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꒰ঌ࿐𝓫𝓵𝓾𝓻𝓫 Logan catches you watching his biceps during his late night workout
꒰ঌ࿐𝓼𝓶𝓾𝓽 ✓
꒰ঌ࿐𝔀𝓬 1,4k
The first thing Logan said when he caught you staring was not even a word.
It was a laugh.
Low. Breathless. Almost mean.
He was on the floor by the foot of the bed, shirt off, sweat running down the centre of his chest, fists planted against the hardwood because apparently regular push-ups were too gentle for whatever stupid hockey-boy conditioning routine he’d decided to put himself through at eleven at night.
Knuckle push-ups.
Because of course.
Because John Logan couldn’t just be hot in a normal, manageable way. No, he had to drop low with his back flexing, shoulders wide, forearms corded, biceps tightening every time he lowered himself until his nose nearly brushed the floor. He had to breathe through it, slow and controlled, jaw set like it didn’t cost him anything.
And you, idiot that you were, had forgotten to pretend you were reading.
Your book was open in your lap. Upside down because nuance and subtlety were flung out the window around the time when his shirt also was tugged off.
Logan noticed on rep thirty-two.
His eyes flicked up first, then his mouth curved, “really?”
You blinked, “what?”
He pushed up again, arms locking, knuckles white against the floor, “book’s upside down.”
You looked down, “shit.”
He laughed, dropped once more, then held himself there, body hovering inches above the floor, biceps full and tense and completely unfair, “You staring at me?”
“No.”
He pushed back up, his breath barely affected- only slightly deeper, more controlled in sharp puffs. His smirk when he returned to his starting position could only be described as horribly cocky, “liar.”
“I was thinking.”
“About my arms?”
You shut the book.
Logan’s grin got worse.
That was twenty minutes ago.
Now your back was on the mattress, your thighs over his shoulders, and Logan’s arms were locked around your legs like he was proving a point with his entire body, “You wanted to stare?” he murmured against your inner thigh, “Stare.”
You could not. That was the problem. Your head was tipped back, one hand twisted in the sheets, the other locked in his hair while his mouth moved over you like he had all night and no intention of letting you survive it. His biceps pressed hard against the backs of your thighs, flexing every time you squirmed, every time his grip tightened to drag you back down to him.
“Logan,” you breathed.
He hummed. The vibration hit your clit and made your hips jerk.
His hand slid up, palm flattening low on your stomach, “stay.”
“Can’t.”
“Mhm,” another slow lick, “you can.”
Your thighs shook around his head.
He loved it. You could tell he loved it by the way he smiled against you, by the way his fingers dug into your skin, by the way he kept making these low, pleased sounds that blurred into you more than words, “Mmm. There?” he asked, mouth still wet against you.
You nodded too fast.
His hand smacked lightly against your hip, “words.”
“Yes.”
He kissed your clit, soft enough to be cruel, “yes, what?”
You tried to glare down at him, but his mouth opened over you again before you could form anything coherent, tongue dragging slow and flat, and the glare dissolved somewhere pathetic, “yes, there.”
His eyes flicked up, “Good girl.”
Your whole body clenched.
He felt it, “yeah?” his voice was rough now, a little wrecked around the edges, "you like that?”
“Shut up.”
He laughed against you.
You nearly came from that alone.
“Mean,” he murmured, “for someone who was looking at my arms like she wanted to bite me.”
“I did not.”
“You did,” He shifted one arm higher, bicep bunching beside your thigh as he pressed you open with his shoulder, “you were sitting there all quiet, squeezing your legs together.”
Your face went hot, “logan.”
“What?” He kissed you again, messy and open-mouthed, “you think I don’t notice?”
Your fingers tightened in his hair, “please.”
That did something to him.
His mouth stopped teasing. The next lick was firmer, slower, right where you needed him, and your breath broke into a soft, useless sound.
“There she is,” he said.
“Lo.”
“Mhm?”
“More.”
He groaned like the word hurt him. Then his arm shifted from your thigh, hand dragging down, two fingers pressing against you, slicking through the mess his mouth had made. He circled once, twice, watching your face the entire time.
“You’re soaked.”
You whimpered. His fingers pressed in slow, your back arched.
“Fuck.”
He smiled, but it was not smug anymore. It was hungry. Blown out. Like he had started this to tease you and ended up ruining himself with it too.
“That’s it,” he murmured, “take ’em.”
Your hand flew from his hair to his bicep, nails digging into the hard muscle there as his fingers curled inside you, “oh-”
He made another sound, almost a growl, and buried his mouth against you again.
It was filthy.
Wet.
Loud.
His tongue worked your clit while his fingers fucked into you, steady and deep, and you clung to his arm like it was the only thing keeping you anchored. The muscle flexed under your hand with every movement, hot and solid and so absurdly strong that your brain, already useless, managed only one thought.
Bite.
You did, mouth against the thick curve of his bicep, teeth sinking in lightly because you could not help yourself.
Logan froze.
For half a second, everything stopped. Then he pulled back just enough to look at you.
His mouth was wet. Chin shiny. Eyes dark enough to be dangerous, “did you just bite me?”
You released him slowly, “maybe.”
He stared. Then he laughed, low and disbelieving, and the sound made your stomach drop, “you’re fucking unbelievable.”
“You said I wanted to.”
“I was joking.”
“I wasn’t.”
Something snapped in his face.
Pure, awful heat.
His fingers curled harder inside you, and your mouth fell open, “you wanna bite?” he said, voice low, “fine. Bite.”
“Logan-”
He pushed his arm closer to your mouth and lowered his head again, “go on.”
Your thighs trembled around his shoulders.
His mouth touched you, “bite me while I make you come.”
The sound that left you was embarrassing. He hummed like he liked it and went back down, you bit him again when he did, harder this time.
His groan vibrated straight through your clit.
“Oh my God.”
“Mm?” he hummed, still working you open on his fingers, “that good?”
“Yes.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes, yes, f- Logan.”
Your hand locked around his arm, mouth pressed to his skin, teeth scraping every time his fingers hit that place inside you that made the room tilt. He kept his pace brutal and perfect, tongue circling, sucking, flicking, then flattening again when your hips started to buck.
You were babbling now.
Not words, not properly.
Just little sounds and broken pieces.
“Lo- yes- there, there, please-”
He pulled his mouth away for one breath, “for me?”
You nodded frantically.
His fingers stopped.
You nearly sobbed.
“Say it.”
Your eyes opened, wet and furious, “for you.”
His face softened for one second.
Just one.
Then his mouth was back on you, and he curled his fingers again, and you were gone.
Your orgasm hit hard, messy, thighs clamping around his head, teeth pressing into his bicep as you came with a muffled cry against his skin. Logan held you through it, arm flexed under your mouth, fingers still moving in slow, dragging strokes while his tongue worked you until you were shaking too hard to keep biting.
“Lo,” you gasped,” too much.”
He stopped instantly. Pulled back.
Pressed one last kiss to your inner thigh, then another, softer, right beside the first.
Your chest heaved. He crawled up your body like he had all the time in the world, mouth wet, hair wrecked from your fingers, a faint red mark blooming on his bicep where your teeth had been.
You stared at it.
He caught you, “seriously?” he said, breathless.
You reached for his arm again.
He caught your wrist and pinned it gently to the pillow beside your head, “no.”
You blinked up at him, “no?”
“You’re cut off.”
“But-”
“You bit me while I was eating you out.”
“You told me to.”
“I know,” His mouth brushed yours, and you tasted yourself on him, “that’s why I’m hard enough to die.”
Your gaze dropped.
He laughed into your mouth, “yeah,” he muttered, “now you notice.”
You lifted your hips against him, and his laugh broke into a groan.
“Baby.”
“Mhm?”
“Don’t start unless you want me to finish.”
You smiled, still dazed, still clinging to his wrist. Then you turned your face and kissed the inside of his bicep.
Logan closed his eyes, “fuck me,” he breathed.
You grinned against his skin, “thought you’d never ask.”
c/w ᝰ.ᐟ strip studying w/ rewards, heavy praise, oral (fem. receiving) while he m@sterbates, unprotected p in v, spanking, physically sensitive reader, teasing, creampie, pet names (baby, pretty + no y/n), reader gets academically manipulated in the hottest way possible + 6’2” and good at Psych 101? That’s the kind of greed they talk about in the Bible ✏️🍎📓
“Holy shit,” you mutter.
The flashcard drops back onto the bed as you drag both hands down your face, squeezing your eyes shut. You draw a deep breath, letting it out slowly, trying to force your shoulders to relax. It doesn’t help.
Practice, film, lifting, classes, and another game this weekend—all of it piling up while you’re somehow supposed to memorize half a textbook too.
“I can’t do this,” you hiss.
You snatch another card from the pile, reading the question twice before your mind goes completely blank. Nothing. Not even a guess.
“Seriously?”
You toss it onto the bed with the rest, frustration bubbling up in your chest. You know this isn’t really about the flashcards. It hasn’t been for a while now.
It’s every obligation stacking on top of each other until even something as simple as studying feels impossible.
You pull another card from the stack, forcing yourself to slow down. One question. That’s all.
“Okay…” you whisper.
Your eyes scan the card once more before the answer finally clicks.
“Alright.”
A win. Small, sure. But hey, it’s something. A smile tugs at your lips, real enough to crack the pressure that’s been building all night.
For a second, it feels manageable—like maybe you can actually get through this one card, then the next, then the next.
Your shoulders loosen just a fraction, tension easing as you let out another breath you didn’t realize you were holding.
Your phone buzzes on the mattress, and you look down at it, a text message from Coach about ice time and a delayed start throwing you off your schedule, and off your game for the moment.
The quiet stretches for a beat, the soft rustle of paper the only sound as your fingers hover over the next card, hesitating.
You grab it and flip it over, looking down at it, letting your eyes shut when you see a word you know you know. I mean, how could you not know this shit?
The doorknob twists.
Your head snaps toward the sound, wide eyes meeting Garrett’s the second he steps inside—fresh from the shower, damp hair pushed back messily from his forehead, a few strands still clinging to his temples.
He’s in a loose gray t-shirt that hangs just right over his shoulders, dark shorts slung low on his hips. His skin still looks dewy, a little flushed, like he hasn’t been out of the locker room long.
“Baby?” he chuckles, lifting an eyebrow in your direction. “You okay?”
“Mhmm… Yeah.” You laugh weakly. “M’trying to study. I’m done. I’m just—I’m fucked.” The cards slip from your fingers, fluttering down to the comforter.
“You’re not fucked,” he sighs. “Didn’t hear my name gettin’ screamed outside your door now, did I?”
Your lips pull to the side, fighting off a smile, heat blooming in your cheeks as he crawls onto the bed.
“Plus, you’re fully clothed, pretty,” he mumbles, tilting in when he gets close enough, pressing a kiss to your neck. “Fuckin’ hate that for me.”
You giggle, turning into him a little more, feeling him smile into your skin, your body instantly sinking, hoping he’ll crawl the rest of the way on top and pin you underneath him.
“Where are you goin’, huh?” he asks, his voice deep and warm against your neck.
“I wanna be done,” you whisper, tugging at the front of his shirt, seeing the space between you. A dark trail of hair and deep v-lines disappear below his shorts, his skin tanned and tight.
“Don’t wanna work anymore, huh? Why are you bein’ such a baby?” he teases.
“Am not.”
“Are too,” he snickers. As you continue your childish back-and-forth, the stubble on his cheek scrapes lightly over your soft skin. “Let me help you.”
“Not with this,” you pout. Studying isn’t what you want from him. Right now, you just want him.
“Think I can help you with somethin’ else?” He grabs your face, squishing your cheeks, kissing you tenderly.
“I know you can,” you whisper.
“You using me for my body right now?” he teases, and you nod. “Thank you.” You giggle at his response, nails slipping around to rake up the broad expanse of his back. “But it’s not gonna work.”
“Why?”
“‘Cause we have a test tomorrow.”
“Forgive me for wanting my boyfriend.”
“Stop,” he rasps with a warm laugh, letting his head fall heavy against your shoulder. “You’re just bein’ a brat. Shit’s not gonna work with me.”
“Whatever,” you mumble.
“Whatever, huh?” he asks as his rough finger slides a little further up your thigh, tracing under the hem of your shorts, making your hips shift. “So sensitive, baby.”
“Garrett…”
“Just sayin’,” he whispers.
You slap your hands against the bed as he crashes down beside you. He scoops up a few neon cards, his grin widening as his big arm wraps behind your back, palm settling beside your hip.
He kisses your cheek, and you roll your eyes, rearranging the little stack in your hands.
“For the record, Graham. A distraction would have been preferred,” you whisper, leaning into him, that scowl playing on your lips, jerking away when he tickles you. “Enough,” you scold, grabbing his wrist.
“Just gotta get you out of your head, baby,” he hums before his attention gets pulled away.
Your phone vibrates on the mattress—a notification from a freshman player he recognizes flashes across the screen. Garrett grabs it off the bed, setting it aside before you can check it.
“I need to answer that.”
“Bullshit, you don’t.” He gives you a side eye. “See how attentive you were a minute ago? You got this. Just gotta focus on what’s happening right here.”
“Mhmm,” you hum bitterly. He reaches out, fingers wrapping around your jaw to turn you toward him.
“Studying isn’t half-bad with me, I promise.” His plush lips meet yours, kissing you deeply, chuckling into the kiss when you chase his lips, not wanting to stop. "Ready?"
“No,” you whisper, sucking in a breath when his hand comes and rests on your upper thigh, squeezing down, making your thigh draw in, chills crawling up your spine. “Don’t you have class?”
“Not for a bit,” he answers. “Stop fightin’ it, baby.”
Garrett’s arm hooks around your waist, drawing you closer in his lap as you split his legs. You lean back into his broad chest, and he snuggles close, breathing you in for a moment.
“How hard can this class be, baby? We got this,” he mumbles against your skin, foregoing the annoying reality that most things come naturally to him. But he means it, the words sounding so earnest you can’t help but sigh.
“Alright,” you whisper, flipping the first card in the deck.
He peers over your shoulder, lips resting on your skin, thumbs tracing along your bare thighs as you think. Your phone vibrates again, and his big arms wrap around your waist, fast holding you in place.
“Don’t,” he stops you before you can start.
His arms soften when he feels you do the same, a hand coming up to draw you in, kissing you, soft and slow.
You relax, concentrating on his lips—how they feel against yours, soft and sweet. The warmth of his body surrounds you, guiding you to relax a little more against him.
“Focus, baby.”
You shut your eyes, trying your best to clear your mind and settle into the task.
“Opsimath,” you whisper.
“Mhmm,” he hums, the utterance buzzing against your skin. “Remember in class last week… Opsē sounds like…”
You think for a beat, recalling that term from the week prior, the scratchy chalk scraping against the board as he broke down the term, Garrett sneaking into the class late with two coffees in hand while the professor had his back turned. He smiled at you, handing you the drink, asking you what he missed.
“Sounds like ‘oopsie,’” you whisper. “You say that when you’re late.”
“And, manthanein, means…” he asks.
“To learn—because you learn in math class.” He growls with delight, making you smile. “Someone who starts learning late in life.” The words breathe out of you, and the tension you were holding in your shoulders falls.
“Exactly.” Garrett slides the next card to the front of the stack, holding it out in front of the two of you. “Go ahead,” he murmurs, his lips brushing your shoulder as you settle against him again.
You study it for a second, your eyebrows pinching together before the answer slowly starts piecing itself together in your head.
“Metacognition,” you whisper. “Thinking about your own thinking.”
“There it is,” he smiles warmly.
You feel his hand squeeze your thigh, your body melting back against his chest before he reaches for another card.
The next one comes quicker. Then the next. Then the next. By the fourth, you’re answering before he can even finish reading the definition, your confidence building a little more every time he smiles.
“Told you,” he chuckles. “You know more than you think you do.”
You grin to yourself, a little proud now. “Maybe.”
“Not maybe,” he assures, thumb tracing another lazy path across your thigh while you search through the stack. Your eyes flick toward the nightstand when your phone chirps.
The rough pad of his thumb drifts just high enough to make your leg twitch beneath his hand. “Garrett,” you laugh, your body drawing in, before you wiggle away.
“What?” he asks, looking back at you like he has absolutely no idea what you’re talking about. “Just gettin’ my girl back on track.”
“Well, knock it off,” you grumble, snuggling back into him a little more.
“Stop bein’ bad, and I’ll think about it.”
“I’m not being bad.”
“I mean, you got this shit in the bag,” he gestures lazily to the cards. “Focus game needs a little work.” A crooked smile pulls at his lips as he presses another kiss just below your ear. “And, you’re cute when you’re all jumpy.”
“I’m trying to study.”
“And you’re doin’ a damn good job, aren’t you?” he praises, and the knot that’s been sitting in your chest all evening doesn’t feel nearly as tight anymore.
You’re still nervous about tomorrow, but the words aren’t swimming together anymore. They’re actually sticking.
Garrett hands you another card, and you answer it almost immediately.
“Atta baby,” he praises.
“Rewards?” you ask, turning just enough to catch the sparkle in his eye. “Do I get a reward for that one?”
His eyebrows lift and a smirk curls on his lips. “A reward?”
“Mhmm,” you hum.
“What kinda reward are we negotiatin’ for here?”
You pretend to think about it for a second, tapping the corner of the flashcard against your chin while your eyes drift over him. A little smile pulls at your lips before you look back at him.
“Maybe, just maybe… I already know what I want. And so do you.”
Garrett lets out a quiet laugh, already shaking his head. “You are such a slut for me.”
“You thanked me for using you for your body, Garrett Graham. I think we both know who the slut is.”
“Valid.”
“I’ve had a stressful day, baby,” you sigh. “A stressful week.”
He smiles, softer this time. “I know.” His fingers brush over your hip before nudging the next flashcard toward you. “You’ve got eight cards left, baby.”
“That’s too many.”
“So needy,” he chuckles, settling another flashcard into your hand. “C’mon, pretty. Eight more.”
You study it for a second, chewing lightly on the inside of your cheek before the answer comes to you with more confidence than the last one.
“Schema,” you answer quietly. “Mental framework that helps organize information.”
Garrett glances down at the back of the card before a smile spreads across his face.
“See?” he hums, giving your hip a proud little squeeze. “All in your head for what?”
“Thank you,” you whisper, tilting toward him as he moves closer, kissing you softly. His nose brushes against yours, breathing softly with you.
“Take off your shirt.”
"Huh?" you ask as your cheeks warm up—heart working a little faster. It's a request you've heard from him a million times, unexpected at this moment.
“You heard me,” he mumbles, warm and deep. “Take. It. Off.”
You reach for the bottom of your top, pulling it over your head, tossing it to the side.
Garrett looks over your shoulder, his hold around you tightening as his lips press against your bare shoulder, a quiet hum of approval vibrating against your skin.
“Fuck me,” he sighs, taking you in for a second, pushing out a deep breath behind you. “Baby.” His voice comes out needy, that strict program he was running since you tried to slip underneath him the first time seemingly crumbling away.
He strips off his shirt as well, big hands landing heavy on your legs with a playful clap, making your thighs draw together, but he pulls you open, smiling against your skin.
His palms rub and squeeze the inside of your thighs, your bare back pressing against his chest when you tilt closer. He breathes you in again, your soft body and sweet perfume smelling like heaven compared to the locker room he’d left before he got to your place.
The heat of his body wraps around you, the chill of his chain pressing against your spine. Garrett’s fingers drift higher, teasing the sensitive skin between your thigh and your panties with one hand, taking that top card off the stack with the other.
“Keep going,” he mumbles. “Doing so fuckin’ good for me.”
The next one doesn’t come quite as easily. Your eyebrows knit together while your eyes move over the word again, trying to pin it to a memory or a moment from class.
Garrett stays quiet, letting you work through it before he finally tips his head against yours.
“What do I tell you when I’m coming over?” he breathes, turning into you, making your chest tighten when his thumb moves higher, tracing over the lace between your thighs before he continues. “And I’m runnin’ late, but I fucking need you.” The words scrape past his lips, making your body tingle.
“You tell me you’re gonna take a shortcut.”
“Mhmm,” he hums, chuckling when he feels how wet you are—the subtle rock of your hips when he presses a little harder.
“A mental shortcut,” you whisper, turning your chin toward him, his gaze falling to your lips as he waits for the rest. “That helps you make decisions.”
“Heuristic,” he whispers, the corners of his lips tipping upward. “You didn’t need me. You got this shit.”
His hands slide to the band of your shorts, easing them down, nodding toward you to keep going. He groans as the material works down your thighs, leaving you in nothing but a bra and panties.
You shift over onto your hands and knees, already expecting him to take off his shorts too, and he chuckles, eyes locked on you as he tugs them over his hips, watching with a smile as you drag them down the rest of his strong thighs.
He adjusts slightly on your bed, looking back at you on your hands and knees. “Co’mere, baby,” he murmurs, and you settle on top of his lap, resting your body on top of him.
His long, thick cock is trapped in cotton still, the swell of it stretching the material. He presses the stack of cards into your hand. His palms instantly find their place on your ass, grabbing two fistfuls of skin.
"Six more cards and not a lot of clothes left, baby? What are we gonna do about that?" he asks.
“I’m sure you can think of other rewards, Garrett Graham,” you whisper. He reaches up, fingers tangling in your hair to pull you to his mouth.
He kisses you deeply, tongue sliding between your lips instantly—hips rocking with the tempo of your kiss. “Got a few ideas,” he murmurs. “Think you can get them all right for me?”
His smile pulls along your lips when you whisper yes, his hand still gripping your hair, the other kneading your ass, coaching each drag of your hips on top.
He pulls back from the kiss reluctantly, tapping against the bed for a flashcard. “Neuroplasticity,” he mumbles, licking his lips as his eyes fall to your lace-covered tits, knowing exactly where he’s going next.
“Hockey rink in my mind,” you whisper. “This is the one I had locked in.”
“Yeah?” he asks, his hands drifting up your spine. “Tell me more.”
“Every time I step on the ice, I’m running drills, skatin’ the same route; it gets easier.”
“Mhmm,” he hums, his head tipping back against the headboard as his fingers pinch the clasp of your bra, waiting for the term.
“Neuroplasticity… your brain adapts because you keep practicing.”
Your bra falls away as he chuckles proudly, pulling you in as he lowers his lips, mouth wrapping around your nipple as his hand squeezes your breast in his big palm, the other slapping your ass.
Your head lulls back and his tongue flicks across your bud, letting you go with a pop, kissing up the curve of your breast, along your collarbone.
His tongue slides along your skin, making you shiver and throb, the man catching the necklace at your neck, snagging the metal between his teeth, the white gold chain connecting the two of you.
The dainty G charm slips from between his teeth, glinting as it falls back against your skin before he speaks. “How come you never take this off, pretty?”
You look down at it, smiling to yourself, remembering that night. “Because you gave it to me.”
“If some other guy got you this, it’d just be another necklace.” You nod slowly as he scowls playfully at the mere suggestion of it—the scenario that he painted for you. “It means somethin’. That’s why your brain remembers it.”
“Semantic encoding,” you say. “I remember it by what it means, not just what it looks like.”
His big arm wraps tight around you, hugging you close, as he lets out a deep breath. “That’s my girl,” he whispers, his strong, bare chest pushing flush to yours. “Knew you could do it.”
He grabs your waist, lifting you until you're standing on top of your bed. His hands settle behind your thighs, drawing you closer, peeling the panties down your skin as you look back at him.
Garrett wraps his fingers around the band of his boxer briefs, tugging them down his thighs, his cock swinging free, slapping against his tanned skin as he pushes out a breath.
He wraps his fist around his dick, stroking slowly before looking up at you. “Next one?”
His hold on the back of your thigh keeps you close, the other one working itself at a steady pace. He’s got the next vocab word memorized—held on the tip of his tongue.
His palm runs up the back of your leg, breath catching in his chest. Your hand rests on the wall above your headboard, keeping you balanced.
“Mine disappears when I’m around you,” he mumbles, dipping in to press a kiss against your thigh, lips lingering, the warmth of his breathing against your skin making your pussy throb.
“Self-control?” you whisper.
“Exactly.”
“Executive function,” you answer. “Planning, focus, and self-control.” He smiles and nods, humming out praise as he lifts your leg, foot resting on the wooden frame.
You gasp, a hand flying down to grab him, twisting in his curls as he kisses your clit. Your hips jostle, but his arms flex, forcing you to stay right where he wants you, moaning when you tug at his strands in sensitivity.
He laps at your slit like he’s starved, hand jerking his dick, getting off on the taste and the pathetic sounds that cry past your lips with each drag and twirl of his tongue.
“Baby, fuck,” he hums into your pussy, the wet sounds of his working you over filling the room as the band in your belly tightens, your leg keeping you standing on the mattress, muscles trembling.
Your knees buckle as his lips lock down on your clit, sucking hard, making your eyes screw shut. “Garrett—Garrett, I’m gonna cum,” you whimper breathlessly, and he slaps your ass in response, drawing you as close as he can get you.
“Fuck!” You squeal when he dips his tongue in your entrance, the sensation sending you tumbling over the edge, your body fluttering around him as he works you through each wave of your orgasm, tongue-fucking you with no plans to stop until you soften completely.
Your body practically melts into his lap—his lips quickly finding yours. He grabs your hand, guiding you to his stiff cock between you, wrapping your hand around his length, stroking with you for a moment.
“How was that?” he asks softly, handing over control.
“So fucking good,” you whisper, feeling his lips curl into a smile at your words.
“Don’t peek,” he chuckles breathily against your mouth, peering away just enough to check the last three cards. “Fuck, baby. These are easy.”
“Are they?” you ask, running a line of spit down to the head of his cock, your fist moving easily through the wet, making his eyebrows tug together.
“Better get ‘em right,” he smiles, his eyes falling a little hazier.
“I will,” you whisper, feeling a little more confident now.
“Next one. Studying with me is way, way better,” he mumbles as his hands rest on your hips. “And you sure as hell aren’t doin’ this.”
“Transfer-appropriate…” Your words trail away a little bit when you see his breathing getting a little quicker, your touch on his dick feeling a little too good.
“Come on, baby,” he murmurs, nodding to you, his jaw clenching a little tighter. “Wanna cum inside you but you gotta get it right.”
“…Processing?” you whisper, and he stops your hand, the other coming up to grip your cheeks between his fingers, kissing you deeply. “Practicing it the way I'll actually have to use it.”
“I’m so fucking proud of you, you know that?” he sighs.
“Yeah?” you ask as you rise on your knees.
“Mhmm,” he breathes, holding his dick straight, tracing it along your soaked slit as you hover over him.
Your lips fall open when he pulls you down, the thick head of his cock stretching you wide, soothing the ache. He pulls you lower, your wet pussy sliding down each stiff inch until there’s no space left between you.
He looks back at you, sitting with it for a moment, feeling the wet mess he made squeeze around him—how perfect his hands fit, gripping your curves to keep you sat.
Garrett draws in a heavy breath before he speaks. “Two more, baby.”
“Fucking finally,” you mutter, and he snickers.
“What, you’re not enjoying this?” he asks smugly, your wetness dripping down him.
“Of course I am,” you whisper.
“Remember that away game I had last weekend? I got back to the hotel, and it was dark and quiet. All I could think about was this… and I texted you and told you. And what did you say to me?”
“…I want you so bad.”
“And?” he mumbles.
“I’m wet,” you sigh, the corners of his mouth tilting into a smirk as his cock moves inside you, just enough for you to feel it.
“And what did I say?”
“Show me,” you answer, remembering the picture you sent him seconds later.
“Of course I did,” he mumbles, and your eyes fall, your brain going a little fuzzy when he starts rubbing slow circles on your clit with his thumb.
“Dual coding theory,” you smile with him as his touch on you grows quicker.
Your heart rate starts to climb, that orgasm that just claimed you minutes ago still simmering.
“Elaborative rehearsal,” the last card in the stack leaves your lips without being prompted at all, the only one you didn’t discuss—the definition literally all encompassed in this moment. Garrett’s forehead falls against yours, waiting for you to finish, just as desperate as you. “Connecting new things to what I already know—”
You gasp and squeal out his name, your body flung to your back, Garrett pinning you underneath him before you can even ask if you’re right.
Your eyes go wide, and your jaw drops as he slams into you in one hard thrust, your hands wrapping around him, nails sinking into his back.
He lets out a deep, drawn-out groan, pulling out just enough to see the wetness slicked all over his length, the thick tip of his dick making you gasp when he pushes in again.
“Yes, baby,” Garrett growls against your lips, feeling your body squeeze around him, fucking into you at a punishing pace, your pussy gripping him with each filthy stroke.
You tremble beneath him, sliding higher up the mattress with each rough snap of his hips, the headboard thumping against the wall as the bed creaks below.
The room fills with the sounds of pleasure—the wet slap of skin against yours, his name leaving your lips in a choked cry, quiet praise humming past his lips into yours.
His hand slides down to grab your hip, hard enough to leave a bruise, his other palm resting by your head, gripping the sheet.
You pull him closer, locking your legs around his hips, forcing him deeper. Your eyes roll back in your head as he hits the perfect spot inside you.
“Feels too fuckin’ good,” he mutters, his forehead falling to yours as his hips stutter.
Your walls clench around him, and he gasps against your lips, his pace quickening until your back lifts off the bed.
“Yes—yes,” you cry out, and he buries his face in your neck, teeth gritted as he cums with you, burying himself deep inside you with a strangled moan, thick ropes of his climax filling you as your name drips from his mouth in a fucked-out sigh.
He collapses on top, snuggling into you, the air around you hot and sticky. Both of you are laughing dizzily, his lips moving against yours in soft, breathless kisses.
“We’re celebrating when you ace this shit tomorrow,” he smiles against the corner of your mouth.
“Pretty confident in me, Garrett Graham,” you whisper.
“Of course I am,” he whispers.
“What if I get an A?”
“You know you will,” he hums into a kiss, sucking off your bottom lip. “You gonna ask about another reward?”
You giggle below him, and he laughs, pushing out a satisfied sound when your nails slide down his strong back.
“Well, shit.” He lets out a soft sigh. “It’s gonna need to be pretty good, huh?”
“Mhmm,” you mumble.
He smiles against your mouth, chuckling like the plan just clicked. “Guess you’re gonna have to ace it and find out, huh?”
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Hi! Loveee your writing. Currently obsessed with John Logan and was just wondering if I could request a quick blurb about him becoming captain? Reader is so proud of him and keeps calling him captain casually which he loves, at first is kinda shy but maybe when things turn a little bit heated and he get’s kinda dominant and gets his confidence about the whole thing whilst he gets praised for how good a job he does etc and makes her call him captain a lot in bed? Hope that makes sense
O Captain! My Captain!
☄︎ Warnings: suggestive language and touching
☄︎ Rating: Mature (🔞). Semi-Smut.
☄︎ Words: 741
☄︎ AN: hiii lovely anon! i had to condense this down a lil to fit into a blurb, hope you still enjoyyyy xx
From the moment Logan 'casually' dropped the news that Garrett had picked him to be the next Hawks captain, you'd been 'casually' dropping his new title into conversation. "Morning, Captain." "How was class today, Captain?" "You look really hot, Captain."
Every single time, he would look away with a shy flush creeping up his neck, muttering for you to cut it out. But, for as much as he protested, you could also see the way his chest puffed out jussst a little every time you said the word.
A few nights later, you were lying on your side, propped up by your elbow as your fingers trailed absentminded circles over his bare chest. Logan was lying flat on his back, staring straight up at the ceiling with one arm bent under his head, his jaw tight as his mind shouted in the quiet room.
You knew that look. The excitement had worn off and now, he was overthinking it all, letting the pressure get to him. You weren't going to have that.
"What's on your mind, Captain?" you whispered softly, your index finger drawing circles over his heart.
Logan's sigh was louder, more dramatic, than he intended. He looked down from the ceiling, his eyes resting on you. He caught your hand for a second, his thumb tracing over the backs of your knuckles, before letting it go with a self-deprecating laugh.
"I just... I want to make sure I do this right," he muttered, looking back up. "Be the captain that they deserve."
"Hey, look at me," you said, softly but firmly. You shifted closer, your hand starting its journey over his chest again. "You were a captain long before that 'C' got stitched onto your jersey."
"You really think so?" His voice was thick with stubborn self-doubt.
Your hand trailed lower, tracing the firm line of his abs beneath the sheets. "I've never seen anybody more dedicated when their mind is set on something. You always lead by example. Communication skills? A1. You're an amazing player, and... you look hot doing it."
"I'm not sure looking hot is a requirement for captain," he laughed, his chest rumbling beside you.
Shifting closer until your chest pressed against his side, your breath fanned his neck as your hand slipped under the waistband of his boxers, gently stroking him.
"Maybe not officially." Your voice dropped seductively, your lips brushing against the skin right under his jaw. "But it's definitely a perk for your biggest fan. I'm so proud of my captain." You paused, the corner of your mouth lifting into a playful smirk as your eyes met his. "Besides, we already know how great you are at taking the lead."
Before you could wrap your hand around his hardening erection, Logan rolled over, shifting until his weight was fully pressed onto you. He barely gave you a second to react before he grabbed your wrist, pulling you out of his boxers and pinning your hand firmly to the mattress beside your head.
It's like something snapped inside of him, the sound of you calling him captain in this way echoing through his head.
"Oh, captain..."
He leant down and kissed you.
It wasn't like the soft kisses he had given you earlier. It was demanding and all-consuming, his tongue slipping past your lips with an intense hunger that made your head spin.
When he finally pulled back, you fought to catch your breath, completely dazed. His free hand immediately slipped between your legs, finding the slick dampness waiting there for him.
Your hips bucked up into his touch. "Fuck, feels so good, captain."
His fingers glided through your wetness, intentionally avoiding your throbbing clit. "You like how it feels, baby?" The words came out as a growl, sending shivers down your spine.
"Yes," you gasped, your eyes squeezing shut. "More. Please, Loge."
"Ah, ah," he tutted. His thumb applying a sudden pressure to your clit, making your toes curl. He leant down, his lips brushing against your ear as his hand kept moving between your legs. "You’ll address me by my proper title."
"Captain," you whimpered, hips bucking helplessly into him. "Captain, please."
He let out a satisfied him as he shifted, sliding down the mattress until he was sat between your legs.
“Now, be a good girl for your captain,” he murmured, his hands gripping your inner thighs to push them wide, “and spread those pretty legs of yours for me.”
Hi! Loveee your writing. Currently obsessed with John Logan and was just wondering if I could request a quick blurb about him becoming captain? Reader is so proud of him and keeps calling him captain casually which he loves, at first is kinda shy but maybe when things turn a little bit heated and he get’s kinda dominant and gets his confidence about the whole thing whilst he gets praised for how good a job he does etc and makes her call him captain a lot in bed? Hope that makes sense
O Captain! My Captain!
☄︎ Warnings: suggestive language and touching
☄︎ Rating: Mature (🔞). Semi-Smut.
☄︎ Words: 741
☄︎ AN: hiii lovely anon! i had to condense this down a lil to fit into a blurb, hope you still enjoyyyy xx
From the moment Logan 'casually' dropped the news that Garrett had picked him to be the next Hawks captain, you'd been 'casually' dropping his new title into conversation. "Morning, Captain." "How was class today, Captain?" "You look really hot, Captain."
Every single time, he would look away with a shy flush creeping up his neck, muttering for you to cut it out. But, for as much as he protested, you could also see the way his chest puffed out jussst a little every time you said the word.
A few nights later, you were lying on your side, propped up by your elbow as your fingers trailed absentminded circles over his bare chest. Logan was lying flat on his back, staring straight up at the ceiling with one arm bent under his head, his jaw tight as his mind shouted in the quiet room.
You knew that look. The excitement had worn off and now, he was overthinking it all, letting the pressure get to him. You weren't going to have that.
"What's on your mind, Captain?" you whispered softly, your index finger drawing circles over his heart.
Logan's sigh was louder, more dramatic, than he intended. He looked down from the ceiling, his eyes resting on you. He caught your hand for a second, his thumb tracing over the backs of your knuckles, before letting it go with a self-deprecating laugh.
"I just... I want to make sure I do this right," he muttered, looking back up. "Be the captain that they deserve."
"Hey, look at me," you said, softly but firmly. You shifted closer, your hand starting its journey over his chest again. "You were a captain long before that 'C' got stitched onto your jersey."
"You really think so?" His voice was thick with stubborn self-doubt.
Your hand trailed lower, tracing the firm line of his abs beneath the sheets. "I've never seen anybody more dedicated when their mind is set on something. You always lead by example. Communication skills? A1. You're an amazing player, and... you look hot doing it."
"I'm not sure looking hot is a requirement for captain," he laughed, his chest rumbling beside you.
Shifting closer until your chest pressed against his side, your breath fanned his neck as your hand slipped under the waistband of his boxers, gently stroking him.
"Maybe not officially." Your voice dropped seductively, your lips brushing against the skin right under his jaw. "But it's definitely a perk for your biggest fan. I'm so proud of my captain." You paused, the corner of your mouth lifting into a playful smirk as your eyes met his. "Besides, we already know how great you are at taking the lead."
Before you could wrap your hand around his hardening erection, Logan rolled over, shifting until his weight was fully pressed onto you. He barely gave you a second to react before he grabbed your wrist, pulling you out of his boxers and pinning your hand firmly to the mattress beside your head.
It's like something snapped inside of him, the sound of you calling him captain in this way echoing through his head.
"Oh, captain..."
He leant down and kissed you.
It wasn't like the soft kisses he had given you earlier. It was demanding and all-consuming, his tongue slipping past your lips with an intense hunger that made your head spin.
When he finally pulled back, you fought to catch your breath, completely dazed. His free hand immediately slipped between your legs, finding the slick dampness waiting there for him.
Your hips bucked up into his touch. "Fuck, feels so good, captain."
His fingers glided through your wetness, intentionally avoiding your throbbing clit. "You like how it feels, baby?" The words came out as a growl, sending shivers down your spine.
"Yes," you gasped, your eyes squeezing shut. "More. Please, Loge."
"Ah, ah," he tutted. His thumb applying a sudden pressure to your clit, making your toes curl. He leant down, his lips brushing against your ear as his hand kept moving between your legs. "You’ll address me by my proper title."
"Captain," you whimpered, hips bucking helplessly into him. "Captain, please."
He let out a satisfied him as he shifted, sliding down the mattress until he was sat between your legs.
“Now, be a good girl for your captain,” he murmured, his hands gripping your inner thighs to push them wide, “and spread those pretty legs of yours for me.”
Hi! Loveee your writing. Currently obsessed with John Logan and was just wondering if I could request a quick blurb about him becoming captain? Reader is so proud of him and keeps calling him captain casually which he loves, at first is kinda shy but maybe when things turn a little bit heated and he get’s kinda dominant and gets his confidence about the whole thing whilst he gets praised for how good a job he does etc and makes her call him captain a lot in bed? Hope that makes sense
O Captain! My Captain!
☄︎ Warnings: suggestive language and touching
☄︎ Rating: Mature (🔞). Semi-Smut.
☄︎ Words: 741
☄︎ AN: hiii lovely anon! i had to condense this down a lil to fit into a blurb, hope you still enjoyyyy xx
From the moment Logan 'casually' dropped the news that Garrett had picked him to be the next Hawks captain, you'd been 'casually' dropping his new title into conversation. "Morning, Captain." "How was class today, Captain?" "You look really hot, Captain."
Every single time, he would look away with a shy flush creeping up his neck, muttering for you to cut it out. But, for as much as he protested, you could also see the way his chest puffed out jussst a little every time you said the word.
A few nights later, you were lying on your side, propped up by your elbow as your fingers trailed absentminded circles over his bare chest. Logan was lying flat on his back, staring straight up at the ceiling with one arm bent under his head, his jaw tight as his mind shouted in the quiet room.
You knew that look. The excitement had worn off and now, he was overthinking it all, letting the pressure get to him. You weren't going to have that.
"What's on your mind, Captain?" you whispered softly, your index finger drawing circles over his heart.
Logan's sigh was louder, more dramatic, than he intended. He looked down from the ceiling, his eyes resting on you. He caught your hand for a second, his thumb tracing over the backs of your knuckles, before letting it go with a self-deprecating laugh.
"I just... I want to make sure I do this right," he muttered, looking back up. "Be the captain that they deserve."
"Hey, look at me," you said, softly but firmly. You shifted closer, your hand starting its journey over his chest again. "You were a captain long before that 'C' got stitched onto your jersey."
"You really think so?" His voice was thick with stubborn self-doubt.
Your hand trailed lower, tracing the firm line of his abs beneath the sheets. "I've never seen anybody more dedicated when their mind is set on something. You always lead by example. Communication skills? A1. You're an amazing player, and... you look hot doing it."
"I'm not sure looking hot is a requirement for captain," he laughed, his chest rumbling beside you.
Shifting closer until your chest pressed against his side, your breath fanned his neck as your hand slipped under the waistband of his boxers, gently stroking him.
"Maybe not officially." Your voice dropped seductively, your lips brushing against the skin right under his jaw. "But it's definitely a perk for your biggest fan. I'm so proud of my captain." You paused, the corner of your mouth lifting into a playful smirk as your eyes met his. "Besides, we already know how great you are at taking the lead."
Before you could wrap your hand around his hardening erection, Logan rolled over, shifting until his weight was fully pressed onto you. He barely gave you a second to react before he grabbed your wrist, pulling you out of his boxers and pinning your hand firmly to the mattress beside your head.
It's like something snapped inside of him, the sound of you calling him captain in this way echoing through his head.
"Oh, captain..."
He leant down and kissed you.
It wasn't like the soft kisses he had given you earlier. It was demanding and all-consuming, his tongue slipping past your lips with an intense hunger that made your head spin.
When he finally pulled back, you fought to catch your breath, completely dazed. His free hand immediately slipped between your legs, finding the slick dampness waiting there for him.
Your hips bucked up into his touch. "Fuck, feels so good, captain."
His fingers glided through your wetness, intentionally avoiding your throbbing clit. "You like how it feels, baby?" The words came out as a growl, sending shivers down your spine.
"Yes," you gasped, your eyes squeezing shut. "More. Please, Loge."
"Ah, ah," he tutted. His thumb applying a sudden pressure to your clit, making your toes curl. He leant down, his lips brushing against your ear as his hand kept moving between your legs. "You’ll address me by my proper title."
"Captain," you whimpered, hips bucking helplessly into him. "Captain, please."
He let out a satisfied him as he shifted, sliding down the mattress until he was sat between your legs.
“Now, be a good girl for your captain,” he murmured, his hands gripping your inner thighs to push them wide, “and spread those pretty legs of yours for me.”
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
c/w ᝰ.ᐟ backward hat!garrett (purr), unprotected p in v, riding, semi-public sex (empty arena/penalty box), risk of getting caught, pet names (baby, pretty + no y/n), nhl rookie!garrett, older!garrett, swearing, praise kink (both), teasing, begging, rozanov captain agenda + one very down bad rookie
You know this is a terrible idea the second Garrett grabs your hand after the post-game press conference.
The grin on his face tells you everything you need to know. He’s already made up his mind.
“Garrett Graham, you’re insane,” you laugh as he drags you down the hallway. The arena is almost eerily quiet now, the crowds and reporters long gone.
Your sneakers scuff against the concrete as he shoulders open the heavy door leading toward the ice, cold air immediately spilling into the hallway.
The arena stands are empty now, quiet beneath the fading lights. A few hours ago, the place had been roaring with thousands of people.
“C’mon, baby,” Garrett smiles, turning around, walking backwards in front of you as he heads toward the door to center ice.
“This isn’t smart,” you sigh.
“This is the smartest thing I’ve ever done. Be serious.”
“Garrett…”
“What?” He asks, catching your hand and tugging you forward again.
“This is The Garden,” you remind him, glancing around the empty arena. “We just got here and you’re already trying to get us banned for life—”
“First of all, dramatic.” Garrett points at you. “Second of all, they can’t ban me. I work here now.”
He looks down at you with a smile. The smile.
“Stop smiling at me like that.”
“Can’t.”
“Don’t,” you breathe.
“What?”
“I know exactly what you’re thinking.”
“Wanted to see it when it was quiet,” he mumbles, rocking back on his heels with his hand stuffed in his pocket, the other locked in yours.
“Mhmm,” you huff, rolling your eyes but your smile never fades.
“I mean...” He gestures toward the empty arena. “Seems a shame to waste all this.”
“You’re unbelievable—”
“Whole arena to ourselves.” He shrugs, eyes sliding away like you’re being irrational. “Seems irresponsible not to.”
“Baby…”
“For me?” He pouts, lifting your hand to kiss the top, but he already knows you’re down.
“For you—” Before you can get another word out, he’s got his arms around your waist, lifting you clean off the ground.
He laughs, warm and breathless against your mouth before kissing you, stealing whatever rational thoughts you had left about how badly this could end.
Because for Garrett Graham, there’s not much you wouldn’t do.
You knew him before any of this. Before the draft. Before reporters crowded around his locker after games. Before kids started showing up to the rink wearing his jersey and asking for autographs.
You knew the version of Garrett that stayed at the rink until the lights turned off. The version of him that called you after losses, only to spend forty-five minutes talking himself in circles until you talked him down.
And somehow, standing here now in an empty arena after the biggest night of his life, he still looks at you exactly the way he always has.
Your hands slip into his hair and you shake your head, smiling despite yourself. “You made it, Garrett Graham.”
For a second he just stands there holding you, letting those words sink in.
“You’re here too. We made it.” He laughs quietly, shaking his head. “Couldn’t have gotten through half of it without you,” he says, his voice breaking a little. His forehead bumps gently against yours as he breathes you in. “Best night of my life. Wouldn’t wanna share it with anyone else.”
“You happy?” You whisper, and the corners of his lips curl into a smile.
“The happiest,” he hums, tilting in for a kiss. Your back bumps lightly against the glass as his fingers tighten on your thighs, holding you there.
“What if we’re super quiet?” He mumbles. “Like super… fucking… quiet.” Garrett’s voice lowers, peppering words between kisses.
“What if we get caught?” The question sounds more like a challenge than a warning, and Garrett knows it.
“We’ve done this before—”
“In college,” you giggle.
“Just a few more seats, pretty. Ice in the middle. Practically the same thing.” His body presses into you, pulling out a sound from you that has him groaning against your lips. “You know,” he adds, “for someone who keeps telling me this is a bad idea, you sure haven’t tried very hard to leave.”
Your fingers release from his hair and the back of his shirt, your kiss softening just enough to disprove his point but it’s too late.
“Nah, keep going, baby,” he teases, pulling you off the wall and toward the side door of the penalty box before he slides in with you, gripping the handle and pushing it shut until it clicks. The sound echoes across the empty arena, making both of you flinch before dissolving into quiet laughter.
He drops onto the bench like he owns it. “C’mere, pretty girl,” he murmurs, pulling you onto his lap, your knees pressing into the metal bench.
Your hands come up, wrapping around his shoulders, settling on top like you’ve probably done too many times before if you’re being honest.
He tilts forward, pressing a lingering kiss against your neck. The warmth of his breath sends a shiver through you. The arena is silent around you, the ice glowing faintly beyond the glass.
His hands drift along the waistband of your skirt. “This okay?” He whispers.
And you nod in reply as his hands drag over your thighs, slipping in between, your breath catching when he drags his palm back up your panties.
“Holy shit.” The words rush out of him as he grabs the waistband of his sweats and tugs them down just enough, the gold chain around his neck swinging free.
“So good to me,” he mumbles, licking his lips as his rough fingers shift the soft material to the side.
He groans softly when the air hits him, forehead pressed to yours. His eyes roll back when your hand wraps around his dick, the tension between you thick as you start to stroke. Garrett’s fingers push inside you, making your brows furrow.
His lips fall open as the two of you settle into a rhythm, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth when you throw your head back, his long fingers curving just right.
Garrett lets out a low moan, his eyes never leaving you. The excitement from the game is still written all over him, his chest rising and falling as you fist his cock, his lip tucked between his teeth, still riding high off adrenaline.
You shift closer as anticipation twists through your stomach, cursing under your breath as he grips your hip with one hand, dragging the tip of his dick along your slit with the other.
“I’ll go slow,” he mumbles, his chin tipped up to match your gaze as you straddle his lap.
Your breath catches and you bite down on your lip to keep quiet. Garrett’s forehead presses against yours, eyes pinched shut as he lets out a rough breath. His hand tightens at your waist, holding you steady as you sink lower.
His jaw tightens as he glances between you, watching the distance disappear until you’re settled in his lap, your thighs pressed against the bench.
When you finally look at him, Garrett is already watching you.
A shaky laugh escapes you before you can stop it, making Garrett’s heavy eyes immediately soften.
“Hey,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing against your cheek. “Feels good?”
“Mhmm,” you breathe, rolling your hips, the stretch making your muscles shake.
“Then why are you trying so hard not to make any noise, huh?”
A helpless laugh slips out of you.
“I don’t wanna get caught,” you whisper, his thumb tracing along your bottom lip. “I don’t wanna stop.”
“Yeah?” He murmurs sweetly. “You’re being so good for me—” Crack! His palm lands against your ass, sharp enough to make you gasp. Your body tenses, tightening around him and pulling a moan from his throat, his deep voice humming through the penalty box.
Garrett’s head tips back for a second. The sight sends a flutter straight through your stomach—hair damp and curling beneath his hat, lips wet from kissing, cheeks flushed. The muscles under his shirt are flexed tight, the team logo pulled taut across his chest.
Your hands brace against the wall behind his head as you move against him—riding him shamelessly.
“You’re killin’ me,” he mutters, his large hands gripping your ass, coaching each roll of your hips. “Pretty proud of yourself, aren’t you?”
You smile, taking control on top, each shift drawing the two of you closer to the edge. You can feel every inch and ridge of him—each vein and curve—as he moves beneath you, heat building low in your stomach with every bounce.
His mouth finds yours again, lips parting so he can slip his tongue inside. “Need you to cum for me,” he mumbles between kissing, catching your moan in his mouth when his fingers press against your clit, rubbing tight circles on top.
“Yes. Yes,” you pant, and he groans.
“Mmm’fuck, baby,” he hums against your lips, pounding up into you as you fall apart, his name breaking from your lips in a breathless whine.
His rhythm falters with a low, broken sound as he finishes deep inside you, pulling you down as close as he can. His forehead presses to yours as the two of you share the same breath.
“Fuck me,” he breathes, hands drifting slowly up and down your thighs before smoothing your skirt back into place, still wearing that same stunned expression he’s had since puck drop.
“I love you,” you mumble, your hands holding his cheeks as you kiss him.
“I love you too, baby,” he hums. Garrett chuckles against your lips, raspy and deep.
“What?” You smile.
“Never gettin’ over this look on you, pretty,” he sighs blissfully, his hands settled on your hips. “Post-win. Freshly-fucked—”
“Garrett Graham,” you gasp like you’re surprised, giggling against his lips as he does the same, but a metallic clunk echoes somewhere above you and both of you freeze. Your heart immediately drops into your stomach.
“WHO’S DOWN THERE?” The voice cuts through the darkness and panic hits you all at once.
“Oh my God,” you hiss, climbing out of his lap as he fights with the waistband of his sweats, laughing a little at your panic. Not loud. Just enough to make you want to strangle him.
“Baby, move,” you scold.
“I’m movin’!” He chuckles, the two of you scrambling out of the box, hands shaking, your pulse pounding so hard you can hear it in your ears while Garrett somehow looks like he’s having the time of his life.
A beam of light sweeps across the home bench as you run through the tunnel.
“Shit, shit, shit,” you hiss.
“Language,” Garrett mutters.
“Oh, please.” You shoot him a look as he catches your hand, his tongue poking through his teeth.
His laugh bounces off the concrete walls as he tugs you through the exit to player parking.
You barely make it around the corner before Garrett catches your wrist and pulls you against the brick wall. The momentum knocks a laugh out of both of you.
“We’re good, baby—FUCK!” He barks, throwing up a hand to shield both of you from the blinding headlights as a pair of beams sweep across you, the engine of a sports car roaring to life.
Music spills from the speakers and the fear in Garrett’s eyes disappears instantly, his shoulders relaxing as he wraps an arm around your waist.
His captain’s car slow-rolls forward and a deep chuckle drifts from the open window.
“You two have a nice night?” He asks, a smile tugging at his mouth, his thick Russian accent laced with teasing.
“Mhmm,” Garrett answers, nodding his head, his shoulders trembling as he fights back a laugh. “Great night, Roz. Thanks.”
“Good job tonight, kid,” Ilya says, giving him a wink.
“Appreciate it,” Garrett says, his voice cracking on the last word, embarrassment painting his cheeks red. The finger gun he shoots at his captain definitely doesn’t help, but thankfully Rozanov is already rolling away as his taillights disappear into the dark Boston night.
“Got a permit for that thing,” you whisper.
“Shut up,” he laughs, pulling you into a playful headlock, using his hold to press a rough kiss on your lips. “Stop teasin’ me. Fuck—”
“Language,” you whisper his words from before, but he’s quick, tickling you as you try your best to wiggle away but he’s having none of that. And the moment he pulls you in, your stomach falls, your eyes going wide on his like a deer in the headlights.
He looks down at you, quirking an eyebrow as you stare up at him. He nods, preemptively answering the question that you’re too mortified to ask.
“Mhmm,” he hums.
“Oh my God,” you gasp, heat rushing to your cheeks, but Garrett looks completely unbothered. He turns you around wrapping you up in his strong arms as you unravel.
“You think he knows?”
“Absolutely.” Garrett ducks his head, trying and failing to stop laughing. “Baby, he definitely knows.”
You let out a dramatic groan, throwing your head back, but he cradles the back of your head and pulls you against his chest. His heart thumps steadily beneath your ear, his lips resting against the top of your head as your breathing slowly settles together.
When you finally glance up at him, he’s already smiling. His eyes drop to your lips before he steals a soft kiss.
“Best night of my life,” he whispers against your mouth.
“Even after getting caught?” You mumble back.
“‘Specially after gettin’ caught,” he chuckles breathlessly. “Doesn’t get much better than this, huh?” He looks at you for a second and starts smiling all over again.
“What?”
“Nothin’,” he mumbles, swaying with you a little. “Just happy.”
watched the stanley cup finals last night and can’t stop thinking about bruins garrett winning a cup and meeting him down on the ice 🥺
STANLEY CUP
pairing — garrett graham x fiancée!reader
summary — garrett wins the stanley cup with the bruins, but before he even gets to the cup, he looks for the person who was there long before all of it.
warnings — 18+ mdni, bruins!garrett, established relationship, fiancée!reader, stanley cup win, emotional fluff, public kissing, possessive garrett, short smut scene, hotel room celebration, praise, soft dominance, unprotected sex.
word count — 2,090.
author note — this one was requested a few weeks ago, and i thought it would be a cute little fic to write between bigger updates. i really hope you like it. thank you for always being so patient with me and for all your support <3
(TAGLIST) | (MASTERLIST) | (ORIGINAL MASTERLIST)
The final buzzer sounded, and for a second, you stood there, unable to breathe — not because you hadn’t seen it coming, but because you’d watched the clock bleed down for the last minute, your heart lodged in your throat with every brutal second.
The Bruins had been up by one, the other team’s goalie pulled, the entire arena on its feet and screaming so loudly you could feel it more than hear it. But when the horn finally went off, when the gloves started flying, and the bench spilled onto the ice, you went completely still.
Garrett Graham had won — the boy you’d known at Briar before Boston, before the cameras, before the whole world started saying his name as they’d always known who he was. The boy who’d carried more than he ever let anyone see and still acted like nothing hurt badly enough to keep him off the ice.
After everything, Garrett had won the Stanley Cup.
Around you, the arena erupted. People were crying and hugging, screaming into their phones, grabbing at your shoulders like you needed someone to tell you what’d just happened, but you understood what this meant, maybe better than anyone else in the arena. You understood the late-night phone calls after bad games, the ice packs, the silent drives home, and all the nights Garrett walked through the door, exhausted but still trying to smile, because he hated making you worry.
And on the ice, half buried beneath his teammates and a mess of black-and-gold jerseys, Garrett was laughing.
You caught glimpses of his face between helmets, his mouth open in a grin that looked almost too big for him, eyes bright, and damp hair a mess from where someone had ripped his helmet off in the chaos. One of his teammates caught him by the shoulders and hauled him upright, only for another to crash into him from behind, arms locking around him as laughter, shouting, and tears blurred together around them. Somewhere in the middle of it all, someone kept yelling Garrett’s name.
And then, in the middle of all that noise, Garrett turned.
He wasn’t looking for the Cup.
His eyes searched the glass, the family section, the blur of hands and towels and camera flashes, and your hand came up to your mouth before you realized you were moving, because there he was, looking right at you.
The noise, the cameras, the crowd — all of it fell away.
His grin changed the second his eyes landed on yours, still bright with disbelief, but softer now, as if in the loudest moment of his life, he’d found the one quiet thing he needed.
You didn’t realize you’d started crying until the glass blurred in front of you.
Garrett pointed at you, then at the ice beneath him, like you were supposed to know exactly what he meant.
Get down here.
You laughed through the tears, shaking your head because your shoes were absolutely not made for championship ice, but Garrett only said something you couldn’t hear, his face making the meaning clear.
Baby.
He gestured again, more impatient this time, and you laughed through your tears because, obviously, he wasn’t going to let this go.
By the time someone helped you down to the ice, your hands were shaking. You stepped forward carefully, gripping the boards with one hand while the other pressed uselessly to your chest, like that might keep your heart where it belonged.
Garrett was already skating toward you, still in full gear, sweaty and breathless and looking at you like the Cup could wait.
“Careful,” he said, laughing as he caught you by the waist. “I didn’t win the Cup just to watch you eat shit on national television.”
You tried to laugh, but it came out closer to a sob. “You won.”
“Yeah,” he breathed, like he was still trying to believe it. “I won.”
He pulled you against him hard enough that the pads made it clumsy, and somehow that only made you cry harder. You clutched the back of his jersey, your fingers brushing over the name across his shoulders — GRAHAM — like you needed to feel it before you could believe it.
“You did it,” you whispered.
Garrett’s arms tightened around you. “We did it.”
You pulled back just enough to see his face. “Garrett.”
“I’m serious.” His eyes were red now, and he looked almost annoyed about it, which was so painfully him that you nearly laughed. “You were there for all of it.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“No.” His gloved hand came up carefully, clumsy against your cheek. “You were there for everything that mattered.”
The tears came harder. Someone was calling for Garrett to lift the Cup, but all you could feel was his hand against your cheek, still shaking from the win and trying to be gentle with you even through the gloves.
“You should go,” you whispered, even though you still hadn’t let go of him. “They’re waiting for you.”
Garrett looked over his shoulder, where his teammates were already gathering around the Cup, bright under the arena lights and waiting for him, before looking back at you.
“I wanted to see you first.”
Your breath caught. “What?”
His forehead touched yours, his breath warm against your face despite the cold coming off the ice. “Baby, I just won the Stanley Cup. You really thought I wasn’t coming to you first?”
You kissed him because if you tried to answer, you’d only cry again.
Garrett made a rough sound against your mouth and kissed you back like he didn’t care who was watching, like he’d spent the last minute of the game holding himself together and you were the first place he could finally let go. One hand stayed at your waist while the other slid to the back of your neck, keeping you close as the arena roared around you.
When you pulled back, Garrett was grinning again, all breathless and stupidly pleased with himself.
“There she is,” he murmured, his grin softening.
“You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m a Stanley Cup champion.”
“You’re still an idiot.”
“Yeah,” he murmured, still grinning. “You’re an idiot.”
You glanced down at your ring, glittering under the arena lights, then back at him. “Apparently.”
Garrett laughed, bright and breathless, and it hit you all over again how happy he was.
Someone yelled his name again, louder this time, and Garrett groaned like having to leave you to lift the Stanley Cup was a personal inconvenience.
You pressed a hand to his chest. “Go.”
He pointed at you, already backing away. “Don’t go anywhere.”
“I’m standing on ice, Garrett. Trust me, moving is not my priority.”
His grin went crooked. “That’s my girl.”
His grin went crooked. “That’s my girl.”
Heat rushed to your face so fast you were grateful for the noise around you.
His eyes darkened for half a second, just enough to make your stomach dip, even with half the arena watching. Then he kissed your forehead and skated backward, still watching you until one of his teammates finally shoved him toward the Cup.
The rest of it blurred after that.
The rest of it blurred after that: the photos, the champagne, the locker room interviews, Garrett lifting the Cup over his head with a laugh like he still couldn’t believe it was real. And still, between every obligation, he found you — a hand at your waist as he passed, a kiss to your temple, his fingers squeezing yours like he needed to make sure you were still there.
By the time you made it back to the hotel, his medal was still around his neck, his dress shirt was half-unbuttoned, and his hair was damp from a shower he’d clearly rushed through, because patience had never been one of Garrett Graham’s strengths after a win.
He shut the door behind you and leaned back against it, his eyes dragging over you like he was finally allowed to look.
You kicked off your heels, trying not to smile under the weight of his stare. “What?”
Garrett shook his head, a slow smile tugging at his mouth. “Just looking.”
“You’ve been staring all night.”
“Yeah.” His eyes moved over you, slow enough to make your pulse jump. “I’m not done.”
He crossed the room before you could answer, catching you by the waist and pulling you into him. The medal pressed cold between your bodies, and you gasped into his mouth. Garrett smiled as he knew exactly why.
“You know,” you murmured, fingers slipping into his damp hair, “most Stanley Cup champions would be downstairs celebrating.”
“Most Stanley Cup champions don’t get to come back upstairs to you.”
You smiled despite yourself. “Not bad.”
“It was smooth,” Garrett protested.
“You used the Cup. That’s cheating.”
Garrett kissed you again, deeper this time, until whatever smart comment you had left disappeared against his mouth. He tasted like champagne and mint, and his hands moved over you with the kind of hunger that made it obvious he’d been holding himself back all night, every camera, every interview, every hand pulling him away only making him want you more.
His mouth found your neck, and your head tipped back before you could stop yourself.
“Garrett,” you breathed.
He hummed against your skin. “Again.”
You let out a breathless laugh. “Your name?”
“Yeah.” His hand slid under the hem of your dress, warm on your thigh. “Everyone’s been saying my name all night. I like it better from you.”
Your fingers tightened in his damp hair.
His mouth curved against your throat. “That’s it.”
The bed hit the back of your knees, and Garrett followed you down, still careful despite the adrenaline humming under his skin. That was Garrett — possessive enough to make your whole body go hot, gentle enough to wreck you.
He pushed your dress higher, spreading your thighs with a slow, deliberate kind of focus before pressing his mouth to the sensitive skin there. “Everyone kept wanting the Cup,” he murmured, voice low.
“And what did you want?”
His eyes lifted to yours, dark and steady. “I wanted my girl.”
The words hit low in your stomach, and his mouth followed, kissing higher until your breath caught. After that, there wasn’t much room left for teasing — only his hands on you, your fingers twisting in the sheets, and the medal pressing cool against your stomach when Garrett moved back over you. He kissed you through every shaky sound he pulled from you, murmuring praise against your lips like he couldn’t get enough of being the reason you came apart.
When he finally slid into you, slow and careful despite the way his whole body was tense with wanting, his forehead dropped to yours.
“You with me?”
You nodded, breathless and overwhelmed. “Yeah.”
His jaw tightened; his body held tense above yours. “Use your words, baby.”
Your heart twisted, because even now, with all that want shaking through him, he was still Garrett — careful where it mattered.
“I’m okay,” you whispered. “Don’t stop.”
His control slipped just enough for his next thrust to go deeper, rougher, stealing the breath from your lungs. After that, he kept the same relentless rhythm, pushing you closer every time you tried to swallow a sound and he caught you doing it.
“No,” he murmured, catching your jaw in his hand. “Let me hear you.”
“Garrett—”
“That’s it,” he breathed.
You came around him with his name breaking out of you, the medal pressed cool between your bodies as your nails dragged down his back and he held you through every second of it. Garrett followed not long after, face buried in your neck, your name coming out rough and wrecked against your skin, the sound making your chest ache.
Downstairs, the celebration was still going. Up here, Garrett stayed pressed against you, his breathing slowly evening out against your skin.
You touched the back of his neck, smiling softly. “You won the Stanley Cup.”
He lifted his head, eyes soft and smug and fixed entirely on you.
“Yeah,” he murmured, brushing his thumb over your ring. “And somehow, this is still the best part of my night.”
You rolled your eyes, even as your throat tightened. “That was terrible.”
Garrett grinned and kissed you again.
“You love me,” he murmured against your mouth.
“Yeah,” you whispered. “I really do.”
Before the Cup, before the cameras, before everyone else got to celebrate him, Garrett had looked for you first.
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