blurb: after a wild girls’ night out with hannah and allie to a local magic mike show, logan bites off more than he can chew when he shows up to pick up his tipsy girlfriend who’s feeling handsy…
warnings: fem!reader, suggestive, alcohol, established relationship, abs abs abs
John Logan prided himself on being an impeccably patient and responsible boyfriend.
You, however, incessantly challenged that on a daily basis.
Tonight was no different.
Allie, heartbroken and possessed by the recent breakup with Sean, exploded into action and dragged you and Hannah to a Magic Mike show run by a local dance company.
“Support the arts! Dance lives matter!” Allie all but chanted as the three of you had gotten ready in the dorm.
You and Hannah, in much need of a girls’ night, and of course, determined to help your friend recuperate after the messy separation, took it all with an easy stride and a mischievous craving for tantalizing fun.
Hence why the three of you were now stumbling outside the theatre post-show. All giggles and airy thoughts.
Logan arrived not long after your first call of distress.
Distress, perhaps, was not a fitting word for someone who so willingly submitted to the promising rush of the three pinkity drinkities you consumed.
“Hello?” You had hiccuped.
Logan could hear the knowing smile you had on your face even through the speaker.
“I take it girls’ night was a success?” He asked, already getting up from bed and putting on a jacket.
“A slam dunk, a home run, a goal in the net,” you replied with a breathy laugh.
“Where are you?”
He heard some rustling, your voice getting fainter as you presumably turned to speak to your friends. “Allie, where are we?”
Allie squinted at the sign, “It says Lexington and 6th Street.”
You returned to your phone, “Between Lexington and 6th.”
“By Rockside theatre and arts center!” He heard Hannah’s voice chime in.
Logan nodded despite you being unable to see it. “I will be there in 15 minutes. Are you girls outside or inside?”
“Outside,” you replied, watching as Hannah had to wrestle Allie’s phone away before she broke the 36 hour rule with Sean.
“Can you go back inside for me, please?” Logan asked nicely. You could hear the rumbling growl of his jeep’s engine starting.
“Back where the shirtless boys are? Tempting.”
You could practically picture the fond eye roll he probably made at your remark. “Back where it’s safe, gorgeous.” He clarified.
“The place is closed now, silly.”
He hummed in thought. “Okay. Sit tight. Don’t wander without Allie and Hannah.”
True to his word, he arrived 15 minutes later. You raised your arms up in celebration at the sight of the familiar car pulling up in front of you three.
He stepped out the jeep and rounded around to you. Your arms remained upright, awaiting your welcome hug. “Logan!”
He pulled you in with a soft kiss on your head. His eyes quickly assessed your whole body, silently running a prompt diagnostic to evaluate what level of tipsy you were currently exhibiting. His conclusion? A solid 4/10. Manageable.
His gaze turned to the other two musketeers; Hannah at a 3, and Allie at a striking 9. Not so manageable.
“Come on, let me get you guys back to the house,” Logan said, gesturing his head to the jeep.
Hannah shook her head, “Garrett’s coming to take Allie and I back to our dorm.”
“Guess I’m all yours,” you said in the sexiest tone you could muster in your state, running a finger down Logan’s chest.
Logan let out a huff of amusement and looked at the girls. “He say when he’s coming?”
“Should be another 10 minutes,” Hannah replied, now holding Allie’s head that kept lulling off to the side.
Logan, being the responsible and excellent man that he was, planted himself right there against the wall of the theatre and waited until Garrett arrived. He was not leaving Hannah and Allie to wait alone, in the dark, at night. Over his dead body.
“Aww, thanks, Logan,” Allie cooed, swaying in her step.
“Do you wanna wait in the car, Al? You’re moving very precariously,” he suggested, glancing at her from top to bottom with caution and care.
She shook her head, “Fresh air soothes me.” Though Logan didn’t think her statement was entirety factual, he let it slide, nodding politely.
You giggled, “You should’ve seen her on stage, Loge. She was a star.”
Logan raised his brows, “Oh yeah?”
Hannah nodded with an impressed smile, “Allie gave those boys a run for their money.”
Logan always knew Allie belonged on a stage, so hearing this was not shocking at all. He gave a supportive smile, “I bet.”
Allie raised her head off Hannah’s palm and looked at you and Logan, “Your girlfriend was the real stunner. Two of the dancers wanted her to come up for crowd work, but she declined both times.”
Logan froze.
He had to remind himself that he was not a possessive man so easily threatened by other males. Yet, Allie’s slurred comment raised alarm bells.
“Yeah?” His eyes settled on you.
Your cheeks warmed a little, and you shook your hand dismissively. “Audience participation is a big part of these strip shows. I was probably just the most convenient target since I sat by the aisle.”
“Once is convenience, twice is favoritism,” Allie sang.
Hannah looked at you, “I sat by the aisle too and they didn’t ask me,” she reminded.
“Face it, babes. You’re hot stuff,” Allie said with a wink before nearly tripping on her own feet if Hannah hadn’t been holding her arm.
This was all such useful information for Logan.
You hummed, appreciating the compliment and reveling in the flattery. “Thanks, Allie baby. But like I told you during the show, I don’t need a shirtless guy grinding up on me.”
Logan’s jaw ticked.
He was now leaning his arm on a spot on the wall that was by your head. You looked up at him through your lashes. Your wandering hand didn’t think twice before your palm settled on his abdomen. “Unless it’s you.”
Hannah and Allie giggled in that way only girls did when they were truly giddy.
Logan’s lips tugged into that easy smirk he mastered; not cocky enough to be a douche, but definitely not humble enough to pass for innocent.
His fingers wrapped around your wrist, keeping your hand right where it was. “Yeah?” His voice was lower, dangerously charismatic.
“Mhm, we got Magic Mike right here,” you responded, and he did not stop you when you lifted his cotton shirt up to reveal those glorious abs of his, sculpted from relentless hockey mornings and restless nights at the garage.
Logan had to bite his bottom lip to stop his mouth from splitting into a smug bastard’s grin. He shook his head in unserious exasperation, but really it was an excuse to lock in.
The girls and you chuckled freely, high off the drinks and fun night. Suddenly, the idea of Logan being a Magic Mike dancer seemed to be the most hilariously entertaining thing the three of you could imagine.
And because Logan was Logan—and what is Logan if not a devious charmer in sheep’s clothing—he put his free hand on the wall by the other side of your head, caging you in. The girls’ laughter doubled with accompanying squeals of hysteria.
You giggled too, feeling very much content and fine with this strapping 6 ft something hockey player holding you hostage against the wall with his fit body. You did not need any saving here.
Hannah snapped a quick photo that she would most definitely be sending into the group chat once morning comes.
Logan dipped his head down, teasing you by not kissing you, but staying right there in the crook of your neck. You felt his soft breathing against your skin. Goosebumps rippled through you, and you felt yourself squirm in place. Such sweet torture.
“Did they do this in the show?” Logan whispered by your ear.
You shook your head, “No, but now I wish they did.”
Logan pressed a kiss below your ear and pulled away, just in time, too, as Garrett’s black car pulled up right next to them.
Hannah and Allie sighed, “Our savior!” Allie breathed out in relief.
Garrett shot a curious and amused look Logan’s way, but did not ask follow-up questions. He simply guided his girlfriend and friend into his car. In similar fashion, Logan walked you over to his jeep with a hand on the small of your back.
Logan left you on aux duty, and he regretted his decision immediately when you played Pony by Ginuwine.
He shot you a look, but you were too busy dancing in the passenger seat to the music. Your eyes met his and you played oblivious to his reaction. Defeated, Logan simply shook his head with a smile and clipped his seatbelt on.
You were so getting it tonight.
this lowk sucks but i need to beat the writer’s block
pairing – garrett graham x nursing student!reader
summary – six shifts are more than enough to love someone, and one devastating loss leaves garrett holding his girlfriend through the worst night of her placement.
warnings – infant death, premature birth, neonatal intensive care, detailed medical procedures, neonatal deterioration and resuscitation, parental grief, emotional distress, guilt, panic, nightmares, crying
notes from me – um well u guys asked for angst but i am never breaking my babies up so 🧍🏼♀️ here we are. but based on these requests combined!
word count – 6.9k
The NICU makes medicine feel like magic performed by people with lanyards.
It’s breast milk measured into syringes instead of bottles, skin protected with dressings cut into pieces barely wider than her thumbnail, medication doses containing enough decimal points that she checks them three times before showing the nurse and then watches the nurse check them twice more.
The blood-pressure cuffs look like toys. The nappies seem physically impossible. The first time she changes one, she holds it between both hands and laughs because surely no human being is small enough to require something that could comfortably fit around her wrist.
Then she looks through the incubator wall at the baby waiting inside it, one pink foot no longer than the top joint of her thumb, and stops laughing.
The entire unit exists in a strange, permanent half-light. Curtains pulled around expressing mothers. Small lamps glowing beside incubators. Sunlight softened through blinds because some of the babies have not developed enough to tolerate the ordinary brightness of a hospital corridor.
There are alarms constantly, but never the same brutal chaos as emergency. Here, every sound seems to mean something specific. A heart rate creeping too high. Oxygen saturation dipping. A feeding pump finished. A sensor losing contact because somebody has kicked one astonishingly tiny leg with enough determination to dislodge it.
She loves it almost immediately. She loves the little name cards clipped to the incubators and the knitted blankets donated in colours no commercial nursery would ever select.
She loves watching parents learn how to change nappies through the side ports without disturbing six different wires. She loves the careful choreography of nurses turning babies whose bodies are still too fragile to decide their own position for very long.
She loves that a person can be born months before they are meant to be, skin translucent and lungs unfinished, and instead of everyone quietly accepting that the world has made a mistake, an entire team gathers around and says, alright. We’ll help.
There’s something almost obscene about the faith of it. Caffeine to remind an immature brain to keep breathing. Surfactant to help lungs stay open. Nutrition sliding through lines narrower than sewing thread. Warm air, filtered light and hands scrubbed clean moving through plastic doors to give a body weighing less than a bag of flour enough time to become ready for the world.
She has been on placement for six shifts when she decides the NICU might be the closest thing medicine has to a miracle.
For most of those shifts, she has been assigned to June. Not independently, she’s a student, not delusional.
Every movement she makes around June happens beneath the eye of Claire, the primary nurse who has worked neonatal intensive care long enough to change a line dressing while simultaneously calming an anxious father and reminding a junior doctor that the blood gas result he is searching for has been open on the screen in front of him for several minutes.
But June is hers in the strange, temporary way patients sometimes become yours during placement. She checks the monitors when she arrives. Helps with her cares. Watches Claire draw up medications and follows every calculation on paper until the numbers stop looking like a threat.
She records wet nappies with the seriousness of somebody documenting matters of national importance and learns which corner of June’s mouth lifts before she begins objecting to being handled.
June was born at twenty-four weeks and five days, weighing six hundred and eighty grams. She has lungs that require constant negotiation, a duct in her heart that has refused to close properly, and a list of complications long enough that her parents keep the consultant’s explanations written inside a small notebook because exhaustion has made memory unreliable.
Maya and Daniel arrive every morning carrying takeaway coffees and looking like they haven’t slept properly since June was born.
By her third day, she knows Maya drinks oat milk and Daniel forgets to eat until someone puts food directly beside him. By the fourth, Daniel starts bringing her a coffee too, despite her insisting students cannot accept gifts from patient families and Daniel pointing out that the coffee costs three dollars and tastes like burnt cardboard, which barely qualifies as a gift.
Maya sits beside the incubator for hours with one hand resting through the port, her smallest finger curled beneath June’s palm.
“She squeezes,” Maya tells her on Tuesday, eyes bright with tiredness and pride. “It’s not a reflex. Everyone keeps saying it’s probably a reflex, but she knows it’s me.”
She looks at the impossibly tiny fingers wrapped around Maya’s. “She probably does.”
“You’re meant to be neutral,” Maya smiles.
“I’m a student. We’re still allowed a little whimsy.”
Maya laughs quietly so she doesn’t disturb June. Daniel looks up from the notebook and says, “Write that down. Medical confirmation.”
She looks forward to seeing them. That’s perhaps the first mistake, although calling it a mistake feels ugly after everything.
She looks forward to Maya showing her the photograph of the nursery they finished while June was still meant to be inside her. She looks forward to Daniel announcing every weight increase in grams like a stock market closing figure.
She looks forward to June’s whole face scrunching when Claire changes the tape near her cheek, fury gathering in a body too small to produce any meaningful noise around the breathing support.
On Thursday, June tolerates an entire skin-to-skin cuddle against Maya’s chest. Forty-three minutes without her oxygen saturation dropping enough to end it early.
Maya cries. Daniel takes twelve photographs. She stands behind Claire with one hand wrapped around the side rail and feels something warm expand beneath her ribs as June settles against her mother’s skin, no larger beneath the blanket than a loaf of bread.
“That’s good, right?” Daniel asks for the fourth time.
Claire smiles. “That’s very good.”
She nods too, though nobody asked her. “She looks comfortable.”
“She likes her mom,” Daniel says.
Maya looks down at the little hat resting over June’s head and begins crying harder.
The following morning, her first observation of June is normal for June. Not normal in the broader sense. Almost nothing about a neonatal intensive care unit fits comfortably within the broader sense.
But her heart rate sits where it usually does. Her oxygen requirement is slightly higher than the night before but not dramatically. Her temperature is fine. Her abdomen appears mildly distended, though Claire checks it and says they will keep watching.
Maya arrives at eight-fifteen. Daniel follows ten minutes later after moving the car because the parking app had stopped accepting his payment and threatened to make an already impossible week much worse.
June is unsettled during her cares. Her oxygen saturation dips twice while they change her nappy, then recovers with repositioning.
Claire’s mouth tightens slightly while looking at the monitor, but when Maya asks whether that happens often, she answers honestly.
“It can,” she says. “She’s taking a little longer to come back up today, so we’re keeping a close eye on her.”
Maya nods. The hand holding her coffee tightens around the cardboard cup.
They send bloods. The registrar reviews June. Antibiotics are adjusted while the team waits for results, every decision made quickly but without panic, the people around the incubator speaking in that quiet, clipped rhythm healthcare workers use when concern hasn’t yet become an emergency but is beginning to move in that direction.
She stays close to Claire. She checks equipment. She helps reposition the saturation probe when it stops reading properly and watches June’s oxygen numbers climb again.
Eighty-one. Eighty-six. Ninety.
Everyone exhales without acknowledging they had been waiting.
Maya sits beside the incubator, one hand inside against June’s leg. “She’s being difficult today.”
“She’s allowed,” she says softly. “She’s got a lot going on.”
Maya’s mouth lifts, but the smile barely forms before the monitor begins alarming again. The saturation drops first. Ninety-one to eighty-two so quickly the numbers appear to skip between them. June’s heart rate follows, falling out of the one-fifties.
Claire straightens. “Come on, sweetheart.”
She opens the incubator port and places a careful hand against June’s back while Claire adjusts her breathing support. The numbers continue falling.
Seventy-four. The alarm changes tone.
The sound is sharper now, cutting through every other noise on the unit. Claire’s hand moves to the emergency button.
The registrar is already turning from the workstation before she calls him. “Heart rate’s ninety.”
Maya stands so abruptly the chair catches against the floor behind her. Daniel is beside her immediately, one hand hovering near her waist without touching.
“What’s happening?” Maya asks.
Nobody answers quickly enough. The consultant comes through the curtain, followed by another nurse and the respiratory therapist. The space around the incubator contracts, bodies filling every available gap while the monitor keeps sounding above them.
“Heart rate sixty.”
Claire looks at her. Focused enough that her voice loses every unnecessary word. “Can you take Mom and Dad to the family room, please?”
She looks at Maya.
Maya has already understood enough to shake her head. “No. No, I’m staying.”
“Maya,” Daniel says, though his own voice has begun breaking.
She moves toward them because Claire has asked her to and because standing still feels like choosing something worse. “I just need you to step outside with me for a minute.”
“What’s happening?” Maya catches her forearm. Her fingers are cold even through the scrub sleeve. “What’s happening to her?”
Behind them, someone says, “Heart rate forty,” and the room changes completely.
The sides of the incubator open. A resuscitation board appears beneath June’s body. Hands begin compressions with two fingers against a chest so small the motion looks impossible.
Maya hears it. She makes a sound that does not belong in any hospital corridor. “Is she dying?” she asks.
She cannot answer that. She cannot lie either. Her whole throat seems to close around every word she knows.
“The doctors need room to help her,” she manages, covering Maya’s hand with her own. “I need you to come with me right now, okay? They’re doing everything they can.”
“I can’t leave her.”
“I know.” Her own voice is shaking now. She forces it lower. “I know. You’re not leaving. We’re going right outside.”
Daniel wraps one arm around Maya and helps turn her away. She walks with them through the curtain, one hand still gripping Maya’s, while the alarms continue behind them.
Maya keeps looking over her shoulder. “June,” she cries. “June, Mommy’s here.”
The family room is less than twenty feet away. It feels like a different building. Two grey chairs. A box of tissues. A painting of the ocean selected by someone who believed blue water might soften whatever was said beneath it.
Daniel lowers Maya into one of the chairs. She doesn’t sit properly. Her body folds toward the door, every muscle trying to return to the room they have just left.
“What are they doing?” Daniel asks.
“Resuscitating her.”
The word leaves her mouth before she can find something gentler. Daniel shuts his eyes.
Maya’s fingers close around hers so hard the little bones grind together. “She was okay yesterday.”
“I know.”
“She was on my chest.”
“I know.”
“I felt her breathing.”
She cannot say anything to that. She crouches beside Maya’s chair because standing over them feels cruel and keeps holding her hand while another nurse arrives to stay with them.
“Go,” the nurse says quietly. “They’ll need you inside.”
She returns through the curtain. For the next several minutes, time becomes a series of instructions.
Bring the medication tray. Open another packet. Move the light. Record the time. Pass the syringe to Claire. Step back. Come closer. Hold this. Move that line. Watch the clock.
She does everything she’s told. Her hands work even while the rest of her body feels several seconds behind them. The doctor intubates. The respiratory therapist checks placement. Compressions continue.
Medication moves through the line in amounts so small they still require a syringe, even now, even while everyone in the space is willing June’s heart to remember its job.
The monitor remains wrong. A number appears, falls, disappears beneath the movement of leads and hands. The room smells like plastic, sanitiser and the faint sweet trace of milk from the feed that had been stopped earlier.
Someone calls another time. The consultant listens. The compressions stop.
The silence afterward isn’t complete. There are still machines in the room. Pumps running. Ventilation equipment hissing. Another baby alarming from the next bay because the world hasn’t agreed to pause.
But June’s monitor no longer demands anything. The consultant looks at the clock and says the time aloud. Every person around the incubator becomes still.
She stares at June. Without all the hands moving over her, she looks smaller than before. Smaller than a body should be allowed to look. Her knitted hat has shifted upward slightly. One leg rests bent beneath the edge of the nappy she had changed that morning.
Claire turns off the alarm. The quiet sound of the button clicking seems to enter directly beneath her ribs.
Maya’s cry reaches them from the family room before anyone opens the door.
The parents are brought back in. The equipment that can be removed is removed. A blanket appears, soft and pale yellow. Claire wraps June with the care she used when June was alive, supporting her head, smoothing the hat back into place, tucking the blanket beneath her feet even though she can no longer become cold.
Daniel stands near the wall with one hand over his mouth. Maya takes her baby.
She doesn’t collapse dramatically. That might have been easier to witness. Her body only folds inward around June, shoulders curving, cheek lowering slowly against the little knitted hat while a sound keeps leaving her in pieces.
“My girl,” she says. “My beautiful girl.”
She stands near the door because she cannot make herself go farther away and cannot imagine she belongs any closer.
Maya lifts her head eventually. Her face is wet, almost unrecognisable beneath the grief moving through it. Her gaze finds her across the room.
“Thank you,” Maya says.
The words make no sense. She blinks. “I–”
“You looked after her.” Maya tightens the blanket around June. “She knew you.”
Her throat closes. She shakes her head once because she doesn’t know what she’s refusing. Daniel crosses the small space between them and pulls her into a hug.
It’s brief. One arm around her shoulders, his other hand still pressed against his own face, his body shaking hard enough that she feels it through both layers of scrubs.
“Thank you,” he repeats.
She stands there after he releases her, arms hanging by her sides, and understands that she will never forget the weight of being thanked by two people whose baby has just died.
Claire sends her on break.
She makes it to the staff bathroom, locks the door and grips the edge of the sink with both hands. For several seconds, nothing happens. Her reflection stares back at her beneath the fluorescent strip above the mirror. Scrub cap still sitting crooked over her hair. Mask pulled beneath her chin. A faint pressure mark across the bridge of her nose.
Then her mouth twists. She bends forward so quickly her forehead almost hits the mirror. One hand flies over her mouth before the first sob can come out properly, the sound trapped hot against her palm while her shoulders begin shaking.
There’s nowhere for it to go. The room is too small. Her body is too tight around it. She presses both palms against her eyes until colours burst behind them, trying to stop the image of June beneath two fingers, June wrapped in yellow, Maya saying my girl like the words could still keep her tethered.
She cries until her breathing becomes painful. Until her throat is raw and her nose runs and her knees feel unreliable beneath her. Then she turns on the tap, splashes cold water over her face and waits for herself to look approximately employable again.
She doesn’t feel better. She looks less visibly ruined. Hospitals often accept that as an adequate substitute. The rest of the shift passes through her without leaving much behind.
Claire offers to send her home. She says no because there’s only an hour and twenty minutes left and because the idea of leaving the unit while June’s parents are still inside feels like walking away from a sentence before it’s ended.
So she restocks feeding syringes. Folds blankets. Checks expiry dates on supplies she knows are nowhere near expiring. She documents what she’s asked to document and reads every line three times because the words keep refusing to stay in their correct order.
Near the end of the shift, she helps Claire press June’s foot into ink for the memory card. The footprint is scarcely larger than the pad of her thumb.
At five-thirty, Claire takes the pen out of her hand. “Go home,” she says.
She nods. She changes in the locker room, though she has no memory of removing her scrubs. Her hands put on jeans, a jumper, shoes. Her badge disappears into the front pocket of her bag. Someone says goodbye near the door.
Garrett’s car is parked beneath the far light in the staff car park. He had handed her the keys that morning with the same explanation he always uses now, that she’s not wasting her own petrol driving to unpaid placement when he has a perfectly good car.
She reaches the driver’s door and stops. The keys are already in her hand. She could unlock it. Sit inside. Reverse out. Follow the familiar roads back toward campus.
Her body will not move.
She looks through the window at the steering wheel, and the thought of putting both hands onto it makes something cold slide beneath her skin. Traffic lights. Pedestrians. Lane changes. Braking distances. Decisions arriving one after another while June’s monitor drops from ninety to sixty to forty inside her head.
She sits on the curb instead. The concrete is cold through her jeans. Garrett’s car rises beside her, dark and clean beneath the parking-lot lights, his Briar pass still hanging crooked from the mirror.
The hospital glows behind her. People come and go through the staff entrance, talking about dinner and rosters and whether the rain will hold off tomorrow.
She takes out her phone.
Garrett answers on the second ring. “Hey, baby.”
The sound of his voice almost undoes the work of the bathroom. She presses her thumb into the seam of her jeans and stares across the car park at nothing.
“Can you come get me?”
“Yeah,” he says immediately. Then, more carefully, “What’s wrong?”
She opens her mouth and discovers she cannot put the day inside it. “I can’t drive.”
The words come out flat. Numb enough that they barely sound like hers.
“Are you hurt?”
“No.” She swallows. Her throat aches. “Physically, yeah. I’m fine.”
Another small pause. She can hear movement now. A cupboard closing. Garrett saying something away from the phone, too muffled to make out.
“Okay,” he says, voice returning close to her ear. “I’ll be twenty minutes, baby.”
She nods before remembering he cannot see her. “Okay.”
“You still at the staff car park?”
“Mhm.”
“Stay there.”
“I am.”
“I’m coming.”
The call ends. She lowers the phone into her lap and waits. She doesn’t check the time. It could be twelve minutes or eighteen or half an hour.
The light above Garrett’s car hums faintly, attracting small insects that circle it without ever finding what they want.
Dean’s car turns into the lot hard enough that its headlights sweep across three empty spaces before settling on her.
It pulls up beside Garrett’s car at an angle that would probably irritate Dean under any other circumstances. The engine cuts off. Garrett is out before the headlights fully dim, one hand still holding Dean’s keys and his expression already changing as he takes her in.
She gets to her feet. For one second, she only stands there. Bag hanging from one shoulder. Phone loose in her hand. Garrett in grey sweats and a Briar hoodie, curls disordered like he dragged his fingers through them the entire drive.
Then he says, “Baby?”
Her body moves. She reaches him fast enough that her bag slides from her shoulder. Garrett catches her as it hits the ground, one arm wrapping around her back and the other coming up behind her head as she throws herself into his chest.
The first sob tears out of her without warning.
Garrett’s whole body tightens around it. “Hey. Hey, I’ve got you.”
She grips the back of his hoodie in both fists. Her face presses beneath his jaw, breath catching against his throat while the crying comes harder now than it did in the bathroom because nobody is waiting outside the door, because she doesn’t have to return to the unit, because Garrett’s arms are around her and her body has finally decided it’s safe enough to stop pretending.
“What happened?” he asks, his palm moving over the back of her head. “Baby, what happened?”
She tries to answer. The first attempt disappears into a gasping breath. Garrett holds her tighter, one hand smoothing down her hair again and again even though it has already come loose around her face.
“Take your time,” he murmurs. “I’m here.”
“The baby.” Her voice breaks completely. She presses her face harder into him like she can force the words back inside. “June.”
Garrett goes still. He knows June through every story she brought home. June gained twenty grams. June hated cares. June held her mum’s finger. June did skin-to-skin for forty-three minutes and didn’t desaturate once.
“June?” he asks quietly.
She nods against him. “She died.”
Garrett’s breath leaves him. The whole sentence is outside her now, but it doesn’t make the weight of it smaller. Her knees weaken. Garrett adjusts without comment, one arm dropping lower around her waist to take more of her weight while the other keeps her face against his shoulder.
“Oh, baby.” His mouth presses into her hair. “I’m so sorry.”
“They did everything.” The words begin coming in broken pieces, each one dragged through another sob. “They were there, and her numbers just– they just kept going down, and Maya wouldn’t leave. She kept saying June’s name, and I had to take them out, and then we–”
Her breath catches too sharply to continue. Garrett rubs one hand between her shoulder blades, slow and firm.
“I’m sorry,” he says again. There’s nothing else sensible to say, and Garrett does not try to improve it. “I’m so fucking sorry, baby.”
“She was so little.”
“I know.”
“She was fine yesterday.” Her hands tighten in his hoodie. “She was on her mom’s chest. She was breathing.”
Garrett shuts his eyes. His cheek rests against the top of her head while she cries into him beneath the hospital lights.
“I couldn’t drive,” she gasps after a while. “I’m sorry. I tried to– I looked at the car, and I couldn’t–”
“No.” Garrett pulls back only far enough to hold her face between both hands. His thumbs move beneath her wet eyes, catching tears that are replaced almost immediately. “Don’t apologise.”
“It’s your car.”
“I don’t give a fuck about the car.”
“I made you come all the way here,” she mumbles.
“Baby.” His forehead presses to hers. “You called me because you needed me. That’s it.”
Her mouth trembles.
Garrett’s hands slide from her face, one returning to the back of her neck while the other holds her at the waist. “I’ve got you,” he says quietly. “I always have you.”
She closes her eyes. June is still dead. Maya is still inside the hospital holding a body that had been warm beneath her hand that morning.
But Garrett is here. His hoodie is damp beneath her cheek. His fingers are moving through her hair. His heart beats steadily against the side of her fist.
“I know,” she whispers.
The words break in the middle, but Garrett hears them. His arms tighten around her again, and she clings harder, letting him hold everything her body cannot keep upright alone.
They stay that way until her breathing begins to slow. Lengthening enough that each inhale stops scraping on the way in.
Garrett kisses the top of her head. “Let’s get you home, yeah?”
She nods against him.
“We’ll leave my car.” His hand moves down her back. “I’ll get it tomorrow.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.” He eases away carefully, keeping one hand around her arm like he doesn’t trust the ground beneath her yet. He picks up her bag, hangs it over his own shoulder and walks her toward Dean’s passenger side.
She stops when he opens the door.
Garrett looks at her. “What?”
“Nothing.” Her eyes burn again. She wipes beneath one with the heel of her hand. “Dean let you take his car?”
“Didn’t exactly present a balanced argument.” Garrett guides her down into the seat. “I said hospital and he threw me the keys.”
A small sound catches in her throat. Not quite a laugh, but close enough that Garrett’s face softens.
“There she is,” he murmurs, then seems to regret asking anything more of her expression. His hand cups the side of her head instead, thumb smoothing once over her temple. “You want the seat back?”
She shakes her head.
“Heat?”
“Mhm.”
Garrett reaches across and pulls the seatbelt over her because her hands have gone useless in her lap. The belt clicks into place.
He tucks a piece of hair behind her ear and looks over her face once more, not searching for an explanation now, only making sure she is still with him.
“I’ll get you home,” he says.
She curls one hand around the sleeve of his hoodie before he can move away. Garrett stops immediately. “Don’t go yet.”
His expression changes so quietly it hurts. “I’m just going around the car, baby.”
She nods, but her fingers don’t release him. Garrett leans in and presses his mouth to her forehead, staying there for several seconds while one hand rests warm against the side of her neck.
“I’m right here,” he murmurs.
Only then does she let go. Garrett closes the passenger door gently and walks around the front of Dean’s car, his shape briefly passing through the headlights still shining over the empty parking spaces.
He climbs into the driver’s seat, turns the heat high and reaches for her hand before starting the engine. She gives it to him.
His fingers close around hers, warm and sure over the centre console, and when the hospital begins disappearing behind them, she doesn’t look back.
The hockey house has never been good at being quiet. Even asleep, it produces noise with the restless commitment of something built over old pipes and occupied by four men.
The radiator beside Garrett’s desk clicks every few minutes. Someone turns over in the room across the hall and makes an entire bedframe complain.
Downstairs, the refrigerator begins one of its long mechanical groans, followed by the soft clunk of the ice maker dropping three cubes nobody asked for.
Tonight, though, the house is trying.
Dean had turned the television off without being told when Garrett brought her through the front door. Logan had taken one look at her face and moved the shoes blocking the stairs instead of asking what happened. Tucker had reheated soup, set it in front of her and accepted without argument when she managed only four spoonfuls before staring into the bowl like she had forgotten what it was for.
Nobody made a joke when Garrett carried the bowl away. Nobody complained when he closed his bedroom door before nine.
She had showered because hospital smell had become something she needed off her skin immediately, though Garrett had stood outside the bathroom the whole time after she went silent beneath the water for long enough that he nearly knocked.
She emerged in one of his shirts with her eyes swollen and her hair damp against her shoulders, climbed into bed without speaking and let him arrange himself around her.
Garrett had stayed awake longer than she did. He watched the back of her head against his pillow and kept one arm locked around her waist, palm spread beneath the shirt over her stomach.
Her breathing had taken a while to settle. Every few minutes, it would snag and her body would tense faintly against him, like some part of her had remembered where she had been and needed to check whether it was still happening.
Eventually, exhaustion took her properly. It takes Garrett too, one second he’s watching the shadows from the blinds sit across his wall; the next, the room has gone black and shapeless around him, his face pressed into the back of her hair and one leg trapped between both of hers.
The noise wakes him sometime later. It’s small. Barely enough to reach through sleep. A soft, breathy sound from somewhere directly in front of him, followed by another that catches strangely at the end.
Garrett’s eyes stay closed. For one slow, profoundly unhelpful second, his half-conscious brain decides she’s moaning.
His hand shifts instinctively at her waist before the rest of him has agreed to become involved. His mouth presses sleepily near the back of her neck, and he’s somewhere in the process of thinking that this is inconveniently hot for what feels like the middle of the night when she makes the sound again.
It breaks this time. Not pleasure. Not even close. Garrett’s eyes open.
The room is dim enough that he can only see the pale outline of her cheek against the pillow at first. Her body has gone stiff within the curve of his, shoulders pulled tight and both hands gathered near her chest beneath the blanket.
Another little sound leaves her, thin and frightened, while her head moves once against the pillow as if she’s trying to turn away from something that keeps following.
“Baby?”
She doesn’t wake. Garrett lifts himself onto one elbow. Sleep falls away from him all at once.
There are tears running across her face. They have collected at the bridge of her nose where her cheek is pressed sideways, slipping steadily over the skin and darkening the pillow beneath her.
Her brows are drawn together. Her mouth opens around another broken breath, and the sight of it makes something cold move through his stomach.
“Fuck.” Garrett reaches for her face, then stops himself before grabbing her too quickly. “Hey. Baby.”
He slides one arm beneath her shoulder and rolls her gently onto her back. She comes without resistance, still asleep, head tipping toward him while another tear slips into her hair.
Garrett moves over her, one knee pressing into the mattress beside her hip. “Baby, wake up.”
His thumb catches the wetness beneath one eye. More replaces it immediately. He wipes that away too, then cups the side of her face, keeping his touch steady even while his pulse begins kicking much too hard beneath his ribs.
“Come on, sweetheart.” He says her name, quietly at first, then again with more force when her breathing stutters. “Wake up for me. You’re dreaming. That’s all. Wake up, baby.”
Her face twists.
Garrett’s stomach drops. “Hey. Hey, you’re okay. Come on.”
He strokes his thumb over her cheek and says her name again. Once. Twice. A third time, close enough that his breath moves over her mouth.
Her eyes fly open. She jerks upright with a sharp gasp, nearly catching Garrett beneath the chin. Her hands come up between them without direction, fingers grabbing at the blanket, his arm, the front of his shirt, anything they can find while she drags in another breath that seems to stop before reaching the bottom of her lungs.
“Hey.” Garrett catches both sides of her face. “It’s me.”
Her eyes move around the room too quickly. The lamp he had left on low beside the bed. The dark window. The jersey hanging over his desk chair. Garrett above her, hair flattened from the pillow and heart trying to punch its way through his chest.
For a second, she only stares, then recognition reaches her and her whole body comes forward.
Garrett barely has time to sit back before she throws both arms around his neck and buries her face beneath his jaw. The force of it knocks him against the headboard, one shoulder striking the wood with a muted thud while her hands knot in the back of his shirt.
He folds around her immediately. “Okay.” One hand cups the back of her head. The other closes around her waist, pulling her tight enough that there’s no room left between them for whatever she woke from. “You’re okay. It was just a dream.”
She nods against his neck, though her breathing says she hasn’t entirely returned to the room yet. Each inhale comes fast and shallow against his skin. Her fingers grip harder, pressing into the muscles along his back until it starts to hurt.
Garrett doesn’t loosen them. “Just a dream,” he repeats, quieter. His palm moves slowly over her hair, smoothing it down the back of her head despite the pieces already sticking damply to her cheeks. “You’re here. You’re with me.”
Another shudder passes through her. It starts near her shoulders and moves through the rest of her body, small enough that somebody not holding her this tightly might have missed it.
Garrett presses his mouth to her temple. “What happened?”
She doesn’t answer at first. Her face turns farther into his neck, nose cold against his skin, lips moving once before any sound emerges.
“June,” she whispers.
Garrett shuts his eyes. The name sits differently now than it had when she used to say it over dinner. No amused little story attached. No update about grams gained or oxygen tolerated or the knitted hat somebody had donated in a colour she claimed made June look like a tiny retired golfer.
Only June.
“Just–” Her breath catches. “Nightmare.”
“Oh, baby.”
Garrett’s hand spreads more firmly over the back of her head. There’s nothing useful he can do with the picture his mind supplies. A monitor falling. A baby small enough to fit along his forearm. Her standing in the middle of it while two parents begged her for an answer she couldn’t give.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I’m so sorry.”
She shifts suddenly, trying to get closer despite already being wrapped completely around him. One knee moves across his thigh. Then the other. Garrett adjusts before she can lose her balance, sliding both hands beneath her hips as she climbs into his lap and settles astride him with no trace of anything sexual in the movement.
She only needs more of him. Her arms lock behind his neck. Her face returns to the same place beneath his jaw, and her whole body folds against his chest as if sitting over his hips has finally removed the last unsafe inch between them.
Garrett leans back against the headboard. The wood is cold through his shirt. He draws the blanket around her shoulders with one hand and keeps the other broad over her back.
“Got you,” he says into her hair. “You can stay right there.”
She gives a tiny nod. He begins scratching lightly along her spine, up beneath the loose fabric of his shirt and down again, his nails barely catching against warm skin. It’s something she usually likes after sex, or when she’s pretending not to be tired on the couch and needs help losing the argument.
Tonight her back remains tense beneath his palm for several passes before the muscles start to soften.
Garrett keeps talking because silence feels too much like leaving her alone with whatever is waiting behind her eyes.
“You did everything right, baby.” Her fingers tighten faintly at his nape. “You stayed. You helped them. You did what Claire asked you to do.” His hand travels down the centre of her back, then up again with the same slow pressure. “You got her parents somewhere safe while everybody worked. You went back in. You helped.”
A breath leaves her into his neck, warm and uneven.
“There wasn’t something you missed,” Garrett continues. He doesn’t know if that’s the exact shape of the thing hurting her, but he knows her. Knows the brutal little inventory she will already be taking through the whole shift, checking every number and movement for evidence that a better nurse might have changed what happened. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
He feels her swallow.
“She was too sick,” he says softly. “That’s not the same as you not doing enough.”
The words sound almost too neat once they leave him. Garrett hates neat explanations for things that have torn somebody open. He presses his mouth to her hair and tries again.
“Her mom thanked you.”
Her body goes still.
“You told me that in the car,” he says. “She thanked you because you looked after her baby. Because she knew you cared about her.”
A wet breath catches against his throat.
“They loved you,” Garrett murmurs. “Her parents did. June probably did too.”
He can practically hear her objecting to the scientific integrity of that claim on any other night. Telling him premature babies aren’t capable of filling out student evaluations. Asking whether he has conducted a peer-reviewed study on neonatal affection. Nothing comes.
Garrett strokes his hand over her back again. “You’re such a good nurse.”
Still nothing.
His brows draw together. He tips his face down toward the top of her head, trying to see whatever portion of her expression is not hidden against his neck. “Baby?”
She remains heavy against him. For one brief, stupid second, alarm tightens beneath his ribs again. Then a soft little breath warms his throat.
The next one carries a faint snore. Garrett goes still. He waits. Another tiny, congested snuffle escapes her nose, followed by the slow release of her whole body as sleep takes the final tension from her spine.
Her fingers are still tangled loosely behind his neck, but the grip has gone slack. Her cheek rests warm against his skin, mouth parted slightly near his collarbone.
Garrett looks toward the ceiling. A quiet laugh leaves him through his nose, too soft to disturb her. “Okay.”
He shifts carefully, testing whether he can lower them both without waking her. The second he moves, her arms tighten on instinct and one dissatisfied noise catches in the back of her throat.
Garrett stops immediately.
“Right,” he whispers. “Here it is.”
The headboard isn’t especially comfortable. One of its narrow wooden edges is already pressing into the centre of his shoulder blade, and her full weight has begun settling over one of his thighs in a way that promises circulation will become a future concern.
He doesn’t care. Garrett reaches behind himself one-handed, drags the pillow upright against the headboard and wedges it between the wood and his spine.
The movement earns another sleepy sound from her, but she doesn’t wake. She only nuzzles closer, nose brushing once against his neck before her breathing evens out again.
He pulls the blanket higher around her. The clock on his nightstand says 2:43.
Across the hall, somebody gets out of bed. A door opens with unusual care, followed by the quiet pad of feet toward the bathroom. Garrett listens until the pipes begin groaning in the wall, then looks down at the girl asleep in his lap.
Her face is mostly hidden. He can see the damp curve of one cheek, the swollen edge beneath her eye and the lashes still clumped slightly from tears. One hand lies loose at the back of his neck, palm warm against his skin.
Garrett slides his own hand into her hair and holds her there. He doesn’t know how to make tomorrow better. June will still be dead when the sun comes up. Her parents will still wake somewhere without the monitors they have been listening to for weeks.
His girlfriend will probably open her eyes and begin taking herself apart over a baby she had known for six shifts, because six shifts had apparently been more than enough to love somebody that small.
He cannot fix any of it.
The thought presses against an old, ugly place in him. The part that still believes love should make him capable of getting through every locked door before something happens on the other side. The part that hears pain and immediately starts searching for something he can hit, carry, stop or solve.
There’s nothing here for his hands to fight. Only her. Her breathing against his neck. Her knees tucked around his hips. The soft weight of her asleep on his chest because, even after the worst day she has had in a hospital, some exhausted part of her still knows exactly where to go when she cannot hold herself up anymore.
Garrett lowers his cheek onto the top of her head. His leg starts going numb ten minutes later. He stays exactly where he is.
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Genre/Warning: Reader Pining for John, Hurt, & Implied Smut
Summary: She's so down bad for John Logan she throws a whole birthday party just to hopefully see him again.
Words: 1.5k
It's funny how she could convince herself of the reasons for wanting something.
It all started with an idea on her actual birthday. The middle of June, surrounded by her hometown friends and family. It was honestly a pretty good birthday. Her parents made her favorite meal, and her Nana made her famous red velvet cake, which was her favorite. Her two nieces sat in her lap while everyone sang "Happy Birthday," and she so graciously let them blow out her candles. Her best friends stayed until way past midnight while they all drank wine on the back porch and beat all of their dead horses. It was great, but she couldn't shake the lingering thought of wanting her college friends there too. Maybe it also wouldn't have hurt if a certain right wing hockey hunk had been there.
So here she was. It was late August, and she had convinced her best friends, Allie and Hannah, that she wanted to celebrate turning twenty one in her college town. She was lucky because she had the most amazing and supportive girls in her circle, and they immediately loved the idea.
"Oh my gosh, this idea is amazing! I wish we would've come up with it so you didn't have to!" Allie exclaimed excitedly, with Hannah nodding beside her.
"Yes, yes, yes! This is going to be so fun! Let's get to planning."
But if she were being one hundred percent honest with herself, this party wasn't really for her.
No. This was all about him. Embarrassingly so.
She and John Logan had shared an undeniable, unspoken attraction ever since they met. Ironically, it had been at a party. She spotted him first, and immediately she felt chills run up her spine. He had a softness about him. He exuded confidence and charm, but it was also obvious he wasn't cocky. He was nonchalant in a way that didn't make him an asshole, either.
To her surprise, he looked up and made eye contact with her. Her breath hitched, and she didn't dare look away. She slowly sipped her drink while holding his intense gaze. He smirked at her before casually turning back to his friends to continue their conversation.
She desperately wanted to walk up to him, but she held herself back. He didn't need to know just yet how badly she wanted him. Instead, she wanted to give him a reason to approach her.
She made her way to the dance floor with Allie, who was as carefree as ever. She wasn't surprised when she glanced his way and caught him staring at her. He swallowed hard when he realized she'd caught him looking. She bit her lip, trying to hide the smile threatening to grow too wide. Then she went back to looking completely unbothered, soaking in the moment with Allie while feeling the adrenaline rush through her veins.
After a while of dancing, she was in need of another drink and made her way over for a refill.
Wouldn't you know it, her brown-eyed hottie was in need of another drink too.
She smirked as her heart started beating faster in her chest.
"I'm Logan, and you mystery girl are?"
She shook her head, laughing.
"Wouldn't you love to know."
He looked at her, stunned into silence, then agonizingly slowly made his way over to her.
"Well, that's not very fair, is it?" he whispered in her ear.
"You'll live."
His lips found hers with a fiery passion she had never felt before. She breathlessly kissed him back with so much want and need that she couldn't even imagine what it might have looked like to everyone else.After that fateful night, her midnight party rendezvous with John Logan only intensified in frequency, along with the things they would do together.
Now here she was, surrounded by what seemed like a thousand pink balloons, a million people, and enough alcohol for everyone at Briar University to get drunk off of. She had even made a playlist of songs she knew he would enjoy, or songs that simply made her think of him.
Yet he was nowhere in sight.
She felt crazy. She should've been enjoying her night with her friends and all the people who had made Briar feel like home. But all she could think about was why he wasn't there.
Literally the only damn reason she'd thrown this stupid party was for him. For him to show up, and for them to have another moment together. She kept drinking to calm her nerves. Someone poured champagne straight into her mouth. She downed Jell-O shot after Jell-O shot while also chugging vodka sodas like water. She searched every room, trying to meet his gaze somewhere. She could always feel when his eyes were on her. It was magnetic, and her body felt like it was on fire every time he so much as looked at her. She grew so desperate that she even called him a couple of times, but every call went straight to voicemail.
She wished she knew what he was thinking. Why, out of all nights, had he chosen this one not to go to a party?
She distracted herself by hitting the dance floor, but it was just another painful reminder that he wasn't there. She had made that goddamn playlist practically dedicated to Logan. She might as well have worn a shirt that said, "I <3 #22." God, it was pathetic at this point, and she hoped more than anything that people weren't aware of the all-consuming crush she had on Logan.
She couldn't help but think about how crazy all of this was. She had thrown a party just for him. A party that was supposed to be about her had really become all about wanting him.
She stumbled into the bathroom, thinking she was going to be sick.
Allie knocked on the door.
"Are you okay, babe? Can I come in?"
She opened the door and sat down on the bathroom floor. Allie followed suit and patiently waited for her to explain what was wrong.
"Allie... I only threw this party for him."
At first, Allie looked confused, but then she realized she was talking about the hockey player who had had her heart since last year.
"Oh, babe, forget him. This is your night! Please celebrate, you deserve it! C'mon."
Allie helped her stand and wiped the stray tears falling down her face.
"Let's go get you another drink or maybe some water. Yeah, let's do that."
Allie led her to the kitchen and handed her a bottle of water and, like the amazing friend Allie was, another Jell-O shot.
She laughed, downed the shot, and started sipping on the water.
"You are so much more important than a guy, especially one who only seems interested in you at parties. Please promise me you'll enjoy your night."
She nodded and gave Allie a hug, reassuring her that she would be okay and that she could stop worrying. Allie looked at her one last time before giving her some space.
But, of course, the thoughts of Logan only intensified. She thought about how, if he were there, he would've already had her alone by now. If he walked in and saw her crying, would he kiss her and confess his feelings? Would he tell her he was sorry? Did he even care? Why was he treating her like someone he didn't care about?
All of those thoughts swirled through her head, and she had the urgent need to get out of her own mind.
So she made her way back to where everyone was dancing, found Allie and Hannah, and pulled them into dancing with her. It was really starting to work, and she thought maybe the night didn't have to be about him. This should be about her, her friends, and having a good fucking time.
The thoughts lingered.
"You only threw this party for him."
But she successfully pushed every single one of them down.
Just when she started letting loose and forgetting about the brown-eyed hockey player, all hell broke loose.
He walked into her party with someone else.
She froze in shock and disbelief.
He came to her party with another girl.
Her head immediately started to ache, and the room began to spin. She rushed back to the bathroom, desperate for some sort of relief. She tried splashing water on her face, she tried counting to ten, she even tried the five senses method. But nothing worked to soothe the racing thoughts in her head. It was like a symphony of disappointment and regret, and all she could do was sit there in silence until she could get her bearings. But still, all she could think about was him, hoping he would come knock on the door.
All that nervous energy bubbled up inside her, and somehow her heart beat even faster. She thought, If only he would come in here and kiss me. But instead, he was with another girl, doing God knows what. She wondered if he realized this was all for him that she desperately wanted to be more than whatever the hell the two of them were.
Why would he do this? At her party?
Eventually, she picked herself up with the little courage she could muster and opened the door.
synopsis: welp the one and only John Logan wasn't in the hockey house to fix the flooding washing machine, causing Dean to go to the Laundromat at 3AM?? But at least he got some company (and i mean YOUU🫵) that might bloom into something else...
warnings: profanity, sexual implications if you SQUINT, idk what else tbh
a/n: haha im backk bitches😈 sorry for disappearing (going to do it again soon). Hope you enjoy cuz im LATE to the off campus community but read this lovely little fic for my baby - DEAN DI LAURENTIS <33 (quite frankly just haven't had the time to watch the show but whatever.)
| masterlist
“What the absolute fuck?” Dean groaned, lifting his now-soaked laundry basket and staring at it in disbelief. The washing machine had been flooding the house since March. Despite Logan’s best efforts to fix it—three times, or maybe six if Dean was counting correctly—, it is still causing numerous problems. "what have I said about using the washing machine Garett GRAHAM?" Dean was pissed, to say the least. As if he wasn’t going to need clean clothes too. "Well im sorry it has LEAKED again. Logan said it was perfectly fine before he left!" Garett exclaimed as he took out his washed clothes.
"Garett, I need to wash my clothes too, man. What the hell am I supposed to do?” To be honest, Dean has every right to be upset, it was 3 in the morning now, and training is in approximately 3 hours. Honestly Dean would much rather get his washing done, sleep and wake up to a flooded house. But the universe said no and now he has to go to the 24/7 Laundromat on the campus that will cost him $20 for a load of clothes. (Not that he minds. But hey, cost-of-living crisis.) "im sorry man we'll get a new one soon but good luck at the Laundromat!" Garett laughed before heading outside to hang his washing. Dean was not impressed...
The bell of the Laundromat rang as Dean stepped inside, the lights were dim and it smelt like fresh laundry with a hint of lavender. He hadn’t expected anyone to be there at 3 in the morning. He payed his $20 before loading the washing machine and began playing his playlist on Spotify. Humming along to the lyrics as the world around him caved in. He was perfectly content until a shadow passed in front of him. Frowning, he slipped an AirPod out, observing the girl who was shoving her clothes into the dryer below her machine.
"oh.. hello Dean!" y/n said trying to catch some air, as she finally closed the door of the dryer. "Eve-evening to you too y/n" Dean's heart skipped a beat as he watched the girl in front of him. They were classmates, the ones were you've known since childhood but weren't close enough to be friends? They were that. Dean always thought y/n was beautiful, that's probably why he never dares to speak to her, afraid to lose aura if she ever rejects him. Either way, he knows y/n was way out of his league, He hooked up with girls and proudly called himself “Six Flags.” Meanwhile, he was pretty sure y/n hadn’t even had her first kiss.
"Never seen you here at 3 in the morning.." you laughed as you sat down, a chair separating the both of you. "The washing machine broke at ours, Logan said it was fixed but it clearly hasn't.." he smiled as he watched you chuckled at what he said. "Well that's unfortunate, i thought Logan was quite good at fixing stuff." You implied, looking at Dean's tilted side profile as he smirked at your comment. He's grown now and looks so much more mature, you thought to yourself. The Dean you used to know back in preschool, primary and high school was nothing like the Dean in front of you, his developed Adam's apple bobbing once awhile was sending you off the edge, it was attractive to say the least. Even if you both weren't close, it wasn't hard to miss one another growing up. One being the popular dude around school and the other being extremely beautiful in Dean's eyes. (Not that you know.)
"Tell him that, i've got training in approximately 2 and a half hours now." Dean complained as he continued to watch his clothes spin inside the washing machine. He was tired but your presence keeps him awake. "If i ever do I will.. and maybe you guys should get a new one soon." you smiled softly as Dean turned his head towards you, Shit. Dean had always known y/n was pretty. From across classrooms. Across hallways. Across hockey games. But he’d never been this close before, and suddenly he couldn’t remember how to string together a sentence. He gaslight himself and blame it on the washing machine for hypnotizing him, but in reality it was your beauty doing the job.
“Wel-well, yeah, of course… and, uh… you should totally come over sometime. Meet the guys. Get to know us better since we never really talked growing up.” Smooth, Di Laurentis. Real smooth. THE y/n y/l/n made him weak, weak to the point he is stuttering. "If you insist Dean Li Laurentis. I heard the hockey house is bunch of puck-bunnies. I don't want to be labeled as one." You teased.
"Nah you won't. Just swing by whenever you are free... or maybe i can pick you up?" Okay Dean will give himself a 9/10 for this response, small steps at a time to get you to realize he actually likes you. "I'll be honored. But you have a packed schedule and I have a loads of stuff to do.." You smiled at him as you unloaded your laundry and into your basket.
"Well give me your number and we can figure out a time one day." Dean leaned casually against the washing machines as he held his phone out towards you. You glanced down. He was actually serious "Dean is this your way with trying to get yourself into my pants." You joked as you continued to grab your dry clothes out. "Y/n, this isn't a joke. Besides wanting you to meet my friends, i do want your number and know you better. Im serious about this."
You paused. The laundromat fell silent, the only thing filling the room being the gentle hum of the dryers and the faint scent of lavender from your freshly washed clothes. His eyes never left yours. He wasn’t joking. "We've known each other since kids y/n, you were always an arm reach away from me, i want to know you better now before it is too late." Dean was never good at expressing himself growing up. That was something you knew as you will always be the one talking in some classes you both shared.
"Wel-well yeah totally.." You were shocked yourself, THE Dean Di Laurentis wants to know you more? You grabbed his phone as you typed your number into his phone. "Thanks.. uh- do you want me to walk you back? I mean I can come back after to finish mines." His sweet offer made your heart melt but as you remember what he had said. "I will love that but you got training so I don't want to be a burden Dean. But if you want I can text you when I get back?" You said to help reassure him. "Yeah.. please do." Dean smiled as he watched you walking away. "It was nice talking to you Dean. Have a good night." You gave him a smile before leaving the laundromat, Dean's heart was quite literally doing somersaults.
His nose still filled with the hint of yours and your laundry scent. Dean sat in the laundromat for the next few minutes just waiting for his clothes to dry before he knows his phone lit up. Im back at mines :) It read. Dean smiled before responding back, that's good :),
God was he whipped for you.
You groaned as you realized it was already 9 in the morning, The comforting smell of fresh coffee drifted through the house. Hannah was probably making some for you. Before you can even sit up, Hannah barges into your room. "Right here's your coffee y/n but what the FUCK is this?" Hannah was never the type to scream in the morning but whatever it was it is clearly something concerning her. "Gosh don't need to yell and what do you mean?" You sat up, rubbing your eyes as Hannah flopped dramatically onto your bed. “Dean Di Laurentis literally showed up five minutes ago to return your fucking thong. Explain. Right. Now. Are you fucking him?"
"HANNAH WHAT?" Your eyes widened as you realized what was in your best friend's hand. Your black thong that must have dropped out at the very bottom of your laundry basket last night and the one and only - Dean Di Laurentis picked it up. "Explain yourself? I would much rather you tell me you guys are secretly dating so at least Garett and I have someone to go on double dates with, BUT WHAT?" Too many questions being asked at 9, you thought to yourself.
"Hannah just let me get ready and I'll explain please" you said ashamed of what just happened. "You better y/n or else..." Hannah quickly threw the black garment on your bed before walking out of your room.
You buried your face in your hands. How were you ever supposed to face Dean again after that? Before you could spiral any further, your phone buzzed.
Dropped it off because I’m not enough of a weirdo to keep it… and yeah, I still want to get to know you. Maybe even see you wearing it someday ;)
a/n: guess who got their nails done with the British flag on them, is so cunty and I just want to scratch heeseung's back with them. Anyways enjoy xxx 🫡
yeah he completely lost it when he saw your new set of nails, long and delicately painted with navy blue and red plaid French tips and the cuntiest flag on them - the British flag.
He was going feral as he won't be able to see you for the next few weeks when he's on tour in Europe.
"Fuck... baby you're fully squeezing me.." Heeseung groans next to your ear, your sensitive hole sucking him more, causing you to scratch his back with your freshly new pedicure, "scratch my back baby... leave marks on my back so everyone knows... mmh fuck.." he moans loudly as he continues to pound into your tight pussy, you were a mess underneath him.
"Mmh.. hee-heeseung..", "shut up baby just keep squeezing me... ugh just like that.." He mutters against your neck, the room only filled with filthy sounds coming from you and heeseung, as well as the sound of your wetness. Nothing is stopping him tonight, how could he stop knowing he isn't fucking his pussy everyday whilst he's on tour.
"too-too much baby..", "you can handle it baby,let me cum in you okay? Let me breed you please..." he begs like he hasnt done it every single time you guys have sex, and you always say yes, the feeling of his warm cum filling you up, it is straight up ecstasy, minus the Molly.
"fuck.. look at this pussy, all mines.." he continues to fuck his hard dick into your sore pussy, tearing your hand away from his back as he interlock your hands with his, staring at the expensive set of nails in his hands, the set that he payed for. You moaned loud in his mouth as he sped up his movements, milking you as he groaned loudly, feeling the warmth between you both.
He will never get sick of you, the sex and your nails, ever.
| synopsis : Conrad spotted the hot, always wearing pink, sexy neighbor of his when he was fixing the roof. Just sitting innocently on her pink plushy couch filled with pillows. Wonder what goes down when he decided to knock on her door...
| warning : 18+ !!, NOT PROOF READ YET!! profanity, p in v, fingering, chocking, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it!!), face fucking, face in pillows, name calling (eg. brat, good girl, slut)
| author notes : Thank you for all the massive support from my recent work!! I hope you enjoy this very slutty and smutty work😛 please support your writers by reblog or commenting !!
| masterlist
The moment Conrad saw a glimpse of you from his roof top, he knew he was fucked. He could not keep his eyes on you, sitting prettily on your soft, pink and cozy couch, surrounded by large fluffy pillows that made you look so innocent, the hot sun shining inside your house and onto your smooth and plump thighs. His task of fixing the roof has completely slipped out of his mind. And he knew he had to do you instead.
You on the other hand got a hella good view of Conrad Fisher - shirtless, sweat dripping down his chest and onto his shoulder down to his abs, his jeans gripping onto his muscular thighs and those worn out timberlands. The magical sight already leaving a small damp of arousal on your underwear. Ignoring it will only make it worse. You need Conrad Fisher bad. And you need it now.
Maybe the universe was on both of your side today, because not even 5 minutes later you hear a loud knock coming from your front door. Confused with who it might be, you carefully open your door, revealing the one and only Conrad Fisher, completely drenched in sweat and shirtless. This has to be some sort of fantasy you gotten yourself in. "Oh Conrad hey!" You greeted him cheerfully as if you don't just want him to touch you with his rough hands at the moment. "Hey y/n mind letting me in? My fridge broke and I want some cold water.." He said with a honey sweet smile that can make any girl fall in love. You nodded and let him in. Conrad's eye went straight from your eyes to your ass, softly jiggling as you walked to the kitchen to grab him a bottle of water. He leans against the counter of your kitchen waiting patiently for the perfect moment to make a move.
"Here's your water kind sir." You smile as you hand him the bottle of water, brushing his hand among the way. "Thanks y/n.." he smile at you before downing the bottle , droplets of water slightly dropping from the corner of his mouth to his body, causing you to cross your legs. Conrad caught your small movement and knows his tactics are working. "I saw that by the way.." He teased as he got closer to you. Catching a glimpse of your harden nipple that is on full display, the only thing covering it being your white shirt that is doing absolutely nothing. "Do what.." you smile innocently as you closed the gap between the both of you.
"Crossing your legs whilst you watch the water dripping down onto me, I know what you want sweetheart." He wasn't afraid to state what he wants as he quickly grab your face, smashing his lips onto yours. Your arms automatically wrap around his neck, hands pulling his hair as he groans from the intense pleasure. His dick slowly stiffen up as you slowly grind on it. "God..mmh..sofa now." you moan into the kiss as he quickly pick you up with one hand as you continue to make out with him.
He placed you onto the sofa softly before his hand slowly reach down for your thong, sliding it off to get better access of your pussy. He groans at the sight in front him, you look vulnerable but pussy leaking just for him. "You are making me go insane.." he groans as he doesn't waste another second before positioning his head inbetween your thighs. The wetness of his tongue glide between your walls is like gates to heaven, he knows how to pleasure a girl, and the girl was you. Your back arching as you grip his hair, pulling him closer as you grind on his face. "Oh fuck Conrad...", "mmh.. mom louder for me baby.." he mumbled. Your movie was long forgotten as the living room was now filled with just the wetness of your pussy and your loud high-pitched moans. "Need you more.. in me.. oh my gosh..." even the amount of times being eaten out by a guy, Conrad Fisher was the only one able to make you feel this type of sensation by just being eaten out. "Such a good girl taste so good..." he knows he isn't going to stop anytime soon but his dick is so hard it hurts. "God need to be inside of you right now.. but you taste so fucking good."
You want him to feel good too, nothing wrong for a girl who wants to make her man feel nice sometimes right? Before Conrad could even think properly, you push him off and start unbuckling his belt, he took the hint and started helping you whilst staring at your doll like eyes as you take your shirt off. "Desperate for dick now are we...", "just for you..." you moan at the sight before you, his large, thick, angry tip, leaking pre-cum was calling for your name, he like how innocent you look as his massive dick accidentally touching your harden nipple as you give a little hand job..
"Such a slut baby.. bend over for me..." he didn't even let you process what you said before shoving your face into the soft pillows, slowly and teasingly play with your pussy with his leaking tip before slowly inserting his full length into you. Both moaning at the feeling of warmth and fullness. "God my dick was made for you.." your pussy squeezed around his length as he slowly move back and forth, wincing from the tightness of it. "Conrad faster..", "asking to go faster now baby?", "oh I need you please" Conrad didn't waste any time before pushing your head down more into the pillows, increasing the speed as he pump in and out of you.
The mix of the smell of sweat, pornographic moans from the both of you and body clapping together really made you wonder if your neighbors further down could hear your dirty behaviors. "Such a good girl for me, wish everyone could hear your slut moans.." Conrad was a mess, groaning as toyed with your clit, causing a wash of emotions hitting you. "Oh fuck yes Conrad!" You have completely lost all control in this situation, orgasm getting closer and closer each second as you drool onto the pillows. You begin to tumble underneath Conrad's touch. "Conrad.. ugh.. I'm clo-close..", "same baby I'm about to cum too just hold on.." Conrad continues to move faster than before, gathering your wetness and his cum around the base of his dick as a lube, toying your poor swollen pussy to help you reach your orgasm quickly. His moves is becoming sloppy as he pushes you into the soft pillows, chocking you slightly from the back, signaling to you have he was close.
Before you know it, he breed your pussy filling it up with his warm cum as you arrive at the same time as him, squeezing around him as you are now breathless. He smirks as he pull his dick out, smiling at his work beneath him, his cum leaning out of your swollen pussy, mascara ruined and your plump lips that is going to wrapped around his fat cock in a few hours... "Round 2 please..?" You asked politely as you look at him seductively. "Oh you know it baby.." he reply, quickly shoving his dick back into your ruined pussy before any of his cum could reach the sofa. Your body jointing at the suddenly pleasure. "Fuck.. Go hard on me Conrad.."
"Than don't expect to be able to walk tomorrow love..."
a/n : I want Conrad fisher to be in me and on me x
| synopsis : y/n tries to help Conrad with his surfing injury involving a massive blood bath, which lead to something more intimate between them.
| warning : 18+ !! profanity , chocking, fingering (YUPP), dialogue is gonna be off btw! Idk the word count lol.
| author notes : the name is literally based on Tate McRae's song "bloodonmyhands", additionally a slight spoiler on TSITP S3 EP 6, which is adapted from Belly & Conrad's BATHROOM scene... (tears running down my thighs for Conrad fisher xx)
| masterlist
I was sitting on the counter of the beach house as the sun begin to slowly lower from the horizon, it's a hot July afternoon after all. Nothing interested me in this house, not after Susannah's glowing presence was taken away. However, it is still well alive as the house was quiet and warm, the feeling of youthfulness.
I was reading "Wuthering Heights", the chapter where Catherine express her undying love for Heathcliffe to Nelly Dean. Quite ironic if you ask me, maybe because I sat down with Belly 2 days ago talking about how Conrad Fisher has completely consumed my brain, and now my heart. It is getting ridiculously annoying, yet I have done nothing to confess my undying love for this man, spacing out as I am in my little bubble daydreaming about him. However, I was rudely interrupted by a certain someone, Conrad.
I turned around to see him limping, by his facial expression, you can tell he was in much pain. Gripping into his thighs as he slowly move past me, shirtless, hair still wet as the ocean water drip down his fringe and onto his chest. "Hey... are you okay? What happened?" I asked, curiously. "Just a wipeout. Got cut by a fin." He answered, by groaning. "Bad?", "No, not too bad." He replied. Nodding as I didn't think of much and returned back to my book, but things didn't seem right. The wincing of Conrad continue, traveling down from the master bathroom to the kitchen. I stood up instantly and was immediately shocked by the trail of blood on the staircase. I quickly ran up to the bathroom to see him, vulnerable looking, gripping his thighs harder to stop the bleeding.
"Oh my god, Conrad."
"It's already stopped bleeding." He reassured. Still, me being the one and only y/n y/l/n, I was panicking. "Okay. Just keep putting pressure on it. I'm gonna find something to clean it." I told him as I ramble around the bathroom, trying to find some sort of first aid kit to prevent the cut from getting infected.
"Let go off the towel."
"Mm. I'm fine. It's okay. I'll take care of it. You can go. I'm a med student. Remember?"
"You are not fine. Can you just let me help you for fuck sake."
Sometimes Conrad is a bit stubborn. Whilst he might be smarter than me, i still need to slap some common scene into this man. He sighs as he knows there's no point in arguing with me. He slowly lets go off the towel and reveals the cut from the fin. It was deep and covered in blood. "Shit.. right okay.." I quickly turned on the tab and rinse the wound with water, Conrad grunting as the pain was increasing, the sound making me think of the things that shouldn't be thought about at this moment. I quickly shut the thoughts down before grabbing the bottle of alcohol.
"Ready?" I asked him as I slowly pour a small amount onto his wound. "Ow!" He exclaimed before leaning his forehead into my shoulder, I froze, not knowing how to react at that moment. "Dont be such a baby, it's barely even a scratch." I said breathlessly. I know if I continue on with his moans and groans near my ears, I will simply not be able to handle it. I gently wrap the wound up to prevent hurting him. My Conrad.
"See? All better.." I told him. Hoping he would appreciate and move on from this. Conrad slowly looks up, his eyes filled with tiredness but a hint of glimpse, the sun hitting his green eyes as our face was only inches away. Oxygen in me was cut short as I held my breath at that moment. "Thank you y/n.." he whispered as he continue to look into my eyes, slowly looking down onto my lips. Don't fall for it y/n. No one dared to move, it was as if we were stuck in time. "Sure. Conrad." I whispered back, staring at his eyes. Without a second thought, he grabbed me by my neck, crashing his lips onto mines, sucking the oxygen out of my throat that I held onto for so long. He groaned slightly as he pulled me in closer.
He moaned into the kiss as our tongue wrapped around each other, slightly chocking me, making me moan into his mouth. "Oh.. Conrad.." I mumbled into the kiss. "Mmh.. need to hear that more..." he smirked as he picked me up by my thighs, holding me against the cold bathroom wall. Smooth fucker. I didn't care if my top was getting wet by his hair, all I know is that I was craving his touch and his sinister actions that he's about to perform on me.
His hands grips my thighs as he slowly rises it up to my damp underwear. "Can I..?" He mumbled as his lips still connected with mines. I nodded eagerly as his fingers quickly moved their way up to my pussy. I gasped from pleasure as he placed his fingers between them, toying it slightly before inserting 2 of his finger into me, fingers curling inside of me as he rubs his harden dick against my wet core, the only thing separating us was his swimming trunks.
"Oh my god Conrad..." I continue to moan loudly into his neck as he stared at my pleasured face, increasing the speed as his pump his fingers in and out of me. His eyes betraying him as its hidden with the longing for this to happen. "Gosh you're already soaked for me baby.." the bathroom was filled with the sound of wetness of my pussy, moaning and dirty exclaims. my mind was fogging up and I was drunk by his kiss and actions. "Gosh I'm taking you to my room fuck I need- I need to be in you.." He moaned into my ear, despite the pain, he picked me up like I was nothing. Nothing mattered at that exact moment, just me, Conrad and his blood on my hand, that he complained that got smudge onto his perfectly clean bedsheets that I got him this summer.
☆ I ONLY write for ENHYPEN, TSITP & CORTIS . If there’s any anyone I’m interested in writing I would update my masterlist.
☆ please do not interact if you are below the age of 16 . All my works includes inappropriate jokes, profanity, SEMI to HARDCORE smut (I DONT WRITE SMUT FOR MINORS.)
☆ requests will mostly be based on written content ! So if you want your request to be SMAU please inform me in your request :)
☆ i will try my best to post as much as possible as I have a life outside of tumblr as well. Works will take about 2-3 days to finish and series will take about 4 weeks - a month to finish so please be patient with me :)
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