Synopsis: I'll show you. You show me. The plan was simple. Stay on your side of the room. Don't touch. Don't cross any lines. But the second Garrett looks at you across the lamplight, the lie you've both been telling starts to fall apart.
Warnings / Content: 18+ MINORS DNI. Explicit sexual content (mutual masturbation). Vague references to past trauma (non-graphic, non-detailed). Emotional vulnerability. Performance anxiety. Discussions of consent. Praise kink (light). Pet names ("baby"). Mild language. Garrett Graham being soft and patient and ruining your life.
Tags: Garrett Graham x Reader, mutual masturbation, fake dating, friends to lovers, slow burn, hockey romance, emotional intimacy, vague past trauma references, performance anxiety, consent-focused, praise kink (light), pet names, first time, Off-Campus / Briar U universe, reader insert, y/n, NSFW, 18+, minors DNI
I lie back against the pillows on Garrett's bed, the cotton sheets cool under my bare skin, and try to remember how to breathe normally. My shirt is already discarded on the floor—when did I take it off? Two minutes ago? Five?—and the warm lamplight spills across my stomach like honey, pooling in the dip of my navel. Low music pulses from his speakers, something slow and bass-heavy that matches the thud of my pulse in my throat, my wrists, between my legs.
This is just practice, I tell myself. For Justin. For this weekend.
The thought feels hollow even as I think it.
Garrett sits a few feet away in the wooden chair angled toward me, shirtless, and God—I've seen him shirtless a hundred times. At the gym, at parties, that time he answered his door in just a towel. But this is different. The lamplight catches the defined lines of his chest, the ridges of his abs, the trail of dark hair that disappears beneath his waistband. His chest rises and falls in steady rhythm, hands resting loose on his thighs, fingers spread wide. Casual. Patient. Like we have all the time in the world.
Like this isn't about to change everything.
He watches me with that patient, half-smile that always makes my stomach flip—the one that says he knows exactly what he's doing to me and he's enjoying every second of it. His dark eyes track over my body, lingering on the curve of my breasts, the nervous flutter of my stomach, the way my thighs press together.
"You okay, baby?" His voice is low and even, wrapping around me like velvet. "We can stop anytime. Just say the word."
I nod, not trusting my voice yet. My throat feels tight.
"Need to hear you say it," he says, softer now. "Tell me you want this."
"I want this." The words come out breathier than I intended. "I want... I need to know what it feels like. Before—"
Before Justin. I don't finish the sentence. Can't.
Something flickers across Garrett's face—too quick to read in the dim light. His jaw tightens for just a second before that easy smile returns. "Then let's take it slow. Start with just your fingertips, okay? I want you to touch yourself the way you would if you were alone. Like I'm not even here."
Except he is here. That's the whole point. That's what makes my skin feel too tight, my nerve endings sparking like live wires.
"Slip your hand under your underwear," he continues, voice dropping lower. "Find your clit. Just circle it for me. Light touches. Breathe through it. You're in control here."
Am I? I don't feel in control. I feel like I'm standing at the edge of something vast and terrifying, and one wrong step will send me tumbling.
But I do what he says. My fingers slip beneath the waistband of my underwear—plain cotton, nothing sexy, because I wasn't planning on anyone seeing them—and find that sensitive spot. The first slow circle sends a spark up my spine, makes my breath hitch audibly.
"That's it," Garrett murmurs, and there's something in his voice now, something rough around the edges. "Nice and easy. Tell me how it feels."
"Good," I whisper, breath catching again as I circle once more. "Warm. Like it's... building already."
It's more than warm. It's heat spreading through my lower belly, pooling between my thighs. My hips shift restlessly against the sheets, seeking more friction, more pressure. I keep the touch light like he said, but it's already so much more intense than when I'm alone. Because he's watching. Because I can feel the weight of his gaze like a physical touch, tracking every movement of my hand beneath the fabric, every hitch in my breathing.
Don't think about Justin, I tell myself. This is for Justin. Practice for Justin.
But I'm not thinking about Justin at all. I'm thinking about the way Garrett's hands would feel instead of my own. The way his voice sounds when he calls me baby, like it means something more than just a casual endearment. The way he's looked at me lately when he thinks I'm not paying attention—like he's memorizing me, cataloging every detail.
He chuckles softly, the sound wrapping around me, settling low in my belly. "Take your time. No rush. I'm right here." His fingers finally move to his own waistband, and my breath stops entirely. "Gonna join you now, okay? Keep doing what you're doing. Don't stop."
I watch—I can't not watch—as he lifts his hips slightly and pushes his sweatpants down. He's not wearing anything underneath. His cock springs free, already hard, flushed and thick, and something in my chest cracks open at the sight.
He's hard because of this. Because of me.
The realization lands low in my belly, hotter than the touch of my own fingers. Not because of some fantasy, not because of porn on his phone. Because of me, half-naked on his bed, touching myself while he watches.
Garrett wraps his hand around his length with deliberate care, and I watch the way his fingers curl around himself, the slow drag of his fist from base to tip. His thumb swipes over the head and his breath hitches—just slightly, but I catch it. He starts stroking, slow and measured, the same pace he's guiding me to keep.
"Keep going, baby," he says, and his voice is rougher now. "Match my rhythm. Slow circles. Feel how good it is when you don't rush."
I force my fingers to maintain that light, teasing pressure, even though every instinct is screaming at me to press harder, move faster. My other hand fists in the sheets beside me. I watch the way his abs tighten with each stroke, the flex of his forearm, the way his thighs spread wider to give himself room. There's a bead of moisture at the tip of his cock now, catching the lamplight.
God, he's beautiful.
The thought comes unbidden, and I can't push it away. I've always known Garrett was attractive—half the campus knows it, the way girls watch him in the dining hall, the way they show up to hockey games in his jersey number. But this is different. This is intimate. Vulnerable. The careful control in every movement of his hand, the way his chest rises and falls faster now, the muscle jumping in his jaw.
Something inside me shifts, cracks, breaks open.
This isn't practice. This was never practice.
Our eyes meet across the small space between bed and chair. The careful distance we've both been pretending feels suddenly thin, meaningless. Like I could reach across it and touch him. Like he could cross it in two steps and—
Garrett's hand pauses for a fraction of a second. His lips part. "Fuck," he breathes, unguarded and quiet, and it's the most honest sound I've ever heard from him.
The word hangs there between us, heavy with everything we're not saying.
The music swells, a soft guitar line filling the silence, and I hear our breathing—his slightly ragged now, mine shallow and quick. Neither of us looks away. I can't. His eyes are so dark in the lamplight, pupils blown wide, and I see something in them that makes my chest ache. Something that looks like the same desperate wanting that's clawing at my ribs.
The "just practice" excuse cracks open like light through a door, and for a long moment we simply watch each other, the air thick with everything we haven't said. All the weeks of fake-dating that felt too real. All the casual touches that lingered too long. All the times I've caught him looking at me like he's trying to solve a puzzle he can't quite figure out.
I'm falling for him, I think, and the recognition is terrifying and exhilarating all at once. I'm falling for him and this is going to ruin everything.
My hips twitch forward without permission, seeking more pressure. Pleasure coils tight and fast in my lower belly, too fast, spiraling up my spine. My fingers move in quicker circles and I hear myself gasp, a broken sound that echoes in the quiet room.
"Hey." Garrett's voice cuts through the haze, firm but gentle. "Slow down, baby. Ease off a little."
"I can't—" My voice breaks. "It's too much, I'm—"
"I know. I know it feels good. But ride it with me, okay?" His own strokes never quicken, but I see the tremor in his thighs, the white-knuckle grip he has on the arm of the chair with his free hand. He's holding back. For me. "We've got time. Breathe, Y/N. Feel how close you are without falling yet."
I force my fingers to lighten, circling slower, and the effort makes me tremble. It's exquisite torture—the pleasure right there, right there, coiled tight and ready to snap, but held just out of reach. My legs shake. My free hand twists in the sheets hard enough that my knuckles ache.
"Good girl," Garrett murmurs, and the praise shoots straight through me. "Just like that. Stay with me."
He matches my slower pace, hand moving in long, controlled pulls, and I watch the way his cock pulses in his grip, the way his abs contract with each stroke. His jaw is tight, a muscle jumping in his cheek. A fine sheen of sweat gleams on his chest. He's struggling just as much as I am, fighting to maintain control, and somehow that makes it even more intense.
We hover there together on that sharp edge, breathing loud in the lamplight, the restraint making every sensation louder, sharper, more. The music is just background noise now, drowned out by the sound of skin on skin, of ragged breathing, of my own heartbeat thundering in my ears.
This is Garrett, I think, fragmented and desperate. This is us. This is real.
Heat building—coiling—tight—
Can't think—can't breathe—
His eyes, dark and desperate, locked on mine—
The way he says my name like a prayer—
God, I want him—
"Garrett," I whisper, and his name slips out needy and raw before I can catch it, before I can shove it back down. It's a plea and a confession all at once.
His hand falters. His whole body goes rigid for a heartbeat, and then his expression breaks open—eyes dark and desperate, mouth parted, all the careful patience cracking into something deeper, something that looks like the same desperate longing that's tearing me apart from the inside.
"Say it again," he rasps, and it's not a request. His hand moves faster now, control slipping. "Say my name again, baby. Please."
"Garrett—" It comes out as a gasp, broken and breathless. "Garrett, I—"
His chest hitches with a sharp inhale as our eyes lock, the lamplight catching the tremor in his hand, the way his hips lift slightly into his grip. The music fades until there is only the suspended pull of our breathing, the wet sound of his fist, the rustle of sheets as my hips rock helplessly.
"Let go," he says, voice wrecked. "I've got you. Let go for me."
And I do.
Pleasure crashes through me in waves, whiting out my vision, arcing up my spine and exploding outward until I'm shaking with it. My back arches off the bed. My fingers press hard against my clit, drawing it out, making it last. I hear myself cry out—his name again, I think, but I'm not sure, can't be sure of anything except the overwhelming sensation rolling through me.
Through the haze I watch him follow, his release spilling over his fist as a low groan leaves his chest, his head falling back against the chair. His throat works as he swallows hard, chest heaving, and even in the aftermath he's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
The room fills with the sound of our breathing, heavy and shared, the music still playing softly underneath. My body feels liquid, boneless, trembling with aftershocks. Garrett's hand is still wrapped loosely around himself, his chest rising and falling in deep pulls.
Neither of us speaks. Neither of us looks away.
And I know—with absolute certainty—that everything between us has changed.
A/N: part 2 of the series 💌 The actual aftermath comes in part 3... y/n still has some things to figure out — and someone she still hasn't texted back....
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I mean, we already know a stereotypical Zombie Apocalypse is deadly, so what about one with all the mobs?
Here are some things to consider before saying your guest, though:
The minecraft zombie virus is not 100% contagious, considering villagers get infected, but the player doesn't even get sick or poisoned. Assume some people may have immunity.
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Enderman can see you from up to 64 meters (209 feet) away and teleport half said distance. But jumping into deep water can keep them away.
Most of the 1 meter wide spiders are not poisonous, but a bite from any wild animal can cause infection, bleeding and overall damage anyway.
As for poisonous spiders, it would only take 3 bites to kill an adult man from poisoning, and said poison takes around 8 minutes to fully kick and make you sick.
Skeletons don't have the best aim and will not hit you if you're moving. But they can hit you from 10 to 15 meters (32 to 49 feet) away if you're distracted.
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