when your new roommate observes your 'friendship' with hockey captain garrett graham, she can't help but think your relationship with your childhood best friend is more than platonic. (childhoodbestfriend!reader)
ᨳଓ you're the girl in garretts lockscreen
you finally meet visit the off campus house and meet garrett's friends, but not in the way either of you imagined. (childhoodbestfriend!reader)
pairing – Petal!Reader x Garrett Graham
summary – Garrett Graham has a ten-step plan to get his girl back.
warnings – Emotional abuse references, domestic violence references, abusive parent, family trauma, anxiety.
word count – 10.3k
navigation – Masterlist ❀ Chapter One ❀ Chapter Two
Chapter One.
Broke Your Heart, I’ll Put It Back Together.
Garrett waits until the dorm door closes behind her before he lets himself breathe properly. Not that he’s been holding his breath. Technically.
His lungs have been performing all necessary functions since they left the theatre, through the drive with her hand tucked into his over the centre console, through carrying her bags up the short path while she held the flowers against her chest, through standing beneath the ugly fluorescent light outside her building while she smiled at him with the last of Juliet still clinging around the edges.
Smudged eyeliner beneath her eyes. Hair only half rescued from its pins. His jacket over the white dress, one sleeve pulled over her fingers because the night had turned cold while they were inside watching everybody die beautifully.
He’s been breathing. Just badly.
“Thank you for tonight,” she’d said at the door, quieter than she’d been in the car, where she’d spent eight full minutes explaining why Micah’s final scene had nearly gone wrong because one of the fake blood capsules had split early and then another four telling Garrett that no, this was not funny, it could have ruined the emotional architecture of the entire ending.
Garrett had understood approximately sixty percent of the explanation and loved every second of it.
“You don’t have to thank me,” he’d said, shifting her tote higher on his shoulder even though they had reached the door and there was nowhere left to carry it.
Her eyes had moved over his face. “I know.”
That had been worse somehow. Better, but worse. Something small and careful sitting between them, because she knew he wasn’t there out of obligation and he knew she had noticed.
The bouquet had rustled when she adjusted it against her chest, one pink peony brushing the underside of her chin.
Then she had smiled. Soft. Tired. Still a little stunned by the night. “Goodnight, Garrett.”
“Night, baby.”
The word had slipped out without permission, but she hadn’t gone still. Hadn’t looked wounded or warned him back into his lane. Her smile had only shifted at one corner before she took her bags from him, fingers brushing his around the straps.
Now the door catches with a dull institutional click, leaving Garrett alone on the front step with cold air pushing under his collar and the faint rectangle of her shape moving away behind wired glass.
He stands there for longer than a normal person would. Long enough to watch her reach the stairwell. Long enough for the light inside to flatten her into white dress, brown paper, then take her around the corner.
Long enough that a guy approaching the entrance with a laundry basket looks at Garrett, looks at the shut door, and makes the extremely reasonable decision not to ask why a Briar hockey player is staring into a dorm lobby like it has swallowed someone important.
Garrett finally moves when the guy’s key card gives an impatient little beep beside him.
“Sorry,” he mutters, stepping out of the way.
The guy nods with the careful neutrality of someone who has recognised him and would prefer not to become involved in whatever emotional hostage situation is occurring outside his own residence hall.
Garrett walks back to the Jeep with both hands shoved into his jacket pockets and his entire body still full of her.
It isn’t the old wanting. Or it is, partly, because he isn’t dead, and she had spent the evening in a thin white dress looking like every bad decision he would happily make twice.
He wants her in his bed. Obviously. He wants her legs tangled through his, her cold feet shoved beneath his calves, her hair covering half his pillow while she complains that he sleeps like an aggressively warm corpse.
He wants to kiss her without stopping himself after one careful second. He wants to hear the sound she makes when he puts his mouth beneath her ear and feel her fingers catch in his curls with exactly the pressure nobody else had ever got right.
That part is still there. Loud. Healthy. But it isn’t the thing hollowing out the centre of his chest as he climbs into the Jeep.
He wants the rest of it. The parts that don’t end with her naked and happy beneath him. He wants to sit on the edge of her bed while she walks in circles talking about an audition she’s already declared a disaster even though callbacks aren’t posted until Friday.
He wants her to shove a set of sides into his hands and get progressively more offended while he reads the other character like someone being held at gunpoint by punctuation.
More feeling, Garrett.
I’m giving it feeling.
You’re giving hostage negotiation.
He wants that. He wants her grabbing the pages back and demonstrating the line with her whole body, eyebrows lifted, one hand cutting through the air like the character’s objective is physically located near his desk lamp.
He wants to know what sides are without needing Dean to explain it. He wants to recognise the difference between being nervous about an audition and being nervous about a specific director.
He wants to know which flowers belong after which performances and why actors keep saying break a leg even though that feels medically irresponsible.
He wants to be in the third row. First row, maybe, though she’d probably tell him that was annoying and too close.
He wants to sit wherever she tells him the sightlines are best, shut the fuck up, and watch.
He wants her in the stands too. In his jersey, his name stretched over her back because she put it there willingly, yelling at a ref who can’t hear her and misusing hockey terminology with the confidence of a seasoned analyst.
He wants to find her after he scores. Not because she’s watching Garrett Graham, Briar’s star forward, the guy half the arena knows by name. Because she’s watching him. Because when he looks through the glass, she’s already looking back.
He wants coffee-shop lines and theatre lobbies and late-night drives and her stealing the fries she swore she didn’t want. He wants arguments about whether a dining chair can have emotional stakes.
He wants her at the kitchen table with Dean and Allie, rolling her eyes while Logan says something concerning and Tucker quietly removes a knife from his reach.
He wants her back so fucking badly that the wanting feels less like hunger now and more like architecture. Rooms appearing inside him faster than he can furnish them. A whole life making space.
But he doesn’t want to drag her into it. Doesn’t want to stand under another dorm light saying love of my life like the words themselves should outweigh every time he made her feel small.
He wants to be the love of her life. Not because he told her he was. Because, one day, she looks at him and decides he is.
Garrett grips the steering wheel, leather cool beneath his palms, and stares through the windshield at the brick dorm building until one of the upstairs windows flicks on.
It probably isn’t hers. He doesn’t know which room is hers from this side, which feels like another entry on an increasingly humiliating inventory of things he should know and somehow doesn’t.
The Jeep still smells faintly like her perfume and cold night air. There’s a silver streak of stage glitter across the passenger seatbelt where it rested against her chest, catching dimly whenever the streetlamp hits it.
Garrett rubs his thumb over it once, which accomplishes nothing except spreading theatre across more of his vehicle.
Great. Excellent. He’s emotionally compromised and sparkly.
His phone buzzes in the cup holder.
Baby: inside. flowers are in water. nobody has been killed by campus furniture yet.
Strong start. Stay vigilant.
Baby: goodnight, graham. thank you for showing up.
Goodnight, baby. Wouldn’t have missed it.
It’s not completely true. An older version of him might have missed it. Might have arrived late, or looked at the schedule and decided the final performance counted just as much as opening night, or assumed she knew he cared even while the seat stayed empty.
The thought sits badly enough that Garrett doesn’t soften it. He lets it stay sharp. Some things should. Then he starts the car.
The hockey house is lit up. Every downstairs light is on. The kitchen windows glow against the dark, and someone has left the porch light burning even though the porch is currently occupied only by three empty cans, one abandoned sneaker, and a delivery menu plastered damply to the boards.
Garrett parks beside Dean’s car, shuts off the engine, then sits for one more second with both hands resting on the wheel.
He needs to do this right. Properly.
He gets out.
The smell reaches him before the kitchen does: butter, bacon, something starchy and aggressively comforting. Tucker has returned from two hours of Shakespeare-induced emotional violence and responded by feeding everyone, which is the most Tucker thing Garrett can imagine.
The front hall is crowded with discarded shoes and coats. Dean’s program lies open on the little table by the door, folded back to Allie’s name in the cast list with a dark circle drawn around it and three exclamation points in the margin.
Garrett toes off his shoes and follows the noise.
All three boys are in the kitchen. Tucker stands near the stove in grey sweats and a long-sleeved shirt, dividing some enormous skillet situation between four bowls.
Potatoes, eggs, chopped bacon, melted cheese. The exact nutritional profile of men who have been emotionally devastated after nine p.m.
Dean leans against the counter eating directly from his bowl with his eyes still faintly pink, though Garrett knows he would rather claim a rare onion allergy than admit Romeo and Juliet got him.
Logan sits on the island with one foot hooked around a stool, fork moving with the focus of someone who has survived a cultural experience and needs protein immediately.
All three look up when Garrett walks in. Logan studies him first. His fork pauses halfway to his mouth while his eyes travel from Garrett’s hair to his face and then settle there with the predatory interest of a person who has just discovered fresh material.
“Well,” he says. “Someone looks smitten.”
Garrett tosses his keys into the bowl near the refrigerator. They miss, hit the counter, and skid into a stack of unopened mail. “I’m not smitten.”
Logan turns his head toward the others without taking his eyes off Garrett. “Doesn’t he look smitten?”
Tucker glances over while spooning eggs into the last bowl. His gaze rests briefly on Garrett’s face, calm and assessing. “Looks smitten to me.”
Dean chews, swallows, then nods with the grave authority of a physician confirming a terminal condition. “Definitely smitten.”
Garrett drags a hand over his mouth. The smile is still there. Buried, but not enough. “All of you can go fuck yourselves.”
“See?” Logan points his fork at him. “Smitten. Hostile because he’s overwhelmed.”
“That isn’t a symptom of being smitten.”
“It is for you.”
Tucker slides the fourth bowl across the counter. “Eat.”
Garrett takes it because Tucker has the exact tone of a man who will physically supervise the first bite if challenged.
The food is hot enough to steam against his face, smelling like salt and butter and bacon, and his stomach tightens with the belated realisation that the handful of sour candy Logan threw at him during intermission doesn’t qualify as dinner.
He carries the bowl to the dining table, pulls out a chair, then turns it around before sitting so he can face the kitchen with his forearms braced over the backrest.
The boys keep looking at him.
Dean’s mouth twitches. “Did you kiss her?”
“No.”
“Did she kiss you?”
“No.”
Logan narrows his eyes. “Did you nearly kiss?”
“No.”
“Did you stare at each other for a significant amount of time?”
Garrett thinks of the dorm light catching on her face. The peonies against her chest. Goodnight, Garrett.
“Shut up.”
Logan nods, pleased. “That’s a yes.”
Garrett digs his fork into the potatoes, then stops before taking a bite.
The sentence has been sitting behind his teeth since the Jeep, heavy enough now that it feels stupid to keep holding it. “I gotta win her back, man.”
The kitchen goes quiet. Tucker’s spoon scrapes once against the skillet. The refrigerator keeps humming. Dean keeps chewing, though slower now. But something in the room shifts out of teasing and into attention so fast Garrett can feel it.
Logan looks between the other boys, then back at Garrett. “I thought that’s what you were doing.”
“It is.” Garrett looks down at the fork in his hand, turning it once between his fingers. “I mean, I have been. Kind of.”
“Flowers,” Dean says, counting against his bowl with the handle of his fork. “Coffee. Carrying her shit around like a hot bellhop. Publicly threatening me over a jersey.”
“That last one probably lost you points,” Tucker says.
Dean lifts one shoulder. “Depends what she’s into.”
Garrett ignores both of them. “No, but I mean seriously.” He leans back slightly, chair creaking beneath him. The words feel awkward in his mouth, because the boys know him too well for any polished version to survive contact. “Properly. I gotta… I gotta do it properly. I need to do it right.”
Dean’s expression settles first. The humour doesn’t leave completely – it would require medical intervention to remove it from Dean – but it moves aside enough for something sharper. “What changed?”
Garrett looks at him. “Nothing changed.”
Dean lifts his eyebrows.
“Fuck, I don’t know.” Garrett pushes his fork through the melting cheese without eating any of it. “Watching her tonight, I guess. Seeing how fucking good she is at that shit. And how much of it I didn’t know because I never–” His jaw tightens briefly. “I knew she loved theatre. Obviously. I went to shows. But I didn’t know it right. I didn’t understand what it was to her.”
Tucker leans one hip against the counter, arms folding loosely across his chest.
Garrett looks back at his bowl. It’s easier to talk to potatoes. Potatoes have never watched him fuck up a relationship in real time.
“I don’t just want her back because I miss having her around,” he says. “I mean, I do. I miss her all the fucking time. But I want all of it. I want to go to her shows. I want to know when her auditions are. I want her at my games. I want her yelling at me because I’m shit at reading those page things.”
“Sides,” Dean says.
Garrett’s eyes lift. “Yeah. Those.”
Dean gives Tucker a pointed look. “He needs help.”
“I’m aware,” Tucker says.
“I want her to be able to trust me when we’re out somewhere,” Garrett continues, quieter now. “I want her to know I’m not gonna forget she’s standing there the second somebody says my name. I want to be…” He stops, because the sentence catches somewhere rough and embarrassing.
Logan waits. For once, he doesn’t fill the silence.
Garrett rubs his thumb along the fork handle. “I told her she was the love of my life when we broke up.”
The boys know. Not the exact argument, but enough. Logan’s face loses the last of its grin.
“And I said it like it should’ve mattered more than how I was treating her.” Garrett swallows once. “I want to actually be that guy. The one who deserves to say it.”
Tucker unfolds his arms. “We should make a list.”
Logan groans so immediately it sounds rehearsed. “A list?”
Tucker nods. “Yep.”
“A list of what?”
“How to get Garrett’s girl back.”
Dean’s face pinches. “Name’s too long.”
Tucker looks at him. “It’s six words.”
“No punch.” Dean places his bowl on the counter and straightens, visibly activating the part of his brain that thinks naming things is a leadership skill. “Should just be How to Get the Girl.”
Logan shakes his head. “Too presumptuous.”
Dean turns to him. “It’s a plan. Plans are aspirational.”
“Still sounds like she’s an object you win at a carnival.”
Garrett looks between them. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
Logan ignores him, fork gesturing through the air. “It should be How You Get The Girl.”
“That is the same title with one different word,” Tucker says.
“No, it’s instructional now.”
Dean’s eyes narrow as he considers this. “Stronger.”
Garrett stares at all three of them. He has trusted these men with his life on the ice. This suddenly seems like an administrative error.
Dean’s already moving. There’s a whiteboard hanging near the pantry, mostly used for grocery lists, practice reminders, and passive-aggressive household communication.
At present, it says BUY DISHWASHER TABLETS beneath a badly drawn skull and, in Logan’s handwriting, DEAN OWES ME $14.
Dean yanks it off the hook.
“Step one,” he says, grabbing the black marker from the ledge and wiping half the grocery list away with the sleeve of his sweater. “Go to her fucking shows.”
The boys laugh.
Garrett does too, because Dean’s delivery is ridiculous and because Tucker has just rescued BUY MILK from the eraser with the urgency of a man preserving historical records.
But then Garrett looks at the board. “Okay,” he says slowly. “But actually.”
Dean stops laughing first.
Tucker takes the marker from him. “Actually.”
Something moves through the room all at once. The same shift that happens in the locker room when a joke becomes a problem and a problem becomes something they can win.
Dean puts his bowl down completely. Logan slides off the island. Garrett turns his chair back toward the table as Tucker carries the whiteboard over and props it against the fruit bowl.
Four hockey players gather around it with the sober focus of men preparing a power play.
For a while, none of them says anything. The whiteboard is propped in the middle of the dining table, leaning crookedly against a bowl containing two bruised apples and a single banana that has entered the final, frightening stage of ripeness.
Dean stands with both hands braced on the table, rereading the list like he’s preparing to defend a thesis. Tucker has his arms folded again, marker still tucked between two fingers. Logan has moved close enough that his shoulder presses Garrett’s, eyes narrowed at step six.
Garrett sits back and reads the whole thing again. It should feel stupid. Some of it is stupid.
But beneath the marker fumes and the leftover bacon and the fact that Logan is now arguing that step four should include a diagram of correct hand placement, there it is. Every place Garrett went wrong, written in the language of people who know him well enough not to let him hide inside a good intention.
Show up. Learn her shit. Don’t let go. Listen. Change. Ask.
Garrett reaches for the marker.
“What?” Tucker asks.
He uncaps it and leans over the board. At the bottom of step ten, beneath ASK HER BACK PROPERLY, Garrett draws one clean line through the last sentence Dean originally wrote in smaller letters: GET HER BACK.
He rewrites it beside the crossed-out words. LET HER CHOOSE YOU.
Dean reads it over his shoulder. “That’s annoyingly good.”
Logan nods, solemn. “Yeah. Hate that.”
Tucker takes the marker from Garrett before he can make the lettering worse. “There.”
The four of them stand around the whiteboard again.
Dean folds his arms and surveys it with the satisfaction of a general who has successfully planned a military operation despite having no jurisdiction, training, or stable relationship with risk. “Pretty good fucking plan, G.”
Garrett nods slowly. “Yeah.”
“Actually,” Tucker says.
“Actually,” Logan agrees.
Garrett pulls his phone from his pocket. “I’ve gotta put this shit in my phone.”
Logan immediately claps him once on the shoulder, hard enough to jolt him forward. “Write it down, man. Write that shit down.”
“This is genius,” Dean says.
Tucker nods. “It’s solid.”
“Fucking genius,” Logan repeats, already leaning over Garrett’s shoulder while he opens the Notes app. “Title it properly.”
The boys nod around him as if they have collectively solved love. Logan returns to his food. Tucker rehangs the whiteboard in the kitchen, directly over the dishwasher-tablet warning. Dean photographs it from two angles and declares the second one more cinematic.
Garrett stays at the table with his phone in one hand and the bowl Tucker made him cooling beneath the other.
At the top of the screen, the title looks stupidly confident. HOW YOU GET THE GIRL. Like there’s a guaranteed sequence. Like women are puzzles and love is something four hockey players can diagram between breakfast potatoes and an argument about fridge space.
He looks down at the final step. Let her choose you.
Garrett asks her to dinner two days after the show. The text arrives at four-thirteen in the afternoon while she’s sitting on the floor outside Studio B with her back against the wall, a pencil caught badly through her hair and the heel of one boot digging into the opposite calf.
Rehearsal has technically been on break for seven minutes, though Dexter’s still inside arguing with the lighting designer about whether the scene feels too emotionally blue, and she’s used five of those minutes to stare at the same section of her audition sides without absorbing a word.
The audition is next week. A whole week away, which should feel like time. Seven full days. Enough time to change her mind about every choice she has made, destroy the choices she replaced them with, and arrive at the theatre annex carrying six versions of the same woman inside her body like a deeply unstable nesting doll.
Her phone lights up against her thigh.
Garrett: Are you free tomorrow night?
She reads it once, then again.
maybe. why?
His answer comes before she can lock the screen.
Garrett: Dinner.
Then, after a pause:
Garrett: Somewhere with actual food.
She glances down at the paper cup beside her bag. There are three sips of iced coffee left in it, mostly melted ice now, and half a cereal bar folded inside its wrapper near her knee.
i eat actual food.
Garrett: Sure.
rude.
Garrett: Seven?
There’s something almost deliberately plain about the invitation. No joke about it being a date. No little trap built into the wording where she has to either correct him or let something stand between them that she isn’t ready to name. Just dinner. A time. Room to say no. She bites lightly at the inside of her cheek.
okay.
Three dots appear, disappear, then return.
Garrett: I’ll pick you up.
She smiles before she’s decided whether she means to.
“Is that him?” Allie asks.
She looks up. Allie’s come out of the studio without her noticing and is standing over her with both arms folded, blue rehearsal skirt hitched unevenly at one hip and one eyebrow raised.
“Is who him?”
Allie glances pointedly at the phone. “The dentist.”
“Yes,” she says. “He’s checking on my molars.”
“You’re smiling at a message about gingivitis?”
“I have a rich inner life.”
“You have Garrett Graham asking you out.”
She presses the lock button and drops the phone onto her lap. “He asked if I was free.”
“For dinner.”
“Yes.”
Allie’s mouth curls. “Where?”
“I don’t know.”
“What are you wearing?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are you shaving your legs?”
“Oh my god.”
“That’s a yes.”
“It’s winter,” she says, gathering her sides off the floor with more force than the paper deserves. “Nobody is seeing my legs.”
Allie nods slowly. “So you’re considering the possibility that someone might.”
“No.”
“Interesting.”
“You’re exhausting.”
“And yet,” Allie says, reaching down to offer her a hand, “I’m still not the one getting into Garrett Graham’s car tomorrow.”
She takes Allie’s hand and lets herself be pulled up. “It’s dinner.”
“Mhm.”
“Stop doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“That noise.”
Allie smiles sweetly. “Mhm.”
Garrett’s already outside when she comes down the next evening. He’s standing beside the passenger door with his phone in one hand and his shoulders tucked slightly against the cold, wearing a dark sweater beneath his jacket and jeans she remembers from before because they fit him obscenely well and had once caused an argument about whether she was allowed to call denim distracting.
His hair is still damp at the ends. He must have showered after practice. The thought arrives with too much information attached to it, so she pushes it aside and walks toward him.
Garrett looks up when he hears her boots. Whatever he’d been reading disappears from his face immediately, replaced by a smile that starts small and then gets away from him.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hi.”
His eyes move over her, lingering just long enough to feel warm without making her regret the fitted coat or the pink sweater beneath it. “You look pretty.”
She smiles. “Thanks.”
He opens the door. Garrett waits. There’s no flourish to it, no grin begging for praise. He just holds the door while she climbs in, then closes it and walks around the front of the Jeep with his hands tucked into his pockets.
The inside smells faintly like coffee, his cologne, and cold air. It is cleaner than usual, though a single hockey glove still sits on the back seat beside what appears to be a textbook with a cracked spine.
She buckles herself in while Garrett starts the car. “Where are we going?” she asks.
“You’ll see.”
Her head turns slowly. “That’s ominous.”
“It’s not ominous.”
“That’s exactly what somebody says before driving a woman into the woods.”
Garrett glances across at her as he backs out of the space. “You think I cleaned my car to murder you?”
She turns back in her seat, smiling despite herself. “Where are we going?”
“Thai place near Hastings.”
“The one with the yellow sign?”
“Yeah.”
She nods. “I like that place.”
“I know.”
Garrett keeps his eyes on the road, one hand loose at the bottom of the steering wheel. She looks out the window before she can make too much of him remembering a restaurant she had mentioned once after rehearsal, months before the breakup, while complaining that nobody at the hockey house understood the importance of ordering enough rice.
The restaurant is small and warm, all fogged windows and close tables, the air thick with chilli, garlic, and steamed rice. A string of little paper stars hangs crookedly near the front counter. They’re seated near the back beneath a framed photograph of a beach neither of them recognises.
Garrett pulls out her chair.
She gives him a look as she sits. “You’ve become very formal.”
“Have I?”
“You opened the car door.”
“I’ve opened doors before.”
“Not this many.”
He takes the chair opposite her and picks up a menu. “Maybe you’ve been walking through the wrong ones.”
She snorts softly. “That didn’t make sense.”
His nose scrunches slightly. “It did in my head.”
“That’s worrying.”
The first few minutes are easier than their earlier dinners had been. There’s still care in the way they move around each other, but less visible effort. She doesn’t feel as though every question might open a trapdoor beneath the table.
Garrett asks about rehearsal and actually waits for the answer, even when it becomes a seven-minute complaint about Dexter changing a transition she had spent two weeks making feel natural.
“He says it needs to breathe,” she tells him, stirring her straw through the ice in her water. “Which would be fine if he knew what he wanted breathing to look like. Every time I ask, he just does this.”
She lifts both hands and gives him her best impression of Dexter directing through spiritual distress – fingers spread, face pained, a tiny gathering motion toward her chest.
Garrett watches with his mouth pressed together. “That clears it up.”
“Exactly.”
“So you just sort of…” He copies the movement badly, looking more like a man trying to gather smoke with his hands. “Do that?”
“No, because I have dignity.”
“You yelled at a roast chicken onstage.”
“That was textually justified.”
“Sure.”
She points at him across the table. “You don’t get to mock the chicken when you still read scenes like you’re reporting a gas leak.”
Garrett’s eyes narrow. “I wasn’t that bad.”
“You paused before every line.”
“I was finding the emotion.”
She shoots him a look. “You were finding the next word.”
“That too.”
Their food arrives. Garrett’s remembered she likes the dumplings from here, though he doesn’t announce that this is why he ordered them. He only moves the plate closer to the middle of the table, lets her take the first one, then complains when she takes the last.
“You had four,” she says.
“You had five.”
“I’m smaller.”
Garrett watches her dip the last dumpling into sauce, then shakes his head. “Unbelievable.”
“You’ll recover.”
“I don’t know. This could change me.”
“You’ve survived worse,” she giggles.
“I’ve taken hits that hurt less.”
She smiles into her food. “So dramatic.”
“That’s your influence.”
The conversation wanders. His classes. Her upcoming audition. The fact that Logan has developed a bruise on his thigh and is making everyone inspect whether it’s changed colour. Dean’s latest conviction that he could cook if Tucker stopped being controlling. Allie’s refusal to let anyone in rehearsal say the phrase trust the process after one of the actors forgot his entrance for the third time.
Garrett asks what the audition is for. He remembers the play, the director, and that the character talks to a plant during one of the sides. He asks what she wants from it.
She sits back slightly, fork resting against the edge of her plate. “I don’t know.”
“You’ve been working on it every day.”
“That doesn’t mean I know.”
“What part?”
She exhales and looks toward the window. The glass is fogged except for one clear streak where somebody has wiped a sleeve across it. “She’s funny, but she doesn’t know she’s funny. Which sounds obvious, because nobody walks around thinking they’re delivering comic relief, but…” She shifts her shoulder. “The scene gets sad later. If I put too much weight into it early, then there’s nowhere for it to go. But if I make it too light, the end feels like it belongs to a different person.”
Garrett turns his glass slowly between both hands. “Couldn’t she be trying to make it light?”
Her eyes come back to him.
“What?”
“No, say that again.”
He looks faintly alarmed. “I don’t remember exactly what I said.”
“You said she could be trying to make it light.”
“Yeah.” Garrett shrugs. “Like she knows it’s bad, but she keeps joking because if she stops, then she has to admit it.”
She stares at him.
His brows lift. “Is that wrong?”
“No.” Her fingers move absently over the edge of her napkin. “No, that’s actually…”
“Brilliant?”
“Let’s not get carried away.”
He tilts his head. “Helpful?”
“Possibly.”
He smiles, pleased but not smug enough to ruin it. “I’ll take possibly.”
She spends the rest of dinner turning the thought around in her head, enough that Garrett catches her going quiet twice and lets her. He doesn’t demand to know what she’s thinking or make a joke about losing her to a fictional plant. He only nudges the rice toward her when she stops eating and asks whether she wants another drink.
They leave after ten. The cold outside has sharpened, clean and dry against her cheeks. Garrett walks beside her toward the Jeep without reaching for her hand. At the curb, a car cuts too close through the parking lot, and his palm lands briefly at her back to guide her in toward him.
The touch is gone again almost immediately. Her body notices both parts.
On the drive back, she turns the music down so they can keep talking. Garrett tells her Coach has scheduled an extra skate early Saturday and Logan has already begun campaigning against it as a violation of labour law.
She tells him she picked up a weekend shift at the campus events office, and he glances over. “You’ve got rehearsal Saturday night.”
“I know.”
“And class all day Friday.”
“I also know that.”
Garrett’s mouth tightens slightly. “When are you sleeping?”
“Later.”
“Very specific.”
“I have a system,” she shrugs.
“Your system is coffee and lying.”
“That’s a system.”
He huffs a laugh but doesn’t lecture her. “Just don’t run yourself into the ground before the audition.”
“It’s a week away.”
“Yeah. You can do a lot of damage in a week.”
He pulls into the dorm lot at ten-twenty-three and parks beneath the same lamp as before. The building glows across the pavement, close enough that she can see the paper snowflakes somebody has started taping along the inside of the lobby windows.
Garrett shifts the Jeep into park. “I had fun.”
“Me too.”
Neither reaches for the door.
The engine idles beneath them, soft vibration moving through the seats. Garrett glances toward the dorm and then back to her, but he does not ask whether she wants him to come up. The absence of the question leaves something inside her body unclenched.
Garrett’s hand rests near the gearshift, broad and loose, fingers curled slightly inward. She touches the side of his thumb.
His gaze drops. There’s no real thought behind it. Or there’s too much thought and touching him is easier than sorting through any of it.
She turns his hand palm-up and runs her finger along one of the calluses beneath his fingers. “You’ve torn this one.”
Garrett looks down. “From my stick.”
“It looks sore.”
“It’s fine.”
“You always say that.”
“Because it usually is.”
Garrett closes his hand gently around her fingers before she can pull away. His thumb brushes over the rings stacked near her knuckles, turning one slowly.
“This one’s new.”
She looks down at the thin gold band set with a tiny pink stone. “My mom gave it to me.”
“When?”
“A couple months ago. It was my grandmother’s.”
Garrett angles her hand toward the dashboard light, studying the ring. “It suits you.”
“Because it’s pink?”
“Partly.”
“What’s the other part?”
He traces the slightly uneven setting with the edge of his thumb. “It looks delicate, but it’s held together better than it should be.”
Her throat tightens before she can decide whether the observation is sweet or too close to something else. Garrett seems to hear it after he says it, because his eyes lift and his expression changes.
“I mean the ring,” he says.
“I know.”
“Okay.”
She lets him keep her hand.
The conversation restarts around it. Nothing important at first. A professor he hates. A costume fitting she has next Thursday. Whether Dean is genuinely becoming interested in theatre or only interested in Allie wearing costumes.
They move from one subject to another without noticing the joins, their hands staying between them. Sometimes Garrett plays with one of her rings. Sometimes she presses his fingers flat against her own palm and compares the size. His hand almost covers hers completely.
At eleven, Garrett shuts off the engine but leaves the heater running from the battery. At eleven-twenty, the inside of the Jeep has cooled enough that she tucks both hands into his.
She knows she should leave. Her room is right there. Her bed is upstairs, along with three textbooks, a laundry basket she’s been ignoring, and the audition pages she will probably read again before sleeping despite every promise made to herself during dinner.
But letting Garrett walk her inside feels different from sitting here. The Jeep is suspended space. Nothing in it asks what happens next. They can sit shoulder to shoulder and talk until the windows fog, and when she finally leaves, she can carry the warmth upstairs without having to decide whether he belongs in her room again.
She doesn’t want him in the dorm. Not tonight. She doesn’t want to explain why she’s happy to stay in his car until midnight but would panic if he followed her through the lobby. The distinction feels stupid even inside her own head.
Garrett doesn’t make her explain it. He stretches one leg beneath the steering wheel and settles deeper into his seat, as though they have all night.
Thanksgiving enters the conversation quietly. She mentions her mother sent her home with enough leftovers to feed the whole cast and that Allie ate most of the pie over the sink. Garrett laughs, eyes lowered to her hand while he rotates the ring around her finger.
“How was yours?” she asks.
His thumb stops. The pause is short enough that someone else might miss it. She doesn’t.
Garrett looks through the windshield. “It was alright.”
She waits.
His jaw shifts slightly. The parking lot light catches the faint shadow along it, the tiredness beneath his eyes that she had assumed came from practice.
“You go to your dad’s?” she asks.
He nods.
She knows the outline of what that means. The long drives where Garrett goes quiet before they even leave campus. Phil’s house made too large by money and silence. The way Garrett used to return with his shoulders set high and hard, then pretend he was only tired until she touched him in the wrong place and felt the tension jump beneath his skin.
“He’s engaged,” Garrett says after a moment. “Her name’s Cindy.”
Her fingers curl slightly around his. “You hadn’t met her before?”
“No.”
“What’s she like?”
“Nice.” His mouth pulls faintly, not quite a smile.
Something cold moves along the inside of her ribs. Garrett rubs his thumb against the side of her ring again, though now the motion looks less like fidgeting and more like something to keep his hand occupied.
“We sat down for dinner,” he says. “My dad wanted to say grace.”
His voice has thinned around the edges. She turns a little more toward him.
“He made this whole thing about it.” Garrett swallows. “Like we’re some fucking normal family sitting there holding hands.”
The word normal comes out with quiet disgust.
“I took hers,” he continues. “Cindy’s. And her sleeve moved.” His fingers tighten around hers. “There were bruises around her wrist.”
The air inside the Jeep seems to change pressure. She can hear the faint electrical hum from the dashboard, the wind moving dry leaves across the pavement outside, Garrett drawing one careful breath through his nose.
She lifts her free hand and pushes it into his hair. He closes his eyes the second her fingers touch him.
“Garrett,” she says softly.
“I asked her what happened.” His brows pull together, face turned slightly away from her. “She said she hit it on a cupboard. She wouldn’t look at me.”
Her fingertips move slowly through the curls near his temple.
“I waited until he left the room and told her she needed to go.” Garrett’s voice catches, and he stops to clear it. “I said I’d take her wherever she wanted. Hotel, friend’s house, police station. I didn’t care. I told her I knew what he did.”
A tear gathers against his lashes. He blinks it away hard, jaw clenching as if his own body has embarrassed him.
“I begged her,” he says. “I actually fucking begged her.”
Her fingers slide toward the back of his head, nails tracing lightly over his scalp.
“She kept looking at the doorway. He wasn’t even there, and she kept watching for him.” Garrett’s mouth trembles once before he presses it flat. “Then I got louder. I just– I was trying to make her understand, and she started backing away from me.”
The tear gets free this time, moving quickly down his cheek.
Garrett wipes it off with the back of his hand. “She looked scared.”
“Of you?”
He nods. The movement is small and miserable.
“She said, ‘Please don’t make him angry.’” Garrett’s breathing breaks slightly on the last word. “Then she asked me to leave.”
Her hand stills in his hair for half a second before moving again.
“You’re not him,” she says.
“I know.”
The answer comes quickly, almost defensively, but then his face folds in on itself a little.
“I know I’m not,” he says again, quieter. “But she didn’t. She saw me getting angry and she couldn’t tell.”
“She’s scared of what happens after somebody gets angry,” she says. “That isn’t the same as thinking you’re him.”
Garrett stares down at their joined hands. “It felt the same.”
She runs her thumb along the edge of his hairline. “Why didn’t you call me?”
His head lifts.
“I could’ve…” She stops, not entirely sure what she could have done from campus, or whether she would have driven out to Phil’s house and walked through the front door beside Garrett after everything between them. “You could’ve called.”
Garrett watches her for a moment, eyes red and wet.
“You wouldn’t have come,” he says.
“I might’ve.”
A sad little smile touches his mouth. It disappears almost as soon as it arrives.
“No,” he says, reaching up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers graze her cheek on the way back. “You wouldn’t have.”
Her brows pinch together. “You don’t know that.”
“I do.” His hand settles over hers again. “And that’s okay. I wouldn’t expect you to.”
There’s no accusation beneath it. No attempt to make her feel the distance he’s naming. If anything, Garrett sounds like he’s protecting her from needing to lie.
She looks down at their fingers. “I’m still sorry you went alone.”
He nods once. “Yeah.”
“You shouldn’t have had to deal with that by yourself.”
“I didn’t know who else to tell.”
The sentence lands quietly, with more weight than Garrett seems to realise he has placed into it. Her thumb brushes his knuckle.
“I don’t want to see him again,” he says.
She looks up. His face has gone still in the particular way it does when he has made a decision and is bracing for someone to argue with it.
“Okay,” she says.
“I’m serious.”
“I know.”
“He’s going to call. He’s going to make it into this whole thing about me embarrassing him or disrespecting him in his own house, but I don’t…” Garrett exhales hard. “I can’t go back there.”
“Then don’t.”
His eyes search hers.
“You don’t owe him another holiday,” she says. “Or another dinner. You don’t have to keep walking into that house because he expects you to.”
Garrett’s throat works. “What about her?”
“Cindy?”
He nods.
She considers it for a moment, fingers still curled through his. “You can give her a way to contact you without seeing him. A number he doesn’t know about, maybe. Or information for somewhere she can go. You can tell her the offer is still there.”
“And if she doesn’t take it?”
The helplessness in his voice scrapes at something under her ribs.
“Then it’s still there,” she says. “You can’t make her leave before she’s ready. You can only make sure she knows there’s somewhere to go.”
Garrett looks through the windshield again. His shoulders lower slightly, though not with relief. More like exhaustion has finally found room inside them.
“I hate him,” he says.
She strokes her thumb across the back of his hand. “Yeah.”
“I really fucking hate him.”
“I know.”
They sit with it for a while. She doesn’t tell Garrett that hatred will eat him alive, or that Phil is still his father, or that one day he might regret cutting him off.
She doesn’t hand him any of the soft, polished phrases people use when another person’s pain makes them uncomfortable. She stays beside him while his breathing settles, her fingers moving slowly through his hair until he leans back against the headrest and closes his eyes.
When he opens them, the rawness hasn’t disappeared, but it’s moved farther from the surface.
“Sorry,” he murmurs.
Her hand stops. “For what?”
“This wasn’t exactly dinner conversation.”
“It’s nearly midnight.”
“Late dinner conversation,” he murmurs.
She gives him a look. “You don’t have to apologise for telling me.”
Garrett’s eyes hold hers. “Okay.”
She brings his hand toward her without thinking too hard about it and presses her mouth lightly to his knuckles.
His breath catches.
The kiss lasts less than a second. When she lowers their hands, Garrett’s staring at her with an expression so open that she looks away first, toward the fog gathering at the edges of the windshield.
They stay in the car for another hour. The conversation doesn’t return to anything as heavy. It loosens gradually, circling through stories that require less care.
Dean borrowing a canoe freshman year and somehow returning without it. Logan getting locked out of the house wearing only shorts and one skate. Her first disastrous audition at Briar, where she forgot her own name during the introduction and then delivered the scene perfectly out of spite.
By the time the dashboard reads 1:17, her feet have gone numb and Garrett’s phone is down to eight percent.
“I should go,” she says.
“Yeah.”
Neither sounds pleased about it. Garrett gets out with her anyway. The night air hits hard after the stale warmth of the Jeep, and she folds her arms across herself while they cross the lot. He walks beside her without touching, matching his stride to hers.
At the dorm door, she pulls out her key card and turns.
“Thank you for dinner.”
Garrett puts both hands into his jacket pockets. “Thanks for coming.”
“And for telling me.”
His expression shifts. “Yeah.”
She swipes the card.
“Text me when you’re upstairs,” he says.
“The stairs are inside a locked building.”
“I know.”
She raises her eyebrow. “There are cameras.”
“Great.”
“And a resident assistant who once wrote someone up for leaving a shoe in the hallway.”
Garrett nods. “Sounds dangerous.”
She smiles. “Goodnight.”
“Night, baby.”
The next morning, his first text arrives at eight-forty.
Twenty minutes later, he sends a photograph of the glove sitting upright in the passenger seat with the seatbelt fastened across it.
She laughs loudly enough that her roommate looks over from her desk. “Is that Garrett?”
She locks the screen. “No.”
Her roommate looks unconvinced. “Okay.”
By lunchtime, the glove photograph has somehow reached Allie.
At four-forty, Dean creates a group chat.
It’s seven-twenty when she and Allie finally reach the hockey house, which Tucker accepts with the tight silence of a man adding their lateness to an internal file.
The kitchen windows are fogged from cooking. Warmth rolls over her the second she steps through the back door, carrying the smell of tomatoes, garlic, melted cheese, and bread.
Music plays quietly from a speaker on the counter, something old and guitar-heavy Garrett usually puts on when he’s trying to stop Logan from controlling the playlist.
Tucker stands at the stove with a wooden spoon in one hand. Logan’s leaning against the island eating grated cheese directly from the bag. Dean sits on the counter beside Allie’s usual spot, waiting for her with the patience of a dog that has been told someone is bringing food even though the food is already here.
Garrett’s at the dining table, moving a stack of textbooks off one of the chairs.
He looks up when they come in. “Hey,” he says.
The smile is quieter than the one from outside her dorm, but no less immediate. “Hi.”
His eyes travel briefly over her face and then stop. “You look tired.”
She slips her bag from her shoulder. “It’s nice to see you too.”
“I didn’t mean you look bad.”
“Good save.”
“I meant–”
“She does look tired,” Allie says, taking off her coat. “She fell asleep during notes.”
“I closed my eyes.”
Allie gives her a look. “For a minute and a half.”
“I was thinking.”
“You snored.”
She turns. “I did not.”
Allie looks toward Garrett. “She did.”
Garrett reaches for her bag. His fingers stop just short of the strap. “Can I?”
The question is small enough that no one else reacts to it. She looks at his hand, then lets the bag slide from her shoulder. “Yeah.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re thanking me for carrying my bag?”
“I’m polite now.”
Dean snorts from the counter. “Debatable.”
Garrett carries the bag into the living room and sets it beside the couch rather than dropping it near the door with the coats. When he comes back, he places a glass of water in front of the empty stool beside his.
She notices both things. She tries not to.
“What are we eating?” Allie asks, walking straight into Dean’s space until he opens his knees and lets her stand between them.
“Baked ziti,” Tucker says.
Dean puts one arm around Allie’s waist. “I assisted.”
“You grated cheese,” Tucker retorts.
“I was integral.”
“You ate half of it.”
Dean shrugs. “Quality control.”
Logan lifts the bag. “Still good.”
Tucker points the spoon toward him. “Put that down.”
Logan takes one final handful before obeying.
Dinner is noisy in the comfortable, overlapping way the hockey house does best. Everyone talks before the previous person has finished.
Dean tells a story with so many irrelevant details that Tucker eventually asks whether the original event has occurred yet. Logan interrupts three times to correct the chronology and is wrong twice. Allie steals garlic bread from Dean’s plate, then acts surprised when he takes a bite from the piece in her hand instead.
Garrett sits beside her. Close enough that his sleeve brushes hers when he reaches for the water jug. He asks about rehearsal without turning the whole table toward her, and she tells him Dexter has reversed the transition change after deciding the original blocking had better emotional circulation.
Garrett pauses with his fork halfway to his mouth. “What does that mean?”
“No one knows,” she says.
Dean points toward her. “I know. It means the energy flows.”
Allie turns her head slowly. “You learned one phrase backstage.”
“I have instincts.”
“You walked into a flats cart,” she mutters.
“It was dark.”
She raises her brows at him. “It was fluorescent.”
Dean looks at Tucker. “Why is everyone hostile tonight?”
“Because you’re here,” Logan says.
After dinner, Tucker refuses help from anyone he considers likely to create more work, which leaves him with Garrett and Allie at the sink while the others migrate into the living room. She tries to join them, but Tucker glances at the dark half-moons beneath her eyes and tells her to sit down.
“I can dry,” she says.
“You can sit.”
“That feels pointed,” she mumbles.
“It is.”
Garrett looks over from where he’s rinsing plates. “Go sit down.”
She narrows her eyes. “You’re enjoying this.”
“A little.”
“Asshole.”
His grin flashes. “There she is.”
Something soft moves through her before she can stop it.
She takes her audition sides from her bag and settles onto the couch, curling one leg beneath herself. Dean and Logan are arguing over which movie to put on. Allie’s still in the kitchen, leaning her hip against the counter while Tucker explains that plates don’t need to soak if people rinse them immediately.
She reads the first page of the scene. Then reads it again.
The words hold for perhaps thirty seconds before rehearsal fatigue starts tugging at the backs of her eyes. She rubs one hand over her face, presses her fingers briefly into her temples, and forces herself down the next paragraph.
Garrett comes into the living room carrying two glasses of water. He gives one to her, then sits on the other end of the couch. “What are you doing?”
“Reading.”
“Looks painful.”
She sighs. “It’s not.”
He nods toward the pages. “Audition?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s next week.”
She gives him a look. “I’m aware.”
“You’ve got time.”
“I know.”
Garrett takes a drink and looks toward the television while Dean scrolls through a streaming menu at a speed that makes every title impossible to read. He doesn’t tell her to put the pages away. Doesn’t remind her she looks tired again.
A few minutes later, when she reaches blindly toward the coffee table for the highlighter she left there, Garrett picks it up and passes it to her without comment.
“Thanks,” she murmurs.
“Mhm.”
She marks a line. Reads another paragraph. Rubs her thumb over the corner of the page until it begins to soften beneath her skin.
The boys finally settle on a movie nobody seems particularly interested in. Tucker turns off the kitchen light and joins Logan in an armchair. Allie comes in and folds herself against Dean’s side, both legs thrown over his lap.
Garrett stays where he is. She reaches the bottom of the second page and realises she cannot remember the top. A breath leaves her nose, sharper than she intends.
Garrett glances over. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“You made a noise.”
“I’m reading,” she mutters.
“You’ve been on that page for ten minutes.”
She looks at him. “Are you timing me?”
“No.”
“Then how do you know?”
“Because Dean has changed his mind about the movie twice and you haven’t turned the page.”
From the other couch, Dean says, “This one has terrible reviews.”
“Nobody asked you,” Garrett says.
She lowers the sides slightly. “I need to work on it.”
“You’ve been working on it.”
“The audition is in a week.”
“Exactly.”
“That doesn’t mean I can ignore it for a week.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Then what are you saying?”
Garrett turns slightly toward her, one arm resting along his thigh. His voice remains quiet enough that the others don’t have to stop talking around them. “I’m saying you look like you’re not getting anything out of it right now.”
The defensive answer reaches her tongue quickly. She swallows it back because, irritatingly, she knows he’s right.
Garrett watches her face. “Leave it for tonight.”
“I’ll feel guilty.”
“You already look guilty.”
“That’s just my face.”
“No, your face is meaner.”
Her mouth twitches before she can stop it. “Charming.”
“I’m serious.” He holds one hand out toward the pages, palm up rather than reaching for them. “You can have them back whenever you want.”
She looks at his hand. Then at the scene. The text has begun to swim slightly at the edges, enough to confirm she has been awake and moving for too many hours.
With a sigh, she places the pages in his hand.
Garrett doesn’t look triumphant. He only closes them neatly and sets them on top of her bag where nobody will step on them.
“Happy?” she asks.
“Deeply.”
“You’re annoying.”
“I know.”
The movie starts. Ten minutes in, nobody has followed the plot except Tucker, who gives up explaining after Logan asks whether two characters are brothers for the third time.
She sits upright at first, hands folded around the glass Garrett gave her. Gradually, the warmth of the house begins pulling at her. Her shoulders lower. Her head tips once, then jerks back up.
Garrett pretends not to notice. The next time it happens, her temple lands against his shoulder.
Her whole body stills. Garrett does too.
There’s a tiny space where either of them could correct it. She could sit back and laugh. He could shift as though he needs to reach for his drink.
Neither moves. His shoulder is warm beneath the thin fabric of his shirt. She can feel his breathing there, slow and deliberately unchanged.
After a minute, Garrett adjusts his arm along the back of the couch. Behind her, leaving the choice where it belongs.
Her hand rests on the cushion between them. His is nearby, palm down. She touches his smallest finger with hers. Garrett turns his hand over.
Their fingers slide together quietly, hidden in the dip between their bodies.
Across the room, Dean’s telling Allie he absolutely understood the play she was in, then immediately calling Mercutio the funny cousin. Logan laughs so hard he chokes on his drink. Tucker pauses the movie while everyone yells conflicting advice.
The house fills with the familiar mess of them. Garrett’s thumb moves once over her grandmother’s ring. She closes her eyes.
She doesn’t know that her audition date is sitting in the calendar on his phone. She doesn’t know he spent part of the afternoon searching the play so he could understand why the plant matters, or that the glass of water had been set beside her place before she walked through the door.
She doesn’t know the boys have spent two days watching him follow a ridiculous list written on their kitchen whiteboard before Tucker erased it ahead of dinner.
She only knows that Garrett asks before taking her bag now. That he listens when she talks long enough to lose the point. That when she tells him about the ugliest part of himself, he doesn’t ask her to make it prettier.
And that tonight, when her body gives up before her pride does, he lets her sleep against him without trying to turn the softness into anything more.
notes from me – hi loves!!! first chapter is out! each chapter will come out at the same time and day every week! i also probably won’t post any other petal x garrett fics during this time to try not to be too confusing.
some other little notes, this is very closely following canon off campus (the show, not books) events, but there are slight deviations (obviously!). notably, allie and dean are together and not secret, and hannah and garrett never had their talk about her assault (the events of drunk shakespeare & that scene are flipped!) but pretty much everything else is mostly the same!!
enjoy, let me know all your comments and thoughts as always!! xx
to be notified when i post new fics, follow @kooksandpearls-library and turn on notifications! i no longer use a taglist for garrett fics.
synopsis: every song reminds garrett graham of her. tonight, he follows them home.
content warnings : 𝒇em ! reader angst yearning second chances
The highway is almost empty by the time Garrett turns the radio on.
The speakers crackle to life, swallowing the silence that had settled somewhere between the rhythmic hum of the engine and the rain threatening to fall. Music follows quietly, soft enough to become part of the drive rather than interrupt it.
Garrett has never been particularly good at sitting with his own thoughts. Silence had a habit of asking questions he wasn't ready to answer, so somewhere along the way he'd learnt to drown it out instead.
His body remembers the drive before his mind does. Left at the lights. Straight through the junction. Follow the road until the air smells faintly of salt. He doesn't need directions anymore. Some roads become muscle memory before they become memories.
Regret wasn't loud. It settled into the smallest things instead—old songs, familiar roads, habits he'd never quite managed to break.
He knows he hurt you. He can see that now.
Loving you had never been the difficult part. But being there when you needed him was.
It didn't happen all at once. Relationships rarely fell apart that way. Instead, it happened in little pieces. Practice running later than expected. Team meeting that couldn't wait. Road trips that stole entire weekends. A quick text apologising for another cancelled dinner. A phone call cut short because his coach needed him. Garrett spent so long believing he was building a future for the two of you that he never realised he was asking you to spend it alone.
Usually, by now, you'd have something to say about the music.
You always did. Whether it was complaining that his playlists were painfully predictable or reaching across the centre console to change the station before he'd even had the chance to object, silence had never really existed between the two of you. There was always something. A joke. An argument. A story you'd forgotten to tell him until halfway through the drive.
But now? Your hands remained folded neatly in your lap. Your eyes never leave the window.
Garrett doesn't know how he managed to convince you to get in the car. Truthfully, he doesn't think he deserved to.
The last time he'd seen you hadn't ended with slammed doors or raised voices. It would've been easier if it had. Anger had a habit of burning itself out eventually. What the two of you left behind was quieter than that. A conversation that grew heavier with every sentence, two people standing in the same room who suddenly couldn't seem to reach each other anymore.
You asked him to listen.
Really listen.
Instead, he defended himself. Practise. Road trip. The season. The future I kept promising you. Tomorrow. Every excuse he'd repeated often enough to mistake for the truth. Somewhere between trying to explain himself and refusing to admit you were right, he'd said things that should've never left his mouth. Things born out of frustration and pride rather than truth. Some apologies arrived too late. Others would never be enough.
Garrett carried his regret around like bruises, pressing against the inside of his ribs every time he remembered the look on your face. He'd spent years trying to convince himself those words had only come from anger. It never made them hurt any less.
He called the moment he got home, expecting the call to go to voicemail. It did. He tried again the next morning. Then after practise. Then before bed. Somewhere between the tenth apology and the twentieth voicemail, Garrett stopped expecting you to answer.
He called anyway.
The apologies eventually gave way to habit. He'd tell you about his day instead, as though the conversation had simply become one-sided rather than ended altogether. Dean had somehow managed to burn grilled cheese again despite insisting it was impossible. He'd stopped by a café on the way home that immediately made him think of you. The old record store downtown had finally closed. Hannah had asked about you the other day.
Sometimes he'd complain about practise, forgetting for a moment that it had once been the very thing keeping him from you. Sometimes he'd tell you they'd won, and how some stupid part of him still expected to find you somewhere in the stands.
Sometimes he'd catch himself laughing halfway through a story before realising there was no one left to hear the punchline.
He always finished the voicemail the same way.
"I miss you."
And he never deleted the conversations. He couldn't.
It was the closest thing he had to hearing your voice anymore.
The beach comes into view not long after.
Garrett pulls the car into its usual spot overlooking the shoreline, the familiar crunch of gravel beneath tyres sounding no different than it had all those years ago. He turns the ignition off, but neither of you makes a move to leave. The engine clicks as it cools and the car falls still, broken only by the distant rhythm of the waves meeting the shore.
Once upon a time, he would've reached for your hand.
Tonight, he isn't sure he'd earned the right.
"Why are we here, Garrett?"
He doesn't answer straight away. His gaze stays fixed beyond the windshield on the familiar stretch of coastline bathed in the last of the evening light.
"Because this place has always been ours."
Garrett wasn't lying. This spot on the beach was ours. He couldn't count the number of times the two of you ended up here. Sometimes after dates that neither of you wanted to end. Sometimes after exams. Sometimes for no reason at all but wanting to escape everyone else for a little while. It had become your place so naturally neither of you had ever needed to say it out loud.
"That's not good enough."
The words don't come out sharp enough to be cruel. But they hurt all the same, heavy with every conversation that should've happened weeks ago but never did.
Garrett nods before he'd properly looked at you.
"I know."
The admission surprises even him. There had been a time he'd filled the space with excuses before you'd even finished speaking. Anything to soften the blow of what he'd done. Tonight, every explanation dies before it reaches his tongue.
You let out a breath that sounds somewhere between a tired laugh and disbelief, finally tearing your gaze away from the ocean outside.
"Do you?"
He doesn't answer immediately.
His eyes drift back towards the shoreline instead, watching another wave collapse against the rocks before disappearing into the next. The tide never stopped moving. It didn't wait for anyone to catch up. Somehow, that felt fitting.
"Yeah."
Your expression doesn't change.
"Then tell me why we're here."
Garrett's fingers tighten around the steering wheel, the worn leather creaking beneath his grip. He'd rehearsed this drive a hundred different ways, imagined every version of this conversation until none of them felt real anymore. None of those imagined speeches survived the moment you actually climbed into the passenger seat.
His voice softens when he finally speaks.
"Because every time I pictured us getting through this..." He pauses, swallowing around the lump in his throat. "...it was always here. I didn't know where else to ask you to hear me out."
A humourless smile touches your lips before disappearing just as quickly.
"You had plenty of chances to talk."
"I know."
"No." You turn to face him, and somehow that's worse than you refusing to look at him at all. "You had plenty of chances to listen."
The words land harder than anything you'd said so far.
Because they were true.
He remembers every conversation he'd half listened to while checking the time. Every sentence he'd interrupted with, Can we talk about this later? Every promise to make it up to you tomorrow. Next week. When things settled down. Tomorrow had always sounded so certain back then.
"I kept telling myself things would get better after the season," he admits, the confession leaving him almost reluctantly. "Then it was after the road trip."
He lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head at himself.
"Then after playoffs."
The irony tastes bitter now.
"Turns out there was always an 'after.'"
Silence settles over the car again, though it no longer feels empty. It feels occupied by everything the two of you had spent months trying not to say.
"Do you know what I wanted?"
Garrett doesn't trust himself to answer. He simply shakes his head.
"I wanted one evening where I wasn't wondering if your phone was going to ring." Your gaze falls to your hands, thumbs twisting together absentmindedly. "One dinner you didn't have to leave early."
Another pause.
"One conversation where I wasn't competing with tomorrow."
His chest tightens. "You shouldn't have had to."
"I wasn't asking for you to choose between hockey and me."
You look at him again, your eyes glassy now, though your voice remains steady. "I was asking you to choose us sometimes."
The simplicity of it hurts most.
Not forever. Not always.
Sometimes.
"I know."
"I started apologising for asking."
The words hollow him out.
He remembers it now. The way you'd started saying it's okay before he'd even apologised. The way you'd smile and tell him not to worry, even when disappointment was written all over your face. He'd mistaken your understanding for acceptance.
He'd been so relieved every time you forgave him that he'd never stopped to ask what forgiving him was costing you.
"I remember."
Your brows knit together.
"Then just say it."
He nods once. "I remember."
He doesn't stop there.
'The dinner I cancelled because practise ran over."
His voice catches.
"Your graduation ceremony I spent half of checking my phone."
Another breath.
"The weekend I promised we'd go away together."
He closes his eyes briefly.
"The night you cried..."
His throat tightens.
"...and I still told you it'd be different next week."
The words sound pathetic now. Small. Worthless.
"I remember because I replay them all."
You don't answer straight away.
Outside, the sea keeps moving exactly as it always has, indifferent to the ache inside the car. When you finally speak, your voice has lost some of its edge.
"Why now?"
Garrett stares at the dashboard for a long moment.
Because I almost lost you. Because I couldn't sleep. Because I was terrified.
None of them are good enough.
"Because I finally realised I was asking you to keep believing in a version of me I wasn't giving you."
Another wave crashes against the shore. He doesn't look away this time.
"I can't undo what I did." His hands fall away from the steering wheel, resting uselessly in his lap. "I can't ask you to forget it."
The truth feels strangely freeing.
"All I can tell you is that loving you was never the problem."
His voice falters.
"I just got so caught up trying to build the life I thought you deserved..." A sad smile flickers across his face.
"...that I forgot to show up for the one we already had."
Neither of you says anything for a while. There isn't much left to say, not after months of conversation that had gone unfinished. For the first time in what feels like forever, the silence isn't working against the two of you. It simply exists, giving every confession the space it deserves.
Your gaze softens despite yourself. The man sitting beside you no longer resembles the one you'd walked away from weeks ago.
Not the captain who always had somewhere else to be. Not at the hockey player who'd spent too long believing they'd always be tomorrow. Not the man who kept leaving.
Just Garrett.
Tired. Regretful. Hopeful enough to believe you'd still be sitting beside him after everything he'd put you through.
"Do you really believe all that?"
He meets your eyes without hesitation. "I do."
A quiet breath leaves him.
"More than anything."
The silence between you feels different. Not lighter. Just less lonely.
Garrett doesn't reach for you. Doesn't ask whether you've forgiven him. Doesn't beg for another chance. He simply waits, accepting that whatever happens next belongs to you.
You watch him for another long moment before your shoulders finally soften.
"Come here."
Garrett doesn't move. Not at first.
His eyes search yours, cautious in a way you've never seen before, as though he's afraid this is another moment he'll wake up thinking he'd imagined it.
You don't repeat yourself.
You don't have to.
He shifts closer, slow enough that you could stop him if you wanted to. His shoulder brushes yours first, then his arm. Every inch he closes feels deliberate, stripped of the easy confidence he'd once carried so effortlessly.
When his face is finally in front of you, neither of you says a word.
You study him instead.
The man you loved. The man who'd hurt you. The same man, somehow.
Your hand lifts before you can second-guess yourself, fingertips grazing the roughness beginning to settle along his jaw. He exhales softly, his eyes falling shut for the briefest moment as he leans into your touch without thinking. The realisation catches him almost immediately.
His eyes open again, searching yours, asking a question he doesn't quite know how to voice.
You answer it by closing the distance.
The first kiss is impossibly gentle. Barely more than a lingering brush of your lips against his.
Tentative.
Almost hesitant.
A promise that neither of you is ready to put into words.
Garrett doesn't chase you when you pull away. He stays exactly where he is, his forehead hovering just shy of yours, his breathing a little less steady than before.
The restraint almost undoes you.
Because months ago, he would've smiled against your mouth, stolen another kiss before you'd even had the chance to think.
Now he waits.
He lets you choose.
So you kiss him again.
This time, he melts into it.
His hand finds your waist, settling there lightly, his thumb brushing once against your side before becoming still again. It isn't possessive. It isn't impatient. It's as though he's reassuring himself you're really here.
You shift closer.
His breath catches.
The kiss lingers longer this time, familiar enough to remind you how naturally the two of you had always fit together. The uncertainty doesn't disappear all at once, but it begins to loosen its grip with every quiet second you remain wrapped up in each other.
His other hand comes up to cradle your cheek, his thumb resting beneath your cheekbone with a tenderness that makes your chest ache.
You'd missed this.
Missed him.
When you part, it's only because breathing eventually becomes unavoidable. Your foreheads remain together, noses brushing as quiet smiles threaten despite everything.
Then Garrett looks at you.
Really looks at you.
Whatever he finds there makes something soften in his expression.
He kisses you again.
This one is different. Not because there's any less care behind it, but because some of the fear has finally given way to hope. The kiss deepens naturally, built on quiet reassurance instead of desperation. Months of longing settle into every lingering touch, every slow inhale shared between you, every reluctant pull away before your lips find each other again.
Your fingers disappear into the hair at the nape of his neck, and he lets out the smallest, almost imperceptible breath against your mouth.
His hand at your waist draws you a fraction closer. Not enough to overwhelm.
Just enough that the space between you disappears.
For a while, neither of you remembers the conversation that brought you here. There are no apologies now. No promises. Only the fragile relief of rediscovering something you'd both been terrified was gone for good.
When Garrett eventually pulls back, it isn't because he wants to.
His forehead rests against yours again, his eyes still closed as though opening them might somehow end whatever fragile thing the two of you had managed to piece back together. Your breaths mingle in the small space between you, uneven but slowly finding the same rhythm.
A shaky breath escapes him before he can stop it.
Then another.
You feel it before you hear it—the way his shoulders tense beneath your hand, the way his jaw tightens as though he's physically trying to swallow everything threatening to spill over.
When he finally speaks, his voice catches almost immediately.
"Fuck."
The words come out softer than either of you had ever heard from him.
He lets out a breath that almost resembles a laugh, except there's nothing amused about it. His face crumples, the corners of his mouth trembling as he ducks his head, one hand dragging roughly across his eyes in a hopeless attempt to pull himself together.
"I'm so..."
His voice breaks.
He squeezes his eyes shut, shaking his head at himself before trying again.
"I'm so fucking sorry."
The apology hangs between you.
Not polished.
Not rehearsed.
Not the kind he'd left behind dozens of unanswered voicemails.
This one is stripped bare.
"I was selfish." His voice is barely above a whisper now. "I kept asking you to wait for me."
Another unsteady breath.
"And every time you did..." He finally looks at you again, his eyes red-rimmed, his expression twisted with a kind of guilt that had long since settled into something permanent. "...I made you feel like you were asking for too much."
The words linger.
Neither of you rushes to fill the silence.
Your fingers find his wrist instead, gently curling around it. A gentle reminder you're still here.
"I know."
The words aren't cruel. They aren't forgiving either.
Just true.
Garrett's eyes squeeze shut again, his laugh catching somewhere behind another shaky breath.
"I don't deserve you."
"No."
The answer comes so quickly it almost catches him off guard. His expression falls another inch before the smallest smile begins to tug at your lips.
"You don't."
He stares at you, utterly crestfallen for one terrifying second, genuinely believing you'd meant it. Then you bump your forehead lightly against his.
"But you're still an idiot."
A wet laugh escapes him despite himself, somewhere between relief and disbelief. It sounds unfamiliar at first—like he's forgotten what it feels like to laugh with you. "There she is."
"You thought one speech was going to fix everything?"
"I was hoping."
"You've always been annoyingly optimistic."
"I play hockey."
"That's not how that works."
"It works for me."
You roll your eyes, unable to stop the smile threatening at the corners of your mouth. It isn't a laugh. Not quite. But Garrett catches it immediately.
He always does.
The tension eases by a fraction. Not gone, but no longer suffocating or erased by a few apologies and a moment of honesty. For the first time in a long while, there's room to breathe.
"I love you."
The words leave him almost absentmindedly, as though he'd stopped trying to find the perfect moment somewhere between apologising and making you smile again. They're soft. Uneventful.
But somehow, that makes them feel even more honest.
Your expression softens. The words steal the air from your lungs, not because you didn't know, but hearing him say it now—after everything. Feels different.
Your palm settles against his cheek, your thumb brushing gently along the edge of his cheekbone. He leans into your touch and you sit with him.
You trace the familiar lines of his face while he watches you, holding onto every detail to memory. The way the moonlight catches your eyes, the smile you'd spent so long refusing to give him, the warmth of your hand still resting against his face.
You both acknowledge each other's presence. That somehow, after all the hurt and all the distance, he found his way back to you.
"I know."
Garrett lets out a long, suffering groan, dropping his forehead in the crook of your neck. "You seriously just did that?"
"You walked right into it."
"I poured my heart out."
"And I appreciate that."
"Baby."
Your smile widens, amusement finally beginning to outweigh the hurt that had followed the two of you into the car.
"I love you too."
The words echo for a while after they've been spoken. Long enough that Garrett almost believes he'll hear them again.
But memories had a habit of ending too soon.
The familiar crackle of the radio bleeds back into the air.
Wind tears across the shoreline, violent enough to sting against his face. Somewhere behind him, the driver's side door hangs open, the speakers fighting against the weather as the old record continues to spin.
A song that had once belonged to the two of you.
Garrett leans heavily against the hood of the car, his eyes fixed on the horizon.
The waves are rough today. Bigger than he remembers. They throw themselves against the rocks with enough force to send white foam spilling back into the tide, only to return and do it all over again.
Funny.
The ocean had never learned how to let go either.
He supposes neither had he.
A year had passed.
Three hundred and sixty-five days, yet Garrett could still remember every detail with terrifying clarity. The phone call. The way his stomach had dropped before he'd even answered. The silence on the other end that lasted just a second too long. The kind that told your life was about to split into a before and an after.
The same road.
The same bend.
The same stretch of coastline he'd driven so many times he could've done it with his eyes closed.
Except you never made it around the corner.
For a long time, Garrett hated himself for thinking there had to be some mistake. As though if he refused the believe the words, they'd somehow become untrue. As though someone else could've been driving your car that night.
They weren't.
The words had sounded impossible.
Because you loved the ocean.
You'd spent half your summers chasing waves and collecting shells like they were treasures, insisting every beach had its own personality. You'd once told him the sea made everything feel smaller. Simpler. Like no matter how bad life got, the tide would always find its way back home.
Garrett had believed you.
He always thought the sea would be the safest place in the world for you.
Funny how love has a way of making places seem harmless.
God...
He misses you.
Not just on anniversaries.
Not just when this song comes on the radio.
He misses you on Tuesday mornings when the coffee tastes wrong because you were always the one who convinced him to add another splash of milk. He misses you every time someone reaches across the centre console to change the station, only to realise it isn't your hand. He misses whenever he walks past the old café downtown, the record store that's long since closed, the empty seat beside him on every drive that somehow still feels like it belongs to you.
He misses the sound of your laugh echoing from another room before you'd come looking for him. The way you'd steal his hoodies as though they'd been yours all along. The dramatic sigh you'd let out whenever he played the same song twice, only to end up humming it under your breath anyway.
People always said time made things easier. Garrett wasn't sure he'd agreed. Time hadn't taken you away any more than it had brought you back. All it had done was teach him how to carry the absence. It settled into familiar routines now, into songs he'd stopped skipping, into the passenger seat he'd never quite learnt to look away from, into every version of tomorrow you'd once been part of.
⌯⌲ SYNOPSIS: When you find yourself in Dean Di Laurentis’ bed, you’re over the moon about it. You’d liked him for so long, it felt like a dream when he’d asked if you wanted to spend a night with him… But that dream is quickly crushed, along with your heart, when you overhear a conversation Dean and Allie Hayes have.
⌯⌲ CONTENT: 18+ — mentions of sexual situations, not in detail. angst. dean uses reader. strong language.
“So you slept with the Dean Di Laurentis? Don’t just leave me hanging girl, how was it?!” your best friend squeals, making you laugh while also shushing her.
“Calm down, I’ll give you the details,” you pause, looking up to see Dean entering the library, a small smile tilting your lips as memories from the night before flash through your mind. “Tomorrow though, I gotta go, love you!”
Gathering your books, papers and pens, you shove everything into your bag, quickly standing from your chair. Your best friend looks in the direction your attention is glued to, a mischievous smile tilting her lips now.
“Oh, I see you, girl. Dirty details later, don’t think you’re getting out of this one Y/L/N!”
You narrow your eyes, playfully giving her the middle finger before you turn and head straight towards Dean.
He’s standing at the very back of the library now, tucked away behind large, wooden bookshelves filled to the brim with books ranging from old as dirt to brand new. You inch closer to Dean, ready to talk to him about last night, but the conversation he’s already having with none other than Allie Hayes, stops you dead in your tracks.
“I completed the assignment, Allie-Cat, and I have to be completely honest, I didn’t really feel good doing it.”
Allie scoffs, her brown eyes shining with amusement as she looks back at Dean. “Oh, come on, Dean. You were this campuses biggest playboy when I first met you, I don’t believe for a second you didn’t enjoy whoever you slept with last night.”
Her words are like a knife to your heart. They’re discussing you. They’re discussing what you and Dean did last night, and Dean called it an “assignment”, what the fuck does that even mean?
Dean steps closer to Allie, his hand reaching out and tucking a strand of her wild, curly hair behind her ear. The way she looks at him… eyes full of adoration. How could you have been so blind? So stupid?
You’ve liked Dean for as long as you can remember, so when he came up to you at Malone’s last night, bought you a drink and charmed the pants off of you — literally — you thought it meant he liked you.
Not that you were some fucking assignment, which you’re still unsure what the hell that even means.
“I like you, Al, I told you this. I completed the stupid assignment because you did. You said if I completed it, we’d be even, and then we could move forward, so why are you-”
You can’t listen to anymore, you make your presence known, stepping into view of both Allie and Dean.
Clearing your throat, you lock eyes with a very stunned Dean.
“What the hell is the assignment you completed, and why am I somehow part of this?”
Dean stutters, his blue eyes wide as they volley back and forth between you and Allie.
You raise a single brow, placing one hand on your hip, waiting on him to explain.
“Any fucking day now would be great, Dean. Why the hell are you telling Allie you ‘completed the assignment’ and she’s saying you enjoyed whoever you slept with. You slept with me last night, so please, explain any fucking time.”
“Okay, listen..” Dean begins, but Allie quickly cuts him off.
“I’m sorry, you didn’t tell her that it wasn’t going to be more than sex, Dean?”
Dean’s pretty eyes find Allie, looking shameful as he says, “It didn’t really come up, no, but I also didn’t even want to complete your stupid assignment and didn’t think about saying anything because I knew what it was for me.”
Allie blinks, her eyes wide with bewilderment at what Dean just said.
“Dean, girls have bigger feelings than… boys.” she points at him, her hand waving up and down while she does. “You needed to be transparent with her, now you’ve probably hurt this poor girls feelings.”
Your narrowed eyes slide to Allie, not necessarily angry at her, but not liking being considered a “poor girl”, that just makes it seem like you’re someone who needs to be pitied, and you don’t want that.
“Okay, listen, yeah it sucks, but I don’t want or need your pity, I’m just waiting on Dean here to explain himself.”
Dean sighs, running a hand through his messy blond hair. His blue eyes lock on yours, finally giving you the explanation you’ve been waiting on.
“I didn’t mean to use you, my intentions weren’t to hurt you either, I just…” he runs his hand through his hair again. “Allie and I started a no-strings attached type of relationship a few months back, we both started catching feelings, but she wasn’t ready for that, so we made a pact, kind of, we called it the assignment.” Dean pauses to take a breath, his eyes squeezing shut as he gathers his thoughts.
“The assignment was basically for each of us to sleep with someone else to prove the feelings weren’t that strong, that we could remain no-strings. You were the girl I was drawn to last night, so, while yes you were my way of completing the assignment, I really was into you… I know that probably doesn’t make anything better, but, you weren’t just a girl I used, I mean.. not really at least.”
You scoff. His explanation makes sense in a way, but it doesn’t change the fact that he did use you. He may not have intended to use you, or hurt your feelings, but the bottom line is, he wasn’t upfront and honest with you. He didn’t tell you what last night was, and that is just plain unacceptable.
“So I was just, what? A game basically? You sleep with me, prove to Allie you don’t have strong feelings for her and the two of you can continue your friends with benefits relationship? I mean seriously, Dean, did you just not think I’d ever find out? That I wouldn’t want to talk to you today?”
Dean lets out another sigh, a look of defeat on his face. “I’m sorry, I truly wasn’t thinking. I never meant for this to happen.”
Rolling your eyes, you grip the strap of your bag tighter. “Fuck you, Dean. I truly didn’t ever want to believe the shit that’s said about you around this campus, but of course, that was just plain stupid of me. You are the fuckboy everyone says you are.”
Dean cringes, a flash of hurt crossing his face before he quickly schools it. “I understand.”
You let out an incredulous laugh. “Yeah, I’m sure you do.”
Turning on your heel, you rush out of the row of bookshelves the three of you were in. Rushing past the table you and your best friend were occupying, you see she’s now gone. You keep your head down, hiding the tears that are already threatening to fall. Fuck Dean. Fuck him and his little “assignment” that he and Allie had going on. He used you. The fact that he used you hurts so much more than the feeling of being invisible to him.
You rush out of the library doors and into the crisp fall air, letting the first tear fall. You rush all the way back to your dorm room, letting the tears flow as you try and clear your mind of Dean and his stupid assignment.
Tropes: second chance romance, unexpected/secret pregnancy, hurt/comfort
Off Campus Masterlist
You knew the first day of kindergarten would be hard. But seeing Garrett Graham standing in the school gym was not on your list of concerns.
You had deliberately chosen Hastings. It was a quiet town, the kind of place where nothing ever happened, and more importantly, a place where he didn’t belong. Garrett belonged to a life that hadn't been yours in a long time. Five years ago, two pink lines had made sure of that.
"Stay still for just one second, Lily-bug," you murmured, kneeling in the crowded hallway of Hastings Elementary to tame a rogue strand of hair from her ponytail.
"I want to see the fire truck, Mommy," she whined, bouncing on the heels of her light up sneakers. The school was hosting a Community Heroes welcome day in the gymnasium, and the roar of excited five year olds already echoing down the hall.
"We’re going. Just let me fix your clip." You patted her shoulder, giving her a gentle nudge toward the double doors. "Go find your name tag at the circle rug. I’m going to hand your medical forms to the nurse and I’ll be right in, okay?"
She didn't need telling twice. She bolted into the gym, a tiny blur of pink and determination running away from you.
Inside the gym, the noise hit you immediately. Local volunteers, EMTs, and off duty firefighters were standing around, letting kids try on oversized helmets and climb on plastic displays. Near the back corner, standing by a booth for the local youth recreation league, Garrett was adjusting a stack of sign up clipboards.
He was older now. Broader along the shoulders and less reckless looking than the boy you'd known. The sharp edges of his twenties had softened into something steadier, more grounded. He wore a simple navy volunteer shirt, laughing as he handed a sticker to a little boy. He was happy.
And then he heard it.
Above the chattering parents and squeaking sneakers, a clear, high pitched voice rang out just a few feet away from his table. Lily had marched right up to the kindergarten teacher holding the clipboard.
"Hi! I’m Lily," she announced with all the fierce confidence of a child who had practiced her introduction in the mirror all morning.
"Well hello, Lily," the teacher smiled, pen poised over the attendance sheet. "What's your last name, sweetie?"
"Lily Y/L/N."
The clipboard slipped an inch in Garrett’s grip.
He froze entirely, the breath physically leaving his lungs. The chatter around him blurred into meaningless noise. Y/L/N. Your last name. A name he hadn't spoken out loud in half a decade, but one he still remembered far too well.
His head snapped toward the source of the voice.
She was tiny, but Garrett saw it immediately. The shape of her face. The stubborn tilt of her chin. But her eyes (wide, dark, and bright) were undeniably yours. She was holding a crumpled drawing of a cat, completely unaware that the man staring at her had just realized she was his daughter.
Garrett's heart hammered against his ribs.
"Lily!"
The voice came from the gym entrance. Garrett’s eyes instinctively tracked the sound, cutting through the crowd of parents until they landed on you. You were catching your breath, holding a stray permission slip, looking around the room with that familiar, protective scanning gaze.
Then, your eyes met his.
The blood drained from your face so fast you felt dizzy, your hand dropping to your side. The noise of the gym faded into the background.
As Garrett stared at Lily, he realized just how much of her life he'd missed. Five years. His eyes moved to yours, searching your face like he was hoping he'd somehow gotten it wrong.
He hadn't.
When he looked back at the little girl standing in front of him, his eyes filled before he could stop them.
(NOTE: i do overall fandom master taglists, not separate ones for individual series/fics! Feel free to send me a message if you'd want to be added or removed)
blurb: garrett graham keeps showing up at the diner near closing, and you keep telling yourself he’s only being nice. but when he offers you a ride home after your late shift, you realize he’s been waiting for more than just last call.
warnings: 18+ only, smut, sexual content, car sex, unprotected sex, creampie ,praise, teasing, slight insecurity/out-of-his-league thoughts, garrett being confident and protective, late-night diner setting, slight public/semi-public risk
You knew Garrett Graham's order by heart, which was embarrassing for a lot of reasons.
One, because he was just a customer.
Two, because you had never once written it down after the first night.
And three, because Garrett Graham was the kind of guy a girl like you was supposed to admire from a safe distance, preferably while pretending not to admire him at all.
He came into the diner late, always late, usually with cold air rushing in behind him and three other hockey players crowding around his shoulders like trouble had learned how to walk on two legs. Logan was always talking first, Dean was always laughing too loudly, Tucker always looked like he knew exactly what everyone else was thinking, and Garrett—
Garrett Graham walked in like every room had been waiting for him.
Tonight was no different.
The bell above the diner door gave a weak little jingle at half past midnight, and you looked up from wiping down the counter just in time to see them spill inside, still flushed from the cold, hair messy from the wind, jackets half-zipped, laughing about something that probably involved either hockey, alcohol, or somebody making a bad decision.
Garrett was at the center of it, broad-shouldered and grinning, with a faint bruise near his jaw and snow melting in his dark hair.
You looked down before he caught you staring.
That was the rule.
Look once. Maybe twice, if he was distracted. Never long enough for him to notice.
"Please tell me you still have pie," Dean said, dropping into their usual booth like he was personally offended by the concept of closing hours.
"We close in forty-five minutes," you said, grabbing menus they never used.
"So that's a yes?" Logan asked.
"That's a 'you're lucky I haven't locked the door already.'"
Tucker smiled, quiet and polite. "Good to see you too."
You liked Tucker. Tucker tipped well and didn't make you feel like your pulse was doing something stupid.
Garrett slid into the booth last, stretching one arm along the back of it. He watched you approach with that easy, lazy confidence that made your stomach tighten before he even opened his mouth.
"Hey," he said.
One word. That was it.
Ridiculous.
"Hey," you said, setting the menus down. "Usual?"
Logan's head snapped toward Garrett. Dean's grin spread instantly.
Garrett didn't look away from you. "You remember?"
You gave him a look, trying to keep your face calm. "You've ordered the same thing every time you've come in."
"Maybe I like hearing you say it."
Dean made a choking noise into his hand.
You ignored the heat climbing up your neck. "Burger, no tomato, extra fries, chocolate shake."
Garrett's smile tilted. "See? Perfect."
You told yourself he meant the order.
Obviously he meant the order.
You turned before he could see your face betray you, but you heard Logan whisper, not quietly enough, "Dude."
Garrett kicked him under the table.
The diner was quiet except for them. It usually was at that hour. The after-bar rush had already come and gone, leaving behind sticky tabletops, half-empty ketchup bottles, and a tired yellow glow from the lights above the counter. Outside, the parking lot was nearly empty, the neon sign buzzing red against the black windows.
You put in their order and busied yourself refilling coffee, stacking clean mugs, pretending you didn't feel Garrett's attention every time you crossed the floor.
That was the thing about him. Garrett looked at people like he meant it. Like he had never accidentally done anything in his life. When he smiled at customers, they smiled back. When he joked with the cook, even the cook softened. When he said your name, you had to remind yourself it was probably because he'd read it off your name tag the first time and had a good memory.
Not because he cared.
Not because he noticed you.
Girls like you did not get noticed by Garrett Graham.
Girls like you served his booth, took his tip, and watched him leave with the kind of girls who belonged in his world.
Pretty girls. Loud girls. Confident girls who knew exactly how to lean into him when they laughed.
You knew how to balance three plates along one arm and how to smile when men twice your age called you sweetheart. That was about it.
When you brought their food over, Dean and Logan were arguing about whether one of their teammates had actually hooked up with twins or had just lied so badly that everyone let him keep the story out of pity. Tucker was shaking his head. Garrett was quiet for once, leaning back with his eyes on you.
You set his plate down in front of him.
"Extra fries," you said.
His fingers brushed yours when he reached for the plate.
It was nothing. Barely contact.
Still, your breath hitched.
Garrett noticed.
Of course he noticed.
His gaze flicked up to yours, sharp and amused, but not cruel. "Careful."
You pulled your hand back. "I'm the one carrying hot food. Pretty sure you're the one who should be careful."
Logan laughed. "Oh, I like her."
Garrett's eyes stayed on you. "Yeah. Me too."
For one awful second, you forgot how to move.
Then Dean whistled low, and you snapped back into yourself.
"Enjoy your food," you said quickly, turning away.
You made it halfway to the counter before you heard Tucker murmur, "Subtle."
Garrett muttered something back, too low for you to catch.
You spent the next twenty minutes pretending to clean things that were already clean.
Every time you glanced over, Garrett was either eating, laughing, or looking at you like he was waiting for you to look back. It made you feel too aware of yourself. Of the old diner dress you wore under your apron. Of your tired feet. Of the way your hair had started slipping loose after a long shift. Of the fact that you probably smelled like coffee and fryer oil instead of perfume.
At one point, Dean asked for more napkins, and when you brought them over, he leaned forward with a grin that could only mean trouble.
"So," he said, "what time do you get off?"
Garrett's head turned so fast it was almost funny.
You froze with the napkins in your hand.
Logan coughed into his fist. Tucker looked down at his plate like he was trying very hard not to laugh.
Dean blinked innocently. "What? I meant because we're keeping her here late."
"No, you didn't," Garrett said.
Dean's grin widened. "No, I didn't."
You should have been mortified. Maybe you were. But Garrett looked genuinely irritated, and that caught you off guard more than the joke did.
"It's fine," you said lightly, setting the napkins down. "I'm used to customers being annoying."
Dean put a hand over his chest. "That hurts."
"It was supposed to."
Garrett smiled then, but it was smaller than usual. Warmer, maybe. Like he liked that you didn't fold under the teasing.
You went back behind the counter before you could think too much about it.
Eventually, the boys finished eating. Logan tried to steal the last of Garrett's fries and nearly got stabbed with a fork. Dean left a dramatic tip in quarters until Tucker silently replaced it with actual bills. They got up in a loud, chaotic wave of scraping boots and zipped jackets.
You were carrying a stack of plates when they headed for the door.
"Night," Tucker called.
"Don't miss us too much," Dean added.
"Impossible," you said.
Logan laughed and pushed him outside.
Garrett lingered.
Not long enough for it to be obvious to anyone else, maybe. But long enough for you to notice.
He stood near the end of the counter, hands in his jacket pockets, watching you with an expression you couldn't quite read.
"You done soon?" he asked.
You glanced toward the clock. "After I clean up."
"By yourself?"
"It's a diner, Graham. Not a war zone."
His mouth tugged at the corner. "You walk home?"
You hesitated.
That was answer enough.
Garrett's smile faded a little. "You walk home this late?"
"It's not far."
"That wasn't what I asked."
You shifted the plates in your hands, suddenly self-conscious. "I've done it plenty of times."
He looked toward the window, where the parking lot sat dark and mostly empty beneath the buzzing neon sign. Then he looked back at you.
"I'll wait."
Your stomach flipped. "You don't have to do that."
"I know."
"I'm serious. I still have closing stuff. It'll take a while."
"Good thing I'm patient."
You almost laughed. "You?"
Garrett grinned again, and there he was. Easy. Cocky. Impossible. "I can be."
"Somehow I doubt that."
"Guess I'll prove you wrong."
You stared at him for half a second too long. Then you looked away, busying yourself with the plates.
"Suit yourself," you said, hoping your voice sounded normal.
It did not feel normal, having Garrett Graham sitting at the counter while you closed. He didn't make it easier either. He took off his jacket and draped it over the stool beside him, sleeves pushed up his forearms, watching you move around the diner like he had nothing better to do.
You flipped chairs onto tables. He helped with the ones near the windows before you could tell him not to.
"You're going to get me in trouble," you said.
"For helping?"
"For touching things."
He held up his hands. "My mistake. Wouldn't want to ruin your very complicated chair system."
"There is a system."
"I believe you."
"No, you don't."
"No," he admitted, smiling. "But I like listening to you explain it."
You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling before you could stop yourself.
That was the problem with him. He made it too easy. He talked to you like you weren't just the girl bringing him coffee at one in the morning. He asked how long you'd worked there. He remembered that you hated the graveyard shifts but liked the quiet after everyone left. He noticed the little bandage on your thumb and asked if you'd cut yourself.
He noticed too much.
By the time you locked the register and grabbed your coat from the back, the diner had settled into silence. Garrett waited near the door, his broad frame outlined by the neon glow bleeding through the glass.
"You really waited," you said softly.
His brows drew together like the idea of leaving had never occurred to him. "I said I would."
Something about that made your chest feel too tight.
You turned off the last row of lights and stepped outside with him. The cold hit immediately, sharp enough to make you suck in a breath. Garrett noticed that too. Before you could protest, he shrugged off his jacket and held it open.
"Put it on."
"I have a coat."
"You have a thin piece of fabric pretending to be a coat."
"It works fine."
He gave you a look.
You lasted three seconds before taking his jacket.
It was warm from him, heavy over your shoulders, and it smelled like soap, cold air, and something clean you didn't want to think about too closely. You tugged it tighter around yourself as he locked the diner door behind you after you handed him the keys, then gave them back with a little twirl around his finger.
His Jeep was parked beneath the diner sign.
Of course it was.
You had noticed it before. More than once. Black, slightly dirty from winter roads, somehow fitting him perfectly. He opened the passenger door for you, and you paused.
Garrett looked over. "What?"
"You don't have to drive me home."
His mouth curved. "You already said that."
"And you ignored it."
"Because it was stupid."
You blinked. "Excuse me?"
"It's late. It's freezing. You're tired. I have a car." He leaned one arm on the open door, looking entirely too comfortable. "Let me give you a ride."
The pause that followed was small.
Tiny, really.
But the way his mouth twitched told you he heard it too.
Your cheeks heated despite the cold. "You're enjoying that wording a little too much."
Garrett's grin spread slowly. "I wasn't going to say anything."
"Liar."
"Yeah," he said, voice dipping just enough to make your stomach flutter. "Probably."
You climbed into the Jeep before you could embarrass yourself further.
The inside was warm, the seats worn leather, the faint scent of him everywhere. Garrett shut your door and walked around the front, and you used those few seconds to breathe like a normal person.
It did not help.
He slid into the driver's seat, close enough that the whole Jeep seemed to shrink around him. His knee nearly brushed yours when he started the engine. The heater kicked on with a low hum, blowing warm air over your cold hands.
"Where to?" he asked.
You gave him your address, and he repeated the street name like he was committing it to memory.
The drive should have been simple. Five minutes, maybe seven with the lights. But the air inside the Jeep felt too charged, too quiet in the aftermath of the diner. Outside, the streets were slick and empty, glowing under streetlights. Inside, Garrett's hand rested on the gearshift, fingers relaxed, and you tried very hard not to stare.
"You're quiet," he said after a minute.
"I'm tired."
"Is that the only reason?"
You looked out the window. "What other reason would there be?"
He huffed a laugh. "I don't know. You tell me."
You could feel him glancing over at you between looks at the road. You wished he wouldn't. You wished he would keep doing it forever.
"It's just weird," you admitted.
"What is?"
"This."
"Me driving?"
"You driving me."
"Why?"
You picked at the sleeve of his jacket. It swallowed your hands. "Because you're Garrett Graham."
He was quiet for a beat.
Then, "That supposed to explain something?"
You laughed under your breath, but it came out nervous. "It explains a lot."
"Not to me."
Of course not.
You glanced over at him. The passing streetlights cut across his face in flashes, catching the strong line of his jaw, the bruise near his cheek, the curve of his mouth. He looked unreal like that, one hand on the wheel, hair messy, eyes focused but soft at the edges.
You looked away first.
"It means guys like you don't usually wait around after closing to drive girls like me home."
The Jeep slowed.
You immediately regretted saying it.
Garrett pulled into the empty side lot behind a closed laundromat, tires crunching lightly over old snow. He put the Jeep in park but left the engine running. The heater hummed between you.
Your pulse started climbing.
He turned in his seat to face you. "Girls like you?"
You swallowed. "Garrett—"
"No, I want to hear this." His voice wasn't harsh, but it had lost the teasing edge. "What does that mean?"
"It means..." You let out a breath, embarrassed now. "It means you could have anyone."
His brows lifted slightly. "And?"
"And I'm not exactly the kind of girl people expect to see you with."
"People?"
"You know what I mean."
"I really don't."
You gave him a look. "Yes, you do."
Garrett stared at you, and for once, he didn't look amused. He looked almost offended, but not at you. More like he hated the thought itself.
"You think I've been coming into that diner for the fries?"
You blinked.
His mouth twitched, but his eyes stayed serious. "They're good fries. Not that good."
Your chest tightened.
"I thought you were just being nice," you said.
"I'm nice to old ladies and kids selling raffle tickets." He leaned a little closer. "I flirt with you."
"You flirt with everyone."
"Not like that."
You wanted to believe him. That was the dangerous part. You wanted to believe him so badly that it scared you.
"Garrett," you said softly, "you don't have to say all this."
"I know."
There it was again.
I know.
Like wanting you was not an accident. Like being here with you was not charity or boredom or a joke his friends would laugh about tomorrow.
He reached across the center console, slow enough that you could pull away if you wanted to. His fingers touched the edge of his jacket where it sat around your shoulders, tugging it a little closer around you.
"I've been trying to get you to look at me for weeks," he said.
You let out a small, disbelieving laugh. "I look at you all the time."
His gaze dropped to your mouth. "Not when I can see it."
Your breath caught.
The windows had started to fog at the edges, the cold night pressing in from outside while the heater filled the Jeep with warmth. You could hear the soft rumble of the engine. You could see the diner sign in the distance, still glowing faintly red across the lot.
Garrett's hand stayed near your collar, his knuckles brushing the side of your neck.
"You really didn't know?" he asked.
You shook your head.
Something changed in his expression.
Not smugness. Not victory.
Want.
Clear and focused and enough to make your whole body go still.
"I know now," you whispered.
His eyes darkened.
"Yeah?" he asked.
You nodded, barely.
Garrett leaned in slowly at first, giving you every chance to stop him. You didn't. You couldn't. The space between you disappeared inch by inch until his mouth brushed yours, once, light enough to make your heart stumble.
Then again.
Deeper.
Your hand found the front of his shirt before you realized you had moved. Garrett made a low sound against your mouth, and that was all it took for the kiss to change. His hand slid into your hair, angling your face up as he kissed you harder, like every quiet look across the diner had been leading to this exact moment.
You forgot the cold. Forgot the empty lot. Forgot every reason you had ever convinced yourself he was too far out of reach.
There was only Garrett, warm and solid and kissing you like he had been waiting all night to stop being careful.
Garrett pulled back just enough to breathe, his forehead nearly touching yours, his hand still firm at your waist. The space between you felt too small now, every inch of it getting in the way. His eyes dropped to your mouth again, darker than before, and when his thumb slipped beneath the edge of his jacket on your shoulders, your breath caught.
"Tell me to stop," he said, low enough that it barely carried over the hum of the heater.
You shook your head before you could think better of it. "Don't."
Something in his expression shifted, the last bit of restraint leaving him.
Then he kissed you again, and there was nothing gentle about it anymore.
His hand tightened at your waist, pulling you closer as far as the front seat would allow. Your own hands slid up his chest, over his shoulders, feeling the hard strength of him under your palms. The kiss turned messy, impatient, full of weeks of pretending you hadn't noticed him and one night of Garrett proving he had noticed everything.
When his mouth moved along your jaw, your head tipped back against the seat.
"Garrett," you breathed.
He went still for half a second.
Then he pulled back just enough to look at you, his breathing uneven, his eyes dark and fixed on yours like he was giving you one last chance to tell him no.
You didn't.
You reached for him again.
Garrett's restraint snapped in his expression first.
"Back seat," he rasped against your lips. "Now."
He shoved your shirt up, his mouth finding your neck, kissing and biting until your back arched and his name slipped out of you.
He worked your pants down with impatient hands, like he had been trying not to touch you all night and had finally run out of reasons not to. When he freed himself, he was already hard and slick at the tip. You reached down, your fingers wrapping around him, and he let out a choked sound, his eyes fluttering shut.
"Please," you whispered, your own legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him flush against you. "Garrett, please."
He didn't make you wait. He guided himself against you, paused just long enough to look at your face, and then pushed in with one deep, steady thrust. You gasped, your eyes widening at the sheer size of him filling you completely. Your breath caught at the feel of him, your fingers tightening in his shirt.
"Fuck," he groaned, burying his face in your shoulder. "You're so tight… so fucking perfect."
He began to move, the rhythm frantic. Because of the cramped space, every thrust was deep, sending sparks of pleasure radiating through your entire body. The Jeep shifted beneath you, the small cabin filled with rough breathing, quiet curses, and the low hum of the heater.
You clung to him, your nails digging into the muscles of his back. Every time he pushed into you, you felt how much he wanted you, the way he was focusing entirely on your reactions.
"Do you believe me now?" he panted, his pace increasing, his breath hot against your ear. "Do you know how much I want you?"
"Yes," you cried out, your voice breaking. "Yes, I do!"
The pleasure built until you couldn't hold it back anymore. You tightened around him, and Garrett groaned against your neck, holding you close as he came inside you. He collapsed against you, his chest heaving, both of you breathless.
For a long time, the only sound was your breathing and the ticking of the cooling engine. Garrett didn't pull away immediately; he stayed tucked against you, his heart drumming against your ribs.
Slowly, he pulled back, a cocky, satisfied smirk returning to his face, though his eyes were soft. He reached down, gently helping you pull your clothes back together, his fingers lingering on your skin.
"You okay?" he asked, his voice returning to that low, steady tone. He reached over to the front seat, grabbing a hoodie and draping it over your shoulders.
You laughed softly, feeling a warmth that had nothing to do with the heater. "I think I'm okay."
He kissed your forehead, then leaned back just enough to look at you like he still wasn't done proving his point.
"So," he said, his tone teasing. "I think I might need to start coming to the diner more often. Maybe every day."
You smiled, leaning your head on his shoulder. "You might get banned from my section, Graham."
He chuckled, squeezing your hand. "Worth it. Besides, I think I owe you another ride home soon. Maybe somewhere with a bed next time."
He winked, and for the first time, you didn't feel like he was out of your league. You felt like you were exactly where you were supposed to be.
you hear the door click open and the familiar shuffle of john coming back from practice, his duffel hitting the floor with a soft thud.
he doesn’t even spare you a glance, immediately muttering something about drills and how coach was on his ass again, not even looking up as he takes off his shoes and heads straight for the desk where his laptop sits open.
you’ve been waiting, standing there in the middle of the room wearing nothing but delicate black lace that hugs your curves just right, the material doing little to hide anything, tiny bows at your hips and between your breasts catching the low light. he doesn’t notice. not at first.
“john,” you call softly, but he’s already typing, shoulders hunched, completely focused on whatever assignment or schedule he’s pulling up.
you try again, a little louder this time. “johnnn” you drag on. still nothing. he’s lost in his own world, his fingers flying over the keys, the only sound in the room the quiet click of the keys and his occasional sigh.
you take a slow step closer, the lace shifting against your skin with every movement.
“john. logan.” this time your voice carries a little more frustration, enough to make him pause.
he glances over his shoulder, distracted, his eyebrows drawn together like he’s about to give up completely.
then his eyes land on you.
his mouth opens, breath catching hard enough that you see his chest stop and inhale heavily. the assignment is forgotten, the laptop screen dimming as he turns fully, and before you can even smile he’s dropping straight to his knees on the carpet of his bedroom floor.
the sound is a soft thud but like every ounce of tension leaves his body at once. his hands rest on his thighs, palms open, and those hungry, yearning eyes lift to meet yours, they’re wide, dark, almost pleading.
“come to me, baby” he says, voice low and rough, every word wrapped in that same aching need that makes your stomach flip. he almost sounded like he wanted to cry. your poor baby was so overworked.
you take the few steps that close the distance, and the second you’re within reach his hands are on you, gentle at first, his fingertips tracing the edge of the fabric at your hips before sliding up, palms warm against your skin. he leans in, pressing his face right against your stomach, breathing you in like he’s been starved for it.
a soft, shaky exhale leaves him, and you feel the shake in his shoulders as he holds himself back from pulling you down too fast.
his fingers hook under the thin straps at your hips, not tugging, just holding, feeling the texture of the lace against his skin. he looks up again, those same puppy eyes darker now, lashes low, and you can see how hard he’s fighting to stay still, to let you come to him the way he asked.
the clear yearning is there, enough that you feel it in your own pulse.
you thread your nails through his hair, and that’s all it takes for him to surge forward, mouth pressing open kisses along the line of lace just above your navel, tongue flicking out to taste skin wherever the fabric allows.
his hands slide around to cup your ass, squeezing once before he drags you even closer, burying his face between your thighs without hesitation. the lace is already damp from how wet you are, and he moans against it, the sound vibrating straight through you. “john” you moan quietly.
he doesn’t rush. he stays on his knees, worshipping every inch he can reach, kissing the inside of your thigh, the sheer thin covering your pussy, breathing hot and heavy until you’re rocking against his mouth without meaning to.
his tongue presses flat through the fabric, licking slow and deliberate, soaking the lace even more until it clings to you. every time you tug his hair he groans, the sound needy and desperate, and he looks up again with those same hungry eyes like he’s asking permission to keep going, to pull the delicate material aside and finally taste you properly.
when you nod, his fingers are quick but careful, easing the lace down your hips just enough to bare you to him. he doesn’t stand up yet.
he stays right there on the floor, pulling you forward until your thighs cover his face, and then his mouth is on your bare pussy, tongue sliding through your folds, lips sealing around your clit to suck gently before he flattens his tongue again and laps at you like he’s been thinking about this all day. “ugh, you- you make me feel so good johnny.”
his hands grip your ass tighter, holding you steady while he eats you out with slow, thorough strokes that make your knees shake. if it wasn’t for his grip on your ass, you would’ve fallen to the floor by now.
you can feel how turned on he is, the hard outline of his cock against his sweats, but he doesn’t touch himself. he just keeps his focus on you, licking and sucking until your hips are rolling against his mouth and soft sounds are slipping from your throat.
every few seconds he glances up, checking your face with those same yearning eyes, like your pleasure is the only thing that matters in the world right now.
when your thighs start to tremble harder he pulls back just enough to press a kiss to your clit, then another lower, tongue dipping inside you for a moment before he stands in one fluid motion.
his arms wrap around you, lifting you easily, and he carries you the short distance to the bed without ever looking away from your face.
he lays you down carefully, the lace still tangled around one thigh, and climbs over you, settling between your spread legs.
he kisses you then, so deep, slow, letting you taste yourself on his tongue, while his hand works between your bodies to shove his sweats down just far enough. the head of his cock nudges against your entrance, hot and slick from how ready you both are, and he pauses there, forehead resting against yours, breathing hard.
“tell me you want this honey,” he whispers, voice wrecked, eyes searching yours like he needs the words as much as the act itself.
when you pull him closer and say yes, he sinks into you in one smooth thrust, burying himself to the deepest he can with a groan that vibrates through both of you.
he stays still for a moment, just feeling you around him, then starts to move, slow at first, rolling his hips so every stroke drags against that perfect spot inside you.
his hands never stop moving, sliding over the lace still clinging to your body, fingers tracing every strap and bow like he’s memorizing the way it looks on you.
he leans down to kiss the swell of your breast above the cup of the bra, teeth grazing lightly before he sucks a mark there, claiming you even as he fucks you deeper. the bed creaks under the steady rhythm he sets, each thrust pushing you higher, and he keeps his eyes on your face the whole time, watching every reaction, every flutter of your lashes when he hits just right.
you come first, clenching around him hard enough that his rhythm falters, and he follows right after, burying his face in your neck as he spills inside you with a broken moan, hips jerking through the aftershocks.
he doesn’t pull out right away. he stays there, cock still twitching, pressing soft kisses along your jaw and whispering how beautiful you look, how much he needed this, how he’ll never get tired of seeing you like this just for him. “you’re just so perfect baby.” he whimpers into your neck. “i’d do anything for you. anything, i promise.”
~ ~ ~ ~
a/n: as it’s clear, i’ve been heavily into my logan era, specifically yearning logan. this is based off this request! requests are open! 💗
☄︎ Warnings: not proofread! girl on top.
☄︎ Pairing: F!Reader x John Logan
☄︎ Rating/Genre: Mature (🔞). Smut.
☄︎ Words: 4629
☄︎ Summary: You work as the Hawks' Social Media Manager, and one of the players has a crush on you.
💭: yeah, so logan and i are locked in now... the social media part was also inspired by a tiktok from England Rugby. if you enjoyed, please consider leaving a comment, ask, reblog etc, it means a lot xx
Original request here. 〣 Off Campus Masterlist here.〣 Logan Masterlist here.
Some days as the media manager for the Briar U Hawks Hockey Team, you genuinely felt like you spent half your life waiting around for them, just to get a 30-second result. Today was one of those days. Anybody who claimed women take longer than men to get ready had clearly never waited on a hockey player to put his gear on.
You shifted your weight from one foot to the other on the rubber floor mats, the freezing arena air biting at your cheeks. You had been standing here with your phone in your hand for far too long. But you stayed ready, camera open and prepped to ambush them the second they exited the locker room corridor.
You silently laughed to yourself, thinking of how you were going to torture them this time. ‘Do it for the fans,’ was your usual go-to when you had to encourage them to participate. It was a strategy that worked on 99% of the roster.
However, for Logan, that rule didn't apply. For him, it was only a soft, ‘do it for me,’ accompanied by a slight pout, that ever actually worked. You had a feeling you might need to put one of those on today.
The double doors finally swung open, and your first victim player walked up the tunnel to the rink.
“It’s content day!” You sang, intentionally stepping right into his path just before the ice gate. “I need five seconds of your time before you hit the ice. Do not look at me like that, Graham. I promise you’ll actually like this one.”
Garrett stopped dead in front of your lens, as he adjusted his helmet. He sighed heavily. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Garrett, I’m like two years older than you,” you laughed, holding the camera steady. “I’m not a ma’am.”
“Yes, boss,” Garrett teased. When you looked at him with an unimpressed look, he let out a loud chuckle. “Hey, don’t look at me like that. You know what you did.”
Memories of the last promotional video you’d edited flashed vividly in your head. To be fair to Garrett, you had slightly embarrassed him in the final cut.
“Okay, fair point,” you conceded with a shrug. “But today, I promise I won’t embarrass you.”
Technically, that wasn’t a lie. If Garrett ended up looking foolish in this video, it would be entirely by his own doing, not yours. Semantics mattered.
You lifted your phone, centring him in the frame. “Just a quick geography question for the away-game promo. We want to show off how incredibly smart our Briar boys are.”
“I feel like you’re baiting me, but I’ll bite. Hit me.” Garrett squared his broad shoulders, his game face instantly switching on as he leant in toward the lens.
“Garrett, how many miles do you think it is from Massachusetts to Johannesburg?”
Garrett blinked, his eyes darting upward. “Uh. Well, if you go from...” He started mumbling calculations to himself, genuinely trying to do the map math in his head. “Maybe like... 3500 miles? Give or take. Maybe.” He said eventually, offering a definitive nod.
You put on the best performance of your life, widening your eyes in surprise. “No way! That’s actually right!”
Garrett paused, looking back and forth between your face and the lens, completely bewildered. “Wait. Really?”
“Yeah, honestly,” you lied smoothly.
“You’re not having me on, are you?”
You were having him on. The actual distance was well over 7000 miles. But you just smiled brightly, giving him an encouraging nod. “No, Garrett. Seriously, good job.”
Garrett puffed his chest out, looking dead into the camera with newfound pride. “Well... I have always been pretty good at geography.”
“Clearly,” you smiled, waving him through.
Next up was Dean, who gladly jogged over the moment he saw you with your camera, a flirtatious smile already pulling at his lips.
“How do you want me?” Dean asked, striking a series of poses for the screen.
“Dean, focus,” you said, suppressing a snort. “How many miles from Massachusetts to Johannesburg?”
Dean smirked, “You've come to the right guy. I have an excellent sense of geography.”
“I’m sure you do,” you deadpanned.
“It's exactly twelve thousand miles,” Dean stated with unearned confidence.
You maintained a perfectly straight face, nodding in solemn agreement. “That is exactly right, Dean. Perfect answer. Spot on.”
Dean pumped his fist in the air. “I knew it! Spatial awareness, baby!”
He skated off onto the ice, completely oblivious to the fact that you were slowly losing the ability to breathe from holding in your laughter.
Birdie and Tucker came out next. You hit them with the exact same question, and they immediately stopped in their tracks, squabbling and throwing wild guesses back and forth. Finally, Tucker turned back to you.
“We’re going down the middle,” Tucker decided. “8500.”
“How did you know that?!” you gasped, feigning shock. “That’s the exact number.”
“Is it?” Birdie asked, his jaw dropping.
“Genuinely?” Tucker demanded at the exact same time.
“Yes! Spot on!” you encouraged, watching their competitive faces light up with pure excitement.
“Yes! Well done, Tucks!” Birdie beams, ruffling Tucker’s hair.
They skated away, thrilled with themselves.
You were still quietly giggling, resetting the recording length, when a shadow fell over your phone screen. You looked up and found yourself staring directly into a pair of dark, but soft, eyes.
“You need me?” Logan asked.
“I do need you,” you smiled softly. Neither of you spoke for a heavy moment, the quiet space between you filling up with a that unspoken heat as you just looked at each other. You cleared your throat, snapping yourself back into media-mode. “Oh, and I also need you for a video.”
You lifted the camera to line up the shot. “Stand there, please.”
“Fine,” Logan chuckled as he moved where you directed him. “Hit me.”
You tried your best to ignore the fact that he was looking directly at your face instead of looking at the camera lens.
“How many miles is it from Massachusetts to Johannesburg?”
Logan blinked, his eyes flicking down to your hands for a split second before returning to yours. “...Two hundred?”
You bit the inside of your cheek; did he even hear the question? “Yup! You’re spot on, Logan.”
Logan let out a low laugh. “Come on. I was way off, wasn’t I?”
“No!” you insisted, maintaining your best poker face. “That’s about right, genuinely.”
Logan’s eyes instantly crinkled at the corners. “That’s actually not fair. You distracted me.”
“I– what? I didn’t do anything!” you stuttered, your face growing hot as you completely lost your professional cool.
“You did! How am I supposed to think when...” he trailed off looking at your now trembling hands.
Before you could fully recover, Logan's hand reached out, wrapping securely around the top of your phone and gently pulling. “Give me that. I'm deleting the evidence.”
“Logan, no! Stop!” you shrieked playfully, causing a few of the guys on the ice to turn around and look over the boards.
“Nope, the public can't know this,” he laughed. He was inches away from you as you both wrestled over the handle, the camera recording a chaotic, blurry feed.
“Coach!” You called out mock-threateningly. “Logan is stealing media property!”
“Logan! Leave her alone and get on the ice!” Coach Jensen’s voice sailed across the rink.
“Snitch,” Logan murmured against your ear. He immediately let go of the camera with a soft chuckle, but he lingered for a second longer, his dark eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your breath catch. “You owe me for my hurt feelings.”
As he finally skated onto the ice, he glanced back over his shoulder once. It was just long enough for you to catch him smiling to himself. And you knew, without a doubt, that he had caught you smiling right back.
A week later, you were on the bus back with them. It was just past nine in the evening, and the three-hour trek back to campus felt twice as long following the frustrating away-game loss.
Up front, you sat alone in the fourth row, the soft glow of your laptop screen lighting up your face. Most of the overhead reading lights were off, leaving the bus in near darkness save for the passing flashes of the highway streetlights. Behind you, the hockey players were scattered across the reclining seats. Some snored softly, others staring silently out the windows, too exhausted and frustrated to sleep.
The mood on the team’s social media account needed to be resilient, but your brain was too fried. At this point, you had spent so much time with these boys, been to so many of their intense training sessions, that you knew exactly how much they put into this sport. Because of that, you felt the weight of the loss almost as heavily as they did.
But Coach Jensen wanted the post-game recap video live by tomorrow morning. So, you were here, desperately trying to get a head start on the editing despite your electronics slowly dying on you.
You finally hit save on your third draft just as your laptop screen faded to black, the battery drained.
Not thirty seconds later, a sudden shadow fell over your row as someone stood next to you in the aisle.
“Is that seat taken?” Logan whispered.
You looked up, meeting his eyes in the dim light. “Go ahead,” you said softly.
Logan slid into the empty seat next to you. “Thanks. I was going to sit here earlier, but I didn’t want to interrupt you while you were working.”
“Oh, so you were watching me?” you laughed quietly, turning your head to face him.
“Hmm,” he hummed thoughtfully, leaning his head back against the headrest. “How do I say yes to that in a totally normal way?”
“It’s okay, I watch you too,” you supplied, a playful glint in your eyes. “I even take videos sometimes.”
Logan let out a low chuckle. “Nice. My own personal stalker.”
“I didn’t say you were the only one I watched,” you countered smoothly.
“But am I your favourite one? That’s the real question.”
“Hm.” You pretended to think about it, tapping your phone against your palm. “There’s no contest, actually.”
“That’s what I like to hear.”
He exhaled a long, tired breath, as he sank deeper into the cushion, stretching his long legs out under the chair in front of him. For a few minutes, neither of you spoke, letting the steady hum of the bus engine fill the silence.
“Are you're still awake,” Logan whispered suddenly, though his eyes remained closed.
“Hard to sleep on these roads,” you replied, keeping your voice dropped low so it wouldn't carry past your row. You turned your head slightly on the headrest, studying his side profile in the dark. “Besides, I'm trying to figure something out.”
“Yeah? What's that?” He opened his eyes, turning his head on the cushion to meet your gaze. In the darkness of the cabin, his eyes looked incredibly dark.
“How you guys deal with frustrating losses,” you explained.
“We have our ways,” Logan laughed quietly.
“Does one of them include flirting?”
Logan’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “You noticed?”
“Logan...” An amused huff slipping past your lips. “You volunteered for every single media interview these past few weeks. You invented ridiculous reasons just to walk me back to the media office. You literally sat through me editing raw footage for hours with the excuse of 'keeping me company.'“
When you laid it out like that, it was painfully obvious. The little hints he had been dropping over the past few months had all been noticed by you, and the fact that you were finally bringing it up now changed everything for him. He had been testing the waters, and you jumped right in.
“Okay, you caught me... does this mean I can stop pretending?”
“You were pretending?” you teased.
“I was pretending that I wasn’t going insane over you.”
You laughed softly. “You can stop pretending.”
“Why did it take you this long to call me on it if you knew?” he asked, his tone turning a little more serious.
“I wanted to see how long you'd keep trying.”
Not that you thought Logan was that type of guy, but you also wasn’t about to risk your career for a guy who just wanted you to be another notch on his bedpost.
“And?” he asked, leaning an inch closer.
“You lasted longer than I expected,” you murmured.
Silence settled over the row again, but the air felt different now.
The bus let out a loud hiss from the brakes, slowing down as it finally pulled off of the highway and onto the familiar roads of the Briar campus.
“The guys are throwing a post-game thing at the house,” Logan murmured, his voice laced with anticipation. He turned his body toward you fully, placing his hand softly on your knee. The heat of his palm soaked straight through your jeans. “Come back to the house with me. Just hang out in my room. Away from the team.”
He said it casually. Too casually. It was a tempting invitation, but you knew there was no way you could do that. If Coach Jensen knew you were flirting with the players on a team bus, or if you crossed that line so publicly...
You met his eyes, holding his gaze as you slowly shook your head. “I can’t, Logan.”
Logan’s smile faded slightly, knowing the hesitation was strictly about your position with the team. “I'm not asking you to break any rules right now... just hang out.”
“Logan. If I walk into the hockey house with you at night...” You trailed off.
There were so many ways you could finish that sentence. Dean would never let either of you live it down. Garrett would feel compelled to give some sort of responsible team-captain lecture. The entire team would know by breakfast, and your personal boundaries with them would probably be broken.
“I like my job too much,” you finished gently instead.
A flicker of disappointment crossed his handsome features. “So, that's a no.”
“It is.”
He nodded slowly, swallowing his pride as he accepted your answer. His hand slipped off your knee, leaving a cold space where his warmth had just been. “Yeah. Yeah, okay. I get it. Sorry, I didn't mean to press you.”
“But,” you whispered, a daring smile playing on your lips, “my apartment is off-campus.”
Logan froze mid-movement. He blinked, his dark eyes widening. “What?”
“If you’re not too tired, that is,” you murmured.
The heavy bus finally shuddered to a full stop in the arena parking lot.
You unbuckled your seatbelt and reached down to grab your backpack, putting your phone in the pocket.
For a second, Logan just stared at you as the reality of what you were offering sank in. Then, the disappointment vanished, replaced by a burning desire.
“Give me five minutes to come up with an excuse,” Logan whispered, his voice incredibly thick and rough. “Don't leave the parking lot without me.”
All around you, the overhead lights clicked on with a harsh flash, and the players began standing up. They groaned as they stretched their sore muscles, grabbing their duffel bags from the overhead racks.
“I’ll wait around the corner,” you whispered as you slipped out of your seat, blending into the crowd of hockey players shuffling down the aisle. Stepping off the bus, the crisp night air hit you instantly, a welcome relief from the stuffy interior.
As the players crowded around the luggage compartment to grab their bags, you walked up to the group casually.
“Great effort tonight, boys,” you said with a warm smile, nodding to Garrett and Tucker. “I’m sorry we couldn’t get the win.”
“Thanks,” Garrett muttered, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “You have a good evening.”
You walked towards your car, quickly sliding in and driving around the corner of the athletic building, parking in the shadows where the bus headlights couldn't reach. Your heart was hammering against your ribs, the thrill of having a secret making this so much better.
It didn’t take Logan long to make his way to you. He walked with a purposeful stride, his eyes scanning the dark street until they landed on your car. He jogged over, opened the passenger door, and slid in.
“Smooth,” Logan murmured as he buckled his seatbelt. “Very professional.”
“I try my best,” you laughed softly, shifting into drive.
When you walked through your front door, you tossed your keys onto the entryway table and kicked off your shoes. Logan did the same, following you through your apartment as he took it all in for the first time.
“Can I get you something to drink?” you asked, walking toward the kitchen nook. You at least wanted to play good host before jumping his bones.
“Water is fine, thanks,” Logan said, walking over to the living room and sinking into your plush sofa.
You poured two glasses of water and walked back over, handing one to him. Instead of taking the armchair across from him, you sat down on the opposite end of the sofa.
“Thanks,” he murmured, taking a slow sip before setting the glass down on the coffee table. He shifted his weight, turning his body toward you and resting his arm along the back of the sofa.
“You look exhausted,” you said softly, pulling one leg up onto the cushion so you were facing him too.
“I was,” Logan admitted, his dark eyes fixed on your face. “But I'm feeling a lot better now.”
“Yeah?”
“Mhm.”
You placed your own glass down on the coffee table, before looking back at him. He usually looked at you in one of two ways. The first was when you laughed or spoke; he’d look with a soft expression. The second, like now, was when he’d basically be undressing you with his eyes.
“So...” you started, but you didn’t finish your trail of thought.
Logan watched you for a few beats longer, before blurting out, “Will you think less of me if I’m bold?”
You bit your lower lip, shaking your head. “No.”
“Good, then come here.” He leant forward, sticking out his hand.
When you took it, he pulled you towards him, he kept pulling until you were straddling his lap.
“Hi,” you breathed, looking down at him.
“Hi,” he said back.
He kept looking up at you expectantly, wanting to let you set the pace to this.
You leant forward and bit down on his earlobe. He signed and moaned as you sucked it into your mouth. Then, you moved to where his jaw met his neck, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin there.
“I’ve been waiting a while for this,” you confessed against the skin of his neck.
“Yeah?” He panted. “Me too.”
His lips slightly parted as you resumed your trail down across his neck, over his jaw, and then to his mouth.
The kiss started slow, almost cautious, as if he was still making sure he wasn’t dreaming. His lips were soft against yours, but the moment you breathed a sigh against his mouth and leant into his touch, the hesitation vanished. You found a rhythm together quickly, his tongue swiping across yours.
You pulled back to get some air and Logan followed you, his breath puffing against your mouth as he came to claim you in kisses once again. He tilted your head so that he could deepen the kiss.
He didn’t stop kissing you as his hands went under the hem of your shirt, warm, calloused hands sliding up your smooth back. He stopped at the clasp of your bra, fingers moving smoothly over the clasp to undo it on the first attempt.
This time, it was Logan who pulled back, but only for a second so that he could tug your shirt up over your head and pull off your bra. The second you were bare; his lips were back on yours.
Pulling you flush against him, his hand snaked between your bodies and up to your chest. He kneaded your breasts, before focusing his attention on one nipple, softly pinching and rolling it between his fingers.
You moaned into his mouth as he flicked a finger over it, back and forth and back again.
Then, the pad of his thumb stroked firmly over your nipple, and another moan left your lips. He pulled his mouth away from yours, tracing down your throat. Burying his face in your beck, his teeth grazed your pulse point while his hands continued across your chest.
“Don’t mark me,” you warned, you didn’t want to have to cover up at work.
“I won’t,” he groaned, his voice vibrating right against your skin. “I've pictured this every single day since the start of the season.”
You hadn’t realised how much you were grinding down into him until you begun to feel the rigid length of him beneath you, straining against the fabric. You desperately, purposely, moved your hips against him again, the friction coming from the fabric of your jeans and his length pressed up into you driving you insane.
He shuddered as he leant back against the armrest of the sofa, his hands sliding down to your hips as he looked up at you. his gaze was heavy and heated, roaming over the way you grinded into him, up to your bare chest, and finally to the look of ecstasy on your face. You felt exposed, but so powerful, as you watched his head loll back.
Slowly, you reached down, your fingers catching the hem of his top. “Your turn.”
It’s like your words revived him, he immediately sat up, pulling the top over his head and tossing it onto the floor. The sight of his tanned skin, the trail of hair leading down his body, and the sharp lines of his abs made your breath hitch. He had a few bruises from the game across his torso and it made him look even more attractive to you.
You leant forward, pressing your bare chest against his bare skin, as you captured his lips again, much hungrier this time. Your hands slid down his firm abdomen to the waistband of his sweatpants.
He bucked up to you, groaning into the kiss, as you wrapped your hand around his erection. You squeezed it tightly before dragging a nail along the throbbing vein at the underside of his dick.
Moving your attention to his leaking slit, your thumb traced over it, smearing the small amount of pre-cum around the head.
“Logan,” you purred as you made a ring with your fingers and worked his length.
“Hmm?”
“I’m really wet,” you said darkly, “and I need you to fuck me now, okay?”
Immediately jumping to action, his hands found the hem of your jeans and, together, you worked in a frantic and uncoordinated rush to get rid of the rest of the clothes. You slid off of his lap, your bare feet hitting the carpet as you pushed your jeans and underwear down your legs. Logan kicked off his sweatpants and boxers at the same time, freeing his thick length.
He slid to the floor, back resting against the base if the sofa.
When you looked down at him, he was watching you, mouth wide as he looked over your naked body.
“Come here,” he murmured, his voice rough.
You immediately straddled his lap, the direct skin-on-skin contact sending another bolt of ecstasy through you. he slipped a hand between your legs, collecting your arousal on his fingers before popping them into his mouth, sucking it clean off.
“I can’t wait to properly taste you,” he said.
“Next time,” you huffed as you rubbed your dripping pussy over his dick.
Tilting his pelvis up, he guided the head of his length to your entrance. He paused there for a second.
“Look at me,” he whispered, his eyes locking onto yours when you looked at him. He wanted to make sure you were ready.
You stared directly into his eyes, your fingers digging into his shoulders as you slowly lowered your hips, taking him inside you.
Logan’s head fell back against the sofa cushions, a low groan rumbling from his throat as you squeezed around him. He gripped your waist tighter than he probably realised he was.
For a long moment, he didn’t move, letting you both adjust to what was happening. His chest heaved as he stared up at you with unadulterated desire.
When he finally began to thrust into you, every stroke hit you deeply, and was perfectly aimed at the spot inside of you that had your toes curling. The room was silent save for the combined sounds of you both raggedly breathing and each slap of your ass against the tops of his thighs.
It had only taken a few bounces before Logan felt his orgasm approach.
“Oh– shit,” Logan called, as he was then suddenly shooting ropey cum up into you.
You leant back, hands resting on the floor behind you as you spread your legs wider. He was still buried inside you, so you opted your small rolls of your hips rather than bounces. His hand came to your clit, it throbbed under his thumb, and the tight coil built rapidly in your lower stomach.
One of your hands came to play with your nipples as he kept gently rubbing at your clit, not sure what kind of pressure you needed. Your orgasm crashed over you, pulling an undone cry from your lips.
He winced as your walls squeezed around his sensitive, and slightly softened, dick.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, turning pink as you came down from your orgasm. “Guess I’ve been holding that one in for too long.”
You were an adult, and knew that the reality was that sex wasn’t always a marathon. You didn’t mind a sprint every now and then, especially considering there was actual build up.
“You don’t need to apologise. I enjoyed it. Really enjoyed it. Did you?”
He nodded sheepishly.
“Then there’s no problem.” You leant in to give him a swift kiss. “Do you want to take a shower with me?”
“I do,” he said eagerly.
You stood up, wincing as you felt his release run down your inner thighs. Walking on shaky legs, you led the way into the bathroom, Logan following close behind. You turned the handle, waiting a moment for the water to warm up before stepping under the spray.
When Logan stepped in behind you and helped you to wash, it was incredibly sweet, feeling way more intimate than what you’d just done. The heat mostly washed away the worries you hadn’t realised you had, but a voice nagging in your head kept asking you what would happen now that you’d crossed that boundary with him.
The shower was over quickly, and you gave him the only pair of shorts you owed that you thought could fit him. You both walked back to the living room and sat on the sofa, putting on a movie, but the exhaustion of the long night was catching up fast.
“By the way,” he said. “I was thinking about what you said on the coach about wanting to see how long I would have kept trying.”
“Hmm,” you mumbled sleepily, shifting closer against him.
“I want you to know I would have kept trying until you rejected me,” Logan murmured, his arm tightening around your shoulders to pull you securely against him. “This isn’t a game to me. I’m serious about this.”
A soft smile pulled at your lips as you felt yourself drifting off.
Brendon Park x autistic reader, in the style of this. Reader has photophobia as a symptom of her autism.
Mel never really got why people were so spooked by Dr Park.
Dr Park was always, in her limited but not insignificant experience, a decent guy.
Whenever she worked with Dr Park, he communicated clearly, was soft spoken, was efficient, and competent. He was always polite to her, exchanging a pleasant greeting, and an explicit goodbye. Told her exactly what he needed from her.
And sure. She heard horror stories. Him belittling med students, him snapping at attending. But she just… never had that experience with him.
And it fucking blows Franks mind the first time he sees it.
“The hell was that?” He asked Mel, washing their hands shoulder to shoulder.
“Huh?”
“Shark. He was all nice to you.”
Mel looked at him like a confused puppy. God she was so cute he could kiss her right now.
And the weird part is, Frank realized, Park is kinda nice to him, too. Frank, unlike a lot of people here post his intermission, assumes competence with him. Shows him a little professional consideration. Frank hadn’t realized it till now but… he does.
So a few weeks later, leaving the hospital at the same time, ironically, Frank just asks him in the elevator.
After a masculine nod.
“Hey, weird question. Why are you so nice to King?”
Park is clearly taken back by it, but not thrown. He shrugs.
“She reminds me of my wife” he admits with a shrug, and then leaves the elevator.
And now Frank has even more questions.
Starting with Brendon Park has a wife?
Frank has zero fucking clue what that means.
And it bothers him.
So he starts to observe. Consider.
What is it about Mel? Is it physical? Is it her hair? Her eyes? Her face shape? The glasses? Is his wife also a doctor? Is she in another hospitals ER? He’s got less than half a clue.
He does start watching them interact- Park and Mel- more, though. Watching Park, period.
He doesn’t know how he missed the gold chain on his neck until now. But now that he sees it… yeah. There’s a wedding band on it.
But Mel. Mel was the part of the equation he just couldn’t wrap his head around.
Now that Frank was looking for it though, the incidents were adding up.
Incident 1:
Mel watched Park pass in the cafeteria during a rare lunch they could get away for, and waved politely. And Park stopped, and smiled and nodded back. And then Mel saw something in his hands. His keychain. Must have come out when he got his wallet to pay. And she commented on it. “I like your keychain Dr Park.”. Park looked down at it and smiled fondly. “Oh, the shark? It’s a gift from my wife. She has a pink one, it matches” he admitted with a fond little smile. Frank wasn’t sure anyone had ever heard the Shark say so many words without an insult before. Mel beamed. “That’s so sweet!” “That she is” Park agreed. “Enjoy your break, Dr King.” He bid farewell.
Incident 2:
Park was called in on a peds consult. 6 year old boy. Displaced fracture. Car accident. It was a little anxiety inducing to call Park for peds. High functioning ASD diagnosis. The little guy was having a hell of a time, overwhelmed, scared, and hurt. But he was on shift so… shit. He was stuck with Shark. The poor baby was in pain, and it killed Frank. Boy wasn’t much older than Tanner. Park came in, and nodded at him politely. Not as polite as with Mel but… like they were equals in his mind. He evaluated the case. Then he turned to the boy. And while he was palpating his limbs, he noticed the shark on his tee shirt. And quirked a smile. “Hey. You know that sharks don’t have bones?”. Tears stopped, as the little boy looked up. “Really?”. Park nodded. “Nope. No bones. Just cartilage. That’s the rubbery stuff in your ears.” He explained. The kid touched his ear. Cute. “You like sharks?” He asked. And the little boy nodded. Park chuckled fondly. “Me too. You know sharks are older than dinosaurs too?” “Really?” “Uh huh. I don’t lie buddy, I don’t lie. What’s your favorite kind of shark?”. As the little boy went into a ramble, and Park apparently vehemently agreed about bull sharks, Park looked at the nurses in the corner and nodded. They could finally actually get an IV in this kid now that Park has him distracted about fucking sharks. Huh.
After the consult and decisions were made, the two physicians stoped out into the hall. “Man, how the hell do you know that much about sharks?”. And Park grinned and chuckled. “My wife’s fuckin obsessed with em. You know, it is, stereotype for a reason, right?” Park said, slapping his back and laughing like this was some inside joke they both got. What the fuck?
Incident 3
“Who do you think you are speaking to Dr King like that?” Park bit, harsh and fast, turning on his heels in the ED. He was on his way out, when he heard Ogilvie say… something unsavory. The kind of usual jokes other ED staff made about Mel, half of it going over her head. Half of it, frankly, him, Robby, and Jack let slide because calling out would tell Mel it happened at all. But Park didn’t seem to care. “Dr King is your superior. Dr King is your senior resident. You will address her with the respect she deserves- is that clear? Because if i hear a single god man word about you disrespecting someone in his hospital again, i will personally insure you never get a job in this hospital.”. Frank was wide eyed in shock as the scene developed before him, Ogilvie frozen in shock, Mel the same. “Dr King you didn’t do a single thing wrong. This is all on Ogilvie. Not you.” Park insisted, before leaving in a huff.
It really just got weirder every day.
And Mel had less of a clue than Frank about what was going on.
Until he knew exactly what was going on.
It came on a Thursday afternoon.
Park came out of the elevator, to everyone’s confusion.
“What’re you doing here? We didn’t page ya, did we?” Dana asked, looking up.
Park shook his head.
“No, uh, Y/Ns inbound.” He explained to Dana, who looked up in surprise. “Y/N? The hell happened? She okay?”
Park shook his head, then nodded. “Fuck if I know. She said she uh, gave herself a gnarly burn cooking or something.” He explained seeming half out of it.
“Okay. Well let’s get something ready for your VIP, huh. Lemme see who can take her- I think Al Hashimi can-“
Park shook his head.
“Can Langdon or King take her?”
What?
Brendon Park isn’t insisting on an attending for his wife? That’s-
“Langdon or King?” Dana repeated in surprise.
Something came across Parks face. A knowing obviousness. After a beat Dana shared the same. “Right. Slipped my mind. They’ve got a good track record with people like her.” Dana agreed. “I know.” Park insisted.
Huh?
“Langdon!” Dana hollered, calling him over.
“Need ya to do Dr Park a favor, his wife’s coming in with a burn, you’re gonna patch her up for us.” Dana informed him.
Frank just nodded dumbly. “Okay. Uh, she close?”
Park looked at his phone, life 360 likely. “Yup.” He confirmed. “She looks like she’s parking now.”
Frank nodded.
“I think- what, central 2 is open?”
Dana corrected him. “We got north 4 and the doors close, let’s put her in there for now.”
Park thanked Dana softly.
“Look, uh, y/n has pretty hard core photophobia with florescents” park explained. “I tell her to wear her sunglasses but she’s embarrassed so she doesn’t listen, but if we can keep those on low atleast-“ Park requested.
Huh. Okay. Photophobia. “Okay. Yeah, sure totally, no problem.”
“I can tell you the obvious, but you know the drill. Hyper literal, a bit direct. She can handle pain but not discomfort. Nothing you’re not used to” Park shrugged.
And that’s when the wheel started turning.
There’s no chance-
Parks phone buzzed.
“She’s here.” He announced. “I’m gonna get her from chairs. If you want to-“ “sure” Frank shrugged. The fuck else was there to do?
Park shouldered through the doors and found you fast.
You were… so not what Frank expected. Hell if he expected anything. But you were not it. You sat stiff as a board in a corner chair, knee bounding, something held tight in your hand.
As he got closer he realized, it was a fidget. One you were on track to destroy by how fast you were moving it.
On your knee he could see a long line of burnt flesh. Ouch.
In your hands, a bag covered in accessories.
Almost all being, he must note, shark themed.
Park damn near dropped to his knees. “Sweetheart.” He pouted. “What happened, huh sweet girl?”
“Dropped a cookie sheet” you said, lip wobbling. “Oh, my poor baby. I’m sorry this happened to you.” Park cooed kindly. He had to mean it, too. Beautifully. “I’m sorry-“ “no, no need to be sorry Angel. It was an accident. Accidents happen. You didn’t do anything wrong, you’re not being punished, you didn’t deserve this.” Park insisted.
Punished. Being punished. Always feeling punished.
It was getting so much clearer by the second.
But Frank just couldn’t believe it.
“C’mon we’re all set up for you, baby, we’ll have you feeling better quick.”
“This is Dr Langdon. He’s gonna take care of you, but I’m not going anywhere.” Park insisted. You frowned. “But- the line-“ Park shook his head. “Surgeons wife’s cut the line.”
You looked distressed.
“C’mon, we’ll talk about it later. Faster we patch you up faster we get them help too.” Brendon spun the case. Smooth save, Park.
“Hello.” You greeted Frank awkwardly. “I’m Y/N. Thank you. And I’m sorry” you introduced. “Don’t be sorry. I’m here to help” he insisted automatically.
Park was pretty quiet for most of your treatment, in his defense. He didn’t hover. He didn’t breathe down Franks neck. But he held your hand, and kissed your forward, and called you brave.
He was definitely a very loving husband. That was for sure.
He asked for a print out of care instructions. Not that he didn’t know how to take care of a moderate oven burn. But because he knew you’d want explicit instructions of care.
Yeah. Frank understood.
He understood perfectly, now.
“I didn’t realize your wife was autistic.” Frank said softly as Park waited outside the bathroom for you.
Brendon looked at him dumbfounded.
“You didn’t?”
“Nah man how the hell would I know?”
Park laughed sardonically. “Honestly? Because alot of people here are fucking dicks about it. Thought word got around.”
“Im sorry” Frank sighed. “I know how that shit goes. It’s hard man. Maybe harder on us than them.”
It paints a picture, in a way. How Park became so cold and hard here, when he seems completely soft around his wife. Like he needs an armor to protect him from what people say about her.
Frank hurts for him, honestly.
The door opens, and you come out.
Just as Mel’s walking by.
And Mel stops in her tracks, looking you over.
“Oh my god your bag is so cute” Mel gushed, taking in the 90 trinkets hanging from it. “Is that like, a lemon lemon shark?”
You beamed. “It is! Isn’t he so cute? I found him at a comic con a few years ago. I got Dana this little nurse shark badge reel for Christmas that year too but I think it broke” you rambled explaining. And Mel didn’t miss a beat. “Oh that’s so cute did he have like, the little hat?” “Yeah!”
Park smiled so fondly.
“This is a thing, isn’t it? Autistic girls and sharks?” Park asked Frank, low and soft to not pull away attention.
Oh god, it is, isn’t it.
“That why she likes you?” “Maybe.” Park chuckled.
“That’s so cute. Oh I love your hand sanitizer holder. I wish they made something like that for hospital grade. I have the cutest jellycat hammerhead at home- I love sharks” Mel yammered on. And then you yammered back.
And Park looked at Frank and grinned.
“You guys looking for a couple to double date with?”
pairing – garrett graham x petal!reader
summary – after months of small humiliations, one party becomes the final straw, and garrett learns too late that being sorry after the damage isn’t enough.
warnings – angst, breakup, argument, jealousy, public humiliation, relationship insecurity, crying, swearing, emotional hurt, no happy ending.
notes from me – uhhhhhh, you guys asked for it!! but based on this ask, thank you bby!! i was stuck on ideas for their break up until you sent this through!!
word count – 3.7k
navigation – masterlist |
The door had shut behind her with a hard, cheap little clap, cutting off the full ugly body of it all, the music and the shouting and the sound of someone in the kitchen yelling for Dean like Dean had ever once improved a situation by arriving. But pieces of it kept slipping through anyway.
Bass through the walls. Laughter when the door opened again somewhere behind her. The sticky-sweet smell of beer and perfume and winter-damp wool clinging to her coat like the house had put hands on her and refused to let go.
Her boots hit the pavement too hard. Every step sent a thin jolt up through her knees, but she couldn’t make herself slow down because if she slowed down, Garrett would catch up properly, and if Garrett caught up properly, he would talk. He always wanted to talk after the thing had already happened.
After she had already stood there with her cup going warm in her hand while three girls boxed him into the corner by the kitchen and laughed up at him like he had invented oxygen and jawlines and playoff hockey.
After one of them touched his arm and he didn’t step back. After another one said, “You’re so bad,” in that breathy, delighted voice girls used when bad meant attractive and accessible and maybe mine if I keep smiling right. After he had looked over once, seen her looking, and still stayed.
That was the part her body couldn’t get around. The seeing. The quick flicker of his eyes across the room, the half-second of recognition, the tiny change in his face like he knew, he knew exactly what it looked like, and then the way he’d smiled back down at the blonde in front of him anyway because Garrett Graham had never met attention he didn’t know how to catch one-handed.
“Baby.”
His voice came from behind her, breathless enough that he had jogged the last few steps. Good. Great. Fantastic. He could chase her now. He could find his legs now that the whole party wasn’t watching him be wanted.
She walked faster.
“Baby, come on.” Garrett’s sneakers scraped lightly over the pavement as he caught up beside her, his shadow cutting across the wet shine of the sidewalk under the streetlamp. “Can you just stop for a second?”
“No.”
“Okay, then can you slow down before you eat shit? You’re in heeled boots.”
She let out a laugh so sharp it barely sounded like one. “Oh my god.”
“What?”
“Nothing. That’s just–” She shook her head, eyes burning already, which made her angrier because she hadn’t even got to the yelling properly and her body had started betraying her like some kind of amateur. “That’s so you.”
Garrett moved into her path just enough to make her have to angle around him. Big and warm and breathing a little harder than normal, curls messy from the party heat, the collar of his jacket sitting crooked like one of those girls had maybe caught it when she leaned in to say something stupid into his ear. “What does that mean?”
“It means move.”
“Not until you talk to me.”
She stopped so abruptly he almost walked into her. For one second they stood under the streetlamp outside the row of dorm buildings, campus stretched cold and quiet around them, the party pulsing behind them like another life.
The air bit at her cheeks. Her hands were shaking, so she shoved them into her coat pockets and curled them there until her nails pressed little crescents into her palms.
Garrett’s face softened the second he saw her properly. He always looked sorry once the damage had a visible shape. “Hey,” he said, lower now. “Baby–”
“You’re such a piece of shit.”
His mouth closed. The words came out flat and ugly, too quick to stop, and for half a second even she seemed to hear them from outside herself. Not because they weren’t true in the hot, vicious courtroom currently operating under her ribs, but because they were not the sort of thing she usually said to him first.
She usually worked up to it. Usually gave him three warning shots and a sarcastic little exit route and enough room to pretend they were having an argument instead of watching one person bleed out slowly from the same cut.
Garrett blinked once. “Me?”
She laughed again, and this time the wetness in it made her want to claw her own throat open. “You’re such a fucking piece of shit.”
“Okay.” His jaw tightened, but he nodded, both hands lifting slightly like he was trying to calm a dog that had bitten him before and might do it again. “Okay. Let’s talk about why I’m a piece of shit.”
“Oh, fuck you.”
“No, seriously. Let’s talk about it.” His voice had gone careful in that way that made her feel more insane, like he was standing there with a clipboard while she came apart on the pavement. “This is what I’ve been trying to do. I’ve been trying to talk to you about this all night.”
“All night?” Her head snapped back like the sentence had shoved her. “Garrett, you were not trying to talk to me all night. You were trying to flirt your way through three girls and then act shocked when I didn’t clap for you.”
“I wasn’t flirting.”
She stared at him.
“I wasn’t,” he said again, faster now, one hand dragging over the back of his neck. The old move. The Garrett Graham damage control special. “Jesus, they came up to me. What was I supposed to do, tell them to fuck off?”
“No, apparently that’s reserved for me.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“You didn’t have to say it.” Her voice climbed, then cracked, and she hated the crack so much she bit the inside of her cheek hard enough to taste metal. “You do this thing where you make me feel like I’m ruining your night by existing.”
Garrett looked genuinely thrown for a second. “That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it?”
“No. It’s not.” The defensive edge came in then, quick and familiar, the one that always arrived right after his guilt and right before her humiliation got turned into a debate topic. “I’m allowed to talk to people.”
“Holy fuck,” she said, quietly enough that it came out worse.
“What?”
“You’re fucked.”
“How am I fucked?” His hands spread, and there was a flash of frustration under the apology, the part of him that couldn't understand why wanting her and disrespecting her were not mutually exclusive in her body. “Talk to me. I’m right here. Tell me.”
“No.”
“Baby.”
“No.” She pointed back toward the house, eyes hot and too full now, the streetlamp turning everything soft-edged and horrible. “You know what? Actually, go ahead. Say your piece. Say your Garrett Graham bullshit. Please. Tell me what shit you’re gonna come up with this time.”
He watched her for a second, mouth pressed tight, breath coming out white in the cold. A car rolled past at the end of the street, slow enough that its headlights moved over them like a searchlight, catching the shine on her cheeks before she could turn away.
“Nah,” Garrett said finally. “I want to hear you out first.”
Her laugh was immediate and mean. “Of course you do.”
“I’m serious.”
“No, you want me to say it first so you can pick it apart.”
His brows drew together. “I’m not trying to pick anything apart.”
“Yes, you are.”
“I’m trying to understand what happened in there.”
“I’ve been telling you what happened.” Her voice broke properly this time, anger ripping through the words before she could sand them down. “For months. For fucking months, Garrett.”
His expression shifted. “No, you’ve been getting upset and then shutting down.”
“Because you make me feel stupid when I talk.”
“I don’t mean to.”
“But you do.” She stepped closer without meaning to, the space between them shrinking until she had to tilt her face up to keep looking at him. “You do, and then you stand there like because you didn’t mean to, I’m supposed to take that home and sleep next to it.”
Garrett swallowed. His hands dropped to his sides. “Okay. Then tell me properly now.”
Something in her face twisted. “Properly?”
“I get you’re frustrated–”
“Frustrated?” The word came out almost silent. Then she laughed, one hand flying up like she could physically bat it away from her. “Oh my god.”
“I’m trying to talk to you.”
“No, you’re trying to make me calm enough that you don’t have to feel like the bad guy.”
“That’s not–”
“You’re not respectful in the slightest,” she said, and the tears started then for real, hot and fast and humiliating, slipping down before she could do anything useful with her face. “Have some fucking respect for your fucking girlfriend!”
Garrett went still.
She made a frustrated sound, almost a groan, pressing the heel of her hand to one eye for half a second before dropping it again because crying into her own palm on a sidewalk was not the kind of tragic she respected. “What the fuck.”
Then she turned and started walking again.
“Hey, stop.” Garrett caught up in two strides, and his hand came to her waist. Warm fingers through her coat, a gentle pull meant to turn her back to him, and her whole body rejected it before her mind caught up.
She shoved him away with both hands. “Don’t fucking touch me.”
Garrett’s face changed so quickly it almost made something in her collapse. His hands lifted, empty. “Okay. Okay, I’m sorry. I won’t.”
“I don’t want to fucking talk to you.”
“I feel like shit,” he said, voice rougher now. “Please talk to me.”
The words should have softened her. Maybe some version of her, one who hadn’t spent the last month measuring how long it took him to remember she was standing beside him in rooms full of girls who wanted him, would have stepped into that roughness and let it mean enough.
But tonight her chest was too packed with old little injuries, all of them awake at once, crowding under her ribs until she could barely breathe around them.
“You weren’t feeling bad fifteen minutes ago,” she said. “Surrounded by girls. You weren’t feeling bad yesterday when we got stopped every three seconds and I stood there like an idiot while people talked through me to get to you. You weren’t feeling bad when you dropped my hand in that coffee shop, or when you missed the first half of my showcase because practice ran over and apparently I was supposed to be grateful you made it before bows.” Her breath hitched. She hated that one. Hated that it came out. “There was no consideration for me. There wasn’t. Or you wouldn’t have acted the way you fucking acted.”
“Whoa. Hey.” Garrett stepped closer, then seemed to remember and stopped himself. The restraint looked painful on him. “First of all, I always consider you. Always. I can’t help that people want to talk to me–”
She started laughing before he finished. Her body had found one last emergency exit before sobbing, and it was laughing in Garrett Graham’s face under a dorm streetlight with mascara starting to move at the corners of her eyes. “Holy fuck.”
His mouth tightened. “What?”
“How bad did you really feel if this is your version of a fucking apology?”
“I’m trying to explain.”
“You’re explaining why it’s not your fault.”
“That’s not what I’m doing.”
“That’s exactly what you’re doing.” She wiped under one eye with the side of her finger, furious when it came away damp and black-smudged. “You stand there in the corner with three puck bunnies flirting with you like, what? You’re rubbing that shit in my face?”
“No. No, no, no.” His face opened with alarm, real now, not defensive for one precious second. “Baby, that’s not– no. I wasn’t flirting with them. It’s not like that.”
“If you felt bad, you wouldn’t have continued to do it,” she said. “But you did. And you have. Over and over. So, cool. You want them, go get them. They’d be more than happy.”
“I don’t want them.” Garrett’s voice cracked around the denial, and the sound did something terrible to her stomach. “That’s not what this is. I get it, okay? I fucked up. I get that. But I’m human.”
The air went very thin for a second. She stared at him, tears cooling on her cheeks, the whole night narrowing down to his face and those two words sitting there between them like an insult wearing a reasonable coat.
“No,” she said.
Garrett’s brows pulled in. “What?”
“No. I don’t buy that shit.” She shook her head, slow at first, then harder, because if she stopped moving she might actually feel how much of her was splitting open. “I’m human too, Garrett. I’m human, and I’m not letting three different guys get me drinks and hang off me all night because I know how that would make you feel. I know. I don’t need a fucking thesis. I don’t need a seminar on empathy. I just think about you before I do things.”
He flinched.
Good, some ugly little part of her thought, and then immediately felt sick from the taste of it.
“You do not have the same respect for me that I have for you,” she said, quieter, which made it worse. “So I don’t want to hear that I’m human shit. I don’t give a fuck. I don’t feel sorry for you.”
“I don’t want you to feel sorry for me.” Garrett stepped one half-step closer, stopped again, hands flexing uselessly at his sides. His eyes were bright now, not with tears exactly, but with panic pushing hard against the back of them. “Baby, I don’t. I just want you to hear me out. I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I did that to you.”
She shook her head, and the movement sent more tears down. She could feel them hitting the cold air and tightening on her skin. “No, you’re not.”
“Yes, I am.”
“You’re not fucking sorry.”
“I am.”
“You feel no guilt about any of this.”
“Yes, I do.” His voice rose, desperate now, and for the first time all night Garrett looked younger than himself. A boy in the street with his jacket open against the cold, trying to hold water in his hands after the glass had already shattered. “I do. You can go ask any of the boys. Go ask Logan or Dean or Tuck. I swear.”
Her face crumpled before she could stop it, but the laugh still came out. Small, disbelieving, wrecked. “Oh, the same boys that keep telling me I’m the love of your life? Huh? Those ones?”
Garrett’s mouth parted.
“Those boys?”
“You are,” he said, and then stopped like he’d stepped too close to a ledge he hadn’t realised was there. His throat worked. “I–”
The cold moved between them. The party door opened in the distance, letting out a bright slash of noise and some girl’s laughter, then shut again. She watched Garrett stand there with the sentence stuck in his mouth, and there should have been some triumph in it, maybe. Some relief. The love of your life. The thing girls were supposed to want to hear. The thing that should have fixed something.
It didn’t. It only made the hurt widen, because what was she supposed to do with that? Let the love of his life get humiliated in coffee shops? Let the love of his life stand beside him at parties while he forgot how to be careful? Let the love of his life go home every night with a stomach full of little explanations she had to feed herself so she wouldn’t seem needy?
She shrugged, and the movement felt loose and awful on her body. “So be it.”
Garrett stared at her.
“So be it, Garrett.” Her voice dropped into something almost calm, except the tears wouldn’t stop, so the calm looked deranged even to her. “Be the love of my life.”
His face changed. The panic went quiet for one second, like she had hit somewhere deeper than anger could reach. “I’m trying.”
She looked at him, really looked, at the red at the tips of his ears from the cold, the crease between his brows, the mouth she had kissed against lockers and in his bed and outside this dorm with her hands in his hoodie.
He was trying. That was maybe the worst part. He had been trying in the way Garrett knew how. Apologising after. Ordering the coffee right. Kissing the top of her head. Pulling her back in with warmth every time she got close to the edge. But he kept letting the edge exist.
“I’m done,” she said.
Garrett shook his head immediately. “No.”
She turned away from him, because if she kept looking at his face she was going to start bargaining against herself. “I am.”
“No, hey.” He followed her. “You’re not even letting me talk.”
“I let you talk for months.”
“You’re not letting me talk now.”
“No, I’m done.” She spun back so fast her coat swung open, cold hitting her through the thin party top underneath. “I’m done. I’m good. I’m not doing this stupid back and forth with you where I tell you something hurt me and then you explain your intentions like I’m dating your intentions. I’m not. I’m dating you. And you acted the way you acted, and you won’t change that shit, so we’re done.”
“Baby–”
“It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine.”
“It is.” She nodded too many times, tears still spilling, breath starting to shake now in a way she could not control. “It’s fine. I get it now.”
“No, you don’t.” Garrett’s voice went rough, almost angry with fear. “You’re hurt and you’re pissed off and you’re deciding something huge because of one night.”
“One night?” she whispered.
He realised it the second it left his mouth. She saw it. The tiny collapse around his eyes. “No,” he said quickly. “I know it’s not one night. I know that. I didn’t mean–”
“You never do.”
Garrett flinched again, and this time it didn’t feel good. It didn’t feel like anything except more damage in a street already full of it.
“I’m trying to fix this,” he said. “Let me fix it.”
“There’s nothing to fix.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“Don’t.”
“It is.” He took a step closer, and then stopped himself again, because she had told him not to touch her and he was finally, finally listening when it no longer had anywhere useful to land. “It’s bullshit. You don’t get to just– baby, come on. You don’t get to decide this alone.”
For a second she almost smiled, because it was so perfectly him. So wildly, painfully Garrett. Still arguing with the scoreboard after the game had ended. Still believing there had to be a third period if he wanted one badly enough.
“I just did,” she said.
His face went blank. The dorm entrance buzzed faintly behind her, ugly fluorescent light spilling over the steps. Her fingers had gone numb in her pockets, and her face felt swollen from crying, and somewhere inside the building there were people doing laundry or microwaving noodles or living tiny, ordinary lives not currently ending under a streetlamp.
She wanted that so badly it almost made her dizzy. A room. A door. A place to put her body down without Garrett looking at her like she was taking his apart.
“Go back to your puck bunnies, Garrett,” she said, and the bitterness came out exhausted now, all the teeth worn down. “I’m done. I’m so fucking done.”
She turned before he could answer. He said her name once, not baby this time, and that almost did it. That almost made her stop. Her actual name in Garrett’s voice, cracked at the edge, chasing her up the first step like a hand she had told him not to use.
She kept walking.
The key card shook when she pulled it from her pocket. She missed the scanner once, plastic tapping uselessly against the panel, and behind her Garrett made a small sound like he was physically stopping himself from coming closer. She swiped again. The lock clicked.
“Please,” he said.
She opened the door. Warm stale dorm air hit her face, carrying the smell of old carpet, microwave popcorn, and somebody’s overworked vanilla plug-in. She stepped inside and turned just enough to see him through the wired glass before the door shut between them.
Garrett stood on the sidewalk with both hands in his hair now, elbows out, jacket open, mouth parted around words he had nowhere to put. For one awful second he looked completely lost. Alone under the streetlamp, staring at the door like he could still make it open if he found the right thing to say.
Then the door closed. The sound was small. Pathetic, almost. A dull latch catching in an institutional frame.
She made it halfway up the stairs before her legs stopped working properly. One hand caught the railing, cold metal biting into her palm, and the first sob tore out of her so hard she bent over it, forehead nearly touching the sleeve of her coat.
A brutal little failure of breath, her ribs pulling too tight around nothing, her mouth open while the stairwell blurred in ugly blocks of cream paint and grey steps and the dark smudge of mascara on her fingers.
She pressed both hands over her face, trying to hold herself together with pressure, but there was too much of it. Garrett’s face. The girls’ laughter. His hand letting go in the coffee shop. His voice saying I’m human like she hadn’t spent months being human quietly beside him. Be the love of my life. I’m trying.
The words kept moving around inside her, useless and sharp, knocking against every place she had already bruised trying to love him without asking to be chosen out loud.
Downstairs, through the thick dorm door and the stairwell concrete and the blood in her ears, she thought she heard him say her name again. Or maybe she wanted to. Either way, she climbed the rest of the stairs alone.
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Summary: PTMC’s new head of vascular surgery takes a liking to you. Brendon is pissed the fuck off unamused with this development.
WC: 3,546
Warnings: mild smut, like they don’t reaallllly bang on screen, but I used the word “cock” twice so interpret that as you will; Brendon and his stabby agenda
A/N: can read as a standalone, but technically a continuation of the Gremlin universe; grad student reader; set seven-ish years before The Pitt (Park is mid-30s); I love this emotionally-constipated sweetie pie
Masterlist
—————————————————
There’s something surreal about dating Brendon Park.
It’s been weeks since he first kissed you. Weeks since the night he called you his and then slept wrapped around you in his bed. It might as well have all happened yesterday though, because every time he touches you still feels like a novelty. How one man can be so emotionally constipated and yet so physically affectionate, you’ll never know.
Like now, when he’s kissing you senseless against the side of your car, right after telling you that you park like shit. Impossible man. You don’t mind it though — he’s there in all the ways that matter. Judging your protein intake and shoving water in your hand every five seconds. Listening to your two thousandth edit of your dissertation abstract without protest. Buying you your oat milk matcha lattes even if he says they’re stupid.
You like to think you take care of him, too. You get him sweet treats he insists he doesn’t like but then refuses to share with you. When he has a particularly busy day, you sneak snacks into his bag, because you know he won’t bother wasting time going to get food. And after long surgeries, when he says he’s fine and scowls at you to leave him alone, you’ll help him rub the knots out of his shoulders while he pretends he hates it.
A sharp nip at your mouth brings you back to the present.
“You’re distracted,” he says, half-amused, half-annoyed.
“Seems like a skill problem on your part,” you snipe back, flustered.
A slow, dangerous smile curls his lips, and you immediately regret your words. Of course he’s not insulted. Of course he sees them as some kind of a challenge. You’re starting to understand why people call him Park the Shark, because the look he gives you is downright predatory.
“No,” you say immediately. “Absolutely not.”
You try wiggling out of his arms and fail spectacularly.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Your face did the-, the thing.”
“Smiling?”
“Yes. Smiling. That. It’s not your natural state. It signals danger.”
The smile widens.
“You’re lucky we have that early meeting. Otherwise you’d be paying for your skill comment.”
And you must be spending too much time around him, because instead of blushing and shrinking, you meet his eyes and say-
“Promise?”
The two of you are almost late to said meeting.
Which, for you, isn’t that unheard of, but you see Brendon get some weird looks from a couple of the residents and Dr. Lee. He responds to all of them with a curled lip and icy glare, and everyone looks away quickly. You hide a smile from where you stand across the room.
Besides Wilts — who Brendon had assured you will say nothing if she values her life — no one at PTMC knows the two of you are together. Some people in the ED suspect probably, and Patty and her smug smile definitely know, but no one has any proof. The two of you had decided only days after that first kiss to keep things quiet. At least for now.
You’d had a meeting with Dr. Nayar — the director of the CMU/PTMC research collaborative — that Monday, and he’d let slip that PTMC would soon be looking for a new head for its Operational Research and Development Department. The not-so-accidental lapse had been a not-so-subtle suggestion that you apply for the position when it posted, and you’d left that meeting and immediately called one of your cohort members to freak out. Then when Brendon had finished surgery two hours later, you’d done the exact same thing with him.
The position is exactly what you’ve been looking for — a role focusing on research and technical processes, but directly attached to a clinical institution. Even better, it’s at PTMC, where you’ve built the majority of your adaptive patient flow model. You already know the hospital, know the key players and know how things operate. Even better better, Brendon is here. It’s way too soon to be making any decisions based on your month-and-some-change old relationship, but him being here is certainly a bonus.
The two of you had discussed it that night over Thai takeout. Nothing was guaranteed — Nayar’s words had been a tip, not a promise — but you also know that he wouldn’t have told you about the job unless he’d heard some hint that the hospital wanted your research. Brendon had listened to your explanation and agreed. But in between harassing you to eat your chicken, not just the noodles, and being insufferably smug on your behalf, he’d quietly reminded you that your relationship could have ramifications if you decided to apply.
“It’s going to be a competitive process. You can’t give them any reason to think you didn’t earn the position on your own.”
Which would probably make dating the hospital’s star orthopedic surgeon a no-no. He has nothing to do with your dissertation or your research, but you know that won’t make a difference if someone is looking for a reason not to hire you. Or if someone is looking for a way to make themselves look like a better candidate.
The reminder is pragmatic, necessary. But it still knocks you off-kilter. You sit across from him, picking at your noodles and feeling upset about possibly having to hide your relationship because of a possible job that you might possibly apply to. It’s absolutely ridiculous and yet still enough to ruin your appetite.
The longer you stew on your thoughts, the worse it gets. He’s older, successful, makes stupid money and looks like an action movie hero. You’re a grad student with grad student-money and anxiety. You’re not shallow enough to think those differences make you worth any less, but that doesn’t mean jack to your overactive doom-spiral. Of course no one can know you’re together. Of course-
“What,” Brendon asks when you’re silent for too long.
You make a noncommittal noise and avoid eye contact. He mutters something that’s probably not very nice, and then stands from his chair and rounds the island. You’re expecting him to be upset with your inanity, annoyed at the very least, and you’re shocked when he spins you around, plants both hands on the counter behind you, and bends down to kiss you.
It’s not the soft kisses he gave you in the ED and right after. It’s also not the absolutely filthy kiss he gave you this morning before the two of you headed into the hospital. This is somewhere in between, slow and purposeful but not intended to lead to something else. You melt into it like you always do, arms sliding around his neck and fingers finding the shorter hairs at his nape.
“Ridiculous girl,” he huffs against your lips.
“I-“
“You know that day you brought me coffee? You were wearing that blue dress with the bow.”
Another kiss, this one deeper.
“I wanted to bend you over the charge desk and fuck you right there. That’s still on the table if you want it, but I figure we should at least wait until you have your job offer first.”
You smile now at the memory. Only Brendon could turn something so indelicate-sounding into a reassurance. It had worked though, and you’re content to keep things between the two of you for now. Even if it means you have to stand across the room from him and pretend you don’t know why his usually perfectly-styled hair is slightly less perfect this morning.
You’re observing the surgical department this week and the next. It’s one of the last departments you have to cover before you finish the field part of your research, and then all you’ll have left is finalizing your model and completing your manuscript. You were here yesterday, too, and you’ll admit that you like seeing Brendon in his element. He’s at his snappiest and snarliest here, and it does something unprofessional to your libido.
“Alright people, settle down.”
Dr. Konomori, the Chief of Surgery, raises her voice to be heard over the early-morning chatter, and the noise eventually subsides. She’s a fierce Japanese woman in her late fifties who barely tops five foot, but she commands attention in a way men twice her size don’t.
“We all have cases to get to, so I’ll make this short. I’m sure you all know this is Dr. Ramirez’s last week with us before heading to Atlanta-“
A couple of good-natured boos sound from the crowd, but Konomori doesn’t blink.
“-so I’m here to introduce our new head of vascular, Dr. Everett Edwards. He comes to us from the Cleveland Clinic, but he’s a Pittsburgh native, so welcome back Dr. Edwards.”
A round of applause, surprisingly boisterous given the early hour, breaks out. You crane your head around the pair of residents in front of you. You know most of the speciality heads by now, but there are dozens of other attendings and residents that you’ve never met, so you’re not quite sure who you’re looking for. Then a man you’ve never seen steps up next to Dr. Konomori, and you actually let out a disbelieving snort.
Everett Edwards is quite possibly the most beautiful person you’ve ever seen. Raven hair, amber eyes bright enough you can see them from halfway across the room, and a blindingly white smile. He’s disturbingly attractive. Like uncanny valley levels of attractive. He’s slightly shorter and leaner than Brendon’s towering frame, but you can still tell the guy is built, even under his navy surgical scrubs and his white coat.
You’re legitimately calculating the odds that he’s some sort of robot or genetically engineered plant, when those amber eyes meet yours. It’s like looking at the freaking sun. You slow blink, trying to process the mutant demigod looking at you, and his smile widens. It goes from polite-charming to zeroed-in-charming, and you feel it like a slap across the face. Konomori then tells everyone to get back to work, and you’re relieved for all of three seconds before Edwards actually starts walking towards you.
You register several things when he stops in front of you. One, you have to tilt your head back to meet his eyes. Two, he smells like expensive cologne, something sharp that makes your nose twitch. And three, if looks could kill, he would be long-dead. Because Brendon catches sight of the two of you from where he’s standing by the charge desk, and the blue in his eyes goes positively arctic.
“Hi, you must be Y/n Y/l/n.”
Even his stupid voice is attractive.
“Um, yes, hi?”
Your gaze is pulled from Brendon’s attempt at first-degree murder back to the man in front of you.
“Everett Edwards, nice to meet you. Dr. Konomori told me a bit about your research here and that you’ll be with us for the next few days.”
He holds out his hand, and you shake it like it’s a snake waiting to bite you.
“I will-. Yes, Dr. Edwards, I-”
“Everett, please. I’ll be doing a lot of observation this week before Dr. Ramirez leaves, so we’ll likely run into each other quite a bit. Dr. Edwards just sounds pretentious.”
He gives you another megawatt grin, this one conspiratorial and intimate. Twenty-year-old you would probably have combusted on the spot. Current you isn’t immune to the charm, but you’re not nearly as impressed by it as you would have been once upon a time. He might be the sun given form — all bright and golden and warm — but you prefer the cool. Oceans and ice and blue so sharp it steals your breath.
“Right, well. Everett. I have to get over to OR five, but it was nice to meet you.”
You give him your most professional smile and basically bolt away from him. It’s done with absolutely no grace and probably isn’t the most polite thing you could do, but you don’t care. You can feel his amusement following you down the hall. You head towards the surgical suites and are about to pull out your phone to text Brendon when an arm hooks around your waist and drags you sideways.
“What-“
You catch a flash of burning cerulean before Brendon’s mouth is on yours. Your back meets something solid, and then he’s pressed against you from shoulder to hip. His hands fist your hair to angle your head how he wants, and he kisses you harshly, all tongue and teeth. Lightning shoots through you.
“Bren,” you gasp when he lets you breathe. “What are you doing?”
A quick glance around tells you he’d pulled you into an on-call room, and anyone could walk in at any time.
“Asshole’s been here five seconds,” he mutters in response, scowling.
“What?”
“The Ken doll eye-fucking you. Doesn’t even have a permanent parking pass yet, and he’s already trying to take things that aren’t his.”
Understanding dawns like a lightbulb.
“Are you jealous?”
A slow, delighted smile spreads across your face, and he fairly growls at you.
“No, and don’t look at me like that.”
“Brendon. He shook my hand and said nice to meet you.”
“Stop looking so fucking smug.”
“Stop being jealous.”
“I’m not jealous you nutcase . I’m pissed off that he’s flirting with you in front of the whole fucking department, while I have to pretend I don’t know what you sound like coming on my cock.”
Now it’s his turn to smirk while your face flames.
“We’re at work,” you hiss.
“Which part of I would happily fuck you in the middle of reception was unclear to you?”
Insufferable man.
But he’s your insufferable man, and you smile despite yourself. Sighing, you stretch up on your toes to kiss him again. He puts up a token resistance for approximately two seconds, then relents and makes a low sound against your mouth. Your hum in contentment and wiggle as close to him as possible.
“It’s not about me,” you say when you pull back a while later.
You place one hand on his chest and rub your fingers lightly against the fabric of his scrubs.
“He’s just a flirt. He’ll figure out pretty quickly I’m not interested and start wooing someone else.”
He scowls and presses a kiss to your jaw.
“He fucking better.”
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Turns out Everett Edwards is much more patient than you gave him credit for.
It’s now the following Friday, and he’s spent the last two weeks charming the pants off every person in the department. At least two nurses and one of the plastics attendings have already shot their shot with him, and everyone else seems close on their heels. Everyone except Brendon, who is one twitch away from physical violence, and you.
Edwards is charismatic, you’ll give him that. He’s smart, well-spoken, and has a way of talking to people that makes them feel like they’re the only person in the world. He’s quick with a smile or a joke, and he isn’t afraid to poke fun at himself either. That’s what makes him so likable, you think. He doesn’t pretend false modesty, but he also doesn’t take himself too seriously.
He’s also admirably, irritatingly, persistent.
The Tuesday you met him, he’d followed you to the observation room of OR five. You’d been there to study technical procedures — anything that could improve efficiency and accuracy and reduce margin of error — and had only a basic grasp of what was actually happening medically. Edwards had been all too happy to camp out next to you and explain the spring-mediated cranioplasty.
Wednesday, he’d brought doughnuts for everyone and had saved one for the genius trying to make our lives more efficient.
On Friday, he’d found you observing another surgery and had complimented your work ethic with alarming sincerity.
Then this Monday, he’d caught you before rounds and had invited you to watch him perform a carotid endarterectomy. For the model he’d said with a wink.
By Wednesday, Brendon was ready to chew through drywall.
“I’m going to stab him with an eleven blade,” he grumbles against your hair.
The two of you are lying in his bed, clothes scattered somewhere on the floor and sheets tangled around bare legs. He’s on his back with you half-draped across his chest. One of his arms is hooked around your waist, and his fingers are gentle as they card through the ends of your hair despite the irritation in his voice.
“Dramatic,” you tease.
You shift so you can see him, arms braced on his chest. The sight of him — naked, flushed, softer than anyone else knows he can be — steals your breath momentarily. You can’t help but bend down to kiss him.
“You know I’m not interested,” you say when you pull back.
He scowls like you just spit on his mother’s grave.
“Of course I know that. I just don’t know why you haven’t told him to fuck off yet.”
“I-“
His large hands grab your hips and yank you up until you’re sitting on his lap. You gasp when the movement drags your bare cunt over his cock. He’s already half-hard again, and he smirks when your hips twitch down involuntarily. You’re still sensitive from him being inside of you not long ago, and you have no idea how he can possibly be ready for another round so soon.
“Cut it out you heathen,” you hiss. “I was going to say that I can’t tell him off, because he hasn’t done anything yet.”
It’s true. Edwards hasn’t given you any gifts, hasn’t paid you any non-professional compliments, hasn’t made any physical advances. He hasn’t done anything that could be considered inappropriate. He’s just…attentive.
Brendon is thoroughly unimpressed by your logic, and he retaliates by rolling his hips up against yours. It punches an embarrassing noise out of you.
“Aren’t you all about planning and being prepared for things?” he asks as he drags his rapidly hardening cock directly against your clit. “Tell him to fuck off proactively.”
“I can’t-, ah. He’s not doing anything you caveman.”
“He’s pebbling.“
“What?”
You actually yelp when he sits up abruptly and rolls the two of you over. He’s annoyingly agile for someone his size.
“Pebbling. He’s bringing you pebbles like a fucking penguin, and if he doesn’t stop, I’m going to stab him with an osteotome.”
Whatever response you would have given disappears when he slides into you with one, deep thrust. You make a choked noise and reach immediately to brace your hands on his chest. He groans, low and filthy, and hikes one of your legs up on his hip. The new angle makes your head spin.
“You’re mine, imp.”
Needless to say, Brendon is less than thrilled when Edwards approaches you now. You’re standing at the charge desk, scribbling in the margins of your notebook, while Brendon stands on the opposite side taking to Patty. Edwards slides up next to you with his normal Crest-commercial grin firmly in place, looking flawless despite the ungodly hour. One thing you definitely will not miss about observing surgery is their ridiculous start times.
“Hey, doc,” he greets.
“Not a doctor yet,” you reply automatically.
“Why, you planning on failing your defense?”
Your jaw drops.
“Of course not! And don’t put bad vibes out in the universe. What is wrong with you?”
He laughs and raises his hands in mock surrender.
“See? You’re going to pass, and you’ll be Dr. Y/l/n in no time.”
You smile despite yourself.
“I appreciate the vote of confidence.“
“Anytime. Speaking of which, are you going to research gala Sunday?”
It takes you a second to process the rapid shift in topics.
“Um, yes? How-, are you invited?”
The CMU/PTMC research collaborative was hosting its yearly gala to attract sponsors. The goal was to showcase some of their joint projects and emphasize the potential for both medical progress as well as financial growth. You’re not a fan of the latter, but you know it’s inevitable in the medical-industrial complex. All current grad students are expected to attend, and you’ve been waffling between excitement at a chance to dress up and dread over prolonged forced-socialization.
“Alumni have a standing invitation,” he answers with a wink.
You can’t help it. You risk a glance over at Brendon and wince when you see the stormy expression on his face. Even if you two weren’t keeping things on the down low right now, he’s on call this weekend. The hotel hosting the gala is just outside the twenty minute call radius, and he wouldn’t have been able to attend with you regardless.
“I’ll see you there?” Edwards asks, oblivious to your silent stare-off.
Well now your choices are lie or send Brendon into the stratosphere.
Brendon will be fine.
“Yes,” you answer. “I’m actually doing one of the lightning talks.”
Edwards’ face lights up.
“That’s amazing! I look forward to hearing it; I’m sure you’re going to do great.”
He keeps talking, something about a friend who’s also giving a talk and another friend who something something. You don’t hear him. You’re too busy looking at Brendon, who meets your gaze with his lip curled just enough to mean danger.
Summary: You meet Logan at a bar after your brother's hockey team loses their game. Only after finding yourself falling for him do you find out that he is John Logan, a beast on the ice and your brother's rival.
Ahead: Angst (secret lovers), lying to your brother, minor smut (nothing too crazy), Logan being a sexy man (obvs)
You grew up in a major hockey family. All of your uncles, your dad, your brother and your cousins were die hard for the Bruins and never missed a game. While you wouldn’t consider yourself a fanatic like your family, you did enjoy your fair share of hockey. You loved the unpredictability of the game, the attitudes and how no one was afraid of getting messy.
Your brother was accepted to Boston University the year before you were. While you got into BU on academic merit, he got in for hockey. A full ride came with his acceptance along with a spot of the hockey team. Everyone was ecstatic, you included. You loved your brother, even if he did have an inflated ego.
It was the biggest game for Boston of the season other than playoffs. Boston was playing their biggest rivals, Briar. Briar was known for the ferocious game play on the ice. Their line up was nothing to sniff at and everyone of the Boston team knew that.
Your brother was shitting bricks for weeks leading up to the game. He bit his nails to the quick, and was talking strategy every second he could. Most of all, he was smack talking all the players.
“Graham is a monster, but I’m more worried about Logan. He’s a snake.” Your brother explained, pacing in front of you during what was meant to be a study session. He was failing English literature and you were tasked by your parents to get his grade up. So far, it was a lost cause.
While you didn’t care to investigate the Briar team the way your brother did, you still showed up to his game with a proud smile and your red and white BU jersey on. You sat in the stands with your fellow BU students, cheering for the goals and cringing as you watched your brother get boarded twice by Briar’s number 22, some guy named Logan. You recalled your brother calling him a snake, but seeing him in action was a different story.
While you knew you shouldn’t, you couldn’t help but admire this allusive Logan as he skated. He was fast and aggressive, the type of player that knew your next move before you even did. You watched him like a hawk (ironic), not even noticing how badly your brother’s team was losing until it was over. Not only did Boston lose, they lost badly. You knew your brother would be sulking all night and while a part of you knew it was the right thing to go comfort him, a larger part of you itched to do the opposite.
The game was on Briar’s turf, allowing you explore the city that was so close to Boston yet worlds away. You texted your brother, letting him know would catch up with him later and decided to skip out on the bus home. You threw on a plain sweatshirt to cover your Boston jersey and join the throngs of Briar students that were celebrating.
It didn’t take long for you to follow the groups of students to a nearby pub called Malone’s. The music was loud and the drinks were flowing. You headed to the bar, watching the groups hanging out with a smile.
“Can I buy you a drink?” A voice rang out.
You turned towards the voice, your eyes connecting with sweet brown ones surrounded by dark lashes. He’s like a Greek god standing over you, his height could be seen as intimidating, but his award winning smile and the kind of chocolate colored locks that would put 90s Leonardo Dicaprio to shame. His large biceps poke out from under the Briar U hockey tee shirt he is wearing and you fight the want to take a bite out of them.
You match his dazzling smile, “Sure.”
You discuss all things hockey with the handsome stranger. He knows even more than you do, making you suspect that he is a Briar U hockey player. As you talk, you find yourself lost in his words. He is as naturally charming as he is pretty to look at. You’ve downed half your drink when a blonde guy pops up next to him, smacking shoulder.
“Logan! There you are!” The blonde laughs, obviously drunk.
You pause mid-sip. Logan. As in number 22? As in the guy your brother referred to as a snake and got wrecked by? Fuck.
“I’ve been here the whole time, Dean.” Logan matches his friend’s laughter, “You’re the one who has been hanging out in the bathroom with what’s her name.”
“Yeah,” Dean reminisces before crinkling his brow. “What is her name?”
Logan cackles at that as Dean walks away with a shrug, not at all bothered by his drunken confusion. Logan turns back to you, seeing you lost in thought and not nearly as joyful. Logan touches your knee, making you turn your head.
“You okay?” Logan asked, running his thumb over the fabric of jeans.
You purse your lips. Before looking at Logan again, you were contemplating how you were going to slip away and get back to Boston without him noticing. Now, looking at the Greek god in front of you, your brain has taken a full 180.
“I’m fine.” You lean forward, your flirtatious smile returns and you lean closer. “So, Logan, tell me about your win tonight.”
Logan grinned, finding your forwardness and hockey knowledge refreshing and endearing.
“Would love to.”
Logan slammed you into the bathroom door, your lips attached in a heated kiss that took your breath away. His stubble tickled the soft skin of your cheeks in a way that made you pull him closer by his sides. Logan scooped you up, placing you on the edge of the sink and stepped between your parted thighs. He pulled back just enough to press his lips against your throat, his teeth nipping at the thin skin between being soothed by his tongue.
“Logan,” You whimpered, wrapping your legs around him to pull him against you.
“Speak up, angel.” Logan grunted, tugging at the edge of your sweatshirt. “Want to hear you.”
You yanked the top over your head, leaving you in your lacy bra and Logan sucked in a breath. You tossed the top somewhere on the bathroom floor. “Touch me.”
Logan didn’t need to be told twice. He dived in like a man starved and by the end of your encounter you were both spent. Your sweaty skin stuck to one another, lips attached as everything slowed back down. Logan kissed the crown of your head, then your forehead and trailing back down to your lips. You were both smiling as your lips met.
“I have to get going before the last bus leaves,” You whispered, pecking his lips a final time before patting his back to signal that you were getting up.
Logan’s eyebrows creased, helping you grab your clothes from the floor, “Bus?”
“Yeah,” You breathed, unsure of how to bring up that you were not from Briar.
Suddenly, you didn’t need to explain yourself as Logan helped up your Boston jersey. He held the red and white shirt with a look of disgust.
“Boston?” He spat out, bewildered. “For a girl who knows a lot about hockey you’re rooting for a shitty team.”
You snatched the shirt out of his hand. “For your information, my brother is on the team and I go there too.”
Logan nodded, trying not to judge, taking advantage of your undressed state to eye you up and use the visual to force out any thoughts of Boston. “Who’s your brother?”
You told Logan his name as you yanked on your jeans and Logan let out a low whistle. “That guy hates me.”
“Yeah, I know.” You agreed, zipping up your heeled boots.
“And this was?” Logan looked for clarification, gesturing between the two of you.
You shrugged, “You’re hot. I think you’re a beast on the ice and charming.” You kissed his cheek, leaning forward to whisper next to his ear. “And now I know you’re a beast in other areas too.”
You pulled back grinning when you found a faint blush on his cheeks. He cleared his throat, trying to not appear as flustered as he feels, “Glad I’m meeting your standards.”
“Absolutely.” You threw your bag over your shoulder. “See you, Logan.”
Before you could open the door, Logan’s hand shot out, holding your arm. You raised an eyebrow at him.
“I’ll drive you home.” Logan declared, it was not a question or request.
You snorted. “It’s a 45 minute drive.”
“Don’t care. You’re not taking a bus.” He snatched his own clothes off the floor, pulling them on quickly and pulling his keys out of his pocket. He dangled them in front of you. “Let’s go, angel.”
That night started what you could only describe as a love affair between you and John Logan. Logan would drive the full 45 minutes to your dorm multiple times a week, sometimes even at ungodly hours just to have to leave early in the morning to make morning practice or classes.
At first, each meet up revolved around sex. The two of you went at it on any stable surface in your dorm. Each time, you would end the encounter with a longing stare, like you both had something more to say but didn’t know where to start.
Within a month of these meet ups, the encounters changed. Logan would come over and the two of you would order food and just hang out. You’d fall asleep in his arms with a show playing on your laptop, completely content to just be together.
Your relationship went from an ongoing hook up to one full of real feelings. He told you about his family, his goals, his passions. You shared your life with him too, but you had to keep things quiet. He understood this, knowing your brother would flip if he found out.
He introduced you to his friends, not finding any reason to keep you a secret from his friends. You fell in easily with his friend group, your hockey knowledge winning over the guys and your natural charm winning over the girls. You were wonderful and Logan felt at peace with you.
It was a Sunday morning when shit hit the fan. Logan was wrapped around in your bed, his warmth surrounding you with a sheet draped over your naked bodies. Logan had arrived yesterday evening after an early practice, taking you out to a restaurant that he had saved up for. Your evening together was perfect and as Sunday rolled in, neither of you had any desire to move.
You ran a hand through his thick hair, scraping your nails against his scalp in a way that made him keen like a cat. You smiled, pecking his cheek.
“I don’t want to go back to Briar.” Logan admitted. “Not without you.”
You scoffed, “That might be hard to do when I go to school 45 minutes away.”
“You could transfer.” Logan suggested, looking at you in that teasing way with a hint of seriousness behind his eyes.
You sunk down in the mattress, Logan moved to loom over you. “I wish. I’d have to explain that to my brother.”
Logan paused. “What if… we told him?”
You blinked up at Logan. “What?”
“I mean, we’re in a real relationship. I want this to last and I think your brother knowing we’re together is a part of that. I mean, do you think we’re serious, too?” Logan explained, trying not to sound too pathetic.
You ran your hands over his broad shoulder, biting your lip. “Of course this is serious, Logan.”
Logan breathed out a sigh of relief.
You continued, “But we need to introduce him to us slowly. I don’t want him to hate you any more than he already does from hockey.”
Logan nodded, understanding where you were coming from. “Slowly. I can do slowly.”
You smirked, pulling him towards you, “Can you?”
Logan returned your smirk, “Absolutely.”
Logan decided to show you how slow and careful he could be in a completely unrelated way. Without any clothes in the way, you soon found yourself consumed by Logan. Your hands were pinned down next to your head and he slowly thrusted into you, his lips running over your bare skin while letting out desperate noises.
“L-Logan,” You moaned, tugging on his hair and pulling him closer.
Logan groaned into your ear, letting himself take his time with you. You were so consumed with one another, you didn’t even notice your door being unlocked or creaking open until it was too late.
“Morning, sis! I brought-” Your brother’s voice rang out, cheery as he held up a paper bag containing breakfast burritos.
The next few moments was a blur of chaos. The paper bag hit the ground with a thud, you shrieked, Logan let out a noise of surprise and your brother yelled out, “what the fuck.”
You pulled the sheet against your chest as Logan shielded you with his large frame. Your brother’s eyes were wide in shock, then narrowed in disgust.
“Logan?” Your brother seethed. “You’re fucking John Logan? The guy I’ve been calling a snake all year?” His voice was raising, your heart was pounding.
“We-I-” You couldn’t even speak. All of your words were jumbled in your mind and none of them were escaping correctly.
Logan spoke up. “We’re in a relationship. She’s my girlfriend.” He looked at your brother in a serious manner, standing from the bed and grabbing his pants nearby.
Your brother rolled his eyes, looking away from the scene. “How did this even happen? How did-” He froze, connecting the dots. “The game. You stayed back, didn’t you?”
You nodded slowly, gulping. Tears stung your eyes as he stared at you in disdain. “I didn’t mean for this to happen like this. I wanted-”
“She wanted to tell you slowly. She cares about what you think, dude.” Logan spoke for you again, reaching down to squeeze your hand supportively.
Your brother’s chest rose and fell, turning back to the two of you. He looked at your inner locked finger and his shoulders slumped.
“Is this for real?” He asked, looking for a clear answer.
You both nodded, Logan’s loving gaze leaving you to fix your brother with a firm look. “Completely serious.”
Your brother paced, “If you’re serious… I-” He looked back at you, seeing the tears pricking your eyes. “I want you to be happy, sis.”
You smiled gently, “I am.”
Your brother pursed his lips, “Then I can get behind this,” He pointed a finger at Logan. “But that doesn’t make you less of a snake on the ice.”
Logan held up a hand in surrender. “And I won’t stop boarding you every chance I get.”
Your brother cracked a smile. “As long as we’re on the same page.”
I hope you enjoyed! Feel free to drop a request in my ask box!
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.”
Reblog with your thoughts on the chapter to be added to my off campus taglist :)
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.”
Reblog with your thoughts on the chapter to be added to my off campus taglist :)
warnings: smuttttt, pinv, breeding kink, creampie, oral fem!recieving, dirty talk, spitting, maybe a lil rushed (sorry I'm a still not the best smut writer) not proof read!!!
summary: after seeing how good Sidney is with kids, you can't get the thought of having his kid out of your mind.
quick note: Just for context, this is intended to be a slightly younger Sid fic (like in his mid to late twenties, hence the concern about his career)
more below the cut ⬇️⬇️⬇️
Sidney had always been good with kids. From the way he interacted with the little penguins, to your nieces and nephews, he was a natural. Playful, kind hearted, and gentle when he needed to be- you'd watched him pass pucks with eight year olds, heckling them playfully, seeing the way his face would absolutely light up with joy. Better yet, you'd also watched how soft he would become when tears were shed, his face growing serious as he'd tend to a child who'd broken down for any number of reasons. The way Sidney would take a knee beside them, gently putting an arm over them if they were comfortable, listening to their grievances and encouraging them to keep going— Gosh there was something about that, that just...you weren't sure. But it made you feel a certain way.
You didn't mention anything to Sidney though. It was just your hormones acting up probably. That was until your sister and her kids came over one afternoon.
You'd obviously seen Sidney with your niece and nephew before, but something about this time was different. He was just extra attentive, extra sweet, and extra dad material.
You sat in the backyard with your sister, both of you sipping at drinks as Sidney was in the yard quite literally rolling in the grass with the kids, your eyes locked on the scene in front of you even as you sister yapped away to you about something you'd tuned out about ten minutes ago.
"Hey." You looked up at your sister as she raised a brow at you. "You've been zoned out the entire time haven't you."
You cringed a little, sheepishly nodding. "Sorry- yeah, you're gonna have to start the story over."
She didn't care about the story, her eyes instead flickering to where you stared at Sidney, then back to you. "Yknow...as much as kids are a lot of work...they're worth it."
Your head snapped to face her, an almost defensive look in your expression. "Why are you bringing that up?"
She scoffed a little, rolling her eyes at. your false innocence. "I see the way you're looking at him. The way you're picturing those being your own kids."
"I'm not-"
"Y/n you don't need to be defensive about it geez. Just- think about it. I'm sure if you asked him he'd say yes. You'd be great parents.”
"But he's got so much going on, I couldn't ask him to suddenly become a dad. we’ve only been married a year…”
"And dating for what…five, six years? Why don't you actually ask him first instead of speculating."
As in on cue, there was a loud yelp from a few feet away, both you and your sister looking up, only to be met with the sight of Sidney laying flat on his stomach in the grass, both your niece and nephew on top of him, pinning him down. Sid lifted his head to look up at you, a stupidly large grin on his face "Help!"
You smiled in return. A big, warm smile that had butterflies fluttering in your stomach. Fuck. Yeah...you were going to need to have that conversation soon.
A week later you were curled in Sidney’s lap, his fingers idly moving through your hair as you watched a movie (Gladiator, his pick) and though he was dialled in, all you could think about was a baby. The drone of the tv faded as you became hyper aware of the thigh your head was rested on, a stirring in your gut as you shifted a little. Sid's fingers stopped, his gaze flickering down to you as you readjusted and he tilted his head. "You okay?"
"Yeah."
He studied you with that gaze that could see right through you no matter how much you tried to hide. You recoiled a little, knowing he'd caught you as he reached for the remote to pause the movie. "You're lying."
"Sid, I'm fine I was just readjusting. Your thighs are too muscly."
A ghost of a smirk pulled at his lip at your comment, but he shook his head dismissively. "I know when my girl is thinking about something."
You huffed defiantly, but sat up, moving to crawl onto his lap, thighs straddling his hips as a mildly surprised expression filled Sidney's face, his hands settling naturally on your waist.
"Just thinking about you," You murmured softly. "How handsome you are."
There it was. Now he knew what you wanted (or at least he thought he did). "So that's what's bothering you? You're horny?"
You couldn't help the mildly embarrassed giggle that left your lips as he called you out...if only he knew the half of it. You were horny, yeah...and you really really wanted to be pregnant. It didn't help that your brain was foggy from ovulation, hormones raging and begging to be fucked. Fucked and filled.
"Maybe..." you traced a finger down his chest, eyes flickering up to meet his which had darkened significantly.
About two minutes later, Sidney was stumbling into your bedroom, your lips interlocked and legs wrapped around his waist as he carried you into the room throwing you onto the mattress with haste. You were both flushed already, hair askew, chest heaving as you watched him tear off his shirt, tossing it somewhere into the abyss before he crawled on top of you. How you managed to pull such a sexy man was beyond you.
Sidney's mouth was everywhere, his hands making quick work of taking off your clothing piece by piece until you were in nothing but soaking panties. He kissed at your tits, moving down your body in an almost reverent manner, pausing just below your belly button as his pretty brown eyes flicked up to meet your eager gaze. "This what my girl wants? For me to eat her perfect pussy?"
You didn't respond, simply gasping in response as he pushed your panties aside, his thumb circling your clit with no warning as you shivered under his touch, hand reaching out to thread your fingers through his hair. "Sid..."
He ignored you, focusing pack on your weeping cunt, licking his lips like a man starved before he dove in. He'd always been good with his tongue, catching onto the subtle noises you'd make as a sign of if he should go faster, deeper, slower, etc. He knew your body like it was his very own, relishing in the way he could make you fall apart in seconds. He pulled back after a few moments, lips and chin shiny with your arousal, a blush tinting your cheeks at the sight. "You never answered. Was this what my girl wanted?"
You opened your mouth to respond, hesitant, then before you could even critically think over your next words you blurted out. "I want a baby."
Sidney froze. His thumb stilled as he lifted his head a little bit more to get a better look at you. His brow had scrunched as he tried to make sense of what you just said and if his hearing was shot or something.
"You want a what?"
"Baby-" You confessed, cheeks burning now. You couldn't go back. "I want a baby."
A million different emotions flickered in Sidney's eyes as he processed your words, the room thick with silence. "Beautiful...are you only saying that because you're horny and mush brained or are you for real?"
"I'm for real." You blurted it out so fast his brow raised in shock at your eagerness. "Sid I'm so for real I've been thinking about it for so long...I just- I know it might be selfish and might mess with your hockey plans...you're at the height of your career and I understand if it's too much but-"
"Selfish?" He cut you off. "Selfish of you for wanting a baby? When you'd be the one pregnant and giving birth? In what world is that selfish?" He was genuinely appalled at the mere notion of you thinking your want for a child was unfair to him.
"I just...kids are so much work...and we only really talked about having them years down the road..."
"I meant for your sake. Years down the road so you could decide because I didn't want you to feel any sort of pressure!"
You processed his words, brow furrowed as you thought through what he was saying. "So you didn't bring up kids because of me?"
"Not because of you...just- for you. So you could decide on your own without feeling like you had to do what I wanted..."
So he wanted kids. This was what he wanted too. Your heart skipped a beat at the realization that you two had clearly not communicated as much as you thought you had. "I want one. I want to be a mom- and watch you be a dad... gosh I want to watch you be a dad..." You said it in an almost breathless tone, your throat bobbing as you confessed. And that was all Sidney needed.
"Then I guess I'm getting my girl pregnant."
If you weren't turned on before, you were dripping now, nodding eagerly as Sidney's eyes darkened yet again. And then he was upon you, leaving where you'd left off. His mouth found it's place back over your pussy, resuming his previous ministrations with added vigour. This wasn't just sex now- no this was a fucking mission. He was getting you pregnant tonight no matter how long it took.
You were a mess as he licked and sucked without mercy, pushing a finger inside of you before you could even react. His name fell from your lips, fingers tightening in his hair, and before you could process anything- you were already cumming. Sidney looked up at you with a shit eating grin as your back arched off the bed, chest heaving.
"Holy fuck-"
You didn't even have time to go on about the whirlwind of feelings you'd just experienced before he was crawling up the expanse of your body, pressing his lips to yours. You gladly accepted, grinning as you tasted yourself on his mouth. He pulled back, one hand coming up to grip your jaw as he pushed a thumb into your cheek, forcing you to open up, and without a second thought, Sidney spat into your mouth. Your eyes remained locked on his as you swallowed, cheeks flushed as if this was the most scandalous thing he’d done yet and he hadn’t just devoured your pussy a second ago. "You like that don't you?"
Your cheeks burned even more, nodding a little as he groaned, kissing you long and hard once again. "Bet you'd like when I fuck my cum into you even more."
An obscene noise left you at that as your eyes squeezed shut. "Stop saying it and do it then-"
Sidney quirked an eyebrow, an evil gleam lighting up his eyes. "Is that a challenge?" He gripped your thighs, forcing them open. "Don't test me you fucking slut."
Sidney didn't miss out on the way your pussy clenched at his words, another wry laugh falling from him as you emphasized his point. You were a slut for him. You reached out, fingers gripping at the buckle of his belt in a silent plea, finding it incredibly unfair that he was only missing a shirt while you were bare for him to see all he wanted. He slapped your hand away, letting out a small "tsk" as he undid his belt himself. "Impatient. All you can think about is cock."
He got that right. You didn't deny it as you watched, mouth watering as he did what felt like a cruel strip tease, undoing his belt agonizingly slow, then his fly.... "Sidney please."
That was enough. Normally he was a far more patient man. Normally he could tease you for hours on end, making you cum a dozen times on his tongue and have you sobbing his name. But he couldn't hold it back anymore.
"Fucks sake I need to be inside you."
Sidney crawled off the bed, fully pulling his pants off, tossing them away before he kicked his boxers next, his agonizingly slow pace suddenly turned to rushed and desperate, his cock showing how worked up he'd gotten from licking your pussy. Thick, angry red, and leaking. You squeezed your legs together at the sight, almost giddy with excitement as you scooted up the bed, laying back to let him return to his position above you. Rough hands maneuvered your body, twisting you to their will as Sidney pressed your thighs back, bending you nearly in half. "Gotta get a deep enough angle," He reasoned, smirking as he pushed a finger inside of your puffy cunt, as if you hadn't already been prepped enough... "deeper inside, better chance of it sticking hm?"
You let out a tiny mewl at that, nodding in agreement as your hips rolled, grinding into his finger. And then he was pulling his hand away, moving to grip his dick as he gave himself a few firm strokes, groaning at the feeling. You quivered, his head brushing against your entrance. You desperately wanted to beg for him to just fuck you already but you knew if you spoke he'd undoubtedly drag this all out longer solely to rile you up more. Any command or even mere whining from you resulted in him only teasing you longer- and right now you couldn't handle that. You needed this. If Sidney was being honest, he didn't want to spend time teasing you right now either. He was just as pent up as you...your horniness was contagious. He lined himself up, fully pushing the tip of his cock inside you, the two of you letting out matching gasps as you stiffened a little, bracing yourself.
"Ease up baby. Y'know it's harder to conceive when you're stressed."
"So you're a doctor now?" Your words came out strained, the fact that he was slowly stretching you open on his cock made it quite the task to mutter sassy words at him. Instead of shutting you up with a smart retort, Sidney thrusted forward without warning, earning a shrill squeal from you as he filled you completely.
"Always so mouthy," He commented under his breath, moving his free hand to press flat against your lower stomach , finger tapping on the soft flesh, making you squirm yet again at the sensation. "Look at that baby," He urged, causing you to crane your neck and peer down, eyes blown wide at the sight of the bulge. "Can't wait till this bump is from a baby and not just my cock huh?"
He was insufferable. Sexy, and insufferable as he watched your brows furrow, mouth falling open while he gave a roll of his hips. The stretch ached in a sickeningly delicious way as it always did, Sidney's body fitting yours like a puzzle piece that was made to fit you oh so perfectly. He picked up his pace eagerly, setting a rough rhythm that soon had the bed rocking, sound of skin on skin filling the room as you desperately reached to hold onto his shoulders, nails digging into his muscles as you braces yourself.
Sidney had fucked you raw before, sure. Back when you were on birth control, you would have sex without a condom, but strictly around your period to avoid risk. Now? Now felt different. The lack of condom carried an extra weight knowing you weren't on anything. Somewhere within the steady pace of his cock driving into you, Sidney leaned close, kissing your neck. "You even ovulating baby? Or am I gonna have to do this every day until you are?" He panted against your skin, grinning wickedly as he felt your pussy clench around him in response.
The timing was fortunate. Then again, maybe the baby fever had been hitting extra hard because you were ovulating, managing a short nod of confirmation. "Uh huh-" was all you could squeak out. And suddenly, Sidney was grabbing your thighs, spreading you impossibly wider.
You sobbed his name as he fucked you with an added vigour, feeling his orgasm creeping closer as you left trails of red down his back, the sensation of your nails only making him groan more at your clear desperation. Fuck you loved him so much. You'd never been more sure about something in your life even if you were a little loopy from horniness.
Sidney's fingers creeped down to your clit, rubbing tight circles with his thumb, causing you to arch up into his touch as you sobbed his name, tears pricking at your eyes from the pleasure flowing through you. "Sid- I'm close please, please, please-"
He was breathing heavily, sweat forming on his brow as he kept his eyes locked on your face. “Please what? Huh?”
You let out a choked sob, trembling. “Please put a baby in me! I want you to put a baby in me-“
Sidney nearly growled, thrusts rougher, deeper if that was even possible. “You’d love that wouldn’t you. Let the whole world know you’re mine- that I knocked my girl up, made her mine, all round n’pretty…”
“Want that-“ you could barely squeak the words out now, toes curling at the angle of Sidney’s cock driving into you, making your vision blur
“I know beautiful. Gonna stuff you so full. Put a baby in you yeah? Breed you real good...Gonna be the prettiest mama," he was like a broken record, repeating his mantras as you felt the heat in your lower belly crawl upwards, burning with a familiar sensation.
You barely had time to warm Sidney, crying out his name before your pussy squeezed him so tightly he lost his pace, stuttering with a moan. Your orgasm hit like a truck, that band in your lower belly snapping without warning as you wailed, eyes squeezing shut, cumming harder than you had in ages, body spasming as Sidney's pace grew sloppy. He jolted, pressing himself impossibly deep as his hips stuttered, groaning curses as he finished, pumping rope after rope of cum deep inside you. He twitched, palm laying over your tummy as he finally collapsed next to you, still inside you, crushing you just slightly under his weight- not that you cared, too distracted by how he'd just fucked your brains out. The feeling of his release inside you was unlike anything— warm, deep, delicious. You were a little alarmed with how much you liked the feeling.
You were both silent, aside from your laboured breathing, both trying to reorient yourselves. After a beat, Sidney finally lifted his head, meeting your gaze, a bright grin on his lips.
"I think that was the best sex I've ever had," you whispered, earning a chuckle from him.
"Good. Because we're not done yet." You squeaked at his words as he slowly pulled out of you, the empty feeling lasting half a second before he pushed two fingers inside your puffy cunt. “Can’t waste any of this now can we?”
The pros of being married to a professional athlete? His stamina. The cons? His stamina.
“Siddddd—“
He perked up, tilting his head in an almost playful manner at your whine of protest. “Hey, if you’re seriously done I’m not gonna make you—“
“That’s not what that noise meant.”
He raised a brow, about to reply before you hooked a finger around the chain dangling from his neck, pulling him in for a sloppy kiss. You pushed your tongue into his mouth with a hunger that indicated that you indeed were ready for round two even if you’d whined about being tired.
You lost track of time. It could’ve been five hours for all you knew. Your brain was mush. you were a crumpled heap, bedsheets soaked, muscles made of jello as Sidney softly brushed the hair from your face, peppering you in kisses before he pulled away to watch cum drip from your used hole, pooling underneath you in a depraved display. He reached a slender finger down, scooping up some of the spill before he pushed it back in, your body twitching. “I wanna make sure it works.”
“Putting it back inside doesn’t make it more or less likely….”
He met your eyes as you gave him a look. He grunted in response, sticking his tongue out in response, earning a tired giggle. “Fine. I’ll stop making lame excuses. I just think it’s hot.”
“There’s the truth.”
“Gonna be so hot when you’re pregnant,” Sidney mumbled as he finally laid down beside you, pulling your flushed body into his, deciding to deal with clean up later. He just wanted to hold you for a moment now. “Is it safe to have sex while pregnant?”
You processed his words, his breath warm against your neck as he nuzzled you. The answer was yes, you knew that. But you grinned to yourself. “No. It’s dangerous.”
You felt Sidney physically stiffen, lifting his head so he could look at you properly. “What??” He looked genuinely panicked.
“It’s ok… i know nine months is a long time but i can still give you head—“
“Baby, no- can I- can I eat you out still? That’s safe right? Fuck I didn’t know that was a thing, I thought it was perfectly okay to have sex as long as we’re gentle—“ he cut himself off as he noticed the twinkle in your eyes, immediately letting out a huff of air. “You little lying shit.”
“I just wanted to see your reaction.”
“You’re incredibly unfunny.”
“Hey. Behave. Maybe I’ll start a sex ban.”
“You’re the funniest person I’ve ever met, a naturally born comedian. And you’re really pretty. And I love you.”
You smiled against his lips as he kissed you in an act of apology for his comment.
“I love you too Sidney,” you mumbled against him. “And I hope we know what we’re doing.”
Roughly a month later, Sidney held you as you both gripped an upside down pregnancy test, your breathing shaky as you stared up at him. His free hand held onto yours so tightly it almost hurt.
“Count of three we look?”
He nodded in affirmation. “On three. One… two…”
You turned the test over, your heads snapping down to look at it. Two red lines. Clear as day.
