↳ write for: OBX, Superman, Drew Starkey, David Corenswet, Marvel
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Rules: MDNI. That’s really the only warning I’ll put cause I don’t control what media you consume.
I do not write anything incest or rape related. As well as writing for two characters from any series; i.e rafexkiara
I only write x reader as well as only gender neutral and female. I just don’t really know how write for male x male :/
I don’t mind spam liking so like away.
─ pairing: Ormund Hightower x wife!reader
─ summary: you and your husband engage in some intense roleplay.
─ content: 18+ MDNI | shameless, filthy, nasty smut | no plot | p in v | degradation | rough sex | illusions of sex work | fluff at the end i guess | no character description
─ a/n: i cannot believe this is nearly 6k words… just horny on main fr. as always, thank you for reading. 🖤
The petitions had continued endlessly. Each one convinced their particular trouble outweighed the last. Ormund had sat through them all: a dispute over a millstream, a merchant guild demanding lower tariffs, a minor lordling whose son had impregnated a farmer's daughter and wanted the matter handled quietly. Governance. The word itself was leaden on his tongue.
He sank lower in the copper tub, letting the scalding water close over his chest, his shoulders, until it lapped at the hard line of his jaw. Steam curled from the surface in slow ribbons, fogging the stone walls, beading on the cool stones of the floor beyond the tub's rim. The heat found the knots between his shoulder blades and pressed into them, not quite enough, never quite enough. He let his head tip back against the rim and closed his eyes.
Behind the heavy linen curtain that divided the bathing space from the rest of the chamber, voices murmured. Yours, warm, threaded with amusement, and the lighter, quicker tones of two of your maids. A burst of laughter, hastily smothered. The rustle of fabric. More whispering. He caught the edge of a word that might have been shameless and another that sounded like he won't. He did not trouble himself with it. Whatever plot they hatched behind that curtain, it was not his concern. His concern, at this moment, was the slow unclenching of his jaw and the heat working through the ache in his back.
Then the chamber door clicked shut. The maids' footsteps retreated across the outer stone corridor, their giggling fading to nothing. Quiet settled over the room like a lid pressing down, save for the soft pad of your feet moving about, and the whisper of something being drawn from a hook.
"Come here," he called. His voice carried the rough, low grain of exhaustion. He shifted in the tub, water sloshing gently against the sides. "Let me gaze upon you before you sleep."
A pause. Then the curtain parted.
Ormund's mouth opened. No sound came.
You stood in the gap of parted linen, backlit by the candles on the far side of the room, and every detail of you hit him in sequence, each one landing harder than the last. The slip you wore, if it could be called that, was the scantest, most indecent scrap of silk he had ever laid eyes on. Sheer where it ought to have been solid, the fabric clung to your body like water, tracing the curve of your waist, the soft swell of your breasts, the small peaks of your nipples pressing against the gossamer as though the material simply was not there. It ended high on your thighs, high enough that the bare skin below the hem gleamed in the candlelight. Two threads of ribbon held the whole construction up over your shoulders, knotted at the front, thin as twine. A single breath would undo them. Your waist-length hair fell in heavy curls around your shoulders, and your eyes, warm, bright with mischief, held his.
He recovered enough to find his voice. "Come closer."
You crossed to him without hurry, settling on the edge of the tub, your hip pressing against the rim, and laid your hand against the side of his face. Your palm was warm and soft. He leaned into it. The stubble along his jaw rasped against your skin.
"I have missed you," he said.
You bent and kissed him, lingering there, your mouth moving against his with a gentleness that had no urgency in it.
"I have missed you more."
He reached out, his wet hand dripping, and caught the delicate hem of your slip between thumb and forefinger. He held it, examining it as though he did not understand what he was looking at. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth; the slow, crooked expression that surfaced only when something genuinely amused him.
"Why, I wonder, is your clothing budget so high, when it does not appear you wear any clothes?"
"Ormund." You rolled your eyes. "This is for you."
"Oh?"
"It's meant to excite a husband's loins." You said it plainly. "All the ladies have garments such as this."
He laughed. The sound came from somewhere deep in his chest, unused all day, and it loosened something in him. "When, precisely, did you acquire this?"
"Does it please you?"
He drew back to look at you again. The shift in angle let the candlelight catch the silk differently. The dip of your waist, the flare of your hips, the shadow between your thighs, all lay bare to him. His eyes moved over you slowly, cataloguing.
"You look as if you'd be at home at a pleasure house."
You gasped. Your hand snatched from his face, and you drew upright, mouth parting in affront.
He caught your hand before it could leave him entirely. His fingers closed around your wrist, firm, not rough, and he drew your knuckles to his mouth. His lips pressed against them, warm and damp from the bathwater, and he held them there a moment before speaking.
"I do not mean it unkindly," he said against your skin. "Only that you look as though you were made to confuse good men and lead them to ruin."
You held his gaze. The affront in your face cracked, crumbled, gave way to something else.
"Would you spend your coin on me?"
"I would give all the gold in my treasury," he said, his voice dropping, "for a night with you."
Something shifted in your smile. It turned sly, knowing, the warm playfulness draining from it only to be replaced by something more calculated. The two of you were no strangers to bedroom games, and though this had not initially been your intention, you saw no reason to change course.
You knelt beside the tub. The stone was cold against your bare knees, and the contrast with the heat rising from the water prickled along your skin. You folded your hands in your lap, straightened your back, and let your voice drop into something soft, submissive, and wicked.
"I have never seen you here before, my lord."
He caught on at once. The exhaustion in his face rearranged itself, and when he looked at you, the softness of a husband's gaze was gone, replaced by something cooler, more assessing; the gaze of a man who had paid for a service and intended to inspect the goods.
"You remember every man who passes through these doors?"
"No, but I would remember a man as handsome as you."
"I'm not here for flattery." He leaned back against the copper rim, and the water sluiced off his shoulders, running down the hard planes of his chest, catching the candlelight. He let you look. The muscles of his abdomen ridged beneath the water's surface, and the hair on his chest, darkened by the wet, lay flat against his skin. His arms rested along the edges of the tub.
"Why are you here, my lord?" You let your gaze trace the line of his arm where it rested on the tub's rim. "Does your wife not satisfy you as a husband deserves?"
His mouth curved. The stubble along his jaw caught the light. "My lady wife pleases me greatly."
"Then why," one finger extending to trace the thick vein that ran along his forearm, "would a contented man spend his coin on a woman such as me?"
Your fingertip moved slowly. The vein stood out against his skin and you followed it from the crease of his elbow to the ridge of bone at his wrist. His hand twitched. He did not pull away.
"Do you make your living sending men back to their wives?" he asked.
"I'm only curious, my lord." You could feel his pulse beating steady and strong beneath the thin skin.
He leaned toward you. The water shifted around him, lapping at the copper sides, the space between you closed until you could feel the heat coming off his skin, see the fine details of his face, the specks of pale green caught in the blue of his irises, visible only at this distance, like chips of sea-glass in deep water.
"Because my lady wife is a delicate creature. Gently born, gently bred." His eyes moved over you, taking in the way your kneeling position pressed your thighs together and made the hem ride up. "I would never do to her the things I'm going to do to you."
Something flickered across your face. Heat, delight, the sharp thrill of a challenge accepted. Your lips parted, your hand still resting on his wrist.
"Very well, my lord," Your voice was barely above a whisper, but it carried in the humid air, clear and steady. "Use me as you see fit."
Ormund gave you a crooked grin. The kind that crinkled the corner of one eye and bared the edge of his teeth. He planted one hand on the copper rim of the tub and carefully stood, water sluicing off him in sheets, running down the hard ridges of his stomach and the thick muscles of his thighs. His body was a map of old violence: a pale ridge across his ribs where a blade had caught him years ago, a raised mark along one shoulder, the silvery seam of an old stitch-job curling around his left forearm. Light brown hair dusted his chest, trailing down the center of his abdomen in a thin line that thickened below his navel. His cock hung heavy between his legs, already half-swollen, and as he stepped over the rim of the tub without reaching for a towel, water cascaded onto the stone floor in a wide splash that went utterly ignored.
He straightened to his full height and looked down at you, still dripping, still grinning. "Stop gaping and come here."
You took a step back. His grin widened.
"Don't be shy now," he purred, closing the distance. His hand closed around your wrist. Not rough, not gentle, just certain, and he drew you forward until your body met his. The wet heat of his skin soaked instantly through the sheer silk of your slip, plastering the fabric to your stomach, your breasts. "Touch me."
You raised your hands. Your fingers found the swell of his chest first, palms flat against the dense muscle as you trailed your hands down. You felt his abdomen tighten beneath your touch in a reflexive clench, tracing the ridges of his stomach, fingernails grazing through the trail of hair below his navel. One hand traced the hard cut of muscle at his hip, that sharp V-line that angled downward like an arrowhead pointing the way, and his cock twitched; thick and heavy and hard now, lifting away from his thigh. You looked up at him and found his gaze already on you. His eyes were dark, pupils blown so wide the blue had thinned to a narrow ring; the heat in them sent a warmth racing across your skin, prickling down your neck, between your breasts, pooling low in your belly. You looked back down.
He took your hand. Guided it. Wrapped your fingers around the shaft of him; hot, impossibly thick, the skin velvet-soft over iron hardness, and held you there. "There you go." He rolled his hips, a slow, controlled thrust into your grip, and the head of his cock pushed through the circle of your fist, slick with bathwater. You felt him pulse in your hand, a heartbeat made flesh.
"My lord, you cannot possibly mean to—"
Ormund's grin sharpened. A callback to your wedding night when you had teased him with that very phrase. "I assure you, I mean to give you all of it."
You stroked him again, slow, deliberate, your thumb dragging across the sensitive head. He hissed through his teeth, eyelids fluttering shut for one unguarded second. When his eyes opened again, the playfulness had burned away. What remained was something harder, hungrier, the look of a man done waiting.
"Get on the bed. Spread your legs."
You turned and walked. The stone floor was cold beneath your bare feet, water from his body marking a trail behind him as you crossed from the bathing area into the space where your bed stood. You could hear him behind you. Not rushing. He stalked after you the way a predator tracked something wounded, not running, because running implied the prey might escape, and you were going nowhere.
You reached the bed, grabbed the carved footboard, and scrambled up onto the mattress on your hands and knees, linens bunching under your knees. Then a large hand locked around your ankle. Iron grip. He yanked, and you slid backward across the sheets with a gasp, the silk of your slip riding up your thighs, your legs dangling off the edge of the bed. You rolled over. He stood between your knees, looking down at you.
"Take that off. I want to see what I'm paying for."
Your fingers trembled. You reached up to the thin straps of the slip, hooked them with your index fingers, and slid them down your shoulders. The fabric peeled away from your skin with the dampness of his bathwater still clinging to it, and the material pooled at your waist, baring your breasts to the cool air. Your nipples tightened instantly; partly the chill, mostly him. You shifted your hips, lifting yourself, and pulled the garment down your legs, past your knees, off entirely, letting it drop to the floor in a wet heap of silk. You lay back against the linens, hair fanning out around you in a wild dark halo, and looked up at him through the candlelit haze.
"Am I to your liking, my lord?"
"Yes," he said. "Very much."
He climbed onto the bed and moved over you, not straddling yet, just close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off his still-damp skin, close enough that the head of his cock brushed your thigh and left a wet smear. He braced himself on one arm above you and looked down, the corner of his mouth curled up.
"Do you touch yourself?"
The question hit you like a slap. Heat flooded your face, your neck, your chest, blooming down to your sternum. "I beg your pardon?!"
He chuckled. Low, dark, the sound rolling from deep in his chest. "Do not take that tone with me; you are not my wife."His voice dropped a register, quiet and hard, the voice he used when issuing commands. "Answer the question."
You swallowed. "Y-yes, my lord."
He raised an eyebrow. The interest in his eyes sharpened to a point, the blue nearly swallowed by black. "Show me."
You lay back against the linens. Your legs fell open slowly, first one knee tilting, then the other, your thighs parting in increments, your breath coming shallow and uneven. You had never done this before him. Your hands moved down your body, fingertips tracing the plane of your stomach, the curve of your hip, dipping lower. You found your core with two fingers and ran them down the length of your slit, feeling the shape of yourself, the softness of the outer folds and the slick heat between them. You drew your fingers back upward, circling your clit with the pad of your middle finger, and a breath escaped you at the contact, your stomach tensing.
You brought your fingers back down. Found your entrance. Found yourself wet, dripping, honestly, the arousal thick and slippery on your fingers. You pushed one finger inside, and a moan spilled out, soft and unguarded, as you began to move it slowly in and out, feeling the walls clench around the intrusion. You looked up.
Ormund was flushed; his hand was wrapped around his cock, stroking himself in long, slow pulls, his eyes locked on what you were doing between your legs. His head was flushed, dark, weeping a steady thread of clear fluid that his thumb smeared across the crown with each pass. His jaw was clenched so tight the muscle in his cheek jumped.
"That's it," he said. His voice was shaky. Cracked at the edges. "Add another."
You obeyed. Pushed a second finger in alongside the first, and the stretch made you gasp, your head tipping back against the linens. You picked up speed. Your fingers curled inside yourself, stroking the spongy front wall of your cunt, and the sounds you were making- soft, hitching moans, breathless little gasps- filled the chamber, mixing with the wet noise of your fingers working in and out of you. Your hips rolled against your own hand.
Ormund's breathing was ragged. "It's not enough, is it."
You shook your head. It wasn't. Your fingers were slim and delicate and could not reach the places inside you that ached to be filled. Could not stretch you the way you needed, could not pound into you with the weight and force that turned your bones to water. You needed his thick fingers, his thick cock, the mass of him bearing down on you to truly stretch you the way you liked.
"Use your words."
"No, my lord, I—" You pulled your fingers free, slick and glistening, and before you could say another word, he caught your wrist. Lifted your hand. Brought it to his face, inhaling deeply, his nose nearly touching your wet fingers. The sound he made was animal, a low groan in his chest. Then he took your fingers into his mouth. His tongue swept between them, lapping at the taste of you, curling around each digit, sucking the slick from your skin with a wet, obscene sound that made your thighs clench together. You gasped. Your free hand gripped the sheets.
He released your fingers with a slick pop and crawled over you. His large body caged you in. Arms on either side of your head, knees spreading your thighs wider, his cock hanging heavy and hot between you, the shaft dragging across your stomach as he settled his weight above you. The sheer size of him blotted out the candlelight. His shadow swallowed you.
He leaned down, his mouth beside your ear, his breath hot and damp against your temple. "I hope you are prepared, because I will not be gentle with you."
A jolt of electricity ran through you, starting at the base of your skull and crackling down your spine, through your belly, straight to your cunt. Wetness pooled between your legs, a fresh surge of slick that you felt drip onto the sheets. The thought of him using your body, taking what he wanted, made your thighs tremble. Your breath came in short, shallow pants.
"My body is yours, my lord."
He braced himself on one hand, and with the other he reached between you. You felt his fingers wrap around the shaft of his cock, felt the broad head of him drag through your silky folds, through the wetness, the heat, and the friction of it; even that light contact made your hips buck. You placed one hand on his shoulder, gripping the hard cap of muscle, and the other on his bicep, feeling the cords of muscle flex beneath your palm.
He pushed into you. The full length of him drove into you in a single, brutal thrust, and you cried out, a raw, ragged sound torn from somewhere deep in your chest. You had not prepared enough, your fingers too slender, too few, for the girth of him forcing you open around his cock. You felt every inch. The sting was sharp and bright, and you loved it; loved the ache of it.
He pressed his weight onto you. His strong arms gripped you tight, pulling you against him as he sank even deeper, and you clawed at his back, fingernails raking down the sweat-damp skin, leaving red lines across his shoulder blades. He held himself there, buried to the hilt, and you felt him throbbing. A pulse that matched the hammering of your own heart. His jaw was clenched, his breath coming in short, harsh bursts through his nose. He was adjusting to the feel of you.
"You're so tight for a whore," he said through gritted teeth, and the words vibrated against your throat.
You managed to find your voice. It came out breathless. "My mistress reserves me for only the most special clients."
He leaned back onto his knees, his cock still buried inside you to the root. The new angle shifted him against your front wall, and you bit your lip. "Is that so?" he asked, one eyebrow arched.
You rolled your hips. The friction dragged a sound from both of you simultaneously. "Yes," your voice had gone half-wrecked already, trembling at the edges. "Rich men usually have small cocks."
He tilted his head. His eyes narrowed. The blue had vanished entirely; only black remained, bottomless and bright with something dangerous. Then, slowly, a grin spread across his face, the kind that preceded ruin.
"I am going to enjoy this very much."
He pulled out. The drag of him was slow; you felt every ridge, every vein of his cock as it withdrew. The suction of your cunt gripping him, trying to hold him in, until only the head remained inside, the thick crown stretching your entrance. Then he slammed back in. One brutal, full-length thrust that drove the air from your lungs and punched a cry out of your throat that echoed off the stone walls.
He did it again. Pulled out to the tip. Drove back in. You felt him carving his way into you, reshaping you around him, the drag of every vein against your swollen walls as he withdrew only to plunge back in, each thrust so deep it felt as though he were reaching your throat. The wet, obscene sound of skin meeting skin filled the chamber; squelch, slap, squelch, the bed frame groaning beneath you, linens bunching and twisting under your back.
You bit your lip. Pressed your mouth shut, trying to muffle the sounds climbing out of your throat. He noticed.
"No. I pay for those sounds." His voice was rough. "Let me hear them."
He delivered another harsh thrust; deeper, harder, his hips cracking against yours, and the moan that ripped out of you was loud, uncontrolled, bouncing off the walls. Your back arched off the bed.
He picked up his pace. Thrust after thrust of him using your body for his pleasure, his hips driving forward in a relentless, battering rhythm that shoved you up the bed until your headboard rattled with each impact. You could hear yourself; wet, desperate, the sounds you were making beyond your control, moans and gasps and broken syllables that might have been his name.
"Harder," you begged, the word coming out a sob of want.
His hand found your throat. His fingers wrapped around the front of your neck; not squeezing the airway, but pressing, claiming. The weight of his palm against your pulse. Both your hands flew to his wrist, wrapping around the bone, just holding on. He slammed into you harder. Each thrust driving the breath from you, the sound from you, the thoughts from you.
He had never handled you like this. Never spoken to you this way. Each filthy word that dropped from his mouth, each degradation, each dark praise, traveled straight to your cunt like a physical touch, making you clench and drip around him.
"You dirty whore," he growled, his thumb pressed against the side of your neck, feeling your pulse hammer. "Getting off like this. Wanting to be fucked like this."
You could only moan. Heat overwhelmed heat. Your skin was burning where his body met yours. The coil of pleasure wound tight in your belly, a spring being compressed to its limit. You felt the hair at the base of his cock grinding against your clit with every thrust, the friction sending sparks up your spine, and it was so much, too much, the sensation layering and building until you could barely breathe—
Your orgasm hit you. Hard. Your whole body seized, clenching in violent, rhythmic spasms around his cock, your back arching off the bed, your nails digging into the thick muscle of his back hard enough to leave crescents. You came with a sound that was half-scream, half-sob, your thighs clamping around his hips, body shaking. He groaned above you, a deep, guttural sound, and you felt his rhythm falter for one stroke as your spasming cunt milked him.
He continued fucking into you through your orgasm. Each thrust prolonged the waves crashing through you, drawing them out, stretching the pleasure into something almost unbearable. You whimpered, oversensitive, your hands falling away from his back to grip the sheets, twisting the linen in fists. He rode you through the aftershocks, his pace still brutal, still relentless, until the pleasure edged toward pain.
Then he released your throat and stilled his hips. You blinked up at him, dazed, as he pulled out of you. The sudden emptiness was shocking. You were gaped open, fucked loose and swollen, slick with your own arousal, clenching around nothing. You opened your mouth to speak. He flipped you over. One hand on your hip, rolling you bodily across the rumpled sheets, and you found yourself on weak hands and weaker knees. Ormund's hands gripped your hips. The broad head of his cock pressed against your entrance, still slick with your orgasm, and you felt him lean over you, his chest against your back, his mouth near your ear.
"My turn," he said.
He pushed in, slower than before but still splitting you open, filling you so completely that there was no room for anything else. No air, no thought, just the overwhelming reality of being fucked.
He began to pound into you like an animal, snapping his hips forward with enough force to rock the heavy bed frame against the stone wall.
"Take it," he snarled, his voice unrecognizable.
He released one side only to snatch both of your wrists, yanking them behind your back, pinning them there, using the leverage to force your upper body down into the mattress. Your face was pressed against the linens, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps. The bed creaked and groaned under the assault, the wooden frame sounding as if it might splinter at any moment.
Your arms were useless, trapped in his grip, legs trembling violently, your muscles burning from the strain of maintaining the position on your hands and knees. Slowly, your knees gave out. Ormund let your wrists go as you collapsed, allowing you to fall flat against the mattress. He followed you down, covering your body with his while he continued to thrust into your prone form.
The angle change hit you deeper, rubbing against spots inside you that made your vision white out. He slowed his pace just fractionally, grinding into you instead of thrusting, torturing you with the depth.
"Are you going to peak again?" he rasped against your ear, his breath hot and ragged.
You let out a groan and nodded your face against the sheets. "Already?" he mocked, his voice dripping with dark amusement. "What kind of greedy whore finds her pleasure twice before a customer achieves his once?"
You could only babble, incoherent pleas falling from your lips, your mind shattered by the relentless stimulation. "Please... Ormund... I can't..."
He reached around your hip, his fingers finding your swollen, sensitive clit. He rubbed it roughly, in tight, fast circles, matching the tempo of his hips. You screamed his name as the second orgasm tore through you.
"Fuck!" Ormund roared.
He slammed into you one final time, burying himself to the hilt, and held himself there as his body seized, spilling inside you, his cock pulsing as he filled you with his seed. He groaned low in his throat, his eyes squeezed shut, every muscle in his body locked in a rictus of pleasure.
Then he pulled out slowly. The movement dragged a whimper from your lips. He shifted back, kneeling between your legs, and watched with fascination as his cum began to leak out of you. It was a thick, white trickle, running slowly down your thighs, mingling with the slick evidence of your own arousal. You looked thoroughly fucked, used, ruined in the best possible way.
Ormund threw his head back, his skin glistening with sweat in the dim light. "Fuck," he breathed, the word a prayer.
The energy in the room began to settle, giving way to a heavy, sated exhaustion. He collapsed onto the bed beside you, lying on his back and staring up at the ceiling as his heart rate slowly returned to normal.
After a moment, he turned onto his side. He reached out with a gentle hand, wiping the sweat-soaked baby hairs from your forehead and brow. His touch was tender now, a stark contrast to the moments before. You opened your eyes to look at him. They were glassy, unfocused, but filled with a deep, lingering warmth.
"Are you alright?" he asked. The game was over. The role shed, leaving only your doting husband.
You nodded, unable to find your voice just yet.
"I have never..." He started, then stopped, shaking his head as if unable to articulate the magnitude of what had just passed between you. He groaned as he sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. His body ached in the most satisfying way.
You continued to just lay there on your stomach, thinking of what had passed. Your mind was a haze of pleasure, the boundaries between the fantasy and reality blurring.
Ormund stood and walked across the room, his movements slow and heavy. He returned a moment later with a warm, damp cloth. The first touch of it between your legs made you gasp. You were sensitive, swollen from the rough handling, and even the gentle pressure was intense.
"I'm sorry," he murmured. "Relax."
He wiped you so gently, cleaning away the mess of your coupling with a care that belied his earlier ferocity, taking his time, ensuring he was thorough. When he was done, he discarded the cloth onto the floor and pulled back the heavy duvet, gathering you into his arms as if you weighed nothing. You curled into his chest, burying your face in his neck.
"You were so perfect," he whispered into your hair, pressing a kiss to your temple.
You shifted, propping yourself up slightly on his chest to look at him. A shadow of doubt crossed your features, a vulnerability that hadn't been there during the game.
"Is that what you need to be happy?" you asked softly. "Have you been unsatisfied before in our marriage bed?"
Ormund looked at you, blue eyes serious. He reached up to stroke your cheek, his thumb brushing over your soft skin.
"I am very happy. More than I deserve."
He leaned in to kiss you, a slow, deep kiss that tasted of salt and lingering desire. He pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours.
"If I made you feel as though— I am sorry."
You kissed him again, laying your head back on his chest, listening to the steady thrum of his heartbeat. The fear dissolved, replaced by a warm glow of security. You traced idle patterns on his chest, your mind drifting back to the thrill of the act.
"Next time," you murmured sleepily. "I am in control."
Ormund ran his hand down your back, soothing you. "Oh, really?" You could hear the smile in his voice. "What would you like to try?"
You smiled against his skin, a mischievous glint returning to your eyes. "Perhaps I can be a princess, and you can be a dark knight holding me for ransom."
Ormund laughed out loud, a deep sound that startled the quiet room. "You're going to fuck your way to freedom?" You smacked his chest, feigning outrage. "I will not tell you my desires if you are going to laugh!"
He caught your hand, interlacing your fingers, rolling you both over, shifting his weight so he was looking down at you. The playfulness in his expression softened into something warmer and infinitely devoted.
"I will be anything you want me to be," he said, his gaze holding yours captive. "Servant, king, beggar. Whatever you wish."
ormund hightower x wife!reader, mom figure!reader & daeron targaryen
cw: spoilers for ep 4!!, found family trope, reader thinks of daeron as her own, tension, religious themes, slight manipulation, fluff fluff, motherly reader!!, hurt/comfort, reader is very protective of daeron, emotional distress, quarelling, ormund does love his wife, petnames (my love, sweetheart, sweetling), (2.7kw).
synopsis: A child doesn't need to come from the womb to weave his way into your heart. Your husband knows as much.
a/n: this was a wip since the second episode sitting in my drafts, and now with episode four out, it sparked me to continue it! i love daeron so much, and so does reader. they're a dysfunctional family, but they make it work! guys this piece is very dear to me okay it's my baby i love it so much.
"From King Aemond."
"King?" You frown, looking at the young squire for confirmation, which he gives with a slow nod of his head.
"Yes, my lady," Daeron says, brows pinching, mimicking your bewilderment. "The messenger said so himself when he delivered the letter to Lord Ormund."
You huff, the news rattling you a bit, sighing as if the weight of what must've transpired back in King's Landing is already heavy to carry. "Gods helps us all."
Daeron's expression turns sympathetic as he sees your mood sour, prompting you to step closer, one hand moving to brush his cheek as you speak, your tone hushed but warm. "Don't give me that look," you scold, but it contradicts the softness of your touch and tone. "There's nothing to worry about." Your thumb smooths over his cheekbone, motherly and reassuring, as you always do when he's putting others' emotions onto his own young shoulders. "Ormund will know what to make of it."
"As always."
Both of you perk up at the familiar voice, watching as your husband enters the tent through the flaps, one eyebrow raised as he assesses the scene, eyes narrowing at the sight of your hand cradling Daeron's cheek, jaw clenching minutely. "Such matters are not for wives," he shoots you a look, "or squires," his voice dips to a firmer tone as he glances at Daeron, "to worry about." Ormund closes the flap behind him before continuing, seeking privacy. "Or talk behind their hands like gossiping mongrels where I cannot hear."
You feel Daeron tense beneath your hand, and your thumb brushes his cheek to soothe, huffing as you hold your husband's gaze. "The boy was just relaying information to me, which I am grateful for." Daeron relaxes under your touch, which makes you hum, sneaking him a small smile before turning your gaze back to Ormund. "As any squire would."
"He is my squire."
"I borrowed him," you counter, lifting your chin, not backing down.
"You cannot borrow someone's squire. It is unheard of."
"And yet you are hearing about it now. Novelties are common during wartime, are they not?"
The corner of Ormund's lips twitches for one moment at your audacity before he scoffs, eyes narrowed as he holds your gaze enough to let you know this will not be the end of this conversation. It sends a shiver down your spine.
"So they say," he responds, stepping closer, motioning with one hand towards the flap of the tent. "Go see what that beast of yours is doing, won't you? There are matters I must discuss with Lady Hightower." Ormund's tone is firm, brooking no argument as he waits for Daeron to obey, the young boy nodding curtly, before turning to do the same to you, albeit a touch more reverent.
"My lord, my lady."
You smile, thumb tracing his cheek once more before he moves, letting your hand fall to your side, watching as he makes haste towards the tent's exit.
The silence he leaves behind is thick for a heartbeat, two, before it is broken by your husband's voice. "You coddle him incessantly," he reprimands, face scrunching in distaste, as if such a thing offended him personally. "Petting him like a cat and cooing at him as if he were but a babe."
Being a touch theatrical has always been one of your husband's most endearing traits, and one of his most daunting, as you sometimes remind him, to his annoyance. You will never admit that poking at that certain flaw of his tickles you greatly, just as it does now.
"He is young," you combat, "and this is his first ever war. A gentle touch would do him well."
"Too gentle of a touch will soften him overmuch and he will not be fit to fight alongside me, as is his duty," your husband counters, tone resolute as he takes slow, measured steps towards you, eyes narrowed, jaw clenched. "You know this."
And you did. The importance of coming out victorious was paramount to your husband, his house, and his cause. Seating the rightful heir on the Iron Throne was the one thing that mattered most, and Ormund was hellbent on seeing it through to the end, by any means necessary.
"I am aware," your tone softens, sighing as you reach for him, hand touching his cheek as you did Daeron, but the difference was stark in the way you offered your affection, thumbing at the cut of his cheekbone with intent, leaning in until your breaths mingled. Ormund frowned, knowing you were trying to appease him, but didn't pull away, instead leaning into your touch, tilting his head into the cradle of your palm, eyes boring into yours. “But someone has to soften the rigour you instill in him, husband, for he shall not be cruel, but just, even in times of war.”
“Being just is not enough,” he protests again, and you can feel his jaw tighten beneath your hand, which you try to soothe with soft swipes of your thumb along the bone, a touch that he welcomes, despite the turmoil in his gaze. “If one needs to be heartless, then the Gods have willed it so.”
Your brows pinch together, the urge to try and make your husband see reason slowly curdling into something acrid. “Since when have the Gods willed a young boy to cruelty, Ormund?” Your tone is no longer soft nor warm, sharpening at the mere thought of Daeron being made into something he was not meant to be. “Is this what the Seven Pointed Star had taught us all these years?”
Ormund’s eyes widen for a fraction, the use of his name in such a cadence from you and the sting of your words halting his breath. He knew how fiercely protective you were of the boy, like a lioness with its cub, even if not yours by womb. Now it was his turn to try and bring back the sweetness in your tone, for he shall never admit it, but having his wife cross with him was a fate he did not particularly enjoy.
“My love,” he murmured, and tried not to react when he saw your expression pinch even more at the fond moniker. “Sometimes, in the midst of war, we cannot abide by all that The Faith has taught us, no matter how much we wish to grace the Gods with our deeds.” Ormund took a breath, trying not to get irritated when your pretty face didn’t soften an inch. “And that boy is fated to sit The Iron Throne, for his blood is pure, and not savage, and his teachings are proper, and not the stuff of legends long past.”
Sit the Iron Throne.
You took a step back, recoiling from your husband as if burned, the warmth of your touch no longer on his cheek as you whispered, mortified. “Sit the Iron Throne?”
Such plans were news to you, for Aemond was to be the rightful heir now that Aegon was gone. But it seems your husband’s ideals reached further than you could’ve ever conjured up yourself. Was it because Aemond was to be sent to Harrenhal? Did your husband believe Rhaenyra’s forces would slay Vhagar and thus leave the throne with no one to occupy it?
“No,” you said, resolute, fingers starting to tremble as you curled them into fists at your side. “I will not have my boy thrown into that den of vipers that we’ve tried so hard to keep him safe from.”
Ormund’s chest rattled with the deep breath he took, as if preparing himself for the onslaught of your dissatisfaction to come. “He is not—”
“Don’t you dare!” Your tone was sharp as steel, voice rising, all pretence gone now that your husband had braved to utter those words to you, knowing how much they would chip at your tender heart. “You know just as well as I that Daeron is more mine than anyone else’s. I have raised him since he was a babe—”
“And you have done so valiantly, my dear, but—” Ormund tries to soothe, but the bitter taste in your mouth from his words is more pungent than anything he could say to save himself from your wrath.
“Do not patronise me so!”
Your chest is heaving, and you feel those damnable pinpricks behind your eyes, moisture dampening your lash line, tears slowly forming, as if already feeling the grief of losing one of the things you cherish most. “King’s Landing is a wretched place, devoid of honour and swarming with enemies, and you want to send our—”
Our son.
But you stop, chin wobbling, not daring to say such a thing now, knowing it will do no good, and only make your husband protest further.
The sweetest boy, who hid his chubby little face into your skirts and clung to them when nightmares came at night, is now sentenced to a life you know he does not wish for. You can already feel your stomach churning with trepidation just at the thought, your gaze unwavering despite the tears brimming in your eyes to shoot daggers at your husband, who stays unmoving before you, looking equal parts irritated and unsure of how to proceed in the face of such strong emotions.
“I cannot, Ormund,” you whisper, voice breaking around the edges. “I shall not let you make a scheme of my boy just to fuel your own ambitions.”
You expect your husband to protest, to scream and rage and rip the very tent you’re in apart in his hands, but he does none of those things. Instead, he watches you, as calculated as he’s ever been, as if devising a plan to turn your sorrow into something for his own gain, or so you think.
What you do not anticipate is for Ormund to sigh, long and suffering, before walking towards you, lessening the distance between your bodies until his sword hilt bumps against your hip. “Do you believe that I am doing this solely for my own gain, my love?”
And you want to argue that, yes, you are certain of such things, for your husband was never one to not think of himself or his family first and foremost. But you don’t get to verbalise that, Ormund’s voice, softer than before, carrying that tone which could melt the marrow of your bones in mere seconds, but now, your impending grief is too great, your sorrow hardening you too much for such mellowness so quick.
“I do it for us,” he says, tilting his head to the side, bringing your faces closer, noses almost brushing. “For our legacy. For the future of House Hightower, which is now in ruins given the death of Otto and the usurpation of the King.”
You wish to protest, but your husband does not let you, sensing the argument on the tip of your tongue before it forms, a habit he picked up after more than a decade by your side, knowing you inside and out.
“Ascending Daeron to the throne will grant us power beyond our imagination, and allow the boy to live in a world of his own making.” The words are just and sound, but they do not go through you; the image of your sweet Daeron sitting upon that blasted throne full of swords and lies is too heavy on your heart.
“He will be in grave danger,” you croak, tears brimming along your lash line, slowly slipping down warm cheeks. “People will seek to harm him, to demand favours he’s not ready to offer, to—”
“And I will be in his shadow, making sure none of that comes to fruition,” Ormund says, tone brooking no argument, his gaze holding yours, willing you to see the seriousness of the matter. “If anyone dares to conspire against our boy, I will have their heads before they can draw their next breath. You have my word, sweet wife.”
Our boy.
You draw in a trembling, wet breath, your husband’s words breaking your heart and putting it back together in one fell swoop, a quiet, choked sob parting your lips as you try to utter a word back, anything to dismantle Ormund’s words, but you cannot.
“Oh, my love,” he coos, and it does not sound as condescending as it should’ve, as Ormund would pity those around him who show weakness. No, not with you. He wouldn’t dare make a spectacle of your tender, caring heart, which has grounded him many a time in his darkest, most turbulent moments. “Come here, sweetheart. Do not weep so.”
And you, powerless to resist, take the small step which is needed to bridge the distance between you, allowing your husband to cradle you in his arms, holding you as gently as one would a flower, but firm enough to make it known he wishes not to let go anytime soon.
One of his broad palms settles along your back, slowly smoothing down from the small of your back to the nape of your neck, the other anchored to the back of your head, coaxing you to rest your face along his throat. “Shh, shh, sweetling,” he whispers, turning his head to brush the words against your temple before pressing a soft, lingering kiss against your brow. “I will never let anything befall you or the boy. You know that with certainty.”
You do.
Gods, you do, but the fear that gripped your heart like a vice at the thought of such a grand plan was more powerful than reason and proof. Ormund had always gone above and beyond to ensure you and Daeron were safe at all times, even when he was away, instructing guards to follow you around like shadows and sit unmoving at your doors while you slumbered.
“I-i know, but the peril that awaits him if—”
Another kiss brushing your skin halted your incoming spiral, the feeling of your husband’s warm, rough lips against your temple melting you further into the safe strength of his arms, a haven in itself as you feared for what was to come. “The peril shall not exist. Our boy will have me, you, and more men-at-arms that I can count to keep him away from harm. In that, you must trust. In me, also.”
Your arms, which have hesitated until now, moved to grip at the back of your husband’s tunic as you embraced him tightly, needing a rock to cling to, nuzzling your face into his throat, dampening his skin with your tears as you sobbed quietly. “I trust in you more than life itself,” you croaked, and felt the pleased hum your words elicited from Ormund, as if the thought of you confiding in him so wholeheartedly brought him immense satisfaction. “But not that place, those people, that damned chair.”
“And you are right to do so, my love,” he approved, slowly putting weight from one foot to another, guiding your bodies into a gentle sway from side to side, meant to soothe you further. “Gods know everything the Targaryens touch is defiled beyond words. But we shall change that. Make it our own. A place where we and the boy can build a world fit for us alone.”
It sounded too good to be true, like a fairytale the septas would whisper to babes as they grew older, but the determined tone of your husband’s voice made you want to cling to this fantasy as well.
“Just us and our boy?” You murmured, fingers curling tighter into Ormund’s tunic, as if you could etch the very hope of such notions into his very bones.
“Yes, my sweet,” he whispered, brushing another lingering kiss to your temple, eyes fluttering shut as he held you close, still swaying. “Just us and our boy.”
Ormund Hightower who reluctantly takes his wife with him when the Hightower army marches towards Kings Landing because he cannot bear to be apart from her and she cannot stand knowing that he is leaving for battle and might not come back.
Ormund Hightower that keeps his wife’s handkerchief tucked into his armor and pulls it out to press into his nose whenever a reeking commander or soldier approaches him after being summoned for new orders.
Ormund Hightower that orders his wife to stay in their tent at all times because it’s too dangerous for a lady of her birth to wander around soldiers but the in reality he doesn’t anyone in the camp ogling her and getting funny ideas about his wife.
Ormund Hightower marches into their tent buzzing with anger after getting a message from Kings Landing saying that he is meant to remain where he is and wait for Aemond to come on Vhagar before he can make any other move.
Ormund Hightower who takes his anger out by fucking his wife into the mattress — lewd sounds, desperate moans and grunts could be heard by anyone that passed their tent. He himself couldn’t care less by who heard or who knows that he’s fucking his wife — for him it’s even better because they all will know that she’s only his.
Ormund Hightower who takes his wife while she’s on her hands and knees, his hand wrapped around her throat to tilt her head back to rest on his shoulder, her back pressed to his chest, hair sticking to her forehead and eyes glossy with tears because of how well he fucks her. His cock hits all the right places making her clench on him and whine pathetically while his hand chokes her slightly.
Ormund Hightower whose hand slide off her throat to press into her lower belly when he cums — deep inside her, his seed planting another heir, another son for house Hightower and he throbs at the mental image of her swollen and filled with his child bearing the fruit of his love for her.
Ormund Hightower that pressed his nose into the heated skin of her shoulder as she breaths — trying to stop the tremor of her muscles after he finally pulls out
pairing : garrett graham john logan dean di laurentis john tucker x 𝒇 ! reader
𝗢𝗥 𓈒 𓈒 they overhear you singing the lyrics to juno
contains : established relationship fluff & smut unprotected sex cumming inside dirty talk gif credits to @lerabova 𝘄 ｡ 4.2k
GARRETT GRAHAM :
“Wanna try out my fuzzy pink handcuffs?” You quietly sang along to the song playing through your earbuds as you scrolled through your Pinterest feed, saving all the cute pictures in their proper sections. You were lying on your stomach in your boyfriend’s bed, your freshly pedicured feet were absentmindedly swinging to the tempo of the song.
Your boyfriend was sitting at his desk, his hair messy from him constantly running his fingers through it in frustration as he tried to understand what he was studying. His laptop and notebooks had his full attention, or at least you thought it did. When Garrett invited you over after practice, he made it clear that he had to study before he could give you all the attention you deserved. But his attention was stolen by you the moment he heard you singing those provocative lyrics.
He quietly slipped off his headphones and set them on his desk before he got up from his chair. His lips twitched up into a small smirk at how cute you looked in his shirt, wearing nothing else but your fluffy socks and your baby blue panties that were barely peaking out from under the shirt. As soon as the two of you got up to his room, you were undressing and changing into your favorite shirt of his.
“Gare?” You hummed in confusion at the sudden warm touch of his hands on your ankles, softly pushing your elevated legs down on the bed so he could straddle your thighs. You giggled at the feeling of him pressing his chest against your back, holding himself up with one hand while the other pulled out your earbuds for you.
Garrett smiled at the sound of your laughter, leaning down to place soft kisses along your shoulder and neck, all the way up to your ear, where he teasingly nibbled at before whispering huskily, “The answer is yes.”
You felt chills go down your spine at your boyfriend's tone and the feeling of his warm breath tickling your neck. You tilted your head to the side, your breath hitching from how close his face was to yours. You swallowed slowly and sassily responded, “To what question?”
His smile quickly changed into a cocky smirk when he noticed your body's reaction to him. His eyes dropped to your lips before slowly looking back into your eyes, his tone teasing, “I’d love to try out your fuzzy pink handcuffs.”
+
“Fuck, Baby,” He groaned, a wonton moan quickly following after through his parted lips. The fuzzy pink handcuffs he had pulled out of the drawer of his bedside table with a smirk held him taut against the headboard. The soft plush of the handcuffs mocked the raw tension in his restrained muscles. He took pleasure in the feeling of the cuffs digging into his skin.
His gaze that burned into you was filled with desire and amusement as he watched you move up and down on him, your boobs bouncing with your every movement, creating a mouthwatering, hypnotic sight. His jaw clenched as he watched you move so perfectly, his chest rising and falling with ragged breaths.
The headboard creaked rhythmically with your movements as Garrett strained against the restraints. A satisfied smirk on his face despite being restricted.
“Fuck—you feel so good,” your voice was strained as you breathed out, your hips rolling in a deliberately slow grind as you felt your thighs trembling from how deep he felt, your fingers digging into his chest. Your voice is a breathless, shaky exhale that caught in your throat with each movement as you went faster, your words barely holding together between the pleasure, “So deep inside me…holy shit, baby—“
“Jesus.” A low, rough moan escaped his lips, his head falling back against the headboard at the feeling of you clenching around him. His gaze never once leaves you as you roll your hips faster, dragging another ragged moan from his throat. Your words, the sight of your boobs bouncing in his face, and the look on your face, crumbling in pure pleasure, had him absolutely wrecked.
“Fuck, baby—I’m gonna cum.” He growled through clenched teeth as he planted his feet on the bed, his hips bucking up to meet your frantic pace. His abs contracted as he tried not to break the restraints. His face was twisted up in an intense pleasure, his eyes locked on where the two of you were connected, watching himself disappear inside you. Your tight heat and lewd pace made it impossible for him to hold back.
The sound of skin slapping against skin echoed lewdly through his room, mixing with their moans and grunts. Your thighs burned and trembled uncontrollably as you rode him with frantic desperation while his core ached from his frantically bucking up into you, both of you chasing your highs. His biceps bulged and ached, the cuffs biting into his skin as he fought the overwhelming urge to break free and grab your hips to fuck you properly.
A choked-out cry of pleasure tore from your throat as your orgasm slammed into you and rippled through your body. Your walls clench viciously around him like a vice, triggering his own undying. Garrett threw his head back against the headboard, a loud moan ripping from his chest as his hips jerked sloppily off the mattress, as he buried himself to the hilt, as he emptied himself deep inside you.
Your tired body immediately leaned forward in exhaustion as you came down from your shared highs. Your boobs were heavy and soft against his broad, hard chest, sweaty bodies melting against each other. Your breath was hot against the sweaty skin of his neck, pants leaving your parted lips. Your eyes fluttered closed, your eyelashes creating shadows across your cheeks.
Garrett grinned cockily at the sight of you so completely fucked out on top of him, how you nuzzled your face into his neck, scrunching your nose at the ticklish feeling of his slightly damp curls from sweat, brushing against your forehead. His chest vibrated against yours as he chuckled breathlessly, the handcuffs rattled against the headboard as he shook his hands, whispering teasingly, “You gonna let me out of these?”
JOHN LOGAN :
Logan caught on fast. He knew what you were doing before you even played that damn song; the ‘subtle’ hints you were dropping weren’t so subtle. For days, you had been sending him cute videos of babies throughout the day, during class, during his practices…all the parents looked to be close to your guy’s age. He noticed the change in you ever since the two of you babysat your baby nephew; you wanted a baby…with him.
“One of me is cute, but two though?” You sang along to the song of your choosing, that way playing through the speakers of your boyfriend's truck. Your fingers fiddled with the bracelet you wore—a gift from Logan—as you looked out the window so Logan wouldn’t see the mischievous smile on your lips.
The corners of Logan’s lips twitched up into a knowing smirk as he listened to you sing, glancing at you before focusing back on the road. He shook his head as he let out a small chuckle, his right hand moving to rest on your thigh, softly gripping into your plush skin. He spoke smoothly over the music, “You know, all you had to do was ask.”
“Hmm?” You did your best to hum in faux confusion, as you turned to look at him, your breath hitching at the sight of your boyfriend’s toothy grin. Your eyes traveled slowly across his features, his brown eyes that you fell in love with, the perfect slope of his nose, his dark scruff, his brown curls brushing against his nape, and down to his Adam's apple, you loved to nip at.
Your eyes dropped even lower, down his neck, you wanted to kiss, to the gold chain you loved to tug on, to a little of his chest hair that was peaking out from his loose flannel, the first few buttons being unbuttoned. Something he had done on purpose because he knew it drove you crazy, especially when you were sitting across the table at Malone’s, just counting the minutes until the two of you left your friends and you could finally pounce on him.
His hand on your thigh moved up, squeezing harder. Your eyes went back to his lips, watching as he slowly licked them before they twitched up into a cocky smile as he repeated his words so smoothly, “All you had to do was use your words and ask me to put a baby in you.”
Logan chuckled as he felt you squeeze your thighs together, his words clearly affecting you. He slipped his fingers under your skirt, so close to where you wanted him the most. His cocky smile turned into a smirk as he continued in a seductive whisper, “But you have to be a good girl and say please.”
+
The cold night air that slipped through the slightly opened window did nothing to cool their heated passion in the steamy truck. The truck rocked back and forth as Logan thrust deeply into you. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the truck along with their mixed moans and heavy breaths. The sound of a Bon Jovi song playing faintly on the radio.
“Look at you, angel—so pretty for me.” Logan cooed with a breathy moan, his breath hot on your chest as he mouthed at your tits and collarbone. Your dress collar was pulled down, giving him the perfect sight of your sweaty, bouncing tits.
“Logan, please—don't stop!” You cried out, that hand tangled in his hair softly tugged on his strands while the other held onto his waist, pulling him in deeper if that was even possible. A loud groan left his lips at the pleasurable sting of your tug on his hair. He used the momentum of his hand resting on your head on the seat—his other hand was cradling the top of your head, protecting it from hitting against the door from his heavy thrusts—to quicken his pace.
“Yeah?—want me to make you a mommy?” Logan grunted in your neck with a low moan, his eyes nearly closing in pleasure at the thought of you, round with his baby. You nodded fast, mind too clouded with pleasure to find the words. He moved his hand from the bench of the truck to grip your chin, turning your face back towards him. His face is so close to yours that when he speaks, his lips brush against yours.”Tell me.”
“Please—please, I want your babies…fill me, John.” You sobbed desperately, your voice broken and whiny. The heat, the feeling of his sweaty body pressed against you, the pleasure—it was all too much and just what you wanted. Your hand on his waist moved lower, your nails digging crescents into the plush skin of his ass.
”That’s all you want, baby?—to be filled?” He rasped, his voice thick with lust and want. His breaths were getting faster against your neck as he felt your walls clamp around him, milking them both closer to their release. Logan's eyes nearly rolled back at the sound of your babbling begs, leaning in to capture your lips in a messy, passionate kiss. One of his hands travels downwards, grasping the curve of your ass and pulling your hips up to meet his frantic thrusts.
“Take it.” He manages through clenched teeth, his voice strained as he breaks from the kiss, a string of saliva still connecting him. His forehead dropped to your shoulder as he let out guttural moans, his balls slapping hard against your ass as he spilled deep inside of you. You felt everything, every pulse, every twitch, and hot jets of cum filling you up.
Your vision went white as intense waves of ecstasy went through your body, your hands pawing at him and your eyes rolling back. You cried out his name, a shaking, sobbing mess of pleasure as you reached your peak, incoherent babbles leaving your lips as your mind went blank. Logan didn’t stop, fucking you through your orgasm and into a blissful high with lazy thrusts until the two of you were whimpering and trembling messes.
DEAN DI LAURENTIS :
Dean bit his bottom lip as he quietly stopped in his tracks in the doorway of the kitchen, trying to blink the sleep from his eyes as fast as he could as his eyes zeroed in on you, his jaw nearly going slack. He had woken up alone in his bed from a nap—he was exhausted after practice and convinced you to get back in bed with him—to the sound of you singing and dishes clinking.
You stood at the counter, whisking something in one of those fancy bowls Tucker had bought them as a housewarming gift. From where he was standing, you seemed to only be wearing one of his shirts, his eyes lingering on the way your hips swayed to the beat of the song that was playing from the Bluetooth radio on the counter.
Dean was quiet as he walked up behind you, smiling at the cute gasp of surprise you let out when you felt his arms wrap around your waist. You paused on whisking the cookie dough when you felt your boyfriend's strong arms wrap around you. Dean groaned dramatically as he dropped his forehead to your shoulder. “You are driving me fucking crazy.”
“What did I do now?” You couldn’t help but giggle at your boyfriend's dramatic grumpiness in his tone. Dean moved his arms from around your waist to rest his big, warm hands on your hips, pulling you back flush against his chest, letting out a small groan at the feeling of you pressed against his hot skin.
He pouted and rubbed his nose against your neck needily before muttering with an accusatory tone, “You singing those lyrics! God, I can’t concentrate on anything.”
You bite your lip to stop yourself from smirking triumphantly. Instead, you put on a faux innocent smile before licking the cookie dough off your finger, shrugging, “Oh!…oops.”
“Oh, that’s all you have to say, princess, hmm?” Dean teased you with a playful, dramatic huff as he slipped one of his hands under your shirt to softly caress your stomach. He admired your side profile, how pretty you looked as you smiled, clearly enjoying his dramatics.
His eyes dropped to your hands, watching how you put perfectly sized circles of cookie dough on the cookie pan. There was just something so domestic about seeing you wear his shirt, hair messy from their shared nap, baking in their kitchen, and singing those naughty lyrics about wanting a baby. He wanted nothing more than to have a family with you. He rested his palm on your stomach, just imagining.
Dean let out a loud groan as his imagination started to run completely wild with more thoughts about you. His hold on your hips tightened as he closed his eyes and whined needily, “Fuck now, all I can think about is putting a baby in you.”
You smirked at how whiny your boyfriend sounded. You tilted your head to the side so he could hear you better as you slowly whispered flirtatiously, “If you let me finish these, maybe you can.”
+
You pulled away from the messy kiss with a small gasp, your eyes fluttering open at the sound of silverware hitting the floor, echoing through the kitchen along with the lewd sound of skin slapping on skin. Dean didn't seem to care about the interruption; his thrusts didn’t falter as he now started kissing and sucking down your neck. Your words barely forming with all the moans slipping through your parted lips, “Dean—fuck! Be careful.”
“You feel like fucking heaven.” Dean purred in your ear with a cocky grin, teasingly nipping at the sensitive skin on your neck, making you whine and purposely clench around him. The rhythm of his thrusts faltered as he let out a choked-out whimper that he would never admit to making. The cocky look on your face was gone as soon as it appeared. One of his hands that gripped your hips slid up to grip the back of your neck, tilting your head back.
“You’re taking me so well, such a good little slut for me.” Dean moaned breathlessly against your lips, moving his hand from your neck to grip your jaw, forcing your mouth open. You let out a needy whine at the feeling of him thrusting into you deeper. He leans in closer, not breaking eye contact as he spits in your mouth, a slow grin spreading across his face at the sight of you eagerly swallowing it with a loud moan.
“That’s it.” He praises you, his thumb pressing down on your tongue to keep your mouth open, the sounds of your gag going straight to his cock. He thrusted into you faster, using his grip on your jaw to hold you in place, not breaking eye contact, watching as you galled apart on his cock. The wet, lewd sounds of their passion filled the kitchen.
He gave your jaw a gentle squeeze before he moved his hand back down to your hip, sliding his hands down to dig his fingers into the plush of your ass, pulling you closer to meet his thrusts as he changed his angle to fuck into you deeper. He could feel your thighs trembling around him, the way your walls were clamping around him, how your moans got louder.
“Cum on my cock, baby, feel me filling you up.” His voice was husky with want, holding himself from cumming deep inside of you; he wanted to feel you fall apart on his cock first. His demands and frantic pace push you hard over the edge. Your back arches, eyes rolling back as your orgasm crashes into you, everything about it was loud and intense.
“Dean, don't stop!” You cried out, a small hiss of pleasure leaving your boyfriend's lips at the feeling of your nails digging into his skin. Your pussy clamps around him, speaking his cock as you completely fall apart around him. Your head lolled back against the cabinet, tits bouncing with his hard thrusts, the sound of deans grunts and loud moans mixed with your whines and high pitched moans.
“God, you’re milking me, princess—fuck!” Dean lets out a loud guttural moan at the feeling of your walls holding onto him for dear life. It pushes him deep into your sweet spot, flooding your walls with his hot cum as he continues to fuck you through both of your orgasms’ aftershocks. Not stopping until it was too much for your sensitive bodies.
Dean placed wet, lazy kisses across your shoulder and neck, his hands softly rubbing your trembling hips and sides, your body still clinging to him. He slowly pulled away from your sweaty skin to grin teasingly at you, softly bumping his nose against yours “Think those cookies are ready? We’ve worked up quite the appetite.”
JOHN TUCKER :
Tucker watched you with a small smirk as he leaned against the doorframe of your bathroom, watching as you leaned over the bathroom sink to look closer into the mirror as you did your eyelashes. He pushed himself off the doorway and moved to stand behind you. You were so used to his touch that you didn’t flinch when he rested his hands on your hips. He softly caressed your sides with a smile as he asked: “Who’s Juno?”
You pulled the mascara wand away from your eyes and set it down on the counter as you pulled back from the mirror, gaping at your boyfriend in disbelief. "You're kidding—you've never seen Juno?”
You watched as he shrugged carelessly, shaking his head no with that cute smile you loved. You roll your eyes playfully with a dramatic sigh of false disappointment as you stand up straight. You keep your eyes locked with his eyes through the mirror as a teasing smile decorates your face. “Remind me why I'm dating you?”
Tucker chuckled and moved one of his arms up from your waist, flexing his muscles at you in the mirror with a wink. He wore that slutty muscle tank that he knew drove you crazy, showing off his stretch marks you loved to kiss. He smirked as he answered you with a flirty tone, “Oh, my muscles definitely.”
You giggled at his flirting as you turned around to face him, leaning back against the counter as you tilted your chin to look up at him. Tucker rested his hands on the counter as he leaned in closer to you, successfully trapping you. He licked his lips, clearly enjoying how you looked up at him through your eyelashes.
He leaned even closer, his accent thicker as he whispered: “So are we?”
You rest one of your hands on his hip, fidgeting with the waistband of his sweatpants, before you lean forward to place soft kisses on the little sliver of skin not covered on his shoulder. You raised your eyebrow and let out a small hum of confusion, “Hmm?”
Tucker let out a small groan with a mixture of a moan at the feeling of your lips on his now warm skin, along with the feeling of your fingers teasingly slipping under the band of his sweatpants. All thoughts of joining your friends at Malone's were long gone in their minds. He moved one of his hands from the counter to cup your jaw, whispering with a faux innocent smile, “Gonna try out some freaky positions?”
+
Your body felt beautifully spent with an ache that settled into your limbs from the intense, flexible position he coaxed you out of. Your body practically melted into the sheets as he carefully rolled you onto your stomach. The sudden shift made your body protest, but the weight of his sweaty body pressing against your back as he placed a wet kiss on your shoulder made the soreness completely worth it.
Your chest was smushed against the sheets of your dorm bed, makeup no doubt dirtying your soft sheets. Your boyfriend let out a desperate moan at the sight of your wet pussy. Your ass was perfectly hiked up in the air. Tucker's rough hands gripped your hips with a bruising force as he fucked into you with one heavy thrust.
“Tuck!” Your loud cry of pleasure was muffled by the sheets, the sound vibrating through the sheets. The thrust stole the air right out of your lungs as you let out a choked-out whine, your fingers scrambling desperately to grip onto the messy sheets. The feeling of him thrusting deep into you was too much; everything felt so sensitive, you were so close to your high before Tucker changed the position.
”That’s it, baby, you can take it.” Tucker whispered in your ear; his voice was low, and you could hear his smirk. How could he not feel cocky at the sight of you, a mess on his cock. Your face smushed against the mattress, your mouth parted as filthy moans left your lips. A thin string of drool escaped the corner of your mouth, and your eyes glazed over in lust.
”Tuck…oh god, John!—so good!” You moaned loudly, mixing with the sound of his pelvis slapping against the plush of your ass, echoing through your room. Neither of you cared about being quiet. You reached back, your trembling fingers gripping onto his wrist and pulling him forward with a desperate whine.
You didn't need to say anything else; he knew what you wanted.
He slipped his arm under your neck, guiding you into a hot and sweaty headlock that had your head spinning and your body melting into his. He wasted no time as he began to thrust into you with an intense hunger, that coil in his stomach getting tighter.
“Fill me up—please, John!” You begged him, your words slurred and broken as you continued to babble on about how bad you needed it. You were nothing but a trembling, drooling mess beneath him, completely lost in the pleasure from his cock and praise. Your nails dug into his arm, nearly sobbing as you tried to grind back against him, you couldn’t even finish your thought, so cock drunk, “Please! John, can I—ahh!”
“Since you asked so nicely—my greedy girl,” he rasped in your ear, his voice thick with lust as he let out a guttural moan. He felt your walls clenching around him, desperately milking him and pulling him over the edge. Tucker moaned into your ear, his hips going still with a choked-out whine as you felt thick ropes of his cum fill you up in heavy spurts.
The feeling of him filling you up, along with his sloppy thrusts, brings you to your peak. You were completely gone, your body trembling and brain completely going blank as your orgasm ripped through your body. Leaving you a moaning and whining mess.
Tucker chuckled breathlessly at the small whimpers and pants leaving your lips as the two of you tried to catch your breath, minds still foggy in pleasured haze. He placed a wet and long kiss on your shoulder, smiling as he mumbled: “Wanna watch that movie now?”
┊࿐ ❛❛ continue on to my…. 𝙢𝙖𝙞𝙣 𝙢𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩 ❜❜
Ი𐑼 actually obsessed with the layout for this one , I wanted to post this sooner but I was just oh so busy to finish it !! I really hope you guys like it , writing smut is always so hard for me 💔 please tell me your thoughts , feedback is always appreciated and so are comments and reblogs , luv you bbys 🐇
also I am a proud lover of them em dash <3
᧔᧓ if this seems familiar it’s because I’ve taken it from my old blog and rewrote and added to it !
The Heart Rate Challenge… 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒶𝓃 𝒶𝒸𝒸𝒾𝒹𝑒𝓃𝓉𝒶𝓁 𝒽𝒶𝓇𝒹 𝓁𝒶𝓊𝓃𝒸𝒽
𝒢𝒶𝓇𝓇𝑒𝓉𝓉 𝒢𝓇𝒶𝒽𝒶𝓂⁴⁴ 𝓍 𝓌𝑜𝓂𝑒𝓃’𝓈 𝒽𝑜𝒸𝓀𝑒𝓎 𝒸𝒶𝓅𝓉𝒶𝒾𝓃!𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇
𝕗𝕖𝕒𝕥𝕦𝕣𝕚𝕟𝕘 || 𝚕𝚘𝚐𝚊𝚗, 𝚝𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛, 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚗, 𝚑𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛 + 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚞
6.8K words 𝒷𝒶𝓈𝑒𝒹 𝑜𝒻𝒻 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓈 ⁀➴ 𝒶𝓈𝓀
𑣲⋆𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚒𝚜𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚜𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚝
c/w ᝰ.ᐟ jealous as hell!garrett, everyone’s kissing, lap dances, accidental hard launch, stripping adjacent, brief oral from the back, unprotected p in v, squirting, situationship, fingering, roughish, pet names (baby, babydoll, my baby, my girl + no y/n), language, w.a.m., bf/gf discussions + local briar man suffers while dressed like a sexy!cowboy 🍹🌊🦩🏝️
Garrett has watched seven girls come through that doorway already and he couldn’t tell you a single thing that happened because every time the door opened, he looked to see if it was you.
Every girl has done the same thing all night, dancing on laps, flirting, kissing whoever they’re standing in front of. The entire point of the challenge is getting reactions out of people.
Which would be fine, if you weren’t participating.
A handwritten poster board leans against the kitchen island with betting totals scribbled across it in black marker, names crossed out and rewritten every few minutes as people throw another ten dollars into the pot, slipping their ticket into the jar of their favorite “islander” to win.
Sixteen athletes, eight guys, eight women—an unsanctioned charity event between Briar’s sports teams turned too hot to handle.
Music pounds through the speakers overhead while people fill the downstairs area. Love Island is still playing somewhere in the background on the flatscreen TV, reruns of the Heart Rate challenge episodes running on a loop while the real one plays out between the people packed into the living room.
Dean sits forward. Hunter starts gossiping before anybody can see who’s coming. Because after nearly fifteen minutes of waiting, it’s finally your turn, and every guy on that couch had been counting down to it.
The last time they’d all seen you, you were at the rink screaming at an official over a bullshit interference call before burying a shorthanded overtime winner.
Most of the guys in the room had only ever seen you in Briar hoodies and workout gear, hair shoved underneath a baseball cap, showing up at the rink for morning skate. None of them were mentally prepared for this.
And neither was he. Garrett knew you better than anybody else in the room. You didn’t know how to half-ass anything ever. The second you’d agreed to this challenge, Garrett should’ve known you were going to play to win.
Garrett knew exactly what was about to happen. You’re going to work your way down that couch. That’s literally the point of the game.
He knows they’re going to enjoy every second of it.
His hand freezes halfway to his beer as you step into the doorway wearing a fitted button-down tucked into a plaid skirt.
The sleeves are rolled neatly to your elbows, top few buttons undone just enough to show off the lace bra underneath. A pair of black-framed glasses sit on your nose. Your stockings squeeze your thighs, the little lace detail making him physically weak. High heels. A wooden ruler tapping against your palm as you survey the room—Garrett Graham was absolutely fucked.
You’re dressed like every college fantasy Dean has ever had in his entire life, and Garrett can already hear him giggling into his cup beside him.
He drags a hand across his mouth and manages to look away for approximately half a second before his eyes drift right back.
You adjust your glasses and smile sweetly at the room. “Alright, boys,” you announce, pointing the ruler toward the crowd. “Class is in session.”
Garrett’s eyes stay locked on the screen in front of him, shutting out the first two dances with some assholes from the basketball team completely. He tries to focus on seeming unaffected, like you weren’t moving exactly how he’d hope someone would given your little arrangement.
Casual, unattached, free to have fun with other people. And in those times when you were seeking something more reliable, more familiar, you’d link up. The issue is, Garrett wasn’t doing that. And he hadn’t for a while, and sitting here in this moment, he realized just how long it’s been since he broke that agreement completely.
You walk over to Tucker and he sinks farther back into the couch cushions, looking up at you. The gladiator costume suddenly looks a lot less intimidating when he’s staring at you with the same expression a golden retriever gets when somebody opens a bag of treats.
You slap the ruler against your palm as a slow smile pulls at your mouth.
“Well, Mr. Tucker,” you say, adjusting your glasses. “I reviewed your grades before class tonight.”
You take a step closer, resting the ruler beneath Tucker’s chin before lifting it lightly.
“Questionable,” you decide.
Tucker’s eyes go wide before he plays along immediately. “Professor, I can explain.”
“Can you?”
“No.”
The answer comes so fast that even you start laughing.
You sway your hips with the music, one hand settling on Tucker’s shoulder while you continue your little routine. Your lips find his skin, your fingers drifting around the back of his neck as he tilts for you, a grin spreading across his face as you dance.
The room breaks in applause as Tucker helps you off his lap, the look on his face begging you to stay as a soft “wait” falls from his lips, making everyone laugh.
You make it three steps before stopping in front of Beau. The pirate hat is already halfway off his, his button down shirt opened wide. You look him up and down thoughtfully.
“Hmm,” you hum and he straightens up and you tap your chin with your finger. “You’ve actually been doing really good lately.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “Yeah?” He asks hopefully.
The smile tugging at your mouth gets bigger.
“Mhmm,” you smile, opening your shirt, one more button, reaching into the top of your lace bra, pulling the sparkle star sticker out.
“Wooooah,” he slurs and the room hoots and hollers as you peel the sticker off the sheet, opening his shirt a little more to press it against his skin.
Beau’s mouth falls open as the sticker sparkles on his chest, looking down at it like he actually earned this shit.
“Proud of you,” you whisper as you tilt in, smiling against his lips, feeling him sink into the couch before you kiss him softly.
“Thank you, baby.”
The words mumbled past Beau’s lips and hit Garrett like a punch to the chest. The knife twists when he chases your lips as you tease him, rewarding him with a kiss.
Hunter sits sprawled next to him, beer balanced casually against his knee while his other foot bounces impatiently.
Garrett drops his head into his hand, rubbing at his forehead like maybe if he covered his eyes this would all stop happening as you stand up.
Hunter’s hands open subtly in anticipation, ready to take you into his arms when you settle on top.
“Look at this asshole,” Dean chuckles against the rim of his drink and Davenport turns his head, smiling in agreement. Hunter doesn’t even deny it.
You stop directly in front of him, and Hunter’s eyebrows lift as you slide your glasses off.
You climb onto Hunter’s lap, your knees pressing into the old couch cushions. Hunter lets out a rich laugh that makes Garrett want to throw his drink at the wall.
“Jesus Christ,” the words leave Garrett before he can stop them, but nobody can hear it over the music.
You turn the glasses and place them directly on his face, tilting in slowly, letting the tension build between the two of you until the corners of his lips curl in a smirk.
“Such a fucking nerd, Davenport,” you whisper and he throws his head back against the couch before looking at you again.
You grab his face between both hands, squishing his cheeks together, kissing his pouted lips before your fingers thread into his hair.
You draw back, tilting away slightly, his gaze catching on the lowest button of your shirt before drifting higher as you grind on top of him. He grins smugly, thoroughly enjoying the moment.
The worst part was that Garrett had already had his chance. Last week the two of you had ended up alone after everybody else left, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder while the party died around you.
The conversation had shifted for a second. Not long, but long enough for him to realize you were giving him an opening, and long enough for him to panic and do what he always did when something started feeling a little too real.
He’d laughed, made some stupid joke, changed the subject, and spent the rest of the night pretending he hadn’t noticed it happen.
Garrett drags the cold bottle across his mouth and looks down before he does something stupid.
“Can you believe this shit?” Logan sighs through a smile.
“I am having a terrible, terrible time,” Dean lies, the widest smile stretching across his face as you walk toward Logan.
Garrett watches Hunter watch you walk away.
One of Hunter’s hands rests along the back of the couch while the other comes down to adjust the shorts of his officer costume because they’re suddenly too tight. Hunter licks his lips, his gaze following the sway of your hips and the brush of your skirt on your upper thighs.
The room feels ten degrees hotter. Garrett shifts in his seat and drags a hand across the back of his neck, trying and failing to ignore the nervous sweat gathering there.
You twirl the ruler once between your fingers as you approach Logan, dragging the end of it slowly across the front of his chest, over the referee jersey.
Logan follows the ruler with his eyes.
“Talking in class?”
Logan doesn’t even hesitate. “Yes.”
“No shame!” Dean adds, tossing up his hands, playing along.
You click your tongue and shake your head.
“That’s disappointing.”
“I’m sorry, professor,” he answers eagerly.
“Turn around,” you breathe, and Logan scrambles to do just that, and whack! The party breaks out in laughter as you smack him playfully on the ass. “One,” you call and the party screams out three more along with you.
Logan spins back around laughing so hard he can barely catch his breath, your hands twist into his shirt, pulling him to your lips, and without warning he lifts you off your feet.
And Logan’s still grinning when you lean down and kiss him, your hands moving from his shirt to his hair, tugging enough to pull a groan from his lips as his head tilts back.
He sets you down on your feet and you smile, reaching for a breath, your eyes still locked on Logan’s as you walk away. Garrett tears his eyes away, his heartbeat pounding in his ears because the touching and kissing was bad enough, but that look—that smile. That’s his.
And he did this all to himself. You hadn’t even wanted to do this.
He remembers standing in the rink two weeks ago while they tried to recruit. You’d laughed, called the whole thing silly, and said you’d cheer them on. Garrett had been the one telling you to do it. Told you it’d be fun. Told you people would love you. ‘Just don’t overthink it, baby.’
Now he’s the fuckin’ baby overthinking everything.
“Mr. Di Laurentis,” the words drip honeyed past your lips, and the second they do, Dean cups a hand beside his ear, asking to run that back.
Dean sinks his head back against the couch as he looks back up at you. “Say it again.”
You roll your eyes and laugh, placing your hands on your hips. “Mr. Di Laurentis.”
Dean squeezes his eyes shut for a second, nodding like that scratched an itch he’s had for a while. “Yes, professor.”
Then the second you’re within reach, he grabs your waist and pulls you straight down into his lap. The crowd roars.
Your back lands against his broad chest and Dean drops a quick kiss against the crook of your neck like he just can’t help himself.
“What did I say about phones in class?” You ask as you take his phone off the couch from beside him, flicking a finger to pull up the camera.
Dean’s arms tighten around your waist as the picture snaps. His laughter vibrates against your skin, more than happy to have that saved in his phone while his best friend struggles beside him.
You start to grind on his lap where you sit, his blue eyes tracing over your body. The view is almost too much. That little bra somehow even more distracting than before. His big hands find your thighs, thumbs tracing under the hem of your skirt.
You’re thrown off balance for half a second, reaching out instinctively to catch yourself, resting on the nearest thing, which happens to be Garrett’s thigh.
The contact lasts barely a second.
But Garrett still feels it.
That same hand slides away from Garrett, hooking loosely around Dean’s neck instead. You let the ruler hang loosely at your side before tilting your head.
“Aww…” You coo as you slip off Di Laurentis’s lap, smoothing out your skirt, glancing down at Garrett. “It’s the class pet.”
The entire room erupts. You take another step forward and Garrett’s hands find your waist, pulling you down to him, not waiting for you to settle yourself.
Your nose brushes against his, your fingers drifting up his neck into his hair just like they do when you’re alone. The noise around you fades until all that’s left is the way Garrett is looking at you.
Your lips brush against his as his hands steady you, gripping your ass in his big palms.
“My favorite student.” The words barely leave your mouth.
“Yeah?” He mumbles. “You rehearsing these lines?”
“Maybe,” you smile. “I like to win.”
“Holy shit,” he sighs, because that’s just another thing he loves about you. Cheering swells around you when your lips part and his tongue finds yours, guiding you to rock on top of him to the music.
You pull away and his lips chase after yours, leaving Dean and Logan snickering beside him, Di Laurentis shoving at Garrett’s shoulder because he’s so far gone and everyone can see it.
But, that was way too fucking short for his liking.
Now he’s sitting here thinking about Dean’s picture, Logan’s kiss, Hunter’s dance, even that stupid fucking sticker on Beau’s chest, somehow convincing himself everybody else got more than he did. He knows it doesn’t even make sense, but he can’t stop keeping score like some petulant little kid.
He’s spiraling.
“You’re up, Graham,” you whisper against his lips.
Garrett’s eyebrows pull together, his expression saying he’d completely forgotten there was a challenge.
“M’pretty comfortable where I am,” he answers, his rough thumbs catching on the soft lace on your thighs.
“We’re playing a game,” you giggle, stepping off his lap, but he’s quick to stand.
“Are we?” He hums as his face turns in closer to your ear, his hand resting on your waist to keep you close as the other boys move toward the kitchen without him.
He pinches your chin between his fingers and steals another kiss. Your hands land on his stomach, his skin warm and tight underneath your hands before he pulls back, adjusting the cowboy hat on his head.
You watch him disappear into the crowd, settling behind the kitchen island with the rest of the boys as the music pounds through the speakers.
The challenge keeps moving as Garrett stands behind the kitchen island with the rest of the boys, a fresh beer in his hand and absolutely no peace left in his body.
Empty cans and cups cover every available surface. Every set of eyes in the room is fixed on the challenge. Especially Garrett’s.
The first guy goes, and Garrett can’t even bring himself to watch, scrolling through his phone trying to look busy—pulling up the weather app to pretend he’s doing something.
The captain of the Briar basketball team, Cash Suzuki, drags his attention right back anyway. His name leaves your lips, the familiarity in your voice making Garrett sick.
He leans down and steals the smile off your lips with a kiss and Garrett’s throat tightens, his chest aching as your fingers twist into the front of the construction vest.
He flips you on the couch and you gasp, straddling his waist, his hands resting on your lower back.
Garrett bites his lip nervously, nodding like he’s physically trying to tell himself he’s okay. That he can have fun like this.
The crowd starts screaming when Tucker pulls the armor over his head. The movement is awkward enough to make you laugh, the plastic getting stuck on one arm before he finally yanks it free.
The grin on his face only gets bigger when you clap for him. By the time he flexes one arm dramatically and kisses his bicep through his laughter, half is chanting his name.
Hunter takes a page out of Tucker’s book, popping the buttons of his shirt open one by one as the crowd completely loses its mind around him. The second it comes off, he spins it once above his head like a helicopter before tossing it somewhere into the party. He goes for his handcuffs next, binding your wrist before he kisses you deep.
Beau announces that he’s on the lookout for buried treasure, which can only be found by kissing along your foot and working up your thigh.
Logan’s referee jersey is two sizes too small, riding up enough to expose the hard lines of his stomach when he throws a flag in the air. He stands in front of you, towering over you, dipping down just enough so the whistle dangles in front of your lips, trying to sound sexy, but it comes out through a half-laugh when he tells you to “blow it.” You bury your head in your hands, hiding your smile, your cheeks hot and burning from your grin as you do just that.
Garrett drops his focus to the counter, ring tapping against the surface anxiously. Dean’s phone starts vibrating on the kitchen island, completely unattended.
Garrett reaches for it without thinking it through, Dean’s hockey number on repeat unlocks the phone on the first try.
The camera roll pops open. He finds the picture. The one Dean took while you were sitting in his lap. The one Garrett has been trying not to think about for the last fifteen minutes. He deletes it, opens the recently deleted folder, and does it again so it sticks. Permanent delete.
Not because he doesn’t trust Dean to do it himself. He doesn’t even think that far. His thumb moves before his brain catches up, erasing the only thing anybody could point at and get the wrong idea from.
The moment it’s gone, Garrett just stares at the screen.
“…She ruined me,” he mutters under his breath.
He locks the phone, sets it right back where he found it, and drops his head into his hand with a quiet sigh.
He really has lost his fucking mind.
“Abs!” The crowd screams and your hands rest on Dean’s stomach, tracing down each one as his hips sway. You gasp when he grabs you, flinging you over his shoulder like a firefighter mid-rescue. Your skirt flips forward, doing nothing to hide your little booty shorts underneath—Garrett’s hand tightening around the bottle as his possessiveness flares.
Logan claps him on the back, snapping him out of it. “G, you’re up,” he smiles but Garrett’s already pushing off the kitchen island.
He breaks through the crowd. His eyes find yours and the corners of your mouth lift. He takes a breath, focusing on the task at hand, ‘cause he’s got this, right? This is what he wanted.
The first girl smiles up when he approaches, and Garrett can’t help but smile back as he throws an invisible lasso, giving her a wink.
She waits for what comes next—the contact, the kisses. Instead, she gets little more than a bit of movement before he heads to the next one.
He just stands there for a second, completely blanking on what to do next. Her hands reach for his stomach instantly and Garrett’s abs flex as his breath catches, the whistle of approval that slips past your lips, pulling his attention right back to you.
By the time he reaches the third girl, the crowd starts to die down because it’s painfully obvious that Garrett Graham is not participating in the challenge. He’s cutting through it.
He looks down at the third girl and can’t make himself do it. Not that she isn’t stunning—she is. Her little halo sits lopsided on her head, her corset practically defying gravity.
Garrett glances over at you, and one eyebrow arches in his direction because this is not the Garrett Graham you know. This is not the Garrett Graham who can’t keep his hands to himself or his lips off anything. He’s completely lost in thought.
“There we go, buddy,” the boys cheer him on from the kitchen as he helps the next girl to her feet, the crowd going crazy for something—anything.
“Kiss her. Kiss her. Kiss her.” The room breaks out in a chant.
Garrett looks down at her with a polite smile, spinning her under his finger. Her hands wrap around his waist when she gets the opportunity, her chin tilting up for a kiss. He leans down and presses a quick kiss to her forehead and a few people giggle around him.
And by that point he’s over it. He holds out his hand for the fourth, giving her a high five.
“G, this is Love Island, buddy. You’re givin’ the boys a bad name. Shake some ass or somethin’,” Logan shouts.
Garrett doesn’t even acknowledge it, giving the same treatment to the fifth and sixth girls down the line, all “good game” high fives as they look back at him baffled.
“Here we fuckin’ go,” Tucker and the guys cheer from behind the counter and, for the first time all round, the room actually starts paying attention again.
Garrett stops in front of the seventh girl and reaches for the leather vest hanging open on his broad shoulders. People whistle as he strips it down one big arm, then the other, biceps flexing as he slides the vest off nice and slow, tossing it in her direction.
The crowd erupts and Garrett winks, tossing her a set of finger guns. The cheering dies almost instantly when he steps away.
“What the hell was that?” Dean shouts over the music.
“What?” Garrett laughs, throwing both hands up. “I’m participating.”
“You’re not!” Logan yells from the kitchen.
“Virgin Mary over here.” Dean barks. “Graham, are you Catholic?”
“Fuck off,” Garrett chuckles, taking off his hat with one hand, carding his fingers with the other, blowing out a sigh of relief as he makes his way over to you.
You tip your chin up toward him and smile, so genuinely happy to see him that even he gets a little bashful, especially with you sitting there looking like that. He bites his lip as he leans down, his big hand resting on the back of the couch. “You look so fuckin’ good,” he hums against your lips.
For the first time all night, there’s no one between you and him, no one blocking his view, no one fighting for your attention, and no one making him sit there pretending this doesn’t bother him.
You’re right in front of him now, looking back at him in that little skirt and those cute glasses, your glossy lips tugging into a smile, and Garrett finally feels like he can breathe.
“Babydoll?” He drawls, settling his hat onto your head, the room responding with catcalls and whistles of approval. He draws back, grabbing your hands, running them down his strong chest, over the ridges of his abs, straight to the top of his shorts.
“Garrett,” you breathe, tilting your head slightly.
“Legs in the air,” he tells you and your heart starts to race, one of your teammates reaches over, grabbing your arm with secondhand fluster. “What did I say, huh?” He asks with a smile, and a sparkle in his eye as he grabs your bare thighs. “Legs in the air.”
You scoot down the couch and the second you do he dives in, hooking his strong arms under your thighs, practically folding you in half as he wraps them tight. You gasp and the crowd roars as he lifts you off your feet, the man bouncing you along with the beat of the song, rutting so hard you have to catch your hat to keep it on your head as you laugh.
He sets you back down on the couch, pawing off the handkerchief around his neck, taking it between his hands. You’re breathing heavily now, smiling ear-to-ear.
“Hands,” he mumbles, and you bind your wrists for him, the man tying the red fabric in a knot around your wrists, binding them together.
He grabs your arms and leads it over your head, pinning it to the back of the couch, pressing his lips against yours in a deep kiss.
“Keep this, yeah? No more touchin’ anyone else, understand? You can take it off when I tell you.”
“Okay,” you whisper through a giddy little laugh and he tugs at the handkerchief for emphasis.
Garrett pushes off the couch, pumping his fist as the crowd cheers. Your hands fall to your lap, heart racing in your chest.
Garrett ends up back behind the kitchen island with the rest of the guys while the judges argue over scores near the living room, half the room shouting over them like their opinions matter any more than the crumpled bills stuffed into the betting jars.
The challenge is technically over, but the party hasn’t settled down at all. Garrett stands with a beer hanging loosely from his fingers, pretending to listen to the guys around him when every bit of his attention keeps drifting back across the room to you.
You’re exactly where he left you, sitting on the couch with his cowboy hat still tilted over your hair and the red handkerchief tied around your wrists in your lap. Garrett keeps trying to look away first and keeps failing almost immediately, the corner of his mouth lifting every time yours does.
“I thought we lost you for a second there,” Logan says from beside him, leaning back against the counter with his cup lifted halfway to his mouth. Garrett barely looks over, only dragging his eyes off you long enough to shoot Logan a look before immediately finding you again across the room.
“You did,” he says, and Dean laughs into his beer.
“Yeah, no shit,” Dean mutters, following Garrett’s line of sight toward the couch before shaking his head.
He forces himself to stay where he is anyway, tapping the bottom of his beer against the counter while an underclassman with a clipboard tries to get everyone’s attention over the music.
Someone needs to pick a winner already. Someone needs to count whatever money they’re counting, read whatever dramatic announcement they’re planning, and end this thing before Garrett loses his patience completely.
You finally push yourself up from the couch before they announce anything, and Garrett straightens before he even realizes he’s doing it.
You make it a step before the captain of the basketball team walks in your path. You glance up with a polite smile already forming, and Garrett’s jaw tightens before the guy even finishes whatever opening line he decided was worth trying.
Cash gestures toward the hat on your head before stepping closer. Apparently whatever he’s saying requires him to lean in, too.
“Nope,” Garrett sighs, already pushing away from the island while Logan turns his head toward him.
“Go easy on him, G. He’s got his whole life ahead of him,” Logan taunts at the flagrant display of jealousy.
Garrett doesn’t answer because Suzuki made you laugh again, and that’s more than enough information for him.
“Hey, baby,” Garrett breathes, reaching out to fix your skirt where it’d ridden up on your hip before wrapping his arm around your shoulders, lips pressing against your temple.
Garrett taps Cash on the arm, a little rougher than necessary. “Hey, buddy.”
“You need somethin’, Graham?” Cash asks with an annoyed laugh.
“Need her, yeah,” he answers, his hold around you tightening. “Unfinished business,” he chuckles, tugging the fabric a little between his two fingers.
“Sure,” Cash scoffs in reply.
“Have a great night, yeah?” Garrett smiles, clapping him on the chest this time, using the contact to push him away, ever so slightly. You give him a look and he looks right back down at you—shrugging like the reaction was restraint.
Garrett’s hand traces down to your wrists, grabbing the bandana, tugging it loose.
“Still had it on,” he hums.
“I’m a good listener,” you breathe as he tilts in for a few soft kisses. Your heart is racing in your chest, everything up until this moment taken between closed doors, no public claims to speak of and now you’re in the middle of the hockey house all wrapped up in his arms.
“Had you all tied up for me and they still didn’t put it together,” he sighs, your hands finding their way around the back of his neck, nails sliding into his hair. “You wanna go upstairs?” He asks, his voice deep and desperate.
“We don’t know who won,” you whisper, and he rolls his eyes in annoyance with how long this is taking—especially now that he’s got you like this.
“Hey, winners? Who are they?” Garrett’s voice barks across the party impatiently.
“You got places to be, Graham?” Dean asks teasingly against the rim of his beer bottle, and Garrett’s arm tightens around you, wordlessly sharing the answer with you—absolutely I do.
The underclassmen huddle around the board of tallied tickets while everyone waits. They point at you and Hunter and the crowd cheers. You throw your hands in the air and smile, and Hunter’s quick to swoop in, celebrating the moment with you.
“So Davenport and my girlfriend. We done here?”
Logan’s head snaps toward Garrett so fast. “His what?” He mouths to Dean whose eyebrows shoot up on his forehead. Beau physically chokes on his drink. Even Hunter’s celebration slows for a second as he sets you back on your feet. But Garrett doesn’t seem to notice a thing when his hand finds your back again.
Around them, Garrett’s reaction to the challenge suddenly makes sense—the jealousy, the focus, and the complete lack of interest in anyone who wasn’t you.
The corner of Logan’s mouth twitches as he tips his beer in Garrett’s direction. “Could’ve fuckin’ told us,” he mutters, and Dean snorts into his drink.
“A heads up would’ve been nice,” Dean hollers.
Logan lets out a laugh, but Dean’s already reaching into his pocket for his phone, the picture clearly hitting him at the same time. “Might as well get rid of that picture now,” he says absentmindedly, unlocking it with one hand as he leans into the kitchen island. “…The fuck?”
“What?” Logan asks, leaning over far enough to look at the screen.
Dean stares at it for another second before a laugh escapes, shaking his head as he locks the phone again. “He already did it.”
“Oh? It’s gone? Garrett? Our Garrett?” Logan asks, clutching his metaphorical pearls like he’s surprised in the slightest.
Dean slips the phone back into his pocket, still chuckling to himself. “That tracks.”
Garrett’s hand stays locked with yours as he leads you through the crowd, weaving around people. The noise of the party grows quieter the farther you get from the living room, just the sound of your heels clicking against the hardwood and your heart thumping in your chest.
He’s quiet, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t thinking, his mind swirling with images of you with other guys. Good guys who’d make you happy too, and if he didn’t step up, they were gonna step in. He’s never been casual about you anyway.
Garrett glances over, catching the smile on your lips.
“What are you smilin’ about?” He asks through a chuckle as you clear the last step, moving upstairs. He uses the momentum to twirl you under his finger, that little skirt about your hips kicking up, the pleats fluttering.
“Nothing,” you answer. “I’m not—”
“Smile’s too pretty not to notice,” he hums as he pushes through his bedroom door. “Seriously?”
Your lips pull to the side as warmth creeps into your cheeks. He walks around you, unable to keep his eyes off you. His gaze works its way up your body before meeting yours.
“You have a girlfriend now?” You ask curiously and Garrett freezes. And for a second, the realization hits him, replaying the moment downstairs when he spoke those words without another thought.
“Oh, shit.” He drags a hand through his hair, standing across from you. “I said that, didn’t I?”
“You did,” you answer, tossing the cowboy hat to the side.
“I didn’t mean to just throw that out there like that,” he says. “M’sorry—”
Whatever he was about to say dies instantly when you kiss him, his hands catching your waist. Your arms wrap around his shoulders, pushing your body closer as he takes two steps, crowding you into his door.
The wood rattles on the hinges and your tongue slips between his lips. His hand falls to grip your thigh, lifting it higher as he presses his hips forward, pushing against you just right.
You whimper against his lips and he smiles against your mouth, kissing along your jaw to your ear.
“Gotta ask you somethin’,” he mumbles, the heat and pressure between the two of you thick when he looks you in the eye. His forehead rests against yours.
He takes a deep breath anyway, smiling despite how badly he wants you, and how nervous he is.
And, even though it’s been weeks of nights just like this, they’ve never ended just like this.
“Will you be my girlfriend?” He asks.
Your nose scrunches and you smile, feeling him move a little closer when he sees your reaction. His other hand drops to your other thigh, pulling you into his arms, your legs hooking around his waist.
“Of course, I will.”
“Yeah?” He asks.
“Took you long enough,” you laugh softly.
“I know,” he sighs, pulling you off the door, not letting you go. “I’m an idiot. Made me sweat it out for a few seconds there.”
“Well, I mean I don’t do boyfriends,” you answer with a sarcastic bite, playful nonetheless, leaving him laughing and tossing you down on the bed.
“That was a lie,” he mumbles as he crawls onto the bed, pushing his weight and his lips against yours. “I was fucked up all night.”
“You weren’t having fun?” You whisper between kisses.
“No.”
You laugh at his reaction, the word tight and short, feeling his big hand grip your thigh, spreading you wide underneath him.
“Hardest shit I ever had to watch,” he mumbles.
“Yeah?” You ask and he chuckles when he feels your lips tilt into a smile.
“Watching my girlfriend dance on other guys? Kiss other people? Fucking nightmare.”
“I wasn’t your girlfriend yet.”
“You are now,” he hums and you gasp when he rolls you on top.
You giggle as you dip in, kissing the corner of his mouth. “I am.”
“You look so good,” he mumbles as his tongue slips between your lips, sliding against yours, one hand working up the back of your button-up shirt while the other squeezes your ass. “I know I already told you that, but fuck. Couldn’t even tell you. First time I saw you like this and you were climbing into someone else’s lap.”
You gasp when his big hand pushes under your skirt, fingers tracing up the inside of your thigh when he whispers, “You know how insane that made me?”
“You’re the one who told me to do this?” You giggle as he peels off the shorts underneath your skirt.
“Had no idea it was gonna be that hard,” he mumbles with a deep tone that rumbles against your soft lips. You laugh breathlessly, rolling your hips to tease before you push off his chest. His jaw tightens as you pinch the top button of your shirt. He pitches his hips fast, fighting his shorts and boxers down his strong thighs, his heavy cock hitting his skin with a slap when he sees more and more skin.
“You look good, Garrett,” you whisper and he chuckles under his breath hearing that come from you.
“You…” He mumbles, getting distracted when the shirt falls off your shoulders and flicks to the side, leaving you in nothing but heels, stockings, a bra, and that little plaid skirt that’s been tormenting him all damn night. “Fuck, you look so beautiful, baby.”
He wraps his hand around his dick, stroking himself as he looks up at you, lip tucked with his teeth, the muscles in his chest and arms swelling with each stroke as you take off your bra too.
“Oh, shit,” he moans, his eyes rolling back, head pressing into his pillow, before he slides up on the bed, his bare chest pressing against yours.
Your nails work through his dark hair as his mouth wraps around your nipple, sucking and kissing while his fingers press against your pussy.
He moans into your tits and you whimper as his fingers push inside, your hips rocking back and forth.
“Goddamn,” he mutters. “My baby’s wet, huh?” You can hear the smile in his voice as his fingers curl inside you. “All mine… All fuckin’ mine, huh?” His words come out tight and impatient.
“All yours,” you whisper.
“On your knees for me,” he hums, his words buzzing against your lips before he flips, leaving you gasping and clawing for the comforter, not even letting a second pass before he takes what he wants.
“This body,” he groans as his hands grab your hips, palming your ass, spreading you open with a low sound.
You shiver when his spit hits your hot skin, the wet rolling between your ass, catching at your entrance before he stuffs it inside with two thick fingers.
He works his hand fast, palm slapping against your skin, your pussy sounding like water. Your back arches and your muscles tighten, bunching up his blankets in your hands as the pleasure in your body swells.
“Garrett,” you squeal, your words muffled into the bed.
“Yeah?” He asks. “Cum on my hand, baby. Let me have it.”
“Fuck,” you cry out, pussy fluttering around his fingers as they dart in and out, only stopping when you soften around him. Tears spill onto the bed when he leans in, sliding his tongue along your slit, moaning like a slut at the taste.
“Oh my god,” he sighs like he was starving for it, pussy-drunk already when he bunches up your skirt in his big fist, the other wrapped around his dick.
Garrett’s hand finds your neck, pulling you back, pressing his lips against yours as he squeezes. He pushes in slow, moaning against your mouth until his body presses tight against yours. “How could you belong to anyone else, huh?” He asks when he feels your breath catch against his lips. “Fit so fuckin’ good inside you. Wish you could feel how you feel around me. You’d be losing your mind too.”
Your lips tremble against his, a smile tugging at the corners of your mouth as he lets you sit with it for a moment before pushing you back down.
He thrusts in rough and hard, making the fat of your ass bounce, his rough hands gripping your waist tight, eyes set on the wet place the two of you connect.
Your body falls forward into the mattress, face mashed to the sheet as he drills into you from behind, using the hold on your skirt and your hip to work you over.
Your thighs start to shake uncontrollably, each sound from your lips more pathetic than the last.
“Need you to cum again, okay?” He asks as his arm slides around your waist, pulling you back against him.
His fingers find your clit, rubbing tight little circles that have your hands flying to his forearm and thigh for balance, nails clawing into his flesh as you whimper you’re cumming, squirting around him with a hoarse sob.
“There she is,” he groans, his fingers working through the wet spurts, thighs losing their rhythm, cum spilling inside you as he curses against your shoulder.
His breath comes out hard and fast against your throat, your thighs soaked and sticky as he chuckles softly into your neck, nuzzling closer.
“Goddamn,” he mutters, his smile curling against your skin. “You fuckin’ own me, you know that?”
“What was that?” You ask, needing to hear it again. He rests his chin against your shoulder, holding you a little closer.
“M’yours,” he whispers. “Say it.”
“You’re mine,” you whisper, and he wraps his arm a little tighter, lips grazing yours.
I Can Fix That - a John Logan x F!reader one shot.
a/n: ok so I watched Disney movies all day & Holes was on and all I could think of during the Sam and Ms. Katherine montage/backstory was John Logan and reader flirting with each other by you giving a bunch of tasks and he just wants to be around you and for you to be taken care of so he does all of it with a smile and an ‘I can fix that.’
warnings: 18+ ONLY — typical shirtless shenanigans, longing, fix it felix, handyman!logan, neighbors, strangers to lovers, descriptions of sexual acts, teasing, dirty talk, making out, fingering, oral (f!receiving) protected sex, p n v. he talks you through it cause it's john fucking logan, of course he does.
You'd moved into the old McAllen home that was next to the boys' house last semester and run into nothing but issues since you'd signed the lease. Within the first three months of living there, your water heater had gone out, the garbage disposal stopped working and on warm nights, sometimes the air conditioning would go on the fritz, leaving you in sweltering heat and being miserable in your underwear while laying on top of your bed.
Your landlord was absolutely useless and you were probably on a list of dozens of other properties that were probably experiencing the same issues. And for a while, you just grit your teeth and dealt with it the best you could.
One day, you'd finally had enough and got your dad's old toolbox out of your storage and decided to try to figure out the AC unit on your own. A decision that you instantly regret once you get the thing open and see the wires and metal.
But it was at least eighty degrees inside of your house, your outfit of the day consists of a pair of cut of denim shorts and a bikini top. Your hair is up as high off your neck as it can get and you're still sweating. You groan at the tangled mess of wires and are about to give up and just live in the nude this summer when you hear a voice behind you.
"Need a hand?"
You turn to see the Captain of the Briar U Hawks, John Logan with his sunglasses up on his forehead. He looks concerned at how you're holding the tool in your hand and how much electrical you're around right now.
"My air conditioning blows but it's not cold," you explain desperately, "I'm dying," you confess. Hastings has been in the middle of an unseasonably warm heat wave. By mid day, it's over one hundred degrees and at night, even with the sun down it's around eighty five and it's very humid.
Logan winces and drops his backpack, "Yikes," he says and steps forward, taking the pair of pliers from your hand and eyeing them up with a soft chuckle. He drops them gently into the toolbox and moves a few things around before he finds a flathead screwdriver.
"I can fix that," he says as he manages his hand inside of the opening you'd just found earlier. He flicks his wrist and the screwdriver hits something metal and he looks underneath the unit before he gives a quick nod. "Go in, see if it's cold," he tells you and you walk around to the back door of your two bedroom little starter house.
You don't know much but it was a senior who graduated who'd lived here last — but you do know that student did not take care of the place. You'd spent the first few weekends of your first year here pulling weeds, throwing away old furniture and giving the place a thorough scrub down.
It wasn't much but it was yours and you were proud of it.
As you step into the living room, you walk up to the wall where an air vent is sitting at the top, you stand up on your tipped toes and hear the air conditioner start to whir outside and air kicks out of the vent.
And it's hot.
You huff. And just as you're about to call out that it didn't work, your fingers cool down slightly. It's working and it's getting colder.
For the first time in three weeks, you would be able to sleep in an air conditioned house. You could kiss him right now and you don't even officially know his name.
Sure, you're not stupid. Anybody with eyes on campus knows who John Logan is. But at the end of the day, being his neighbor has made him incredibly human. You've seen him stumble out of the front door ten minutes late for his first class, taking out the trash in his boxers, you've seen him say goodbye to countless women, usually in the early morning hours. John Logan didn't do morning afters, you'd noticed.
Realizing you sound like a fucking stalker; you shake your head and rid your thoughts for a second. You step back outside and give him a gracious smile.
"It's working now, holy shit," you gush. "Thank you so much —" you trail off.
"John," he places a greasy hand on his chest and it leaves a stain. "Logan, that's what everybody calls me," he nods. "You renting?" he motions to the house with the screwdriver still in hand.
"I'm Y/N, yeah, until grad," you nod gently. "I'm a sophomore."
"Locking a place down already," he nods appreciatively at the house then back at you. His eyes linger for a beat longer than appropriate and he clears his throat as if to let you know that he's aware he's messing this up. "Smart move," he says. "Me and the guys rent too, same; til we're outta here," he smirks.
You've had a few classes with a few members of the hockey team and they all seemed nice enough. Their playboy personas definitely preceded them.
"Well hey, listen, if you ever need anything around the house like this kinda thing," Logan taps the air conditioner, "Lemme know, it's kind of my hobby," he confesses.
You raise an eyebrow, "Yeah," you nod slowly. It couldn't hurt to have someone who actually knew the names of what the fuck fixed things. "Thanks, I'll keep that in mind," you smile.
He picks his backpack back up and places the screwdriver back in the toolbox, shutting the box. "Have a good day," he smiles sweetly before walking across the street and up the stairs to the hockey house.
You pick up the toolbox and walk back into your house, making a silent vow to yourself that you'd only ever call John Logan in case of emergency.
About a week later, you're working on the garden in the front yard that's by your door when you see the shadow of someone who's standing behind you. You squint gently before tilting your head over your shoulder and catching a glimpse of Logan.
You hadn't been avoiding him per say, you had just been going about your day to day life. But you had been noticing that he had been outside more, working out in the backyard and you could have sworn he'd been staring over at your house a few times.
He's shirtless, sweaty and has a bandana on that's damp at his forehead. His athletic shorts are hanging low on his hips and you can see the little trail of hair that goes from his belly button dow—
"How's the AC?" he asks, hands on his hips and you turn back to your pruning, desperate for a distraction. He's asking such a simple and innocent question and your thoughts are racing about how strong he was. You wondered if he could bench press you, but a voice sounds inside of your head.
Holy shit, Y/N, not fucking now.
You nod your head, "It's great, thank you again," you say again.
He shakes his head like it was nothing.
"I was headed to the hardware store this morning," he says and you're wondering why he's telling you when he motions to your back fence. "When I was over here last week, I noticed you're missing a couple of slats," he shrugs. "I can fix that."
You look over towards where he's pointing and sure as shit, there's about four broken or missing slats to your fence scattered along the back wall. You sigh. You haven't been in the backyard much yet this spring and are afraid of what you're going to have to face when you finally do get around to it.
"I could pick up a couple of boards," Logan offers nonchalantly. "Our shower keeps getting clogged," he says and he instantly knows that his roommate Dean is the culprit. "Since I'm there already," he trails off and glances at you.
You blink.
"Oh, uh, yeah - that would be great," you say with a shake of your head. This guy was too good to be true. You smirk gently when he nods happily.
"Cool," he says as he reaches back and pulls the t-shirt that's hanging from his pocket out and over his head in a swift motion. Like he's done it all his life.
"I'll be right back," he tells you with a wave before turning and jogging towards his pickup.
Forty minutes later, Logan is carrying plywood back into your jungle of a backyard. He sees the weeds and laughs, giving a low whistle.
"Lemme guess," you say with a sly smirk and he grins back at you.
"I can fix that," he nods once.
"At least on that one, I can help," you say as you watch him start to line up the boards in the missing spots. He measures twice, you notice.
You excuse yourself after a minute and go inside to lean against the kitchen counter.
John Logan is in your backyard, fixing your fence. The only thing that could make it better was if he was shirtless, you think as you make your way to the sink, looking out the window that sits in front of it.
Oh, and just like that..
Logan grabs the hem of his baby blue t-shirt and rips it off, tossing it to the side and you groan internally. You look down and see your hands clutching the counter.
"Fucking hell," you grumble softly. "This is torture," you mumble as you watch his shoulder blades flex as he starts to hammer in nails.
You search the kitchen for some way to show your appreciation and find some lemonade in the very back of the fridge. You see a chunk of ice in it floating so you know it's good. The iceberg clinks around the glass pitcher walls as you find a glass.
You hastily pour, looking out at him and biting your bottom lip. He has no fucking business coming to do chores at your house looking this fucking good, you think to yourself and place the pitcher down on the counter.
You inhale slowly and realize your hand is shaking. Like your entire body is slowly starting to gravitate towards the idea of reaching out and touching him.
You steady yourself before walking outside as calm as you should be with a hot guy working in your backyard, shirtless.
The sound of nails grounds you and you clear your throat and he turns, offering a genuine grin at the glass of lemonade.
"Oh, fuck yeah," he says and drops the hammer to the ground, taking the glass and chugging half in one go. He gasps as he takes a deep breath and nods in appreciation. "That's delicious," he says before his eyes widen and he rubs his temples, "Fuck that shit's cold," he laughs through his temporary brain freeze. "Thank you," he nods and takes another sip, slower this time. He's learned his lesson.
You laugh softly, "Are you kidding me? Thank you," you motion to the three new fence posts that are already in place.
"Ah, it's nothing," he waves. "I'd rather do this and be outside than fishing condoms out of the shower drain," he says and when you give a confused look he shakes his head. "Don't ask," he warns.
You hold your hands up in surrender and laugh once and Logan smirks.
He likes the sound of your laugh.
"So, next weekend I've got an away game," he says matter of factly. "But the weekend after that we're home, I could come and help you with some of this stuff," he kicks a bush that's just given up on the will to live.
You nod gently, "That would be great, I'll get out here next weekend and try to get some out of here before you come back," you offer and he shrugs.
"No worries if you don't," he says quietly. "I could get this clear in an afternoon, couple of hours if I loop a couple of freshman into helping," he smirks.
"That's cruel, even for freshman," you reason with a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips.
He lets a beat pass before gazing around the backyard and he states boldly, "So no boyfriend around to help ya."
It's more of a statement than a question and you don't know how to respond.
Your eyes widen slightly at his forwardness before laughing softly. Something you did when you got uncomfortable. You shift between your feet and shake your head.
"Nah," you say simply and leave it at that. John Logan doesn't need to know your entire relationship history since coming to Briar.
He eyes you up suspiciously before turning back to the fence, "Well, I'll get this last one done and get out of your hair," he says dismissively. He kneels down and grabs the hammer again, digging into his pocket for a handful of nails. He sticks a few between his teeth by their flat heads and he starts to hammer them into the wood and with each hit, you feel the opportunity of getting to know Logan more slip away until two weeks from now.
"Hey, can I get your number?" You ask suddenly between hits and he raises an eyebrow and looks over his shoulder at you. He's got a look that screams curiosity and maybe even excitement at the idea of you asking for his number.
Before he can get too cocky, you follow up with a bold faced lie, "My water heater has been weird lately—" you say quietly and make a mental note to go in there before he comes to fix it and fuck it up somehow. "In case it blows up or something while you're gone.." you trail off and place your hands in your pockets.
His lips slowly pull into a sly smirk and he nods, "Yeah, I can give you my number," he winks. "In case something blows up," he confirms before hitting the final nail on the head and placing the hammer into the toolbox at his feet. "Done."
You hand him your cell phone and quietly watch him type in his name and number before handing it back to you. He hit 'call' and 'end' quickly so that he'd have your number as well — he wasn't dumb. He wasn't going to wait for something to break to talk to you again.
"Thanks again," you tell him as you walk him towards the front of the house. He's wiping his face with his bandana that he's removed from his head. His hair is slightly sweaty and sticking to his forehead, he puts his hands in his t-shirt and lifts it up to wipe his face even better and you get a good glimpse of his abs before the shirt falls back down.
"Yeah, of course — get inside into that air conditioning," he tells you seriously. "It's getting fucking hot," he grumbles. He loved spring and summer but not when it was as hot as Hell outside, literally. He could feel the thickness of the air when he inhaled and that was something he'd learned that he did not like since this heat wave had begun.
You smirk gently and nod your head, "Yeah, you too," you muse and he waves you off.
"I'll talk to you later," he promises and crosses the street and you stand there for a moment, looking at your feet for a second before going inside and plopping onto the couch trying not to imagine him naked.
You end up taking an hour long cold shower.
It's only four days later when you're sitting in your bed, trying to read a book. Your eyes scan the same paragraph for the sixth time, trying to force yourself to comprehend.
You've been thinking about John Logan since the fence fixing and it was starting to consume your day to day life. In the middle of lectures, just as you were disassociating to your professor's monotone, you'd get a glimpse of the dimples behind his back that were more pronounced whenever his arms were above his head.
At the end of a long day, you would come back to your house and look over to the hockey house; wondering what he was doing.
Your phone vibrates on your thigh and you look down.
It's late, Hannah had already said goodnight a few hours ago and that was the only person that you been talking to that day. You close your book and place it to your side, looking at your phone screen.
Logan: Just checking in to make sure nothing has imploded on you before I head to bed — thought I heard a bang.
You smirk slowly and resist the urge to kick your feet at the sight of his text. No, this isn't an elementary school crush, no — you were fully lusting over John Logan and he was seemingly interested in seeing what could be between you two.
You slowly type back, "Nothing here at least from what I can tell, I think you're in the clear…"
And instantly, those three little dots slowly pop up and you inhale slowly.
Logan: That means nothing coming from you: I saw how you hold a pair of pliers. If you're trying to reassure me, you're doing a terrible job.
A grin pulls at your lips and you lean back in your bed against the headboard.
"Who needs to know how to hold a pair of pliers when they live next door to Fix-It Felix," you respond with a GIF from Wreck it Ralph. He gives a 'haha' to the image before responding quickly.
Logan: I'm not gonna be here forever — unlike some of my teammates, I take my schooling very seriously. I'm not planning on being here for a decade. When I graduate, you're fucked. 😭
You laugh and roll your eyes.
"Good thing I have your number then, huh?"
He starts typing but the dots disappear and you stare, waiting for them to show up again.
They don't.
You exhale and let your head fall back between your shoulders against the headboard.
Another vibrate.
Logan: What are you up to? Me and the boys just got back from Malone's & I'm about this close to refereeing a rock, paper, scissors tournament, I think.
You smirk and debate how you want to play this. You could easily turn this into a flirtatious conversation — ask Logan to come across the street and keep you company. Or you could stay just like you were, just talking. It seemed like a win win either way. You're in your thoughts when the phone vibrates again in your palm.
Logan: JK, Dean passed out on the couch and Garrett decided he's headed to bed. Another fun night at the Hockey House!
"Sounds like a blast, more fun than I'm having," you hit send and then send another message. "I'm trying to read a book but my mind is just elsewhere, I guess…" and you add a shrugging emoji to make sure he knows you're not being blatantly flirtatious.
Logan: Hate that for you. What's up? Something on your mind?
You swallow and stare at the message.
Yeah, you think to yourself, you.
And your thumbs start to move mindlessly, "Just nothing is keeping my attention and I just feel restless."
Logan: Except me.
And you can see the smug ass smirk that's probably on his face right now across the street.
You stand up and pace back and forth as you think of how to respond.
You type back with one word.
"Apparently."
Logan's little dots pop up and taunt you with what you imagine his response could be. He could be smug, he could be completely disinterested and respond with a 'quit it, freak' or worse, he could be totally fucking into it.
Logan: I can fix that.
And your heart skips a beat as you text back to explain yourself and you delete what you've got, going for a third attempt at an excuse when your doorbell rings.
Your stomach falls into your ass as you slowly lift yourself up off the bed and walk down the hallway towards the front door. Through the decorative windows at the top of the door, you can see the very top of Logan's head, moving back and forth.
You slowly reach out and open the door, looking at the hockey captain who has his hand behind his neck and he gives a gentle smile.
As you watch him, you rack your brain for everything and anything that could be considered 'broken' so that you can keep him here as long as you could, but he simply shrugs his shoulders and leans against the door frame.
He's switched out of his clothing from this evening at Malone's and is now in a pair of gray sweatpants, the drawstrings hanging between his thighs. His t-shirt is one size too big for his frame — either he doesn't care about flaunting his muscles or he doesn't realize how fit he truly is.
"I know nothing's broken," he states matter of factly. "Can I come in anyway?"
Instead of speaking, you probably couldn't if you tried right now, you simply step to the side and motion for him to come inside. He does so with a smile and looks around as soon as he's inside.
"Can I get you anything?" you ask him quietly and he shrugs his shoulders and shakes his head.
"Nope," he says, popping the 'p' as he shoves his hands into his jeans pockets. "I'm all good, I uh, just wanted to see you," he confesses.
"Me?" you ask with a surprised look on your face. Logan could get any girl on campus with a bat of those long eyelashes and that stupid lazy smirk that he's got on his face whenever he looks at you.
"You," he nods with the same surprised look on his face, laughing softly. "Yeah, you," he states with a shrug. "Truth be told," Logan sighs dramatically and leans against the kitchen island, arms against his chest. "I haven't been able to stop thinking about you since you were trying to fix your AC," he tells you as if it's no big deal that he's been thinking about you for weeks.
There's a slight skip in your heart's rhythm when you think about if he's had the same type of thoughts about you?
He watches you intently as you stand in the doorway of the kitchen, staring at him with your mouth slightly agape.
"Y/N, you gotta give me something to work off of here," he begs gently with a pleading look in his eyes and you shake your head in disbelief.
"Sorry," you say simply with a blink, "I just… think my brain short circuited," you joke but you feel like doing literally anything but laughing. John Logan has been thinking about you, you remind yourself and you swallow before feeling yourself returning into your own body again. "Thinking about me," you try out quietly as you start to step towards him. "Like how?"
Logan stares at you as if you're a piece of prey as you step closer, dark eyes locked on your frame as you saunter towards the island. He bites down on his bottom lip gently, "Oh, if I told you you would think that I'm insane," he warns.
Eyebrows lifting slightly, you gaze up at him curiously and tilt your head to the side, "Try me," you say in an encouraging tone.
Logan swallows. Hard.
"I've been thinking about you—" he inhales sharply as if he really is considering doing this. He looks down at you and reaches over, grabbing your waist and tugging you between his legs. His hands find your hips as his thumbs gently graze at your hip bones. "In the worst fucking ways possible," he says, "—which is a problem because I haven't even taken you out on a proper date yet."
Ah, you think. A romantic, how sweet.
You smirk gently, "Oh, shit," you say in a low tone. "That bad, huh?"
Logan groans and shakes his head, "Like right now, all I wanna do is put you up on this counter and have my way with you," he says in a voice just above a whisper. He pulls his right hand up and strokes your cheek as if he's testing the waters. "I've been thinking about how badly I wanna fuck you," he confesses and your cheeks flush.
Your lips curl up into a smirk and you lean in, whispering into his ear. "I'm afraid I have some bad news for you," you say softly and he looks down at you with furrowed eyebrows.
"What? What's the bad news?" he asks, worry in his voice.
"I've been thinking about that too," you say. "And then you kept coming over shirtless and shit looking like a Ken doll," you groan and rub your hand over your face.
"Can I at least be a GI Joe?" he asks and you roll your eyes.
Logan's eyes light up slightly and he reaches forward, capturing your lips against his. He takes a step and spins you around, effectively caging you in against the countertop. Your tongues play against each others and both of his hands slip up to either side of your neck, deepening the kiss. After a moment, his hands slide down to your hips and he grabs you tightly, fingertips digging into your pajama bottoms and lifts you. He plops you right on your ass onto the counter, legs dangling and he steps between them effortlessly.
Your mind is fucking racing right now as his hands start to roam up and down your sides over your pajamas. Finally realizing what's going on, your arms instantly go around his neck and your leg hooks around his waist and pin him against the counter. He groans into the kiss slightly and lets his hand slip up your shirt.
His palm brushes against your breast and rolls your nipple gently between his index finger and thumb and he grins against your lips at the noise that comes out of your mouth.
You reach up and let your hand rake through his hair, sighing into the next kiss that he plants on your lips. He then breaks away, trailing kisses down your jawline as his hand switches over to your other breast and starts giving it some attention as well.
Logan's hands pull at the hem of your shirt and his eyes meet yours, asking silently for your approval before continuing on.
When you nod, he has the green light and he yanks the fabric up and over your head with no flair. He's too excited to be pulling out all the moves even though he knows he needs to slow the fuck down and savor this moment.
His lips graze down your jawline and down onto your neck and he nips gently at your pulse point before he sucks gently to ease the pain. Your lips part and you exhale, tilting your head to the side to give him the best angle of your neck that he can get.
You secretly hope he leaves marks. You want to walk around campus with makeup poorly covering his little claims on your body — at least the ones that are visible.
Logan's eyes drift down to your tits and smiles appreciatively. "Jesus," he breathes out as he reaches behind his neck and tugs at the collar of his own t-shirt. He throws it to the side and your hands rest on his muscular chest, fingers tracing the silver chain that he wears every day.
He presses you up against his chest and he closes his eyes, resting his forehead against yours as your hand slowly slides down between his pecs to his abs. Your fingertips slowly trace small little circles along the muscles and his flinches his belly away from you instinctively before you smirk up at him and let your hand rest at the waistband of his sweats.
You watch his face intently as your hand palms against his dick through the fabric and you can feel him tense underneath you instantly. He sucks in a deep breath of air and grunts gently.
"You gonna tease it or you gonna play with it?" he asks gently, a slight challenge in his voice. He's never going to not be a smart ass when it counts.
You grin, letting your fingers curl around his fabric covered length. He hisses and closes his eyes, shifting his hips forward into your hand and he groans.
"Y/N," he warns, "I've wanted this all week," he tells you and you give him a sympathetic look.
He looks at you with a smile that shouts two can play that game and lets his fingers hook into the elastic of your shorts. In one swift motion, he's got you naked sitting on your kitchen counter and you feel like a million bucks as you sit in front of him with that grin.
He's looking at you like he's hit the lottery and he licks his lips before he leans back in, "You're fucking perfect," he whispers genuinely into your ear.
He grabs your thighs and wraps your legs around his waist and tugs you closer, picking you up off the counter with ease and walking you towards the living room where he saw a couch earlier that seemed like it would give him enough room for what he wanted to do to you.
He lays you gingerly back against the couch cushions, dropping to his knees on the floor in front of you and nudging your knees apart with his shoulders. Logan's lips plant kisses up your thighs and just as he's about to reach your center that's throbbing at this point, he hovers and hesitates.
Logan's dark eyes stare down at your pussy, all wet just for him, and he blows air against your exposed clit before he goes to your other thigh and starts to kiss down towards your knee. You whimper and squirm underneath him and lift your head up off the couch.
"Fucking tease," you mumble with a sigh and he laughs between your thighs, laughing and leaning in. His lips place a gentle kiss at your clit before he lets his tongue lap in lazy circles against you.
His tongue moves just like a skater on the ice and you can't help but fall back against the cushions as he starts to inch you closer to an orgasm. His arms wrap around your ass and tugs you down onto his tongue, humming happily as he eats you out.
Your hand reaches down and grabs a handful of his hair and as he slips a finger inside of you, you tug in approval. A shaky sigh escapes from your lips as he throws your knee over his shoulder, burying his face deeper.
Your eyes widen as he starts to suck at your clit, a second finger added to the mix with a moan from you giving him encouragement every step of the way. The way your hips are starting to roll against his fingers makes him grin and his cock twitches between his legs.
Not now, Logan says to himself as he curls his fingers up just right and rubs against your spot.
"That's right," Logan nods, eyes dark. "You like that?"
Your head bounces like a bobblehead.
Logan shakes his head down at you, pressing his fingers deeper. "Say it," he says.
"I like it," you say eagerly and he smirks gently at how much control he has right now in this moment — even though he knows you can switch that dynamic around real fast.
He curls his fingers and pumps his fingers out as he sucks at your clit again, looking up at you.
Jesus Christ, John Logan between your thighs looking up at you may be the sexiest thing you've ever seen in your entire life.
"Fuck," you manage out a moment later as he keeps his motions going, leaning up though and grinning down at you.
"What's up, baby?" he asks in that snarky little tone that makes you clench around his fingers slightly. "Mm, you're close, aren't you?" he asks.
You nod weakly and Logan lifts a finger to his earlobe.
"Use your words, princess," Logan growls gently as he tilts his ear down towards you.
"I'm gonna come," you breathe out, your fingertips digging into his forearm.
Logan grins, "Good, let go for me," he says softly into your ear, "C'mon, let me have it," he tells you.
Your eyes close and you whimper as your thighs quiver around his fingers and he slows his fingers yet adds an entirely new sensation at this moment: his thumb, rubbing gently against your clit steadily.
He holds you as you tense up under him, kissing any inch of your body that he can get his lips on as you ride out your high.
"There she is," he grins once you seemingly come back down to Earth and you giggle softly, leaning in and kissing his lips roughly.
Logan leans back into you and kisses you back before pulling away and exhaling. He glances down and bites down on his bottom lip.
"You're not done," he tells you quietly as he wraps his hand around the base of his cock and gives it a slow pump. His eyes are locked on you and you sit up slowly, grinning.
You lean over him and open your coffee table drawer, reaching in and grabbing a condom before taking the wrapper between her teeth and tearing it open.
Logan's seen women trying to make condoms sexy a hundred times but you, however, are the only one to succeed. He bites harder into his bottom lip as he pumps his cock once more, watching as you grab the latex and line it up with him.
He groans as you slowly roll the condom down with your hand, gripping him as you slide down and grinning up at him as you notice him twitch.
He crawls up onto the couch between your thighs and lets the head of his cock rub against your wet folds teasingly.
Your eyes roll at the feeling and you reach down to grab his forearms that are braced on either side of you.
And with one swift thrust, Logan pushes inside of you and you moan softly.
He pauses when he's fully inside of you and gives you a second to adjust before he rolls his hips back - only to thrust right back in. His head drops back between his shoulders and he groans.
You wrap your legs around his waist and he buries himself inside of you with each thrust, each one growing more and more passionate. He's savoring this moment just as much as you are, you notice, as he looks down at you as if he's memorizing this. The way your tits bounce with each thrusts, the sound that your bodies are making as they collide or maybe even how you feel.
"Just like that," you egg him on as he angles his hips just right and you feel a sudden sensation building in your stomach.
He beams at your words and tries to hit that spot over and over and over again.
He groans slowly, "You look so gorgeous like this," he tells you. And you don't care how many girls he's told this to before, you believe him. And your hands slowly reach up to your tits, squeezing them together as he brings your knees up to your chest and continues to pound into you.
You groan and know that you're on the edge and it's way too fast for your liking but you have no say in the matter. Logan for all intents and purposes has full control of you and this moment and you wouldn't have it any other way.
He leans down and kisses your lips as he bucks his hips, his thrusts getting more and more desperate and ragged as he rocks his hips back and forth. When he feels your thighs shake again and your breathing hitch, he groans deeply into the kiss and his hips start to slow down, looking down at you. His eyes lock onto yours as he fills the condom, moaning and kissing your jaw again.
And you two lay like that, just together, chest to chest on the couch, catching your breath. A comfortable silence falling between you two. You quietly wrap an arm around his shoulders as he places kisses against your collarbone, slipping out of you a moment later.
You sit up and Logan instantly walks over to the kitchen and grabs the roll of paper towels. He peels the rubber off of his dick and cleans himself off quickly and hands you the roll of towels for yourself.
He pulls his sweats back over his hips and he sits on the couch, running his hand through his hair and exhaling contently.
"You good?" he asks gently after a beat and you offer a grin that makes him laugh. "Jesus," he laughs, "You keep looking like that and I'm gonna get you for three tonight," he grins and leans in, pecking your lips.
"What's wrong with that?" you ask with a small smirk.
Logan chuckles lowly and swats at your thigh, "Nothing, but I'm gonna get hooked," he smirks. "And then you'll never get rid of me," he shrugs quickly.
"I thought I already couldn't get rid of you," you muse and he leans in, tickling your sides and making you writhe underneath him in an entirely different way.
"So I'm gonna take you out to dinner tomorrow night," he tells you simply, tracing circles up and down your arm.
You laugh gently at the shift of conversation.
"I'll see if I can pencil you in," you say gently. "Have you seen my backyard?"
He smirks, "Alright, fine, instead of going out for dinner, we'll get some take out and we can work in the backyard and get some work done before I head out on the road," he says, like it's the easiest decision to make.
You purse your lips and nod, "I don't think my sprinkler system is even hooked up," you muse after a minute and Logan hums behind you, hugging you tight to his body as he shrugs.
"I can fix that."
a/n: well, here we are hussies, (jk lol) I hope that you enjoyed my first smutfic in a HOT ASS minute. what a muse, huh? is he just not the finest hunk in the world? the things i'd do-- and with that, i'm headed to bed. let me know what you think -- as always, requests are OPEN and I'm always willing to take your suggestions! who knows -- maybe this becomes a mini-series in and of itself depending on how ya'll like it!
i love you all so very very much! thank you for reading!
Summary: Logan loves going down on you. He lives for it, he craves it, he loves everything about it. But what he didn’t expect was your reaction when you were the one who goes down on him.
Warning/s: Minors do not interact. Smut. Mature. 18+. Oral sex (F and M receiving). Unprotected sex. Comfort. Crying. Established relationship. They are unhinged, horny, and thinking about sex all the time but they love each other too. Be responsible for your own media consumption. Grammar/Spelling. If I missed anything, let me know kindly!
Word Count: 3.5k
A/N: I’m in no way a pro when it comes to writing smut but I try and this is me trying (and probably experimenting on my writing too). Got inspired while listening to Tears by Sabrina and a conversation I had with my best friend.
I have another Logan fic in progress but it’ll be some time before it’s up since I’m not confident about it yet. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this one. Like, reblogs, and comments are very welcome and appreciated!
Please do not translate and repost.
Divider by chrisssiren.
Logan is sick, he’s sure of that. But the thing is, as cliche as it may sound, you are the only person who could cure him. He had known a long time ago that he loves going down on girls, he lives for it. But nothing ever prepared him for you and the changes you brought into his sex life.
He’d been with many girls before you, yes. What you and he are doing—at least, some of it—he had done it before. You knew it, having to be one of the witnesses of some of those sexcapades he did in the past. However, that’s never been an issue between you two. Sex with you is something that Logan has never experienced before. But no, it’s not some, “You’re different from other girls” kind of bullshit. It’s the feeling that was different.
You see, the girls he had been with? It was always rushed, short-lived. It was only for the sake of sleeping together. But with you? You build up the moment, but still make sure not to waste time. You make him feel hot and excited, but give him what he wants to balance it out. You let him do what he wants, but signals him when to stop. You make him crave for you, crave for it. And when you especially know when he needs it? You give it to him, no questions asked.
And Logan would always savor the moment when you just unfold your legs for him, when you let him lap at your center like a starved man, and when you encourage him to keep going; even stretching your legs further so he could have more space.
Logan loves your pussy, and he loves every single second of being down on you and if he could live between your legs, he would.
There’s something so addicting about having them wrapped around his head, or when you spread it for him so he could bite on your inner thighs, or the way it almost suffocates him when you’re on top of him, riding his face while he busies himself admiring the swell of your breasts; the way they move when you jerk forward because his tongue hits a certain spot, or the way your chest falls up and down so you can get enough oxygen in your lungs, or when your nipples hardened he just had to let go one of your legs so he could play with them.
Yet he loves it more when you tugs at his curls, moaning for him. The sound you make going straight to his cock, thrusting on the bed or in the air depending on where you got him eating you out. He loves the look on your face—how your mouth forms an o-shape when he sucks at your sensitive nub or when you cover it to muffle the sounds because his friends are sleeping, how your eyes glaze when you’re near, how your lips turn swollen from too much biting, and how your head falls backwards to reveal your neck, thinking about biting the flesh once he’s fucking you.
Logan swore he could cum by just eating you out, but looking at you enjoying yourself? That’s another thing he needs to control. He could combust with a single, “Making me feel so good, Johnny.” but he’d do his best to restrain himself. He’d only allow himself to finish once you do because for him, it’s you before everything else. There were times that even after making you cum three times, he’d hold it in because that won’t be enough. He’d wait for you to say, “Please, let me feel you. I want it.”, that he’d permit himself to let go and you’d be so full of him. Then, he would look at your face only to see you smiling at him, so lost in the pleasure and so fucking beautiful, and he’d take pride knowing he’s the one who made you feel that way—and he feels like cumming again, his cock hardening inside you once more.
He thought that would be it, nothing else could make him feel like he’s doing it for the first time aside from eating you out and you, looking so pretty for him. But boy, was he wrong.
It happened for the first time when Logan felt a little more beaten up after practice. Completely drained and exhausted from all the physical and mental challenges hockey takes from him. You knew the moment he slumped beside you on his head, dropping his gym bag on the side, that he’s spent.
“Hey, gorgeous. I missed you.” Logan’s hands automatically searched for your waist as his head hits your lap, his hair still damp from the shower. He relaxes the moment your hands massage at his scalp, down to the back of his neck, and to his shoulder blades. His usual protective guard is down and at that moment, under your gaze, he’s just a guy who needs comfort.
Your boyfriend needs comfort.
“I missed you too, baby. How are you?” Logan lifted his head a bit, his eyes cast downward, his body barely holding his weight, but he didn’t say anything. He just smiled at you before seeking your warmth again. You bit your lip and maybe, seeing him like that—sore, tired, worn out—is what triggered your desire to take care of him. He spends so much energy in hockey, in studying, in the garage, in everything that he does, including looking out for you without being asked that seeing him vulnerable makes you want to put him first. So an idea popped in your mind.
“Hey, come on, lay down properly.” Logan obliged, rather slowly. You were standing at the foot of the bed, supporting his movements. Once he’s comfortable, you start removing his clothes. He didn’t think much of it at first, he always sleeps with only his boxers on and you learned about it early on in your relationship. It even got to a point that you were the one undressing him and you’d cuddle under his covers.
However, Logan felt your hands caressing his legs as you crawled on top of him. Your fingers tugged down at his boxers until it reached just above his knees, but before you could take it off, Logan caught your hand, crease forming between his brows. He understands immediately what you were trying to do, and it’s not that he doesn’t want it. He’s just not sure if he could do any action tonight and he will never forgive himself if he allows it to happen only for you to not to feel good.
“Thank you, gorgeous, but I don’t think I can do—”
“Who said you’re doing anything?” You raised one eyebrow at him, the corner of your lips curving into a tempting smile that had Logan heaving a deep breath. He knew it’s happening, you looked so good and while the rest of his body is tired, his cock sure isn’t as it slowly grows hard between his thighs, directly under you. “Just lay down for me, John, okay? You’ve been working so hard, you deserve to be rewarded for it.”
And nothing ever prepared him for what happened next.
Logan never presented the idea of blowjob, nor you brought it up yourself. In the entirety of your relationship, you never went down for him. You never put his length in your mouth, you never gagged at the feeling of him hitting your throat, and you never knew what it was like to look up at him over your lashes. But just because it never happened, doesn’t mean you never wonder what it would be like.
It’s not like you never gave head before. You have a fair share of experience yourself like Logan, but you keep on wondering if it would feel like the way it made him feel. He told you about it, how going down on you made him feel like an entirely different person. That the way your pussy feels against his mouth was nothing like he ever felt before. That if your legs suffocate him and he dies accidentally, he’d still thank you for it.
You knew it wasn’t about the experience, you knew it was the feeling. Because you trust him, you allow yourself to be vulnerable and comfortable with him that the intimacy instantly feels different. So, you took advantage of the moment to test it out yourself.
“Are you sure about this? You know you don’t have to, right? We can just—”
But Logan’s head dropped back down on his pillow when he felt your hands around him, pumping him slowly, getting him to completely relax for you. A heavy and ragged sigh escaped his lips at the feeling, his broad shoulders sinking into the mattress, shutting his eyes close to regain some control. And he thought that he’s doing a great job at it, he’s getting used to the feeling of the slow movements of your hands that he willed himself to open his eyes.
“Fuck, that feels good, gorgeous.” He rasped, voice thick and rough at your ministrations. The exhaustion of the day leaving his body. The tension, the expectations, the brutality of the world outside his room fading behind him as he let you take care of him. His hands gripped at his bed, not wanting to pressure you to take anything further by putting them on your head.
You shifted your weight, finding a more comfortable place between his thighs. And then you see it before you feel it; the intimacy did feel different.
You saw how Logan does his best to keep his hands to himself, you feel how he tries not to thrust upwards in your hands, you feel from the way he remains so compliant with your touch that he’s not rushing you, and you saw how his eyes glint with encouragement to do whatever you want next—continue or stop, entirely up to you.
The moment was slow and heavy with trust. And that did something to you, probably the way it did something to Logan.
It made you feel good, confident, trusted, and loved.
When Logan felt your movements have slowed, he peeked at you to see that you got this dazed look on your face. He was about to reassure you that it’s okay to stop when you looked down at his dick and leaned forward, replacing your hands with the warmth of your lips. Logan choked on his breath, the words caught in his throat as he felt his self control leaving his body as he completely surrendered to you.
Logan’s entire body went still for a second, a low, guttural moan vibrated in his chest before he forced himself to relax again. His fingers gripped at the sheets again, tighter this time as his knuckles turned white. You saw this from the corner of your eyes and tapped at his thighs, reaching for one of his hands and guided it above your head. He had to fight every instinct to take over because of the action, but he reminded himself that tonight, this is what you want.
You moved over him, finding your rhythm as your eyes flicked up to look at him. His head was still thrown back, buried in his pillow, exposing his adam’s apple. His sweat glistened on his collarbone and you moaned at the sight, he looked completely undone and ruined by your touch. And the same feeling came back.
Looking at Logan, completely at your mercy and stripped of his usual protective and strong stance made you clench your thighs together. You continue pumping at his length while switching between sucking and lapping at the head, his tip leaking pre-cum. Logan’s grip on your head tightened and it should hurt, but you just took him further inside your mouth. You gagged slightly, the sound causing him to massage your jaw, motioning for you to breathe through your nose as he guided your head to stay in place.
“That’s it, gorgeous, don’t forget to breathe.” You understood what he said, you knew when to stop if it gets too much for you, but your mind started to jumble. Because how could he be so sweet and caring yet so filthy at the same time? When you felt your lungs needing some air, you pulled back, a string of spit connecting your lips to his cock. And Logan was about to throw a praise when you lick from his base before taking him whole again.
“Fuck me—slow down, gorgeous. You’re killing me.”
It feels too good; the thickness in your mouth, the taste of his pre-cum oozing out directly on your tongue, the control he’s trying to gain, the way he grips at your head and caresses your cheeks just to feel himself bulging from it. Everything feels too good and without meaning to, a stray tear spilled over your lashes, tracking down your cheek and landing softly on his thighs. Logan snapped up immediately at the unwelcomed feeling, only to see you crying. The immense pleasure brought by your mouth dissipates in the air as he scrambles to seat.
“Woah, woah, hey, talk to me.” He whispered, afraid that if he went a little louder, you'd cry even more. He wanted to move to your side, but for some reason, your hand is still wrapped around his length and you’re still between his legs. Logan tried his best to meet you eye-to-eye with the position, his hands gently cupping your face, his thumbs wiping away the dampness on your skin. “Sweetheart, please, talk to me. What’s wrong? Did I hurt you? Was it something I did? Was I too much?”
You only shook your head at him and Logan had to stop the sigh that wanted to escape his lips when he felt your hand gripped him, and instead focused on making sure that you’re okay. “Hey, it’s alright, we can stop now, hmm? It’s alright, I got you.”
But then you opened your mouth and Logan cursed at himself because maybe he heard it wrong, maybe he heard you wrong. There’s no way you’re crying because of that, right? His girlfriend, who is usually composed, independent, strong-willed, and doesn’t take shit from others, is crying.
All because of his dick.
He studied your face, your eyes that were blown out with lust, your lips hanging open in anticipation, your brows creased together awaiting his response. But above everything, he saw honesty and trust and it dawned on him that he didn’t hear it wrong. Logan heard you correctly.
“I don’t want to stop. I want your cock.”
Because that’s what you really said and you didn’t plan on taking it back.
Not when Logan’s eyes darkened with want as he held your face so softly, waiting for you to take your words back. Not when the words made you shudder when it left your lips, not when it caused you to rub your thighs together, not when your eyes basically watered again at the thought of it in your mouth, in your hands, in your pussy. Not when you’re pushing Logan back on the bed to hover above him, so sure of yourself, repeating the words.
“I love your cock, Johnny.”
Logan doesn’t know what to do. You are equally as obsessed as he was and he doesn’t know what to do with that. He never cried when he’s down on his knees, trapped between your legs, but he sure felt like it every single time. You make him addicted, you make him starve and crave, and you make him mad about it. And seeing you, like a reflection of himself, enjoying yourself, destroys him in a delicious way.
You spent the rest of the night sobbing at the feeling of his length in your mouth and Logan lives for it. He’d smile at you, comfort you, and praise you for it while anchoring himself to keep it together.
“Fuck, gorgeous, you take me so well.”
“You love it? Say it again, come on.”
And between his praises and the fullness of him inside your mouth, you’d look up at him just to ask, “It’s my dick now too, right?”
And Logan had to physically stop himself from pulling you back down his length, his grin widening with mischief and his eyes twinkle with something you’ve never seen before. Without breaking eye contact, his thumbs traced your lips before sliding it inside, your tongue automatically swirling around it as you await for his answer.
“So fucking right, gorgeous, it is.”
The night ended with both of you tangled in his sheets, satisfaction and pride swimming in your system. You were safely tucked beside him after your unexpected discovery, Logan peppering your head with kisses. And he thought, that was it. What he didn’t know was that behind your peaceful form, you discovered another thing.
You love Logan when he respects you in bed. But you love it more when he gets filthy.
He was on his way back to the hockey house when it happened the second time. He just bid goodbye to a classmate when his phone buzzed in his jeans. It was a message from you. An entirely unhinged message from you.
“I need it, please.”
Logan drove so fast back to the house and when he opened the door of his room, there you were, dressed in his jersey. But it didn’t take long for both of you to get undressed. The moment escalated so quickly as you dropped to your knees in front of him, tugging at his pants.
“Take it out, baby.”
And Logan never complied so fast in his life. Not even when Coach Jensen told him to do better with his moves, to skate faster. But you got him on chokehold with just your words and the next second, you were taking him in your mouth, the dirtiest words escaping his lips.
“You want it so bad, yeah? You missed it?”
“So pretty like this. Keep going. Come on, you got it.”
“Open your mouth wider, gorgeous. I thought you said you wanted it?”
And you’re equally as bad as him. The words you thought that you’ll never say are encouraged out of you because of Logan, and the way he looks at you with so much adoration and pride.
“This is only mine, right? It’s mine.”
“It feels so good in my mouth, Johnny, I don’t want to stop.”
“Yes, I wanted it. I can take it. Please.”
Logan thought—once again and he’s wrong—that would be it. But you’re sneaking into the shower room when you know he’s the only one using it and would join him. Saying how you could not wait any longer and you’d end up spending an extra hour in the showers because both of you couldn’t get enough of each other.
Or at Beau’s party, when he looks too good drinking with his friends and he’d throw teasing glances your way and he’d take it far by sending you a message, mentioning how one of the rooms was his for the night and he’d be waiting for you. Both of you would end up making out and eventually, him on top of you. He fucks you like he’s never done before, but you’re crying for it and he’d be damned if he doesn’t make it worthwhile.
And Logan is fucking sick. Because he couldn’t take the image of you crying for him, for his dick. Sometimes, he couldn’t help but wonder if you’re thinking about it too, because he does. In the middle of the class, during practice, while showering. Any chance that he could get, he’ll think about it. During those times, he’d shoot you messages.
“Can’t stop thinking about you, gorgeous.”
“Bet you’re soaking wet for me right now.”
“So fucking hard for you, gorgeous. Is your class over?”
He’d smile so hard because your replies matched his energy, it matched his freak. He’d go over them, read them over and over again just to make sure that he’s reading it right.
“I dreamed of you fucking me and I want it now.”
“Can I come over before practice? I’ll just suck a little.”
“Do you think we can get a replica of your dick? Just for study purposes.”
Both of you are so obsessed with each other that even your friends noticed it right away. The changes in your relationship that weren’t there in the beginning, the stolen glances, the mischief behind the smiles, the sneaking in the middle of a conversation. When you and Logan disappear at the same time, they'll understand what’s happening quickly. When they catch one of you smiling at your phone, they know that you’re exchanging unhinged messages yet again.
But underneath all that—the sole reason why both of you are crazy about the sex, about each other—was the foundation you built together over time; the trust, the intimacy, the care, the love, and the understanding where the pleasure should end and begin. The respect you put into the relationship and the boundaries you’ve set, the communication between what you can cross and not.
So, yes, Logan is sick, but at least you cure him and he does the same to you—in more ways than one.
A/N: Thank you for reading, lovely! Stay safe always ♥️
House of the Dragon: Ormund Hightower x Targtower!reader
Rating: Explicit (MDNI)
WC: 2.5k
HOTD Masterlist
Tags/Warnings: Incest (second cousins), uncle/niece roleplay, age gap (reader is 19, and Ormund is in his late 30's), power imbalance, spanking, religious guilt, bathing, scent kink, fingering, penetration, masturbation, sacrilege. no use of y/n, reader is mentioned to have silver hair, no beta we die like Luke :(
A/n: IDK I'm just horny for Ormund, and anytime I can write uncle/niece, I'm gonna do it. I'm team neutral, so please don't bring black vs green dynamics onto my blog or fics. Comments, reblogs, and likes are always appreciated. Let me know if you'd like to be added to any tag lists! My asks are always open.
Summary: No one can test Lord Ormund's patience quite like you can.
Shimmer circled the stronghold, her pearlescent scales glittering in the dim light as the sun set in the sky. You were not meant to be flying out on her after dark, but you were never one for following the rules, Much to Ormund's ire. Hobert had given you a longer leash, spoiling you as your grandfather had in the Red Keep before you and Daeron were sent to ward in Oldtown. You tested Ormund's patience more than your dear sweet twin, Daeron. You liked to believe the Targaryen blood pumped hotter through your veins. She swooped down on your command, landing on the blackstones, alerting the guards to your arrival. You slipped down her wing, landing gracefully on your feet before striding with ease and confidence into the base of the Hightower.
"You reek of that beast," Ormund scowled the moment you set foot inside, peering down at you from the balcony. He removed the silver pomander from his doublet and inhaled the citrus and clove scent of the tightly packed satchel nestled inside.
"I've grown used to it; it does not bother me," you replied with a shrug of your shoulders, a long silver braid falling down your back. Those eyes remained on you like a hawk. While you thought only Targaryen blood rushed through your veins, he saw the Hightower breaking through. The Blood of the First Men. Mayhaps that's why he favored you and Daeron so. Mayhaps he wished to remove Aegon and Aemond from the succession and crown Daeron instead.
"I've had a bath prepared for you," he stated, beckoning you closer with a crooked finger as he descended the winding staircase to meet you halfway.
"How kind of you, Uncle," you said sweetly, peering up at him. He wasn't, not truly, but you preferred to call him that over cousin. Especially since the term got under his skin so easily. He grasped your chin firmly once you were close enough.
"We have talked about this. I do not want you flying alone, unprotected," he lectured, a disapproving look etched across his face.
"Shimmer may look pretty, but she is fearsome. She bit the finger off my nursemaid when she hatched."
"Only you would brag of such brutal behavior." However, his lips twitched in amusement in remembrance of the Hightower guard who grabbed your arms and sequentially lost his to the jaws of your pearly beast. Not even he could deny the thrill he got when you obeyed his orders to lay dragonfire to traitors of the crown. Mayhaps the one time he could stand the smell of burnt flesh.
You huffed. "If anything, I learned the art of brutality from you."
"You are a wicked girl. You should go to the sept and repent for your sins."
"Or you could correct my ways, Uncle."
"That is a dangerous game. We agreed to stop."
"Mayhaps I was too hasty in my agreement to that. I have missed it, I have missed you. Gods know I need a firm hand to guide lest I turn into a feral dragon myself," you whispered, peering up at him through your lashes.
"I should take my belt to you," he warned, fingers digging into the flesh of your jaw. He had never once struck you in your younger years and never dared to lay a finger upon your precious twin.
"While I kneel in front of the altar? Leaving welts over my skin for atonement?" You truly were a wicked little thing, and Gods, he would follow you straight into the Seven Hells.
A shiver ran through him, briefly closing his eyes as he imagined you prostrate on the hard stones in front of the blazing altar as his cane struck your tender backside. Welts blooming over your skin as he thrashed your dragonhide, seeing if he could make you break. He abhorred yet welcomed a challenge. His hand fell away from your jaw, and he clenched your upper arms, shaking you gently.
"Seven Hells, you drive me to the brink of madness, little niece," he groaned. What mortal man could resist your temptation?
You smiled, arousal gathering between your thighs, and suddenly your riding leathers felt awfully restrictive.
"Shall you punish me before or after my bath?" you teased.
"I suppose I can bear that wretched stench a bit longer." He hauled you off, one hand furled tight around your bicep as he dragged you down the halls and into your chambers, barking at the handmaidens to leave. He stood nearly a head taller than you, and it made your knees weak. You never cared for silly boys; you yearned for a man. When you had turned eight and ten, you tested the waters with him. He had been widowed two years before and had not taken a second wife yet. His children were more suitable to be your companions than he was. Yet that stopped neither of you from toppling into the forbidden. More taboo for him than you. Targaryens had long made a practice of incent.
You glanced over at the tub filled to the brim, steaming billows from it, and the retracted partition resting at the lip. It was decorated with numerous dragons in flight over blooming orchards with trees filled with ripe fruit. You loved it. It had been a gift from Ormund on your previous nameday. He rewarded as much as he disciplined. You could smell the scent of roses. He preferred you sweet to counteract your surliness. Your muscles ached for the warm waters, always enjoying a long soak after riding your mount.
Ormund wasted no time in ripping your riding coat open. It was made of green wool, lined with black silk, and kept fastened with golden buttons shaped like the Hightower. The sweat and smell of burnt meat were pungent on your clothing.
"Now what was that pretty dragon of yours burning?" he hummed, working your green tunic over your head, leaving your top half bare to his ravenous eyes. At least you and Daeron had been blessed with pretty dragons, well kept and gleaming, and not some of these rank beasts, like the one Aemond flew. Ormund detested the hoary bitch.
"She grows hungry during a flight," you replied simply.
"Answer the question. Have you been pilfering the livestock again?"
"A sheep, a pig. Though she longs for an aurochs."
"I'm hardly surprised. She has the same spoiled taste as her rider." He pushed you into the chair and knelt to remove your boots, wrinkling his nose at the mud and what was most likely dung clinging to them. The gag he let out was so dramatic that you had to clamp your hand over your mouth to muffle your laughter. He placed them outside your doors and ordered one of the handmaidens to clean them thoroughly. When he returned to the spot in front of you, he removed his ornate doublet and rolled the sleeves of his undertunic up his strong forearms. Veins prominent, and your teeth yearned to sink into him. To feel his blood fill your mouth and seep into yours.
You squeaked as he yanked your breeches off with such force that you had to dig your hands into the arms of the chair to keep from toppling out. He yanked you onto your feet, taking seat before yanking you over his lap. Your hardened nipples scraped over the fabric of his breeches as his palm rested on your upturned rump, gently kneading your flesh. The first crack felt like dragonfire searing your skin. A strained gasp toppled from your lips. You had goaded him into it after all.
Each smack lighted a fresh fire over your exposed skin. You gritted your teeth, doing your best to control yourself. Though you suspected he enjoyed it when you caused a fuss. Handprints blazed on your skin, and you nearly sighed with relief when his hand stilled. Shimmer's roar could be heard, shaking the walls as she mirrored your pain.
"Fetch me your hairbrush," he ordered, stroking the back of your thighs.
"N…no, Uncle, please," you begged, not sure you could take much more, even though moments earlier you were encouraging him to strike you with his belt.
"I want you to feel this on the morrow when you are in the saddle," he growled, squeezing your abused backside. "I want to bruise you."
Heat lapped in your lower belly, a twitch making your pearl ache. Slowly, you pushed yourself up with your hands braced against his strong thigh, retrieved the silver brush from your vanity, and watched his large hand wrap around the handle. Your knees nearly gave out. You hated it, yet you craved it. He was everything you needed. Everything you wanted; the full attention of a man who could control you when you needed it. He was your rider, and you were his dragon.
The strikes against your flesh cracked through the room, salty tears spilling from your eyes as your Uncle tenderized your flesh, cutting through that thick dragonhide of yours. It was divine.
"There, there, sweet niece," he cooed, stroking your abused flesh before gathering you in his arms and letting you sob into his chest. Yearning to crawl inside his skin, to dig your talons in. Despite the pain and humiliation, arousal clung to your thighs, and the smell beckoned him. Tangy and sharp, like a plum.
He carried you over to the bath, carefully lowering you into the balmy waters. Pink rose petals floated around you. You hissed softly as your sore arse grew used to the temperature before the pain began to subside slowly. He unbraided your hair, untangling it with the brush he had used to spank you with before having you close your eyes as he poured the water jug over your scalp. There was a mixture made of plant lye he preferred to use to clean your hair, gently lathering it up with his skilled fingers. After he rinsed it, he applied a thin lotion made from boiled goat's milk and jasmine to soften your hair.
His brow knitted together as he made you stand, before methodically scrubbing every inch of your body. The dip of the sponge between your thighs made you shiver. Ormund breathed in deeply, a soft smile crossing his face as the dragon stench disappeared from your skin. Your freshly scrubbed skin was glowing, and your hair gleamed like molten silver. Tenderly, he dried you off, skimming his fingertips over your abused bottom. Bruises were already forming, and he felt satisfied with his work.
He moved you in front of the mirror, turning you slightly so you could see the marks he had seared on your skin. You groaned, peering over your shoulder and knowing riding tomorrow would be painful. You took hold of his wrist, lifting his palm to your mouth and kissing the rough skin that had struck you moments earlier.
"Thank you, Uncle," you murmured.
His fingers tangled in your wet hair, pulling you close and crashing his mouth against yours. The air left your lungs, head spinning.
"You have me under a spell, niece. Sent by the Gods to torment me."
"I could think of worse punishments," you teased, panting softly.
"I no longer wish to sully you. I will take you to wife," he whispered, gazing into your eyes.
"Truly?"
"The least I can do is make you an honorable woman. I cannot bear the thought of another man putting his hands on you. You are mine." His fingers dug painfully into your sore skin. Mayhaps if he wed you, the Gods would forgive him for all his sins. To save a young maiden from toppling further down the path of ruin.
"I have always been yours, Uncle."
He lifted you into his arms, your strong thighs looping around his waist as he carried you toward the bed. You were placed on your belly, his mouth pressing soft, eager kisses down your shoulders and back, then over your reddened backside, a smattering of violet bruises decorating the areas he struck the hardest. His face lowered against the curve of your arse, nose nudging against your cunt, before he pulled away to remove his clothing. The fresh, clean scent of your skin made his cock stiff. How delicious and pure you smelled. His little dragon now a soft, docile lamb for him to ravage. He rolled you onto your back, pulling you close to him as his cock nudged against your opening.
"We will repent together in the morning, side by side, sweet niece. On our knees, begging for forgiveness," he whispered before plunging deep inside you.
"Yes, Uncle," you purred.
He set a steady pace, each thrust making the pressure in your belly build until finally it released. His cock glistened with your wetness as he spilled his seed onto the floor. He had sinned enough for one day; he would save that for when you became his wife, and he would fill you with many babes. Ormund held you in his lap once more, kneading your breasts and pinching your nipples until you had a second release with his fingers buried deep inside. Your nectar coated his skin, and there was a brief moment he wished to bottle the scent. To unscrew the lid and breathe in his niece's sweet ambrosia, fresh from her cunt. After, he dressed you in a silk nightgown and brushed your hair before tucking you into bed.
"It will be cold tonight, snuggle up. Pleasant dreams, sweet niece," he whispered in your ear, his voice making your flesh tingle as he tucked the soft fur around you.
The next morning, you dressed demurely in a pale pink gown with pearls around your wrists, dangling from your ears, and clinging to the hollow of your throat. You appeared as an innocent maiden, silver hair tightly braided around your head, covered with a netted pearl snood, as you knelt beside your Uncle and lit a candle, then snuffed out the match with a soft breath. You clasped your hands tightly together, bowing your head in reverence.
"May the Maiden forgive me for my lustful desires," you whispered. "May she protect me from them until I am married."
A smirk curved over Ormund's face, but he kept his eyes closed, head bowed thoughtfully in his own prayers.
"May the Father guide me onto a more righteous path and send proper punishment to correct me when needed," you murmured sweetly.
One hand furled tightly around your throat, squeezing pleasantly and forcing you to peer into your Uncle's blue eyes. "Again, until you mean it." He pressed your hands against the altar, bending you forward and rolling your dress up around your waist.
He unlaced his breeches, withdrawing his cock and stroking himself to the sight of your bruised arse and the sweet sounds of your prayers of repentance. His seed sparkled on the webbed bruising on your backside, swirls of green, purple, and dark blue. He adjusted himself without a word, leaving you to your prayers before sending his men to hunt down an aurochs for your dragon. He didn't need another hungry dragon testing his patience.
Spoiled, pampered wife!reader shows up dressed like this to a court meeting, and Cregan has to sit there trying not to gauge out the eyes of every lord in the room because they keep staring at his wife's tits.
They're like dogs salivating after a hunk of meat, and he had already been through every single method of torture in his mind for each of them, one by one. Cregan knows his wife did it on purpose. You love unnerving him and pushing his buttons until he breaks and acts unseemingly of a Stark.
He deludes himself into thinking his composure will keep him leashed as the lords exit the courtroom, leaving you two behind. Cregan will not give you what you want. Will not act like a hound and lash out just because you're sitting there, head tilting as you look at him, arms crossed under your chest.
But the action makes your tits press together most sinfully, on the precipice of spilling out of your dress, moving with every breath you take, and he's doomed by the Old Gods and the New. A depraved man, no better than those court dogs who had their eyeful of you moments prior.
Cregan is out of his chair no less than mere moments after, and it doesn't take long to have you splayed out on the long table, neckline tugged down by rough fingers. Your bare breasts jiggle in his face as he dips down to mouth and lick at them at his leisure, growling like a wild beast, threats about your insolence muffled into the plush flesh.
Hours later, teeth marks and blooming bruises mar your skin as if a wolf ravaged it, and your nipples ache and feel raw, along with other parts of your body.
You couldn't have been more pleased that your plan had turned out more fruitful than you had expected. Maybe you might consider a more plunging neckline next time. Perhaps at a feast?
The only thing John Logan wants after a bad practice is you.
wc: 2.2k
warnings: 18+, oral fem receiving, new relationship nerves, reader is a little shy and john is down bad. very little plot here folks, just our boy being a grade A certified eater.
author’s note: I’m ovulating and have been having john ‘munch’ logan thoughts and i’m making it everyone’s problem. sorry not sorry! if you’re also having these thoughts, my asks are always open :)
John doesn’t know what happened at practice today, it was like he’d never played hockey a day in his life. He missed the net every time he went to take a shot while simultaneously botching simple pass off’s that should be muscle memory. After his third missed goal, whatever determined spark that was left fizzled, letting the fear of never getting drafted take up space in the forefront of his mind distracting him even more.
His hair is still wet from his shower when he barges into his room in a huff tossing his gym bag to the ground. He’s so lost in his own head that he doesn’t notice you haven’t moved from your place in his bed since this morning. Grumbling to himself, he pushes his hair out of his face, turning his back to you kicking off his sneakers.
John stretches, long lean arms reaching towards his ceiling flexing the taut muscles in his back. They move under his black dry fit shirt like there’s nothing there at all, every ridge and dip reminding you of his subtle strength that feels more like a secret than the other guys.
The waist band of his boxer briefs peek out over the top of his blue low hanging gym shorts, giving you a glimpse of his tan skin underneath. His abused cartilage pops loud enough for you to hear across the room, the air between them escaping from his neck when he leans his head to the side.
The release earns a deep groan from him that warms in your belly, heat spreading across your body at the grunt that follows when he cracks his knuckles after. Running a hand down his face, he turns around lifting his head in your direction, big brown doe eyes finally meeting yours.
“Hey..” He sighs as if he’s trying to exhale the frustration from his chest, mood visibly shifting into something happier, a small easy smile spreading across his face even if it doesn’t meet his eyes. “You’re still here.”
“I was feeling lazy.” You admit sheepishly, toying with the sleeves of his hoodie you’d thrown on after the quick shower you took when he left. “I hope that’s okay. It seems like you’ve had a bad — I can leave if you —“
“No! I mean — stay, please.”
John’s eyes plead with you, quick strides closing the space between you, easing the new relationship anxiety that’s rearing its ugly head with every step. These sleepovers are new, the uncharted territory into each other's spaces becoming hard to navigate despite them turning into something that's happened every other night since it started.
“Practice was…. not great.” He admits with defeat evident in his voice, long fingers wrapping around both of your ankles. Distracting you with a flash of his teeth, he tugs you to the end of the bed, chuckling at your surprised squeal before finishing. “I just couldn’t get out of my head today.”
“Anything I can do to help?” You whisper looking up at him from under your lashes, something flirty in the way you flutter them.
He hums like he’s deep in thought, brows furrowing, pulling one of your legs up so the bottom of your foot lands on his chest. Your lids turn heavy watching the way his biceps flex under the thin fabric, and how the muscles in his forearm dance under tan skin as he plants a kiss on the soft spot above your ankle. Fingers squeezing your wiggling toes, he moves your foot over his shoulder, starting a wet path up your calf.
“John.” His name leaves your mouth wrapped inside a shaky giggle, spurring him on even more with a nip of his teeth at the bend of your knee.
“Just being here, in my bed, wearing my clothes is enough.” he smiles, unmistakable admiration shimmering in the chestnut of his gaze.
Smelling his favorite vanilla lotion on your skin, his eyes close for a moment like he’s basking in you, rubbing his dark stubble covered cheek against your calf. Pulling away, something shifts in his gaze as he plants a kiss to the bottom of your foot before dropping to his knees.
“But, selfishly, I think I need a little more.”
John loves the way your face flushes under his undivided attention like this, and how goosebumps pebble uncontrollably under his fingertips. The light amber in his eyes fades into something dark, glazing over as they watch you squirm under their scrutiny. Your breath comes out a little quicker, thighs desperate to meet searching for impossible friction as he pulls you to the very edge of his bed.
Hooking your knees over his shoulders, the ends of his curls drip, ticking the inside of your thighs. Words lose themselves on the tip of your tongue when his big hands squeeze at the soft apple of your ass. He hums appreciatively, tugging his full bottom lip between perfect teeth. Lifting up the hem of his hoodie over your hips, his gaze darkens, eyes becoming hooded meeting the wet patch on the cotton of your panties.
“Just wanna make you feel better.” You whisper with something needy inside of it, feeling the tip of his nose run along your seam.
“Fuck. ” He groans, letting his teeth scrape against your swollen bundle of nerves over the fabric before curling his fingers around the elastic, pulling the offending garment out of his way. “You are gorgeous. Look at you.”
Another string of curse words slips out from under his breath seeing the way you already glisten for him, big hands wrapping around the outside of your thighs, holding you open. He looks up at you from under his thick lashes, planting a kiss in the small space where your hip meets what he wants most. The blunt ends of his nails digging into your skin feeling the shiver that runs down your spine in anticipation.
“Baby,” The new endearment comes out of you, breathy and desperate, fingers weaving into the wet thickness of his hair.
“Do me a favor?” His teeth flash in a small smile, looking at you from between your legs. “Don’t ever stop calling me that.”
He gives you no warning, flattening his tongue along your seam, running the muscle up the length of you agonizingly slow. Taking his time, he laps up everything you’re already giving him like he’s been craving it all day. Full pink lips wrap around your swollen clit, the tip of his tongue testing the waters with a smirk before sucking it, hard. A deep groan rumbles from his throat, eyes rolling in the back of his head at the way you tug at his roots in response.
His grip on your thighs becomes iron clad, the whites of his knuckles showing, tugging you even closer to his hungry mouth. The bow of your back and the gasp of his name encourages the relentless quick circles of his tongue. It’s easy to lose yourself in the feeling of him taking exactly what he wants, something he’s been getting better at. Even if that means pinning your hips down no matter how much they try to escape overstimulation.
John dips his tongue into your entrance, greedy walls trying to keep him there, begging him for more. Never denying you anything, he gives into what you both want without hesitation, letting his tongue find that spot that gets your legs shaking the way he likes. He holds you open, no matter how much your thighs try to close around him, or how hard you pull at his roots.
“Oh my fucking god. John!”
Throwing your head back with a scream, you’re quickly met with the realization that if he was home, most of the other boys probably are too. The thought has you hiding the next moan of his name inside your palm, eyes squeezing shut when the tip of his nose presses into your already sensitive clit while his mouth explores so deep it feels impossible.
Too lost in the way your body reacts to him, it takes John a minute to realize how quiet you are. How he’s not hearing any of the pretty sounds you make, the ones he imagines every time he fists his cock when you’re not here. He finally lifts his head to catch his breath, cheeks rosy and eyes black with a sheen of what he does to you coating his swollen lips. The sight alone makes you tremble, squirming for more and you don’t miss the proud twitch at the corners of his mouth.
“The guys aren’t home, they’re at Malones.” He assures quietly as if he can read your mind, planting a wet kiss on the inside of your slick covered thigh. “So, if you want to help me feel better, let me hear how good I’m making you feel, baby.”
Nodding, you slowly move your hand away from your mouth, tugging your bottom lip between your teeth because you like how that nickname sounds too. You don’t think you’ll ever get over the sweet way John talks to you, even when his shoulders are still tense from his bad day. He doesn’t hesitate to bring your hand back to join the other in his hair, squeezing your fingers, his bruising grip returns to your thighs.
“You’re so pretty, you know that?” He hums, pupils dilating at the view in front of him. “I’m so lucky”
He doesn’t let a response formulate inside of your head before he’s devouring you again. This time it feels like his tongue is everywhere all at once, greedily exploring every inch of you like it might disappear. The wet sounds filling his quiet room are enough to make your cheeks heat. But when he brings his full attention back to your clit, and his name comes out just the way he likes spurring him on, you can’t bring yourself to care. He lets your hips rock against his face, encouraging them by tugging you closer to his mouth every time they rise, earning him just the kind of sounds he was looking for.
The coil inside of you starts to tighten, the sheets underneath you feeling damp, and John can tell you're close by the way you start to move without abandon. Completely lost in the chase of your high, getting you right to this moment is always his favorite part. So he doubles down, taking control by pinning you to the mattress, opening his jaw so his mouth can claim every part.
”Oh god, John — don’t - don’t stop. Please.”
Tossing your head back into the mattress, you hardly recognize the whiney timbre of your voice. Tugging hard enough at his roots, you earn a grunt that vibrates against the most sensitive part of you. So you do it again. The movements of his tongue become determined, completely focused on your imminent demise, dipping into you again. His nose brushes against your bundle of nerves with every swipe of that sweet spot, eating you from the inside out, threatening you to see stars in the late afternoon.
“Come for me.” He murmurs, pulling his mouth off of you replacing his tongue with two fingers. Hooded eyes stare up at you in a daze, face shining in the low light of his room with your slick. “I want to watch.”
All you manage is a nod, eyes rolling in the back of your head at the way he fills you up, back bowing as the pad of his thumb presses into your clit . He rests his head against the inside of your thigh, working you open on his fingers, jaw going little slack at the tight flutter of your walls around them.
“It feels — it feels s-so” you whimper, toes curling over his shoulders as that coil inside of you reaches its limit. “I think I’m gonna —“
“Do it, baby.” He encourages with a thick needy rasp in his usually soothing voice.
That’s all you need for everything inside of you to snap, tumbling over the edge with John whispering praises against your shaking thighs the whole way down. He waits until your eyes finally open and meet him to replace his fingers with his tongue, relishing in the way you chant his name on a loop rolling your hips to meet his pace, chasing the last of your high.
Cleaning up the mess he helped you make with an appreciative groan, the sight is almost enough for your stomach to tighten again, especially when he circles your clit, sucking it into the heat of his mouth one more time before finally letting you go with a loud pop.Your body goes limp, muscles relaxing into his soft bed as you try to catch your breath. Lacing his fingers with yours, he peppers kisses on your trembling legs till they stop before resting his cheek against your thigh again like it’s his favorite pillow.
You meet his eyes that stare back at you dazed and content, all the resentment from the day gone just like chestnut still drowned in his pupils. Nuzzling into you, a slow content smile spreads across his face, and while making no effort to move, he asks:
Garrett lay on his back beneath you, his thick cock buried deep in your pussy as you rode him. His hands gripped your hips playfully, guiding you up and down his length with that cocky grin on his face. Every bounce made wet, obscene sounds as your soaked cunt swallowed him whole.
“Fuck, you look so good taking my cock like this,” Garrett teased, thrusting up to meet you, his voice light and filthy. “So wet and greedy. You gonna come all over me again, baby?”
You were panting, breasts bouncing with every movement, but you still tried to keep it light. “Y-yeah, this is… ah… great team bonding…” You glanced over your shoulder at Logan standing there, stroking his heavy, lubed cock with that the hunger of a man who had enough of waiting. Your voice came out breathy but determined. “Logan… I want both of you. Please. I want you in my ass right now. Fill me up.”
Logan’s eyes darkened. He didn’t smile, just climbed onto the bed behind you. “You sure?” he asked, voice low and serious.
“Yes…fuck,” you moaned, still grinding down on Garrett’s cock. “I want it. Double penetration. Both holes. Now.”
Garrett chuckled beneath you, still thrusting lazily into your pussy. “Hear that, Lo? Our girl’s asking so nicely. Give her what she wants.”
Logan’s dark eyes burned with intense focus. He moved behind you without a word, his large hands gripping and spreading your ass cheeks wide apart, exposing your tight, puckered hole completely. Cool air hit your skin for just a second before you felt the blunt, fat head of his massive cock covered by a condom pressing insistently right against your lubed asshole.
The pressure was immediate and overwhelming. That thick, swollen cockhead nudged and prodded at your tight ring, smearing more lube as it demanded entry. Garrett stayed perfectly still beneath you, his cock buried deep in your cunt, letting you feel the heavy, pulsing fullness there while Logan began to push forward.
“Easy,” Logan said, cooing you, his grip on your cheeks unyielding. “Relax and take me.”
You gasped sharply as the fat head finally forced its way past your resisting ring with a slow, burning pop. Inch after thick, veiny inch of Logan’s cock sank into your ass, stretching the tight channel wider than you thought possible. The intense pressure made your pussy clench hard around Garrett’s cock, and you could already feel the two of them pressing against each other through the thin wall inside you.
“Holy fuck…” you moaned, trying to joke through the mind-melting stretch. “Logan, that thing is huge… I asked for double penetration, not a total internal remodel, oh my god, I can feel you both so deep already…”
“Fuck, she’s so tight,” Garrett groaned playfully, starting to thrust up into your pussy again. “You okay up there, baby girl? Or are we breaking you already?”
Logan didn’t speak much. He just gripped your hips hard and started fucking your ass with powerful and controlled strokes. Garrett matched him from below, both of them finding a rhythm that had one cock sliding deep while the other pulled back. Every thrust made you shake. Your pussy clenched around Garrett’s cock, dripping down his shaft, while your ass gripped Logan’s like a vice. The dual penetration rubbed every sensitive spot at once, the pressure building insanely fast.
You tried another joke between moans, voice wrecked. “This is, ahh fuck… way better than Netflix. Who needs TV when you’ve got two hockey players turning you into a, oh god, double-stuffed sandwich…”
Garrett laughed breathlessly, thrusting harder up into your cunt while one hand reached up to play with your clit, teasing it in light, playful circles. “That’s right, baby. Take both our cocks. You asked for it, now you’re getting fucked full.”
You planted your hands firmly on Garrett’s chest and took full control, rolling your hips in deep, greedy circles before bouncing harder. You fucked yourself on both cocks with shameless abandon, slamming your soaked pussy down onto Garrett’s thick shaft while pushing back to bury Logan’s massive cock even deeper into your stretched asshole.
Every downward drop made your tits bounce heavily. Your juices coated Garrett’s cock and dripped down his balls, while lube and precum leaked from your tight ring around Logan’s girth. The obscene, wet squelching sounds grew louder as you rode them faster. “God… yes,” you gasped, voice husky. “Fuck, I’m so full.”
Garrett groaned, his fingers digging into your waist as he let you set the pace. “That’s it, baby, use us. So fucking wet and sloppy for us.”
You kept bouncing, ass rippling with every impact, taking them balls-deep over and over. Logan tried to thrust up into your ass at first, but you were moving too wildly, too hungrily. You were the one fucking them now. His hands gripped your hips tighter, trying to steady himself, but he couldn’t keep control.
A low, broken whimper escaped his throat, raw and needy.
Then another. And another.
The sound of Logan whimpering because you weren’t letting him thrust, because you were the one using his thick cock like a toy, made you clench hard around both of them.
“Fuck… Logan,” you moaned, a breathless laugh slipping out. “That’s so hot I’m gonna lose my mind.”
Logan’s reply came out strained, another whimper cutting through his words. “Shit… you’re so tight… fuck.”
You grinned through your moans and rode them even harder, slamming down so both cocks hit deep at once. Your ass jiggled against Logan’s hips with every bounce, your pussy making wet, filthy noises around Garrett.
Garrett laughed breathlessly, one hand sliding up to pinch your nipple. “Listen to him. You broke him, baby girl. I can feel him throbbing in your ass every time you drop down.”
You kept riding them relentlessly, sweat slicking your skin, your body shaking as the overwhelming fullness pushed you closer to the edge. The room was filled with the chaos of skin slapping skin, your dripping pussy and lubed ass taking two thick cocks, your desperate moans, Garrett’s teasing dirty talk, and Logan’s increasingly helpless whimpers every time you slammed yourself down and claimed them both.
“Don’t stop making those sounds, Logan,” you panted, voice breaking into a moan. “I love hearing you fall apart while I fuck you…”
Logan’s whimpers were constant now, low, broken, and desperate, as you used him, bouncing on his sheathed cock without mercy. His fingers dug painfully into your hips, but he couldn’t stop the needy sounds spilling from his throat.
The pressure inside you coiled tighter and tighter. Every bounce made Garrett’s bare cock hit your g-spot perfectly while Logan’s thick, condom-covered length rubbed against him through that thin wall, pushing you closer to the edge. You rode them harder, slamming down so both cocks filled you completely. The pressure snapped.
Your orgasm hit like a freight train, your pussy clamping down hard around Garrett’s bare cock as you gushed all over him, your asshole squeezing Logan’s condom-covered length in tight, rhythmic pulses. “I’m coming, fuck!” you cried out, body shaking violently between them.
Garrett groaned and thrust up deep, flooding your pussy with hot, thick cum. Logan whimpered sharply as he came too, pulsing inside the condom buried in your ass.
You collapsed onto Garrett’s chest, trembling, cum leaking from your pussy while Logan stayed deep in your ass. After a few seconds you let out a tired, breathless laugh. “Shit… that was intense. I’m gonna be sore as hell tomorrow, but fuck… totally worth it.”
logan likes it very much when you settle down on his thigh to get yourself off.
it's just so good when you find the right angle. he's all muscular and strong, he can lead you by holding your waist as he tries to find a pace you like. "yeah?" he murmurs, kissing your jawline like a man obsessed. "like this, gorgeous? do you think you can get off on my thigh like this?" he smiles when he feels you shiver with his words.
"i just- i'm- i think my legs are numb," you finally manage a full sentence with a pout on your face. he kisses your lips, making the pout disappear. "we can't have that, can we?" he takes control then, giving your poor legs some relief by lifting you up. he lays you down on his bed and gets on top. "pretty girl," he is amazed by your eyes, sparkling with hazy desire for him. "stop thinking, baby. your mind needs a break."
"can't-" you begin saying. "too much." logan leans down to kiss your belly. he drags his tongue on your skin. "but i just know it's not too much for you," he murmurs. "you only finished twice, i know you can do more."
"overachiever," you mumble. "i want to sleep." logan laughs. "i'll stop teasing, baby," he says as he puts his hands on either side of your head. "you want me to do this properly, right? give you a proper fuck, love on you like this."
he moves, settling down inside you in a moment. you wrap your legs around him as much as you can, but you are tired and your legs are numbing, and he knows this. he increases the pace, trying to get you where he wants. "i wanna hear you," he begs. "don't hide from me, never hide from me."
the noises you make sound unreal for a second when you hear yourself. he smiles at you. what a nice smile that is, you are so lost in the pleasure he gives you with that fucking smile on his face. "kiss me," you whisper, your hands reaching up to hold onto his neck. "please, kiss me. kiss me on my neck..." you are breathless when he finally gives you what you want. "you smell divine," he says in between his kisses. "my favorite scent in the entire world." he kisses all the sensitive spots he can find, sucking a tiny spot beneath your jawline.
"come for me, whenever you want, okay?" he murmurs against your collarbones. you nod, legs shaking as he hits a sensitive spot over and over. when the wave finally hits you, you are blissfully lost. you hum, coming on him as he relaxes with you. your bones tired, your mind empty. nothing but logan exists and it's your favorite feeling these days.
"so pretty," he whispers. he kisses your forehead. "the prettiest."
garrett graham x f!reader
Word Count: 5K
Rating: E
Summary: You're the ESPN sports commentator who went viral for your interview with Garrett Graham, and tonight you unexpectedly run into him while you're out dancing with your friend.
Warning: (MDNI 18+), alcohol, flirting, teasing/witty banter, language, fluff, feelings, mutual pining, intense eye contact, lite sexual touching, pet names, smutty allusions, i don't want to say too much to avoid spoiling the story, but basically garrett's perfect
A/N: I've been writing this ever since I started watching the show. First Garrett fic... I'm very nervous to be posting in the Off Campus fandom! But Garrett is such a green flag, and I really loved his character. Since Belmont is 28, I'm imagining Garrett to be the same age in this fic. And shocker… he's a professional hockey player for the Bruins, and the boys are on the team too. Hope this not-totally-but-kinda canon universe appeals to peeps. GIF found HERE by @tylrgalpins
Support creators. Thank you for reading!! if you comment/reblog i love you so much <3.
This job was hard. Not just because of the long hours, the travel, or the pressure of live television. Those things were tough, sure. But the harder part? Being a woman doing it.
The sexism was real, and it was relentless.
There were the obvious things—the comments about your appearance, the assumption that you didn't know the sports as well as your male counterparts, the fans who thought your job was to stand on the sideline and look pretty. But it was the subtle stuff that got under your skin more. It was the way some coaches wouldn't make eye contact during interviews. It was the locker room access you had to fight for. It was the producer who suggested you smile more during game analysis. It was the constant need to prove you belonged in the booth.
It had not been an easy road. You graduated from college and paid your dues in the minor leagues first. Small-market radio stations where you'd do play-by-play for high school football games on Friday nights, then drive two hours to cover a college basketball game Saturday. You worked the overnight shift at a regional sports network, editing highlight reels at 2 AM and writing copy that nobody would read. You freelanced for websites that didn't pay, just to build a portfolio. You covered local teams for newspapers that were hemorrhaging money, knowing that one good story might get noticed.
Then came the regional gigs—cable sports networks in mid-sized markets where you finally got on camera. You would anchor the 10 PM sportscast, conduct sideline interviews at minor league baseball games, and file reports from high school state tournaments. You would pitch story ideas constantly and were networking at every press event.
And then, finally, you got the call last year. ESPN wanted you as a sideline reporter.
You cried in your car in the parking lot of your neighborhood grocery store.
A few weeks later, you were still settling into your new Manhattan apartment when your boss handed you a major assignment: cover a critical post-game hockey segment with Garrett Graham. Hockey wasn't a beat you covered often. You spent so much time beforehand digging through tape, studying his nuances, and preparing harder than you'd ever prepared for anything. Partly because you were still trying to establish credibility at ESPN, and because you wanted to show you could handle any assignment thrown your way.
Garrett had a brutal game against Tampa Bay. Sloppy passes, missed assignments, looked like he was playing in slow motion. The kind of game that makes a forward want to disappear into the locker room and avoid the cameras entirely.
The arena air hung thick with the bite of ice shavings and the sour bite of spilled sports drinks on concrete. You elbowed past the pack of reporters, mic in hand, and zeroed in on Garrett just as he tugged off his helmet. Damp strands of dark curls clung to his forehead, and the sharp tang of his sweat mixed with the faint metallic scent of his gear. His brown eyes flicked up, narrowing as he clocked you pushing closer.
"That wasn't the Garrett Graham we usually see out there tonight," you said, voice even despite the way your heart thudded against your ribs. "You missed what—four, five passes in the first two periods alone? Weak coverage on their second-line wingers, zero offensive drive when you had possession. What happened out there?"
Garrett's eyebrows shot up. He blinked once, slow, then let out a short, disbelieving laugh that didn't reach his eyes. His shoulders stayed rigid under the soaked jersey, but something in his posture shifted—like you had just body-checked him.
"Jesus," he muttered, dragging a gloved hand over his mouth. The leather smelled like old sweat and tape. "Damn, straight for the jugular, huh? You actually sound like you watched the entire game."
You caught the way his nostrils flared on the exhale, the low rumble of his chuckle vibrating through the space between you. The crowd noise pressed in, but his focus stayed pinned on your face.
"I did watch. You looked checked out after the second period. Was it the physical play wearing you down, or something else pulling your focus?"
He shifted his weight, skates scraping the floor. "Wearing me down? Nah. I thrive on that. Tonight was just... off. Legs felt heavy, reads were slow."
"Yeah, you were a half-second behind on every play."
He arched an eyebrow at you.
"And heavy legs after a few shifts?" Your fingers tightened around the mic as you stepped closer. "That's your excuse for not dominating the boards like you usually do? You were letting Tampa push you around. What's the real reason you couldn't find your game?" Garrett's smirk widened, but his eyes stayed locked on yours, not wandering down your body like the way other players had done in the past.
"I guess… I got in my own head after that first bad turnover," his gloved fingers started tapping his stick. "Kept trying to force plays instead of playing simple."
The ice shavings crunched under shifting feet around you, the cold air biting your cheeks while you pressed on. "Forcing plays because you were rattled? That doesn't sound like the captain who leads this team. How do you shake that when there's still time on the clock?"
He dragged a hand over his jaw, the leather creaking, and a genuine warmth crept into his expression. "Shake it? You don't always. Sometimes you eat the mistake and keep skating."
You held his gaze, noting the way his posture softened just a fraction. "Whatever's weighing on you, it showed."
Garrett's mouth curved into a small, sincere smile, the cocky edge fading as he met your intensity head-on.
"That was—" you lowered the mic, voice sharpening, "—one of the worst performances of your entire career. You might want to fix that before it drags the team down with you."
Garrett's eyes lit with something appreciative and smiled with all of his teeth. He turned directly toward the camera, and said:
"You heard her. I gotta get my shit together."
The clip went viral. See…Garrett was notoriously private. Guys around the Bruins organization knew it. The media knew it too. He didn't love the press—never had. Short answers were his specialty. A grunt here, a grunt there. But after a loss? Forget about it. He gave you nothing. Just stare at his skates and wait for you to get the hint that the interview was over.
So naturally… social media exploded.
Your boss called you into his office the next morning, and you braced for something—a complaint from the Bruins' coach, maybe, or a lecture about "maintaining relationships." Instead, he grinned so wide you could see his molars. The takes of your interview multiplied overnight. Sports podcasts ran the footage in slow motion, analyzing every micro-expression. Morning shows replayed it on repeat. Your mentions went from a few hundred per week to thousands per day.
The consensus crystallized fast: you were a reporter with a backbone. Most of your peers tiptoed around Garrett Graham, terrified of getting iced out. You didn't let his reputation dictate your questions. You treated him like a professional who owed the fans accountability—not a fragile ego who needed coddling just because of who he was. Or who his father was. The other thing they couldn't stop talking about:
He smiled in the interview.
He even agreed with you on camera.
You'd gotten a version of Garrett Graham that no one else ever had.
You had managed to score tickets from a coworker to an exclusive club—a treat for Kayla, your best friend who you had known since you were kids. She was visiting from Chicago. The night was already off to a great start: dinner at Carbone and grabbing cocktails at Lovers of Today. You two were now sitting in your VIP booth, your laughter filling the air as she shared her most recent 'sex gone wrong' story with some one-night stand. Candles had been involved, and they almost set his apartment on fire. As you doubled over, tears streaming down your face, and sipped on your Piña colada, a familiar melody began to filter through the speakers, causing you to pause mid-sentence.
Your eyes widened in excitement as you wiped away your tears. "No way, is that what I think it is?"
"Yes!" she screamed, as she recognized the opening notes of your favorite song—Dancing On My Own.
Somebody said you got a new friend
Does she love you better than I can?
And there's a big black sky over my town
I know where you're at, I bet she's around
Without missing a beat, Kayla grinned and reached for your hand, pulling you up from your seat. As the song continued to play, a rush of memories flooded back to you, and you were instantly transformed back to being younger, having carefree fun, and not paying any bills.
I'm in the corner, watching you kiss her, oh
I'm right over here, why can't you see me? Oh
And I'm giving it my all
I'm not the guy you're taking home, ooh
I keep dancing on my own, ah
You confidently swayed your hips to the catchy beat, and put on your karaoke voice, intertwining with Robyn. Your body moved fluidly as you ran your fingers through your hair, your eyes closed as you belted out every note.
I just wanna dance all night
And I'm all messed up, I'm so out of line, yeah
Stilettos and broken bottles
I'm spinning around in circles
Kayla's movements become bolder and more seductive, drawing the attention of onlookers due to her uninhibited display. Some chuckled amusedly, while some others cheered her on, and she playfully winked at the audience, inviting them to join in on the fun.
And I'm in the corner, watching you kiss her, oh
And I'm right over here, why can't you see me? Oh
And I'm giving it my all
But I'm not the guy you're taking home, ooh
I keep dancing on my own
And oh, nah
You twirled and spun as you let yourself be consumed by the music. You and Kayla threw your hands up in the air, grinning from ear to ear as you danced with abandon as you got closer to the end of the song.
So far away, but still so near
The lights come on, the music dies
But you don't see me standing here
Your audience erupted into applause, cheering and clapping once you both sang the final notes of the song.
You bowed dramatically, both giggling at all the whistles, and then started walking back to your table. "Damn girl, you looked good out there shaking that ass," Kayla said while adjusting her top to make sure her tits didn't spill out and accidentally flash the entire club.
You snorted as you started to take your seat. Kayla's eyes suddenly went wide, her drink nearly slipping from her grip as she froze mid-adjustment of her top.
"Holy shit," she hissed, voice low but frantic. "Look—over there. That's Dean Di Laurentis. John Logan. John Tucker, too. And—fuck—Garrett Graham. They're right there."
Her gaze locked on the VIP booth diagonally away from you (probably 100 feet away), where suddenly four Bruins players lounged in leather seats, a parade of bottle girls swarming their table. Crystal decanters clinked, ice rattled, and the sharp tang of expensive liquor mixed with perfume and cologne hung thick in the air. Music pulsed through the floor, vibrating up through your white sneakers.
The girls leaned in close, laughing too loud, fingers brushing biceps and shoulders as they poured. Logan grinned wide, accepting the attention with an easy tilt of his head. Tucker smirked, letting one girl trace the line of his jaw. Di Laurentis leaned back with that cocky half-smile, eyes roaming every curve the servers offered. But Garrett stayed still, posture straight, jaw set. He ordered with clipped precision, fingers drumming once against the table before he accepted his glass without a single flirtatious glance.
Kayla's breathing hitched. "Please. You have to introduce me. Especially to him." She nodded toward Di Laurentis, cheeks flushed, thighs pressed tight together under the table.
You shook your head. "I don't know them."
She grabbed your wrist. "You know Garrett. Oh my god, introduce me."
"I interviewed him almost a year ago." A laugh escaped you. "That's it."
"Yeah, and he was giving you fuck-me eyes the entire time."
You hesitated, watching the way Di Laurentis's broad shoulders shifted as he accepted another pour, his laugh carrying across the space. Kayla's fingers dug in harder. You sighed, realizing you couldn't say no to your best friend. Especially since she was obsessed with hockey.
When the bottle service girl approached your table, you leaned close and whispered something quick into her ear. She nodded, tray balanced, and crossed to the players' booth. A moment later she pointed directly at the two of you.
Garrett's head snapped around so fast his dark hair shifted. His gaze found yours across the distance. A slow, knowing smirk curved his mouth. You lifted your hand in a shy wave, fingers trembling just slightly. The club's bass thumped against your ribs. His stare held, steady and heated, and for the first time, you really looked at him: the sharp line of his jaw, the way his shirt stretched over solid muscle, the quiet power in the way he sat completely still while chaos swirled around him.
Damn. He was hot.
The four hockey players crossed the space between booths with that easy swagger. Logan and Tucker slid in first, flashing grins already ordering another round before the conversation even got started. Dean claimed the seat beside Kayla, already leaning close, his hand brushing her thigh as she laughed too loud at something he said. Garrett lowered himself next to you, his massive frame making the seat creak. He kept a respectful distance, one arm draped along the back of the booth, the other resting on his knee. Everyone introduced themselves.
"So, how do you two know each other?" Logan asked.
Kayla smiled. "We grew up playing tennis together. We were on the USTA Junior Team."
"I didn't realize you were a college athlete," Dean said, eyebrows raising in surprise while he looked at you.
You shook your head, a little shy. "I wasn't. I tore my ACL my senior year of high school…"
The table fell into sympathetic silence, everyone giving you that "that sucks" look. You shrugged, trying to brush it off. But then you caught Garrett's eyes, and something about his gaze made you pause. While the others looked at you with the familiar weight of pity (that practiced sympathy reserved for fallen athletes). Garrett was looking at you differently. He was looking at you with complete respect. Like you were still standing, still strong, and still someone. Like your story didn't end when your ACL tore—it just changed direction.
"She was definitely the way better player, though," Kayla added.
"Not true," you rolled your eyes. "Kayla actually got a full-ride and played at Florida."
Dean, intrigued, started talking to her about tennis, asking about her college matches and favorite players.
You winked at her while she mouthed: thank you
Meanwhile, Tucker and Logan quickly excused themselves to head to the bar when they recognized someone. "Be right back," Tucker said, waving as they made their way through the crowd.
You sipped your Piña Colada, the rum and coconut coating your tongue. The air smelled like warm skin.
"Long time no see," Garrett said in the kind of tone that vibrated straight down your spine.
"Uh… yeah," you answered, teeth catching your lower lip.
His mouth curved, slow and knowing. "I figured I'd run into you eventually. You seem to be everywhere these days, covering something."
"Occupational hazard."
"Well… you make it look easy."
You arched a brow. "Thank you, but trust me, it's fucking insanity behind the scenes."
Garrett chuckled, the sound warm and surprisingly soft for a man his size. "Fair enough."
The banter flowed easily, his eyes never leaving your face. Then his gaze dipped, slow and deliberate, tracing the way the blue spaghetti-strap mini dress hugged every curve.
"I like your dress."
"I bet you do," you teased, tilting your head.
"I liked watching you dance," he added, and the eye contact turned molten. Heat crawled up your neck.
"You saw that?" you shifted, suddenly self-conscious. "God, I'm such a terrible dancer."
Garrett's expression softened, the MVP edge melting into something gentler. "You looked happy. That's all I saw." Before you could answer, a gorgeous woman appeared at the edge of the booth. Massive tits strained against her tiny top, and she flashed Garrett a dazzling smile.
"Oh my god, you're Garrett Graham. I'm your biggest fan. Can I get a picture?"
"I appreciate that, but I'm actually here with friends," Garrett said. He didn't gesture at anyone or make a show of it. "I'm trying to keep a low profile tonight."
You could tell the second the words left his mouth that he meant it. His shoulders tightened almost imperceptibly, the way they did in post‑game scrums when too many cameras angled his way. It wasn't annoyance…more like resignation. Like this was the part of his life he tolerated, and didn't enjoy.
"Oh my god, I won't tag you or anything. It's just for me," she said quickly, her smile turning almost pleading.
You watched the desperation flicker across her face—the way her fingers fidgeted with her phone, how her eyes had gone a little too bright. She wasn't trying to be malicious. She was just a fan...or maybe a puck bunny.
You stood, smoothing your dress. "I was just heading to the restroom anyway."
Garrett's jaw tightened, clearly unhappy you were leaving, but he offered the girl a brief, polite smile and leaned in for the quick photo (no flash) and then signed a napkin for her. You slipped away through the crowd, the music pulsing against your skin.
Inside the private bathroom, cool marble met your palms as you washed your hands. The door suddenly rattled with hard, impatient knocks.
"Hold on," you called.
The banging continued.
"What the fuck," you muttered, drying your hands and yanking the door open.
Garrett stood there, eyes dark. He pushed inside, kicked the door shut, locked it, and backed you against the wall behind you in one fluid motion. His huge hands caught both of yours and pinned them above your head. Then his mouth crashed down on yours. His tongue pushed past your lips, stroking deep, tasting every corner of your mouth while he groaned low in his throat. You tasted whiskey and mint on him, felt the hard press of his body pinning you in place.
When he finally broke the kiss, his forehead rested against yours, breath ragged. "Baby," he whispered, voice rough with need. "Missed you so fucking much."
His free hand slid down your side, fingers tracing the curve of your waist before cupping your ass and squeezing. He nipped at your bottom lip, then soothed it with another slow, tongue-heavy kiss that left you dizzy.
Your phone had lit up two days after the interview went viral.
A DM on Instagram from garrettg.44: Looks like you're a hit, Ace.
SheSpeaksSports: Didn't realize hockey players checked their own press.
garrettg.44: Only when the sports commentator makes me look good. You free for a drink when I'm in New York next week?
Your stomach did something stupid. You ignored it.
SheSpeaksSports: I don't date athletes.
It wasn't just a rule; it was self-preservation. You had seen a few colleagues over the years blur the lines between objectivity and attraction, had seen the fallout when a relationship imploded. Your credibility was everything in this fucking sports media world.
garrettg.44: Good thing I'm not asking you out. This is a 'thanks for getting my ass in gear' drink. I would never ask a woman out like this. What kind of men have you been dating? A real gentleman always asks in person. Trust me—you'll know when I'm asking you out on a date.
SheSpeaksSports: Still don't date athletes.
Athletes meant groupies, road trips, and a lifestyle built on constant external validation. You had covered enough locker rooms to know how that went. The temptation wasn't even the problem—it was that they didn't see it as temptation. It was just... there. Available. Hockey players specifically. Weren't they notoriously the worst cheaters? Actually, no—that was unfair. All athletes were notoriously the worst cheaters in entertainment. The sport didn't matter. The infrastructure was the same: travel, adoration, and zero consequences for bad behavior as long as they could still score.
garrettg.44: Then I'll just have to change your mind in person.
You stared at that message for a long time. The confidence in it. The certainty. It was like he had already decided how this would go.
Back in the bathroom, Garrett's thumb stroked your wrist where he still held you pinned.
Clearly, you had broken your 'no-dating-athletes' rule.
"Ace, this dress is killing me," he murmured against your mouth, kissing you again, slower this time. You loved the way his body curved protectively around yours. His fingers on his free hand were tracing the hem of your dress, and rising higher. He smiled against your lips when you gasped.
Garrett's mouth curved into that slow, crooked smirk as he leaned back.
"Are you stalking me?" you teased, voice light even though your pulse still hammered from the kiss.
"You wish," he smirked. "Dean wanted to come here. This is a happy coincidence."
The secrecy still felt surreal sometimes. Keeping Garrett at arm's length in public, pretending nothing was there when you wanted to touch and kiss him. The team was currently taking some time off after the Stanley Cup Win. Garrett deserved this break. Garrett had been staying with you since the celebration, which had been perfect. The Cup win had been everything a few weeks ago—watching him hoist it, knowing what he had poured into this season.
The way he fucked you that night was like nothing you had ever experienced.
But now Kayla was visiting this weekend, and so Garrett booked a hotel to keep up appearances and pretend he was here for some endorsement meeting. He was hanging out with the boys this weekend. Tucker and Logan were staying with Dean. You almost told Kayla once months ago (almost let it slip), but she shut that down fast. Kayla had seen the risk immediately and understood how it could complicate things for you as a sports commentator when you told her you had fallen for an athlete.
The less I know, the better. Im a blabber mouth and would feel terrible if I accidentally said something.
So, you and Garrett kept your relationship private. There were only two other people who absolutely needed to know: the Bruins coach and your boss. You both were upfront with them once things got serious, and they had been surprisingly understanding and agreed that you should keep things discreet for now.
The rule was simple: You couldn't cover any Bruins games. Which wasn't the end of the world because hockey wasn't your usual segment. But it sucked that you couldn't formally support your man on the air.
You pushed Garrett's chest until he dropped onto the closed toilet seat. The porcelain creaked under his weight. You climbed into his lap, knees bracketing his thick thighs, the hem of your blue dress riding high. Garrett groaned, deep and guttural, the sound vibrating through his chest and straight between your legs.
A thin strap slipped off your shoulder. His eyes darkened. "Fuck, baby," he whispered, voice hoarse. "Look at you." His hand cupped the bare skin, thumb stroking slow circles. "So fucking beautiful."
Your head tipped back, a wrecked moan shuddering through you under his attentive care. You rocked forward, grinding down against his cock straining inside his pants.
"God, Garrett. You're so... fucking big."
He hissed through his teeth, his hips jerking up.
"Christ," he rasped, and mouthed at your breast through your dress. "Dirty fucking girl,"
You shuddered, a low, needy whine escaping your throat. "Only for you."
His hands framed your face, thumbs stroking your cheekbones. Those big brown eyes locked onto yours, soft and open and completely unguarded. "Ace," he breathed. "I love you."
"I love you too," you whispered back.
You kissed down the column of his throat, tongue flicking over his pulse point. He tasted like salt and expensive aftershave. His head tipped back, and a broken groan slipped free. But then his body suddenly went still beneath you.
"What's wrong?" you asked, pulling back.
Garrett's jaw flexed. "Ace, you deserve better than me fucking you in here.
"It's not like it's the first time we've had sex in a public bathroom," you teased.
"I think it's time… it's time we announce our relationship."
The words hit like ice water. You slid off his lap so fast the room tilted. Cool marble met your palms as you braced against the mirror. Your reflection stared back—kinda wild hair, kiss-swollen lips, wide eyes. Behind you, Garrett's massive frame filled the space, shoulders tense, brows drawn together in worry.
"Garrett, we've talked about this," you mumbled.
He stepped forward so your back pressed to his chest. His arms wrapped around your waist, chin resting on your shoulder. You could feel every hard plane of muscle through his shirt, the steady thump of his heart against your spine. His reflection met yours in the mirror—eyes soft, mouth set in a determined line.
"We've been doing this for nearly a year," he murmured. "I'm tired of hiding and pretending I don't have a girlfriend."
Your stomach twisted. "When people find out, I'm going to be ridiculed."
"You're not," he said, rolling his eyes but keeping his tone gentle. He spun you so you faced him, leaning back against the counter and pulling you between his spread thighs. His hands rested warm and steady on your hips. "You got to ESPN before we ever met."
"But you know how it is for a woman in this industry. One rumor, and suddenly I'm the girl who slept her way to interviews instead of earning them. I've fought for every single segment, every on-air opportunity. I've had to be twice as prepared as my male colleagues just to get half the respect."
Garrett's eyebrows furrowed. "I know I'll never get it. Not really, since men don't go through this bullshit. But I hate watching you shrink yourself for other people's opinions."
"It's not just about shrinking," I said, my voice trembling slightly with frustration. "Do you understand what's going to happen? My colleagues—the ones I've worked alongside, who've finally started seeing me as a serious commentator—they're going to look at me differently. They're already skeptical of women in sports media. Now I'm dating a player? Suddenly every good interview I've gotten, every story I've broken, it all becomes suspect. He helped her. He knew someone. She's only on air because—"
"Because you're talented as hell," he interrupted firmly.
"That won't matter," you said, pulling away slightly. "Not to everyone. And the worst part? Some of them will be nice about it. They'll smile and congratulate us, but in meetings, they'll wonder if I can be objective. They'll second-guess my analysis. They might even pull me off covering certain teams or players. This just wouldn't be a good look."
"Do you not—" Garrett's shoulders hunched slightly, suddenly self-conscious. His big hands flexed on your hips, "—want to be public because it's specifically me?"
"Of course not," you said quickly, reaching up to cup his jaw. Stubble rasped against your palms. "God, no. I love you. But…I've worked so hard to be taken seriously. "We've been in this beautiful private bubble. When it goes public, everyone's opinions is going to get inside our relationship. I know it has to happen eventually, but I'm terrified." You hesitated, hating how vulnerable this made you feel. "Not because it's you—never. I'm terrified of what it means for us. And I hate that I even have to think about that."
He watched the way your lower lip trembled and leaned in, pressing soft kisses across your forehead, cheeks, the tip of your nose.
"What if people don't react the way you think?"
You almost laughed. "Garrett, come on. You know how this works. You've dealt with people calling you a nepo baby because of your father. You’re objectively one of the best hockey players in the league right now, better than your father ever was. But people still say it."
"Yeah… they do. And here's what I finally figured out after years of letting it get under my skin. It's just noise. Who fucking cares? Anyone who matters will see what I see—a brilliant, driven woman who earned her place through hard work. The rest? Fuck 'em."
You wanted to believe him. God, you wanted to
"I don't want to take separate flights when we go on vacation. I don't want date nights limited to our apartments. I don't want to pretend we just 'ran into each other' at restaurants my team booked out in advance." Garrett pulled you closer, his forehead resting against yours. "I don't want to leave events in staggered cars or walk into hotels through service entrances. I don't want to hide behind tinted windows, PR-approved alibis, or carefully timed exits. I want to hold your hand in daylight," He watched the corners of your mouth twitch. "I want to sit next to you at an event instead of three seats away. I want to post a picture without cropping you out. I want to kiss you without worrying about who's watching," He swallowed thickly. "I want the whole fucking world to know you're mine."
Your fingers curled into his shirt. "Trust me, I want that too."
"Ace," he said, voice dropping even lower, "the ESPY awards are next month. I want you on my arm that night."
Your breath caught. "That's such a public event."
"Yes," he said simply, still kissing every inch of your face he could reach. "Promise me you'll think about it?"
A tiny, reluctant smile tugged at your mouth. "I guess it would be nice if people knew, so girls would stop pawing at you."
Garrett huffed a laugh. "That's not gonna stop."
You slapped his arm, the sound sharp in the small room. "I promise I'll think about it."
He grinned, pulling you closer until your bodies aligned perfectly, the heat of him seeping into your skin. His fingers traced slow circles on your lower back while his gaze stayed locked on yours—steady, patient, and so full of love it made your chest ache. The muffled bass from the club vibrated through the walls, but in here it was just the two of you.
And that felt perfect.
SECRET RELATIONHIP!!! (one of my fav tropes lol)
Maybe a part 2?
NPT: @bitters-n-sweets - you're the only person I know in this fandom lmao.
pairing: Dark!John Logan x Housewife!Reader x Dark!Dean Di Laurentis
synopsis: As the foundation of your marriage continues to crack, the two hockey players next door become harder to ignore, and they're determined to not deny their feelings for you.
warnings: MxFxM, infidelity, emotional affair, married FMC, obsessive MMCs, love triangle, dual POV, voyeuristic themes, emotional manipulation, sexual content 18+ PLEASE READ AT YOUR OWN RISK
word count: 5.8k
off campus masterlist
You had so many hobbies, so many skills you’d mastered, and yet you found yourself staring at the wall all the time. Literally, you were watching paint dry. The Bob Ross video you’d watched as a tutorial for your newest painting had ended, and another had started playing on your laptop. The seaside cabin you’d painted was nice, although not nearly as skilled as Bob’s. It was only ten in the morning, and you were being lulled into an early nap already, thanks to his soothing voice.
Breakfast was the same as usual. Avocado toast and an overeasy egg. You ate by yourself at the wooden dining table in the nook of the kitchen. The last time you’d had breakfast with another human might’ve been when you first moved into this house eight months ago with your husband. There was a short week before he started his new job at Briar, conducting marine science research for Briar’s College of Life Sciences. It was a celebratory breakfast for buying your first house and the new life you were starting.
Now that he had a tenured position, things would be different. He would have more control over the classes he taught and the places he would travel for research. No more busywork or covering topics he didn’t care about. He’d be able to make more time for you. He promised it would be a matter of time before you were pregnant, and that would finally give you something more to focus on. Except, he chose research expeditions further away than he promised, and the two of you hadn’t had enough sex in the past eight months to make a baby.
There were a few other housewives on the street you lived on. A lot of them still seemed to be warming up to you, but you did everything in your power to get close to them. You attended the Pilates classes, you brought homemade pasta salads to their barbecues, and you were even in the process of joining the local Rotary club chapter. Most of them wanted to talk about their marriages and seemed to dislike that you had little to offer on that topic of conversation. Your husband never attended their parties, he didn’t make friends with their spouses, and he was never home longer than a weekend.
You’d married him because he was smart and passionate about his career. These days, you wonder why exactly he married you.
Besides the housewives, a lot of college students lived on your road. Houses bought by rich parents that they either rented out or let their kids stay in.
Your doorbell wakes you out of your daydream. The floor of your 19th-century cottage creaked under your bare feet as you made your way through the kitchen, past the living room, and towards your front door. You’re not expecting a package, and your first instinct tells you that it’s another door-to-door salesman. You peek through the cream curtains that cover the door’s sidelights. He’s a little younger than you, his skin tanned, his hair long and dark. He’s wearing a Carhartt sweatshirt, work jeans, and a toolbox hangs at his side.
You debate opening the door for a moment, until he catches a glimpse of you peeking at him. Mentally cursing, you take a step back, take a deep breath, and then open your front door.
“Hey, I’m Logan.” He smiles, teeth white, and you fully get to take in how handsome he is. It’s almost comical. Like you’re in a cheesy porno where he’s a handsome stranger, and you’re a lonely, bored housewife. Not far off, actually. “Your husband said I could come by around this time and take a look at your bathroom sink upstairs.”
“Oh,” You realize then how crazy you must look. Looking down at your hands, you realize you have paint splattered all over your arms and your apron. You smile politely back at him, as if to appear less insane, but you’re almost sure it has the opposite effect: “He didn’t mention…”
Before you can even finish that sentence, your phone pings in your pocket. You reach into the pockets of your house dress and fish out your phone.
Rick: Handyman coming at 11:30.
Your husband sends you that text at approximately 11:35. You try not to let the frustration you feel instantly show on your face. Logan seems kind, and you trust your husband enough to find a decent, non-serial-killer handyman. “I’m Y/N,” You introduce yourself. “Come in. Sorry, I was painting this morning …I don’t usually look like this.”
Unfortunately, you realize too late that you’ve invited him to look you over. Your dress shows entirely too much of your chest and arms because you prefer to be comfortable when you’re home. And you had exactly no warning that you’d be meeting a stranger. You let him inside, closing the door behind him.
“No, no, don’t worry about it. You look …” He coughs awkwardly, and you cringe, assuming he was holding back a lie, “I live right next door, actually, so I’ve seen you…”
“More put together than this,” You finish. “That’s good, at least. So you’re one of the hockey players.”
His face starts to feel more familiar, although, from your perspective, there’s usually a million college kids coming and going from that house.
“Yup, one of them. Hope we’re not too loud for you.”
“Oh, no. I’m asleep by eight and a heavy sleeper.” You answer honestly, a little too genuinely, and worry for a moment that he’ll find your response strange.
“A great combination.” He chuckles, and you don’t expect to feel so weird about someone else thinking you’re funny. You don’t get much out of Rick, usually, probably because he’s so tired when you see him. “That’s what I look for in a neighbor.”
You laugh together for that short moment until you realize you’re probably holding him up: “Anyways, um, let me show you upstairs.” Logan follows you up the staircase to the second floor. Your house is smaller than the hockey boys’, with three bedrooms and two bathrooms in total. Still, much too big for you and your husband. If things turned around soon, you’d be making one of these rooms a nursery.
You lead him to the upstairs bathroom, which thankfully isn’t too messy. You had so much free time on your hands that it wasn’t hard to keep your house clean. You grab a bra and a pair of Rick’s underwear that’s strewn haphazardly on the floor and tuck the items behind your back.
Logan sets down his toolkit on the bathroom counter as you start to explain, “It seems like it’s getting clogged almost every week. We’ll snake the drain, and it’ll get better for a few days, and then it happens again.”
“Hmm, clog is probably deeper than you think,” He says, wheels seemingly turning in his mind, “I got it. Shouldn’t take too long.”
“Great, um, I’ll be downstairs. Let me know if you need anything.”
“Will do.” He smiles at you, and it genuinely makes your body feel warm. You have to force your feet to move past him.
You clean up the paint on your hands in the kitchen sink, scrubbing a little too hard, as if that will get rid of that warm feeling.
“Goddamn, man.” Dean groans as he looks out the dining room window. Logan is doing his best to concentrate on fixing a wobbly dining room chair. Well, it’s more than wobbly given the fact that Beau had attempted to use it as a weapon against Dean after an intense game of chess. “You have to see this. I think she’s about to get into downward dog. That’s it, baby …a little further …just like that.”
Dean’s nose is practically against the glass now as he spies on you working out in your backyard. Logan doesn’t blame him for looking; he himself had gotten a look at that butter-yellow matching set you were wearing, but he knew better than to look longer than a few seconds.
So he attempts and fails to ignore Dean.
“Oh fuck,” Dean continues, and Logan rolls his eyes. “Her ass is perfect. Genuinely. And she’s pretty flexible. Oh yeah, I gotta have that.”
“Dean, please,” Logan warns.
“Maybe I can go over and give her some tips. You can be the handyman. I’ll be the personal trainer.”
“You’re being creepier than usual,” Logan says, tightening the leg on the chair before he flips it back over. “You don’t have a puck bunny you can call or something?”
“I get it. You think you’ve got some sort of claim on her,” Dean surmises. “You’d tell me if you got any action, right?”
“You’d be the last person to know, actually.” Dean turns around in response to Logan’s remark, and his face turns into a pout.
He walks over, plants his hands on the table, and leans closer. “Don’t joke, dude. What was she like? Does she sound as sexy as she looks?”
Logan keeps his face straight, pretending as if your voice hadn’t been on replay in his mind, and that most of his thoughts weren’t consumed by you. “She sounded, I don’t know, cute.”
“Cute, not sexy, hmm …I like that more for some reason. Did she seem into you?”
“She’s married.”
Dean laughs, “Ha! Who gives a fuck?”
“I do, and she definitely gives a fuck,” Logan answers, his head shaking in disapproval. “Why would she hook up with one of us? We’re her neighbors. And we attend the same college her husband works at.”
“Because she’s so obviously touch-starved. A woman needs her release, John. I can see it in her eyes; he’s not fucking her. And if he is fucking her, she’s not finishing.”
“There’s no way–”
“You saw her up close. Tell me I’m wrong.”
Logan’s lips open to argue back, but he closes them after only a short moment. Dean claimed to be a “sex whisperer,” and Logan was nowhere close to that level of delusional, but thinking back on it, you did seem kind of …lonely.
“Exactly,” Dean smirks, turning back around and walking over to the window, “She barely leaves the house, and he’s never there. His very own angel on earth, and he doesn’t give a shit. It’s a shame.”
Logan doesn’t disagree with Dean. It’s the first thing he’s said today that makes sense.
“I can’t see her tits as well from this far. If you were to describe them in terms of size, how many handfuls would you say?”
Tucker’s voice is the one that responds this time, appearing from the kitchen, a tray of mini sandwiches in his hands: “Dean, what the fuck are you talking about?”
A motivational speaker talks to you in your earbuds as you finish your post-dinner walk around the neighborhood. The podcast is focused on increasing your confidence and independence. The middle-aged woman tells an inspirational story about how she found herself again after raising her children. How she turned her life around, got healthy, and started her own small business. It’s not the first of these podcasts that you’ve listened to. Based on your previous history, you often let yourself get motivated for days at a time before you fall back into your old habits.
You were more determined this time; that’s what made it different. The past weekend set your new mission in motion. Rick got home from a trip to a laboratory in New Jersey, and you’d spent almost the entire weekend together. You planned two home-cooked meals to make him each day and picked a local restaurant to go out to every night. He promised you that the two of you would actually explore this new town months ago, but when it came time again to be a man of his word, he failed again.
He was too tired to do any of it. You’d even planned a hiking trip with a huge lake and lovely scenery, but he’d made an excuse about wanting to lie in bed with you all day.
It was time for you to find some more satisfaction in doing things by yourself.
“If you want to change your life, you have to speak that new life into existence. Say it to yourself. I am going to change my life.”
Whispering to yourself, you repeated, “I am going to change my life.”
“I do not live for other people. I live for myself.”
“I live for myself–” You took a step off the sidewalk, a couple of blocks from your house, when a speeding car decided to blow through a stop sign. You’re a split second from a painful death when strong arms suddenly wrap around your torso and lift you off the ground.
Your back against their chest, you go from being scared for your life to being frightened that you’d been grabbed by a predator. Luckily, the possible predator sets you back down on your feet. You whip around, panicked, to find yourself staring back at a sweaty, sculpted chest.
“Jesus,” You whisper, reaching to take out one of your earbuds, as your eyes trail up to meet Thor’s himself because that’s exactly who grabbed you. Blonde hair, sparkling blue eyes, and sweat dripping down his brow that somehow still makes him look better.
“Your music might be a little too loud.” He pops out his own earbuds, and you realize you’ve interrupted his run.
“Right,” You stare at him, breathless, and then realize his hand is still on your waist, “I’m sorry, um, thank you.”
You step back from him, “Anytime. Dean, I live next door.”
Another handsome hockey player, obviously. The hockey gods had been smiling upon you lately.
“Y/N.” You introduced yourself. “You’re one of Logan’s roommates.”
“Yeah, best friend, teammate, practically brothers, taught him everything he knows.”
You smile awkwardly, “I should let you finish your run.”
“I was just about to cool down, actually; let me walk you home.”
You figure that he’s already held you tonight; walking you home wouldn’t be much more intimate.
As you accept the polite offer from Dean, you wonder if Logan talked about you to him. Maybe they collectively felt bad for you. Like you might care for an elderly neighbor. You weren’t much older than them, having married Rick young, but marriage makes you feel like you’ve lived a longer life.
“Your husband gone already?”
“Uh, yeah, there’s a big conference in New York. He goes every year.”
“Cool,” He says, although he sounds completely bored, and you find yourself wanting to be more interesting for him, “You ever go with him?”
“No, not really.” He’s never actually asked you to come, you realize. “I’m such a homebody.”
“When did you meet him?”
“Four years ago. I was in undergrad for veterinary science, and he was finishing his doctorate at the time.”
“You graduated?”
“Yeah,” You say, “Then we got married, and we had to move a few times so he could get a good position as a researcher.”
“But you wanted to be a veterinarian, right? When are you gonna go back to school?”
“I’m not sure. We’ve been trying for a ….” You pause when you realize you’re sharing a little too much information. “I’m just still figuring things out.
“Gotcha,” Dean replies, his voice seemingly free of judgement. You come upon the hockey house a few moments later. There are several cars parked out front, and you can hear rock music flowing from an open window and out onto the street. “I mean, I hear Briar’s veterinary program is pretty good.”
“There’s always time.” You hear Rick’s voice in your head as the words leave your lips. “What about you? Logan is obviously good at fixing things. What’s your talent? I mean, other than hockey.”
“I mean, I’m pretty good with my hands too.” You look up to see Dean has a devilish smirk on his lips. You get that warm feeling again. This time, there’s a bit of fear inside of you too: “I could show you some time. Maybe tonight?”
You laugh nervously, and you don’t want to assume his meaning, but he continues to stare down at you before he licks his lips. You should be offended, you should feel angry and tell him off, but all you can feel is nervous.
“I think that …you should get to your party, Dean.”
“We can have a party of our own.”
He reaches to touch your hip again, and on instinct you place your hand on top of his, to remove it. Except you don’t move his hand. You feel how large his hand is, and then your mind starts to wander to bad, bad things.
“I have to go.” You turn and almost trip as you start to skitter away. “Um, thanks for walking me.”
“I’ll see you around, honey,” He calls after you, but you don’t dare turn around.
What the fuck was that?
The power went out last night after a big thunderstorm. Which is great; you’re already a ball of anxiety, and you weren’t getting any sleep anyway. You tossed and turned in your bed, thinking about Dean and how he was obviously flirting with you last night.
By the time early morning comes, you start to worry, because you can look out your window and see the hockey house has power. You decide to text Rick.
Y/N: Power went out last night. Still not back on.
You wait for a reply for an hour and a half.
Y/N: Hello?
You start to worry all the food in your fridge will start to spoil, and now your phone is close to dying.
Another hour passes; you’ve called Rick three times to no avail, and your battery is at five percent.
You finally get a text back.
Rick: I’m in a meeting. Something wrong?
Did he even read your message?
At that point, you know what you have to do.
Unfortunately, a shirtless Dean is the one who answers the door when you show up at the hockey house.
“I knew you’d be back for me.”
“I’m looking for Logan.”
“Ouch,” Dean feigns jealousy, “And you’re pissed about something.”
“I’m not!” You raise your voice higher than you have in maybe…years. That only seems to make Dean smile harder, “Is Logan here?”
Dean debates something in his head that doesn’t allow him to answer your question. Moments later, Logan appears, bandana holding back his curls and his clothes giving you the impression that he’d been working out. “Dude, go away.” He pushes at Dean’s muscular chest, and Dean finally relents. He winks at you before he walks away, which again gives you that scared, warm feeling. “What’s wrong?”
The look of concern that Logan has for you is new. “My power’s still out. I tried flipping the breaker. I don’t know what’s wrong. Rick’s not answering his phone; he’s busy, and I don’t know what to do.”
“It’s okay, I got you.” He steps forward, placing a hand on your shoulder, and you hadn’t realized how bad you wanted to be comforted. “Let me go grab my tools. I’ll take a look.”
You nod and let out a breath. “Thank you.”
Unbeknownst to you, your house has a backup generator in the backyard.
It takes approximately ten minutes for Logan to fix your issue. You’re waiting in the kitchen, lights starting to flicker back on, when he comes through the back door. “Good news, powers on. Bad news, how long have your gutters looked like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like completely detached from your roof. You’ve got rainwater pouring down on the foundation.”
You sigh, a little defeated, “Shoot, I hadn't noticed. I’ll text Rick.”
“No worries, I’ll fix it. You shouldn’t have to worry about this stuff, anyway.”
“I seriously can’t ask you to do that.”
He only grins in response, as if it’s no big deal. “I like fixing things. And this place needs some work.”
For a long moment, you consider it. You’re not sure how Rick would feel about you getting a bunch of work on the house done and him inevitably having to foot the bill. It needed to be done, though, and he was never here enough to notice anything was wrong.
“Now that the power's back on, I’m gonna make you lunch. And cookies. Do you like chocolate chip?”
He’s gorgeous, you think, when he looks kindly at you, “I love chocolate chip.”
It starts with the gutters and spirals into much more. There are lights on the exterior of the house that need replacing.
“I’ve been meaning to go to the hardware store.”
You hate going into places like that alone.
The chains that hold up your porch swing are rusting. “These would’ve snapped soon,” Logan says.
“Rick’s been meaning to replace those.”
All of your trees in the backyard are overgrown.
Your smoke detector has been chirping for so long that you’ve been tuning it out for at least a month.
You spend most of the day in the kitchen, cooking food from your fridge that had thawed to prevent any of it from spoiling. The bay windows in your kitchen allow you a great view of Logan’s handiwork. You take special notice of his exposed biceps and how the muscle flexes with his heavy lifting. By the late afternoon, Logan had completed several projects and he’d laid out plans for fixing about ten other things.
You insist he stop for the day and take a break to try your chocolate chip cookies. You sit next to him at your kitchen table, a spread of food before him, and wait patiently as he takes a bite.
“Wow, that’s good.” He compliments your baking, which you’re also not used to. “You really didn’t have to make all of this.”
“It’s my way of saying thank you. I mean, I’ll have Rick send you money for everything, but until then. And you can share with your roommates, of course.”
“Where’d you learn how to cook?”
You shrug, “Just practice, I guess. I’ve had to cook for myself since I was little.”
He nods, a shared understanding in his eyes: “Well, I appreciate it.”
He reaches out to touch your hand, and the two of you seem to have a conversation with your eyes. You feel like you’re in high school again with butterflies in your stomach. Even if the feeling is temporary, you’re relishing it. He must feel so bad for you. How desperate did you look right now?
Then, like a magnet, something pulls you together. You both feel it at the same time. You lean in. Logan leans in further until your lips are together.
Fuck.
Your chair skids across the tile, loudly, as you force yourself up and away.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Logan, wordlessly, stands up after you. His eyes are intently focused on your lips. He closes the distance between you, arms wrapping around your back, and his head dipping low to kiss you again.
“Don’t be sorry,” He says huskily, your lips vibrating from the timbre of his voice.
Pushing you against the counter, he kisses you harder. His hand grabs hold of your neck, pulling your face into his. He kisses down your chin, and then he tilts your head to have better access to your neck. Passionate kisses against the sensitive skin of your neck leave you trying to suppress your moans.
“We can’t. Please stop.”
He lifts you onto the counter in response. With a grunt, he roughly pulls at your dress, lifting until he can feel the seam of your underwear. You reach forward, trying to grab your panties, to keep him from pulling them down.
“Logan, please–”
His determined brown eyes stare back at yours. “You need this. I know you do, baby.”
One thing leads to another. Just how a quick house call led to a whole day being spent together. Your panties end up on the kitchen floor, your thighs are spread wide, and Logan’s head is between your legs.
“I’ll take care of you,” He moans against your center, “Don’t worry.”
Your head tilts back, and your chest heaves as Logan leads you to the first orgasm you’ve had from oral sex. And the first orgasm you’ve had in months.
It’s now Logan’s turn to stare out the window. This time, it’s his bedroom window that faces out towards your garage. He catches a glimpse of your husband returning. You greet him barefoot, lavender colored dress flowing as he lifts you into his arms and spins you around.
You’ve been radio silent since he left your house last week. You said you’d text him the next time he could come over to help you with the house. That text never came and now your husband was back now for who knows how long. And you looked excited to see him.
“If your goal was to make her hornier for her husband, I think you’ve succeeded.”
Dean says from Logan’s doorway.
“Shut up.”
“You still haven’t told me the details.”
“Because I’m not an asshole, unlike you.”
Dean walks in, shuts the door, and then makes himself comfortable on Logan’s bed.
“Whatever you did, it obviously wasn’t enough. So let’s brainstorm together on how we’re gonna fix this problem.”
“We?” Logan scoffs, “Fuck off.”
“So you’re saying you don’t want to hear my idea?”
Logan goes quiet as he watches you again from the window. You wrap your legs around Rick and let him carry you inside.
“I don’t get it,” Logan whispers.
“Tell me, I can’t help unless you tell me.”
Fist hitting the wall in frustration, Logan groans. “Dean, I’m serious; this has to stay between us.”
“I promise.” Dean says, holding out his pink, “Pinky promise?"
Coming towards the bed, Logan pushes his hand away. “Okay …um, we hooked up. After I did all that shit for her house, we made out and then I … uh…I ate her out.”
“She came?”
“Yes, she came. And then she felt horrible for cheating on her husband, and it kind of killed the mood, to be honest. I just thought if she let me in a little bit more, then we could move past that.”
Dean nods his head, taking in the information. “This is going to stay between us, I promise. But I need you to hear me out.”
Logan takes a seat beside Dean on the bed, elbows against his knees, as the weight of the situation starts to press down on him.
“What’s your big idea?”
“After her husband leaves again, you go back over there again. Seduce her again, but this time you’re gonna fuck her. No gentleman shit. Caveman sex.”
“She doesn’t seem like the type.” Logan starts to brush the idea off immediately.
“Oh, she’s definitely the type. She just needs coaxing. And, of course, I can come for moral support.”
“Dean–”
“Hear me out. You said you would hear me out. Imagine you go over there and just lay all your cards out on the table. She loves her husband, but it’s so goddamn obvious he’s not right for her. She wants you; she’s already shown you that. Then she has to face the fact that you know how she really feels.”
Logan hates when Dean makes a good point. Maybe he really does know more about relationships than he lets on.
“Think about what you want, Logan. If you want to run into the sunset with her, that might not be what she’s ready for. Take the situation for what it is. Our beautiful, sexy fucking neighbor wants you, Logan. So take her.”
The Briar U Hawks win their game Saturday night, which leads to a huge party at the hockey house. The largest of the entire semester. The starting line is drinking beers on the back porch when Logan catches a glimpse through his neighbor's window.
You're alone, eating dinner at your dining table. Logan downs the rest of the beer before he decides, “I’m gonna go over there.”
“You got this, man.” Dean taps his shoulder, “No gentleman shit.”
Dean watches from the porch as the whole scene plays out. For moral support, of course. You’re wearing one of those cute dresses you always wear. This one is floral printed and milkmaid style. God, Logan’s a lucky man, Dean thinks. He’d give anything to lift that dress and fuck you as you deserve.
Logan knocks on your back door, and Dean brushes off a few puck bunnies before he leans against the wooden porch railing.
You open the door for him, and Logan doesn’t make it past the threshold. Dean imagines the conversation in his head, taking hints from your body language.
Logan probably says something lame like I can’t stop thinking about you.
You have to stop thinking about me. I’m married.
That’s not what you said the last time I was here.
I was lonely, and I wasn’t thinking straight.
Logan stuffs his hands in the pockets of his Carhartt jacket. He’s being quiet now.
He’s fumbling. What kind of wingman would Dean be if he let that happen?
The rowdy party fades into the background of his mind, and he decides to slip out while no one's watching. He walks around the hockey house towards the fence line that separates the two properties.
Sneaking through your gate, Dean slowly walks towards the back of your house. He can hear your conversation now.
“I think you should go. I took advantage of you. You should be someone more like you.”
“You didn’t. I like you. Like a lot.”
“I’m married, Logan. I’m sorry if I got your hopes up.”
“Logan!” Dean appears, interrupting your conversation. Beer swinging in his hands, he walks up the back porch. Up close, he can see that slutty fucking dress. You’re begging to be fucked wearing that. “You disappeared, man. Now I can see why, though. Holy fuck, you look good, honey.”
“What are you doing?” You and Logan seem to ask simultaneously.
“Came to check on you guys. I’m thoughtful like that.” Wrapping his arm around Logan’s shoulder, Dean fills your back doorway, “So, Y/N, Logan tells me your husband fucking sucks.”
“Logan?” She shoots him an accusing look, “Why would you–”
“It’s pretty fucking obvious to like the entire neighborhood. And my friend here has so kindly stepped up and taken care of business for you. You’ve been nice to him up until this point, and I think he deserves better.”
“Dean–”
“I’m serious. Why don’t you show him a little more fucking gratitude?”
You stare back at Dean with wide eyes. Part of you seems to genuinely understand his point. Why were you, all of a sudden, you were acting like Logan was nothing to you? “And do what?”
“You can start by getting on your knees.”
Your eyes swirl emotion, lust, and fear, mixing.
“Dean–” You interrupt Logan’s protest.
Something has clearly shifted inside of you because you say, “Both of you, come in and close the door.”
Dean and Logan exchange glances. It’s a quick- are we doing this? They nod at each other before following your instructions. Dean enters your house for the first time and follows your lead as you walk towards the living room.
“I am grateful, Logan.” You don’t turn to face them as you say this. Dean’s eyes are busy raking over you, “I feel like I don’t know what I need sometimes. But I really needed you last week. I haven’t felt like that …ever.”
You're hugging yourself, hands making comforting strokes down your upper arms. Dean urges Logan forward, finishing off his beer before he makes himself comfortable in the armchair that sits perpendicular to the couch.
Dean’s length is already hard and struggling against the fabric of his jeans. Your voice is so desperate. Dean was right all along, of course, and you were clearly touch-starved. Pleasure starved. When you finally turn around to face Logan, he dips his head down to kiss you.
The two of you push and pull, hungry, before Logan falls against the couch, you on top of him. Logan lifts the fabric of your dress, grabbing your ass, which Dean is grateful for. He’s more than happy to be the onlooker in the corner. It’s like his favorite porno is playing right in front of him.
Much to Dean's surprise, Logan groans out the words, “Get on your knees.”
It takes you back, but not enough for you to ignore his command. You climb down between his knees and your eyes wander over to Dean’s. Dean leans forward, his jeans straining even more, “Show him how grateful you are, honey. Show him how much of a dirty girl you are.”
Dean can’t help it; the look you give him in response pushes him to free himself from his jeans. You’re much better at sucking Logan off than Dean expects. Grabbing a handful of your hair in his hands, Logan forces your mouth up and down.
“Lift that dress up, honey,” Dean requests, and you oblige even though you’re struggling for air. “Fuck.”
Dean enjoys how messy it makes you. Your hair is tangled, your eyes are watering, and spit is dripping down your face. “You can’t come in her mouth, John. I bet she’s so grateful she’ll let you come somewhere else.”
“Crawl over to Dean, baby. I’m gonna take you from behind.”
And crawl you do. Dean swears he hears angels singing above.
“Messy girl,” Dean breathes heavily, happy to take Logan’s sloppy seconds, “You wanna make me feel good too?”
You nod, teary-eyed, “Please?”
“So polite,” Dean pulls you forward, “Of course you can, honey.”
Logan fully takes off his jeans and kneels behind you. Palming himself, he feels how wet you are. He doesn’t even need to spit. You’re starting to take Dean in your mouth when he pushes inside of you.
“She can handle it. She hasn’t been fucked hard in so long. Even if it hurts, she’s so grateful; she won't mind.”
After the first few strokes, Logan doesn’t waste time easing you into it.
The grip on your hips is tight and unforgiving. The deeper Logan goes, the deeper you have to take Dean. You’re choking and moaning at the same time.
Dean finishes first, down your throat, but he doesn’t let you rest. Logan isn’t done, and the last thing Dean wants is for you to lay your head down in his lap. Grabbing your face, he forces you to keep looking forward. “Almost there. You’re doing so well. Dirty fucking girl.” You reach your peak with Logan behind you and Dean’s fingers in your mouth.
Logan grabs onto your shoulder, pulling you back towards him, as he makes his final and deepest thrusts.
“Fuck, honey.”
“Fuck, baby.”
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