“I promise I’ll be around to kiss your bruises for a long time” (Garrett & Hannah / Grace & Logan)

by LetThemReadFics

Summary:

“Hey,” I lean back against my pillow. “I'm sorry I can't come over and kiss all of your boo-boos, but I'm working on the song.” –Hannah, The Deal Ch. 34

I don’t like Logan returning home after a particularly tough game and crawling into our bed, bruised and sore and too exhausted to even cuddle –Grace, The Legacy Ch. 3

*******************************************************

2 short, unrelated one-shots featuring Hannah and Garrett (chapter 1), Grace and Logan (chapter 2), and lots of booboos that need to be kissed better.

Notes:

Been awhile, but I'm back! School/work has just been sooooo busy that I haven't been able to write fun stuff (ie fics), but I promise I have quite a few more started. Hopefully this being a 2-in-1 makes up for the delay (at least a little).

When I was doing a reread of the books, I noticed that there's a lot of talk about the guys being all bruised and beat up, so a fic like this felt like a natural segue. I might go back and add some Dean/Allie and/or Tucker/Sabrina chapters at some point, but I don't have any real ideas for those right now.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy THESE chapters, starting with a college Garrett & Hannah scene!

Chapter 1: Garrett & Hannah

“Hey,” I lean back against my pillow. “I'm sorry I can't come over and kiss all of your boo-boos, but I'm working on the song.” –Hannah, The Deal Ch. 34

*** *** *** ***

 

Hannah

By the time Garrett gets to my dorm room that night, I don’t need him to tell me that the game was rough. If it wasn’t enough that I saw him get slammed into the boards by St. Anthony’s behemoth of a defenseman, he’s literally dragging himself into my bedroom. My 6’2”, 190 pounds of hard muscle boyfriend is barely standing up, but he’s playing it off as him leaning against my doorframe.

“Hey, how ya feelin’, dude?” I ask with a sympathetic smile. Garrett winces as he pushes himself off the door, and he’s not one to milk an injury—the opposite, actually—so I know he’s hurting.

“I’ll live,” he shrugs. “But—and I mean this sincerely—fuck Greg Braxton. The NCAA needs to have him tested for doping.” I can’t help but chuckle as he collapses, fully-clothed, into my bed.

He raises an eyebrow. “Are you joining me?”

I gesture to my desk and open laptop. “Essay,” I say.

He gestures down his body. “Boo-boos,” he rebuts.

“Let me finish this paragraph. It should only take about 20 minutes”

 

It should take me about 20 minutes to finish this paragraph on cognitive behavioral music therapy, but it takes me almost 45 minutes, because I’m fending off my needy (horny) boyfriend every other minute.

First, he’s whiny: “C’mon, Wellsy. I’m tired. Can’t we just go to bed. I know that essay isn’t due ‘til Monday.” Whiny Garrett is 75% less hot than Regular Garrett, so I’m more annoyed than turned on by this one. 3/10 overall.

Then, it’s bargaining: “Take a break. 10-minute make out session. You’ve earned it.” More tempting, for sure, but 10 minutes isn’t enough time to do all the many, many things I enjoy doing to Garrett, so I’ll have to pass for now. 5/10 for the cruel torture of imagining making out with him without being able to.

Next, he tries flattery: “You’re fucking brilliant, Wellsy, you know that? I’m so proud of you.” He’s inching toward the “good girl” line, and this one almost gets me. His husky, sleepy voice makes me want to slam my laptop shut and jump his bones. I literally just have to write 2 more sentences. He’s wearing me down. 8/10.

Finally, he tries seduction: “Baby, that desk chair looks uncomfortable. Why don’t you come sit on my face?” That line is a 5/10, but Garrett’s delivery easily bumps it up to an 8. And the fact that I’m squirming in said-uncomfortable desk chair at the thought of his tongue between my legs pretty much covers those last 2 points. Garrett Graham, 10/10 for seduction.

I save my essay and close my laptop. “Okay, you win. But if I flunk out of college because you couldn’t keep it in your pants, I hope you have plans to provide for me.”

That wakes him up.  Apparently the thought of providing for me has Garrett looking like a little kid who just got told he’s going to Disney World.

“Whattaya think the trust fund is for, Wellsy? Now, get over here, and let me provide something else for you.”

I crawl into bed laughing. I’m always laughing with Garrett, and I think that, even without the trust fund, even if Garrett doesn’t make it in professional hockey or I don’t make it in music, as long as we go to bed laughing more nights than we don’t, that’s providing everything I need.

And while I’m thinking about the life I want to build with this man beside me, he’s clearly got more immediate plans.

“It’s orgasms that I’m providing, by the way.” His tone is light, but his fingers are already working their way under the hem of my shirt, dancing at the waistband of my leggings like he’s waiting for permission.

I give it, just like I give him everything.

“Well I was hoping for as much.”

I still shiver every time Garrett takes my shirt off, every time his fingers skim along the cups of my bra and leave my nipples tingling. And I relish undressing him just as much; I’m just not as patient. I scramble for the hem of his Briar Hockey t-shirt and rake it over his head.

And then I stop.

Unfortunately, I’m used to seeing Garrett beat up. I even saw him take the cross-check from Braxton tonight. But I wasn’t ready to see the result of that hit already blooming across his rib cage.

It’s only been a few hours, but there’s already a bruise spanning the (considerable) width of Garrett’s chest. I swear to God it even looks like the outline of Braxton’s hockey stick.

“G,” I inhale.

He shrugs from underneath me. “It feels worse than it looks.”

And I know it’ll only look worse over the next few days. “Not comforting, dude. You sure you didn’t crack a rib?”

“AT says I should take it easy the next few days. Might need to wrap it for the next series. But I’m good, Wellsy.”

I ignore the fact that he winces when he says it.

“Good, but just in case that doesn’t work, maybe I can help.”

“You wanna play doctor, Wellsy? I didn’t know you were into roleplay, but we could definitely get you a sexy nurse get up, and then—”

I kiss him to shut him up, because we will not be revisiting that fantasy.

Probably.

“Let me kiss it better,” I whisper.

He nods, and I drop my head to the waistband of his sweatpants. I can feel his dick hardening through the layers of fabric and give it a quick kiss. I’ll be back for that.

Upon closer look, Garrett is covered in bruises. By now, I don’t think there’s a body part I haven’t seen bruised. The new one across his chest, a purpling one on his stomach from a blocked shot he took at practice this week, an old yellow one just under the flames on his bicep. Garrett’s physical in every aspect of his life, and I usually benefit from it, but the other team usually doesn’t. Still, seeing him laid out underneath me looking like a patchwork quilt of purples, reds, and yellows gives me a new appreciation for what he puts his body through every day.

I kiss each bruise, new and old, careful to put less pressure on the one on his chest.

“S’good, Wellsy,” Garrett murmurs.

“It doesn’t hurt?”

“S’a good hurt.”

I smile against his skin and work my lips up to his neck, settling them right above his collar bone. He moans, and it’s a few seconds before he can find words.

“No bruises there,” he pants. “Neck guard.”

“And I am so—” kiss “—fucking—” kiss “—grateful—” kiss “—that you wear a neck guard.” I let my teeth graze the sensitive skin of his throat and feel him shiver underneath me. “But maybe a couple bruises would be okay.” By way of explanation, I proceed to suck a sizable hickey on his collar bone. His t-shirts will cover it most of the time, but I know the guys will see it in the locker room, and I kind of like knowing that they’ll know he’s getting laid.

Frequently.

By me.

“You should change your major, Wellsy,” Garrett whispers.

“Mhmm?” I hum against his neck, making him shiver.

“Yeah, pre-med.”

I mouth a lazy line of kisses across his shoulder and down his shoulder. There’s another bruise, this one a sickly shade of green-brown, just above his elbow. I kiss it. “It’s helping?”

“That or the second dose of ibuprofen I took is starting to kick in,” he huffs. “But I think it’s you, baby.”

I preen at the praise and gingerly shift my weight to rest on his thighs. His hands come up to twine his fingers with mine. “Good,” I smile. “I promise I’ll be around to kiss your bruises for a long time.”

You’d think the man had just won the lottery with the grin he gives me. And, shit, maybe he feels like he has. I know I do.

“I should get hurt more often if this is what it gets me.”

I know he means it as a joke, so I don’t let myself dwell on how horrified that statement makes me feel. Instead, I just laugh it off.

“Absolutely not.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Chapter 2: Logan & Grace

Notes:

A little Logan and Grace piece for you all now! I always feel bad for the families of players when they get hurt, because I imagine that they feel really helpless when it happens, so that's how I wanted to frame this scene. But, obviously, it's me, so Logan had to be okay in the end. Just a little exhausted.

I don’t like Logan returning home after a particularly tough game and crawling into our bed, bruised and sore and too exhausted to even cuddle –Grace, The Legacy Ch. 3

*** *** *** *** ***

 

Grace

The good news is that the Bruins played at home this weekend.

The bad news is that I missed the game because of work.

The redeeming news (I thought) was that I’d be waiting for Logan—in bed—when he got home.

The worst news is that I turned the TV on just in time to see a Ducks player’s shoulder ram into my husband’s head.

Hockey’s an ugly, brutal sport 95% of the time, but Logan’s a big guy; he’s tough. On top of that, he’s what they call an enforcer. His job is to give big hits and to take them. And that’s why I hate his job sometimes.

But, in this moment, I think I hate #47 more. Hampus Lindholm, according to a quick Google search. He’s on my shit list now. I never forget a guy who lays a dirty hit on Logan (or Garrett for that matter). We’ve been rewatching Game of Thrones before the final season airs, and I’m like Arya listing the names of everyone she’s going to kill. Well, welcome to my kill list, Lindholm.

Logan usually gets right up after a hit like he’s Superman or something, so when the puck is on the opposite side of the ice and Logan’s still down, I’m officially worried. I’m pulling my boots on to drive to the Garden myself when the announcers’ commentary grabs my attention: “John Logan is up and skating off the ice under his own power.”

“But he’s bypassing the bench and headed straight for the locker.”

“After that high hit from Lindholm, I imagine they’ll be checking him out for a concussion, Andy.”

“As they should, Jack. I can’t believe there wasn’t a penalty on that hit.”

Me neither, Andy.

“With only five minutes left in the third period, I doubt we’ll see Logan back tonight, but we certainly hope he’s not concussed and can join the team on their road series next week.”

Jack and Andy go back to calling the game, but their comments about John being concussed just confirm that I need to get to the arena. They won’t let me back in the locker room, but they can’t stop me from hovering just outside of it so I’m the first one to get an update.

I’ve got my hand on the doorknob when I get a text from Hannah.

     Hannah Wells: Saw Logan in the tunnel. He said – direct quote – “Don’t let Grace come down here. I’m FINE.”

     Grace (Ivers) Logan: I saw that hit. I doubt he’s all-caps “fine.”

     Hannah Wells: Right? That was such a dirty hit! To the head, too! Don’t worry. Marchy’s got his number and isn’t going to let him get away with it.

That almost makes me smile, even in my agitated state. Brad Marchand is not someone you want to be mad at you. The man can hold an impressively long grudge. I hope he never leaves Boston.

     Hannah Wells: Oh, Logan also wanted me to tell you that he says “lub.” Or maybe “love.” Could have been “luck,” I guess. I don’t know, because it was loud and the AT didn’t let him talk to me for long. But it seemed important.

     Hannah Wells: Is this another Logan acronym?

     Hannah Wells: Oh God did I just deliver some weird sex message?

     Grace (Ivers) Logan:  Haha yes it’s an acronym, but no it’s not a weird sex one.

Hannah heard right. I’m sure he told her “LUB,” which is one of our shorthands. It means “love you big.” Except, Logan never types out the words, so when he texts it, it’s “luv u big,” which he then started shortening to just “LUB.” Sometimes I wonder if he even remembers all the acronyms he comes up with or if he just sends them hoping the other person will remember or that everyone will just pretend that they know.

      Grace (Ivers) Logan: Thank you for being our personal messenger pigeon, Han. <3

      Grace (Ivers) Logan: I still think I should come down, though. If John’s concussed, he won’t be able to drive. 

      Hannah Wells: Garrett can bring him home if he needs it. Literally any of the guys would. But do what’s going to make you feel better.

      Grace (Ivers) Logan: Ugh you’re right. I just hate not being able to control this.

      Hannah Wells: Preach!

      Grace (Ivers) Logan: Thank you for checking on him, Han. Love you.

      Hannah Wells: Love you, too! Logan’s tough. He’ll be back to his usual self soon.

With Hannah and Logan’s messages bouncing around my head, I sit back down on the couch to watch the rest of the game. But I check my phone every 30 seconds in case I’ve missed a call or text from Logan. I won’t, but my anxiety doesn’t know what else to do.

Brad Marchand lays a delicious open ice hit on Lindholm.

The period ends.

The Bruins win.

Nothing from Logan.

They interview the standout players. Garrett, of course. The team captain, Zdeno Chára. And Charlie McAvoy. He and Logan got called up from Providence together.

Nothing from Logan.

It’s a few minutes into the post-game show that I’m not listening to, and I decide to take things into my own hands.

I text Garrett.

      Grace (Ivers) Logan: Tell him to call me.

I wait a few seconds and then add

      Grace (Ivers) Logan: PS good game!

When my phone rings 10 minutes later, I don’t even look at the caller ID before answering.

“Areyouokay?” The words rush out.

“I’m okay, baby. No concussion. Just a nasty headache.”

Relief floods my body. “Oh my God. That’s great news! Johnny, I was so worried. I had just  gotten home and turned the game on, and I saw you take that hit, and it looked so bad. And then you went down and the camera panned away, but when came back, you were still on the ice, and they hadn’t stopped the play yet, and when they finally did, you still didn’t get up—I was afraid you were really hurt.”

If Logan notices my rambling, he doesn’t say anything. Bless him.

“It looked worse than it felt, but not by much,” he admits. “Heard Marchy got that sonuvabitch back, though. Man, I love that guy.”

I dare to let myself smile. “Don’t let the press hear you say that. It’ll ruin their narrative that you and Garrett have a secret love affair going on.”

“Nah,” Logan chuckles. “They’ll just say that we’ve let Marchy into our love nest. Some throuple shit.”

“Speaking of love nests—”

“Gracie, do not talk about love nests when I’m literally looking at Garrett’s bare ass—” he yells at, I assume, Garrett’s aforementioned bare ass.

“Then stop looking at it, Johnny, because I was talking about our love nest. As in, when are you going to be home and in bed so I can kiss you better?”

Logan’s voice drops, and I can hear the want in his voice tinged with exhaustion. “Sooner if you keep talking like that.”

 

As soon as Logan walks through the front door, I know any extra curricular fun times are off the table. Despite his jokes on the phone, he looks bad. I mean, he’s still the hottest man I’ve ever seen, but the fact that he can barely pick his feet up off the floor isn’t doing him any favors. Still, when he gets within arm’s reach, he pulls me into him, and I let myself relax for the first time in hours.

He's mostly okay, and I’ll take that.

I feel Logan relax, too, and I know that tonight has taken a bigger toll on him than he’s admitting.

“LUB,” I mumbled into his chest, planting a kiss on the hard plane of his pec. Some other time, I’ll give him more than a chaste kiss. But not right now.

Logan kisses the top of my head, but he’s too tired to even lift his head up afterward, and his response of “LUB, too, Gracie,” gets muffled by my hair. But the vibrations of his voice on my scalp sends shivers down the back of my neck, like I can literally feel how big his love is.

“If he wasn’t so exhausted, Logan would say that he has another big thing that can show his love for me.”

I can’t help it. I scoff at my own dirty mind. I blame Logan.

“Something about my undying love for you, funny, Gracie?” Logan mutters above me.

I pull back in his arms and smile up at him. Logan is all dark hair and square jaw and broad shoulders, and I’m so in love with him it physically hurts sometimes.

“No, babe. But c’mon. Let’s go to bed.”

Logan manages to quirk an eyebrow.

“Just bed,” I say.

He actually pouts. “You promised you’d kiss it better.”

“Later, Johnny. You can’t even keep your eyes open, and I promise I’ll be around to kiss your bruises for a long time.”

“What about a quickie?”

“John.”

“Fine. Blowjob?”

I sigh to hide my smile. “I think that could be arranged.”

“Then let’s go the fuck to bed!” He grins for the first time since he got home.

I love that this is my life.

I love it big.

Notes:

Like I said, I might add one-shots of other couples at some point, but there are no plans for those chapters as of right now.
Thank you for reading these ones, though! I hope you liked them!

Notes:

It's a good thing Garrett is pretty and talented, because I don't think Hannah finished her essay...

Other ideas? Let me know! And thank you for reading!!