half-full beside me while I stared at the wood grain of the table, waiting for the pounding behind my eyes to ease.

It didn't.

Every cough left me bent over the sink longer than I was actually standing upright. By the time I made it back to bed, my sweatshirt clung damply to my skin.

Getting up no longer felt like an option, so much as a mistake I kept repeating.

The chills came in waves, sharp enough that I curled deeper beneath my blankets and still couldn't get warm.

My thumb hovered over Garrett's name longer than it should have. A string of unread check-in texts filled the screen.

Apparently, I'd slept through all of them.

I typed.

Deleted it.

Typed it again.

Me: Sorry, love. I was sleeping. I still feel like shit, but I'll be fine. Stop worrying about me and prepare to kick ass tonight. I love you.

I stared at the message for a second before hitting send, then locked my phone like that somehow made the lie less obvious.

My phone buzzed almost immediately.

Garrett: Send proof you're actually drinking water.

Despite everything, I smiled.

I snapped a picture of the half-empty mug sitting beside me.

Me: Happy?

The typing bubble appeared instantly.

Garrett: No.

It took two attempts to pull on one of his sweatshirts.

By the time I made it to the couch, I was breathing harder than I should have been. My alarm was set so I wouldn’t miss puck drop, and in the meantime, another nap was calling my name.

Garrett had watched the same clip three times and couldn't tell you a single thing that happened in it.

The projector flickered against the hotel conference room wall while Coach pointed out defensive breakdowns from their last game. Normally, Garrett would've been taking mental notes. Normally, he'd be the one answering questions before Coach even finished asking them.

Instead, he was staring at his phone beneath the table.

Sorry, love. I was sleeping. I still feel like shit, but I'll be fine. Stop worrying about me and prepare to kick ass tonight. I love you.

He read the message again.

And again.

The words I'll be fine weren't helping.

Because she'd sounded awful on the phone last night.

And because Y/N had a habit of insisting she was fine right up until she absolutely wasn't.

His thumb hovered over her contact.

Again.

"Earth to Graham."

Garrett looked up.

Logan was staring at him from the seat beside him.

"What?"

"You planning on joining us at some point?"

Garrett shoved his phone face down on the table.

"I'm here."

"Bullshit."

Coach clicked to another clip.

"Okay, what went wrong here?"

Silence.

Coach looked directly at Garrett.

Normally, he'd answer before anyone else.

This time he blinked.

"...Missed assignment?"

The room immediately erupted.

Dean nearly choked.

"Jesus Christ."

"What?" Garrett snapped.

"You don't know?"

Garrett glared at him.

Dean pointed toward the screen.

"The defenseman literally fell over."

A few more guys laughed.

Even Coach looked amused.

"Good to see you're paying attention, Graham."

Garrett muttered something under his breath.

Logan leaned closer.

"Dude."

"What?"

"She's gonna be okay."

Garrett looked away.

"Yeah."

Logan's expression softened.

"Have you heard from her?"

"She says she's fine."

Dean snorted from two seats over.

"Oh, well if she says she's fine."

Garrett shot him a look.

Dean lifted both hands.

"What? I'm serious. Girls are terrible at being sick."

"That's sexist."

"It's also true."

Several players nodded.

"Facts."

Garrett couldn't even argue.

Because Y/N had once worked an entire day on a sprained ankle before admitting something was wrong.

His phone buzzed.

Instantly, his attention dropped.

Logan groaned.

"You're unbelievable."

Garrett ignored him and opened the message.

A picture appeared on the screen.

A half-empty mug sitting beside a blanket.

Happy?

Despite himself, Garrett smiled.

No.

Garrett shook his head and slipped the phone back into his pocket.

Coach clapped his hands.

"Alright, enough. Let's go."

Chairs scraped backward.

The room shifted from meeting mode to game mode. Players filed toward the locker room. Dean slung an arm around Garrett's shoulders.

"Good news."

"What?"

"If we lose tonight, we can blame your lovesick ass."

Garrett shoved him away.

"Get fucked."

Dean laughed.

For the first time all afternoon, Garrett laughed too.

As the team filtered toward their stalls, he pulled his phone out one last time before shoving it into his locker and focusing on hockey.

At least, that had been the plan.

He was the last one dressed, sitting on the bench while the room buzzed around him. The familiar sounds of skates hitting concrete and sticks clattering against lockers faded into the background as his screen lit up.

Good luck, Graham. Give 'em hell.

A smile immediately tugged at his mouth. It was the same thing she told him before every game.

Below the message was a picture.

She was curled up on my couch, absolutely swallowed by one of his oversized Briar hockey hoodies. Her hair was a mess, a blanket covered most of her, and the television behind her displayed the pregame broadcast.

Garrett stared at the picture longer than he meant to.

She looked exhausted and pale, definitely pale.

But she was watching. Even feeling like death, she was still there.

Logan looked over from where he was taping his stick.

"He's smiling at his phone."

Dean pointed dramatically.

"Captain's down bad."

A few heads turned, and several teammates immediately started laughing. Garrett rolled his eyes, but he couldn't quite stop smiling.

Feel better, sweetheart.

A few seconds later,

And drink water.

The response came almost instantly.

Bossy.

For the first time all day, the knot in Garrett's chest loosened.

Coach's voice echoed from the hallway.

"Let's go, boys!"

The room came alive.

Players grabbed helmets and gloves.

Garrett looked at the picture one final time before locking his phone.

Then he slipped it into his locker and stood.

Tonight, he had a game to win.

Tomorrow,  he was going home to his girl.

Crowd noise spilled through the speakers of my TV  in waves, distant and metallic. I adjusted the volume, then immediately regretted it when the sound made my head pulse harder.

“Okay,” I muttered to myself, swallowing back another cough. “Just… watch the game.”

The camera cut to the bench.

My stomach twisted instantly.

There he was.

A whistle blew.

Faceoff.

Garrett won it clean.

The crowd roared, but even through the broadcast, I could see it—he wasn’t settling into the rhythm like he normally did. He was sharp, sure. Technically perfect.

But restless.

“Hey,” I said softly, like he could hear me through the screen. “Focus.”

As if he could hear me, he won the puck again.

Checked a defenseman into the boards with enough force that the glass rattled.

The commentators picked up their pace.

“Graham’s playing with intensity tonight—almost a little extra edge—”

I exhaled slowly.

“Good,” I whispered.

But even as he dominated the shift, I noticed it again.

The split-second hesitation after the whistle.

The glance toward the bench door instead of the scoreboard.

My throat tightened around another cough, and I pressed my forehead against my sleeve for a second, forcing it down.

“I’m fine,” I told the empty room.

Play had broken into transition. Briar skating hard through the neutral zone.

And then—

Dean.

Breakaway.

Shot.

Goal.

The horn exploded through my speakers.

3-0

Dean threw his arms up before crashing into the glass, grinning like an idiot as his teammates swarmed him.

For a second, I forgot how much my head hurt.

“Okay,” I breathed, a small, broken laugh slipping out. “That’s my boy.”

Pride flickered through me—sharp and immediate.

As the second third, turned into the third, the screen blurred a little when I blinked.

I told myself it was just the stream quality.

I adjusted my position on the couch, pulling his sweatshirt tighter around my shoulders. It was too big on me normally. Tonight it felt like it was swallowing me whole in the best way possible.

Another cough scraped through my chest, quieter this time. More tired than painful.

“Just a few more minutes,” I whispered.

The game kept going.

Fast now.

My eyes started to feel heavy halfway through the third period.

I blinked hard.

Once.

Twice.

The announcers’ voices blurred together—names, stats, excitement rising and falling like waves I couldn’t quite catch anymore.

I shifted again, trying to sit up straighter.

Bad idea.

The room tilted slightly, and I pressed my forehead back against the couch cushion until it steadied.

“Just the game,” I told myself. “Just finish the game.”

The clock ticked down.

Briar ahead.

Still pressing.

Garrett’s line came out again.

This time, he didn’t hesitate.

He looked… locked in, like something had finally clicked into place.

He took the puck at center ice, carried it through two defenders like they weren’t even there, and drove it deep into the zone.

The crowd in the arena rose in volume. Even through the speakers, I could feel it building.

“Come on,” I murmured. “You’ve got this.”

Shot—

Goal.

For a second, everything went white noise.

I startled awake fully for half a second, heart jumping like I’d been the one hit by the shot.

The replay rolled.

“That’s it,” I whispered, voice rough. “There you go.”

The screen started to blur at the edges again, the way it does right before sleep takes over, whether you want it to or not.

The announcers kept talking.

The crowd is still roaring.

Somewhere in the background, Briar was finishing out the final minutes.

But it all started to feel far away.

Like I was sinking slightly under it.

I pulled the blanket tighter around myself, cheek resting against the arm of the couch.

Just for a second, I thought about texting him.

Something simple.

Good game.

I’m proud of you.

But my fingers didn’t move fast enough.

The couch felt warmer than it had a minute ago.

Heavier.

The game noise softened into something like waves.

The last thing I registered clearly was Garrett on screen again—then even that started to fade.

“Did good,” I mumbled, barely audible.

The screen kept glowing in the dark. Briar had won, and I had drifted off. 

Garrett skipped the press and went straight for the locker room, getting off his gear and checking his phone.

No new texts, at least not any from the only person who mattered to him at the moment. 

He froze, glancing at the screen, making sure he had a signal. 

“Hey,” Logan said, noticing his face change. “What’s up?”

Garrett didn’t answer.

Dean stood up. “Yo, Graham, you’re pale. What happened?”

“I need to go,” Garrett said, voice flat.

Logan frowned. “Go where?”

But Garrett was already pulling on his hoodie, not even bothering with the zipper.

“She hasn’t texted me since puck drop,” he said.

Dean blinked. “Relax, she probably fell asleep.”

“Stop worrying so much, she’s fine,” Logan started.

Garrett hung his head, forcing air into his lungs as he put his phone down and headed for the showers.

Everyone around him was celebrating the fact that they had secured a spot in the finals. He was too focused on every mile that lay between the two of you. 

He didn’t even make it fully out of the arena before he was calling you.

Straight to voicemail.

Again.

Voicemail.

Again.

“Pick up,” he muttered under his breath, walking faster. “Come on.”

Garrett stopped walking for half a second, staring at his phone like it might change if he looked hard enough.

Dean came up behind him, “I’m going to take that phone.”

“Over my dead body.”

“Come on, dude, I’m telling you she’s probably sleeping. Let’s head back to the hotel, celebrate our win, and you’ll be home to her by noon tomorrow.”

“Yeah, okay.”

The ride to the hotel felt wrong in a way he couldn’t explain. Like the world was too loud and not loud enough at the same time. Like every red light was taking too long on purpose. He kept checking his phone. Still nothing. He tried to convince himself that everything was fine. 

I woke up around one a.m.

The room was dark except for the TV still glowing blue in standby, casting long shadows across the couch.

For a second, I didn’t move.

Then I reached for my phone.

The screen lit up immediately—too bright, making me blink to adjust my eyes.

Missed messages.

A lot of them.

Garrett: Game’s over. You should call me. Garrett: You’re probably sleeping, but call me when you see this. Garrett: I’m going to lose my mind over here.

Garrett: If you’re getting worse, you need to get checked out.

Garrett: Y/n?

Logan: hey just checking in 👍 Garrett’s being annoying again

Logan: he said you were “sick sick,” which I think means dramatic sick

Logan: if you’re alive, just text “alive” so I can stop listening to him spiral

Dean: Yo

Dean: You good?

Dean: Your boyfriend is one missed text away from a meltdown btw

Dean: Pretty sure I saw him looking at flights…

I let out a slow breath that turned into a cough halfway through.

It hurt worse than it should have. I forced down some water.

Me: Sorry babe, I fell asleep. I saw your goal, though, good job. Congrats on making the finals.

Garrett: Call me. 

Me: I’m okay

Then another message came through.

Garrett: That’s not what I asked.

I groaned slightly as I sat up and facetimed him. 

“Y/n?”

Garrett’s voice came through immediately—too fast, too sharp, like he’d been holding his breath since the moment he saw my name light up.

I swallowed.

“Hey.”

A pause.

“Why haven’t you been answering me?”

I shifted on the couch, blanket sliding off my shoulder.

“I was sleeping.”

“I was worried”

“I didn’t—” I coughed, cutting myself off, pressing my forehead into my sleeve until it passed. “I’m sorry”

The silence on his end changed.

“Talk to me,” he begged. 

“I watched the game,” I said quietly, like that was the part that mattered most.

Something shifted in his voice immediately.

“Did you eat?”

I hesitated.

“…I had tea.”

A sound came through the phone—low, sharp. Not quite a laugh. Not even close.

“Y/n.”

“I did,” I insisted, weaker than I meant it to be.

Another pause.

Then his voice dropped.

“Okay,” he said finally, but it didn’t sound like okay. It sounded like recalculating.

Then, softer—

“How are you feeling, and no bullshit this time”

“I’m exhausted,” I admitted.

A long breath on the other end.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I figured.”

Then—

“When’s the last time you took your temperature? Took some medicine?”

“Right before the game.”

“Let’s go take care of a few things, and then you can head back to bed.”

“Garrett…”

“Please, it’s the only way I’m going to be able to sleep tonight.”

“Okay.”

“First, grab one of my Gatorades from your fridge and something to snack on.”

“I don’t have the energy to make anything right now.”

”Grab one of your granola bars or something.”

“Okay,” I said, following his instructions.

“Now go up to the bathroom and take your temperature.”

I leaned heavily against the bathroom counter as I waited for the thermometer to beep. I couldn’t hide the shock on my face when I read the numbers.

“What? What does it say?” Garrett asked, not liking my expression. 

Another cough hit me before I could respond, deeper this time, forcing me to curl forward slightly. It took me a minute to right myself. 

“102.5” 

“Shit.”

“I’m overdue for medicine. It’ll be fine.”

“Yeah, okay, take your medicine.”

I rummaged around the medicine cabinet and took some meds. I fought the coughing fit as I moved towards my bedroom. I had to physically stop and catch my breath, almost forgetting that Garrett was still on the phone.

“You’re getting worse.”

“I’ll be fine. I took medicine, I’m about to drink some Gatorade for electrolytes, and then when I’m done talking to you, I’ll get more rest.”

A pause.

“I wish I were there.”

“I’m glad you’re not. I look and probably smell disgusting.”

He cracked a smile, “Don’t care.”

I set the phone down as I crawl into bed.

Logan’s voice drifted in. “Yo, pizza’s here—everyone’s heading down.”

“I’ll come down in a minute,” Garrett said immediately, without looking away.

Dean, further off: “She answer?”

I leaned closer to the phone.

“Hi bys,” I called weakly.

“Hey, Y/N,” Logan said. “I was starting to get worried. How are you feeling?”

“Better than Dean after he got shoved into the glass.”

A cough cut the sentence in half.

Garrett’s jaw tightened.

“Easy,” he said quietly.

Dean’s voice sharpened. “Okay, yeah, she sounds awful.”

“Helpful,” Garrett muttered, “You guys give me a minute, and I’ll join you.”

“Congrats on the win!” I try to muster as much enthusiasm as I can.

I can’t hear their responses as they exit the room. Garrett refocuses his energy on me, “Get some rest. We’ll be back around noon tomorrow, and if you are still not feeling better, I’ll take you to the doctor.”

“Okay, Garrett.”

No arguing. No insisting, I was fine. No energy left to fight with. Just an exhausted acceptance. 

“If anything changes. If anything feels off or worse. You have to call me. I don’t care what time it is. Promise me?”

“I promise.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too,” I say, ending the call. 

I don’t even remember plugging my phone in before sleep consumed me.

[pennylanefics]

Familiar | G.G.

A/N: first garrett fic! i started this months ago and finally got around to finishing it, so the end might be a little rough, but i did my best :) more garrett fics to come!!!

summary: your past history with one of garrett's friends gets in the way of your relationship

word count: ~3.9k

warnings: 18+ talks of sex and descriptions of sexual acts (no smut)

“So, would you maybe want to come over on Friday? It’s the weekend before our season starts and the guys were wanting to do a whole day of classic movies,” Garrett asks you as you stand from your seats in the Coffee Hut.

It was a brisk October day and you were meeting Garrett for coffee and a quick bite before heading to your job on campus with the student magazine. You were the photographer for both the magazine and newspaper on campus, so you were quite busy already, with the new semester starting.

“Sure, that sounds great. What kind of movies are we talking?” The two of you step back out into the chilly air, the warmth of your to-go cups helping keep the frigid temperature at bay.

“Tucker’s choice is Jurassic Park, Logan picked Beetlejuice, I went with Jaws, and Dean chose Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, so it’s definitely going to be a great night,” he recalls which movies they selected for the night.

“Do I get to choose as well? Or is it just guys pick?” You tease lightly, which thankfully, he senses.

“I don’t think the guys would be happy with me if we have to watch Mean Girls,” he plays along, knowing it’s one of your favorite movies. You scoff and smack his arm playfully.

“What an insult to true cinema.”

“Yeah, because Mean Girls is in the same category as Jaws and Jurassic Park.”

“It absolutely is.” Garrett smiles so widely that it reaches his eyes, a sight you’ve grown so fond of, both of you coming to a stop once you reach the communications building.

“Well, I’ll see you Friday night then,” you say, leaning up to kiss his cheek. He blushes, though if you were to point it out, he would claim it’s the cold air making his skin pink.

“See you then, sweetheart. Have a fun night working on the new issues.”

Friday night rolls around and you arrive at the guys place at around four, since the movies were going to be long, plus accounting for bathroom breaks, snack breaks, and smoke breaks. You knew you were in for a long night, and you couldn’t wait to spend it with Garrett and his friends for the first time.

Garrett answers the door and greets you with a warm smile and a hug, pressing a light kiss to your temple.

“Hey, I’m so excited for tonight, I’m glad you could make it.”

“Me too. I asked Jenna to take photos of the football game for me just so I could be here. Which I’m glad she agreed to because the last thing I want to do is sit at a football game in the cold.” He guides you down the entry hallway and to the living room, bringing you to the spot he’s designated for himself and you.

Tucker was already laying on the floor, messing around on his phone, but when he sees you, he jumps up.

“Hi, you must be (Y/N),” he greets, sticking his hand out for you to shake. “My name’s John, but you can call me Tucker, Tuck, T, anything.”

“Nice to finally meet you, Garrett tells me about you guys all the time.” you beam, watching as he sits back down on the floor.

“Does he now? He says I’m his favorite, right?” You giggle and before you have a chance to respond, another tall brunette is walking through the doorway, immediately stopping in his tracks, and the middle of his sentence.

“Logan, this is (Y/N), the girl I’ve been seeing,” he introduces you, but this man doesn’t exactly need one.

“I’ve seen you before.” You give him a strange look, your shoulders shrugging as you step closer to Garrett.

“She’s the photographer for the newspaper and magazine, so you’ve probably seen her taking pictures of our games and other things,” Garrett explains. Though the look in his eyes reads that there’s another reason, one he can’t quite put his finger on.

“Maybe, but I could’ve sworn I’ve seen you at a party, or somewhere of that sort, and it-”

“Heyo! Who wants popcorn? I made four bags, but we can always-”

A familiar voice enters the living room this time, and the blond man has the same reaction as Logan, stopping dead in his tracks, eyes wide like saucers as he takes in your presence.

Oh god.

“What are you doing here?” Dean wonders. Garrett, confused as all hell, glances between you and his friend, waiting for an explanation.

“OHHH! That’s how I know you!” Logan suddenly exclaims. “You and Dean fucked freshman year! You were the one who had vomit on her shoes and left barefoot.”

“What?” Garrett’s voice grumbles from beside you. Dean has a sheepish grin on his face, recalling the memory.

“Yeah, it was about two months into the semester. She came to a game, I noticed her, and we ended up at a party. I carried her back here because someone threw up on her shoes and she left them at the frat house.”

There is an awkward tension in the air, and you still haven’t said a word.

“I realized I never got your name,” you state softly with a short chuckle.

“Dean,” he introduces himself, though you could have inferred that from being introduced to two of them already.

Garrett’s expression is practically unreadable to you, but it’s very clear to the other guys that he’s jealous, because they start poking fun at the situation.

“Aww, look at that, Dean got to Garrett’s girl first,” Tucker teases the man beside you, kissing his cheek playfully.

“It was one night almost three years ago,” you brush off the idea that it was anything super serious. Garrett just offers you a tight-lipped grin, dropping your hand and sitting on the couch.

“We should get the movies started so we’re not doing this until five in the morning,” he says, wanting to change the topic quickly. Dean remains in his spot, completely taken aback by how this night has already turned out, handing everyone a bowl of popcorn. He looks at you cautiously while pointing to the kitchen.

“I can make you your own bowl, if you’d like?” He offers. You just shake your head and take a seat next to Garrett.

“I’ll be alright, thanks though.” He finally sits down on the opposite end of the couch, Logan sitting between Garrett and Dean, an entertained smirk on his lips.

Garrett stares blankly at the tv screen, which starts playing Jurassic Park, thanks to a coin flip to decide who goes first. You were extremely uncomfortable, since Garrett is entirely closed off now, an awkward tension settling in the room, but especially between you and him. 

You quietly snack on the popcorn, taking drinks from your soda can here and there, trying your best to keep your attention on the film. But you find it difficult to do so when you can practically feel the anger radiating off of the man sitting beside you.

Once the first movie ends, you immediately jump up and state you are heading to the bathroom. Not that you have to go, but you needed to escape the awkwardness you unintentionally created. The rest of the guys throw trash away, take a small break to stretch, and even welcome in the pizza that they had ordered halfway through, just in time for dinner. 

Though you weren’t hungry, and it wasn’t because of the popcorn you ate. The tension with Garrett was horrible, and you desperately wanted to leave and forget that this ever happened. You flush the toilet to pretend like you actually came in here for a reason, other than to collect your thoughts, splashing some water on your face after, and giving yourself a short pep talk to keep yourself from bursting into tears.

Just as you open the door, you run into a large body, releasing a grunt as you bump into the person’s thick build. Garrett stands there, blocking you from leaving, a regretful look in his eyes.

“Can we talk in my room for a minute?” He keeps his voice low, nodding his head in the direction of the stairs. You silently follow him with a thick lump in your throat, feeling like this could either go well or burn to the ground completely.

Once you two are sat on his bed, the door shut for your privacy, he takes a deep sigh and shakes his head.

“Why didn’t you tell me you slept with Dean?” He asks, keeping his eyes forward.

“Because I didn’t know it was him,” you murmur. “It was one night three years ago, I never got his name because it was nothing but sex. That was the only time we saw each other.”

“But you’ve seen him since, haven’t you? At games? The ones that you photograph? You couldn’t have possibly not known it was him?”

“I only take photos, it’s not like I write the stories that go with them. I get told to take pictures of numbers and last names. I didn’t really put two and two together. And even if I did, we really were nothing.”

“It still makes me feel so…weird thinking about it,” he cringes, standing up to pace back and forth in front of you. “Like, you slept with Dean?”

“One. Fucking. Time,” you reiterate. You were starting to get angry with him, so what you slept with his friend? You’re with him now, shouldn’t that matter? “Do you think I’m going to leave you for him or something?”

When he doesn’t respond, you realize what this is all about. He’s jealous.

“I know his reputation in bed, I’m sure he can satisfy you a-”

“Stop right there,” you firmly say, standing to meet him, getting in the way of his stride. A heavy sigh escapes him, knowing he has to face what he truly feels.

“Fine. Yes. I’m worried that you’ll see how great of a guy he is and get transported back to that night and leave me.” At least he’s honest.

“Garrett, there’s a reason I never wanted to know his name that night, and the same goes for him not knowing mine. It was only supposed to be a one night stand. I left in the morning before he had even woken up, I never had his number, never contacted him again, never wanted to. Sure, it was a good night, but he set his intentions quick. He only wanted sex and I was okay with that. He told me he’s not into relationships, and I’m assuming it’s still the same as it was three years ago.”

“Yeah, he sleeps around a lot still,” Garrett replies, keeping his eyes on his hands.

“And I don’t want that. I want someone to want me for me, not for sex. He’s clearly incapable of having any ability to stick to one girl, so why would I leave you for that?”

Garrett doesn’t say much, but he knows you’re right. He can hear it in your voice how truthful you’re being, and he feels terrible for assuming such a thing without any evidence.

“That’s true,” he grumbles, stepping a little closer to you, his hands messing with the bracelet on his wrist. “So…you said he was good?”

“Garrett,” you warn, narrowing your eyes at him as he raises his head to look at you, a sigh sounding from his puffy lips. “Don’t you dare.”

“I’m sorry, I just can’t get past the image of you two. Knowing one of my best friends has seen you naked, has been inside of you, it’s fucking awful, alright!” He suddenly shouts, causing you to step back a little due to the sudden rise in volume.

You aren’t exactly sure what to say, do you comfort him more? What do you even say? Yeah, all those things are true, but it was three years ago? Instead, you shuffle your feet nervously and and gaze up at him.

“Is it something you would be able to move past?” You wonder, your voice quiet and hesitant. Silence hangs between the two of you, the tension palpable, awaiting his response.

“I don’t know,” he whispers, meeting your eyes once more. Though this time around, they hold a regretful look, one that reads he’s about to say something he doesn’t want to. However, to both of your benefits, he doesn’t say anything else.

“Alright. Well, uh, I can leave then, I’d hate to ruin your guys’ movie night anymore than I have. I’ll sneak out before the guys get back in.”

Before Garrett is even able to register what happened, you are dashing out of his room and down the stairs, taking a quick look to make sure that his friends were still outside, which they thankfully are.

He’s not even reached the bottom step when he sees you are out the door and rushing to your car. Coming to a halt, his hand nervously tugs at his hair, wondering if he’s fucked up the one relationship he hoped would last. Just then, the guys file back inside, all of them staring at Garrett in confusion.

“What’s going on, dude?” Tucker questions, noticing the expression on his friend’s face, which is almost like he’s seen a ghost.

“Nothing,” he sighs heavily, walking back over to his spot on the couch. “Let’s just start the next movie.”

“Where’d (Y/N) go?” Logan wonders, stepping into the kitchen, and then down to the hall to look for you.

“She went home,” Garrett says, shrugging his shoulder. “Wasn’t feeling well.”

Weirdly enough, the guys seem to buy it. All except for Dean.

“Is this about us sleeping together? Dude, it was three years ago.”

“It’s not that.”

“It is! You’ve been in a terrible mood since you found out, and now all of a sudden she’s gone? Please tell me you didn’t break up with her?”

Silence from Garrett.

“Oh my god, you idiot!” Dean shouts. “Did you seriously?”

“Not directly,” he replies. “But I’m not sure how I’ll be able to over it, knowing you touched her in places I haven’t yet, knowing you’ve been inside of her, I-”

“You cannot think like that, dude,” Logan smacks Garrett on the back of the head. “Sure, I don’t understand what it feels like knowing that your friend slept with your girl previously, but it’s literally the same as any new relationship and finding out they had previous partners. The only difference is you know him.”

“We weren’t even in a relationship, for fuck sake. I slept with her once, and to be honest, I don’t remember anything,” Dean tries to save face. “I remember leading up to it but we were drinking, so I remember little to nothing of the actual act. I couldn’t even tell you what she looks like naked.”

Garrett glares over at Dean, but he lightens up his reaction when he comes to the realization that he’s right. Dean rarely lies, if anything, he’s the most truthful in the group when it comes to things like his sex life.

The two lone individuals left out of this situation glance between the blond man and the brunette man, both unsure of what to say anymore.

“I think you should apologize to her,” Dean suggests. “She really meant nothing to me, she still means nothing to me, and I’m sure she feels the same. Her attention was on you the entirety of the first movie. She likes you. Plus, even if she did want to be with me, I don’t do relationships. So it’s no use for her to leave you for me, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“She said the exact same thing,” Garrett sighs, running his hands over his face in a stressful manner. The three guys share a knowing look and Logan pats his friend on the shoulder.

“Go find her before she gets more upset over this,” he says. “Tonight, you have a chance to apologize. If you don’t run after her, she won’t think she’s that important.”

“Yeah, seriously.”

Garrett sits there for a moment, taking in their words. Finally, he stands and slides into a pair of shoes while grabbing his keys, heading right for his Jeep.

It’s a short drive to your apartment on campus, and Garrett goes over what he wants to say in his head the whole way over. He’s not even sure if you’re going to want to see him, but he has to make things right and apologize at the very least.

With a few short knocks on your door, he waits until you finally open the door, a somber look on your face that cracks his heart in two

“I’m sorry,” he says immediately. “I’m sorry for assuming that you would leave me, I’m sorry for making comments about your past experiences, I’m so sorry for everything.”

You don’t say a word to him but let him in, telling him you’re not too upset at the situation. Awkwardly, he walks over to the couch with you and takes a seat, going back to nervously messing with his bracelet.

“Um, I talked to the guys after you left and they kind of knocked some sense into me. I overreacted horribly. It wasn’t okay for me to focus on something you’ve done in the past, and my judgement was clouded because of who it was with.”

You nod along to everything he says, keeping your mouth shut until he’s ready for you to speak your mind.

“I know Dean’s reputation on both ends, in terms of what he’s like in bed and how he doesn’t do relationships. He told me he isn’t even sure he remembers that night because of your guys’ drinking. But overall, I should have listened to you when you told me it meant nothing. I just…I didn’t react well at all.”

You take a moment to respond, carefully mulling over your words in your mind.

“You should have listened to me,” you agree. “I told you it was so long ago and hadn’t even crossed my mind until I came face to face with him, and I know it doesn’t sound super truthful because I have photographed him, but that’s how unimportant he was; plus I don’t think I ever saw him without his helmet. I didn’t care to learn his name, I didn’t care to stay after games and try to get with him again, hell I had no idea you guys were even friends, and it didn’t click in my mind until tonight. He was just a one night stand and that’s all he will ever be.”

Your firm tone in your words is enough to get Garrett all emotional. Tears spring to his eyes, realizing that he may have just fucked up a good thing.

“I’m so fucking sorry,” his voice cracks with emotion, deep breaths rattling his shoulders. “I hope I didn’t ruin things between us because you’re so special to me. You really are. It’s why I got scared.” You scoot closer and raise a hand to gently rub his back in a comforting way.

“I know you’ve had past sexual partners, and if it was anyone else I wouldn’t be so in my head about this. But…Dean is always the one to get the girl. He’s the one they flock to, and yeah, before you, I did have my fair share of one night stands. But he’s the one most popular with women. They hang off his shoulders and suck his cock openly in the house,” he continues on, leaning into your soft touch.

“Is there something deeper going on?” You wonder. Garrett says nothing, leading you to connect in the dots in your mind.

“There was this girl I liked sophomore year,” he starts. “I was considering asking her on a real date. We weren’t anything serious at the start, but we kept seeing one another for sex, even though we never agreed it was strictly that. But one night, after a game, I was getting ready to call her and ask if she wanted to come over, but as I walked past Dean’s room, I saw her. Playing with her tits and riding Dean’s dick like it was the most magical thing ever.” You can’t help but giggle at his description of Dean, which you do your best to hide.

“I see. I’m sorry that you had to witness that, and now I understand why it’s not been easy to handle this whole thing. But listen closely, G. I’ve had a taste of both of you,” he winces at your phrasing and you mentally slap yourself for putting it that way, “and I was only with him once. You’re the one I’ve chosen over and over again. I like you a lot, Garrett. You are the sweetest guy I’ve ever met. I look forward to spending days with you and cuddling up, kissing you, holding your hand, wearing your jersey to games. I love it all. Dean is nothing. I truly have not thought of him once since that night.”

Garrett listens to your words closely, keeping his eyes on your entwined hands, ones that he reached for in the middle of your little speech.

“I love you,” you add. With that confession, Garrett’s head shoots up in surprise, brown eyes wide in shock and lips slightly parted with the attempts of wanting to respond. “I don’t want him, I don’t want casual sex, I want you. I want our relationship, our nights of watching Gilmore Girls and Golden Girls while throwing cheese balls into each other’s mouth. I want to be the one you come home to every night and help ease your sore muscles from games, tend to bruises and any injuries you get, and take care of you the rest of the time. Dean and I may have had a small run-in, but you are the one I am meant to be with.”

Garrett is left speechless, though now he has tears pooling in his eyes and making them glassy. Slowly, a smile stretches across his lips and he tackles you against the couch, pecking all over your face, which elicits loud giggles from your throat.

A sound he has fallen in love with.

“God, I fucking love you too,” he finally responds. “I want all of that with you too, baby. Like I said, I got scared because, well, I love you so I didn’t want to lose you. But I can see that’s not going to happen.” Your hand cradles his cheek, thumb stroking his blush pink skin and wiping away the streaks of tears underneath your finger.

“Never. I can promise you that.” After a few more shared kisses, he sits up while bringing you into his arms, pressing a couple more kisses to your forehead and temple.

“Are we good? I didn’t fuck things up?” He questions, a slight hint of worry and insecurity still clear in his tone.

“We’re okay. You didn’t fuck anything up, promise. Now, what do you say about cuddling up and watching Mean Girls?” Garrett chuckles and shakes his head, though he wants nothing more than to spend his night like this instead of with the guys.

“Deal. Are we going to recite it word for word while throwing cheese balls or popcorn at each other?”

“Duh, is there any other way to watch it?”

[musingsofheaven]

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ﹙ masterlist ⋮ request ˓ ask .ᐟ ﹚

WHAT I NEED

summary: Garett loses his temper during a game when his father announces his upcoming marriage before the game. It worsens when he sees you sitting with his father in the stands. Seeing you with Phil messes with his head, but it ends with you reconnecting in Garett's bedroom.

pairings: garrett graham x afab!reader

warnings:7.1k words. mature themes. unprotected p in v. creampie. cum play. breeding kink. oral sex (m!receiving). blowjob. deepthroating. handjob. praise kink. dirty talk. nipple play. clitoral stimulation. body worship. hair pulling. risk of being overheard. d/s dynamics. aftercare. family conflict. read responsibly.

note: he has me in a chokehold ever since I watched the show… also!!! first time writing about Garrett, might do it again next time. reblogs and comments are very much appreciated!

Ever since Garrett packed his bags for Briar U and threw everything he had into college hockey, you two barely saw each other anymore. The daily routines you shared back home gave way to late-night texts, random phone calls, or FaceTime sessions that kept you connected as you both built entirely separate lives. You had your own things going on with your own circles, your own relationships, and your own sex lives with other people, but there was an obvious spark between you that never went away. It was clear to anyone who saw you together that the distance hadn’t changed the foundation between you because you knew each other better than anyone else did after years of growing up side by side.

You knew his biggest fears, along with the dreams he never told anyone about, and he knew yours right down to the exact way your bodies functioned or reacted under pressure. You remembered how his body felt during those private nights, and he knew your body just as well since you crossed that line together years ago to become each other’s first. Being so far away from Garrett made you miss him terribly all the time, so you agreed the exact moment his father asked you to tag along to watch one of his college hockey games. You didn’t know Phil was bringing his new girlfriend along since you truly believed he was just traveling to support his son, but you really should’ve known better with a man like him.

You absolutely hated how Phil Graham treated his son, but you still tried your best to tolerate his presence because he always treated you nicely. His father also made you promise to keep the whole trip a complete secret, which you happily did because you wanted to surprise Garrett. What you didn’t know, and Garrett didn’t know either, was that Phil planned to use this exact day to announce he was marrying a woman his son barely even recognized. You only learned about it today because you asked nosy questions of Cindy. You also had no idea that Phil had already shown up unannounced at the hockey house earlier that morning to corner Garrett before the match. They got into a heated conversation over it, and the unexpected confrontation completely messed with Garrett’s head right before the game.

Sitting next to Phil and his girlfriend in the stands made it clear why Garrett looked so betrayed and hurt when he glanced up at you. You didn’t quite understand his reaction at first, but it clicked when you watched him play badly as he missed passes he usually nailed. He kept his eyes on your section while he stumbled through his game, and his expression showed he felt like you took his father’s side by showing up with them. Garrett eventually lost his temper on the ice, so the referee kicked him straight out of the game. He walked off the rink looking completely wrecked, while you immediately jumped up from your seat to run after him through the crowded arena. “Garrett,” you called out while you pushed past a group of fans to follow him down the corridor.

He didn’t even look back as he stormed down the hallway. “Garrett, please wait a second,” you tried again, but he kept walking away past the random people staring at you both. “Garrett Graham!” you yelled out loud so he could actually hear you over the loud fans. He finally stopped walking before he turned around to face you with a completely pissed expression. “What do you want from me right now?” he snapped back at you with an annoyed look. “I can’t just let you walk off like that after everything I just saw out there,” you replied right away as you tried to catch your breath. You stepped even closer to him to place your hands right on his covered arms. You looked right into his eyes while you let out a long breath through your nose.

“You have every single right to be completely furious right now,” you said while your fingers gripped his gear gently to anchor him. “But you can’t let him ruin your performance out on the ice,” you added because you needed him to snap out of it. “Are you really going to let his sudden drama control how you play your game?” you asked while you watched his expression carefully. “I don’t want him to win by messing with your head,” you explained as you rubbed your palms against his sleeves. “I came all the way out here for you,” you reminded him while your voice dropped to a softer tone. “I didn’t come to force you to come to the wedding,” you said to make sure he understood your loyalty. Garrett leaned forward immediately to rest his forehead against your shoulder as if he was searching for any kind of comfort from your presence.

He let out a long and shaky breath against your neck while his body weight leaned into you completely. “I thought you took his side,” he mumbled while his shoulder pads bumped against your chest. “I’m always on your side,” you promised back as you held him tight. He pressed a quick kiss against your neck before he leaned back slightly. “I know,” he muttered while his hands slid down to your sides. “I just got completely pissed off seeing you sitting right next to him,” he admitted because the sight had blindsided him completely. “I’m sorry you had to look at that,” you replied while you shook your head. “Stop apologizing to me,” he told you right away. He slid his large hands straight down to your waist before he squeezed the skin tightly through your top.

“I missed you so much,” he whispered as he tilted his head closer. “Well, you really need to get back out to the rink right now,” you reminded him while you patted his bulky chest protector. “Not even time for a quick make-out session?” he asked with a small smirk on his face. “I might forgive you for keeping secrets if you give me that,” he joked, because he wanted to lighten the mood between you both. “You don’t have anything to forgive me for,” you countered while you smiled back at him. He trailed his lips along your jawline before he brushed his mouth against your own. “Don’t you miss me just as much?” he whispered against your skin while he looked for a reaction. “Oh, please, you get enough attention from women every single day,” you said while you rolled your eyes at his question.

“Are you actually jealous of them?” he asked while he grinned to tease you. You decided to shut him up by grabbing his face to pull him into a deep kiss. You bit down on his lower lip while he sucked on your tongue to deepen the contact. Your mouths moved against each other as he swiped his tongue over your teeth while you gripped his jersey. He moaned into your mouth as he sucked your bottom lip between his own lips. You kept licking into his mouth while he pushed his tongue against yours to taste you. “Mmmh-” he groaned against your skin before he broke the kiss to breathe. He went to press another kiss to your lips, but you caught his shoulders and shoved him back. “Stop it, you have to get back out there,” you said while you nudged him toward the door.

“We really need to end this before it turns into something else,” you added because you knew you would not be able to stop once you started. “This is not like you at all,” you remarked while you adjusted his jersey. “You know you are the only one who makes me lose my mind,” he told you while he stared at you. He let out a long breath, but he finally gave a nod of his head. He leaned in one last time to press his mouth against yours for a quick kiss. “Promise me that you will spend time with me later tonight?” he asked while he brushed his thumb against your cheek. “I promise,” you said as you watched him step toward the doorway. He turned around to give you a last look before he headed back toward the rink. You waited in the storage room until his footsteps faded away so you could catch your breath again.

You walked back out toward the arena, but you refused to head back to the seats next to Phil. You instead found a spot in the tunnel entrance where you could see the rink without anyone spotting you in the crowd. You occupied the side as the players returned for the final period of the game. It surprised you to see Garrett skate back onto the ice, since the coach had clearly decided to keep him in the lineup despite his earlier meltdown. He kept his eyes forward as he skated past the bench. You waited back in the dark tunnel so you could watch him the whole time. “Don’t mess this up, Garrett,” you whispered to yourself while you watched him take his position. He didn’t see you standing there in the entryway, but he seemed to have his head back in the game.

You leaned against the side as the buzzer sounded to start the last period, and you needed to see how he would finish this. Garrett took over the game. Tucker zipped up the wing while Dean and Logan guarded the zone and stopped the other team from getting close to the net. They kept the puck moving and made easy passes to each other. Garrett battled for the puck in the corner and dodged a defender to face the goal. He found a gap and fired a shot that went past the goalie. The game ended, and the buzzer sounded to signal their win. Garrett threw his stick to the side as his teammates mobbed him on the ice. They slapped backs and hooted while the fans went wild. He caught your eye for a second and gave a quick nod before he skated toward the bench to join the line.

You walked away from the tunnel to head toward the exit and meet him once he finished with your arms wrapped around him. He gripped you tight right back, and he tucked his face into your shoulder. You squeezed him and said how great he played out there before you mentioned that Phil walked out halfway through the match. He stiffened up against you before he could even reply. “I don’t care about him today,” Garrett muttered into your skin while his breathing warmed your neck. You patted his back, and you feel the sweat from his jersey and his gear. “Okay, okay,” you teased him as the sound of distant chatter from the arena faded down the corridor. “You’re a sweaty mess. Go wash up,” you told him, and you tried to nudge him toward the direction of the locker room.

“I will,” Garrett murmured, and he squeezed your waist one last time to keep you close. “Give me a second, I just want to hold you,” he admitted as he leaned his full weight against you. He kept his arms around you for another moment before he stepped back and grabbed your hand to pull you along with him. You walked together down the corridor while he guided you right toward the locker room area. “Wait out here,” Garrett said as he stopped you right by the door to keep you away from the naked players inside. He disappeared through the entrance without another word to grab something. You stood by the wall for only a few seconds, and you could hear the muffled noise of the team from inside the room. Garrett pushed the door open again and stepped back into the hallway with his keychain in hand.

“Take these,” Garrett murmured as he dropped the car key into your palm. “Go wait by the car,” he added while his thumb brushed over your knuckles. “Give me fifteen minutes,” he promised before he turned back around. You nodded, and he finally went inside to change after you headed out to the parking lot. You waited for Garrett in the parking lot until he finished changing, and then he drove the two of you back to the off-campus rental house. The driveway was empty because Logan, Dean, and Tucker hadn’t made it back from the rink yet. Garrett unlocked the front door and walked you inside the quiet house without stopping in the living room. “Let’s go upstairs,” Garrett murmured while he guided you toward the steps.

You followed him up the staircase because you knew the other boys would be home soon. He pushed his bedroom door open and led you inside before he closed it behind you. The rest of the house was completely silent while he dropped his duffel bag on the floor. “We have the place to ourselves for a bit,” you reminded him as you leaned back against his desk. Garrett walked over to you and wrapped his arms around your waist. “Good, I don’t want any interruptions,” Garrett muttered while he pressed his face into the side of your neck. “Are you feeling needy?” you teased him while you tilted your head to give him more space. He let out a rough grunt against your skin before he kissed your neck.

“Yeah,” Garrett muttered while his arms tightened around your waist. “I really need you right now,” he admitted as he breathed out against your skin. You slid your hands right under his shirt while he held you close. You felt his hard muscles before you lifted the fabric up to check his body because you knew he always had a few bruises after his games. Several fresh darkening marks covered his body because he had taken a hard beating from playing and training. “You got beat up out there,” you murmured as you looked down at the marks. “It’s nothing,” Garrett grunted while he looked down at your fingers.

“I’ve had worse,” he told you as he guided your hands higher under his clothes. You let him cover your fingers and guide them over his skin while you let out a small chuckle. “Really?” you asked him as you looked up at his face. “You can’t even let me do it on my own?” You teased him because he wanted control. Garrett just rolled his eyes, but he didn’t let go right away. “Can’t I just hold your hands for a few seconds?” he questioned you while he gripped your fingers a little tighter. He let go of you after a moment and grabbed the hem of his top to pull it over his head. He tossed the shirt somewhere across the bedroom floor and stepped closer to you.

You leaned forward and started pressing kisses against his shoulder before you moved your lips down to his chest. You dropped lower to press more kisses onto his flat stomach while Garrett tangled his fingers into your hair to play with the strands. You dropped down onto your knees in front of him and reached out to grasp the waistband of his pants. Garrett looked down at you while his hands gripped your shoulders to handle his balance. “I can get those, baby,” Garrett murmured while he tried to nudge your fingers away from the button. You ignored his hand and continued working on the zipper because you wanted to take care of him.

“Let me do it,” you insisted as you looked up to meet his eyes. “I want to make it up to you for earlier,” you told him while you unfastened the button. Garrett let out a sigh and let his hands slide down to your neck. “You don’t have to make up for anything,” Garrett told you while his thumbs stroked your jawline. You pull the zipper down and open the fabric to reveal his underwear. “I know I don’t,” you replied as you reached inside to tug the material out of your way. “But I want to,” you whispered before you pulled his pants down past his hips. “You know I’d rather focus on you first,” Garrett reminded you while his fingers twitched against your neck. You looked up at him from your knees and gripped the fabric of his pants that already pulled down to anchor yourself.

“Fine,” you murmured as you tilted your head back to study his expression. “Just a taste then?” you asked him while you offered a small smirk to challenge his resolve. Garrett let out a quick laugh because the idea of you stopping early seemed entirely impossible to him. “Yeah, right,” Garrett scoffed while he shook his head at your suggestion. “Like you’re actually going to stop at just a taste,” he teased you while he looked down at your hands. You rolled your eyes at his comment and hooked your fingers into the waistband of his boxers without waiting for permission. You tugged the material down past his hips and watched his hard cock spring free instantly in the space between you.

You wrapped your fingers around the shaft and stroked him slowly while you stared right up into his eyes to gauge his reaction. Garrett let out a small grunt and tangled his fingers into your hair again. “Seriously,” Garrett said, and his grip tightened on your head while he tried to control his breathing. “I really wanted to take care of you right now,” he muttered as he watched your hand move on his length. You leaned forward before you gave the tip of his cock a few light licks, and you cleaned off the wet drop of pre-cum waiting there. “You’re already leaking for me,” you murmured against his length as you looked up to catch his expression. Garrett let out a quiet groan and gently gripped his fingers through your hair to show his approval.

“Yeah, well,” Garrett admitted while his breathing hitched slightly. “You’re the one down on your knees,” he pointed out to justify his reaction. You wrapped your lips around the head after those first few licks and swirled your tongue over the sensitive tip. You slowly slid your mouth further down the shaft to take him halfway while your hand took over to stroke the rest of his length. “What the- yes…” Garrett gasped out while his cock twitched against your lips. He didn’t force your head down or push his hips forward because he wanted to let you guide the movement. “That feels so good,” Garrett whispered while his hand felt gentle on your head. Giving head wasn’t always an enjoyable experience for everyone, because some guys were careless, but you tolerated it for Garrett.

He was always perfectly clean and gentle about it, while constantly showering you with sweet praise. His latest comment made you feel a bit cocky, so you took more of his thick length into your mouth until the tip touched the back of your throat. Garrett noticed it immediately because he knew your limits by heart, and he gave a firm tug on your hair to lift your face before you could gag. “Whoa, slow down,” Garrett murmured while his thumb wiped a wet line from the corner of your lips. “You don’t need to swallow all of me at once,” he added as he gave you a small smile. You just gave him a playful look before you slid your mouth right back over his wet cock to continue. You started bobbing your head up and down the shaft to find a pace while your hand kept rubbing the base.

“Mmf-” Garrett breathed out as the other hand caressed along your cheek. He kept his grip on your hair softly to guide your movements without forcing himself against your face. “You’re doing so good for me,” Garrett whispered, and his hips jerk when you swirl your tongue around his cock. You continued bobbing your head to take his wet shaft into your mouth, but Garrett firmly nudged your forehead away to remind you of what you two had talked about. “That’s enough,” Garrett muttered while he stepped back to slip his cock out of your lips completely. “You said just a taste,” he says with a smirk to keep your promise. You let out a stubborn grunt and slapped his thigh because you wanted to keep going.

Garrett laughed and kicked his pooled clothes away to strip down completely before you stood up to meet him. He reached out and grabbed the hem of your top to pull it up over your head. “You know I don’t want to wait any longer,” Garrett whispered while he tossed your clothes somewhere onto the floor. The sound of the front door slamming downstairs can be heard throughout the room, and it shows that the other guys have arrived. “Oh, they’re probably fucking by now!” Dean shouted near the stairs to tease the two of you. You feel your neck heating up the blunt comment, but you’re glad the bedroom door is locked. “That’s embarrassing,” you murmured as you looked toward the doorway.

“Do you think they’re going to try and listen?” you asked him while you crossed your arms over your chest. Garrett shook his head and gripped your waist to get your attention back. “No,” Garrett told you while he leaned down to kiss your shoulder. “Well, I hope not,” he amended as he guided you toward the mattress. You stopped him before he could guide you onto the mattress, and you grabbed the waistband of your bottoms to slide them down to the floor. Garrett let out a sound of approval while he walked over to his drawer to grab a condom. You let out a small chuckle at the sight, and your hands were already reaching behind your back to unclasp your bra. “I’m literally clean and on birth control,” you reminded him as you slipped the straps off your shoulders.

Garrett turned back around with the plastic wrapper in his hand while he looked over your bare body. “So you just go without protection with other guys?” Garrett questioned you while he raised an eyebrow. “Of course not. What the fuck,” you replied instantly because the idea annoyed you for few second. Garrett took a step closer while he watched you hook your fingers into your panties. “Then why do you want to do it without one with me?” Garrett asked you while he kept his eyes on your face. “Because we always do it without,” you pointed out as you tugged the fabric down. Garrett let out a laugh and reached out to grasp your waist. “Smartass,” Garrett muttered while he stepped right into your space. “I just want to make sure you’re safe,” he explained to justify his caution.

You stepped out of your underwear and gave him a playful look to keep teasing him. “So are you saying you’re not safe?” you challenged him while you slid your hands onto his chest. “Of course I am,” Garrett countered before he leaned his head closer to yours to capture your lips. “You know what?” Garrett murmured while he tossed the unopened condom wrapper back into his drawer. “You want me to cum inside your cunt?” Garrett asked you as he guided you down onto the mattress. “Is that what you want?” he questioned while he helped you settle right into the middle of the bed until you felt completely comfortable. You lay back against his pillows while he crawled over your legs to hover over your body.

“So no one is going to interrupt us?” you asked him because you wanted to be entirely sure before things went any further. “They’re all downstairs,” Garrett promised you while he leaned down to look into your eyes. “Dean and Logan are probably playing video games on the couch,” he added to reassure you. “Tucker is probably cooking dinner in the kitchen,” he finished while his hands slid to your hips. “No party tonight?” you questioned him with an arched eyebrow in disbelief. “Since you guys won the game?” you asked because it seemed impossible for the team to be quiet after a victory. “Nah,” Garrett replied while he shook his head with a small smirk. “Tomorrow,” he told you as he leaned down closer to your face.

“The guys are just too tired tonight,” he claimed to explain the lack of noise. You knew that was highly unlikely because the team never passed up a chance to celebrate a big win. You suspected Garrett had made a secret deal with his roommates to keep them downstairs for the evening. “What exactly did you do?” you asked him while you looked up at his face to get the truth. Garrett just smirked because he wanted to keep his secret. “Open wider, baby,” Garrett murmured while he tapped the inside of your thigh to guide you. You moved your legs further apart because you couldn’t help but obey his request. He guided the thick head of his cock right against your wet folds and started rubbing it back and forth to distract you from asking any more questions.

You tried to start another question because you wanted a real answer. “But Garrett-” you began before your words cut off. He responded by grinding his length directly between your slick folds until the tip swiped over your sensitive clit. You let out a frustrated whine because the brief contact left you desperate for more. “I swear,” Garrett promised while he looked down at your reaction. “They won’t come upstairs until we go downstairs,” he added to reassure you. He slapped his hard cock directly against your wet cunt right after he finished speaking and gripped your hip with a tight hand to hold you against the bed. You let out a frustrated whine because he kept rubbing his tip against your clit instead of sliding inside your wet cunt.

“Are you sure they’re going downstairs?” you asked him while you tried to tilt your head up to hear anything from the hallway. “Garrett, I can’t do this if they’re going to walk up here,” you insisted because the thoughts wouldn’t leave your mind. Garrett let out a sigh and ground his length between your folds to pull you away from your thoughts. “They’re not coming up, baby,” Garrett murmured while his breathy voice sounded a little distracted by the sight of your body. “Stop worrying about them,” he told you as he swiped his thumb over your jaw. “But what if Dean tries to-” you started to ask before his body pressed closer. Garrett cut you off by sliding the head of his cock into your aching hole before he pulled it to rub it into your clit again.

“Fu-fuck- please,” you moaned out while your hips rolled up against him in desperation. “Please, what?” Garrett asked you while he watched your body squirm beneath him. You bucked your hips against him to show him your desperate need because speaking felt too difficult right now. “Mhm… Shit,” Garrett cursed quietly while his throat bobbed after swallowing. “You like that?” he questioned you as he kept his length nestled right at the entrance of your cunt. “I do,” you whimpered while your eyelashes fluttered from the heat between your legs. “Can you just-” you tried to finish your sentence, but you couldn’t find the right words because your brain is slowly stopping from functioning. Garrett let out a laugh and leaned down to press a kiss against your cheek.

“Focus on me,” Garrett said while his fingers tightened on your hip. “Come on,” he coaxed as he popped the tip in and out of your wet entrance, which made a wet sound every time he did it. “Feels good, doesn’t it?” he whispered while he gave you another torturous grind right up against your sensitive clit to make your cunt ache even more. You nodded to answer that it felt amazing, and he finally positioned the tip directly at your entrance. “They won’t hear a single thing,” Garrett assured you while he leaned down closer to your ear. “But let’s try to be quiet anyway, okay?” he whispered to ensure you two kept things private. You nodded again and bit your lower lip while he began sliding slowly inside your cunt. You let out a muffled whimper as he pushed deeper until his full length filled you completely.

“Nghh-” you breathed out while you adjusted to his thick size. Garrett caught your lips in a deep kiss and slid one hand down to squeeze your chest. He flicked your nipple with his thumb to distract you from his size before he pulled away from the kiss to start moving his hips. “You’re so tight, baby,” Garrett grunted while he began to thrust slowly. You wrapped your hands into his curls to hold onto him while he continued thrusting into you. Garrett planted his palms flat on the mattress beside your head to support his weight. “You’re taking me so beautifully, baby,” Garrett murmured while he stared straight down into your face. He watched your reactions closely to see how each movement affected your body.

Your eyes rolled back slightly because the pleasure made it difficult to keep them open. Your teeth bit into your lower lip to suppress your voice while you took his length. “N-nffh-” you whined through your closed mouth, but a few desperate sounds escaped despite your best efforts to keep quiet. Garrett let out a deep groan and picked up his pace just a little. “Look at me,” Garrett whispered, and he leaned down closer to your face. You forced your eyes open to meet his gaze because you wanted to look at him. “You feel so perfect,” Garrett muttered as he kept thrusting deep into your cunt. Your hand gripped his hair tighter to handle the feeling, and you swallowed another loud moan. You kept one hand tangled in his curls while your other hand slid down his nape to trace the dark letters of the tattoo across his upper back.

Your fingertips brushed over his skin before they moved up to play with the thin gold chain of his necklace. “Your back looks so hot like this,” you whispered while his hips kept up the slow pace inside your pussy. “Will never get enough touching it,” you added because you remembered when he asked for your advice before getting it done. Garrett let out an exhale and thrust his length deeper. “Mmh, you really think so?” Garrett asked you while a small grin tugged at his lips. He looked cocky after hearing the praise you gave him, but a little shyness quickly took it back. Garrett leaned down further to hide his face and nuzzled his nose directly into the crook of your shoulder. “You know how much this chain means to me,” Garrett murmured against your skin while his chest pressed against yours.

“A-aah- uh-uh…” You whined out, and he shoved his length deeper until the tip touches your sweet spot. Garrett gripped your hip firmer to support himself while he kept his face hidden against your neck. “I like it when you touch it,” he confessed before he dragged his cock entirely out just to push right back inside. Garrett gave your neck a bite before he pulled his face away to look down at you. The gold chain dangled close to your lips, so you opened your mouth to tease him by biting the necklace. You let out a small chuckle against the chain, but it turned into a whine when Garrett suddenly pulled his cock almost all the way out of your cunt. He left just the tip inside your entrance to torture you, and he refused to thrust back in.

You ground your hips upward in a desperate attempt to force him deeper because you needed him deeper. Garrett responded by pinning your hip against the mattress to stop you from doing that before he thrust all the way in. “D-don’t do that,” you whine out while you shake your head against the pillow. “When- when I’m... I feel like I’m close,” you gasped out to finish your complaint. Garrett looked at your face while his chest heaved a little. “Yeah?” Garrett murmured while he gave you a small smirk to tease you. “You’re getting that close for me?” he asked before his hand traveled down to the back of your leg. He slowly lifted your knee to rest it over his shoulder to adjust the position. Garrett started thrusting faster and deeper into you without teasing you this time.

He used his free hand to reach down between your bodies so he could rub your clit while he buried himself inside you. You wrapped your hand around his neck not to choke him, but you did it just to feel his necklace against your palm. “Oh god, G-Garrett,” you gasped out as his tip kept finding your spot with every thrust. “Just like that, baby,” Garrett murmured while he never looked away from your face to watch your reactions. The feeling of his cock stretching you out and the way his fingers were rubbing your clit made you clench around him. Your clit pulsed against his fingers while your walls continued to squeeze him to the point you felt his cock throb inside you. “M-mmph- I can’t,” you whimpered, and you rolled your hips into his hand to get more pleasure.

“You’re doing so good for me,” Garrett whispered as he kept up the fast pace. You pulled him closer by his shoulders until his forehead was pressing against yours. You kept your eyes closed while you told him how you felt. “Mmn, I’m close…” You whispered while his cock slid deep into your cunt. “R-right there-” you gasped as he kept up the pace. Garrett groaned against your lips before he gave you a peck. “I know, baby,” Garrett murmured before he moved faster. He rubbed your clit with his fingers while he kept fucking you. Garrett gives your lips another kiss before he whispers praises against your mouth. “You’re so perfect for me,” Garrett murmured as his hips touch against your thighs the moment he thrusts back in.

He talked you through it while keeping up the pace. “I missed you so much,” Garrett confessed when he pushed his cock all the way inside your cunt. “I- I know…” You gasped against his lips before you squeezed his length. It only takes a few thrusts until you finally cum around his thick cock while Garrett doesn’t stop his movements to chase his own orgasm. The tightness of your walls made him grunt out loud, but it’s easier to thrust now after you finish around his cock. “Fu-fuh- fuck,” Garrett groaned while he kept going, and he watched the way your body bounced against the mattress with every thrust. He was now raised on his knees, with your leg hooked over his shoulder. Garrett looked down between your bodies to watch the way his cock disappeared inside you and the way it looked coated with your cum.

“I’m right behind you, baby,” Garrett panted out as he sped up his movements. “Do you want it inside you?” he asked you, but it’s obvious that his focus is on watching your cunt squeeze his shaft. “M-mmf, yes, please,” you whimpered, and you wanted him to fill you up completely. Garrett let out a breath and buried himself all the way to the base to give you everything. Garrett reached his free hand up to pinch your nipple while he kept thrusting to chase his orgasm. He played with the peak between his fingers as his pace slowed down for a few moments. “Never done this without a condom with anyone else,” Garrett panted out while he stared down at you. “I only want to fill you up,” he whispered before he pushed deeper into your cunt.

His confession made you bite your lip and smirk while you reached up to grab his waist to hold him against you. “Sh-shit, fill me up then,” you whimpered while you squeezed your pussy around his shaft. Garrett let out a grunt and gave you a few more thrusts to finish. His hips stop moving against yours as his cum fills your cunt completely. “God- g-god, you’re perfect,” Garrett breathed out while his cock twitched inside you. He gave you a few more thrusts to get his cum deeper inside before he pulled out and put your leg down. He watched the fluid leak out of your cunt while you felt heat bloom across your cheeks. You tried to close your thighs together to hide it, but he blocked your movement with his hand.

“Look at how pretty you look right now,” he murmured while he kept your legs parted. “Don’t look, Garrett,” you whispered as you avoided eye contact. Garrett sat down beside you on the mattress and caressed your cheek with his thumb. “I can’t help it when you’re this beautiful,” He said before he leaned down to kiss your forehead. Garrett kept his mouth against your forehead while he breathed out. “Some of your clothes from your last visit are in my closet,” he whispered as his fingers brushed through your hair. You tilted your head back to see his face. “Even the customized jersey with your last name and number?” you asked because he had gifted that specific shirt to you for your visits to Briar U.

Garrett nodded while his thumb stroked your jaw. “It’s there, and it’s already washed since you used it the last time we did this in my room,” Garrett replied with a grin. He nudged your nose with his own to tease you. “Even those tight little cotton shorts you paired it with are in the drawer,” Garrett added while your face grew warm. He leaned down to press a kiss to your lips. “You look so hot with Graham on your back,” Garrett murmured against your mouth before he smiled. “I’ll get them for you,” he said before he stood up from the mattress. He walked over to the dresser while being completely naked to grab the clothes. You chuckled while you watched him search the drawers. “No underwear?” you asked after he tossed the shirt and the shorts over.

Garrett looked back with a smirk on his face. “Don’t wear one,” he replied, and you rolled your eyes. You sat up on the bed and with the blanket covering your body. “So we’re not going to shower?” you added to annoy him. Garrett grabbed a fresh pair of boxers for himself along with a box of tissues from the nightstand. “Later, before bed,” Garrett answered as he slipped his boxers on. “Yeah?” you teased while he walked back to your side. Garrett climbed onto the mattress to get closer to you. “Later, baby. Aren’t you hungry?” Garrett asked while he set the tissues down to clean you up. You adjusted the blanket against your chest. “I am,” you admitted as your stomach rumbled. Garrett nodded his head toward the door.

“I feel like Tucker cooked something,” Garrett said before he reached out to tend to you. Garrett reached out to take the blanket away from your body before he opened your legs wider. He looked down at the mess dripping from your cunt while he pulled a few tissues out of the box. “I could just eat you clean instead,” Garrett murmured with a grin. You let out a scoff because you knew exactly what he wanted. “You wouldn’t stop there. You’d just want to make me cum again,” you pointed out as you grabbed your own handful of tissues. You used them to wipe the sweat away from your chest before you slid the jersey over your head. Garrett chuckled at your comment before he started wiping the cum from your inner thighs and your ass.

He focused on cleaning your cunt gently while you finished pulling the top over your stomach. “You know me too well, baby,” Garrett said as he threw the dirty tissues away. You stood up from the bed right after and pulled on the tiny cotton shorts. You walked back over to where Garrett sat so you could put your hands on his shoulders to reach his upper back. Your fingertips traced the letters of the tattoo inked across his skin while your other hand played with the curls at his nape. “You look amazing in that jersey,” Garrett murmured while his hands slid down to touch your waist and hips. He stood up from the mattress and took your hand to lead you to the door before he unlocked it to walk out into the hallway.

You only took a few steps toward the stairs before Dean looked up from the couch downstairs. “Finally, we can actually go upstairs now,” Dean called out to tease you both. Tucker laughed while Logan shook his head right beside him. “We thought you two were never going to come out of there,” Tucker added, and Garrett squeezed your fingers to ignore them. “There’s some pesto on the stove if you guys want it,” Tucker called out from the couch. Garrett led you toward the kitchen while he kept his fingers locked with yours. “Thanks, man,” Garrett answered, and you also mouthed a thank-you to Tucker. Garrett guided you straight to the counter and reached into the cabinet for a single bowl for the two of you to share.

He poured some pasta inside before he grabbed a fork to twirl a few noodles together. “Taste this,” Garrett murmured as he held the food up to your lips. You bit into the noodles, and the savory flavor filled your mouth. “Look at them, having pasta after sex,” Dean shouted from the living room while Logan snorted at the joke. Garrett raised his middle finger to the guys without looking back. “Ignore them,” Garrett muttered as he watched you chew on it. You took the fork from his hand right after you swallowed it. Garrett leaned his hip against the counter, and he never looked away from you. You twirled another bite of noodles and pressed it against his lips to make him eat before you leaned close to his ear to whisper, “Pasta after sex.”

⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀ twenty-twenty-six © addie / musingsofheaven.

⠀⠀⠀

[maiamore]

the five times you try to break up with clark kent

— 14th February 2025

it wasn't working out with him.

clark was a great guy — patient, chivalrous and thoughtful, to name some. to most, his being superman would've been every reason to stay. who wouldn't want that?

you think you might've been nitpicking the very first time it clicked in your mind that you wanted an out. for the umpteenth time, you sat alone in the restaurant. across from you, a barely-eaten entrée. it'd been closing in on an hour now since he whisked away to attend to the shrieks he claimed to have heard a couple blocks away.

you hadn't fussed about it. the check was paid in the next five minutes, and in ten, a takeout bag hangs loosely from your wrists. the speech you had drafted sat in your notes application. but when you get to your apartment, he's already there. shirt skipped a button like it was put together hastily, hair all wind-swept. the translucent plastic is gently pried from your hands, not giving you a chance to protest before nudging you into the apartment.

he presses an apologetic kiss to the side of your head, offering you a promise to do better.

4th March 2025

unsurprisingly, it happens again anyway. in fact — you'd given him the green light to. this time, it was during a dinner with a friend. of course, she didn't have all the facts. but what she said to you stuck.

one day you're going to need him, and he's just not going to be there.

you boldly copy the drafted text, and send it.

this was something unprecedented for you. you believed in a face-to-face conversation. so there was something to be said about your exhaustion to have done it this way. it wasn't a long text either, paired with the assurance that you'd explain the next day.

as a cop out, you tell yourself, if he hadn't tried to come fight for you within the hour, you'd remain resolute on your decision.

he was stumbling into your balcony in less than 5 minutes, slamming your balcony door open until it'd nearly come off the hinges — completely out-of-breath, with the expression of a man who'd come undone.

"let's…talk about it. please."

you don't break up with him that evening.

16th April 2025

clark had never, ever been cruel to you. not by accident, or by anger or frustration. especially not in the way that people can be cruel without meaning to. he was unbelievably consistent, kind…basically the epitome of a perfect man.

and that was the problem.

you got the feeling that he wasn't allowing himself to be human. a trait he'd so clearly valued about himself. clark kent spent his entire life being what everyone needed him to be. but that was the thing, wasn't it? being in the presence of someone who seemed far too good, had only cast a mirror on the ugly, impatient monster that you, a regular woman of the 21st century, could be at times.

it'd gotten the better of you. the careless, annoyance, paired with the thrumming ache of your period cramps stabbing your lower abdomen. the words spill out of you before you can stop them.

"sorry i'm not so perfect like you."

he looks at you over the rim of his mug, wondering if his telling you that the coffee was slightly bitter warranted such a strong reaction.

"…where's this coming from?"

"nowhere. just. i feel like i'm fucking up constantly. and you're just there. doing everything right, and now i just look like a douchebag for nitpicking."

clark senses where the conversation is headed.

it was every girlfriend's favourite line after all. maybe you should just break up with me. you hate me, don't you. why do you not love me.

instead, he drags his gaze over you, eyes stilling at your belly, as though he's identified the problem. you stare at him in confusion when he gets up, lifts your breakfast before you get to finish it and hoists you to your feet.

within the next thirty minutes, he has you all bundled up in the sheets — arranged for an off-day for you with your boss, retrieved pain-killers, sweets, snacks, drinks and your favourite show all lined up on your laptop.

you're scooching back into the warm chest that causes a significant dip to the bed behind you. clark then lowers his head to press a kiss to your shoulder.

"i promise to mess up more."

20th May 2025

it was a perfect day.

a dinner he didn't have to leave half-way, paired with a long walk home through the park. his jacket sat and your shoulder — and you're looking upt at him mid-laugh. it's the quiet reminder that electrifies you every single time. and true to your nature, the thoughts flicker.

you know how this ends. it'll never work. you've been friends longer than you dated. get out of it now while you still can, before it gets too deep.

the courage eventually makes it out of your throat to be honest, genuinely. that you're not sure that you can do this, that you don't want to lose him and office-related breakups always led to one of them having to resign and —

he stops walking. the ghost of the smile that was a constant around you begins to falter slowly. he's thought about it far longer than you have — given the simple fact that he'd been in love with you. far, far longer than you'd even begun to like him romantically.

"i know," he admits, "i think about it too."

"….and?"

there's a long pause, and you frown when his shoes shuffle ahead. going at a slower pace. for you to get on the move too, albeit frustrated.

"and, it's not gonna happen." he says simply with a shrug. "you're never going to lose me."

you grunt under your breath, with an arm hooked around his.

"stupid, perfect, jerk."

14th April 2026

you'd watched the footage over and over like a crazed freak.

watched him go down, without getting up, before the cameras had lost sight of him. the clip ends the same way, with it being cut off and replaced by the news anchor's grim retelling of the current situation downtown.

he promised you, that no matter how much he'd gotten beaten down, he'd get back up. promised that you'd see it on the news that he would be on his feet, and all you had to do was wait for the knocks on the door.

but he hadn't gotten up. he doesn't come back home that evening either.

clark knew what was coming when he finally does, after recuperating in fortress. you break up with him right then. spills of your words coming out all at once — attempting to push him away through panicked, yet relieved cries — telling him, begging that you couldn't do this.

he holds you in place, right against his chest, so you could hear the steady thumps. it calms you for the time being, but doesn't stop the tremor in your hands. what he says after, however, does.

heavier, warmer palms cradle your cheeks. engulfing it entirely, with his thumbs wiping away the dried tears that remained. through it all, he's shaking his head insistently. lips pressed taut as he takes a long, good look at you.

"i can't live in a world where you don't love me."

you let out a sharp intake of breath, a full-bodied shudder taking you when he nuzzles his face into the crook of your shoulders.

"but…i can't stop you, if you want to leave."

"do you want to leave?"

the prospect of him, ever having brought it up himself made you feel sick. actually. months you'd spent, doing everything and anything to chase him away. the option, and the metaphorical open door he offered, pissed you off.

it served to make that blaring fear in your mind burn true.

you were irrevocably, devastatingly, in love with him.

instead, what you do is shove him backward. with a force that he stumbles like he'd been the weakest man alive. only to find the grabbable part of his cape, just by his shoulders, to kiss him before he can ever think to question you.

he responds instantly. one hand coming up to the side of your head, digits tangling through your hair to tighten it in his fists. the delicateness he often treats you with is long gone, replaced with a needy, tired grunt into your mouth.

"never again."

you briefly feel the rushed words he mutters into your lips to take a breath, "don't even — think," he pulls away once more, making sure you've properly heard him this time through your lusty gaze, "we're not breaking up. not now. not ever. you hear me?"

the words are paired with a fraction of a tightening of his fists, the delicious pressure easing your scalp.

"m-mhn. never."

it satiates him this time. he'd make sure to remind you just how much he loved you, however many times it took for you to etch that in your mind as he fucked you like a man starved.

[marwrite]

sweet, gentle, yours.

summary: clark kent doesn’t do well with jealousy- never has, probably never will. mentioning the gross regular at the upscale bar where you work seemed harmless. but when clark shows up with a sheepish smile and tense jaw, you realise it probably meant more to him than you thought.

clark kent x girlfriend ! reader

themes: jealousy, jealousy, jealousy! domestic fluff, established relationship, very subtle nods to smut, with some scott miller thrown in!

You shouldn’t have told him.

Well, okay- that’s slightly dramatic. Of course you should have. You did the right thing; if it was the other way around, and a girl at the Daily Planet made it her personal vendetta to be on your sweet, bumbling boyfriend’s radar for three weeks in a row, you’d want him to tell you.

It was the right thing to do.

The only thing to do.

Right?

“Right.” Clark echoes mindlessly, his eyes drifting far away from you in a way that makes your heart ache and your eyes narrow.

He’s always too sweet, your Clark. Always too polite, too hesitant to tell you how he really feels.

On this occasion, you let him off. Figure it’s better to let him sit in it, cool off, before continuing the inevitable conversation of So, what are we going to do about it? a lot later.

There’s nothing you can do, unfortunately. It makes you feel helpless and stuck and very, very angry at the world- but at the end of the day, Scott is a customer. A paying customer. One that smacks his gum a little too loud and looks you up and down every chance he gets, but a customer all the same.

You wonder what business he has plaguing your hotel bar three (nearing four) weeks in a row now. You’ve never seen him before. Nobody comes to the Regis for a casual drink unless they’re there on business; a key to one of the overtly expensive rooms tucked in the back pocket of a slack trouser.

Scott isn’t a guest. Nor is he a bar regular. He is just a very annoying man, with a very smug grin, and a very disgusting entitlement to your sweet, uncomfortable attention.

Your shift tonight starts at 8pm.

Usually, Clark gets home just after six, and he brings you a bagel and a smoothie and doesn’t let you have them until you reach up on your tiptoes and press glossed lips against his. He doesn’t usually let you plate it up yourself, either; he perches you carefully on a bar stool and does it for you. Everything bagel (extra cream cheese, light on the salmon) on your favourite plate, the paper straw in your drink swiftly replaced by a glass one with a heart.

“You’re one bagel away from turning into one.” is a teasing joke he likes to say often, eliciting a sweet little eye roll from you and a light laugh.

You’re treasure, Clark says. He makes it known to you too, through kisses and cuddles and pecks on the cheek that you have to fight against to eat your bagel. And when you’ve finally finished your food and slurped up the drink, that’s when he can have your full attention, every bit of it, before you have to get ready and he happily drives you to work.

You don’t typically work this late. It’s a one-off, some big business event on the top floor that’s lasted a week longer than expected, meaning a whole week more of missed dinners and missed plans and overall, missing your boyfriend.

So when Clark texts you at 5:30pm, a sweet rambling of apologies that end in a very flustered So sorry, baby. I’ll make it up to you when I pick you up at 1. Love you. You can’t find it in your heart to be upset with him. You just hail a cab and slot inside, fingers drumming mindlessly on your exposed lap.

The uniform could be a lot worse, especially for a bartender. The Regis is a five-star utopia of crystal chandeliers, polished silverware and bellboys that are addressed only by their surnames- you’re almost glad to have only the responsibility of popping open a four-hundred dollar bottle of wine every now and then.

Even so, you keep a firm grip on the bottom of your pencil skirt, sleek black pumps clacking against the linoleum floor.

It’s busy. Much busier than a usual Thursday evening, but you convince yourself you don’t mind. More room to be busy. More things to do in the time you have to kill. Bartending isn’t your dream job by any means, but at the moment it pays for all the good things in life- you could have it a lot worse.

You think of Clark. Sweet, handsome, beautiful Clark, who is probably working so hard at his desk right now that it makes your chest ache. Brows furrowed, pen gnawed at and forgotten between his beautiful plush lips. You imagine the way he types; thick fingers soft and precise, the backspace bare because he always seems to know exactly what to say. He doesn’t make mistakes- you’ve seen him write in person. He just makes whatever’s lacking… better.

Naturally, your stomach flutters at the thought.

Sam greets you with bright eyes and an even more radiant smile, blonde hair falling in waves past her sharp shoulders as you walk towards her and reach for a glass to polish.

She’s beautiful, Samara; with her big blue eyes and pointed chin and great knack for conversation. She’s also the only one you can call a true friend here, so you like to keep her very close.

“You’re late,” she jokes, sharp elbow digging softly into your own. “How big was that bagel?”

Faux offense floods your features, “I’m right on time!”

“Late for you,” she nudges you playfully, head nodding towards a part of the bar you can’t quite see from where you are. “Your man beat you here.”

“Ha-ha,” you deadpan immediately, eyes beginning a roll, “Very funny. You’re on Scott duty tonight.”

“Wha- no!” the realisation is quick to dawn, “No. Absolutely not. I was on Scott duty last night.”

“Mhm. That’s the price you pay for making that joke,” you’re dramatic about it, a heavy sigh you don’t mean falling from your lips.

“What joke?”

“The he’s my man joke,” you fold your arms, half-polished pint glass forgotten on the counter. “It’s dumb and not funny.”

A smirk falls on her lips then, eyes falling away from, “Wasn’t a joke, dummy. Your man is here. Your real one.”

You’re about to bombard her with even more confusion- lest you actually check yourself and come eye-to-eye with the irritatingly vainglorious Scott Miller- but she’s called away by the ding of a kitchen bell quicker than you can stop her.

With an amused shake of your head, your eyes scan the otherwise empty tables; the polishing cloth almost falling from your grasp when your eyes finally settle on the delicious sight a mere ten steps away from you.

Clark.

He isn’t back at the Planet at all, surrounded by his too-small desk and countless pictures of you in neat little gold frames, sipping sludgy coffee from a chipped work mug.

Clark is here; right in the middle of your workplace, his blazer slung carefully over the back of his chair, the rich wood ever so slightly creaking under his ginormous frame. He practically dwarfs his laptop; all 6’4, 240 pounds of superhuman beef.

His briefcase sits gingerly on the floor next to his feet, polished leather a lovely chocolate brown that matches his sensible loafers. Your body relaxes at the mere vision of him; this Kryptonian God that practically kisses the ground you walk on and would tilt the world on it’s axis just to fit your needs- here, on a work night, undoubtedly for you.

It’s almost an innate reaction, the two steps forward you take. And it’s also very Clark to sense you on a whole other plane, because his head tilts up like a puppy ready to play, blue eyes roaming the bar.

They find you almost immediately as a breath catches in your throat. Together three years, one month before your fourth and still, the way he looks at you makes every moment feel like the first.

He lifts his arm up to wave, no doubt refraining from being a full distraction. He knows his mere presence is enough to knock you off balance completely.

You’re about to do the same, the warmth in your chest threatening to burst, when-

“Usual, sweetheart. Make it neat, no ice, yeah?”

The invisible capsule encompassing you both collapses. There’s a voice; a deep, daunting, degrading voice that has the power to contort your expressions into one of pure disgust in milliseconds.

You smell him before you see him, all seventy-four spritzes of his overpriced Hugo Boss cologne. The scent of that minty clump of rubber he seems to always chew on follows soon after, as he winks at you and adjusts the cap on his head.

StormPAR, it reads. You shudder. It’s scarily fitting for a man capable of turning the sunniest of days into a cyclone.

You freeze, goosebumps rising along your shoulders. Clark is out of sight, but you can picture him perfectly in your mind.

Alert. Tense. Maybe even frowning slightly. Your heartbeat falters- not from fear, but irritation at the man in front of you. Clark doesn’t know that. He’s probably listening anyway, waiting for that moment when your pulse skips a beat just a little too long, so he can rush to your side with a concerned smile and a cold shoulder pointed towards Scott.

Still sweet. Still gentle. Still very much Clark.

Except what happens next is something you never could have predicted.

You give a small nod, lips pursed in a tight line because exactly three weeks ago, you shot him a kind smile that he immediately took as an invitation to try and get more out of you.

It’s dirty. It’s disgusting. It’s StormPAR’s poster boy for disaster- and yet, here he is, your only customer at the bar. Unfortunately, you don’t have much of a choice.

You reach for the whiskey, trying to keep it together for the ten seconds spent pouring and mixing. It’s not the usual Johnnie Walker or Jack Daniels favoured by suited businessmen; this is something expensive, Japanese, its name foreign and sharp. The glass is special, polished long in advance, kept apart from the rest of the dishwasher-bound crockery.

You slide it over to Scott without your eyes ever meeting his. He grins and it’s toothy and wide, and in another lifetime you might visually find him not vile- but in this life, he may as well be a fire-breathing dragon with a venomous bite and even worse gaze.

The knocks the whiskey back in one. The glass staggers alongside the table towards you, so quick that you just about manage to block it with a startled elbow.

“Another, princess.” he winks.

Clark tenses. You don’t even have to look at him to know he’s probably standing stiff, brows furrowed, pupils pointed over his glasses.

“Make it two, actually. Got nowhere to be now that you’re here.”

A grimace fills the lower half of your face. You’re about to turn away to pour the next glass, but the sound of a different voice altogether stops you.

“You always talk to people that way?”

It’s warm. Familiar. It’s a megaphoned version of the one that whispers in your ear late at night, gentle and patient and slow and always accompanied by a baby or a hon; a voice notorious for both talking you through it and providing you gentle comfort right after. In this instance, it’s still a blanket of comfort, but in a very different way; something soft and safe thrown over a very icy situation.

Clark slides onto the stool beside Scott like he has every right to be there. Your mouth practically falls open.

His shoulders are relaxed, hands loose against the bar. Whatever article had his full attention not even five minutes ago is completely forgotten now, lost in the shut laptop behind him. Ink lines the grooves of his palm, fresh from attempting to amend print far too soon.

There’s no tension in him at first glance. He doesn’t look angry, though you know better than that.

Scott’s eyebrow raises as he turns toward him.

“What’s it to you?”

Clark can take him. Easily. Beneath that bashful gaze and blinking blue eyes is a man who is so used to protecting you that it comes second nature to him. If it comes to that, you know he wouldn’t hesitate.

Clark hums softly, like he’s considering Scott’s words. Then he glances at you, a silent check-in without uttering a single word, and something in his expression changes. It’s not soft nor does it harden- it doesn’t even twist inside out.

You realise then and there that the outcome of this situation is entirely dependent on you. It relies on what you want him to do, what exactly you want to happen- unfortunately, you’re too tense right now to give him any sort of clear signal.

“It’s not complicated,” he says, turning back, voice still mild. “Just need to watch your tone.”

There’s no bite in his words, but it’s louder than his initial statement. The times you and Clark have argued are very few and far between, but not once has he raised his voice at you or spoken with his tongue dipped in venom.

Hearing it for the very first time is slightly exhilarating.

Scott leans back, sizing him up, “Didn’t realise she had a guard dog.”

Clark smiles at that, lips curving upwards in the kind of smile that should belong on a farm under open skies and humming cicadas, not here under dim bar lights and repetitive jazz music.

“She doesn’t,” he says easily. “That’s not what this is.”

“Then-“

“She’s a lady. You don’t speak to a lady like that.”

It throws Scott, just for a second. Enough for the bravado to falter, for the narrowed eyes under the cap to soften around the edges. You find yourself watching them both, this intense silence growing and filling the air with a thick tension.

Clark doesn’t move closer. Doesn’t even square up; someone built like your boyfriend doesn’t need to.

He just sits there, as calm as the saxophones acting as background noise between you, one hand resting against the bar like he could stay all night if he had to.

“Look, man-“

“You’re gonna stop,” Clark interjects gently, somehow still polite- only now there’s something unshakeable threaded through it. “You’ll ask her right, or you won’t ask at all.”

The air tightens. And Scott scoffs- but it’s weaker this time, eyes flicking between the two of you before he grabs the edge of the bar and pushes himself up. “Whatever, man.”

He doesn’t ask for another drink.

He doesn’t even look back at you as he stalks off- head slightly hung, eyes darting this way and that in quiet anticipation of witnesses.

You both watch him go for a moment. It’s only until Scott turns the corner, gives one last fleeting glance your way and ducks his head out of the double doors that finally, a soft exhale leaves the man beside you.

When Clark turns back to you, it’s like the tension was never there. It’s just him again.

Gentle Clark. Sweet Clark. Yours.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice so low and careful it reaches deep in the pit of your stomach and twists in the best way. A big, warm hand reaches over the counter and rests on top of your own.

You can’t help it; you smile.

“Thank you.”

His eyebrow raises. “You never need to thank me for taking care of you.”

Maybe tomorrow, you'll kiss him a little longer before taking a bite of your bagel.

i owe you all a massive apology - i have had the most insane couple of months, and i cannot wait to share it all with you very soon :')

for now, thank you so much for still being here and for reading💋🖤

[castielscaplan]

Hello, My Old Heart

Based on this ask by @nerdgirljen .... sent in 2024...yikes.

Pairing: Stucky x Reader

Summary: you wake up decades after the fall on the train... Everything's so different... including the men you loved so dearly. [WC 1K] [Ao3]

Warnings: angst, hurt/comfort

You wake up to the sound of machines. A slow, rhythmic beep… beep… beep fills the room, steady and unfamiliar. Your head feels heavy, your limbs heavier, like someone replaced your bones with sandbags. The ceiling above you is white. Too white. Not the cracked plaster you remember from the army infirmary. Not the dim yellow lights of a wartime hospital.

Everything here is bright. Sterile. Wrong.

Your throat burns when you try to speak. “Steve…?” The name comes out broken. A whisper dragged across glass.

No one answers. You try again. “Bucky…?” The door opens. Two men step inside. For a moment, your mind refuses to process what you’re seeing. They’re too tall. Too broad. Too… large.

Your boys had always been scrappy. Lean from rationed meals and hard years in Brooklyn. Even after the serum, Steve had still moved like someone who remembered hunger. But the men standing in front of you look carved from stone. Like a Statue of David come alive.

The blond one freezes first. His breath catches. “Holy—” His voice breaks.

Your heart stutters. That voice. “…Steve?”

Steve Rogers looks like someone punched the air out of him. He takes one slow step toward the bed, eyes wide and glassy. “Hey,” he says softly.

Your stomach twists.

His voice is deeper now. Older. But it’s still him. Still the boy who used to pull you between him and the street when fights broke out. Still the boy who kissed you behind the Stark Expo and turned red for an hour afterward.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he murmurs.

Your eyes fill with tears instantly. The nickname hits something deep in your chest. “You’re… big,” you whisper.

Steve laughs weakly through the tears forming in his eyes. “Yeah,” he breathes. “Got a little upgrade.”

Your gaze shifts to the other man standing near the door. Dark hair. Sharp eyes. A metal arm glinting in the light. For a moment, you don’t recognize him. But the way he stands—half-guarded, shoulders slightly forward like he’s ready to step between you and danger— You know that posture.

“Buck?”

Bucky doesn’t move. Not at first. His jaw tightens so hard the muscle jumps. “You… remember me?” he asks quietly.

Your brow furrows. “Of course I remember you.” Your voice shakes. “You idiot.” Your fingers tremble as you lift your hand weakly off the blanket. “You vanished.” Your eyes burn. “You both did.”

The room goes painfully quiet.

Steve sits on the edge of the bed like he’s afraid you might disappear if he moves too fast. “You were supposed to stay in the hospital that day,” he says hoarsely.

You blink. “What day?”

Neither of them answers immediately. That silence scares you more than anything. “Steve.”

Your voice is small now. “What day?”

He exhales slowly, like the truth physically hurts. “1945.”

The number hits you like ice water. You stare at him. “…No.” Your voice cracks. “That plane crash was only a few weeks ago.”

Steve’s eyes close. “Oh, sweetheart.”

Your chest starts rising faster. “No.” You shake your head weakly. “No, that’s not—”

“Seventy years,” Bucky says quietly from the doorway. 

The words fall like a bomb. You stare at him. “Don’t lie to me.” Your voice trembles. “I was just looking for you yesterday."

Your throat tightens.

“You were missing. Steve was missing. I got on that damn plane because someone had to find you.”

Your breathing becomes uneven. “I wasn’t gone seventy years.”

Steve reaches for your hand. “Hey—hey, look at me.”

You yank your hand away. “No.” Tears spill down your temples.

“You don’t get to look like that and tell me I lost my whole life.” Your voice cracks open. “I was twenty-three.”

The silence in the room is suffocating. Bucky finally moves closer. Slowly. Carefully. Like approaching a wounded animal. “You didn’t lose it,” he says quietly.

Your laugh comes out broken. “Didn’t I?” You gesture weakly at the room. “At… whatever this is?” Your gaze flicks between them. “You’re giants now.” Your voice trembles. “You’ve lived whole lives.”

Steve shakes his head immediately. “No.” His grip tightens on the mattress. “We didn’t.”

Your eyes flicker to him. 

He swallows. “Not without you.”

The confession hangs in the air.

Bucky’s voice comes softer now. “We thought you were dead.”

You look at him. Really look. The lines in his face.

The exhaustion in his eyes. 

“You fell off a train,” you whisper. “I searched every damn mountain for you.” His mouth tightens.

“And you disappeared in the ice,” he says quietly. “And I spent decades not knowing who I was.”

Steve exhales shakily. “I woke up thinking everyone I loved was gone.”

The room feels too small for all the grief in it.

Your chest aches. “God,” you whisper. “You both got so big.”

Steve lets out a watery laugh. That familiar crooked grin flickers across his face. “You’re still tiny.”

You glare weakly at him. “Shut up.”

For a moment—Just a moment— it feels like Brooklyn again. Like cramped apartments and cheap diners and late-night walks. But then reality crashes back in.

Your voice drops to a whisper. “…Did either of you move on?” The question terrifies you. Steve looks at Bucky. Bucky looks at the floor. Steve finally answers. “No.”

Your heart stutters. “Why?”

His voice is soft. “Because you were our girl.”

Your throat tightens. “Still are,” Bucky murmurs.

Your eyes burn again. “…You’re old men now.”

Steve grins.

“Technically I’m only about thirty.”

Bucky snorts.

You stare at them. And suddenly you start crying. Not the quiet kind. The ugly kind. The kind that comes from losing seventy years in the blink of an eye.

Steve panics immediately. “Oh God—did I say something wrong—”

Bucky moves faster. He sits beside the bed and carefully pulls you into his arms like you’re made of glass. You bury your face against his chest. And you realize something strange.

He still smells the same. Metal arm. War scars. Decades of pain. But underneath it all— It’s still him.

“Hello,” he murmurs softly into your hair.

Your voice breaks. “Hi, Buck.”

Steve wraps his arms around both of you from the other side. For a moment, none of you speak. Three ghosts from the 1940s. Still tangled together after seventy years. He presses a kiss to your hair. “Welcome back, baby.”

[bippot]

Hi, I've read some of your fics and they're great, and I was sure I was following you, but I guess not, hehe. I'm following you now, though. 💙

I'd like to request a fanfic about Adrian Chase. It's about a girl who's blind and wears red glasses. She starts working at Checkmate. She's a good hacker, and Adrian thinks that because she's blind she's defenseless (I think that's something he would believe), so he protects her from everyone and everything. But one night at a bar, someone tries to mug her, and Adrian is about to intervene and protect her, but she proves to be a good fighter (kind of like Daredevil). Adrian is impressed and now he likes her even more. She might be cold and serious at first, but she's actually fun. She also likes Adrian, but she doesn't show it much. It could be a slow-burn story with a happy ending. I hope you understand my crazy idea. Thanks. 🌻🧜‍♂️

The Devil of Evergreen

Story Summary -> When the new hacker starts at Checkmate, Adrian makes it his duty to be her dog. Her guide dog, specifically, as the newbie happens to be blind and he uses everything he's learnt from movies and comics to make sure his damsel in distress is safe. Whether she actually is a damsel, well, that's another thing entirely.

Tags -> Blindness, Disabled Character, Canon-Typical Violence, Adrian Chase Being Adrian Chase, Protective Adrian Chase, daredevil!reader, Coworkers to Lovers, Clingy Adrian Chase

Would you prefer to read this on AO3? Click here!

Checkmate desperately needed a new hacker. John, as skilled as he was, could only do so much, and ever since the company had begun to take on multiple jobs at once, he needed to be in so many places at once. There were so many jobs. Crises were popping up all across the country - hell, the world - and someone needed to handle it. Someone like Checkmate.

That, however, was a problem. They were a small team. There was no way that 7 people could do all that, especially since most of their jobs involved a technical aspect and Economos could only be in one place at a time. He was always needed for something, always travelling from place to place, back and forth, until he was hanging by a thread and whining to anyone who would listen.

It was simply too much for Economos to handle.

And since he'd rather exhaust himself than admit his own limitations, Economos decided to reach out to an old buddy of his only after he'd had a very public breakdown where he called Harcourt "a dog fart in the shape of a human", ran away so she couldn't attack him, and collided with the side of his desk. He'd managed to hit his crotch on the corner, and that shocked him so hard that he released the loudest (non-dog) fart they'd ever heard. 

Peacemaker still thought about it. He'd get all snuggled in bed and let his mind drift; every time, it returned to that moment. Chris would lie there and giggle to himself until he fell asleep.

But once Harcourt had gotten over that weird insult, she gave Economos the go-ahead to finally - fucking finally - find someone to help him carry the load.

He'd been rather tight-lipped about the whole thing. The team had concluded that this lack of communication about the new recruit stemmed from some insecurity within John, who thought he'd be teased about his need for help. There are a lot of things to make fun of John for; the fact that he's human was not one of them.

Shocking yourself mid-mental breakdown by ripping ass definitely was, though.

They came to realise that Economos may have kept his cards close to his chest for other reasons as soon as they met the new girl. The idiots on their team - Fleury, Peacemaker, and Vigilante (and Judomaster whenever he wanted to be a little shit) - would have been insufferable if they knew beforehand, and it would've been the only thing they spoke of.

Because they're idiots and get hung up on anything they find even remotely unorthodox or out of the norm, they would've gone crazy to find out that Y/N, the new girl, was blind. Adrian would be especially annoying as he would have so many questions, go home and do research, then come back to work with even more. 

And John didn't know the answers. Of course he would have no idea. He didn't have the balls to ask her anything regarding her disability just in case he said something insensitive and she'd never want to help him ever again. It was easier to pretend that he wasn't curious about the whole thing.

To anyone who doesn't know much about blind people or hasn't been around many, there's this preconception of incompetence. It is usually not out of any kind of malice, usually the opposite, but they assume the person can't do things because they can't see, and surely you need to be able to see a screen to be a hacker.

1986. The IBM Screen Reader. Jim Thatcher. 

He changed that. Without him, Y/N would never have got a job. It sounds simple, really. Create a system that reads what's on the display to you, but it was revolutionary, and at this point in her life, Y/N was a jedi master when it came down to it, especially if a braille terminal was involved. 450–600 words per minute without batting an eye.

She could process information like it was nobody's business, and since she had to have every bit of code memorised, she had the ability to find and exploit weaknesses in any given system with the precision of a scalpel. Y/N was the most qualified person for the job, but John was also subjecting her to... them. The idiots. He had intended to feel guilty about that later. Right now, he just needed help.

What he didn't expect, however, was Adrian. Economos thought Vigilante would be like a bouncy little terrier - loud and proud - when first being introduced to Y/N. He wasn't sure if he'd just gotten lucky or if there was something else at play, but Vigilante's initial reaction to Y/N was subdued. Polite, almost flustered.

It wasn't as if she were intimating in any way. Y/N L/N walked into HQ with red-tinted glasses perched on her nose, her cane tapping the floor in a steady rhythm, wearing jeans and a t-shirt. Nothing about her screamed, 'hey, be afraid to talk to me,' and yet, Vigilante seemed at a loss for words. His eyes kept flicking between her face and his shoes, as if looking at her for too long was physically paining him.

Adebayo clocked it immediately. It wasn't uncommon for Adrian to have trouble processing new experiences, especially social ones, but he usually became brash and overly enthusiastic to compensate. This... this was new.

Emilia and John greeted the new arrival and soon whisked her away into the office to discuss the terms of her employment and fill her in on everything John had forgotten. Then, once they were out of the area, Leota nudged Adrian.

"Hey, you good?"

"Do I smell weird?" He replied.

Leota sniffed him. At this point, they had spent enough time together during some very weird missions that there was an unwanted but learned comfort with each other. If he wanted her to sniff him, she was so used to him that Leota knew that the path of least resistance (or whining, in Adrian's case) was the best course of action.

"Nah, you're good." 

"Good. Good. I read that the blind have, like, super senses. There's this comic -" 

"Oh no," Bordeaux sighed.

Adebayo incredulously asked, "Are you talking about fucking Daredevil?"

Adrian flinched, realising he'd made a faux pas. He'd thought bringing up a fictional blind person would make him seem more knowledgeable about the whole, but that was not the case. "I was just trying to educate myself," he said sheepishly, rubbing the back of his head.

Fleury smiled, all teasing and strangely fond. "You are such a nerd."

"Eat a dick."

"Why would I do that? That doesn't seem appealing at all."

"I dunno, but there's a man walking around with no penis and it's your fault. Cause you gobbled it all up, and now you're full of dick."

Chris couldn't help himself and joined in on the argument. "Oh, like being full of dick is a bad thing? Some people enjoy it."

"Don't make this into a gay thing."

"Why not? What's wrong with gays?" Leota added, crossing her arms across her chest.

It devolved from there. Then, the office door opened, and everyone just stopped, stopped talking, stopped breathing mid-word. Their collective gazes snapped to the doorway where Y/N stood with a slightly raised eyebrow and a look that seemed to see straight through them. They scrambled to compose themselves and present themselves in a more professional manner.

"Don't stop on my account."

Ah, so she had heard.

Before Adrian could make a sound, Leota held her hand over his mouth and held it there.

One by one, Economos introduced the gang to Y/N, starting with Judomaster, then Fleury, then Adebayo, then Bordeaux, then Peacemaker, and finally Vigilante. Adrian was buzzing with energy and dying to release his awkwardness but being firmly held back by Leota's iron grip. 

"What's the wriggling one's name?" Y/N asked, and she pointed her cane directly at Adrian. Leota reluctantly let go of his mouth and he quickly cleared his throat because now was not the time for his voice to fail him. He was so used to yapping his mouth off that being silenced - by his own brain - felt foreign.

Vigilante's brain felt frozen, and his mouth opened and closed several times before any sound actually came out. 

"It's, uh, Adrian."

That got major side eyes from the rest of the team. Y/N didn't seem bothered by him, but she did catch a whiff of something that was not entirely unpleasant, just out of place.

"Someone smells a lot like oregano."

Adrian mumbled under his breath, "Fuckin' Fennel Fields."

Like the universe hated him, the only available desk was right next to Adrian - yeah, it was the universe's fault and not Adrian's supernatural ability to distract whoever was sitting near him just by looking at them. The moment she perched her cute lil' butt down and started to set up her workstation, Adrian was drawn to her. Like a moth to a flame, his eyes were fixed on her every movement. It wasn't in a leering way (well, not entirely); he genuinely seemed fascinated by her.

"You're staring, weirdo," Y/N pointed out dryly, not looking up from her screen reader. 

"Sorry, sorry." Adrian stammered and quickly looked away, but his eyes kept darting back to her. He cleared his throat again and attempted to strike up a conversation. "So, uh, do you need any help?"

"Why? Cause I'm blind?"

"No! I mean, yes, you are. And you know that."

"I do."

"Yeah, of course. Yeah, of course you do. I mean, not that you would need... Or couldn't... Fuck." 

"Is the fact that I'm disabled a problem for you?"

"NO! No!" Adrian panicked, nearly toppling out of his chair. "I just wanted to help!"

A wicked grin overtook her face. "I'm fucking with you, Adrian. Relax." 

She reached across the desk and tapped his arm reassuringly, but there was no denying the fact that she was openly laughing at him at his discomfort. The other team members were also struggling to contain their amusement, especially Rip, whose favourite pastime was fucking with Adrian. Which she soon found out was so easy to do, as he was earnestly clueless and easy to trick, and she had managed to pick the perfect victim to ragebait within an hour of meeting him. 

Having a free source of entertainment at work was a blessing.

If she was honest, it was kind of cute. How he wore all his feelings on his sleeve, even though he refused to admit it. How he was so willing to be the punching bag because it meant that people were interacting with him and giving him attention. She'd never seen someone so furiously happy to be picked on, and something about that made her soften towards him. 

And he was helpful; he'd decided that early on. It was his duty to protect her from any thug, uneven floor, or table corner because obviously she would need help. He was going to be her guide, her arm to hold, her eyes to see through, and all that patronising shit that he was too dense to understand was demeaning and unnecessary. 

Despite Adrian's well-meaning but condescending intentions, he had another reason for offering himself as her protector: he hoped that by showing his good side, he could win over the prettiest girl he had ever seen and endear her to him. 

Whatever. 

It was a stupid idea anyway.

Yeah.

Unless?

His personality was an acquired taste, he knew that. In his adult life he'd been told that it had ruined the romantic vibe or lady boner or male boner or they/them boner or... well, you get the picture, but his face and body were perceived as attractive. He'd worked hard for these muscles and, yeah, maybe he still looked like a dweeb, but some people are into that, and that was what did most of the heavy lifting in his romantic life.

Admittedly, it was a very limited romantic life. Especially since he didn't consider himself to be romantic at all. Fuck no, he's too badass for that. 

But Y/N wouldn't care about that. What he looked like wouldn't matter to her, so he was already starting the race with his shoelaces welded together and would have to try twice as hard to get her to like him. He had no idea if she had a guide dog at home, but soon there would be no need for it. Adrian was going to take its place and send that pooch straight back to the pound because Y/N wouldn't need it once he came into her life. He could do everything that dog could do and more. Why not get more bang for your buck? 

All he wanted in payment was some head scratches and to occasionally be called a good boy - both in a reassuring and sexy way; is that too much to ask for?

Tell that imaginary labrador to fuck off!

So, his main method was helpfulness, and this was both a help and a hindrance. Adrian offered to get Y/N a coffee, to walk her to the bathroom, to hold the door open for her, to help carry her things. He tried so hard to be helpful that he was practically tripping over himself. He would run across the office to do little favours for her, like getting her a pen or finding a paperclip. Adrian was always ready to assist, even if it wasn't necessary or even if Y/N didn't want it.

"I can walk to the bathroom without help, Adrian. You don't need to escort me everywhere."

"But what if someone tries to take advantage of you while you're alone?"

"...Right. So, which one of our coworkers do you think is going to steal my cane while I take a piss?" She asked with a dry laugh, already knowing the answer to that. Adrian was clearly trying to be her knight in shining armour, but he was more like a clown in tinfoil. 

Adrian's face reddened as he realised the absurdity of his comment. He opened his mouth to defend himself, then closed it again, struggling to find the right words. "I just thought..." he mumbled before he tried to play it off. "I was going this way anyway."

"Sure you were," Y/N sighed yet couldn't help but smile. He was so obvious in his affection that it was pitiful. "Go sit down."

His shoulders slumped as he trudged back to his desk, feeling deflated and defeated, and he knew that he would only be able to impress her if something dangerous happened. He could step in and save the day then; that was literally everything he'd ever trained for and she wouldn't see a threat coming.

The cherry on top was that they had a mission coming up. In Gotham. Vigilante. Adebayo. Y/N. Together, in Gotham. Y'know, the most fucked-up place ever, where you get shanked for sneezing twice in a row? There were a countless number of threats in Gotham - they do have the highest crime rates in the world but, hey, they're workin' on it. It was perfect! All they'd have to do was step out of the van and she'd immediately be a target.

She had a triple whammy.

If her cane was out, she had an obvious disability.

A pretty face.

And, as far as they knew, a lack of a guide dog that could help defend her. They had no idea that her dog was actually a serial killer with a hero complex and a love of The Muppets.

Yeah, Adrian figured his chance would finally come and that his heroic intervention would be just the thing to win her heart. He barely slept the night before they shipped off and instead crafted an elaborate fantasy where he would swoop in, shield her from a hail of bullets that he willingly took into his own body, and carry her to safety with the knowledge that he'd be completely fine after a quick 8hr nap. 

In his mind, she would be so impressed that she'd fall into his arms, kiss him passionately, and declare her undying love for him.

As the van pulled up to Gotham City, Adrian was practically vibrating with energy. He positioned himself next to Y/N, ready to act at a moment's notice. 

"Hey, uh, just wanted to let you know that I've got your back out there, okay?" He tried to sound casual but failed spectacularly.

"Right back at you, Vij."

He was so focused on protecting Y/N that he nearly tripped over a loose piece of concrete as soon as they stepped out. She caught a hold of his arm so he didn't fall on his ass.

Adebayo snorted.

"C'mon, at least one of us should be watching where we're going," she joked, the irony of her 'eyes and ears' failing at the first step not lost on her. 

Then, just as he had expected, a passerby came running at them with visible malice. Adrian was far too busy thinking about his big moment to step in as the ruffian reached for Y/N's bag.

BANG!

Her cane connected with the thug's knee with devastating force.

"It's good to be home," she quipped as the would-be mugger fell to the ground, howling in pain. Adrian watched in stunned silence because she just handled it without fuss, without flinching, and without his help at all. 

Surely, it was just a coincidence. If it happened again, he would be ready to swoop in and save the day.

"You're from Gotham?" He asked in shock, completely thrown off his game.

"Born and bred."

She casually shouldered her bag and started walking to their hotel, leaving him scurrying after her.

The mission was a dime a dozen. Vigilante storms his way into a crime den as Adebayo sniped any stragglers on their way out, he found their base of communications and inserted a device so Y/N could access it remotely and retrieve all the data necessary for their client, and boom, done. They executed it as such, and because it had been planned to perfection, they felt the need to celebrate.

"I need a drink," Adebayo said as she dissembled her gun.

"I second that motion," Y/N chimed in over comms as she gathered her things and planned to leave the cafe she'd been hijacking the Wi-Fi in. "Vigilante, you in?"

This was huge. Not only had she respected his wishes to call him by his alter ego whenever they were in earshot of the public, but his crush was asking him to do something outside of work. It was basically a date. Sure, Adebayo was there too, but hey, you gotta start somewhere. He couldn't refuse this opportunity.

"Fuckin' yeah! I'm in!" He replied with way too much enthusiasm.

The hotel bar was the best option. It wasn't the nicest. It didn't have welcoming company. There weren't any rave reviews on YELP. It was close by and it ensured that they weren't suddenly on mob turf. Every single bar or speakeasy or pub or even a bistro, nay, even a cafe was owned by a mob lord.

Black Mask and the Sionis Crime Family.

The Bertinelli Crime Family.

The Falcone Crime Family.

The Maroni Crime Family.

One of the few Triads.

Penguin's Gang.

Two Face.

Take your pick; you're on their turf.

It was dingy, lit by dim bulbs and smelt of spilt beer and desperation, and filled to the brim with Gotham's unsavoury denizens. They sat in a booth in the corner that had a clear view of both the back door and the bar itself for a safe exit and a direct route for more booze.

Leota did most of the talking and, like usual, Adrian did a really bad job at subtly being more interested in what Y/N's reaction was rather than the conversation itself. Y/N mostly just listened and drank her beer, occasionally nodding along or adding a comment here and there, but for the most part, let Leota do all the heavy lifting

From across the room, a "heels and handbag, goin' out back" from a gruff and gravelly voice drew Y/N's attention. It hadn't been a loud statement, just a comment between two people, but if you had particularly good hearing as Y/N did, then it was perfectly audible. 

Two pairs of boots made their way to the back door.

"I think I'm gonna step outside for a breather." Y/N stood, her posture shifting from relaxed to tense in a microsecond as she pulled out her cane and assembled it. "I won't be long."

"Okay, girl, I'll get us another round," Leota said as she got up to head to the bar, leaving Adrian alone in the booth.

He wouldn't be alone for long, he reasoned. Sure, he was restraining himself; with every breath he was getting closer to following Y/N to the back. No. No. He could do this. He could give her the independence she wanted and needed, even if it made him feel useless. 

It was just a back alley in Gotham, probably full of garbage and a few stray cats. It was probably fine. Gotham City, the most dangerous place in all America, where you could go from hero to victim in the span of a second. No. He was being silly. Y/N had shown more than once that she could handle herself.

A few minutes passed, and Adrian still felt restless. His brain was a whirlwind.

And then BANG!

Something heavy hit the back door and Adrian shot out of his seat and sprinted towards the exit, knocking over a few patrons in his rush to get outside. The alley was dark and reeked of garbage, and he saw two figures unconscious on the floor right by the exit with bruises as big as golf balls on their faces. 

Further down the alley stood two women. One was shaking in her heels, her flimsy dress torn, and the other was wiping blood from her hands with a handkerchief

"Do you have money for a cab?" Y/N asked, completely unruffled and without a scratch on her.

"Yeah, uh... yeah," The woman replied with tears in her eyes as she fumbled with her purse, clearly shaken. "Thank you so much. I can't even... how did you - Thank you. Really. Thank you."

"Go home. Get some rest. This wasn't your fault, okay?"

"Y-yeah. Yeah, okay." 

She stumbled away as fast as her high heels would allow and Y/N turned to Adrian, who had been standing there frozen, mouth agape. He seemed stunned for a moment before he slammed down onto his knees before her.

"You're so hot. You're so, so hot. Like the hottest." The words tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop them. "I think you're my dream girl. You're so fucking cool, and I'm sorry for being, like, weird and all hovering, but holy shit, you're like catnip. Like my catnip, but in a sexy and earnest kind of way."

Y/N snorted.

"You're so weird."

His gaze dropped to the floor as a blush burnt on his face. Fuck, he'd ruined it now. Completely and utterly. He'd acted a fool in front of her and now he was going to die alone because nobody would ever come close. 

Nobody would be as cool.

Nobody would be as hot.

Nobody would be as badass as her.

Then he felt fingers on top of his hair like she was petting him, almost affectionately. He tilted his head up to meet her gaze, still kneeling, and she smiled. Not a smirk or a smile that says, 'I'm about to tease you for this,' but a genuine, warm smile.

"Hey, c'mon, stand up. You'll get your jeans all dirty down there." Y/N gently tugged on his hand to help him up, which he took without hesitation. 

There was no world where he'd decline holding her hand.

"I thought you were being attacked or something," Adrian said sheepishly.

"And what if I was?" Y/N asked. "Would you have swooped in and saved me?"

He scoffed. "Oh please, you don't need saving. I know that now."

She let go of his hand to gently cup his face, her thumb tracing his cheekbone and down to his chin. "I appreciate the thought, though." 

"Are you doing that blind-touching-face thing? Cause -"

"I was going to kiss you but you just ruined the moment," Y/N commented with barely hidden mischief, and Adrian's face contorted comically as it went straight over his head.

"What?" He stammered. "But, but, but-" 

His gaze dropped to her mouth, then back up to her eyes, then back down again. "You should totally, absolutely, 100% kiss me now. Right here. In this gross, smelly alley. Please... pretty please with, like, so many cherries on top and a tonne of cream."

"Buy me dinner and I'll think about it."

Within the hour, the pair had called it a night with Leota, ordered an obscene amount of food, and were settled in Y/N's hotel room. Adrian was counting down the minutes until the meal was over and she would make good on her offer.

After what felt like an eternity, Y/N wiped away her mouth with a napkin and beckoned him closer with just one finger. He practically leapt out of his chair and crossed the distance between them in a single bound, his mouth on hers before she could blink. 

He poured every ounce of his pent-up longing into the kiss and would continue to do so for the rest of the night. Nay, the rest of his life.

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[frazzled-soul]

Just One Step Behind

Leon Kennedy x wife!reader

Summary: You drag Leon out shopping, bribing him with the promise of homemade muffins and a quick trip – just a quiet evening, or so you thought. Until a stranger crosses the line, and Leon shows a side of himself you don’t get to see often. Back home, it’s up to you to pull him out of it, piece by piece.

Word count: 3,5k

Featuring: protective Leon, hurt/comfort, brief violence, anger & aftermath, calming Leon, established relationship, soft intimacy, light teasing, domestic fluff, happy ending

A/N: I felt like I needed to write down my own visualization of protective Leon and the way he deals with his anger and guilt so here it is. And of course I couldn’t resist adding some sweet nonsense – this man just melts me, I can’t help it. English isn’t my native language, so please forgive any mistakes.

With how little free time you had – and Leon especially – going out shopping for anything that wasn’t strictly necessary felt nearly impossible. But one evening, when Leon had a few days off and you got back from work early, you decided to take advantage of it and coax him into going out with you. You really needed new curtains.

Leon was sprawled out on the couch, all tired and grumpy, one leg on the floor, the other bent up on the cushions. A half-empty bag of peanuts rested in his hands, some show about sleek, fast cars playing in the background. You walked over to him, deliberately circling the couch. He didn’t turn his head, but you knew he was tracking you anyway. The moment you reached the foot of the couch, you dropped onto him, pressing yourself against his chest. He let out an exaggerated groan as a few peanuts spilled over him and onto the cushions.

“I didn’t know you started training wrestling…” he muttered, instinctively wrapping a hand around the curve just above your ass.

“Leeeon…” you dragged out, resting your chin on his chest, doing your best to give him wide, pleading eyes.

“Yeah?” he grumbled, already suspicious. His brows pulled together just a little more.

“Maybe we could go shopping today? We’ve been putting it off for so long…” your voice was sweet, innocent, your finger tracing small, teasing patterns over his chest.

“Honey, it’s late,” he replied evenly, tossing the last of the peanuts into his mouth.

“Leon, it’s six,” you said flatly.

He took a slow breath, blue eyes drifting over your face in quiet consideration. You knew he couldn’t say no. He just needed a little push. “We have to go eventually anyway. Might as well get it over with. And the sooner we go, the sooner we’re back,” you added, seeing you had his attention. “And I’ll make you muffins tonight, promise.”

To sell it further, you shifted closer, bracing yourself on your hands – your neckline dipping just enough to reveal the curve of your breasts. Leon’s eyes dropped instantly. He swallowed. He couldn’t help it. His hand was already on your backside, a low sound leaving him in response. “Besides, you said you’d finally fix the bed frame. It’s about to fall apart.”

“I’ll fix it. Don’t need a shopping trip for that, sweetheart,” he muttered, still very much focused elsewhere.

“Yes, you do. You lost the allen key.”

“I didn’t lose it.” He finally, reluctantly, met your eyes. The triumphant smile on your face said everything.

“Then where is it?” you asked, expectant, your hand sliding along his jaw.

In response, you felt his hand slip beneath your neckline – before you could even react to scold him for thinking this was a valid way to distract you from the pressing issue, he pulled out a peanut from between your breasts and popped it into his mouth. Then he slid you off him and stood up with a stretch.

“…We’ll buy a new one,” he sighed.

You just laughed, stepping closer and tugging him down by the collar so you could press a quick kiss to his cheek – then darted off to the bedroom to get changed.

***

You had to admit – it took longer than you planned. But at least you got everything you needed… and a few things you didn’t. You walked down the street as dusk settled in, the city still buzzing with people. While you were both ready to retreat into the quiet comfort of your apartment, for others the night was just beginning.

Leon walked beside you obediently, arms full of shopping bags, a backpack slung over his shoulder – the one he insisted on keeping in the car “just in case.” He’d been right. You’d filled it nearly to the brim after stepping into a candle shop. All that was left was the hardware store just around the corner.

“Leon, look how pretty!” you blurted, grabbing his arm as you pressed yourself against a shop window, captivated by the display of hand-painted porcelain.

“Babe…” he started calmly, already knowing where this was going. “Our cabinets can’t fit another cup.”

“I’ll just look, I promise! Can I go in for a second?” you said, far too enthusiastically. You could see him physically fighting himself. “You go grab that screwdriver thing and we’ll meet right here, then straight to the car. Scout’s honor.”

“Fine… just a minute,” he gave in.

But seeing how tired he looked, weighed down with bags, you didn’t want to drag it out. “Go get the tools. It’ll be faster – we’ll meet right here, okay?”

He hesitated, clearly reluctant. “Don’t get lost,” he said, a teasing edge to his voice, his gaze soft.

“Me? You’re the one who disappears,” you shot back, winking before slipping inside.

You drifted between shelves lined with delicate porcelain, already thinking of how you’d make Leon’s evening a little nicer as a thank-you. He’d handled today surprisingly well – patient, even offering opinions on curtain colors despite clearly seeing no difference between them. Then your eyes landed on a cup. A delicate, hand-painted piece – slightly asymmetrical, with soft glaze pooling in the grooves of fine blue patterns. You couldn’t help yourself. Your hands reached for it before you even fully decided. Leon was right – you had enough. But handmade things were your weakness. And really… would one more make a difference?

You wandered a bit longer, mentally noting which plate sets might fit your kitchen someday – far in the future, of course. At the register, you paid, the cup carefully packed into a small box and paper bag. Stepping back outside, you paused by the display again, leaning in to look at a mug you hadn’t noticed before – covered in little bees and lavender. Cute.

You smiled to yourself, already hearing Leon’s inevitable comment.

Then you felt it – a firm hand on your hip, a solid presence behind you, warmth near your ear.

“Leon! Not here–” you laughed instinctively, surprised at the boldness.

“We can move somewhere more private, pretty thing,” came a rough voice.

Your stomach dropped. That wasn’t Leon.

You turned sharply. A stranger stood there, clearly out of it, a stupid grin on his face. Two more hovered nearby.

“Don’t touch me,” you said firmly, knocking his hand away and stepping back.

He didn’t back off. His gaze dragged over you, slow and disgusting.

“Why so tense, pretty? You looked like you were asking for it. I can take care of you better than your boyfriend.”

Laughter behind him.

“I said leave me alone,” you snapped, moving to pass him – only to be grabbed roughly by the wrist and yanked back. The force made you drop the bag. Porcelain shattered against the pavement. His breath hit your face – stale, foul.

Adrenaline surged, your pulse roaring in your ears.

“You stick your ass out and now you’re playing hard to get?” he sneered, lifting your wrist, holding you in place.

You forced yourself to think. Fast. One good kick–

You didn’t get the chance.

The man vanished from in front of you. You had to turn your head to see him slam into the pavement, face-first.

Leon stood where he’d been, already between you and the others.

“Get him!” one of them shouted, rushing him.

The swing was wide and sloppy. Leon stepped aside before it landed, caught his wrist mid-motion, and twisted – sharp and sudden. The man folded, his arm wrenched behind his back as Leon forced him down onto the pavement, cheek pressed harshly against the ground. Leon glanced at the third one – who immediately backed off, muttering and retreating.

You stood frozen, trying to process what had just happened, feeling like you hadn’t even managed to blink. Leon moved in complete silence, his expression tight, his movements controlled and precise.

When the first man who had grabbed you started to push himself up with a groan, Leon was on him in an instant. He grabbed him by the back of his collar and hauled him up. You saw blood running from his nose and mouth as Leon lifted him, and you were almost certain he spat two teeth onto the ground.

Holding him firmly, Leon dragged him a few steps along the sidewalk and hissed through clenched teeth:

“Apologize to her.” his voice cold, commanding.

The man looked at you, dazed, coughing up blood. You noticed Leon’s grip on his shirt was so tight his knuckles had gone white, lifting him so high that his knees weren’t even touching the ground anymore – hovering inches above the pavement.

Not out of reflection, but fear, you heard him mutter a slurred “sorry, we were just messing around.”

After that, Leon threw him aside and didn’t look at him again. He immediately turned to you.

“You okay?” he managed, grabbing your face with both hands and scanning you for any sign of injury.

His eyes were wide, panicked. His breathing heavy, and you knew it wasn’t from exertion. You grabbed his wrists, exhaling slowly, still trying to process what had just happened.

“I’m fine,” you said quickly, catching a glimpse of the man with the broken nose pulling himself up and stumbling away.

“Are you hurt?” Leon continued, this time taking your hand and running his thumb over the bruise forming on your wrist, left from the way you’d been grabbed. His brows were deeply furrowed, his jaw clenched – and you saw it tighten even more as he looked over your hands.

“No, Leon…”

“I saw him touch you. If I’d been a second later…” he cut himself off. When it hit him, you saw him swallow hard. He moved his hands to your ribs, holding you like letting go might make you fall apart.

Even though you were scared, you tried your best not to show it. The entire situation had lasted only seconds, but seeing Leon like this frightened you more than the men who had approached you. You saw the fury in him, one he was barely holding back. When your eyes moved over his frame, you noticed he was trembling slightly.

“I had it handled,” you continued calmly, “I was about to kick him in the balls.”

But it didn’t seem to work on him. He pulled his hands back, stepped away, and glanced over his shoulder as if checking whether anyone else was nearby – aside from the confused passersby. He rubbed his face, fingers pressing in like he was trying to reset himself.

“I shouldn’t have left,” he said flatly, coldly, more to himself than to you.

For a moment, you didn’t see Leon – you saw the agent. The one from missions. Tense posture, alert gaze scanning the surroundings, movements precise and controlled. Except this version of him was unraveling because of you; something that mattered more to him than any mission, something that outweighed everything else.

You knew that if you didn’t pull him back now, he’d sink deeper into guilt – and you didn’t want that. You closed the distance and grabbed the edges of his jacket, tugging slightly just to get his attention – there was no way you could physically move him otherwise.

“Seriously. One more second and he’d have had trouble walking.”

His gaze stayed lowered, fists clenched.

“Leon.” You waited until he finally looked at you. “I’m fine. I’m right here.”

His eyes met yours – shaken, guilty.

You wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled his forehead to yours. You stood like that for a moment, feeling his breathing slowly steady. Your touch always worked.

“Let’s go home.”

“Yeah.”

You kissed his cheek, then let him pick up the bags he had dropped when he saw you.

You bent down for your own purchase – only now realizing the cup was in pieces.

“My cup…” you muttered, peering into the bag, confirming there was nothing left to save.

Leon stepped up beside you, both hands full of shopping bags.

“Come on.”

You thought he meant the car.

Instead, he walked up to the shop and pressed his shoulder into the door, pushing it open. He stood in the doorway, holding it for you, nodding with his chin for you to go inside.

***

You placed two new cups and a set of plates into the trunk – something Leon would normally complain about, yet this time he had been the one to press them into your hands. You didn’t object. One, because you could never resist beautiful porcelain. Two, because you knew he needed even a small sense of control back after what had happened.

You were glad he had calmed down a bit, seeing your excitement again as you moved between shelves of your favorite things, reassuring him without words that you were okay.

His hand stayed on your thigh the entire drive home, his fingers intertwined with yours. He was holding you a little too tightly. You talked about waiting for a warm, sunny day so you could sit on the terrace and drink coffee from your new floral cups.

“Leon? It’s green,” you said softly when you noticed he still hadn’t moved.

He turned his head toward you just as a horn sounded behind you. He flinched and pulled forward too quickly, tires briefly squealing. He was still somewhere else. Still scanning – mirrors, surroundings, everything.

“I should’ve–” he started, but let out a breath and didn’t finish, shaking his head slightly.

“Hey. I’m right here,” you interrupted, trying to cut through the spiral in his head. “You can stop buying me the entire store now.”

This time you gently squeezed his hand, feeling the tension slowly leave his grip.

***

You moved around the kitchen, preparing batter for blueberry muffins, the smell of freshly brewed coffee drifting through the air as it filled the space. Leon had disappeared into the bedroom a while ago to tighten the bed frame. You hummed under your breath as you poured the batter into the molds. Out of the corner of your eye, you caught sight of Leon leaning in the kitchen doorway, shoulder against the frame, arms crossed over his chest. His gaze was warm, though slightly distant, lost in thought.

“Come here, what are you waiting for?” you smiled, holding your arms out for him.

“Didn’t want to startle you,” he said calmly, but seeing you were clearly waiting, he pushed himself off the frame and walked over. There was a faint, almost shy smile on his face, his brows slightly furrowed – you knew why.

You pressed yourself against him, his body large, warm – and still a little tense. His hands settled on your back, stroking gently, his nose brushing into your hair as he breathed you in, grounding himself. You wrapped your arms around him too, slipping both hands into the back pockets of his sweatpants, pulling him closer against you.

“Bed fixed?” you asked, tilting your head up, brushing your nose against his chin.

“Yeah. Ready for us to break it again.”

You let out a quiet laugh, reluctantly pulling away when the oven beeped. You slid the tray of muffins inside. Leon leaned back against the counter, watching you in silence.

“You shouldn’t have had to deal with that,” he said quietly, his tone shifting.

“But I didn’t. You were there,” you answered immediately, sincere, without hesitation, turning to him. “Lower your head.”

A little thrown off, he did as you said, leaning down. You cupped his face, brushing both thumbs over his brows before pressing a slow, lingering kiss between them.

“Don’t frown.”

He let out a quiet, low chuckle. Then he dropped his head further, resting his forehead against your shoulder, arms hanging loosely at his sides in a rare gesture of surrender. You were glad that after all these years, you’d learned exactly how to disarm him, how to calm him down.

“...Well, at least we’ve got enough plates for the next ten years.”

“I still dream of one more cup, you know? The one with the bees.”

“No.” His hands were already on your hips.

“What if I win it?”

He lifted his head, narrowing his eyes at you suspiciously. “How?”

You reached past him, grabbing a few blueberries left over from baking. Rolling one between your fingers, you stepped back a few paces. “If you catch them, we don’t buy it. If you miss, even once – I get it next time.”

Without waiting for his answer, you tossed one at him. He dipped slightly at the knees and caught it in his mouth, giving you an unimpressed look.

“You’re cheating.”

You didn’t respond – just threw another, higher and to the side this time. Leon shifted with it, tilting his head, the berry bouncing off his nose before dropping neatly into his mouth anyway.

“Okay, last one. If you miss, I win.”

This time you gave him a moment. You saw him adjust his stance, legs slightly apart, knees bent, cracking his knuckles as he focused entirely on your hand.

You wound up – and then casually tossed the berry behind you. It disappeared out of sight, somewhere toward the living room.

You snorted, seeing his expression as he slowly straightened, shaking his head in warning.

“You’re getting old, big boy. Zero reflex,” you laughed, clearly pleased with yourself. But when Leon – unfazed – started walking toward you slowly, you immediately reconsidered and turned to bolt for the living room.

He followed.

You shot out of the kitchen, barely managing to slow down as you veered toward the couch, grabbing a pillow and throwing it at him. He caught it midair and tossed it aside. There was a predator’s smile on his face. Instinctively, you grabbed another, jumping onto the couch and holding it up in surrender.

Just as expected, Leon ripped that one out of your hands too and tossed it away – then dropped his full weight onto you, pinning you beneath him. Before you could react, you were flattened under his broad, muscular frame. You squealed helplessly for a moment before managing to free your arms and wrap them around his neck, pulling his head down, pressing his cheek against yours.

Leon went still, waiting for your next move, but you stayed exactly like that, unmoving.

“Trying to put me in a hold, or…?” he rumbled.

“I don’t know…” you replied in a mock-offended tone.

He lifted his head with ease, looking down at you. For the first time in hours, there was something softer in his eyes – pure fondness, a flicker of amusement.

“You’re lucky, Mrs. Kennedy, that I have a soft spot for you…” he murmured, brushing a kiss to the corner of your lips, making you smile instantly. “But you’ll have to try harder if you want to have me wrapped around your finger.”

“I don’t need new techniques, mister. You know I’ve got you without using force,” you shot back, raising a brow, a smug smile tugging at your lips.

“Oh… right,” he said slowly, shifting slightly so he wouldn’t crush you. He kissed your cheek, then your neck, then both of your collarbones. When you tried to grab his hand, he was quicker – capturing yours and pressing quick kisses from your wrist up to your arm.

“Leon… what are you–”

“Worshipping my wife,” he answered simply, not stopping. When he finished with your arm, his kisses turned aimless – your temple, your nose, your chin, never in any pattern – while his other hand poked teasingly at your stomach, making you squirm and laugh beneath him.

“Ow, at least take the screwdriver out, you’re jabbing me,” you said between laughs when he tugged lightly at your earlobe with his teeth.

“That’s not a screwdriver.”

Of course it wasn’t.

“Seriously–” you started, but couldn’t keep a straight face.

“What can I say? You’ve got me wrapped around your finger,” he murmured into the crook of your neck, taking your hand and guiding it down along his chest and stomach.

As much as you were enjoying this spontaneous moment, you knew exactly how this usually ended – last time it meant a burned dinner and airing out the kitchen for an hour.

“Hey, we need to keep an eye on the muffins…” you tried to remind him, though there was no real resistance in your voice. The warmth of his breath and his mouth on your skin was more than enough to make you want more. Obviously, he could unravel you just as easily – you just weren’t about to admit that out loud. He’d use it against you. Like he didn’t already.

“You just put them in. We’ve got time. Give me ten minutes,” his hand slipping under your shirt, spreading over your stomach.

“Oh? Efficient. You sure that’s enough time?” you teased, your finger hooking absentmindedly into the waistband of his sweatpants.

“Sweetheart, I meant for me,” he replied, then, as if considering it, added, “for you… I’d need five. Max.”

Feigning offense, you smacked his shoulder with your free hand. “You don’t know that–”

Before you could finish, your pants were already halfway down your thighs.

Of course he does.

Thank you for reading. Would appreciate feedback!

[lewmeister]

One Night, Then Everything

Bob Reynolds/Female Reader One-Shot

Word count: 2.5k

Warnings: Fluff, implied sex, nudity.

Briefing: In the stillness of morning, Bob is met with absence—and a rising tide of doubt. But not all silences mean something’s lost.

Author note: I don't write smut. This is the closest you'll get from me. MINORS DNI 18+. Not related to the Leg Across the Line series.

You were only supposed to crash on the couch.

That’s how these nights usually ended—team game night, a few drinks, everyone slowly peeling off toward their rooms or the spare beds scattered throughout the compound. You and Bob were the last ones awake, as always. You’d claimed the couch. He’d offered you the guest room. You refused. He didn’t push it. It was familiar, easy. The way it always was.

Except tonight didn’t feel easy.

You weren’t sure when things started shifting between you. There hadn’t been a single moment—just a hundred little ones that built up and stuck in your chest. A soft look across the quinjet. The way his hand had lingered on your shoulder after a mission. How your legs had brushed under the kitchen table and neither of you moved away. How he always said your name like it meant something.

You told yourself it didn’t mean anything. That it couldn’t. That it would ruin everything.

But lately, being near him felt like holding your breath. And tonight… you couldn’t remember the last time you weren’t thinking about him.

Now, the two of you sat on the living room floor, backs against the couch. Half a bowl of popcorn between you. An old movie played quietly on the screen, but neither of you was watching.

Bob was too close.

Not in a bad way—he never was. But close enough that your shoulders touched. His knee brushed yours every few seconds, like he forgot how long his legs were. He looked over at you when you laughed at a dumb line. You looked at him when he smiled at the screen like it was the first good thing he’d seen all day.

The popcorn ran out. The movie ended. Neither of you moved.

Eventually, he spoke—quiet, careful.

“You’re not tired?”

You shook your head. “Not really. You?”

He shrugged. “Not enough to sleep.”

A pause. Long enough to make your pulse flutter.

You turned toward him. “Want to talk about it?”

Bob didn’t answer right away. His eyes stayed forward, fixed on the black TV screen. But his voice was soft when he finally said, “It’s been a long week.”

He didn’t have to explain. You knew what he meant—the mission gone sideways, the intel that came too late, the explosion that could’ve been worse. The look he’d given you after you made it back to the jet, scraped up and furious and still alive.

You reached out, let your fingers find his. Just a light touch. You almost pulled back when he looked down at the contact—but then his hand turned palm-up, lacing his fingers through yours like it was instinct.

Neither of you said anything.

The air in the room changed. It felt heavier. Charged.

He looked at you then. Really looked at you.

“Can I ask you something?” he said.

You nodded.

“Why do you always run?”

The question caught you off guard. “What?”

He swallowed. “After the missions. The parties. The close calls. You always disappear before anyone can ask how you’re doing.”

Your throat tightened. “I didn’t think anyone wanted to know.”

“I always want to know.”

The silence after that felt deafening.

You couldn’t look away from him. His eyes searched yours like he was afraid of what he’d find.

“I don’t run,” you said quietly. “I just… don’t know what to do when things feel real.”

Bob exhaled slowly, like that answer hurt and helped at the same time.

“Me neither.”

That was the moment. The point of no return.

You leaned in first. Just a little.

He met you halfway.

The kiss wasn’t careful. It wasn’t practiced. It was messy and warm and full of something that had been waiting far too long to be felt. His hands cupped your face like you were something fragile. Yours pulled at his shirt like you’d die if he stopped touching you.

The couch was forgotten. The hallway blurred. The next thing you knew, you were in his room. His bed. Wrapped in each other like it was the only thing that made sense.

There were no promises whispered between kisses. No confessions. Just the quiet, unspoken ache of two people too scared to name what they wanted—and too desperate to let it slip away again.

His room was dim and quiet, the kind of quiet that made everything feel louder—every breath, every heartbeat, every brush of skin.

You didn't rush. Neither of you did.

There was hesitation at first, the kind that came with too many nights of pretending not to look too long or feel too much. You kissed like you were trying to relearn each other—slow, deliberate, like it meant something.

Because it did.

Bob’s hands were gentle, steady, even as yours trembled against the hem of his shirt. When he pulled it off, you traced the lines of him like you'd wanted to for months, like maybe if you touched him enough, you’d finally believe this was real.

“You sure?” he asked, voice low, breath warm against your cheek.

You nodded. “Are you?”

His laugh was quiet, nervous. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

Clothes were shed between kisses, between stuttered exhales and half-whispered apologies for things neither of you had done wrong. When you ended up beneath the sheets, the world narrowed to the heat of him, the press of his body against yours, and the look in his eyes—like he didn’t know if he was allowed to want this, but he did.

He kissed your shoulder. Your collarbone. Your mouth.

There was nothing frantic in the way he touched you—just reverence. The kind that comes with loving someone quietly for too long.

And when he finally moved inside you, there was a beat of stillness, both of you wide-eyed and breathless, like the moment itself was too big for words.

No one spoke, not really. But every sigh, every soft moan, every unsteady inhale said what neither of you had dared to say aloud:

Stay.

It wasn’t perfect. You both laughed when your knees bumped. He kissed your temple when you got too in your head. And when it was over, you didn’t rush to cover up or run—you just stayed wrapped up in each other, warm and close, breathing in sync like maybe the rest of the world could wait.

He kept one hand at your waist, even after your eyes started to slip shut. Like he wasn’t ready to let go.

You fell asleep like that—naked and tangled, skin to skin, his nose tucked into your hair.

For the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel like running.

Bob woke to warmth.

Not sunlight, not yet. The room was still dim, painted in shades of soft gray and early dawn. But there was a weight beside him—soft, steady. Her.

You.

His brain hadn’t caught up yet, still tangled in dreams and half-formed memories. But the warmth under his arm, the scent of your shampoo, the rise and fall of your breathing—it was real. All of it.

He blinked slowly, adjusting to the light. His hand was curled around your waist, bare skin to bare skin. His chest pressed to your back. Your hair was a soft mess against his pillow, your legs tangled with his like you’d always been there.

He didn’t move. He didn’t dare.

A quiet breath left him, like his ribs had finally relaxed after months of bracing.

You were here. In his bed. After everything.

For a second—just a second—he let himself live in the feeling.

He closed his eyes again and let it wash over him: the soft scent of you on his sheets, the memory of your hands in his hair, the way you had looked at him last night like he was something worth choosing. Like he wasn’t just safe. Like he was wanted.

His chest tightened, full to the brim with it.

He shifted just enough to press his lips to your shoulder. Just a whisper of a kiss. Then, without thinking, another at the crown of your head. Your skin was warm beneath his mouth.

It felt like breathing for the first time in months.

God, he thought. I didn’t know it could feel like this.

He didn’t need to say it aloud. Not yet. But the truth curled under his ribs, soft and dangerous:

I love you.

It came out of nowhere and all at once—and it didn’t scare him. Not in this moment.

You shifted slightly in your sleep, murmuring something unintelligible as you pressed back into him. Bob exhaled a quiet laugh, burying his face in your hair.

He’d imagined this a thousand different ways over the past few months—usually alone, usually at two in the morning when he couldn’t sleep—but nothing ever came close to this.

Real. Tangible. Yours.

The weight of it was beautiful.

He closed his eyes again, letting the rhythm of your breathing lull him back into a haze of sleep, content just to hold you.

Because for the first time in a long time, Bob wasn’t waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Not yet.

When Bob woke the second time, the bed was cold.

It took him a moment to realize it—disoriented by the shift in light, by the sudden absence of warmth beside him. He reached out instinctively, still half-asleep, expecting to find the curve of your hip, the familiar softness of your skin.

But there was nothing.

Just empty sheets and the faint impression of where you’d been.

His hand froze mid-reach. His heart followed.

He sat up slowly, the blanket pooling around his waist. The space beside him was undeniably empty now. The pillow barely held your shape. The sheets were still warm, but not warm enough. You’d been gone for more than a minute.

He blinked hard, like maybe he’d imagined the whole thing. Last night, the way you’d touched him, the way you’d held his face like you wanted to memorize him. The way you'd fallen asleep in his arms like you belonged there.

But the discarded clothes were still on the floor. His pants still half-hanging off the chair. There was still the faint scent of you on his skin.

It had happened.

And now you were gone.

A rush of cold crept through his chest, numbing and sharp. He swung his legs off the side of the bed, pressing a hand to his forehead like that could somehow slow the sinking in his gut.

Of course she left.

What did you expect, Bob? That she’d wake up in your bed and want to stay? That one night would fix all the fear, all the distance?

He’d always known this was a bad idea. That one step too far would ruin everything. He just hadn’t realized how fast it would fall apart.

His mind raced, heart thudding hard against his ribs as he stood and yanked on the first pair of sweatpants he could find. Maybe he could still catch you. Maybe he could find the right words before it was too late. Before you could regret this out loud.

I’m sorry, last night was a mistake.

The phrase lodged in his throat like a splinter.

He scrubbed a hand down his face, ran it through his hair, paced to the bedroom door—and then froze.

There was a sound.

Not the front door. Not footsteps down the hall. But… something else. A soft clatter. The sizzle of something hot. The low hum of a stove.

His brow furrowed.

He crossed the room in three quick steps, opened the door, and stepped out into the hallway—barefoot, tense, breath caught somewhere between dread and hope.

And then he turned the corner into the kitchen.

You were standing at the stove.

Wearing nothing but his t-shirt.

And when you looked up—hair a mess, sleeves too long, spatula in hand—you smiled at him like he was exactly where he was supposed to be.

Bob stopped in his tracks.

Every part of him that had started to unravel suddenly snapped back together with dizzying force.

“You’re… here,” he said, like an idiot.

You blinked. “Yeah? I didn’t think making breakfast was a disappearing act.”

He exhaled a shaky breath and rubbed the back of his neck. “I thought you left.”

Your smile faltered, just a little. “I worried you might want me to.”

There was a beat of silence. A long one.

Then Bob stepped into the kitchen—barefoot, rumpled, still reeling—and crossed to you like gravity was pulling him forward.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at you.

Then he said, softly: “I woke up and thought I’d dreamed you.”

Your fingers tightened around the spatula.

“Was it a good dream?” you asked.

He reached out, gently tucking a piece of hair behind your ear.

“The best one I’ve ever had.”

You set the spatula down with a soft clink, suddenly very aware of how hard your heart was pounding.

Bob was still looking at you like you were sunlight. Like he hadn’t quite dared to believe you were real.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” you said quietly. “I just… I woke up and you were still asleep and you looked so peaceful and I didn’t know what to do with that. So I made pancakes.”

Bob glanced at the stovetop. One of the pancakes was definitely burning around the edges, but he didn’t seem to care.

“You didn’t scare me,” he said. “You just—” He stopped himself, brows drawing together, voice turning smaller. “Okay. Yeah. You did. A little.”

You felt the guilt twist in your chest. “Bob—”

“I thought I messed everything up,” he said, not accusing, just honest. “That maybe I pushed too far. That maybe you woke up and realized last night was a mistake.”

You took a step closer. “Do I look like someone who regrets last night?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just stared at you for a second too long, like he was trying to memorize this version of you—barefoot, in his shirt, still sleepy around the edges but solid, standing in his kitchen like you belonged.

“No,” he said softly. “You look like everything I’ve ever wanted.”

The words hung there, raw and open.

You felt like you could cry.

“I was never leaving because I was running,” you said. “I left after everything because I was scared if I stayed, you’d disappear.”

Bob exhaled, shoulders slumping like the tension had finally let go of him.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said.

And then he kissed you.

It was slow, like the night before but steadier now. A confirmation. A choice. His hands were warm on your waist, fingers curling slightly in the fabric of his own t-shirt that hung loose around your frame. Yours slid up his bare chest and curled behind his neck like muscle memory.

When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours.

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” he murmured. “I didn’t think I’d ever actually get it.”

You smiled, brushing your thumb along his jaw. “Well, now you’ve got it. Me. Burnt pancakes and all.”

Bob laughed softly—one of those rare, quiet laughs that made your stomach flip.

“I’ll take it,” he said. “I’ll take all of it.”

FIND MORE OF MY WRITINGS HERE

[sometimesanalice]

Make Me Your Masterpiece

Summary: Bob credits you for helping him to find his new hobby. And when he asks if he can you paint you, you find you quite like the idea of being his muse.

Pairing: Robert ‘Bob’ Floyd x Female Reader

Length: 4.5K

Warnings: fluff, smut, and basically an ode to Lewis Pullman’s hands (mdni)

(Author’s Note: smutty fics are the new friendship bracelet, spread the word! Happy Birthday, Ames! 🎉 @laracrofted)

You’ve always had a thing for Bob’s hands.

They were one of the first things you noticed about him that day at the coffee shop almost a year ago now.

You’d been reaching for your iced vanilla cinnamon latte when a big hand had wrapped around it just a half of a second before you could grab it. Which you wouldn’t have minded admiring them for a moment under any other circumstances, but after an endless string of meetings you’d been in a dire need of a caffeine fix- and not the weak stuff that people brewed in your office’s communal coffee pot.

“I think that’s-” you’d started.

“Oh, I’m sorry-” the coffee thief backpedaled.

The next thing you knew you were looking into the prettiest pair of ocean blue eyes. 

The two of you were startled out of the moment when the barista called out the next order as they’d set it on the counter.

By some kismet or fate, they had been a matching set. But instead of embroidered towels, it was his and hers coffee cups with your names written on them in a hasty scrawl.

Realization dawned over his features as he gave you a sheepish smile, “Think this one might belong to you, Miss.” He spun the coffee until he found the spot with your name. That little smile becoming a full grin as he’d said it aloud before passing the cup to you.

The hands had been good, the eyes had been great, but Bob’s smile directed at you had left you weak in the knees.

You’d been a goner right then and there.

And while you’d ended up almost ten minutes late to your next meeting, you’d also gone back to the office with his phone number written on a cardboard coffee sleeve that was tucked away safely in your purse and a date lined up later that week.

As it turned out fate had a name and it was Robert Floyd.

Barely twenty minutes into your first official date with Bob, his ears had turned a delightful shade of pink as his anxious fingers straightened the silverware on the white linen tablecloth of the Italian spot he’d taken you to. He’d fessed up and apologized as he came clean, telling you that he’d purposefully ordered the same coffee as you in hopes of getting to start up a conversation with the pretty girl who’d been standing in front of him in line.

“I didn’t want to interrupt you, since you looked busy. But I didn’t want to miss my chance,” he’d confessed over candlelight.

He’d told you how he’d only been at the coffee shop because he’d recently returned from a deployment and was fighting the jetlag that came with adjusting to being back on Pacific Standard Time, and that he normally preferred tea but he needed something with a bit more to it to get him through the day.

Instead of getting up and taking the bottle of wine to-go as a consolation prize, like you would have if it had been anyone else, his genuine earnestness had charmed you instantly. And you’d settled on having a second date with him before the first one had even really started.

You only let him sweat it for about thirty seconds before you took pity on him. With a light fingertip, you traced along one of the veins on the back of his hand and simply asked, “So other than being a meet cute mastermind, what is it that you do for a living, Bob?”

It was the best first date you’d ever had.

For your second date with him, you’d bought tickets to a ‘Paint and Sip’ event at a buzzy new bistro in town your friend had told you about.

You weren’t an artist by any means, but during that dinner date his antsy fingers and expressive hands had clued you into how nervous he’d been. You’d found your eyes drifting to them on more than one occasion. Partly because they were so enticingly disproportionate to the rest of him, but also because you couldn’t look him directly in the eye for too long without feeling your face heating up.

You thought it would be a good way for the both of you to work past the getting-to-know-you jitters, something that would keep your hands and eyes occupied enough to relax a bit more and have fun together.

Although instead of the seascape class you’d thought you’d signed up for, you’d willingly paid $86+ tax to watch Bob’s lithe, long fingers delicately grip a paintbrush in a way you thought was going to make you lose your mind.

You’d spent the whole first hour trying and failing to mix the perfect shade of blue before giving up when you’d realized that the man next to you, in addition to having really great hands, was also very good at painting. 

Bob had seemed surprised by that too because he’d kept flushing that wonderful shade of pink that had quickly become your new favorite color every time you complimented his piece.

He had steady, capable hands. But you were quickly learning that everything about Bob Floyd seemed that way. There was a quiet confidence about him. He didn’t shy away from the way he’d openly observed you, like you were a riddle he was enjoying learning to decode. 

You’d never known a man to be so attentive until him.

Bob’s tongue was peeking out as he’d worked on adding some wispy clouds to the top of his piece. You weren’t even sure what step you’d technically stopped at before you’d given up to watch the visual feast of him painting instead. Only halfheartedly adding random bits to your canvas along the way to make sure it wasn’t totally blank by the end of the session.

You’d been so zoned out watching him create that it was like a slow-motion sequence in a horror movie. You’d reached out for your wine glass, lifting it to your lips to take a sip, it had only taken you a split second to realize it wasn’t the full-bodied red you’d ordered that was coating your tongue, but the murky, gritty paint water instead.

Mortified, you’d looked over just in time to see Bob’s empathetic wince. You’d been hoping to fly under the radar, but it had turned out that you’d had more than one set of eyes on you.

“And we officially have our first casualty of the evening, folks,” the instructor cheerily announced to the group, “The rest of you can breathe easy now!”

You wanted to be able to laugh at your own expense, but you’d groaned as you buried your face in your hands.

It was not the way you saw the night going. You wanted to be dazzling, you wanted that pivotal third date with him. But now you were the girl who drank paint water whose canvas looked like it had all the same efforts as an enthusiastic fourth grader.

Bob’s hands had gently wrapped around your wrists before he’d pulled them from your face. And then he’d leaned in close, taking your chin in his hand and kissed you squarely on the lips, his tongue dipping in and sliding against yours to taste the acrylic pigment from your surprised mouth.

“Huh,” he’d said, contemplatively. He’d pulled away only far enough to look into your eyes and give you a soft smile. “Celadon blue doesn’t taste like a Cabernet, go figure.”

He brushed a light kiss against your cheek as he’d passed you your wine glass so that you could rinse the paint water taste out of your mouth. 

You couldn’t help but to still be a little embarrassed, but then you’d caught the way he’d shoot an unimpressed look at the instructor every time they passed by for the rest of the evening. You didn’t need a knight in shining armor when you had a Bob Floyd with a paintbrush and a cutting side eye.

You took him home with you that night and learned for yourself just how capable those hands of his were.

It was only later that you realized the exact shade of blue that you’d been trying so hard to capture earlier that night was the same color as the eyes that gazed down at you as Bob fucked you for the very first time.

There was no way you could have known that the ‘Paint and Sip’ date would have inspired him to pick up painting as a hobby.

First, he’d started taking classes at the Rec Center. His once a week classes later turned into him checking out books from the library. And then he’d turned his spare bedroom into a studio, as it has the best afternoon light in the Spanish style house he rents near the Naval base. He’d even bought a comfy chair for you to curl up in as he painted, a little nook of your own in his favorite space in his home. And steadily, the walls of both your apartment and his place fill up with all of his art.

You’d even had your favorite one professionally framed. The pretty landscape done in shades of soft greens that he gave to you for your birthday hangs in a place of honor above your bed. You like having that piece of Bob as one of the last things you see before you fall asleep and one of the first things you see in the morning on the rare occasion the two of you aren’t sharing a bed. You liked to imagine the hours he spent on it with the sunlight streaming through the open window as he lovingly and painstakingly created something just for you with his own two hands.

Although you did have to beg him to sign it for you. He claimed that since he does it for fun that there’s really no reason too, but you were adamant about it and he’d eventually caved and scrawled his name in the lower right-hand corner.

Now it’s become your personal mission to ensure that every Bob Floyd original has his signature on it when he gives his paintings out as gifts.

Everyone assumes that his art would be all straight lines and precise angles, but it’s your favorite moment when people get to see his abstract landscapes. He’d told you he spends so much time in the sky that he likes to paint what’s on the ground, the things he doesn’t get to see when he’s 50,000 feet in the air.

You could tell Bob was a little nervous when he first asked to paint you. 

After almost a year with him, you’d think he’d know by now that you’d do anything for him. Not to mention, you were more than a little in love with the idea of being his muse.

“Are you saying you want to paint me like one of your French girls?” you’d teased with a grin, unable to resist the opportunity. You always did have a thing for men with perfectly floppy hair.

He’d tipped your chin up so that you were looking into his blue eyes- a color you were positive couldn’t be replicated- and stated, “No, I want to paint you like my girl.”

Which is how you’ve ended up naked on the floor of his living room.

You’d been surprised when you came downstairs to see that the furniture had all been pushed to the side to make space for the king-sized top sheet he’d laid out on the floor. You figured it must have been from some mismatched set he had stashed in his linen closet because you’d never seen it before and you spent more than enough time in his bed getting familiar with his sheets.

Bob was shirtless and wearing only a pair of loose-fitting and paint stained jeans that were hanging low on his hips as he worked on getting all of his brushes and paints set up.

You were pretty sure that Michelangelo himself wouldn’t be able to do proper justice to Bob’s body. He wasn’t as built as some of his friends on the Dagger Squad were, but there was an undeniable sturdy steadfastness to him. Those defined shoulders and arms often were the stars of your afternoon daydreams, since you got to admire his handsome face anytime your phone lit up.

He came and met you at the bottom of the stairs, giving you a low whistle, “Well, aren’t you as pretty as a picture in my shirt.”

“Oh,” you’d said, feigning surprise and toying with the hem, “So it is.” And then you’d slowly lifted it up and off of you, revealing more of your body to his artist’s eye.

You never felt as good about yourself as you did when you were naked in front of Bob. The color of his morning skies eyes would always darken to a deep shade of Prussian blue as he took in the curves of you. With him you always felt appreciated, wanted, desired.

His greedy hands came to grip your hips pulling you to him until you were pressed against him.

“Is this how you wanted me?” you asked, running your fingers through his hair.

Bob slipped his hand behind your neck and tugged you in for a heated kiss. “I always want you.”

You never knew true distraction until you’d felt Bob’s lips against yours all those months ago. You’d happily lose minutes, hours, days to them. The thing about Bob is that he never does anything halfway. If he’s kissing you, he’s doing it thoroughly until you’re out of breath.

The sound of the air conditioner kicking on and the light draft that it coasted over you reminded you that there were other plans on the agenda. And that the sooner he starts, then the sooner he finishes, and the sooner you can feel his lips on other parts of you.

“Where do you want me?”

“In my bed,” he murmured against your lips.

His name started as a laugh but turned into a sigh as he dropped a line of kisses down your neck, “I meant, like on the couch or on one of the chairs from the kitchen.”

Bob pulled away and peered deep into your eyes, “Darlin’, I wanted to paint you.” He trailed a teasing finger down your soft stomach. “If that’s alright with you.”

You thought you were just going to be his subject, but as it turns out he wanted you to be his canvas too.

You’re trying not to shiver as he meticulously coats your overheated skin with cool paint. Goosebumps follow in the wake of every delicate stroke he makes along your body.

His hair was curled over his forehead in a way that had your fingers aching to touch him. There was a slight furrow between his eyebrows as he concentrated on the deliberate lines and curves he painted on you. The paint smudge on his cheek only made him all the more attractive to you.

Bob had tucked a pillow beneath your head before he’d started, a gesture that you appreciated now because time had lost all meaning to you. You had no idea how long you’ve been lying there. You were pretty sure every inch of you had to be covered by now.

He’d started along the plane of your stomach and steadily worked his way out from there. Up your arms. Along your clavicle. Over your breasts and tops of your thighs. You didn’t miss the way he’d smirked when you arched into that soft to the touch paintbrush as it glided over your peaked nipple. Or the way he’d hummed pleased when you’d try to subtly rub your thighs together to relieve the need that had been building as you laid there.

Bob loves taking his time with you. In bed, he loved teasing you until you had tears in your eyes and were begging for his cock. And it became clear very quickly that this would be no different.

There was an electric thrum that was pulsing through your body with every dip and swirl and brushstroke. The muscles of your stomach jump involuntarily as the fine hairs of his paintbrush drift over your hypersensitive skin making you whimper.

He tsks, “Gotta stay still for me, pretty girl. I’m almost done, promise.”

You release a shaky sigh and nod, not trusting your voice to betray just how needy you were for him. Although the self-satisfied smile on his face told you everything you needed to know.

You try to control your breathing as he works on finishing, but your shallow breaths sounded loud in his living room. You love getting to watch him work normally, but the intense way he is looking at you- his eyes your favorite shade of Prussian blue now- is too much for your hummingbird heart.

Just as your skin was collecting layers of paint from his brush, the space between your thighs was steadily collecting your wetness. You were so desperate for him to touch you, the need made you want to crawl out of your skin.

You hear the sound of a watery swish and the clink of a brush against glass and your breath catches in your throat in anticipation.  

“God, look at you,” Bob breathes, reverently, “You’re so beautiful. This might be my best work ever.”

Instead of the paintbrush, you can feel the path of his flame blue gaze traveling over you as he takes in the art he’s made out of you.

You open your heavy eyes and see Bob wiping off his hands with a frayed towel.

“There she is,” he says, giving you a smile that makes your toes curl. You didn’t notice it sitting there with all his paints until he was reaching for it, his dad’s old film camera. He holds it loosely in front of him like a question, “Can I take a few just for me?”

The answer is easy, “Yes.”

You trusted Bob more than any other man you’d ever been with. He’s never once given you reason to doubt his words because his actions always spoke for themselves.

The guys you’d been with before had been boys, Bob Floyd was a man.

The tension between the two of you is thicker than the acrylic he’d been using earlier as he snaps photo after photo. You admire the way his muscles shift as he bends and angles himself to get the perfect images.

He stands over you, the lens pointed down at you, “Look at me.”

You can barely breathe. You feel yourself getting even wetter at the thought of seeing yourself through his eyes. No one has ever made you feel the way he does.

“Bob”, you whine.

The camera clicks.

“I know,” he hums, “You’ve been so good for me.”  He sinks to his knees between your legs and hooks a hand behind your knee, pulling it up so it’s propped on the floor. And then he does the other so that you’re sprawled open for him, just the way he likes you to be, “Just one more, darlin’.”

The heat in his eyes has dried up all the words in your mouth.

He trails a finger down the soft skin of your inner thigh and you gasp.

The sound of his camera reverberates in your head.

“You’ve made such a pretty mess,” he drawls, as he gently sets the camera on the floor next to you. “It’s a good thing I put something down. You’re damn near dripping.”

“Bob, please.” You arch towards him like a flower in the sun.

He settles between your thighs and pushes them apart further so that his broad shoulders fit between them. The paint is still drying on your skin, but neither one of you cares about that now.

“You were so perfect for me. I appreciate you staying so still.” He drops a kiss to the inside of your thigh. “Don’t worry, I know just how to thank you.”

Your body jolts at the first touch of his tongue on your clit. You can feel his smile against you, he knows exactly what he does to you.

Bob has always eaten you out like it’s what he was put on this earth to do.

Normally, he’s teasing you with gentle licks and tracing nonsensical shapes on your clit with his tongue until you’re a squirming mess for him. He knows your body so well, always building you up to the point where you’re breaths away from tipping over the edge and then pulls himself back before building you right back up again.

But tonight, there’s nothing playful about the way his mouth is working against you. His hot mouth is sealed to your clit. Bob hums in satisfaction with every keen and whine that he pulls out of you. He laves at you until you’re writhing underneath him, your thighs already shaking.

“Wanna paint you just like this,” he murmurs, sucking at the spot where your leg and hip meet. “But I don’t think you’d stay still long enough for me to finish.”

Bob dips down and gives you another long broad stroke of his tongue. He pulls back only long enough to spit on your cunt before diving right back in, chasing after his own taste on you.

Your hands are in his hair. Clutching at his shoulders. It’s taken him no time at all getting you to the point where you’re trembling and taut.

All the air leaves your lungs when he buries two large fingers into you. Your hips cant into his mouth on their own and he moans. Bob wraps an arm around your hips and presses down on your lower stomach to hold you in place.

You feel the paint smear beneath his warm palm. You were dying to see it. You hoped there was a handprint- his handprint- that disrupted all the lines and swirls of color that he’d decorated you with. Something that was distinctly him.

You were wearing his art and now you’re wearing him. The evidence of this moment in time on your skin.

His fingers and tongue weren’t enough.

You needed more.

“You cock, Bob, I need your cock,” you pant, tugging at his hair.

He meanly sucks your clit into his mouth in a way that has you crying out and jerking against him. You love it, you love him.

“God, I love it when you beg for me,” he licks into you again, “Sweetest sound in the world.”

Bob drops a sweet kiss on your clit, it’s a stark difference to the filthy way he’d been using his mouth on you. He rises to sit back on his knees between your parted legs.

He looks so good kneeling above you the way that he is. His cheeks are flushed and his hair is a mess. That knot behind your bellybutton twists tighter because you did that to him.

He unzips his jeans and tugs them down low enough to pull his hard cock out.

It’s pretty enough to be featured in a gallery, you think to yourself, even in your desperate haze. It’s long, thick, perfect and yours.

Bob smirks when he notices you admiring him, pumping himself slowly a few times for your viewing pleasure.

The only time Bob Floyd was ever a show-off was when he was in bed.

He grabs your thighs and pulls them over top of his own, so that yours are draped over his obscenely, and then he thrusts easily into you.

You gasp at the sensation of being so full of him. It always takes you a minute to adjust to his cock, no matter how many times you’ve taken it now. His thumbs make little circles along your hipbones as your body relents and yields to the size of him.

“There you go,” he says, rocking into you, working you open, “Just needed this cock, didn’t you?”

You whimper your agreement. Your hips tilt into the pressure like you’re trying to get as much of him as you can. Wanting to show him how much you can take. You know you’ll never get enough of him.

He fucks into you at a reckless and unrelenting pace. You’re high off the feeling of seeing Bob like this, that you’re the one who gets to see him unreserved and uninhibited. He has your hips gripped so tightly, keeping you closer than close. And when you clench around him, you’re treated to a wrecked groan.

Your skin prickles with desire and the feeling of paint drying on you. His cock is hitting just the right spot inside of you and you know you won’t be able to hold off for much longer, not with the way he’s grinding against your aching clit.

Bob’s eyes glued to the spot where you two come together. You’re on full display for him. He watches the way you stretch and spread around him with every deep thrust with the same appreciative gaze that he admires his favorite artists.

It’s under his river blue gaze that your orgasm swiftly sweeps you away. And with your back arching and thighs quaking around his, you give yourself up to the endless current of it.

You know he’s close when his hips start to stutter.

Bob pulls out of you and wraps his large hand around his slick-shined cock and works himself with rough, purposeful strokes.

This time he paints you with himself, his come covering your stomach.

The only sound in the room is the two of you breathing hard, trying to catch your breath.

“Jesus Christ,” Bob huffs, raggedly, taking in his handiwork, “You’re my masterpiece.”

You’re covered in paint and come, but you’ve never felt more beautiful than you do right now as he looks down at you in awe.

“Did you remember to sign your work this time?” you ask, out of breath but teasingly.

“I think I left my mark, darlin’,” he says, with well-earned smugness in his voice. You can’t help but giggle. He flops down next to you, throwing his arm over his eyes, “Goddamn.”

You prop yourself up onto your elbows to look at yourself.

“Baby, I think you gave Jackson Pollock a run for his money.” You grin widely when he lets out an amused snort. “Wait, where’s your camera?”

He passes it to you, the fondness in his eyes makes your chest feel warm. You scooch in close to him and hold it up above your heads, the camera flashes when you kiss his flushed cheek.

That picture is the first one that gets put up in the new house, the one the two of you chose together when he asked you to marry him six months later. Followed by the soft green landscape that now hangs above your shared bed.

It’s your favorite picture of the two of you, happy and in love. You can just see a hint of the cloud he’d painted on your shoulder.

That night Bob had decorated your body with the place he loved best.

He gave you the sky and he made you his world.

Happy birthday, Ames! Your gift will be mailed eventually, it really was a lesson in chemistry, lol! Enjoy a Bob fic just for you in the meantime!

A big, bigggg thank you to the Bob Babes/Lew Crew girlies! @callsignspark and @attapullman I appreciate you two so much for being such ultimate hypegirls! And thank you to @theharddeck, you helped me out of my writers block and I've been so excited to write this since we talked about it back in January!

You can read my other stories here!

taglist:

@gretagerwigsmuse @sehnsuchts-trunken  @callsignspark @notroosterbradshaw @tongue-like-a-razor @laracrofted @ofstoriesandstardust @bradshawsbitch @starryeyedstories @top-hhun-main @startrekfangirl2233 @callsign-viper @teacupsandtopgun @angelbabyange @oneelleandaneye @mizzzpink @cornishkat @alana4610 @20th-centu-fairy-girl @pono-pura-vida @donttouchmycarrots @eg-dr3amer3 @whaledots-blog @a-beaverhausen @hangmanscoming @mandolin22 @theweekndhistorybook @lilpeekabooze @high-bi-imgonnacry @ahintofkiwistrawberry @ruewrote @spiderman-stilinski @jayniebop @my-soulmate-is-mycroft @imaginecrushes @keyrani @chicomonks @artemissunn @mayempress @eddiemunsonreader

[myguiltypleasures21]

[weird-is-life]

Holding hands

Pairing: Clark Kent x fem!reader

Summary: You try the 'why aren't you holding my hand?' trend on your boyfriend Clark (0.3k)

----------------------------------------------------

"Clark, you hate me now?" You ask, stiffling a giggle as you walk a couple of steps behind him with your phone out and recording.

"Huh?" Clark asks in front of you, not stopping. His hands are full with bags.

You went for a little shopping spree, and ended up buying more shit than necessary. And Clark as always refuses to let you even lift a finger.

"Why aren't you holding my hand?" A small giggle escapes you as you see him manhandle all of the bags into one hand immediately. It looks very uncomfortable, but he doesn't seem too fazed by it.

He wiggles the now empty hand for you, and this time you laugh loudly as you reach out for it. "Sorry, sweetheart."

Clark says apologetically and you giggle even more. Why is your boyfriend so unbelievably sweet? Carrying all the bags for you AND apologising for not holding your hand? Yeah, you are a goner for this man.

"What's so funny?" Clark finally questions, the corners of his mouth up, too. "Are you recording?"

"Yes." You chuckle. And oh god, your friends are going to love this video. They were the ones that suggested that you should try this trend on your kind-hearted boyfriend.

"Okay." He just says, dropping a kiss to your forehead as you walk to his car. Your heels click against the pavement, you regretted wearing these kitten heels to go shopping an hour ago.

"Do your feet hurt badly, doll?" Clark asks, when he hears a soft wince from you. You never hit the stop button so the video keeps going.

"It's okay, we are almost at the c-"

You don't even get to finish your reply, when his muscled arm sneaks round your body and lifts you up.

You squeel and then laugh. You just fall in love with him even more when he does things like this. Your sweet, sweet boyfriend.

His hands are more than full now with all of the bags in one hand and you in the other, but his face screams happiness when he looks at you. Reflecting the feelings in yours.

-

Clark doesn't even ask about the video. Not until he comes to the Daily Planet and has the whole floor swooning at him, he learns about the little viral video you made.

[lazysoulwriter]

sunlight learns the rain

requested! thank you. content: comfort, rain cloud x sunshine boyfriend, soft intimacy

you don’t notice it happening at first. it’s subtle — the way your energy dips, the way your responses get shorter, the way your eyes linger a little too long on nothing at all. like your thoughts are somewhere else entirely, somewhere heavier.

johnny notices immediately. like always.

“hey…” he murmurs, nudging your knee with his, voice softer than usual. “where’d you go?”

you blink, like you’re being pulled back into the room. he’s sitting beside you on the couch, legs spread, one arm lazily draped along the backrest. all warmth and ease and light.

and you feel… the opposite. “i’m here,” you say quietly.

he studies you for a second longer than normal. not in a way that feels invasive. just… attentive. like he’s trying to read something between the lines.

and then he shifts closer. not dramatic. not overwhelming. just enough that your thighs brush.

“okay,” he says gently, like he believes you. like he’s not going to push.

but he doesn’t move away. at first, he tries to lift you out of it. it’s instinct.

johnny storm doesn’t do gloom — he burns through it.

he pulls you into his lap, warm hands settling on your waist, pressing soft kisses along your jaw, your cheek, the corner of your mouth.

“c’mon,” he murmurs against your skin, voice low and coaxing. “talk to me. who pissed you off?”

you huff out the smallest breath of a laugh. barely there, but it’s something.

he grins instantly, like he just cracked a code. but it fades when you go quiet again.

and that’s when it clicks for him. you don’t need to be pulled out of it. you need to be held through it.

so he changes. softens. adapts.

the next time it happens, he doesn’t ask questions right away.

you’re sitting on his bed, knees tucked to your chest, staring out the window while rain taps softly against the glass.

he walks in, takes one look at you, and his entire energy shifts. quieter. slower.

he doesn’t fill the silence. he just moves behind you, climbs onto the bed, and wraps himself around you like it’s the most natural thing in the world. your back to his chest. his arms around your waist. his chin resting on your shoulder.

warm. steady.

“hi,” he whispers.

you lean back into him without thinking. “hi.”

that’s it. no pressure. no fixing. just… him.

“we don’t have to do anything today,” he says after a while, thumb absentmindedly tracing slow circles against your arm. “like… literally nothing.”

you stay quiet.

he presses a soft kiss just below your ear. “i’m actually really good at that. professional nothing-doer.”

your lips twitch. he notices. of course he does.

“oh,” he breathes, like he’s impressed. “that was almost a smile.”

you let out a tiny laugh, muffled against your sleeve.

and he lights up — not loudly, not in a way that demands more — just warm, pleased, like he’s holding something fragile and precious.

johnny becomes obsessed with your little reactions.

not big, forced happiness.

never that.

he pays attention to the quiet things. the way you shift closer to him. the way your fingers hook into his shirt without thinking. the way your breathing evens out when he’s holding you.

he treats every small sign like it matters. because to him, it does.

sometimes, when it gets too heavy, you apologize. it slips out before you can stop it.

“i’m sorry i’m like this.”

his arms tighten around you instantly.

“hey,” he murmurs, turning you slightly so he can see your face. his hands come up to cup your cheeks, warm, grounding. “don’t do that.”

you look down, avoiding his eyes. he gently tilts your chin back up.

“you think i only signed up for the easy parts?” he says, voice softer now, but firm in a way that makes your chest ache.

you don’t answer.

he leans in, pressing his forehead to yours.

“i like you like this too,” he whispers. “i like all of you.”

your breath catches. because he means it. there’s no hesitation in his voice. no discomfort. no impatience. just… truth.

he doesn’t try to chase the storm away. he doesn’t burn it out of you.

johnny storm, all heat, all light, learns how to sit in the quiet, grey parts of you without trying to change them.

he becomes your constant. your warmth. the steady presence at your back when everything feels too much.

and when it passes… when you laugh a little easier, smile a little wider, shift into him with something lighter in your chest—

he notices that too. of course he does. his grin comes back, bright and soft all at once.

“there she is,” he murmurs, brushing his nose against yours.

like he never doubted you’d come back. like he was always going to wait for you.

✦ please do not copy, repost, or translate this work. © lazysoulwriter // i write with a lot of love and care, so please respect that.

[mourambles]

as a self shipper I am SICK AND TIRED of the anti-y/n propaganda !!!

“y/n is cringe and unrealistic” NOPE! Y/n is ME and EVERY CHARACTER IS IN LOVE WITH ME because I am CUTE AND SHY AND PRETTY.

all it takes is a bit of bravery.. and then you too can be y/n….