you can call me z, I’m black/latina. 20s. I write for DC and Marvel and ACOTAR. this may expand to more fandoms, so nothing is really set in stone! I’ll be your DJ for the night, read below to learn more!
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track four ✩ I write with a black reader in mind, that doesn’t always mean I write out those details. But because of this, the reader will not be flushed pink or casually throw their hair into a bun, or have blue ocean eyes.
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I love the joke that Jud Duplenticy is just Judas Duplicitous with extra steps, and I know Jud’s full name in canon probably is just Jud, but in my personal headcanon his full first name is Judas, named not for Judas Iscariot, betrayer, but St. Judas Thaddeus, patron saint of lost causes.
(n.) the strong urge to avoid someone or something
soft!dark!rhysand x fem!highfae!reader
You have spent your entire life knowing that one day, you might belong to Rhysand.
cw: mdni, dark(ish) themes, possessive/obsessive behaviour, big fat power imbalance, arranged marriage kinda trope, reader is terrified of rhys, feyre and him aren't mates in this story, problematic themes overall
a/n: writing rhys is so fun
You had been promised to Rhysand long before you understood what marriage even meant.
It was one of those facts that simply existed. Like the Sidra. Like starlight. Like the mountains surrounding Velaris.
Something decided by adults in rooms you were never permitted to enter and discussed over wine while children played elsewhere.
Your father had been one of the Night Court's most trusted courtiers. One of the few males Rhysand's father had genuinely respected.
The agreement had been reached when you were barely old enough to speak in complete sentences.
If Rhysand did not find his mate by the time you came of age, if fate did not intervene with its unpredictable hand, then you would marry.
It wasn't uncommon. It was the sort of arrangement noble families made every day.
Only there was one small problem.
You were completely and utterly terrified of Rhysand.
The first time you remembered meeting him, you had been perhaps sixteen, young enough to still hide behind your father whenever unfamiliar people addressed you.
Rhysand had already been well over a century old. Already taller than most males in the room. Already powerful enough that people unconsciously moved aside when he entered. Already carrying himself like someone destined to rule.
You remembered peeking around your father's shoulder, and seeing violet eyes settle on you.
Gods.
You had nearly died, not literally. But your heart had certainly attempted to flee your body.
Rhysand had smiled at you, a slow curve of his lips that was equal parts amusement and something else entirely, something you were far too young and far too sheltered to identify. And you had immediately hidden again.
The sound of his laughter had followed you all evening.
From that moment onward, you had spent most of your life avoiding him at all cost.
When he returned from training in the Illyrian mountains, you disappeared. When he attended court functions, you developed sudden illnesses. When your father informed you that Rhysand wished to spend time with you, you found increasingly ridiculous excuses.
Once, you had claimed you needed to reorganize your books, all three hundred of them, alphabetically, by color, and then by height. Another time, you insisted that a particular flowerpot in the garden required your immediate and undivided attention, as it had been looking "rather sad" lately.
Your father had nearly laughed himself sick.
Rhysand, unfortunately, had only smiled.
"You know," he'd said conversationally while watching you attempt to disappear behind a particularly decorative shrub, "I'm beginning to think she's avoiding me."
You had nearly tripped over your own feet.
Your father had sighed into his wine. "You frighten her."
Rhysand's gaze had remained exactly where you stood frozen.
"I know."
Nothing more, just that quiet, god-forsaken certainty he'd always possessed.
It only made everything worse.
He never chased you. Never cornered you. Never insisted you stay. He simply watched you flee with the endless patience of someone entirely unconcerned by the distance between you.
Like he had all the time in the world. Perhaps he did.
You certainly didn't. You couldn't help it.
He was overwhelming, even then. Before becoming High Lord. Before the reputation of being the most powerful male in Pryhtian.
He had possessed a presence unlike anyone else.
And whenever those impossible violet eyes settled on you, it felt as though he saw entirely too much.
So you hid. And he watched. Patiently, always patiently, because he had never been anything else when it came to you.
Years passed. Then decades. Then centuries.
Your father died. Soon after the tragedy that took both his sister and mother, Rhysand's father followed.
And suddenly the terrifying heir became High Lord.
The entire Night Court shifted beneath his command. Cassian became General. Azriel became Spymaster. Amren became his second-in-command. Mor his third-in-command.
The Inner Circle slowly took shape around him. They were warriors, leaders, survivors, bound together by blood, battle, and an unshakeable devotion to their High Lord.
They had fought in wars long before you were born, had bled and killed and nearly died for the court they loved.
And somehow, there was you.
You had no idea what your place among them was supposed to be.
You couldn't fight, couldn't spy, couldn't command armies. Had never even stepped foot on a battlefield. While they carried centuries of scars, your life had remained sheltered, peaceful and safe. You often felt like an accidental addition to a group you had no business belonging to.
Still, when Rhysand informed you that you too would be moving into the Town House, you weren't exactly surprised.
But disappointed. Hopeful, perhaps, because some foolish part of you had whispered that maybe, just maybe, the arrangement would die alongside your fathers. That Rhysand would become too busy, too occupied ruling an entire court, too distracted by the weight of his new responsibilities to remember an agreement made centuries ago.
You had been wrong.
Instead, your belongings were packed. Your room prepared. Before you knew it, you found yourself living beneath the same roof as the most powerful male in Prythian.
And your future remained exactly where it had always been; tied to Rhysand. The subject unspoken of, but always present. Neither of you discussed it. You certainly weren't brave enough to. And Rhysand…Rhysand never seemed interested in forcing the conversation.
Which, somehow, was even more unnerving. It was as though he had already decided the ending and was merely waiting for the story to catch up to his expectations.
You spent years navigating around him, around all of them. Growing closer to the Inner Circle while never quite feeling like one of them.
Mor dragged you shopping until your feet ached and your stomach hurt from laughing. Cassian annoyed you relentlessly and somehow made you feel more like a younger sister than an outsider. Azriel appeared silently whenever you needed help. Even Amren grew strangely fond of you, though she would sooner drink spoiled blood than admit it aloud.
You loved them, truly.
But there was always a distance, an invisible line. Because they belonged to one another in a way you never quite did.
Then Amarantha came. And when Rhysand was trapped Under the Mountain, the world changed in ways you couldn't fully comprehend.
For fifty years he was gone.
The strangest thing about those years was discovering how much space he'd occupied in your life.
Because suddenly he wasn't there. No deep laughter drifting through the Town House late at night. No familiar feeling of awareness prickling over your skin whenever he happened to look your way.
Nothing.
And somehow his absence felt larger than his presence had.
You hated admitting that. Especially to yourself.
You had expected to feel relief. Instead, you found yourself pausing whenever anyone mentioned Under the Mountain. Listening a little too carefully whenever the others talked of Amarantha.
Sometimes, standing on the balcony of the Town House long after everyone else had gone to sleep, you caught yourself staring toward the horizon, wondering whether someone like Rhysand could truly be broken.
Whether anything in the world was capable of dimming a force that had always seemed…inevitable.
The answer, it seemed, was yes. Though not entirely.
During those decades, life continued in Velaris. It had to. The city endured, and the Inner Circle protected Velaris with fierce determination, ensuring that Amarantha's corruption never touched the hidden sanctuary Rhysand had so carefully constructed.
The Town House remained full. Just…quieter. Even Cassian laughed a little less.
For the first time in your life, the future felt strangely unwritten. There was no Rhysand quietly existing at the edge of every decision, no overwhelming presence unconsciously shaping the rhythm of your days.
And somewhere during those fifty years, you began building something that belonged solely to you.
Your own friends. Your own routines. Your own apartment.
The apartment had been a battle. Not a dramatic one. There hadn't been any shouting or arguments. Just subtle resistance, the kind Rhysand's family excelled at, the kind that wore you down through sheer persistence, until surrender seemed easier than insisting otherwise.
Cassian had argued that you would be safer at the Town House, that being alone made you vulnerable. Mor had worried that you would become isolated. Azriel had said nothing, but you had felt the weight of his disapproving silence like a physical presence.
Amren, surprisingly, was the one who sided with you. "Let her go," she had said, her voice flat and disinterested. "She's not a child. If she wants to live alone, she should be allowed to."
Eventually, they relented.
You got your apartment. Under the compromise that you would stay at the Town House at least twice a week, a promise you gradually became worse and worse at keeping.
Because your apartment represented freedom. Limited freedom, certainly, but freedom nonetheless. It was a space that belonged entirely to you, filled with books you had chosen, plants you liked and paintings you had admired.
You built a life entirely separate from Rhysand. Or as separate as it could truly be.
Cassian still dropped by unexpectedly under increasingly transparent excuses. Azriel's shadows somehow always seemed to know when you walked home alone. Mor continued dragging you to Rita's whenever she decided you'd spent too many evenings hiding with a book.
You loved them for it. Even if it occasionally felt suspiciously coordinated.
Sometimes at Rita's, you watched Mor flirt openly with strangers. Watched her laugh, choose whichever male caught her interest that evening, and leave with him without a backward glance. Watched her return the following day like nothing had happened, no explanations required, no apologies offered.
You wondered what that kind of freedom felt like.
What it might be like to someday find your person. Not a future husband selected by men long gone. Not the High Lord. Not something arranged through politics.
Someone yours. Someone who chose you. Someone you chose back.
You held onto that dream stubbornly.
Even when Cassian scared away half the males who approached you. Even when Azriel's shadows somehow learned the identities of every male who expressed interest.
Even when part of you suspected Rhysand would never truly allow another male near you.
Not even from beneath a mountain.
You still hoped.
Because fifty years was a very long time. Long enough, you told yourself, for promises to fade. Long enough for old arrangements to lose their meaning.
Long enough to believe that perhaps, when Rhysand finally returned—if he returned—everything would be different.
Then fifty years ended. And the world changed. Without your knowledge, without your permission, without warning.
You were finishing dinner with your friends when Rhysand returned, a mundane moment interrupted by the sudden, inexplicable certainty that something had shifted in the Night Court.
You felt something deep beneath your ribs tighten so suddenly it stole the air from your lungs, though you could not have named it then as anything more than unease, a strange, inexplicable wrongness threading through your thoughts like a hand brushing over the back of your neck.
Rhysand had returned.
The entire Inner Circle was gathered at the Town House when it happened.
Everyone, except you.
You wouldn't learn exactly how furious he had been until later, how he had appeared in the Town House, exhausted and damaged and barely holding himself together. How he had embraced his family, his warriors, his closest confidants. How he had looked around the room, noting each familiar face, his expression growing darker with every moment that passed. How he asked one question.
"Where is she?"
No one dared to answer.
You were not there.
Which, to Rhysand, became the only answer that mattered.
You would not learn later how still he had gone after that moment. How every trace of relief, every fragment of survival, every hard-earned breath Under the Mountain had been set aside like something irrelevant.
How he had simply asked again, calmer, slower this time.
"Where?"
And how no one had been able to answer him immediately because the implication of what it meant to return without you in sight had not yet settled properly into words.
By the time you unlocked your apartment door later that evening, your hand was trembling. You noticed it, and frowned faintly at yourself, blamed the long day, the wine you'd shared over dinner, anything except the truth your body was already beginning to understand.
He was already waiting, seated in your chair, legs crossed elegantly. Surrounded by shadows and looking impossibly beautiful, impossibly dangerous, and impossibly alive.
And when he looked at you, you stopped breathing entirely.
For a moment you couldn't move, couldn't speak, couldn't do anything but stare at the male you had been running from your entire life.
You had imagined this reunion a thousand times. None of those fantasies involved him being angry.
His gaze was already fixed on you, dark and intense and burning with something you couldn't quite identify. Something that made your skin prickle with awareness, your heart pound in your chest, your knees threaten to give out beneath you.
"You weren't home," was the first thing he said.
Home. You weren't sure if the Town House had ever truly felt like home.
"I…" Your voice came out embarrassingly small. "N-No."
You could see the muscle in his cheek twitch, the way something in him tightened at the sound of your voice. His gaze moved over you then, reassuring himself that you were real. That you were unharmed. That after fifty years, he had finally made it back to you.
Then the bond snapped. And the world exploded.
Mate
The word echoed through every part of you.
Mate Mate Mate
You had imagined the mating bond before. Dreamed of it, even. Wondered what it might feel like to experience that cosmic connection, that magical recognition, that perfect union of two souls meant for each other.
You had imagined warmth and certainty and joy.
Not this.
Not your entire soul lurching forward as if recognizing something it had spent centuries searching for. Not your knees nearly giving out. Not your heart breaking and healing simultaneously.
Across the room, Rhysand had frozen. For the first time in your life, you saw him stripped utterly bare. Shock, wide and unguarded flashed across his face. Relief so profound it nearly stole your breath.
Then something else crept into his expression. Something infinitely more possessive. Something that made your blood run cold.
The expression terrified you. Because suddenly every fear you'd ever carried became real.
You had wanted a mate. You had dreamed of one.
But not like this. Not someone who already had a claim on your future. Not someone powerful enough to remove every alternative.
Tears burned your eyes, and you stumbled backward.
His face immediately changed. Something wary entered his expression. Like he recognized exactly what was happening inside your head.
You hated that. Hated that he knew you so well.
And when he took a step toward you, you ran. Actually ran. One heartbeat he stood across the room. The next you were lunging for the front door. Not because you thought you could outrun him.
Because prey ran. It was instinct. Pure, thoughtless instinct.
You barely reached the door, before a solid body blocked your path. You slammed directly into his hard chest.
A startled noise escaped you as his strong hands closed around your waist, steadying you before you could fall.
Your palms landed flat against his chest. The entire thing happened so quickly your mind struggled to process it.
For one awful second, all you could think was that if he'd wanted to, he could have caught you before you'd even taken the first step.
"Mm," he murmured quietly above you, almost to himself. "So that's how we're starting?"
Your heart stopped. Then immediately started trying to beat its way out of your chest.
His voice was not raised, not sharp, not even angry. Nothing about this situation had surprised him at all. As though he had already seen every possible version of this moment and chosen the one where you were in his arms anyway.
His hands remained around your waist, not tightening, not pulling, only there, steadying you. It somehow felt far more intimate than if he'd held you tightly.
You throat bobbed.
His eyes followed the movement instantly.
The invisible thread seemed to hum, warmer now, heavier, like it was settling into place with growing certainty that made your chest tighten painfully.
Slowly, deliberately, he loosened his grip.
You immediately stepped backward.
Rhys let you. He simply released you enough that you could move, though the space between you did not truly feel like space at all, because he followed the motion with nothing more than a subtle shift of his body, as though he had already accounted for exactly how far you might go.
As though he had already measured every possible escape you might attempt.
"I need you to breathe." The words were impossibly gentle.
You hated how your body obeyed. Air filled your lungs in one shaky inhale.
His shoulders eased. Just slightly. As though your breathing had been affecting him too.
"You don't have to run," he said. His voice was quieter now, more careful.
You looked at him, really looked.
At the tension beneath that impossible composure. At the tremor in the fingers hanging motionless beside his thighs. At the way his chest expanded a fraction too deeply before every sentence. Like speaking calmly required conscious effort. Like there was something inside him straining so violently against its leash that even breathing had become work.
"Would you let me reject the bond?" The question slipped out before you could stop it.
The answer arrived instantly. Not through words. Through his expression, through the absolute steel in his eyes.
No. No, he wouldn't.
Your heart sank.
Rhysand's gaze dropped for half a heartbeat. Not to your face or your hands. But to you. Like he was seeing you in a way he had never allowed himself before.
"I need you to listen to me," he spoke, his voice even lower than before. Somehow that made it infinitely more dangerous.
"I know this isn't what you wanted." He paused, "I know. And I know you're frightened."
Something had slipped through his control like a breath he hadn't meant to let out.
"But I have waited for you for a very long time."
The words landed too softly. Because nothing about the way he was looking at you matched softness at all. His gaze held yours, unblinking and steady. Patient in a way that made your skin crawl.
"As for what happens next," he murmured quietly, a faint shift in his stance barely perceptible, "you are going to hate me for a while."
A beat passed.
"And I will still be here."
Still, he did not move closer, did not touch you. Your gaze landed briefly to the front door. To the impossible distance between it and you. To the male standing in the way. You knew for a fact, that if he decided you weren't leaving, the door might as well not have existed.
As if he'd read your thoughts, Rhys followed your gaze, and one corner of his mouth twitched. It wasn't amusement, not quite. Something rougher, something honest.
"That," he said quietly, "is a different conversation."
That expression returned. The one that made him seem less like a High Lord and more like a male who had been starving for far too long.
Then, just as quickly, control slammed back into place. His throat bobbed. A swallow. A very mortal gesture.
And somehow that affected you more than anything else.
You forced your shoulders to relax. It didn't work.
The connection stretched taut.
Your weight shifted forward without you meaning it to, just slightly. A fraction of movement, the kind your body made when something inside you leaned before thought could stop it. Toward him.
It was not even conscious. Not a decision rationally made. Just the bond, pulling like gravity disguised as instinct.
And yet the effect on him was immediate. Rhysand went utterly still. Like the world had narrowed to that single, almost imperceptible motion.
His breath changed. A sharp inhale that he did not fully complete. His hands flexed once, slowly. Like he was physically stopping himself from doing something he had already begun to prepare for.
"Don't," he said, the word quiet.
But it was not directed at you. It seemed to be directed inward, at himself.
You froze, heart suddenly too loud.
"I didn't—" you started, confused, because you hadn't meant to move at all.
"I know," he interrupted gently. Rhysand took a deep breath. "But I am asking you to be careful anyway."
You frowned. "I don't understand."
"No." A faint smile ghosted across his mouth. "I don't suppose you do."
The restraint was suddenly louder than anything else in the room.
Rhysand exhaled slowly. His shoulders lowered by a fraction, like he was forcing himself back into himself. Back into control. Back into the version of him you had always known.
But now you had seen the crack. And cracks did not disappear once you noticed them. They only became harder to unsee.
"You are going to make this difficult," he sighed quietly. It almost sounded like amusement, almost.
But underneath it, there was something else. Something that made you want to clench your thighs together.
And then, softer again, "I already know I won’t mind."
Summary: You had always been a reader—always drawn to worlds outside of your own. Always seeking more. This world, Azriel's world, was trying to teach you something; you were sure of it. Or, maybe, it was where you were always meant to be.
Word count: 3k
Warnings: Confusion, self-harm in desperation/confusion, angst, reference to a psychiatric hold
a/n: Okay I love this trope so bad so thank you to those who requested it :) This first part has a lot of... thinking in it so make sure to heed the warnings. Themes may continue, but this fic will also have a lot of humor, pining, and fluff. Happy ending as always <3 I love you okay bye :)
Main Masterlist ♡
~~
There was a humming in your ears—constant enough to be considered ringing, but not quite as sharp. Moments ago, the pull in your gut had you keeling over in bed, and then you had stumbled to your bedroom door, trying to alert your roommates that something was… wrong. Off. Unusual in a bad way, and you had no frame of reference for the feeling. You could remember falling into the hallway as the door swung open, and then the pulling intensified. And then it stopped.
You figured you were in the hospital; that was the only reasonable explanation, unless your roommates had decided to leave you for dead in the hall, but they wouldn’t do that. They had terrible penchants for eating your cereal, leaving dishes in the sink, and having guests over without warning, but they weren’t evil enough to deny you medical attention. Hopefully.
It was probably your appendix. That was the first ailment your brain always went to when you were sick, and the hyperfixation was finally coming to fruition. You couldn’t remember any pain, any fever prior to passing out on the carpeted floor, but you were sure that was it. The heaviness of your eyelids lessened as you worked through the explanation in your mind.
Your body still felt off. It was stiff in a way you hadn’t experienced, but also light and airy in a way that felt preternatural. Sounds had begun to filter through the staunch wall of your brain, and they felt sharp, biting. There was an underlying panic that perhaps you had been out for much longer than you first estimated, but something else soothed that panic each time it rose. It made you feel right, despite every wave of confusion, and you leaned into that feeling rather than giving in to the fear.
Something was buzzing beneath your skin. It flowed in your blood and seemed to zap your veins. Drugs—it was definitely drugs through an IV. Probably pain killers and antibiotics and several other things keeping you alive as your appendix acted against you. There was a chance it had already been taken out, and you preferred that narrative. No time to be anxious about surviving a surgery that already happened.
Low murmuring suddenly ripped past the mundane sounds of whatever room you were in, and then the panic was back in full force.
“Explain it again?”
“The priestesses said it was sudden. Bryaxis was unsettled—and then she was there. Unconscious.”
The content of the conversation was enough to make your breathing shallow, but it wasn’t just that. It wasn’t just that there was nothing medical about the words floating above you, or that you were suddenly concerned you had been taken to a… convent? A church?
No, it was that the words sounded so, so foreign, each consonant and vowel weaving together to form echoes of a language you had never heard before, not even in passing. It was unusual, possibly European, but also not in the slightest. You thought it could have been Latin, but even that didn’t sound correct. The worst part, the terrifying part, was that you understood it. You could tell it was different, and still, everything was so clear in your mind. Like it was relayed through a translation app and inputted directly into your brain.
You felt yourself shift as the fear tightened your throat, and to your surprise, nothing was dragging against you—no wires or IVs or tubes helping you stay afloat after a major surgery. You took in a deep breath and smelled no antiseptic or starched linen sheets. Instead, the air held an herbal hint, spices and heady plants alarming your senses.
Were you kidnapped? Had your organs been harvested? You began to second-guess the integrity of your roommates, running through their university housing profiles in your head. Two grad students, quiet, no parties, night-owls—nothing about being part of an underground organ-harvesting ring. But, then again, maybe they had been waiting for the perfect moment, for you to be vulnerable enough to cart off without a fight.
Your breaths became even more difficult to capture.
“She’s waking up,” one of the male voices said.
You choked on the strange scent of the air, and then your eyes opened and adjusted to the dim, humming light in the room. You were in a room that was, as predicted, not in a hospital. Deep, polished wood made up the roof beams, with red rock twining between tiny cracks and fissures. There were pictures on the walls depicting a town with sprawling lights and a rushing river, and mountains with snow-capped peaks and figures outlined upon them. A window was allowing light in from the far side of the room, and you snapped your head up once the rush of consciousness became less novel.
Two men stood by the door, both imposing in their statures, neither looking like the type to steal someone’s organs. They were well-dressed and put together, calm with their attention fixed on you, and you’d never witnessed any organized crime, but the lavish room you were in, paired with the careful, guarded looks you were receiving, didn’t add up to the assumptions in your head. The comparisons didn’t help you feel calm.
Your hands hovered over the plush blanket on your lap, fingers shaking. You let out a sudden gasp of air that quivered in your chest and flinched as the two men reacted to the sound. Neither had moved from their positions by the door, though you knew by their expressions that they would if they had to. The shorter one, his eyes more cunning and knowing, tilted his chin up and began to speak.
“Where did you come from?” he asked, tone clear. “And how did you land in my library?”
The lack of malice in his curiosity told you he was in control of the situation. The taller man behind him, lean but still taking up so much of the doorway, looked on with equally searching eyes, but he was more guarded, more reserved, his brow twitching as you observed him. You had a hard time discerning which of the two was more dangerous.
“Um,” you stammered, still frozen in place. Your voice was more melodic than you had expected. “I don’t—exactly know how I got here. I’m from the—I, um, I’m in grad school on the east coast.”
“The east?” the man in the back echoed. His voice was so low you felt it in your chest. “Of what court?”
You paused. “New York?”
The one with the deep blue eyes squinted. “Where is that?”
Confusion overrode panic. “New York? As in, the state?”
Everyone knew about New York, even if they only conceptualized it in terms of taxi cabs and hot dogs and the Statue of Liberty. It was possible, though highly unlikely, that you had been taken to a remote island, on which no one had a map, or access to the news, or even an internet connection, but these men looked… knowledgeable. You couldn’t exactly pinpoint why, but they didn’t seem the type to be uninformed.
You glanced out the window to get a better concept of your surroundings, but saw only a clouded blue sky. You were high up, then, granting even more evidence against your remote island theory—if they could build a house several stories high, they would know about New York.
You worried your bottom lip as the clouds inched their way across the window, the room silent. Through the corner of your vision, you saw the men looking at each other—furrowing and straightening their brows, squinting and grimacing and huffing out breaths. If there were words accompanying their expressions, it would have made more sense, but as it stood, you were beginning to amount a new fear: that you were kidnapped, and your kidnappers were clinically insane.
The most reasonable avenue would be the escape, but you would need to scope out your surroundings first, and each time you even shifted on the bed, eyes shot to you. Were you not allowed to move? Were you chained to the bed? You took stock of your legs and feet under the blanket, not feeling bound by anything other than the tucked-in sheets. There were no bars on the window, either, and the room itself was rather welcoming. You glanced over at the side table, tinctures and small vials labeled with scrawling text. Your fingers spasmed as you read the words clearly, despite the letters looking foreign.
This could have been a very, very realistic dream.
After another moment of the men staring at each other, you decided to take a chance, feeling resolute in both the dream and the insane kidnapper theory. You slid one leg out from under the blanket, but movement by the door stopped you.
The taller man had turned to you again, expression watchful, feet moving on the plush carpet. You sucked in a breath and stalled your attempt to get to the window. And then you felt yourself scream. Just one scream—an accident, really, your hand coming out to cover your mouth as the men stood at alert. Your breaths were making strange sounds past your fingers, and your shoulders were unintentionally raised.
Wings.
The man had wings, and they didn’t look fake. They moved along with him, membranes allowing light to pass through and highlight the veins tracking back to the roots. And the closer you looked at him, the worse it became. There were glowing, blue… gems—no, sconces of light attached to his body, and they seemed to move with him too. They sparked and swirled as he took you in, responding to him in a way that couldn’t be manufactured.
But what had you jumping from the bed were the shadows emanating from him, wisps of darkness flowing from his shoulders. Some of them seemed to tug at him, others cloaked him in their murky air. You jolted up and got caught on the sheets, tugging your ankle loose until your hands finally met the carpeted ground. Someone was saying something, but you couldn’t hear them, too panicked to make sense of this strange language you suddenly understood. You ended up with your palms flat on the ground and your knees supporting you, vaguely aware that you were wrapped in some sort of silk material that you were positive did not come from your closet.
“Easy,” the winged man warned, but his hands were up in a placating gesture, and he had begun to crouch to meet you at your level. “We don’t want to hurt you.”
Your chest had begun to sting with your quick inhales. The man took the smallest step forward, and you rushed back, your head slamming into a table and making your vision blur.
“Azriel, you are scaring her,” the other man patiently said. He hadn’t moved from the door, but something about him felt more imposing. Your head was throbbing too much to make sense of it.
Azriel looked over his shoulder. “Well, what would you like me to do instead, Rhys?” he quipped out, as if this were some kind of game and you weren’t being held hostage.
Okay.
You were the one going insane. That had to be it. You had fallen into the hall back at your apartment and had some sort of psychotic break, prompting your very appropriately acting roommates to put you on a psych hold. That was it. That was why you were seeing shadows and wings and glowing bulbs. You blinked hard and tried to orient yourself to that truth, hoping that some clarity would come with the revelation, but when you opened your eyes, you were still there.
“This isn’t real,” tumbled from your lips, sounding breathy and light. “You—you aren’t real. And I’m going insane.”
Azriel shook his head. “This is real. You are in the Night Court. Is that where you’re from? Or are you from somewhere else?”
“Night Court?” you mumbled to yourself, gaze falling to your fingers as you fiddled with the hem of the satiny dress. And you focused on them, then, more intently than you had when you first woke up. You flipped your palm over and looked at the length of your fingers, at the elegance that flowed along your wrists and up your arms. They were your hands, but they weren’t. Not at all.
Night Court.
You couldn’t focus on just one thing anymore, your eyes traveling around the room without abandon. They went from Azriel, to the man at the door, to the window, to the paintings along the wall.
Were you from somewhere else? You were from New York. You were getting your master’s in library science, and you were going to be a librarian. You had a tiny, cramped apartment in Syracuse with roommates getting grad degrees in STEM. Night Court—that didn’t make sense.
It didn’t make sense because you were crazy. You had gone crazy. The energy drinks had driven you insane with their promises of copious vitamins and energy and a faster metabolism. This was the price.
At some point, Azriel had dropped to his knees to mirror you on the ground. “I don’t think she’s going to answer us, Rhys,” he quietly called out, eyes never leaving you. “Maybe Feyre would be better.”
“I’m not sending Feyre in when I can’t see if she has… motives.”
Something clicked in your brain. Things lined up, information being shelved in alphabetical order until confusion made way for understanding, and then that understanding lingered.
“Feyre?” you mumbled again. The man, Rhysand, your brain provided for you, perked up in the doorway. “That book.”
“What book?” Rhysand quickly asked.
“The—series. It’s… I read it a few years ago, but I don’t think it’s—” Your next breath was an incredulous laugh. “Oh my god. I am actually going insane. I’m hallucinating, and it’s—I should have gone to law school, oh my god.”
“Law school?” Azriel echoed.
You snapped your gaze up to look at him, finally taking in the hazel of his eyes and the shadows that weaved into his dark hair. Then you found his hands, confirming something to yourself when scarred tissue rested atop his thighs. Rhysand was next, and you located his pointed ears and elongated features almost instantly.
Another disbelieving laugh fell from your lips. Azriel moved again, and you shot back, head connecting with the table for a second time. Pain split down your neck, something rattling on the surface above. You brought your hand up to tame the ache, but Azriel’s hand had raised too, and for a second, the shortest second, your fingers brushed. You tore your hand away, pressing it into the base of your skull, snapping your eyes to his.
Something pulled. The air stagnated.
It felt like the pull from right before all of this happened, before your brain short-circuited and threw you into a fantasy land you’d read about during your gap year. You leaned into it, hopeful that somehow, it would zap you back into reality. That maybe if you honed in on the feeling, you would find that this was all some coma-induced dream you could forget about with time, but always reference when you told the story of your appendix bursting—because you were still holding out hope that it was actually that.
It did the opposite. You gave in to the pull, tugging on the glowing thread, and it made you feel more rooted in the spot. More concrete in the make-believe. Still just ahead of you, Azriel made a gasping sound that echoed each of your panicked breaths from before. You scanned his expression, etched your gaze into the high corners of his face, but he was seemingly frozen. His chest didn’t move. His shadows paused.
“What—”
You didn’t get the chance to finish your question, not that it had ever been formed in your head. Azriel shot to his feet, stumbling back and causing you to flinch again, to cower into the table that you had been trying to inch away from. He looked down at you, and his expression pinched, looking pained, before his hand gripped at his chest, covering his heart as his shadows wove between his fingers. One came down and brushed your cheek, and you screamed, jolting into the light of the window.
Azriel flinched at the sound. He took another step back, and then another. You hadn’t realized you were breathing hard again until your shoulders met the far wall, your bone digging into the wood. Your mind was racing at an impossible speed, all your theories and concerns and all of the confusing sensations melding together. And maybe you could have handled it, maybe you could have collected yourself, but there was a mirror just across the room. You looked at it with your blurry, unfocused vision, and you thought it was another painting. At first. But then you moved, and the figure etched within it moved with you. And it was a mirror, and it was you, but it wasn’t.
You looked like yourself, could recognize yourself, but you were changed.
Made.
The thought sang in your head, unfounded, and your panic turned to terror. Because this entire time, thoughts had all been yours. They had been unorganized and scary and untrue, but they had all come from you. But that one hadn’t been.
So, you did the first thing you could think of on your own, the first thing that truly felt like it could bring you back to yourself. You reared your head forward, and then you let it fall back with force. The pain was similar to before, but it was numbing, almost. And it didn’t bring you back. Someone shouted, panicked, but you thought maybe the numbing was reality, so you edged forward again.
You didn’t have the chance to try a second time.
Your head slammed back, but it hit something soft, something that gathered the momentum and didn’t let it continue. Azriel was in front of you again, no longer edging out of the room, and it was his hand that stopped your assault. He was staring at you with wide, horrified eyes, and then he wasn’t. He yelled something over his shoulder, and then Rhysand was in front of you. The door opened. Footsteps followed.
Author's Note: The second and final part. Possible Trigger Warning: Hospitals. Part one is here.
The next time I woke up, my head was pounding again…and calling my name. No, wait, that wasn’t my head, it was the door, someone was at my door.
The knock came again, sharper this time.
I pushed myself up too fast and had to stop halfway to the door, palm flat against the wall while the room tilted.
Another cough ripped through me before I could speak. Whatever I tried to say came out wrong and immediately turned into more coughing.
By the time I opened the door, I wasn’t really standing so much as staying upright by accident.
“You look like shit…” Garrett decided.
I tried to answer and only got as far as shaking my head before I had to turn away again, coughing hard enough that my vision blurred at the edges.
“I mean this with nothing but love, but that’s disgusting.”
I started to head back to my room.
Garrett followed.
“Have you been asleep since our call last night?”
“No, I've been out at the clubs," I say sarcastically, glaring at him.
He came to sit on the edge of my bed, tenderly lifting his hand to my sweaty forehead. He pulled it away and went rummaging through my bathroom until he found the thermometer.
“Open up.”
"I'm not a kid Garrett. I can do it myself," I huff, taking the thermometer away from him.
When the thermometer beeped, Garrett snatched it out of my mouth to read it.
“Shit, your fever's 103”
I groan in acknowledgement.
“You should leave.”
“Not a chance. Is there anything you need?”
“You’re going to get sick.”
“I doubt it. I have an ironclad immune system.”
“Garrett…”
“I have spent the last 36 hours wanting nothing more than to be here taking care of you.”
"You're impossible."
"So I've been told."
I heard him moving around my apartment, opening cabinets and drawers as he searched for things. A few minutes later, he returned carrying a damp washcloth and a glass of water.
As I sat up, I had another coughing fit. My entire chest burned.
"Easy, easy."
I felt Garrett’s hand rub circles on my back while I struggled to catch my breath. By the time it passed, tears were streaming down my face.
"That bad?" he asked quietly.
I nodded.
He pressed the cool washcloth against my forehead. The relief was immediate.
"Better?"
"A little."
"Good."
I cracked one eye open. Garrett busied himself cleaning up the disaster zone that had become my room. Empty medicine packets disappeared into the trash. Used tissues followed. He gathered my dirty dishes from the desk and carried them to the kitchen.
"You don't have to do all this," I mumbled.
"Sure, I do."
His voice was soft.
"You'd do it for me."
When he finished, he took a seat at the edge of my bed, “Please let me take you to the doctor, this isn't normal.”
“I’m sick”
“Even when you’re sick, the things you’re doing shouldn’t take this much effort. You walked twenty feet to answer the door and looked ready to collapse."
"I didn't collapse."
"You literally had to lean against the wall."
"Details."
"You're exhausted, you’ve had a fever for days, you can't stop coughing."
"You're overreacting."
"Am I?"
Garrett wasn't smiling anymore.
"It's a cold."
I opened my mouth to continue my argument, but another coughing fit cut me off. This one was worse. The pressure in my chest felt crushing. Every breath rattled. By the time it finally stopped, I was gasping for air.
Garrett's expression went from concerned to alarmed.
"Jesus Christ."
"I'm fine."
I wasn't.
The room tilted slightly, and dark spots danced at the edges of my vision. I closed my eyes until they disappeared. When I opened them again, Garrett was staring at me.
"What?"
"You're breathing weird."
I frowned.
"What does that even mean?"
"It means you're breathing weird."
"Very descriptive."
"It sounds like you're wheezing"
Garrett watched me for a moment.
"You're avoiding deep breaths."
"What?"
"Every time you cough, you stop yourself from inhaling all the way."
I looked away.
"It hurts, doesn't it?"
I didn't answer.
"Y/n…"
I sighed.
"My chest is sore."
"From coughing?"
"Probably."
The uncertainty must have shown on my face because Garrett's expression darkened. He reached for my hand, his thumb brushing over my knuckles.
"We're going to the hospital."
"Garrett..."
"Baby, look at me. You're scaring me."
For the first time since he got here, there wasn't even a trace of humor in his voice, and I knew I’d lost this fight. I let my head fall back against the pillow. Garrett was already moving. He grabbed my shoes from beside the door and my sweatshirt from the back of a chair. Then he disappeared into the bathroom and came back with my wallet and phone. He knelt beside the bed.
"Can you stand?"
"Yes?"
"That's not supposed to be a question."
I sighed.
"I'm just tired."
Garrett held out his hands.
"I know. Let's try."
The second my feet touched the floor, the room spun. I swayed slightly before righting myself.
"Whoa."
"I'm okay."
"You almost face-planted."
"I did not."
"You absolutely did."
I leaned heavily against him while waiting for the dizziness to pass. Garrett didn't comment on how much of my weight he was supporting. That worried me more than if he had.
I forced myself away from him and started walking out to his car. The cool night air hit my face the moment we stepped outside. Instead of helping, it made me cough. By the time I got into the passenger seat, I was exhausted. He buckled me in himself.
"Garrett."
"What?"
"You're being weird."
His hands paused. For a second, he just looked at me. The parking lot lights illuminated the worry on his face. And suddenly I realized just how scared he was.
"Hey," I said quietly.
His jaw clenched.
"What?"
"I'm okay."
The look he gave me said he didn't believe that for a second. He shut the passenger door and rounded the front of the jeep. The drive was unusually quiet. Every few minutes, Garrett’s eyes flicked toward me. Making sure I was still awake, still breathing. Normally, I would have made a sarcastic comment, but the pain and exhaustion stilled my tongue.
The hospital finally came into view. Relief washed across Garrett's face so quickly that it broke my heart.
"See?" I said weakly. "We're here. Crisis averted."
Before he could respond, another coughing fit hit. This one was worse than the others. When it finally passed, I looked up to find Garrett already out of his seat and coming around to help me.
"I can walk."
"I believe you,” he said as he wrapped his arm around my waist, guiding me to the doors.
The bright fluorescent lights made my headache instantly worse, causing me to groan. The waiting room wasn't particularly busy, which seemed to be the only thing going in my favor. The receptionist looked up as we approached.
She picked up the phone. Within minutes, a nurse appeared with a cart to take my vitals.
"Hi, sweetheart. Let's check a few things."
I offered my finger, and the nurse clipped the monitor on. The number appeared almost immediately.
90%.
Her expression remained professional, but she straightened slightly.
"Okay."
Then she took my temperature.
"One hundred and two point seven."
Garrett muttered something under his breath.
The nurse glanced between us.
"Let's get you back."
I frowned.
"Already?"
Normally, emergency rooms took forever.
The nurse gave me a small smile.
"Already."
Garrett's hand immediately found the small of my back as we followed her through a set of double doors.
“Actually, I’m going to have you sit in one of the wheelchairs.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“Hospital protocol.”
Within minutes, I was being wheeled back to a room.
The nurse took vitals, asked questions, and clipped monitors to various parts of me while Garrett hovered nearby.
The doctor listened to my lungs for less than a minute before ordering a chest X-ray.
My stomach dropped.
Garrett's hand immediately found mine.
Twenty minutes later, I was back in the exam room after the imaging. Garrett sat beside the bed, knee bouncing restlessly. For the first time since we'd arrived, neither of us joked. We just waited and I fought to keep my eyes open.
The doctor returned carrying a tablet. "You have pneumonia, and with oxygen levels where they've been tonight," the doctor continued, "we're going to admit you for observation and start treatment immediately."
"What?" I blurted.
Garrett squeezed my hand.
Hard.
“We’ll get you a nebulizer treatment, put you on the nasal cannula. Give you some strong antibiotics and wait for that fever to break…you should be out of here tomorrow.”
When he left, I couldn’t stop the tears.
"Hey."
Garrett's voice was gentle.
I turned my face away.
"Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Look at me."
His chair scraped against the floor.
A second later, he was sitting on the edge of the bed.
"Baby."
I shook my head, fresh tears spilled down my cheeks.
"I don't want to be here."
The confession came out sounding far more pathetic than I intended.
"I know."
"I hate hospitals."
"I know that too."
The nurse came in with the nebulizer and started the IV antibiotics and saline. While she was working, Garrett pulled his phone out and updated the group chat.
Garrett: She’s been admitted to the hospital.
The nurse hooked up the nasal cannula before exiting the room. Garrett put his phone away, ignoring the incessant buzzing.
"You okay?"
"No."
"Fair."
The fever had begun making me feel strangely emotional. Everything felt overwhelming. The oxygen. The IV. The diagnosis. The realization that I had actually been sick enough to get admitted. I stared at the wall.
Garrett stood and carefully climbed onto the narrow hospital bed beside me.
"Garrett."
"What?"
"The nurses are going to yell at you."
"Then we'll both have something to complain about."
I was too exhausted to protest when he wrapped an arm around my shoulders. For the first time all day, my body began to relax. The steady beep of the monitor filled the room. Garrett's thumb traced lazy circles against my arm. A kiss landed against my forehead.
"Hey, Garrett?" I asked through the sleepiness.
"Hm?"
"Will you still be here when I wake up?"
The question slipped out before I could stop it.
Garrett looked at me like the question broke his heart.
"I'm not leaving."
At some point, I must’ve drifted again, because the next thing I registered was voices in the hallway and the absence of Garrett beside me.
Logan.
Dean.
“…you can’t just text ‘she’s been admitted to the hospital’ and then go radio silent,” Logan argued.
“She has pneumonia and low oxygen,” Garrett said. Flat. Controlled. Too controlled.
A pause.
Then Dean, quieter than usual: “Shit.”
“Her fever finally broke though, and they think she’ll be able to leave here tomorrow morning.”
“That’s good,” Logan decided.
The curtain shifted slightly. Dean stepped in first, hesitating when he saw me.
“You couldn’t have waited until after hockey season to catch the plague?” he joked.
“Sorry, Dean-o, my immune system doesn’t look at Garrett’s calendar,” I answer before breaking out into a coughing fit.
Dean grimaced and Garrett pushed past him coming back to my side, rubbing my back.
Garrett was instantly at my side. “Hey—easy. You good?”
“I’m fine,” I wheezed.
Garrett was already pouring me a glass of water.
Logan sat down. “So, uh… pneumonia. That’s pretty serious.”
“Yeah,” I said weakly. “Apparently, my lungs opted out of the group project.”
Dean winced. “That’s… actually kind of impressive in a horrifying way.”
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the lights are all out, and you’re laying in bed with a sleepy brendon park. you haven’t been able to fall asleep yet, even though he’s tracing nonsense against your back. you ask him to talk, knowing that hearing his voice is the quickest way to settle your mind.
he huffs. because of course he will, whatever you want, but he doesn’t have anything about his day that he really wants to talk about. the OR was slow.
“okay. come here,” he says, adjusting you so that you fit better against his chest. his palm cradles the back of your head, and you feel his fingers against your skull.
“your occipital,” he says, carefully pressing against the bone. “sagittal suture here… somewhere.”
“very sexy.”
“hush.”
he maps out the parietal bone, your zygomatic process, the slope of your mandible, naming each bone as he goes.
you laugh, somewhere along the way, probably at the temporal process. “you can’t name all of my bones.”
his fingers still. “you asked me to talk,” he says. “i’m talking. and yes, i can.”
you roll your eyes, quieting so that he can continue what he started. his fingers poke at your cervical vertebrae (“atlas,” he tells you at C1). he brushes over your clavicle; it tickles.
“scapula,” he murmurs.
you glance up to see that his eyes are closed. he’s mapping you by touch alone, face relaxed. his hair is freshly washed, missing the gel that normally keeps it out of his face during the work day.
your mind says touch, but the weight of his hand gliding across your skin keeps you still.
“first rib.” a feather-light touch. “true ribs, one through seven.” he pauses against each one. “false ribs. eight to twelve.” his voice rumbles through his chest, against your ear. “floating ribs.”
you’re not sure how far he gets in naming bones; you fall asleep somewhere between iliac crest and greater trochanter.
Author's Note: I don't typically write with multiple perspectives...but I think it works for this one. This is part 1 of 2
If three months ago someone had suggested Garrett Graham would spend an entire bus ride checking his phone instead of watching film, I would've laughed.
Yet he'd texted me three times before they even crossed the state line.
Garrett: Did you eat?
Garrett: How's the fever?
Garrett: Answer your phone, sweetheart.
Me: Did you eat?
Me: How’s the bus?
Me: How’s film?
Garrett: Touche’
I'd finally convinced him to get on the bus by promising I'd spend the weekend sleeping, drinking fluids, and not doing anything stupid.
Garrett's jersey hung over the back of my desk chair where I'd left it the night before. I stared at it for a second. Since we'd started dating, I hadn't missed a single game. This would be the first.
I missed him. I'd spent most of the week keeping my distance, dodging kisses and batting away his attempts to take care of me. The last thing either of us needed was for him to catch whatever plague had taken up residence in my lungs.
By Saturday morning, I couldn't make it past the kitchen before my knees hit the counter.
The mug of tea stayed half-full beside me while I stared at the wood grain of the table, waiting for the pounding behind my eyes to ease.
It didn't.
Every cough left me bent over the sink longer than I was actually standing upright. By the time I made it back to bed, my sweatshirt clung damply to my skin.
Getting up no longer felt like an option, so much as a mistake I kept repeating.
The chills came in waves, sharp enough that I curled deeper beneath my blankets and still couldn't get warm.
My thumb hovered over Garrett's name longer than it should have. A string of unread check-in texts filled the screen.
Apparently, I'd slept through all of them.
I typed.
Deleted it.
Typed it again.
Me: Sorry, love. I was sleeping. I still feel like shit, but I'll be fine. Stop worrying about me and prepare to kick ass tonight. I love you.
I stared at the message for a second before hitting send, then locked my phone like that somehow made the lie less obvious.
I snapped a picture of the half-empty mug sitting beside me.
Me: Happy?
The typing bubble appeared instantly.
Garrett: No.
It took two attempts to pull on one of his sweatshirts.
By the time I made it to the couch, I was breathing harder than I should have been. My alarm was set so I wouldn’t miss puck drop, and in the meantime, another nap was calling my name.
Garrett had watched the same clip three times and couldn't tell you a single thing that happened in it.
The projector flickered against the hotel conference room wall while Coach pointed out defensive breakdowns from their last game. Normally, Garrett would've been taking mental notes. Normally, he'd be the one answering questions before Coach even finished asking them.
Instead, he was staring at his phone beneath the table.
Sorry, love. I was sleeping. I still feel like shit, but I'll be fine. Stop worrying about me and prepare to kick ass tonight. I love you.
He read the message again.
And again.
The words I'll be fine weren't helping.
Because she'd sounded awful on the phone last night.
And because Y/N had a habit of insisting she was fine right up until she absolutely wasn't.
His thumb hovered over her contact.
Again.
"Earth to Graham."
Garrett looked up.
Logan was staring at him from the seat beside him.
"What?"
"You planning on joining us at some point?"
Garrett shoved his phone face down on the table.
"I'm here."
"Bullshit."
Coach clicked to another clip.
"Okay, what went wrong here?"
Silence.
Coach looked directly at Garrett.
Normally, he'd answer before anyone else.
This time he blinked.
"...Missed assignment?"
The room immediately erupted.
Dean nearly choked.
"Jesus Christ."
"What?" Garrett snapped.
"You don't know?"
Garrett glared at him.
Dean pointed toward the screen.
"The defenseman literally fell over."
A few more guys laughed.
Even Coach looked amused.
"Good to see you're paying attention, Graham."
Garrett muttered something under his breath.
Logan leaned closer.
"Dude."
"What?"
"She's gonna be okay."
Garrett looked away.
"Yeah."
Logan's expression softened.
"Have you heard from her?"
"She says she's fine."
Dean snorted from two seats over.
"Oh, well if she says she's fine."
Garrett shot him a look.
Dean lifted both hands.
"What? I'm serious. Girls are terrible at being sick."
"That's sexist."
"It's also true."
Several players nodded.
"Facts."
Garrett couldn't even argue.
Because Y/N had once worked an entire day on a sprained ankle before admitting something was wrong.
His phone buzzed.
Instantly, his attention dropped.
Logan groaned.
"You're unbelievable."
Garrett ignored him and opened the message.
A picture appeared on the screen.
A half-empty mug sitting beside a blanket.
Happy?
Despite himself, Garrett smiled.
No.
Garrett shook his head and slipped the phone back into his pocket.
Coach clapped his hands.
"Alright, enough. Let's go."
Chairs scraped backward.
The room shifted from meeting mode to game mode. Players filed toward the locker room. Dean slung an arm around Garrett's shoulders.
"Good news."
"What?"
"If we lose tonight, we can blame your lovesick ass."
Garrett shoved him away.
"Get fucked."
Dean laughed.
For the first time all afternoon, Garrett laughed too.
As the team filtered toward their stalls, he pulled his phone out one last time before shoving it into his locker and focusing on hockey.
At least, that had been the plan.
He was the last one dressed, sitting on the bench while the room buzzed around him. The familiar sounds of skates hitting concrete and sticks clattering against lockers faded into the background as his screen lit up.
Good luck, Graham. Give 'em hell.
A smile immediately tugged at his mouth. It was the same thing she told him before every game.
Below the message was a picture.
She was curled up on my couch, absolutely swallowed by one of his oversized Briar hockey hoodies. Her hair was a mess, a blanket covered most of her, and the television behind her displayed the pregame broadcast.
Garrett stared at the picture longer than he meant to.
She looked exhausted and pale, definitely pale.
But she was watching. Even feeling like death, she was still there.
Logan looked over from where he was taping his stick.
"He's smiling at his phone."
Dean pointed dramatically.
"Captain's down bad."
A few heads turned, and several teammates immediately started laughing. Garrett rolled his eyes, but he couldn't quite stop smiling.
Feel better, sweetheart.
A few seconds later,
And drink water.
The response came almost instantly.
Bossy.
For the first time all day, the knot in Garrett's chest loosened.
Coach's voice echoed from the hallway.
"Let's go, boys!"
The room came alive.
Players grabbed helmets and gloves.
Garrett looked at the picture one final time before locking his phone.
Then he slipped it into his locker and stood.
Tonight, he had a game to win.
Tomorrow, he was going home to his girl.
Crowd noise spilled through the speakers of my TV in waves, distant and metallic. I adjusted the volume, then immediately regretted it when the sound made my head pulse harder.
“Okay,” I muttered to myself, swallowing back another cough. “Just… watch the game.”
The camera cut to the bench.
My stomach twisted instantly.
There he was.
A whistle blew.
Faceoff.
Garrett won it clean.
The crowd roared, but even through the broadcast, I could see it—he wasn’t settling into the rhythm like he normally did. He was sharp, sure. Technically perfect.
But restless.
“Hey,” I said softly, like he could hear me through the screen. “Focus.”
As if he could hear me, he won the puck again.
Checked a defenseman into the boards with enough force that the glass rattled.
The commentators picked up their pace.
“Graham’s playing with intensity tonight—almost a little extra edge—”
I exhaled slowly.
“Good,” I whispered.
But even as he dominated the shift, I noticed it again.
The split-second hesitation after the whistle.
The glance toward the bench door instead of the scoreboard.
My throat tightened around another cough, and I pressed my forehead against my sleeve for a second, forcing it down.
“I’m fine,” I told the empty room.
Play had broken into transition. Briar skating hard through the neutral zone.
And then—
Dean.
Breakaway.
Shot.
Goal.
The horn exploded through my speakers.
3-0
Dean threw his arms up before crashing into the glass, grinning like an idiot as his teammates swarmed him.
For a second, I forgot how much my head hurt.
“Okay,” I breathed, a small, broken laugh slipping out. “That’s my boy.”
Pride flickered through me—sharp and immediate.
As the second third, turned into the third, the screen blurred a little when I blinked.
I told myself it was just the stream quality.
I adjusted my position on the couch, pulling his sweatshirt tighter around my shoulders. It was too big on me normally. Tonight it felt like it was swallowing me whole in the best way possible.
Another cough scraped through my chest, quieter this time. More tired than painful.
“Just a few more minutes,” I whispered.
The game kept going.
Fast now.
My eyes started to feel heavy halfway through the third period.
I blinked hard.
Once.
Twice.
The announcers’ voices blurred together—names, stats, excitement rising and falling like waves I couldn’t quite catch anymore.
I shifted again, trying to sit up straighter.
Bad idea.
The room tilted slightly, and I pressed my forehead back against the couch cushion until it steadied.
“Just the game,” I told myself. “Just finish the game.”
The clock ticked down.
Briar ahead.
Still pressing.
Garrett’s line came out again.
This time, he didn’t hesitate.
He looked… locked in, like something had finally clicked into place.
He took the puck at center ice, carried it through two defenders like they weren’t even there, and drove it deep into the zone.
The crowd in the arena rose in volume. Even through the speakers, I could feel it building.
“Come on,” I murmured. “You’ve got this.”
Shot—
Goal.
For a second, everything went white noise.
I startled awake fully for half a second, heart jumping like I’d been the one hit by the shot.
The replay rolled.
“That’s it,” I whispered, voice rough. “There you go.”
The screen started to blur at the edges again, the way it does right before sleep takes over, whether you want it to or not.
The announcers kept talking.
The crowd is still roaring.
Somewhere in the background, Briar was finishing out the final minutes.
But it all started to feel far away.
Like I was sinking slightly under it.
I pulled the blanket tighter around myself, cheek resting against the arm of the couch.
Just for a second, I thought about texting him.
Something simple.
Good game.
I’m proud of you.
But my fingers didn’t move fast enough.
The couch felt warmer than it had a minute ago.
Heavier.
The game noise softened into something like waves.
The last thing I registered clearly was Garrett on screen again—then even that started to fade.
“Did good,” I mumbled, barely audible.
The screen kept glowing in the dark. Briar had won, and I had drifted off.
Garrett skipped the press and went straight for the locker room, getting off his gear and checking his phone.
No new texts, at least not any from the only person who mattered to him at the moment.
He froze, glancing at the screen, making sure he had a signal.
“Hey,” Logan said, noticing his face change. “What’s up?”
Garrett didn’t answer.
Dean stood up. “Yo, Graham, you’re pale. What happened?”
“I need to go,” Garrett said, voice flat.
Logan frowned. “Go where?”
But Garrett was already pulling on his hoodie, not even bothering with the zipper.
“She hasn’t texted me since puck drop,” he said.
Dean blinked. “Relax, she probably fell asleep.”
“Stop worrying so much, she’s fine,” Logan started.
Garrett hung his head, forcing air into his lungs as he put his phone down and headed for the showers.
Everyone around him was celebrating the fact that they had secured a spot in the finals. He was too focused on every mile that lay between the two of you.
He didn’t even make it fully out of the arena before he was calling you.
Straight to voicemail.
Again.
Voicemail.
Again.
“Pick up,” he muttered under his breath, walking faster. “Come on.”
Garrett stopped walking for half a second, staring at his phone like it might change if he looked hard enough.
Dean came up behind him, “I’m going to take that phone.”
“Over my dead body.”
“Come on, dude, I’m telling you she’s probably sleeping. Let’s head back to the hotel, celebrate our win, and you’ll be home to her by noon tomorrow.”
“Yeah, okay.”
The ride to the hotel felt wrong in a way he couldn’t explain. Like the world was too loud and not loud enough at the same time. Like every red light was taking too long on purpose. He kept checking his phone. Still nothing. He tried to convince himself that everything was fine.
I woke up around one a.m.
The room was dark except for the TV still glowing blue in standby, casting long shadows across the couch.
For a second, I didn’t move.
Then I reached for my phone.
The screen lit up immediately—too bright, making me blink to adjust my eyes.
Missed messages.
A lot of them.
Garrett: Game’s over. You should call me.
Garrett: You’re probably sleeping, but call me when you see this.
Garrett: I’m going to lose my mind over here.
Garrett: If you’re getting worse, you need to get checked out.
Garrett: Y/n?
Logan: hey just checking in 👍 Garrett’s being annoying again
Logan: he said you were “sick sick,” which I think means dramatic sick
Logan: if you’re alive, just text “alive” so I can stop listening to him spiral
Dean: Yo
Dean: You good?
Dean: Your boyfriend is one missed text away from a meltdown btw
Dean: Pretty sure I saw him looking at flights…
I let out a slow breath that turned into a cough halfway through.
It hurt worse than it should have. I forced down some water.
Me: Sorry babe, I fell asleep. I saw your goal, though, good job. Congrats on making the finals.
Garrett: Call me.
Me: I’m okay
Then another message came through.
Garrett: That’s not what I asked.
I groaned slightly as I sat up and facetimed him.
“Y/n?”
Garrett’s voice came through immediately—too fast, too sharp, like he’d been holding his breath since the moment he saw my name light up.
I swallowed.
“Hey.”
A pause.
“Why haven’t you been answering me?”
I shifted on the couch, blanket sliding off my shoulder.
“I was sleeping.”
“I was worried”
“I didn’t—” I coughed, cutting myself off, pressing my forehead into my sleeve until it passed. “I’m sorry”
The silence on his end changed.
“Talk to me,” he begged.
“I watched the game,” I said quietly, like that was the part that mattered most.
Something shifted in his voice immediately.
“Did you eat?”
I hesitated.
“…I had tea.”
A sound came through the phone—low, sharp. Not quite a laugh. Not even close.
“Y/n.”
“I did,” I insisted, weaker than I meant it to be.
Another pause.
Then his voice dropped.
“Okay,” he said finally, but it didn’t sound like okay. It sounded like recalculating.
Then, softer—
“How are you feeling, and no bullshit this time”
“I’m exhausted,” I admitted.
A long breath on the other end.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I figured.”
Then—
“When’s the last time you took your temperature? Took some medicine?”
“Right before the game.”
“Let’s go take care of a few things, and then you can head back to bed.”
“Garrett…”
“Please, it’s the only way I’m going to be able to sleep tonight.”
“Okay.”
“First, grab one of my Gatorades from your fridge and something to snack on.”
“I don’t have the energy to make anything right now.”
”Grab one of your granola bars or something.”
“Okay,” I said, following his instructions.
“Now go up to the bathroom and take your temperature.”
I leaned heavily against the bathroom counter as I waited for the thermometer to beep. I couldn’t hide the shock on my face when I read the numbers.
“What? What does it say?” Garrett asked, not liking my expression.
Another cough hit me before I could respond, deeper this time, forcing me to curl forward slightly. It took me a minute to right myself.
“102.5”
“Shit.”
“I’m overdue for medicine. It’ll be fine.”
“Yeah, okay, take your medicine.”
I rummaged around the medicine cabinet and took some meds. I fought the coughing fit as I moved towards my bedroom. I had to physically stop and catch my breath, almost forgetting that Garrett was still on the phone.
“You’re getting worse.”
“I’ll be fine. I took medicine, I’m about to drink some Gatorade for electrolytes, and then when I’m done talking to you, I’ll get more rest.”
A pause.
“I wish I were there.”
“I’m glad you’re not. I look and probably smell disgusting.”
He cracked a smile, “Don’t care.”
I set the phone down as I crawl into bed.
Logan’s voice drifted in. “Yo, pizza’s here—everyone’s heading down.”
“I’ll come down in a minute,” Garrett said immediately, without looking away.
Dean, further off: “She answer?”
I leaned closer to the phone.
“Hi bys,” I called weakly.
“Hey, Y/N,” Logan said. “I was starting to get worried. How are you feeling?”
“Better than Dean after he got shoved into the glass.”
A cough cut the sentence in half.
Garrett’s jaw tightened.
“Easy,” he said quietly.
Dean’s voice sharpened. “Okay, yeah, she sounds awful.”
“Helpful,” Garrett muttered, “You guys give me a minute, and I’ll join you.”
“Congrats on the win!” I try to muster as much enthusiasm as I can.
I can’t hear their responses as they exit the room. Garrett refocuses his energy on me, “Get some rest. We’ll be back around noon tomorrow, and if you are still not feeling better, I’ll take you to the doctor.”
“Okay, Garrett.”
No arguing. No insisting, I was fine. No energy left to fight with. Just an exhausted acceptance.
“If anything changes. If anything feels off or worse. You have to call me. I don’t care what time it is. Promise me?”
“I promise.”
“I love you.”
“I love you too,” I say, ending the call.
I don’t even remember plugging my phone in before sleep consumed me.
💭: anon, this was so damn cute to write! thank you for the idea 🥺 god i LOVE cutie!logan if you enjoyed, please consider leaving a comment, ask, reblog etc, it means a lot xx
Off Campus Masterlist here. 〣 Logan Masterlist here.
It took Logan all of 10 minutes to lose concentration and decide that it was his duty to distract you. It started with him sighing loudly, then tapping his pen against the table, then he shifted in seat as if he’d been studying for hours rather than barely 10 minutes.
When you didn’t look up or give him the attention he was so clearly after, he slammed his textbook shut, the sound echoing through the silent library. Several students snapped their heads towards your direction, but you ignored that too.
You kept your eyes fixed on the notes that you were trying to take, pretending like you couldn’t see him staring at you from your peripheral vision. Your exam was less than 24 hours away. This was the time to focus.
Your shoulders relaxed slightly when you heard him flip a page, thinking he’d finally gone back to work. But he hadn’t. Every few minutes, you’d feel his gaze drifting away from his notes and onto you. Whenever you made the mistake of looking up at him, he’d just be sitting there, chin resting in his hand as he smiled at you.
And somehow, you realised, he’d managed to move his chair at least six inches closer since you’d sat down.
“You said you were going to behave this time,” you huffed, finally looking at him.
“I am behaving,” Logan protested, widening his eyes in fake innocence.
You slowly lowered your pen, raising an eyebrow as you gestured to where your notes were buried under his forearm. He didn’t even glance down at it.
“I’m doing my duty as your boyfriend,” he mused.
You scoffed. “By sabotaging my GPA?”
“I’m preventing you from overworking,” he said, sliding his chair another inch closer until his arm brushed yours. “Come on, just a five-minute break.”
“Logan,” you warned.
“Four?”
“No.”
“Three?”
“Logan, I’m trying to concentrate here.” Your words lacked conviction and you didn’t pull away when his fingers gently brushed your neck, his touch warm.
“You know,” he said thoughtfully, “I haven’t kissed you in almost 20 minutes. Do you know how worrying that is?”
“That is concerning,” you agreed dryly, trying to fight the smile that was tugging at your lips.
“I’m attention-starved. You don’t want me to suffer, do you?”
The worst part was, he looked genuinely serious about it. Before you could respond, he leant in and pressed a quick kiss to your cheek.
“Logan-.”
He turned in his chair to face you, before pressing another quick kiss to the corner of your jaw.
“Logan, we’re in the library! Stop,” you hissed.
“You didn’t say please.”
He wrapped his arm around your waist before you could scoot away as he leant in to kiss the tip of your nose.
“John Logan. I swear to God,” you wheezed, a breathless giggle slipping out.
Smack. A kiss to your right eyelid.
“You’re going to be the reason that I fail.”
“You won’t fail. You’re the smartest person I know,” he replied.
Smack. A kiss to your temple.
“And you’re definitely the prettiest.”
Smack. A kiss to your lips.
“If I give you a kiss, will you let me get back to work?”
“Yes,” he murmured, his gaze dropping to your mouth before pulling you slightly closer. “But it has to be a real one, with tongue.”
“You are so annoying,” you said, even as you leant in to kiss him.
True to his word, Logan actually let you go back to his notes and study for a whole uninterrupted 10 minutes. His own textbook lay forgotten on the desk as he kept his arm around you. His chin rested on your shoulder, his breath warm on your neck as he watched you take your notes.
To his credit, he stayed mostly quiet, save for the occasional words of encouragement.
“Well, well, well. What do we have here?”
You jumped at the unexpected voice, your heart leaping into your throat.
Logan lifted his head from your shoulder, glaring daggers at his friends though the faint flush on his cheeks betrayed him.
The three of them had an insufferably smug grin plastered on their faces.
“Go away, we’re studying,” Logan snapped, though there was no real bite to it.
“Yeah, ‘studying’,” Garrett mocked, raising his hands in dramatic air quotes. He leant into Tucker, mimicking Logan’s voice in a breathy-whisper. “Oh, baby, you’re so brilliant. Let me kiss your neck over it.”
“I don’t sound like that,” Logan muttered, flipping Garrett off.
“I knew our boy was in love but this?”
Logan sighed, closing his eyes as he pinched the bridge of his nose.
“How did you even find us?” You asked.
“Someone posted a picture of you two on Fifth Line like 10 minutes ago,” Garrett chuckled.
“Yeah,” Tucker added, stepping forward and flashing his phone screen toward you. Sure enough, there was a blurry photo of Logan practically draped over you, looking terribly needy. “We had to come and see if this is real or if it was photoshopped.”
“Why don’t we see more of this Logan at home?” Dean asked, pointing at the phone screen with a mock-pout “What if I need kisses of encouragement. Where is my affection, Logan?”
You giggled, and Logan shot you a look of betrayal. You immediately pressed your lips into a tight line, trying to force the laughter back down.
Tucker turned to look at you. “Blink twice if he’s holding you hostage.”
“Don’t you dare blink,” Logan hissed at you.
“She’s not going to disappear if you let her go, bro,” Garrett laughed.
“I know.”
“Just checking,” Garrett said.
“To be fair,” you smiled mischievously, “he did follow me to the bathroom earlier, so he might not know that.”
Logan’s mouth dropped as the boys doubled over in laughter. Dean walked over and gave you a high five.
“Where are your loyalties?” Logan asked.
“Okay, okay, you’re right.” Your eyes scanned over the three boys, picking a target. “You know, Garrett, I really don’t think you’re in any position to be making fun of Logan for being whipped."
Garrett frowned in confusion. “And what does that mean?”
“Hannah tells me everything,” you said, leaning forward on the table and tilting your head. “Can you think of anything I might want to share with the class?”
Garrett’s expression instantly changed, the smug smile on his face completely disappearing.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Garrett grumbled, the flush up his neck told a different story.
“Whatever this interaction is, I love it and I love you,” Logan cheered, practically vibrating in his seat.
“Something about playlists and crying and–.”
“Okay! Wow. I feel like this is a really toxic environment, we’re leaving.” Garrett grabbed Dean and Tucker by their hoodies, moving to drag them back down the library aisle.
“Hey, wait! Take this one with you!” You laughed, pushing Logan by his shoulder towards them.
Logan whined dramatically, holding on to the edge of the desk. “What did I do?! I was being supportive.”
“No, you were being distracting. Cute, but distracting.”
“Come on, Loverboy.” Dean walked over and hauled Logan out of his chair by his jacket. “Let the girl study.”
“Promise you’ll sleep over tonight?” Logan asked, stumbling as Dean dragged him away.
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I Can Fix That - a John Logan x F!reader one shot.
a/n: ok so I watched Disney movies all day & Holes was on and all I could think of during the Sam and Ms. Katherine montage/backstory was John Logan and reader flirting with each other by you giving a bunch of tasks and he just wants to be around you and for you to be taken care of so he does all of it with a smile and an ‘I can fix that.’
warnings: 18+ ONLY — typical shirtless shenanigans, longing, fix it felix, handyman!logan, neighbors, strangers to lovers, descriptions of sexual acts, teasing, dirty talk, making out, fingering, oral (f!receiving) protected sex, p n v. he talks you through it cause it's john fucking logan, of course he does.
You'd moved into the old McAllen home that was next to the boys' house last semester and run into nothing but issues since you'd signed the lease. Within the first three months of living there, your water heater had gone out, the garbage disposal stopped working and on warm nights, sometimes the air conditioning would go on the fritz, leaving you in sweltering heat and being miserable in your underwear while laying on top of your bed.
Your landlord was absolutely useless and you were probably on a list of dozens of other properties that were probably experiencing the same issues. And for a while, you just grit your teeth and dealt with it the best you could.
One day, you'd finally had enough and got your dad's old toolbox out of your storage and decided to try to figure out the AC unit on your own. A decision that you instantly regret once you get the thing open and see the wires and metal.
But it was at least eighty degrees inside of your house, your outfit of the day consists of a pair of cut of denim shorts and a bikini top. Your hair is up as high off your neck as it can get and you're still sweating. You groan at the tangled mess of wires and are about to give up and just live in the nude this summer when you hear a voice behind you.
"Need a hand?"
You turn to see the Captain of the Briar U Hawks, John Logan with his sunglasses up on his forehead. He looks concerned at how you're holding the tool in your hand and how much electrical you're around right now.
"My air conditioning blows but it's not cold," you explain desperately, "I'm dying," you confess. Hastings has been in the middle of an unseasonably warm heat wave. By mid day, it's over one hundred degrees and at night, even with the sun down it's around eighty five and it's very humid.
Logan winces and drops his backpack, "Yikes," he says and steps forward, taking the pair of pliers from your hand and eyeing them up with a soft chuckle. He drops them gently into the toolbox and moves a few things around before he finds a flathead screwdriver.
"I can fix that," he says as he manages his hand inside of the opening you'd just found earlier. He flicks his wrist and the screwdriver hits something metal and he looks underneath the unit before he gives a quick nod. "Go in, see if it's cold," he tells you and you walk around to the back door of your two bedroom little starter house.
You don't know much but it was a senior who graduated who'd lived here last — but you do know that student did not take care of the place. You'd spent the first few weekends of your first year here pulling weeds, throwing away old furniture and giving the place a thorough scrub down.
It wasn't much but it was yours and you were proud of it.
As you step into the living room, you walk up to the wall where an air vent is sitting at the top, you stand up on your tipped toes and hear the air conditioner start to whir outside and air kicks out of the vent.
And it's hot.
You huff. And just as you're about to call out that it didn't work, your fingers cool down slightly. It's working and it's getting colder.
For the first time in three weeks, you would be able to sleep in an air conditioned house. You could kiss him right now and you don't even officially know his name.
Sure, you're not stupid. Anybody with eyes on campus knows who John Logan is. But at the end of the day, being his neighbor has made him incredibly human. You've seen him stumble out of the front door ten minutes late for his first class, taking out the trash in his boxers, you've seen him say goodbye to countless women, usually in the early morning hours. John Logan didn't do morning afters, you'd noticed.
Realizing you sound like a fucking stalker; you shake your head and rid your thoughts for a second. You step back outside and give him a gracious smile.
"It's working now, holy shit," you gush. "Thank you so much —" you trail off.
"John," he places a greasy hand on his chest and it leaves a stain. "Logan, that's what everybody calls me," he nods. "You renting?" he motions to the house with the screwdriver still in hand.
"I'm Y/N, yeah, until grad," you nod gently. "I'm a sophomore."
"Locking a place down already," he nods appreciatively at the house then back at you. His eyes linger for a beat longer than appropriate and he clears his throat as if to let you know that he's aware he's messing this up. "Smart move," he says. "Me and the guys rent too, same; til we're outta here," he smirks.
You've had a few classes with a few members of the hockey team and they all seemed nice enough. Their playboy personas definitely preceded them.
"Well hey, listen, if you ever need anything around the house like this kinda thing," Logan taps the air conditioner, "Lemme know, it's kind of my hobby," he confesses.
You raise an eyebrow, "Yeah," you nod slowly. It couldn't hurt to have someone who actually knew the names of what the fuck fixed things. "Thanks, I'll keep that in mind," you smile.
He picks his backpack back up and places the screwdriver back in the toolbox, shutting the box. "Have a good day," he smiles sweetly before walking across the street and up the stairs to the hockey house.
You pick up the toolbox and walk back into your house, making a silent vow to yourself that you'd only ever call John Logan in case of emergency.
About a week later, you're working on the garden in the front yard that's by your door when you see the shadow of someone who's standing behind you. You squint gently before tilting your head over your shoulder and catching a glimpse of Logan.
You hadn't been avoiding him per say, you had just been going about your day to day life. But you had been noticing that he had been outside more, working out in the backyard and you could have sworn he'd been staring over at your house a few times.
He's shirtless, sweaty and has a bandana on that's damp at his forehead. His athletic shorts are hanging low on his hips and you can see the little trail of hair that goes from his belly button dow—
"How's the AC?" he asks, hands on his hips and you turn back to your pruning, desperate for a distraction. He's asking such a simple and innocent question and your thoughts are racing about how strong he was. You wondered if he could bench press you, but a voice sounds inside of your head.
Holy shit, Y/N, not fucking now.
You nod your head, "It's great, thank you again," you say again.
He shakes his head like it was nothing.
"I was headed to the hardware store this morning," he says and you're wondering why he's telling you when he motions to your back fence. "When I was over here last week, I noticed you're missing a couple of slats," he shrugs. "I can fix that."
You look over towards where he's pointing and sure as shit, there's about four broken or missing slats to your fence scattered along the back wall. You sigh. You haven't been in the backyard much yet this spring and are afraid of what you're going to have to face when you finally do get around to it.
"I could pick up a couple of boards," Logan offers nonchalantly. "Our shower keeps getting clogged," he says and he instantly knows that his roommate Dean is the culprit. "Since I'm there already," he trails off and glances at you.
You blink.
"Oh, uh, yeah - that would be great," you say with a shake of your head. This guy was too good to be true. You smirk gently when he nods happily.
"Cool," he says as he reaches back and pulls the t-shirt that's hanging from his pocket out and over his head in a swift motion. Like he's done it all his life.
"I'll be right back," he tells you with a wave before turning and jogging towards his pickup.
Forty minutes later, Logan is carrying plywood back into your jungle of a backyard. He sees the weeds and laughs, giving a low whistle.
"Lemme guess," you say with a sly smirk and he grins back at you.
"I can fix that," he nods once.
"At least on that one, I can help," you say as you watch him start to line up the boards in the missing spots. He measures twice, you notice.
You excuse yourself after a minute and go inside to lean against the kitchen counter.
John Logan is in your backyard, fixing your fence. The only thing that could make it better was if he was shirtless, you think as you make your way to the sink, looking out the window that sits in front of it.
Oh, and just like that..
Logan grabs the hem of his baby blue t-shirt and rips it off, tossing it to the side and you groan internally. You look down and see your hands clutching the counter.
"Fucking hell," you grumble softly. "This is torture," you mumble as you watch his shoulder blades flex as he starts to hammer in nails.
You search the kitchen for some way to show your appreciation and find some lemonade in the very back of the fridge. You see a chunk of ice in it floating so you know it's good. The iceberg clinks around the glass pitcher walls as you find a glass.
You hastily pour, looking out at him and biting your bottom lip. He has no fucking business coming to do chores at your house looking this fucking good, you think to yourself and place the pitcher down on the counter.
You inhale slowly and realize your hand is shaking. Like your entire body is slowly starting to gravitate towards the idea of reaching out and touching him.
You steady yourself before walking outside as calm as you should be with a hot guy working in your backyard, shirtless.
The sound of nails grounds you and you clear your throat and he turns, offering a genuine grin at the glass of lemonade.
"Oh, fuck yeah," he says and drops the hammer to the ground, taking the glass and chugging half in one go. He gasps as he takes a deep breath and nods in appreciation. "That's delicious," he says before his eyes widen and he rubs his temples, "Fuck that shit's cold," he laughs through his temporary brain freeze. "Thank you," he nods and takes another sip, slower this time. He's learned his lesson.
You laugh softly, "Are you kidding me? Thank you," you motion to the three new fence posts that are already in place.
"Ah, it's nothing," he waves. "I'd rather do this and be outside than fishing condoms out of the shower drain," he says and when you give a confused look he shakes his head. "Don't ask," he warns.
You hold your hands up in surrender and laugh once and Logan smirks.
He likes the sound of your laugh.
"So, next weekend I've got an away game," he says matter of factly. "But the weekend after that we're home, I could come and help you with some of this stuff," he kicks a bush that's just given up on the will to live.
You nod gently, "That would be great, I'll get out here next weekend and try to get some out of here before you come back," you offer and he shrugs.
"No worries if you don't," he says quietly. "I could get this clear in an afternoon, couple of hours if I loop a couple of freshman into helping," he smirks.
"That's cruel, even for freshman," you reason with a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips.
He lets a beat pass before gazing around the backyard and he states boldly, "So no boyfriend around to help ya."
It's more of a statement than a question and you don't know how to respond.
Your eyes widen slightly at his forwardness before laughing softly. Something you did when you got uncomfortable. You shift between your feet and shake your head.
"Nah," you say simply and leave it at that. John Logan doesn't need to know your entire relationship history since coming to Briar.
He eyes you up suspiciously before turning back to the fence, "Well, I'll get this last one done and get out of your hair," he says dismissively. He kneels down and grabs the hammer again, digging into his pocket for a handful of nails. He sticks a few between his teeth by their flat heads and he starts to hammer them into the wood and with each hit, you feel the opportunity of getting to know Logan more slip away until two weeks from now.
"Hey, can I get your number?" You ask suddenly between hits and he raises an eyebrow and looks over his shoulder at you. He's got a look that screams curiosity and maybe even excitement at the idea of you asking for his number.
Before he can get too cocky, you follow up with a bold faced lie, "My water heater has been weird lately—" you say quietly and make a mental note to go in there before he comes to fix it and fuck it up somehow. "In case it blows up or something while you're gone.." you trail off and place your hands in your pockets.
His lips slowly pull into a sly smirk and he nods, "Yeah, I can give you my number," he winks. "In case something blows up," he confirms before hitting the final nail on the head and placing the hammer into the toolbox at his feet. "Done."
You hand him your cell phone and quietly watch him type in his name and number before handing it back to you. He hit 'call' and 'end' quickly so that he'd have your number as well — he wasn't dumb. He wasn't going to wait for something to break to talk to you again.
"Thanks again," you tell him as you walk him towards the front of the house. He's wiping his face with his bandana that he's removed from his head. His hair is slightly sweaty and sticking to his forehead, he puts his hands in his t-shirt and lifts it up to wipe his face even better and you get a good glimpse of his abs before the shirt falls back down.
"Yeah, of course — get inside into that air conditioning," he tells you seriously. "It's getting fucking hot," he grumbles. He loved spring and summer but not when it was as hot as Hell outside, literally. He could feel the thickness of the air when he inhaled and that was something he'd learned that he did not like since this heat wave had begun.
You smirk gently and nod your head, "Yeah, you too," you muse and he waves you off.
"I'll talk to you later," he promises and crosses the street and you stand there for a moment, looking at your feet for a second before going inside and plopping onto the couch trying not to imagine him naked.
You end up taking an hour long cold shower.
It's only four days later when you're sitting in your bed, trying to read a book. Your eyes scan the same paragraph for the sixth time, trying to force yourself to comprehend.
You've been thinking about John Logan since the fence fixing and it was starting to consume your day to day life. In the middle of lectures, just as you were disassociating to your professor's monotone, you'd get a glimpse of the dimples behind his back that were more pronounced whenever his arms were above his head.
At the end of a long day, you would come back to your house and look over to the hockey house; wondering what he was doing.
Your phone vibrates on your thigh and you look down.
It's late, Hannah had already said goodnight a few hours ago and that was the only person that you been talking to that day. You close your book and place it to your side, looking at your phone screen.
Logan: Just checking in to make sure nothing has imploded on you before I head to bed — thought I heard a bang.
You smirk slowly and resist the urge to kick your feet at the sight of his text. No, this isn't an elementary school crush, no — you were fully lusting over John Logan and he was seemingly interested in seeing what could be between you two.
You slowly type back, "Nothing here at least from what I can tell, I think you're in the clear…"
And instantly, those three little dots slowly pop up and you inhale slowly.
Logan: That means nothing coming from you: I saw how you hold a pair of pliers. If you're trying to reassure me, you're doing a terrible job.
A grin pulls at your lips and you lean back in your bed against the headboard.
"Who needs to know how to hold a pair of pliers when they live next door to Fix-It Felix," you respond with a GIF from Wreck it Ralph. He gives a 'haha' to the image before responding quickly.
Logan: I'm not gonna be here forever — unlike some of my teammates, I take my schooling very seriously. I'm not planning on being here for a decade. When I graduate, you're fucked. 😭
You laugh and roll your eyes.
"Good thing I have your number then, huh?"
He starts typing but the dots disappear and you stare, waiting for them to show up again.
They don't.
You exhale and let your head fall back between your shoulders against the headboard.
Another vibrate.
Logan: What are you up to? Me and the boys just got back from Malone's & I'm about this close to refereeing a rock, paper, scissors tournament, I think.
You smirk and debate how you want to play this. You could easily turn this into a flirtatious conversation — ask Logan to come across the street and keep you company. Or you could stay just like you were, just talking. It seemed like a win win either way. You're in your thoughts when the phone vibrates again in your palm.
Logan: JK, Dean passed out on the couch and Garrett decided he's headed to bed. Another fun night at the Hockey House!
"Sounds like a blast, more fun than I'm having," you hit send and then send another message. "I'm trying to read a book but my mind is just elsewhere, I guess…" and you add a shrugging emoji to make sure he knows you're not being blatantly flirtatious.
Logan: Hate that for you. What's up? Something on your mind?
You swallow and stare at the message.
Yeah, you think to yourself, you.
And your thumbs start to move mindlessly, "Just nothing is keeping my attention and I just feel restless."
Logan: Except me.
And you can see the smug ass smirk that's probably on his face right now across the street.
You stand up and pace back and forth as you think of how to respond.
You type back with one word.
"Apparently."
Logan's little dots pop up and taunt you with what you imagine his response could be. He could be smug, he could be completely disinterested and respond with a 'quit it, freak' or worse, he could be totally fucking into it.
Logan: I can fix that.
And your heart skips a beat as you text back to explain yourself and you delete what you've got, going for a third attempt at an excuse when your doorbell rings.
Your stomach falls into your ass as you slowly lift yourself up off the bed and walk down the hallway towards the front door. Through the decorative windows at the top of the door, you can see the very top of Logan's head, moving back and forth.
You slowly reach out and open the door, looking at the hockey captain who has his hand behind his neck and he gives a gentle smile.
As you watch him, you rack your brain for everything and anything that could be considered 'broken' so that you can keep him here as long as you could, but he simply shrugs his shoulders and leans against the door frame.
He's switched out of his clothing from this evening at Malone's and is now in a pair of gray sweatpants, the drawstrings hanging between his thighs. His t-shirt is one size too big for his frame — either he doesn't care about flaunting his muscles or he doesn't realize how fit he truly is.
"I know nothing's broken," he states matter of factly. "Can I come in anyway?"
Instead of speaking, you probably couldn't if you tried right now, you simply step to the side and motion for him to come inside. He does so with a smile and looks around as soon as he's inside.
"Can I get you anything?" you ask him quietly and he shrugs his shoulders and shakes his head.
"Nope," he says, popping the 'p' as he shoves his hands into his jeans pockets. "I'm all good, I uh, just wanted to see you," he confesses.
"Me?" you ask with a surprised look on your face. Logan could get any girl on campus with a bat of those long eyelashes and that stupid lazy smirk that he's got on his face whenever he looks at you.
"You," he nods with the same surprised look on his face, laughing softly. "Yeah, you," he states with a shrug. "Truth be told," Logan sighs dramatically and leans against the kitchen island, arms against his chest. "I haven't been able to stop thinking about you since you were trying to fix your AC," he tells you as if it's no big deal that he's been thinking about you for weeks.
There's a slight skip in your heart's rhythm when you think about if he's had the same type of thoughts about you?
He watches you intently as you stand in the doorway of the kitchen, staring at him with your mouth slightly agape.
"Y/N, you gotta give me something to work off of here," he begs gently with a pleading look in his eyes and you shake your head in disbelief.
"Sorry," you say simply with a blink, "I just… think my brain short circuited," you joke but you feel like doing literally anything but laughing. John Logan has been thinking about you, you remind yourself and you swallow before feeling yourself returning into your own body again. "Thinking about me," you try out quietly as you start to step towards him. "Like how?"
Logan stares at you as if you're a piece of prey as you step closer, dark eyes locked on your frame as you saunter towards the island. He bites down on his bottom lip gently, "Oh, if I told you you would think that I'm insane," he warns.
Eyebrows lifting slightly, you gaze up at him curiously and tilt your head to the side, "Try me," you say in an encouraging tone.
Logan swallows. Hard.
"I've been thinking about you—" he inhales sharply as if he really is considering doing this. He looks down at you and reaches over, grabbing your waist and tugging you between his legs. His hands find your hips as his thumbs gently graze at your hip bones. "In the worst fucking ways possible," he says, "—which is a problem because I haven't even taken you out on a proper date yet."
Ah, you think. A romantic, how sweet.
You smirk gently, "Oh, shit," you say in a low tone. "That bad, huh?"
Logan groans and shakes his head, "Like right now, all I wanna do is put you up on this counter and have my way with you," he says in a voice just above a whisper. He pulls his right hand up and strokes your cheek as if he's testing the waters. "I've been thinking about how badly I wanna fuck you," he confesses and your cheeks flush.
Your lips curl up into a smirk and you lean in, whispering into his ear. "I'm afraid I have some bad news for you," you say softly and he looks down at you with furrowed eyebrows.
"What? What's the bad news?" he asks, worry in his voice.
"I've been thinking about that too," you say. "And then you kept coming over shirtless and shit looking like a Ken doll," you groan and rub your hand over your face.
"Can I at least be a GI Joe?" he asks and you roll your eyes.
Logan's eyes light up slightly and he reaches forward, capturing your lips against his. He takes a step and spins you around, effectively caging you in against the countertop. Your tongues play against each others and both of his hands slip up to either side of your neck, deepening the kiss. After a moment, his hands slide down to your hips and he grabs you tightly, fingertips digging into your pajama bottoms and lifts you. He plops you right on your ass onto the counter, legs dangling and he steps between them effortlessly.
Your mind is fucking racing right now as his hands start to roam up and down your sides over your pajamas. Finally realizing what's going on, your arms instantly go around his neck and your leg hooks around his waist and pin him against the counter. He groans into the kiss slightly and lets his hand slip up your shirt.
His palm brushes against your breast and rolls your nipple gently between his index finger and thumb and he grins against your lips at the noise that comes out of your mouth.
You reach up and let your hand rake through his hair, sighing into the next kiss that he plants on your lips. He then breaks away, trailing kisses down your jawline as his hand switches over to your other breast and starts giving it some attention as well.
Logan's hands pull at the hem of your shirt and his eyes meet yours, asking silently for your approval before continuing on.
When you nod, he has the green light and he yanks the fabric up and over your head with no flair. He's too excited to be pulling out all the moves even though he knows he needs to slow the fuck down and savor this moment.
His lips graze down your jawline and down onto your neck and he nips gently at your pulse point before he sucks gently to ease the pain. Your lips part and you exhale, tilting your head to the side to give him the best angle of your neck that he can get.
You secretly hope he leaves marks. You want to walk around campus with makeup poorly covering his little claims on your body — at least the ones that are visible.
Logan's eyes drift down to your tits and smiles appreciatively. "Jesus," he breathes out as he reaches behind his neck and tugs at the collar of his own t-shirt. He throws it to the side and your hands rest on his muscular chest, fingers tracing the silver chain that he wears every day.
He presses you up against his chest and he closes his eyes, resting his forehead against yours as your hand slowly slides down between his pecs to his abs. Your fingertips slowly trace small little circles along the muscles and his flinches his belly away from you instinctively before you smirk up at him and let your hand rest at the waistband of his sweats.
You watch his face intently as your hand palms against his dick through the fabric and you can feel him tense underneath you instantly. He sucks in a deep breath of air and grunts gently.
"You gonna tease it or you gonna play with it?" he asks gently, a slight challenge in his voice. He's never going to not be a smart ass when it counts.
You grin, letting your fingers curl around his fabric covered length. He hisses and closes his eyes, shifting his hips forward into your hand and he groans.
"Y/N," he warns, "I've wanted this all week," he tells you and you give him a sympathetic look.
He looks at you with a smile that shouts two can play that game and lets his fingers hook into the elastic of your shorts. In one swift motion, he's got you naked sitting on your kitchen counter and you feel like a million bucks as you sit in front of him with that grin.
He's looking at you like he's hit the lottery and he licks his lips before he leans back in, "You're fucking perfect," he whispers genuinely into your ear.
He grabs your thighs and wraps your legs around his waist and tugs you closer, picking you up off the counter with ease and walking you towards the living room where he saw a couch earlier that seemed like it would give him enough room for what he wanted to do to you.
He lays you gingerly back against the couch cushions, dropping to his knees on the floor in front of you and nudging your knees apart with his shoulders. Logan's lips plant kisses up your thighs and just as he's about to reach your center that's throbbing at this point, he hovers and hesitates.
Logan's dark eyes stare down at your pussy, all wet just for him, and he blows air against your exposed clit before he goes to your other thigh and starts to kiss down towards your knee. You whimper and squirm underneath him and lift your head up off the couch.
"Fucking tease," you mumble with a sigh and he laughs between your thighs, laughing and leaning in. His lips place a gentle kiss at your clit before he lets his tongue lap in lazy circles against you.
His tongue moves just like a skater on the ice and you can't help but fall back against the cushions as he starts to inch you closer to an orgasm. His arms wrap around your ass and tugs you down onto his tongue, humming happily as he eats you out.
Your hand reaches down and grabs a handful of his hair and as he slips a finger inside of you, you tug in approval. A shaky sigh escapes from your lips as he throws your knee over his shoulder, burying his face deeper.
Your eyes widen as he starts to suck at your clit, a second finger added to the mix with a moan from you giving him encouragement every step of the way. The way your hips are starting to roll against his fingers makes him grin and his cock twitches between his legs.
Not now, Logan says to himself as he curls his fingers up just right and rubs against your spot.
"That's right," Logan nods, eyes dark. "You like that?"
Your head bounces like a bobblehead.
Logan shakes his head down at you, pressing his fingers deeper. "Say it," he says.
"I like it," you say eagerly and he smirks gently at how much control he has right now in this moment — even though he knows you can switch that dynamic around real fast.
He curls his fingers and pumps his fingers out as he sucks at your clit again, looking up at you.
Jesus Christ, John Logan between your thighs looking up at you may be the sexiest thing you've ever seen in your entire life.
"Fuck," you manage out a moment later as he keeps his motions going, leaning up though and grinning down at you.
"What's up, baby?" he asks in that snarky little tone that makes you clench around his fingers slightly. "Mm, you're close, aren't you?" he asks.
You nod weakly and Logan lifts a finger to his earlobe.
"Use your words, princess," Logan growls gently as he tilts his ear down towards you.
"I'm gonna come," you breathe out, your fingertips digging into his forearm.
Logan grins, "Good, let go for me," he says softly into your ear, "C'mon, let me have it," he tells you.
Your eyes close and you whimper as your thighs quiver around his fingers and he slows his fingers yet adds an entirely new sensation at this moment: his thumb, rubbing gently against your clit steadily.
He holds you as you tense up under him, kissing any inch of your body that he can get his lips on as you ride out your high.
"There she is," he grins once you seemingly come back down to Earth and you giggle softly, leaning in and kissing his lips roughly.
Logan leans back into you and kisses you back before pulling away and exhaling. He glances down and bites down on his bottom lip.
"You're not done," he tells you quietly as he wraps his hand around the base of his cock and gives it a slow pump. His eyes are locked on you and you sit up slowly, grinning.
You lean over him and open your coffee table drawer, reaching in and grabbing a condom before taking the wrapper between her teeth and tearing it open.
Logan's seen women trying to make condoms sexy a hundred times but you, however, are the only one to succeed. He bites harder into his bottom lip as he pumps his cock once more, watching as you grab the latex and line it up with him.
He groans as you slowly roll the condom down with your hand, gripping him as you slide down and grinning up at him as you notice him twitch.
He crawls up onto the couch between your thighs and lets the head of his cock rub against your wet folds teasingly.
Your eyes roll at the feeling and you reach down to grab his forearms that are braced on either side of you.
And with one swift thrust, Logan pushes inside of you and you moan softly.
He pauses when he's fully inside of you and gives you a second to adjust before he rolls his hips back - only to thrust right back in. His head drops back between his shoulders and he groans.
You wrap your legs around his waist and he buries himself inside of you with each thrust, each one growing more and more passionate. He's savoring this moment just as much as you are, you notice, as he looks down at you as if he's memorizing this. The way your tits bounce with each thrusts, the sound that your bodies are making as they collide or maybe even how you feel.
"Just like that," you egg him on as he angles his hips just right and you feel a sudden sensation building in your stomach.
He beams at your words and tries to hit that spot over and over and over again.
He groans slowly, "You look so gorgeous like this," he tells you. And you don't care how many girls he's told this to before, you believe him. And your hands slowly reach up to your tits, squeezing them together as he brings your knees up to your chest and continues to pound into you.
You groan and know that you're on the edge and it's way too fast for your liking but you have no say in the matter. Logan for all intents and purposes has full control of you and this moment and you wouldn't have it any other way.
He leans down and kisses your lips as he bucks his hips, his thrusts getting more and more desperate and ragged as he rocks his hips back and forth. When he feels your thighs shake again and your breathing hitch, he groans deeply into the kiss and his hips start to slow down, looking down at you. His eyes lock onto yours as he fills the condom, moaning and kissing your jaw again.
And you two lay like that, just together, chest to chest on the couch, catching your breath. A comfortable silence falling between you two. You quietly wrap an arm around his shoulders as he places kisses against your collarbone, slipping out of you a moment later.
You sit up and Logan instantly walks over to the kitchen and grabs the roll of paper towels. He peels the rubber off of his dick and cleans himself off quickly and hands you the roll of towels for yourself.
He pulls his sweats back over his hips and he sits on the couch, running his hand through his hair and exhaling contently.
"You good?" he asks gently after a beat and you offer a grin that makes him laugh. "Jesus," he laughs, "You keep looking like that and I'm gonna get you for three tonight," he grins and leans in, pecking your lips.
"What's wrong with that?" you ask with a small smirk.
Logan chuckles lowly and swats at your thigh, "Nothing, but I'm gonna get hooked," he smirks. "And then you'll never get rid of me," he shrugs quickly.
"I thought I already couldn't get rid of you," you muse and he leans in, tickling your sides and making you writhe underneath him in an entirely different way.
"So I'm gonna take you out to dinner tomorrow night," he tells you simply, tracing circles up and down your arm.
You laugh gently at the shift of conversation.
"I'll see if I can pencil you in," you say gently. "Have you seen my backyard?"
He smirks, "Alright, fine, instead of going out for dinner, we'll get some take out and we can work in the backyard and get some work done before I head out on the road," he says, like it's the easiest decision to make.
You purse your lips and nod, "I don't think my sprinkler system is even hooked up," you muse after a minute and Logan hums behind you, hugging you tight to his body as he shrugs.
"I can fix that."
a/n: well, here we are hussies, (jk lol) I hope that you enjoyed my first smutfic in a HOT ASS minute. what a muse, huh? is he just not the finest hunk in the world? the things i'd do-- and with that, i'm headed to bed. let me know what you think -- as always, requests are OPEN and I'm always willing to take your suggestions! who knows -- maybe this becomes a mini-series in and of itself depending on how ya'll like it!
i love you all so very very much! thank you for reading!
Thinking of doing a 1.5k follower celebration thing. Would yall be in that sort of thing? Let me know and what you would like to see? Fun behind the scenes stuff, extra content, music inspired works, mood boards?
you don't want to rush me, lets just keep this on cruise control
a/n: listening to the very fab Kehlani who released this song. Once i heard it I was like that so pinkie and shark. I had to do it! anyways lets get into the aftermath of it all!
"You've been quiet."
His voice almost knocks the wind out of you. Almost. You turn around from your seat in the break room. The chair creaking as it does.
He's right.
You've been inside of the man's house. You've been taking breaks inside of his office. He's given you a ride in his very stupidly luxurious car. You've seen a side of him that no one else even knows exists.
And you want more.
So you've been tight lipped. Not asking too many questions. Not getting in on surgeries that he's part of. You've been going down to the ED a bit more too. Just for lunch. And break.
Which is crazy because your shadow program is ending soon. So you won't have to be almost avoiding the man for long. Speaking of the program...
"Do you know when the shadow program started? Like what year?" you ask.
With laser eyes you watch him as he rounds the table and takes a seat across from you. He looks like he doesn't fit in here. In the breakout room. Like he should be sitting at a very snotty and cushy bar instead of here.
He's wearing normal clothes again. A tan light jacket, a pale blue shirt underneath that you know is probably a short sleeve. the man loves to wear short sleeves. He just came in for his shift.
Brendon shrugs his shoulders and sighs. Like he knows exactly what you're asking him and why. Except he doesn't give in. At least he doesn't show it on his face.
"I don't know." he responds.
That's not the answer you wanted to hear.
Stupid Ogilvie told you a whole story. About the shadow program and your place in it. Guess he was having a bad day and decided to let it out on you. Which you're not too keen on but you are sort of thankful that he did.
Because now you know things. Things that make your heart flutter in your damn chest. Things that make you sure that you aren't dreaming things up.
Lots of things.
"I heard something...that it's a new program."
"I don't know the specifics."
Another non answer.
You scoff, "That's not true, now is it."
His eyes squint, like he's trying to get a read on you. Then he sits back with his arms crossed. From the slide of the table you can see his leg part-you don't want to spend too much time on that.
"Ask me."
"I am asking you."
"No you're beating around the bush."
You stall. For just a second. Because if you ask him this, there is probably no going back. Your not going to have to face the consequences of it for long. But you and him can't go back to this innocent run around that you two are in.
"You revitalized a dead program."
He nods, "Yes I did."
"You hate explaining yourself," you continue
"Mostly true."
"and yet you wanted to open yourself up to questions from interns and praise residents." you finish.
He says nothing. It ticks you off a bit. You lean in and place your hands on the table. As if getting something sturdy to lean on would help you. All it does it remind you of that elevator ride with him.
Brendon juts his head at you, "Ask."
"Why'd you do all of that?"
He takes a second. His meticulous mind is coming up with a very neat answer. Drafting and editing. Before any of the words can come out, he's the same way in surgery. Always a few steps head.
"Same reason why I started taking more consults in the ED before the program. I wanted to see you."
You remember someone saying something about that. Within a month of you starting in the ED, he started coming down more and more. Dana said that it was a wonder. Robby wondered if he was getting bored with his own residents upstairs and wanted fresh meat.
But none of that is true.
"See me...see me how?" you ask now, throat suddenly dry.
"I think at this point, we both know what I mean. But I do want you to understand something," he starts
you nod your head, telling him to continue.
"at no point did I offer you preferential treatment. You have worked and earned everything you got up here. Including my letter of recommendation if you want it."
A rec letter from The Dr. Park? Wait. What does that mean? Does he think you'd be a good fit for Ortho? Or is this just a general letter for you to use anywhere? But that means he's letting you go...that's weird to say.
It would be even weirder to say nothing happened between the two of you. The touches, the talks, the closeness. All of that is real. Its not something you came up with in your head. And now he's basically confirmed that he's orchestrated an entire program...to see you.
You manage to catch his eyes. This wasn't neutral like you thought before. No this is anything but that. You've never seen them look so soft. You don't know exactly what he feels but its something.
“I spoke life into her everyday” MIND YOU NO ONE WAS AT YOUR DOOR WITH THAT FHHUCK ASS PINK SUIT AND THE STUPID ASS BROACH GET THE HELL OUT OF HEREEEE KC
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this is in a kind of order, but can be read out of order if your into that sort of thing. follows Brendon Park and fem!reader (who I visualize as black but all that's given as a description is the hair color) as they go through several shifts in the pitt.
ᰋ. author @ u : i remember months ago i had a tangent on my blog ab jason teaching his kid how to ride a motorbike and after dcu gave us dad!jason crumbs, i decided to deliver!! i was thinking of making a dcu taglist (smaus, jay content etc), if anyone wants to be added lmk! <3 ᰍ .
The parking lot is empty except for the three of you; Jason, your kid, and you, leaning against the car with a first aid kit that Jason insisted you bring (“just in case”).
Jason crouches down, adjusting the helmet strap under your kid’s chin with careful fingers. The same hands that have broken bones and pulled triggers are impossibly gentle now, making sure everything fits right, that every piece of protective gear is secure.
“All set?” he asks, and your kid nods, eager energy practically vibrating off them.
“I’m ready, Dad.”
Jason huffs a quiet laugh. “That’s what you said about the training wheels on your bike, and you still ate pavement the first time I took them off.” He straightens up, one hand resting on the motorcycle’s handlebar. “This is different though. More power and responsibility. You listening?”
“Always.”
“Good.” Jason walks them through it again, the clutch, the throttle, the rear brake. “We’re gonna take this slow. I don’t care if it takes all day for you to make it across this parking lot. Speed isn’t the point yet.”
You catch his eye over your kid’s helmet, and Jason’s expression softens just slightly. He knows you were nervous about this, hell, he was too, though he’d never admit it out loud.
Your kid swings a leg over the bike, settling into the seat with determination written across their face. You see Jason in that expression, stubborn, fearless, maybe a little too confident. Though if you’re honest, you recognize some of yourself in there too.
“Okay,” Jason says, stepping back but staying close. “Start her up.”
The engine rumbles to life, and you watch your kid’s grip tighten on the handlebars. Jason glances back at you, the same look he had the first time your kid took their first steps.
“Clutch in,” Jason calls out. “Good. Now first gear, easy, easy.”
The bike lurches forward a few feet before stalling out. Your kid looks back at him, frustrated.
“Hey.” Jason walks over, rests a hand on their shoulder. “You know how many times I dropped a bike when I was learning? Bruce made me practice in the Cave for weeks before he’d let me out on actual streets.” He squeezes gently. “You’re doing fine. Try again.”
They do. And again. And again.
By the fourth attempt, they make it twenty feet before the bike wobbles and they have to catch themselves. By the tenth, they’re making a slow, shaky circle around the parking lot, and Jason is jogging alongside them, calling out encouragement and corrections.
“That’s it! You’ve got it! Eyes up, not at the ground, watch where you want to go!”
You can’t help but smile, watching Jason in full dad-mode, all that intensity focused entirely on keeping your kid safe while still letting them learn. It’s a side of him that still catches you off guard sometimes, even after all these years.
When your kid finally completes a full loop and brings the bike to a smooth stop, the grin on their face is blinding. Jason can’t help but match it.
“Did you see—”
“We saw,” Jason says, pulling them into a hug, helmet and all. He looks over their shoulder at you, and you mouth so proud because you are. “You did good, kid. Really good.”
“Can I go faster next time?”
Jason pulls back, then glances over at you with a “help me out here expression”. You just raise an eyebrow. He started this, he can handle the negotiations.
“Let’s master ‘not stalling’ first. Then we’ll talk about faster.” But he’s already planning it in his head; the next lesson, the one after that, eventually taking them out on real roads, teaching them everything he knows about riding safe.
Your kid groans. “Fine.”
“Yeah, well.” Jason ruffles their hair, gentle even through the helmet. “Get used to it. Now come on, five more laps, then we’ll break for lunch. And this time, try not to look like you’re wrestling a bear every time you shift.”
The laugh that echoes across the empty parking lot is worth every cautious moment. Jason catches your eye again as your kid restarts the bike, and the small smile he gives you says we made this. We’re doing okay.
You smile back, and settle in to watch the rest of the lesson, your heart full of pride for both of them.
