[minminn22]

Mr. Cat | Garrett Graham

Garrett Graham x F!reader | word count: 2.4k

Tropes: second chance romance, unexpected/secret pregnancy, hurt/comfort

Off Campus Masterlist

NOTE: 2nd part of ⤷ Oh, Baby ˎˊ˗

The roar of the gymnasium, the shrieking whistles, the heavy thud of a stray kickball, the collective hum of dozens of parents, snapped back into focus like a sudden slap to the face.

You couldn’t breathe. As he walked toward you, everything else in the gym seemed to disappear from his view. Every step he took across the polished wood floor felt like a countdown.

Your first instinct was to grab Lily’s hand and run. You could make it to the double doors, throw her into her car seat, and drive until Hastings was nothing but a speck in your rearview mirror.

But Lily was already moving.

"Look, Mommy! He has stickers!" Lily chirped, entirely oblivious to the ground opening up beneath her mother's feet. She pointed a tiny, denim clad arm directly at Garrett as he stepped into the small circle space by the kindergarten teacher’s desk.

"Lily, sweetie, we have to go find your cubby," your voice came out breathless, tight, and completely unconvincing. You forced your feet to move, stepping into the space just as Garrett arrived.

Up close, the reality of him hit you like a wave. He smelled the same, something sharp and clean, mixed with the faint trace of old leather, but the boyish arrogance was completely gone. His eyes, once so bright and teasing, were dark and swimming with shock. He was looking at Lily, then up at you, his jaw tight as he actively fought to keep his composure in a room full of townspeople.

"Hi there," Garrett said. His voice came out rough enough that he had to clear his throat before trying again. He forced a polite, tight smile for the kindergarten teacher, though his eyes never truly left Lily's face. "I'm... I'm Garrett. I run the youth rec leagues here."

The teacher smiled warmly. "Oh, wonderful! Garrett, this is Lily Y/L/N. It's her very first day."

"Lily," Garrett repeated, the name tasting heavy and foreign yet entirely right on his tongue. He slowly lowered himself down to one knee, bringing himself eye level with the little girl. His hands trembled where they rested on his knees. "It's... it's really nice to meet you, Lily."

Lily beamed, entirely captivated by the shiny gold sticker sheet he was holding. She took a step closer to him, her light up sneakers clicking against the floor. "I like your shirt. It looks like a policeman shirt."

Garrett let out a breathless, wet laugh, his chest heaving as he stared into her wide eyes. He reached out, his fingers hovering for a fraction of a second before he gently pressed a star shaped sticker onto the front of her denim jacket. "It is just a volunteer shirt, Lily. But thank you."

He looked up then, his gaze rising from the little girl to lock onto you. The warmth in his eyes vanished. He looked at you instead, searching your face for something, an explanation, a denial, anything that made sense of what he was seeing.

"Do you like sports, Lily?" Garrett asked, his eyes remaining fixed entirely on your face. His voice carried a heavy, double meaning that went completely over the teacher's head but pierced right through you. "Do you like to run fast?"

"I can run super fast," Lily bragged, bouncing on her toes. "Mommy says I have too much energy."

"Is that so?" Garrett murmured, his jaw flexing. He slowly stood to his full height, and suddenly there wasn't nearly enough room between you. He kept his hands tucked into his pockets, a clear effort to keep them from shaking. "Your mommy sounds like she has her hands full."

"We should go, Lily," you managed to say, your voice barely louder than a whisper. The noise around you blurred into something distant. "The teacher needs to take everyone to the classroom now."

The kindergarten teacher clapped her hands together, calling out to the remaining parents and children in the corner. "Alright, penguins! Time to line up by the door! Parents, this is where we say our quick goodbyes so we can start our morning adventure."

Lily did not hesitate. She turned and hugged your knees tightly, giving you a quick, sticky kiss on the cheek before running over to the neat line forming by the exit. She did not look back, completely ready to conquer her first day.

You stood frozen as the line of children filed out into the hallway, leaving the gymnasium suddenly feeling massive and terrifyingly quiet.

You turned on your heel to sprint for the main exit, but Garrett was already moving, his heavy footsteps echoing right behind you.

The hallway blurred around you as you hurried toward the heavy glass doors, your purse strap slipping off your shoulder. 

"Wait."

The word was not loud, but it had the authority of a command.

You kept walking, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. "Garrett, please. I have to get to work."

A hand wrapped gently but firmly around your forearm, stopping your momentum. The warmth of his hand seeped through your sleeve. He did not pull you, but the sheer weight of his presence forced you to turn around.

When you looked up, Garrett looked completely undone. The composed volunteer from the gym was gone. His eyes were red at the rims, confusion twisting his features.

"Five years," Garrett whispered, his grip loosening on your arm until his hand just hovered there, trembling. "You chose Hastings. You came to a town forty minutes away from the city. Why here?"

"Because it was quiet," you said, your voice breaking as the tears you had been holding back finally slipped down your cheeks. "Because nobody knew me here."

Looking at him now, the hallway disappeared.

Suddenly it was June again. Graduation music drifted through the open doors. His father's voice carried from somewhere down the hall, talking about scouts, training camp, the draft. Garrett had been trying to listen to both conversations at once, and you had known, even before the fight started, that neither of you was going to walk away happy. It hadn't been one explosive mistake that ended you. It had been months of trying to fit two futures together that no longer matched. The argument had only been the final crack. Raised voices. Tears. A slammed door. Then silence. The kind that settled between two people who still loved each other but no longer knew how to stay. You hadn't walked away because you stopped loving him. You had walked away because, for one terrible night, letting go had seemed kinder than asking him to choose. But Garrett didn't know what happened two weeks later.

"You didn't look for me," Garrett said, his voice dropping to a whisper, his eyes searching yours. "After that night... after everything we said to each other, I thought we were just letting go. I thought we were leaving the wreckage behind. But you knew."

"I found out right after I moved into my apartment here," you confessed, a sob catching in your throat. "Garrett, we had just spent hours shouting about how impossible our lives were going to be. You had the draft. You had scouts watching your every move, and your dad counting down the seconds until you made it to the pros. I was terrified. We had already parted ways, and I didn't want to be the reason you looked back and felt trapped by a life you didn't choose."

"I would have come back," he said instantly. He took another step, closing the distance between you until you could feel the warmth radiating from him. "If I had known, the draft wouldn't have mattered. The fight wouldn't have mattered. I would have turned right around and walked away from everything if you had just given me the choice. You did not give me a choice."

The hallway fell silent. Neither of you moved.

Five years settled between you all at once. Five birthdays. Five years of scraped knees, bedtime stories, and school pictures Garrett had never known existed.

You dropped your gaze to the scuffed linoleum floor, unable to bear the look on his face any longer.

"What happens now?" you whispered.

Garrett didn't answer immediately.

He looked toward the glass doors leading outside, then back down the hallway where Lily's classroom had disappeared only minutes earlier. His chest rose with one slow breath before he looked back at you.

When he spoke, his voice was quieter than you'd ever heard it.

"I'm not going back to the city today." Your eyes lifted to his.

"I'm finishing my shift at the rec table," he continued. "And at three o'clock..."

He swallowed.

"...I'll be sitting on that bench outside."

His eyes never left yours.

"I don't expect you to have everything figured out by then." He paused. "Hell, I don't either."

The corner of his mouth lifted into a tired, almost disbelieving smile.

"But I'd like the chance to meet my daughter."

The words cracked something open inside you. Not because they were angry. Not because they demanded anything.

Because they were so heartbreakingly simple.

He wasn't asking five years back. He was asking for three o'clock.

You closed your eyes for a second before giving a small nod.

"I'll bring her."

Garrett's shoulders sagged with a relief so quiet it almost hurt to look at.

"Thank you."

For a long second, neither of you knew what came after that.

Then Garrett stepped back.

"I'll see you this afternoon."

You watched him disappear through the gym doors, his shoulders a little straighter than before. The exit stood only a few feet away, but you found yourself staring after him instead.

The life you'd built in Hastings wasn't hidden anymore.

And for the first time in five years you weren't sure you wanted it to be.

Three o'clock came far too quickly.

Garrett was already sitting on the weathered wooden bench outside the front entrance when the final bell rang. He'd been there for nearly twenty minutes, elbows resting on his knees, his hands clasped together tightly enough that his knuckles had gone pale.

Every time the doors opened, another wave of children poured outside. Some sprinted toward waiting parents. Others dragged oversized backpacks behind them, already talking a mile a minute about finger painting and recess.

Garrett watched every single one.

He wondered what Lily had been like on her first day of preschool.

Whether she'd cried when you left.

Whether she'd made friends easily.

Whether she'd always talked with her hands the way she had this morning.

Five years.

Five years of little moments that nobody could ever give back.

The doors opened again. This time, you stepped outside first. Your eyes found him immediately. For a second, neither of you moved. Then you walked over slowly, stopping a few feet away.

"She takes forever packing up," you said quietly.

Garrett let out the smallest huff of laughter.

"Yeah?"

You nodded.

"She always wants to make sure every crayon makes it back into the box." A tiny smile tugged at your mouth before disappearing again. "She says they get lonely."

Garrett smiled despite himself.

"That..." He swallowed. "That sounds like you." You looked at him.

"No," you said softly.

"It sounds like you."

The words hit him harder than he expected. You glanced back toward the school doors.

"She also hates peanut butter."

He blinked.

"What?"

"Everyone assumes kids like peanut butter." You shrugged lightly. "She won't touch it. Said, she might meet a friend that gets sick because of it."

Garrett listened carefully. As though each tiny fact was something precious.

"She sleeps with a turtle night light."

Another pause.

"She can't whistle."

His eyes stayed on yours. You weren't just making conversation. You were quietly handing him five years he'd never gotten to live.

"I don't know why I'm telling you all this," you admitted with a shaky laugh.

"I do," Garrett said. Your eyes lifted to his.

"Because you're trying to catch me up."

Neither of you noticed the school doors opening again until a familiar little voice echoed across the sidewalk.

"Mommy!"

Lily came barreling outside with her backpack bouncing wildly behind her. She launched herself toward you before stopping short the moment she spotted Garrett.

"The sticker guy!"

Garrett stood so quickly the bench scraped against the concrete.

"Hi, Lily."

She smiled at him like seeing him twice in one day was the most natural thing in the world.

"I finished my cat."

"You did?"

She nodded enthusiastically before wrestling a slightly crumpled piece of paper out of her backpack.

"I made him orange."

Garrett accepted the drawing with both hands. The cat had one ear bigger than the other. Its whiskers were purple, and its tail somehow curved through its own body.

Across the top, written in uneven kindergarten letters, was:

MR. CAT

Garrett stared at it. Not because of the drawing. Because it was the first thing his daughter had ever given him. His vision blurred.

"It's perfect," he whispered.

"I know," Lily said proudly.

You laughed. It was the first laugh Garrett had heard from you that sounded like the girl he'd fallen in love with. Lily slipped her little hand into his without thinking twice.

"Come on."

Garrett looked down.

"Where are we going?"

"To Mommy's car."

She said it like the answer should have been obvious.

"You didn't see my turtle backpack."

Garrett looked up at you. You held his gaze for a long moment. Then, almost too quietly to hear.

"You can walk us."

Relief washed across his face so quickly it almost hurt to witness. He tightened his fingers around Lily's hand just enough for her to feel it.

"I'd like that."

The three of you started across the parking lot together. Lily filled the silence all by herself, talking about glitter glue, recess, and how Mrs. Simmons let everyone pick their own reading rug.

Garrett listened to every word.

Not because the stories were extraordinary. Because he'd waited five years to hear them. You walked beside them, watching Lily chatter happily between the two of you.

Nothing had changed.

There were still difficult conversations ahead. Years that couldn't be reclaimed. Trust that would have to be rebuilt one day at a time.

But as Garrett laughed at something Lily said and she immediately reached for his hand again, you realized something you hadn't let yourself believe was possible.

Maybe moving forward didn't have to mean leaving the past behind.

Maybe it just meant finally letting someone walk beside you through it.

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(NOTE: i do overall fandom master taglists, not separate ones for individual series/fics! Feel free to send me a message if you'd want to be added or removed)

[wh1msymaddy]

emergency contact | dean di laurentis

a/n: so sorry for taking a couple of days to upload this, i wanted to make sure it was perfect!! this is my longest project to date and i'm so proud of it i love them sm. 💗.

pairing: dean di laurentis x childhoodbsf!reader

w/c: 5.2k (😭)

warnings: swearing, mentions of trauma (not detailed), drinking, alcohol consumption, hospital setting, injuries, hurt/comfort

summary: in which an on-ice accident brings fifteen years of hidden feelings to light in a boston hospital room

Hockey was a dangerous sport. Dean knew that, and he still chose to play. He skated his way through elementary school, high school and now college. 

Most people believed his trips outside at night were to the rink, that hockey was what calmed him down when he couldn’t sleep, or when he had too much on his mind and the world felt too loud. But hockey wasn’t what served that purpose, it was you. 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

15 years ago

You and Dean met at age seven, in New York city. Both of your families had penthouses in the same building, which caused you to run into each other often.

Your friendship bloomed during a Christmas dinner that same year. Mother had instructed you to buy a lengthy list of products at the bodega next to the complex, and Dean’s mother had done the same. 

The two of you bumped into each other and got the grocery lists mixed up, causing you to buy the wrong ingredients for your families. When your mother realized what had happened, she went to Dean’s family flat in hopes of sorting things out. 

Instead of simply exchanging the products and leaving, Dean’s mother and her decided to host the dinner together, immediately clicking. That night, they both spent their time chatting while you two snuck out of the room, and went someplace else. 

“How many drinks in do you think they are?” he asked you, moving the horse on the board and killing one of your bishops. 

“I’d say about halfway through the second bottle, knowing my mother,” you answered, a huff coming out of both of your mouths. 

“Check,” he announced. 

“Not so fast, Di Laurentis,” you countered, bringing your queen to trap his king to the edge of the board. “Checkmate.” 

He saw it, your king would deliver the final blow, and he’d lost. For the first time, Dean Di Laurentis had been beaten by someone at chess. 

Despite being annoyed at himself for not predicting your move, he was glad to see your mouth shape into a grin, even if you bragged about the win for the following week. 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

7 years ago

After that night, you and Dean declared that you were to be friends. Not just friends– best friends. So, even as the years passed, you two remained constants in each other’s lives. He told you everything, and you did the same. 

New York was your city, the space where you could just be the two of you. No outside pressure, no drama, and no complications. Christmases evolved into spring breaks and summer breaks as soon as you two had the power to decide where you wanted to go, which was around the start of high school, due to the lack of attention you received from your parents. 

Whenever people wondered if distance put a strain on your relationship, you both laughed. One of the best parts of being reckless teenagers was that you often took trains to see each other, stealing the apartment keys from your parents and spending weekends in the flats, switching penthouses every night. 

“Mine or yours tonight?” Dean asked you, putting the tray of blueberry muffin batter in the oven’s middle rack. 

“We did yesterday here, so switching it up would be nice, don’t you think? Plus, I think my mom left some of her good liquor over there,” you giggled, raising your brows and smiling. 

“Would you look at that? Her first good act of the decade,” he laughed.

“Tell me about it.” 

“I’ll bring our bags over there then. Should we go buy chips from the bodega or something?” he inquired, after opening the snack cabinet and seeing there weren’t any left. 

“Sure, but why don’t we go on a dinner picnic to prospect park or something, that’d be cool,” you suggested, putting the remaining dirty baking dishes in the dishwasher. 

“You are a genius, pretty girl, let’s go,” he said, grinning and placing a kiss to the top of your head.

“The muffins, idiot!” 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

This fall

Dean called you after every important thing in his life, because you were the most important person in it. Even if you two fought, which you didn’t do very often, you found your way back to each other, back to New York. 

Ever since you started college, you two saw each other often. With you studying at Harvard and him studying at Briar, the distance that separated you was smaller. 

That was why you’d showed up to every single game the Hawks played since the start of college. The boys often wondered who that girl in the opposing team’s stand wearing a Di Laurentis jersey that looked like it was years old was. They knew of you, but they’d never actually met you.

God, Dean never shut his mouth up when it came to you. 

“Y’know, G, she would have never mixed my white laundry with my colors,” Dean said, observing the disaster Garrett had created. 

“You will never shut up about her, won’t you?” Garrett asked him, and Dean shook his head.

“How do we know she’s even real? You talk about her like she’s an angel who fell from the sky,” Logan added.

Beau was quick to offer a response. “Oh, she’s very real. If you met her, you would think the same thing. Except Dean’s reaction is exaggerated because he's whipped.”

“See, that’s funny, because she’s my best friend,” Dean said, denying the last thing Beau said. 

“These things happen in Hannah’s romance books all the time, dude,” Garrett pointed out and all of the other boys started laughing at him. 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

5 years ago

“My mom wants us to move to this really big but ugly house in Winchester, which is unfortunately very far away from where we live now, as you may have noticed,” you told Dean, turning around on the king bed to face him, the New York skyline illuminating your face.

“You don’t seem sad at all,” he mentioned, facing you as well.

“That’s because Winchester is way closer to the city, and closer to Connecticut, than where we are now. And that’s what matters,” you said.

“Does this mean we can make New York a monthly thing or?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“This means we can come every two weeks,” you said, a big grin plastered on your face. 

Dean pulled you close to him on the king bed and, in an attempt to hug you, ended up rolling both of you off the bed.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Present day

Finals week had been eating you alive. It was always bad, but this semester had been especially tough, due to your classes being graduate-level electives. 

You told Dean that you wouldn’t be able to attend the week’s game through FaceTime, and he wasn’t even mad. Dean could sometimes act very immature-like, but that never happened with you. He understood you needed to prioritize your studies. Plus, you’d been to every single game since Freshman year. 

That particular game was against an especially aggressive team, but the Hawks knew what to do. They had practiced drills to evade certain attacks over and over again, and they were more than prepared. Or so they thought. 

The opponents had turned out to be even worse than the team had expected, throwing illegal punches left and right, but Dean managed to stay away from the ones he deemed to be the most violent for the better part of the game. 

But when he saw a clear goal opportunity, he took it. Because he was Dean goddamn Di Laurentis, and he wasn’t scared of a couple state university players who had to throw everyone on the floor just to gain control of the puck. 

Skating quickly through the ice, Dean was too focused on what was ahead that he missed the player coming up behind him. 

Suddenly, he was on the floor, his ears ringing and his eyes unable to open. 

“Call her,” he said, unaware of the fact that nobody could hear his whispers.

When everything went to black, the only thing on his mind was you. 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

13 years ago

“Dean, you’re going to get yourself killed!” you yelled at him as he skated through Wollman rink with astounding speed. 

“I got it, pretty girl!” he yelled back from the rink, grinning at you. 

After being bribed with hot cocoa, you agreed to go with Dean to the ice rink so he could practice his skating. He’d become obsessed about hockey, and even though he’d always loved the sport, you’d never seen him this dedicated. 

“If you’ve got it, push harder, come on! We don’t want you slacking, Di Laurentis,” you joked, moving your hand in circles. 

“On it,” he echoed, speeding over to where you were from the other side. 

“Y’know, it wouldn’t hurt you to try,” he said, crossing his arms.

“Just so you can check me into the boards and write it off as ‘practice’? No thank you, I’ve learned my lesson.”

“That was one time!” 

“Doesn’t mean it didn’t happen!”

“I’ll convert you one day, you’ll see,” he determined, making you roll your eyes sarcastically. 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Present day

The call came in at seven pm. You wondered why the local Boston hospital was calling you, but picked up nonetheless.

“Hello ma’am, this is Dr. Abbott, we have you listed as Dean Di Laurentis’ emergency contact. Is this information correct?” the doctor asked, and your heart sank.

Dean. The hospital. A game. 

“Yes, that’s right,” you responded, standing up from your chair and going to fetch one of your coats. 

“We regret to inform you that we have Dean over in our emergency department”

A pit formed in your stomach. The emergency department. 

“He has been seriously injured and we request your assistance to the hospital to discuss things further”

“Is he awake?” you inquired, barely able to hold tears back.

“Not at the moment, I’m afraid,” said the doctor.

“’ll be there in thirty minutes”

After hanging up, you grabbed your keys and raced outside the house. The clothes you were wearing didn’t even cross your mind, for it was far too busy shifting through the possible injuries that could land Dean in the ER. 

Running down the stairs of your apartment building, another name appeared on your screen, calling you. 

Beau beep 🌾

You slid your finger through the cold screen, answering the call as fast as you could. Beau’s face popped up on the screen, and you felt a tiny sense of relief once you saw he was already in the hospital. 

“I assume they’ve called you already,” he said when he noticed that the oversized hockey jersey you were wearing, which was obviously Dean’s, sat under a big coat. 

“Yeah, they have. Who’s there already?” you wondered, finally reaching the lobby. 

Beau answered, but all sound felt muffled as you ran towards your car, rushing to get inside and be on your way to the hospital. 

Memories flooded your brain as you pressed your body to the car seat, which only made you want to get to Dean more. 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

6 years ago

It was the last game of sophomore year, and you had taken a three and a half hour train to surprise Dean inside of the rink. Suited up in your Di Laurentis jersey, you waited for twenty more minutes until the players came into the ice. 

As soon as he spotted you leaning next to the box, he dropped his stick and ran to hug you, ignoring the comments he got from his coach and teammates. 

“What are you doing here, pretty girl?” he asked, a wide smile crowding his face. 

“I wanted to surprise you today. You kept mentioning how excited you were for this game, and I decided to buy a train ticket over,” you replied, mirroring his own smile. 

“Does your mom know you’re here?” his tone shifted, not concerned, just curious.

“We’ve been approved for a three day sleepover,” you reassured. 

“Di Laurentis, get into the rink!” his coach yelled, beckoning him inside. 

“Go get ‘em, Dean,” you told him, tapping the spot in his jersey that was over his heart. 

The game was going very well, Dean’s team leading by five goals. The crowd was cheering like crazy, screams echoing throughout the rink. Then came gasps, followed by a thick wave of silence. 

Dean had been knocked onto the floor with an insane amount of force, leaving him unresponsive. 

You ran from your spot in the stands to where they were carrying him out of the rink faster than the speed of light, pushing people off your way if you needed to. 

“Excuse me, young lady, you can’t be here. We’re escorting him to the hospital,” said the team medic. 

“I’m family,” you stated, standing your ground. 

After a moment of hesitation, the medic nodded and allowed you to go with the rest of the personnel. They placed Dean on a gurney inside an ambulance, and you interlocked your fingers with his during the journey to the hospital. 

You were terrified. 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Present day

The feeling of terror inside you wasn’t any different this time. A cloud of dread rested above you on your way to the hospital, during which you’d remained on call with Beau. 

“What happened?” you asked him once your mind was as clear as it would get. 

“He lost consciousness after getting checked into the boards. The doc said he had a pretty severe concussion and the usual hockey injuries, but they put him into observation because his breathing was odd” Beau replied, trying to keep his tone as steady as possible to alarm you as little as he could. 

You didn’t know what to say. You just kept driving, your eyes on the road, your mind on Dean. 

“You know he’ll go on and on about how you’re his lucky charm and that’s the reason why he got hurt, right?” Beau joked, getting a small laugh out of you. 

“I can already hear him say it,” you said, the corners of your mouth turning up. 

Parking in the hospital lot took less time than expected, so you headed out of the car with shaky hands and stood in front of the automated doors of the ER, which allowed you to enter. 

Bright LED lights blazed into your eyes, and the sharp smell of sterile cleaning products, iodine and latex gloves penetrated your nostrils. Nurses rushed up and down the hallways, their hands busy at all times. The place was filled with despair and hope overlapping with one another, infinite possibilities streaming out of every patient.

The woman at reception shot you a pitiful look before setting the mug on her hand down and focusing her full attention onto you. 

“Who are you here for, sweetheart?” she kindly asked, turning to type your response into the database.

“Di Laurentis, Dean,” you responded, fiddling with the charmed bracelet on your right hand. 

“He’s in the observation unit at the end of the hall. There’s a crowd of people outside, so you’ll see it,” she remarked, making you huff. 

Despite never having met them, you had a pretty good idea of who the people may be. Dean had told you all about his friends from Briar. Garrett, Logan, Tucker, Hannah and Allie. 

So, you had a pretty good idea of which group they were when you spotted them. Beau was also there with them, and his expression fully shifted when he saw you. Relief spread through his features, and he came over to give you a hug. 

“They wouldn’t let us see him because we’re too many and not his–” 

“Emergency contacts,” you finished the sentence for him, hugging him back. 

Handing your coat over to him, you looked for the nearest nurse to notify her of your appearance and ask her to let you into the room. 

“Is that..?” Logan asked Beau, raising his eyebrows. 

“Yeah, she is,” Beau responded, sitting down on a chair. 

“That isn’t Dean’s Briar Hockey jersey,” Hannah pointed out, observing the details of the embroidered 66 on your back. 

“It was his senior night jersey, Dean gave it to her so he could spot her at games in college,” Beau explained, mentally preparing himself to answer the flood of questions that he was sure would come. 

Before any of them could ask anything else, you came back with a nurse, room keys in hand. 

“Nice to meet you all, I’ve heard a lot about you. I’ll be right back,” you stated in a poor attempt to hide the shaky tone in your voice. 

All of the fear slowly melted away when you saw Dean laid down on the hospital bed, and you let out a breath you didn’t even realise you were holding. 

You stepped into the room and immediately sat on the chair next to his bed, lacing his uninjured fingers with yours. 

Suddenly, a rough, gravelly voice laced with painkillers spoke for the first time. “I know I’m handsome, but your gaze will burn through my face if you keep staring at me like that”

A bruise was starting to form on his jaw, and his hair was messy. His eyes, red from the painkillers the medical staff had given him, were entirely focused on you. 

“You idiot. You absolute, utter, stubborn idiot!” you exclaimed, your voice catching in your throat as you heard his own. You knew you couldn’t stay mad at him for long, you’d never been able to. 

Despite your tone, he simply smiled, his thumb tracing patterns on the back of your hand. The asshole was soothing you while he was getting lectured. 

“Missed you in the stands today. I didn’t have anyone to look at after scoring, it was kind of pointless,” he said, the corners of his lip tugging at his stitches, and he winced slightly at the feeling. 

“Do not joke right now, Di Laurentis. A doctor and Beau called me from the hospital–” your voice broke, tears threatening to spill from your eyes, “they said you got checked, hard, and you weren’t responding. They said your breathing was off.”

“Hey,” he squeezed your hand and pulled on your sleeve, waiting for you to get closer to him. “C’mere”

Once you moved the chair as close to the hospital bed as you could, Dean’s good hand came up to wipe one of the slow tears that had come out of your eyes. 

“I’m okay, pretty girl,” he reassured, interlocking his fingers with yours again. His fingers grazed your knuckles, softer than usual. “I’m here, I’m okay” 

Despite being in pain, Dean’s only preoccupation was to make the tears in your face disappear, because if he was asked to name the thing that he disliked most in the world, his answer would be seeing you hurt. 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

2 years ago

The doorbell in Dean’s New York apartment rang, and Dean raced downstairs, expecting to encounter one of the packages he’d ordered. However, when he opened the door, he saw you. 

Clothes soaked, sobs shutting the sound of heavy rain out from the apartment. Without asking, he pulled you flush to him. 

“You’re okay. You’re with me,” his voice and warmth grounded you, reminding you that you were safe because you were with him. 

Dean ran his hands through your wet hair until your breathing evened out and you were ready to talk. “I trusted my mom when she said she’d changed, when she asked me to go down to their place for thanksgiving. But when I got there, she was only nice for twenty minutes. Then, she started screaming at me and telling me just how much of a failure I was and how she regretted me all together”

“She was drunk, wasn’t she?” he asked, looking down at you with eyes full of understanding.

You gave him a small nod, and he sighed in defeat. He’d known your mom as long as he’d known you, and there had always been a bottle of some sort alongside her, as a mandatory accessory. After your gesture, he pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead, and you two stood enveloped in each other in silence for quite some time.

There was nothing he hated more than seeing you suffer, whether that may be physical or mental. A close second, though, was seeing you cry. The moment tears were involved, Dean just wanted to hold you and run his hands through your hair to soothe you and prove you were safe when he was alongside you. No matter what.

That night, Dean and you curled up on the couch to watch one of your comfort movies, a nightly ritual you both did before playing a couple of games of chess and then going to bed. 

“What are we watching tonight, pretty girl?” he asked, arm around your shoulder, pulling you into him. 

“Will you cry again if I put The Notebook on?” you questioned, scrunching your nose up at him. 

“You know I will,” he affirmed, a raspy laugh coming out of his throat. 

“That is not very d1 hockey player and fraternity brother of you, Di Laurentis,” you teased, poking his side to get control of the remote. 

“There you are, thought you’d vanished on me”

“I could never vanish if you’re with me, you know that,” your voice grew quieter, more serious.

“And you know that I’m not the way you described while I’m with you,” his tone matched yours as his hand traced lazy patterns on your shoulder.

“Yeah, you’re yourself here,” you deadpanned, and Dean didn’t even dare deny it. 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

3 years ago

Nobody had warned you and Dean about how nostalgic you would feel right before going off to college on your own. 

You and Dean had picked Harvard and Briar to be closer together than you’d ever been while not being in New York, but you couldn’t deny that you wished college wouldn’t stop you from driving out to the city every other week. 

It was your last night in the city before officially becoming college students, and you were both more scared than you’d let on. So, logically, you’d decided to go out and get pizza at the 24-hour pizza joint you had next door. 

“Should we dress up or just go like this?” you thought out loud, looking down at the oversized hoodie you were wearing, which you’d stolen from Dean.

“It’s 2 AM, no one will see us on the street,” he said, snorting at your comment. 

The walk to the pizza place was filled with laughs and memories, recalling the times where you’d showed up to his school and he’d showed up to yours, sometimes unannounced but never less welcome. 

Once you reached the joint, Dean went ahead and ordered both of your pizzas without asking. He knew your order off the top of his head. 

Emilio, the man at the register, smiled at the sight of you and Dean, unable to contain his happiness. He’d seen you two grow up and change together, and the way you two enchanted him was visible in his face every time you stepped into his shop late at night.

“Don’t stop coming by during holidays, kids! I’ll be expecting you this Christmas,” Emilio said as he handed you two your pizzas. 

“We’ll never stop coming here, Emilio,” You told the man and glanced at Dean, who was nodding. 

“Not when you make the best pizzas in New York,” Dean said, his mouth beginning to water. 

You and Dean ate your pizzas, sharing half of yours with the other person. The only thing left to do was walk back home. 

Even if the joint was just a couple of blocks from your apartments, it was easy to get distracted while walking around the city, especially if you were with Dean. Walking backwards while eating a slice of pizza, you didn’t notice you were about to fall into a puddle. 

Dean grabbed you by the collar of your hood and pulled you flush to him, preventing your fall. Suddenly, the air felt like it had thickened up, partially because of how Dean was looking at you. He was studying your face like it was his favorite subject and he never wanted to stop learning.

Dean’s hand moved to the nape of your neck and he opened his mouth to say something, your heart racing. Just when he was about to say it, a speeding taxi passed by next to you, shutting Dean up. 

“I’m gonna miss messing with you, pretty girl,” he said, moving you to his side by your waist and then letting you go. 

The tone in his voice was filled with things unsaid, things you were too scared to put out into the air. Because once they were out there, they couldn’t be reeled back in.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Present day

“You scared the shit out of me, Dean,” you whispered, staring at the boy you had known forever, the one who had been with you through everything, who you knew would never let you go. 

The knot in your throat did not seem to want to loosen unless you spoke  and mentioned what was truly on your mind, what you’d longed to say to him ever since you saw the hospital was calling you. 

“For a second, I wondered what would happen if you didn’t make it, what my life would look like without you in it. And I didn’t like it one bit. Because I don’t know who I am without you, Dean. Without you, I’m half of myself, you took the rest the moment we met, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. I love you, Dean. I think I always have”

Dean’s eyes were locked into yours, his breathing heavy and uneven. With your words, you’d completely shattered his facade, leaving him unfiltered. 

“When everything went black, death didn’t scare me. The only thing on my mind was you. Because if I left it all behind then, I wouldn’t be able to tell you how I’ve felt all of these years,” he said, and your eyebrows furrowed out of instinct. 

“You think I’ve been looking at you like this for fifteen years just because you’re my best friend? No, pretty girl, it’s because you’re my entire world. It’s always been you, ever since we played that damn chess game during Christmas break. I love you too”

The two of you let out a small laugh at the same time, one of the tiny habits you’d picked up from each other over the years. 

“Now come closer, if the nurses see me leaning in to kiss you, I might not make it out of this hospital after all,” he joked, making your face shift into a grin.

Careful of the beeping monitor beside you, and the wires attached to him, you closed the remaining distance between the two of you. His good hand escaped your grasp to settle on your jaw, and your own hands moved to the nape of his neck, fiddling with the blond hair that was there. 

The atmosphere didn’t completely change, it simply revealed what it had truly been all along. It was a reminder that all of the stolen glances, the gentle touches and the quiet nights filled with charged silence hadn’t been for nothing. 

Dean’s breath caught in his throat the moment your lips grazed his, and he couldn’t bear to wait any longer. Tentatively, he pressed your lips to his, tangling you in a kiss. It was hesitant at first, as if he couldn’t believe this wasn’t just one of his dreams, as if he wasn’t sure if you were even real. 

After letting out a sigh of relief, he kissed you like the world owed him something for keeping you away from him for so long, like it came as natural to him as breathing, like he never wanted to let your lips split from his ever again. 

When you finally pulled back, your forehead resting against his, you two kept your eyes closed for a few seconds. He opened his before you did, so you caught him looking at you like you’d just fulfilled his biggest dreams with a kiss. 

“So, does this mean you’re officially my girl now?” he whispered, his signature grin finally appearing on his face.

“I’ve been your girl for a while, Di Laurentis”

By the time you’d finished that sentence, Dean was already tugging you closer to him with his good hand to kiss you again, which made you giggle. Both of you had been waiting for this moment for a long time, and you wanted to make the most of it. 

Suddenly, there was a creak at the door.

“D, we come bearing gi– What the fuck!” yelled Logan, almost dropping the things he’d brought over from the vending machine. 

Garret came into the room and just stared at you two, flushed faces and intertwined hands. His face was a completely blank look, jaw hung ajar. 

You cleared your throat, running a hand through your messy hair and moving to stand next to Dean.

“What’s going on in there, G?” asked Beau from the door, making his way in. Once he saw your joined hands, messy hair, and the grin on Dean’s face, he quickly put the pieces together. 

“Fuck yeah, D! Finally! Took you long enough, idiots,” Beau said, beginning to clap. 

“The rest of you do not understand what a pain all of these years have been. I’ve had to wait since high school. This is such a big moment for me,” he continued, his face shifting onto a smirk. 

Tucker, hearing the commotion that was coming from inside, also decided to step in. “So this is pretty girl, huh? Nice to meet you too”

The boys laughed, but the flush on your face only deepened. 

“Guys, you’re ruining a moment!” yelled Hannah and Allie in unison from behind the boys. 

“Okay, okay, we’ll leave the two lovebirds be,” Logan replied, shooting Dean a knowing smile before leaving the room. 

The Hawks and Beau walked out, leaving you and Dean alone again. Beau’s cheers were audible, and he was telling every member of the group the story of your lives. 

Dean pressed a gentle kiss to your knuckles, and then looked at you again. It was the same look he’d been giving you since you were kids, but you saw it under a different lens now. 

His fingers, still interlocked with yours, traced patterns on the back of your hand. “Y’know, the second I get let out of here, we’re going straight to the city again”

“Are you feeling homesick, Di Laurentis?” you teased. The smile that cracked through your lips broke your act, though.

“If you’re with me, I’ll never feel homesick,” he retorted, leaving you puzzled.

“New York’s not my home, pretty girl. You are”

i'm making a dean taglist (finally) so lmk in my inbox (or in the comments) if u wanna be added!!

[junezsq]

he leaves for ten minutes

beau maxwell x fem!reader

summary: a night out takes an uncomfortable turn when beau is away for a moment, leaving dean to step in and protect his best friend’s girlfriend

established relationship

warnings: misogynist trying to flirt with/intimidate the reader, reader feels trapped, confrontations, beau and dean are sweethearts though

word count: 5.7k

a/n: based on this request!! i hope this is wat you had in mind :) also, i love protective dean and beau sm

── ᵎᵎ ✦

you should’ve known the night was going too well, though there had been absolutely no reason to think that at the time.

getting the four of you to malone’s had been surprisingly easy. dean and allie had met you and beau there. there had been no argument over where to go, no waiting forty minutes for somebody who claimed they were already on their way, and no last-minute debate about whether malone’s would be too crowded on a friday night.

it was, of course, far too crowded.

by the time you made it through the door, the place was already warm with the press of too many bodies and loud enough that you had to lean close to hear each other properly. music played from somewhere toward the back, nearly swallowed by the noise of overlapping conversations and laughter, while people stood two and three deep around the bar waiting for drinks. every time the front door opened behind you, a brief rush of cold air slipped inside before disappearing almost immediately.

beau’s hand settled against the small of your back before you’d taken more than a few steps.

you hardly noticed it anymore. not because you didn’t like it, but because beau touched you so often that his hand finding you had become as familiar as anything else about him. in crowded places, it was almost guaranteed. his fingers would find yours, or his palm would settle against your back, or he’d hook an arm loosely around your waist while he talked to someone else. sometimes you thought it was less about keeping track of you and more about reassuring himself that you were still there.

you’d never asked him about it. you liked the habit too much to risk making him self-conscious about something he probably didn’t even realize he was doing.

he guided you through the crowd with his hand resting lightly at your waist, glancing back every few steps as though there were any possibility you could’ve disappeared from beneath his palm without him noticing.

“i’m still here,” you said eventually.

beau turned his head toward you, eyebrows pulling together because he hadn’t heard. you leaned closer and repeated yourself, nodding toward the hand at your waist, “you keep checking.”

his expression cleared with understanding. his gaze dropped briefly toward where his palm rested against your side before returning to your face, and for a moment he looked almost sheepish, “people keep pushing past.”

“and?”

“and you’re—” he stopped himself at your raised brows. his mouth opened, then closed again as he apparently reconsidered whatever answer had first occurred to him, “easier to lose in a crowd than me.”

you stared at him for a moment. “that was almost offensive.”

“but it wasn’t.”

“debatable.”

his mouth twitched, but he continued walking, keeping his hand exactly where it had been before. you tried not to smile.

the four of you managed to find a booth tucked against one of the walls near the back of malone’s. it was one of the larger ones, curved around a rectangular table, and for once there was enough space that nobody had to sit half on top of anyone else. allie slid into one side first, dean following her, while you took the opposite side with beau beside you.

you ended up near the wall, which suited you perfectly. beau settled in, stretching one arm along the back of the booth while his knee rested against yours beneath the table. across from you, allie was already shrugging off her jacket while dean attempted to flag down someone for drinks.

the first hour passed easily as conversation wandered without direction. allie told you about something that had happened in one of her classes, dean interrupted often enough that she eventually started ignoring him, and beau spent several minutes pretending not to be interested in the fries someone had ordered before eating more of them than anyone else.

the booth became increasingly cluttered as the night went on, glasses leaving rings of condensation across the table and discarded napkins collecting near the empty basket that had once contained food.

you liked nights like this.

there was something easy about being with the three of them. beau had known dean for so long that half their conversations seemed to rely on context neither you nor allie possessed, while you and allie had become increasingly good at communicating your shared confusion through increasingly expressive looks across the table.

beau stole the lime from your drink and you stared at him as he ate it without the slightest trace of remorse, “that was mine.”

“you were taking too long,” he shrugged.

“i was holding it.”

“exactly.”

you narrowed your eyes before reaching for his drink and taking a deliberately long sip. beau watched you over the rim of the glass, eyebrows slowly lifting, “you have your own.”

you copied his shrug as you took another sip while maintaining eye contact, then set the glass back in front of him.

his mouth twitched, “thief.”

“prove it.”

something warm and amused settled into his expression as he looked at you, and for a second the crowded bar seemed to disappear from his awareness completely. you knew that look. it usually preceded either a kiss or an extremely annoying comment, and judging by the way his gaze briefly dropped to your mouth, you suspected it would be the first.

before he could do either, someone called his name from across the room.

beau glanced over his shoulder, recognition immediately crossing his face. he looked back at you as though considering whether whoever had called him was worth leaving the booth for.

“go,” you said, laughing softly.

“i’ll be right back.”

you nodded, but before he could move away, you caught the front of his shirt and pulled him down far enough to press a quick kiss to his lips.

the smile that appeared was smaller than his usual grin. softer, almost private, despite the fact that you were surrounded by people. his hand briefly squeezed the back of your neck before he straightened and disappeared into the crowd.

you watched him go for a few seconds, following the back of his head until the crowd swallowed him from view. when you turned around again, dean was looking at you from across the table.

you narrowed your eyes. “what?”

“nothing.”

allie glanced at him before looking at you, “he’s judging you.”

“i’m not judging anyone.”

“you have a very judgmental face.”

dean frowned at her, “what does that even mean?”

allie took a sip of her drink rather than answering, and you laughed softly as dean began arguing his case to a girlfriend who had already stopped listening.

the conversation moved on easily after that. you stopped thinking about where beau had gone, knowing he was somewhere nearby and would eventually find his way back to you. he always did.

you were listening to allie tell you something when someone stopped beside the booth.

at first, you assumed he was waiting for somebody to pass. people had been squeezing between the booths and the bar all night, and you barely looked up until a voice interrupted allie halfway through her sentence.

“hey.” the guy standing at the end of the booth looked vaguely familiar, though you couldn’t remember where you’d seen him before. maybe another party, or somewhere on campus. his face was one of those you recognized without being able to attach a name or memory to it.

you gave him a polite smile, “hi.”

he didn’t move. you waited for a moment before turning back toward allie, assuming that was the end of the interaction.

“i know you, don’t i?”

you looked at him again, “i don’t think so.”

“i’ve seen you somewhere.”

you gave a small shrug, “probably around campus.”

he nodded as though that proved something, and the pause that followed lasted a little too long. you became aware of allie watching him from across the table while dean’s attention remained, at least outwardly, on something happening near the bar.

“can i buy you a drink?” the guy asked.

you glanced at beau’s half empty glass sitting in front of you, “i’m good, thanks.”

he followed your gaze. “when you finish that one.”

“still good,” you smiled politely again before turning back toward allie. this time, neither of you immediately resumed your conversation.

the guy remained there, and you could feel it without looking. there was a particular kind of awareness that came with knowing someone was watching you, an uncomfortable pressure between your shoulder blades that made it impossible to return your attention fully to whatever allie had been saying.

after a few seconds, he spoke again, “you got a boyfriend?”

you exhaled quietly through your nose. “yeah.”

“where is he?”

the question irritated you more than it should have. you turned toward him again, one hand still resting around the condensation-slick glass in front of you, “somewhere over there.”

the guy glanced toward the crowded room before looking back at you, “he left you here by yourself?”

you stared at him before looking deliberately across the table at allie and dean, “clearly.”

allie’s mouth twitched, though she quickly hid it behind her glass. the guy didn’t seem to notice, but dean did.

you caught the briefest shift in his expression before he looked away again, and you knew him well enough by now to understand what it meant. he was listening.

that realization didn’t bother you. if anything, it gave you the strange comfort of knowing somebody else had noticed without the annoyance of having them immediately take over.

dean knew you could handle yourself.

you and he had argued enough over the years for him to know that better than most. he had seen you annoyed, furious, stubborn and unreasonable. he had also been on the receiving end of all four often enough to know that stepping into an argument you were perfectly capable of handling would only earn him your irritation as well.

so he stayed where he was, but he listened.

“what’s your name?” the guy asked.

“does it matter?”

his smile faltered slightly, “i’m trying to be friendly.”

“and i’m trying to talk to my friend.” the words came out more sharply than you’d intended, but you couldn’t bring yourself to regret them.

something in the guy’s posture changed, “you always this rude?”

you stared at him for a second, “i said no to a drink.”

“i heard you.”

“then i’m not sure what we’re still talking about.”

a silence settled around the booth that had nothing to do with the noise of malone’s. the rest of the bar continued around you, music playing and people laughing only a foot away, but your attention had narrowed to the man standing at the edge of the table.

he looked irritated now. not embarrassed or disappointed, but genuinely irritated, as though you’d broken some unspoken rule by refusing to participate in a conversation you had never asked to have, “you don’t have to be a bitch about it.”

allie’s expression changed immediately. you felt your temper flare before common sense had a chance to catch up, “and you don’t have to still be standing here.”

across the table, dean went very still. he hadn’t said anything, and he wasn’t even looking directly at the guy yet, but the awareness between them was immediate, “you got something to say?” the guy asked.

dean finally looked at him, “no.”

the answer was so simple that the guy seemed almost disappointed by it. you looked back at him, “great. are we done now?”

his attention returned to you, “you think you’re funny?”

“no.”

“could’ve fooled me.”

you frowned, your patience almost entirely gone by then, “what do you want?”

“nothing now.”

“then go.”

that was when something changed.

you saw it before he moved, though later you wouldn’t have been able to explain exactly what you had noticed. maybe it was the tightening of his jaw, or the way his shoulders shifted forward, or the sudden disappearance of whatever thin layer of friendliness he’d been pretending to have.

he stepped closer to the booth and the irritation inside you vanished so quickly it left you cold.

until that moment, you’d been angry and annoyed. completely certain that, however unpleasant the interaction was, it was still only an argument. you’d dealt with men like him before, the kind who treated rejection as the opening of a negotiation rather than the end of a conversation, and you had never particularly struggled to tell them exactly what you thought.

suddenly, you weren’t so sure that was all this was.

you became acutely aware of where you were sitting. against the wall, with the table in front of you and the stranger standing at the only open end of your side of the booth.

for the first time since he’d walked over, you felt trapped.

the realization must have shown on your face. you didn’t know how. maybe your eyes widened slightly, or your shoulders tensed, or you simply stopped arguing. whatever it was, dean saw it.

his reaction was immediate, because he was out of the booth before you fully registered that he’d moved, crossing around the end of the table and stepping directly between the stranger and your side of the booth, “back up.”

his voice was calm, and something about that calmness changed the atmosphere immediately. you’d seen dean loud before. everyone had. he was loud when he was annoyed, competitive, amused, or losing an argument he insisted he was winning.

this was different.

allie knew it too. you could tell from the way she had gone still across the booth, watching him carefully without attempting to interfere. there was no alarm in her expression, only attention. she knew him well enough to recognize that the absence of his usual theatrics meant he was genuinely angry.

the guy scoffed, “we were talking.”

“she’s done talking.”

“she can tell me that.”

dean was silent for a second, “she did.”

there was nothing clever in the response and no attempt to make the moment into something it wasn’t. dean simply stood there, broad shoulders blocking your view of the man almost entirely.

the guy tried to look past him, but dean shifted so he covered you.

“move.”

dean didn’t, “you need to leave.”

the guy laughed under his breath, “or what?”

dean watched him for a moment, his expression unreadable from where you were sitting. the silence stretched for several seconds, though it probably felt longer than it actually was.

“you were comfortable enough when it was her sitting there,” he said eventually, his voice still quiet. “now somebody your own size is standing here and you want to make it a fight.”

the guy’s jaw tightened. dean tilted his head slightly, “doesn’t look great.”

the words weren’t particularly threatening. that was probably what made them land. the guy glanced around at the people at nearby booths who had begun to notice, and the attention seemed to drain some of the confidence from his posture.

he muttered something you couldn’t hear before finally stepping away.

dean watched him disappear into the crowd. he waited longer than necessary, eyes fixed in the direction the stranger had gone, before finally turning back toward you.

the change in his expression was immediate. whatever coldness had been there disappeared, “you good?”

you nodded automatically, “yeah.”

dean looked at you for a long moment.

“i’m fine.”

he didn’t call you a liar, though you suspected he wanted to. instead, he looked toward allie, and something passed silently between them, the kind of easy communication that came from knowing someone well enough not to need words for everything.

allie gave a small nod before dean slid into your side of the booth.

you moved closer to the wall to make room, and he settled beside you in the space beau had left behind. across the table, allie stayed where she was, though her attention remained on the two of you for a few seconds longer.

dean didn’t crowd you. he didn’t put an arm around you or ask again whether you were all right. he simply sat beside you, close enough that his shoulder rested lightly against yours, his presence creating a solid barrier between you and the rest of the room.

across the table, allie picked up her drink and looked at you with deliberate casualness, “do you remember what i was saying before?”

you blinked, “something about your professor?”

“close enough,” she continued her story anyway.

you loved her for that. she spoke normally, picking up somewhere in the middle of whatever she’d been telling you before, and after a moment dean added a quiet comment that made her roll her eyes.

neither of them looked at you too closely. neither of them asked if you wanted to leave. they simply gave you time to stop feeling like your heart was beating somewhere in your throat.

you leaned back against the booth and let their voices wash over you. dean’s shoulder remained against yours, the occasional movement reminding you that he was still there without forcing you to acknowledge why.

you’d known him through beau first.

for a long time, that was how you’d thought of him. beau’s friend. beau’s teammate. one of the people who occupied so much space in the stories beau told you that you’d felt like you knew him before the two of you had ever had a proper conversation.

somewhere along the way, that had changed, because dean had become your friend too.

he annoyed you. frequently. he stole food off your plate without asking and disagreed with you on principle whenever he was bored. but he also remembered your coffee order after hearing it once and texted you whenever beau left his phone somewhere stupid. he treated you like someone who belonged in his life rather than somebody he tolerated because you were dating his friend.

you hadn’t really thought about what that meant until now.

dean had known you could handle yourself. he’d waited because he respected that. and then, the second you couldn’t, he’d been there.

a few minutes later, you saw allie’s attention move toward the crowd. her expression softened slightly as her eyes settled on something, “beau’s coming back.”

your stomach tightened.

dean looked toward the crowd, then at you, and you knew from the brief pause that he was waiting to see what you wanted to do. he didn’t ask, though. he simply remained beside you, his shoulder still resting lightly against yours, while allie watched beau make his way through the crowd.

you didn’t have time to decide what expression to put on your face before he reached the booth.

at first, beau looked relaxed. there was still a faint smile on his face from whatever conversation had kept him away for so long. then his eyes found you, moved to dean sitting beside you, and returned immediately to your face.

the smile disappeared and you saw the exact moment he understood that something was wrong, “what happened?” his voice was quiet, but the question came without hesitation. you shook your head almost instinctively, “i’m fine.”

beau’s gaze remained on you for another second before shifting toward dean.

dean didn’t answer for you. instead, he stood. the movement was unhurried, and his hand touched your shoulder briefly as he moved away, an absent gesture you doubted he had consciously thought about. he walked around the table and slid back into the booth beside allie, who shifted closer to the wall to make room for him.

the space beside you was empty again. beau looked at it, then at you, before sliding into the booth.

the moment he sat down, his body angled toward yours as much as the table allowed. one knee pressed against yours beneath it, and his hand settled lightly against your thigh, warm even through the fabric of your clothes.

he didn’t look across the table again, “tell me.”

there was nothing demanding in the words. if anything, the quietness of his voice made the knot in your chest pull tighter.

you looked down at his hand for a moment, gathering your thoughts. the whole interaction had lasted only a few minutes, but trying to explain it now made it feel strangely complicated.

“this guy came over while you were gone,” you began. “he was trying to buy me a drink, and i told him i wasn’t interested.”

beau’s thumb moved once against your thigh, but otherwise he remained completely still.

“he kept talking to me after that. asking where you were and things like that.” you paused, suddenly uncomfortable beneath the weight of beau’s attention, “i told him to leave. he got annoyed.”

you could see beau trying very hard not to interrupt, the effort was written across his face, “how annoyed?”

you hesitated, “he called me a bitch.”

beau’s jaw tightened. you felt the change beneath your hand where it had come to rest over his. the tension that moved through him was subtle, but immediate. across the table, dean leaned back against the booth, watching the two of you without saying anything.

“that’s when dean got up,” you continued. “he made him leave.”

beau’s eyes moved across the table. dean gave a slight shrug, as though the entire thing had been considerably less important than it actually had. “she’s skipping a bit,” he said.

you frowned, “i’m not skipping anything.”

dean looked at you, “you are.”

“i told him what happened.”

“you gave him the edited version.”

you felt beau’s attention shift back to you, “there’s an edited version?”

“no.”

“yes,” dean said at the same time.

you looked across the table at him, “whose side are you on?”

dean’s eyebrows lifted slightly, “not really a sides thing.”

allie rested her chin against her hand, watching the exchange. she had been quiet since beau returned, but you caught the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth.

you turned back toward beau and found him waiting. a sigh escaped your lips, “i got a little scared. that’s all.”

beau’s expression changed. the anger didn’t disappear, but something else moved over it. concern, quieter and heavier, settling into the crease between his eyebrows.

before he could say anything, dean spoke again, “she couldn’t get out.”

you looked at him, but his expression was no longer teasing, “he was standing at the end of the booth,” he explained, looking at beau now. “table in front of her, wall behind her. when he moved closer, she was boxed in.”

the words made your stomach tighten all over again. hearing it described that plainly was different from remembering it. you had known, in the moment, that there was nowhere for you to go, but you hadn’t put it into words even inside your own head.

beau’s hand stilled beneath yours, “did he touch you?”

“no,” you said immediately, “he didn’t. dean got there before he could,” you added.

something passed across beau’s face at that, too quick for you to identify. his eyes moved toward dean again.

“he wasn’t going to,” dean said, his voice matter-of-fact, “not after i got over there.”

beau looked at him for a moment, before his attention returned to you. his expression softened slightly, though the tension hadn’t left his shoulders.

“it was just for a second, babe,” you tried to reassure him, but you knew he didn’t believe that was the entire truth.

his hand moved from beneath yours. for half a second, you thought he was going to try and find the guy. instead, he reached beneath the table and took your hand properly, threading his fingers through yours. the familiarity of the movement made something inside your chest loosen before you could stop it.

“i’m here now,” he said quietly.

there was anger in his face. you could see it in the tension around his mouth and the way his jaw tightened every few seconds, but he wasn’t making it yours to deal with. he wasn’t demanding a description of the guy or asking why you hadn’t come to find him. he wasn’t telling you what you should have done differently or turning what had happened into a reason for you to comfort him.

he simply held your hand, and as his thumb moved slowly across your knuckles, you found you hadn’t realized how badly you’d wanted him back until then.

your shoulders loosened slightly and beau noticed. of course he did.

he let go of your hand to move his arm along the back of the booth behind you, and you shifted toward him before he even had to ask. the moment you leaned into his side, his arm settled around your shoulders and drew you closer.

you rested your head against him, letting yourself sink into the familiar warmth of his side. beau’s arm tightened around your shoulders almost immediately, drawing you closer until there was barely any space left between you, while beneath the table, his other hand remained wrapped around yours.

for a while, nobody spoke. across the table, dean had settled back beside allie, one arm resting behind her while she leaned into the corner of the booth. beau looked up, and his eyes met dean’s over the table.

the exchange lasted only a few seconds. beau gave a small nod, something quiet and serious passing over his expression, and dean returned it just as subtly. neither of them said anything, but you understood enough anyway.

beau knew exactly what dean had done. and dean, apparently, didn’t think it required discussion.

you closed your eyes briefly as beau’s fingers moved against your shoulder in slow, absent strokes. the adrenaline that had been sitting beneath your skin was beginning to fade now, leaving you tired in its place, and you let yourself concentrate on the small things instead: the warmth of his body beside yours, the weight of his arm around you, the familiar movement of his thumb brushing over your hand beneath the table.

you hadn’t realized how tense you still were until you felt yourself slowly beginning to relax.

after a while, beau lowered his head and pressed his lips to the top of yours. the kiss lingered for a second before he spoke, his voice quiet enough that the words stayed between the two of you despite dean and allie sitting only a few feet away, “i leave for ten minutes.”

the comment was so characteristically him that a soft laugh escaped you before you could stop it. you turned your face slightly into his chest, hiding the small smile that had finally begun to appear, “it was longer than ten minutes.”

you felt him shift beside you, “was it?”

you lifted your head enough to look at him, “mhmm.”

beau seemed to consider that for a moment before his mouth twisted, “shit.”

another laugh slipped out of you, quieter than the first but easier this time. something in beau’s expression softened at the sound, though the concern hadn’t entirely disappeared from his face. it was still there in the slight crease between his eyebrows and the careful way his eyes moved over yours, as though he were checking for something you might not be telling him.

you knew that look, “i’m fine,” you told him.

“i know,” his answer came easily, but his thumb continued moving over the back of your hand.

you studied him for a moment, “really.”

he nodded again, but you didn’t believe him. or, more accurately, you believed that he believed you were fine now. that didn’t mean he had stopped thinking about what had happened before he came back.

the tension in his jaw gave him away. you narrowed your eyes slightly, “you look like you want to kill someone.”

beau’s eyebrows lifted, “i don’t.”

you continued looking at him and he lasted approximately three seconds before sighing, “fine. i’m annoyed.”

“annoyed,” you repeated, unconvinced.

“very annoyed.”

you waited with raised brows. beau looked at your expression and amended, “extremely annoyed.”

“better.” you smiled before you could stop yourself, and some of the remaining tension in his expression finally eased when he saw it. his eyes stayed on your face for another moment before he shook his head slightly and pulled you closer again.

you settled back against his side, and this time the movement came more easily. some of the last tension in your chest went with it.

you though back to the quiet exchange between beau and dean. it was something that made warmth press unexpectedly against the lingering discomfort in your chest.

beau trusted dean.

not just with football or parties or whatever other stupid things they’d gotten into together over the years. with you.

and dean had treated that trust like the most natural thing in the world. not as an obligation, or a favor he would need thanking for. it was just something he did because beau loved you and, somewhere along the way, dean had decided that meant you were his person too.

beau’s thumb continued its slow movement over your shoulder, and you let yourself sit there for another minute before he spoke again. his voice was quieter this time, all traces of humor gone, “do you want to leave?”

you thought about it; you were still shaken. you could admit that to yourself now. every so often, the memory of the stranger stepping closer returned without warning, bringing that same cold feeling into your stomach. but the thought of leaving made the whole thing feel bigger somehow, as though one unpleasant stranger had managed to take the entire night from you.

you shook your head, “not yet.”

beau nodded, his expression giving away nothing but acceptance, “then we’ll stay.”

there was no hesitation and no attempt to change your mind. he simply settled back into the booth and kept his arm around you.

across the table, allie seemed to sense that the moment had passed. she waited another few seconds before starting her story over from the beginning, apparently deciding that none of you had been paying enough attention the first time.

dean frowned, “didn’t you just just tell this story?”

allie looked at him, “nobody was listening.”

“i was.”

“what was i talking about?”

dean opened his mouth, then closed it again.

allie nodded, “exactly.”

a quiet laugh escaped you, and beau’s attention immediately dropped toward you. the corner of his mouth lifted, and his softly squeezed your shoulder once before he turned his attention back to the conversation, though his arm remained securely around you.

you still felt the remnants of adrenaline beneath your skin, and every so often your attention flicked toward the crowd without permission. you caught yourself searching faces you didn’t recognize, checking the spaces between groups of people before you could stop yourself.

each time, beau’s thumb moved gently against your shoulder. you weren’t sure if he noticed you doing it, but you suspected he did.

after a while, dean caught your eye from across the table. you held his gaze for a second, then mouthed a quiet, thank you.

his expression tightened with immediate discomfort, causing you to almost smile. dean had never seemed like somebody who enjoyed sincere emotion being directed at him.

he gave you a brief nod though, and immediately reached for allie’s drink. she moved it out of reach without even looking at him, “no.”

“i didn’t do anything.”

“you were going to.”

“you don’t know that.”

allie finally looked at him, “i absolutely do.”

dean leaned back in the booth, looking unfairly accused.

you looked at beau. he was already looking at you. something passed between you, a flicker of shared amusement that needed no explanation.

the four of you stayed at malone’s for another hour. conversation never returned entirely to what it had been before, but it came close. allie eventually finished her story, dean continued to insist that he had been listening the first time, and beau absentmindedly pushed his glass towards you so you could finish what you’d started.

when you finally left, the cold air outside hit your face hard enough to make you inhale sharply. after the warmth of malone’s, the night felt almost startlingly clear, the sounds of the bar dulling as the door closed behind you.

beau immediately wrapped his arm around your shoulders as the four of you started down the sidewalk. dean and allie walked a few steps ahead. allie slipped her hand into his, and he glanced down at her before adjusting his pace to match hers.

after a minute, dean looked back. his eyes moved over you, then beau. apparently satisfied, he turned forward again and you smiled to yourself.

the night hadn’t gone the way any of you had expected. your heart still beat a little faster when you thought about the moment the stranger’s expression had changed, and you suspected it would take a while before the memory stopped making something unpleasant twist in your stomach.

but beau was beside you, warm and solid, his arm wrapped around you.

a few steps ahead, dean was listening to allie talk, occasionally turning his head toward her as she spoke. she said something that made him laugh, then shoved his shoulder when he apparently responded with the wrong thing.

a couple minutes later, dean glanced back at you one more time. it was only briefly, but you understood then, perhaps more clearly than you had before, why beau loved him like a brother.

it wasn’t because dean was particularly good at saying the right thing. he usually wasn’t. it wasn’t because he made grand gestures or turned friendship into something that needed to be announced.

it was knowing when to stay out of the way and when to step in. it was sitting beside someone without demanding they explain how they felt. it was looking back over your shoulder once, then again, just to make sure the people you cared about were still there.

beau’s thumb moved across your shoulder and when you looked up at him he was already watching you. his eyebrows lifted slightly in a silent question, and this time you didn’t tell him it was nothing. you only moved a little closer and something in his expression softened.

you knew then, that you weren’t alone; you’d never been, and you never would be.

[lacyydollette]

₊  ֹ  ˖  GARRETT WITH A BLUNT GIRLFRIEND THAT LIKES MAKING HIM BLUSH ᱺㅤㅤ   ୨౿ 

one thing about you was that you were loud, a bit too carefree, and with absolutely no filter. while your boyfriend, garret was no introvert or virgin bride, he was still not used to being with someone just so—so blunt and brash.

and that came with some consequences, because there would be times where you would tease the shit out of him or make explicit comments so causally at all times, it made him flush like a schoolgirl.

that has never happened to him before you. like ever.

before, he was the one making girls blush, making their panties melt, and then came your hurricane self, with an obnoxious smirk making him shy as fuck.

sometimes he’d be left speechless because he always thought he’d be the one doing all that in a relationship.

sometimes he’d be too embarrassed at the fact that he was blushing, so he wouldn’t even know how to respond.

he was a hockey player who shoved people out of the way for a living, for fuck’s sake—why was he so weak for you?

see, and that’s why he tried to resist it, but the more he did, the worse it got

for example, if he just came out of the shower with his naked chest on display and you were there to witness, the first thing you’d do would be let out a whistle

“the things i’d do to lick those water drops off of you clean”

you never missed the deep patch of red flashing across his body as he quickly grabbed a towel, drying himself off before throwing on a shirt and shorts like that would somehow make it better.

then he’d walk over to you, pressing a deep kiss to your lips, trying to regain some sort of composure.

or again, if he was suited up for an event in which he looked so sinfully hot in, and you’d walk up to him as he fumbled with his tie, pulling him by his opened tie and fixing it as you tighten it, making him all red. pressing a gentle kiss to his lips

“what are you thinking about” he’d clear his throat before asking as you gazed at him with dilated pupils.

“how long it’d take for me to take this thing off you, pretty boy” and boom, here goes his willpower.

“you can’t say shit like that to me when i’m about to leave in like five,” he’d groan loudly, putting his forehead on you, adjusting his slacks while you giggled, feeling proud of yourself for getting him so weak.

or the last straw—when he walked into his room after another tiring practice, not knowing you’re in his bed, quickly taking his shirt off, leaving him in only loose sweats that show his boxers band, with a dark happy trail leading to a happy place.

you eyes drag up and down his body from your position in his bed as he moves around in his room before his eyes snap towards you and his whole composure softens realizing your there.

but you’re still staring. still tracking every movement which makes him a bit confused. does he have something on him?

“what?”

“you walk like it’s big” you blurt out, licking your very much dry lips.

“what’s that supposed to—“ he’s midway into his question when dean passes by garret’s room, still in his jersey, and yells out “it means you’re walking around like you’re being weighted down by something and that something is your dick! you’re welcome!” before moving into his room, shutting his door.

your boyfriend, per usual, flushes at the crude words

it was true, he just had a natural sway in his hips and that confident, lazy walk—it exceeded big dick energy.

or when he sat, he took space, thick hockey thighs spreading to make room for himself and his heaviness, it was so obvious that he had to make room for something big to sit like that.

“you get what i mean now?” you mutter, eyes glued onto his crotch as the familiar bulge forms

“baby i’m feeling very objectified at the moment” he murmurs as he closes his door before walking over to you, as he lowers himself on top of you, nuzzling his face into your neck

he was a mess, and it was better if you didn’t look into his face right now.

you just grab his curls as you push his head off of you, before pushing him onto his bed as you straddle him.

“awh poor baby you want me to stop?” you coo as your fingers find his chain resting on his chest, gently tugging onto it

he’s so mesmerized right now, so he shakes his head side to side as you lean back, keeping eye contact as you lean back before slipping a finger into his sweats, slowly pushing them off his legs

“that’s what i thought, big boy” he raises his hips, helping you take his sweats off

you know what, garret decided he liked the fact that he turned putty at the hands of his girlfriend. it was a humbling reality check that he wasn’t the one with all the charm, and his usual tricks didn’t always come to play.

he needed that once in a while.

masterlist guys this is kinda off topic but i’m so obsessed with belmont’s curls

[ravioliet]

i literally love saying "ON IT BOSS!!!!!" whenever someone asks me to do something like i'm some sort of henchman. it doesn't matter if they're my boss or not for real even because in the moment they are, and whatever they requested of me i'm on it

[mads198-9]

Dean’s Inferno

Pairing: Dean Di Laurentis x fem!reader

Summary: Dean is many things. Hot, rich, deceivingly perceptive, and a bit of a slut. But worst of all, a blonde. And you are his friend. Just his friend. And you hate it.

Convinced that your own personal purgatory is the friend-zone, the only way to escape is through a good book. Too bad for you that you’re as subtle as a gun shot. I still hate summaries.

Warnings: ROAD-TRIP!!! High School Musical reference, Dean is the ultimate shit disturber (affectionate), Logan and his fuck ass acronyms, Garrett is confused, Tucker is oblivious, Allie is a star and Hannah is perceptive as hell. No physical descriptions of reader! No use of y/n! Insinuations to sex and ‘happy endings’. I think that’s all, lmk if I missed anything!

A/N: One-shots my beloved. Beta’d by the woman, the myth, the legend @deceasedanddesist

WC: ~1.9k

Graphics: @saradika-graphics

Masterlist

You were a masochist. 

Seriously, there was no other explanation for it. 

‘It’ is your willingness to participate in an impromptu road trip with your best friends. A trip which now included Briar Hockey’s core four in addition to the two earth angels whom you met on your first day of freshman year. 

But back to the matter at hand. The road trip; the reason why you were stuck sandwiched in between the boy you’ve been lying to yourself about liking and your best friend who knew. Knew that even though you said being attracted to blonde men was a ‘recession indicator’, the defenseman to your left had been the star of your most inner fantasies as of late. 

Hannah’s first clue?

Your recent over consumption of romantic novels. 

Most notable to the observant brunette, were the love interests of such novels; of a very specific variety. Cocky, emotionally unavailable, built-like-a-brick-shit-house blondes. 

You said it was exam stress. That you had needed a big ole helping of escapism to get through the barrage of tests you were facing; a little harmless pleasure. 

Nevermind that your recent reading binge had begun just after Hannah had formally introduced you and Allie to Garrett and his friends. Friends including Dean. No, no; that was a coincidence. Something to laugh about over sangria with the girls. 

Well, you laughed. They didn’t. All they gave in response were teasing looks.

Now here you are; months later. Friendships forged with Garrett over your mutual love for Hannah, with Tuck through the sharing of family recipes, Logan via him doubling over laughing at you as you asked him what the ‘genie lamp’ symbol on your car’s dashboard meant, and Dean through… Well, everything. 

It started one night in the hockey house after a call from back home. Nothing easy, it never was, and Dean knew. You didn’t say anything; didn’t have to. He knew something was wrong from how hard you were staring at the TV during a group movie night; the flick of the evening supposedly being your favourite, but when your expression hadn’t shifted in the first 15 minutes he knew something was wrong.

And so, you’d talked about it. And kept talking. About the mundane, the serious, anything that made you laugh or think just a little too hard. 

Despite the seemingly shallow charisma that practically oozed from his pores, Dean was smart. He could read you not just like a book, but like a damn billboard posted on the highways of America. Much like the ones you were currently passing. 

Thus made the seating arrangement in the minivan (because yes, mama Tucker had rented a minivan for your road trip) all the more awkward. 

For you at least, strapped between Dean and Hannah in the middle of the van. 

Curse your car sickness. If not for that, maybe you could have been asleep in the rear rather than practically hyperventilating from the forced proximity to your friend. Your hot, hot, blonde, hockey player friend who knew your signature coffee order and what kind of god forsaken reels made you laugh. 

Fuck my life you thought.

Hannah was having smug, silent conversations with Garrett through rearview mirror eye contact alone. But even with all her NOT so subtle galances toward you and Dean, the poor boy still couldn’t get it. 

Tucker was at the wheel with a rod-straight spine and his hands at 10 and 2 like he was 16 again.

Allie was belting High School Musical, playing solely in her own ears via her headphones, and Logan was somehow sleeping through it all across from her in the back seat. 

But Dean–

Ooooh Dean was practically vibrating with self satisfaction. Comfortably leaning back in his seat with his right arm across your headrest, bent at the elbow to allow his wrist to rest loosely on your shoulder. All while he smiled happily and whistled to himself as he looked out the window. 

You thought you were going to die here.

Sure you were comfortable with these people. Probably more comfortable with them than you were with anyone else on the planet. 

But this was different. 

Because as much as you’d convinced yourself that it was a trick of the mind—only a consequence of ovulation—you were in fact crushing on Dean, hard. 

As hard as the rigid muscles that had been pressed against your side since before the state border. 

“Gettin’ a little low on gas here guys. I’m gonna take the next exit to top ‘er up.”

Thank. God. 

You thought you could kiss Tucker from the pure relief that flooded you after his statement. But alas, you already wanted to kiss one Briar Hockey player, and that was more than enough for your nervous system at the moment. 

The second Tucker put the car in park, you practically crawled over Hannah’s lap to escape the confines of this soccer-mom-mobile. 

Much to the entertainment of Hannah… and Dean

And the bewilderment of everyone else in the car who was conscious. 

“What the fuck was that all about?” 

Garrett had never been one to sugar coat things, as much was evident as the group watched you practically sprint into the store ahead of you. 

Both Hannah and Dean couldn’t contain their laughter. 

Hannah immediately snapped her eyes over to the blonde positioned a seat over from her. Laughing hard enough to shake blonde tendrils out of his eyes like a golden retriever. 

So he knew. Like really knew. 

Dean didn’t even bother to respond with words. Only throwing a wink her way before he was tossing open the vans sliding door and strutting in after you. 

Tucker was already headed in to put sixty bucks on pump four before Garret could speak again. 

Still confused.

“Again I say, what the fuck was all that about.”

Logan and Allie were still in the back.

Still sleeping.

Still singing.

Hannah couldn’t fight her smile as she responded. 

“Like Allie said. It’s the start of something new.”

-

You hadn’t meant to bolt like that; to high tail it out of there like you were on fire. But to be fair, it sure felt like you were. 

The second Dean slid into the seat next to you, your temperature had gone up. Heat rising to your cheeks because apparently your body couldn’t differentiate between physical proximity to an attractive male, your friend, and being held at gun point. 

You were in dire need of some escapism. Again. 

So naturally, you had found yourself in the print section of the gas station. 

Magazines, newspapers, sudoku books and a slim selection of novels. Romance novels.

Here we go. 

You grabbed the first one that caught your eye. 

It also happened to catch Dean’s eye. Who was roughly three feet behind you, grinning like a jackass as he watched you grope for a novel with a muscle-toned football player on it. 

Football?

He could forgive you for that, he decided, because said football player was blonde. 

Oh so blonde; with hair that swooped in front of his eyes as he seductively dipped the woman on the cover. 

You didn’t even bother reading the synopsis. You’d both seen and read enough novels in your lifetime to know the contents of this one. So, you did what any hormonal, touch-starved, forever friend-zoned woman your age would do. 

You skipped to the good part. 

Right to the centre of the book.

Right to where Dante (because of course that was his name) slowly slid his hand into the back of Mel's jeans. 

You were so entranced in the book it was as if someone was whispering the words into your ear.

“Fingertips edging past her delicate lace-”

Oh dear god.

“Shit!” 

Exactly. Because a shit eating grin is what you saw when you turned around to find that it was Dean of all people who was leering over your shoulder, softly reading to you the straight up smut you had chosen to peruse. In public.

“Hey, wait! It was just getting good.”

That fucking smile.

“Dean. You scared me.”

“Clearly.”

Silence. But you swore that megawatt smile of his had to be humming with electricity.

“Well, what do you want? Perve.”

“Oh I’M the perve?!” He asked giddily, pointing a thick finger at himself, “you’re the one reading porn in the middle of a gas station.”

“Yeah, well, you were the freak reading it to me!” You hushedly screeched back at him.

He didn’t say anything; just stepped closer. Close enough his head tilted further down to keep your gaze.

“I happened to like where it was going. The devilishly handsome blonde jock and his girl, who seems far too oblivious for her own good. Who seriously thinks that said handsome devil would sit in a minivan for four hours listening to country music, because he just wants to be next to his friend.”

This was getting too real. 

Real enough that your first instinct was to shy away from his eyes. Convinced his flirting was teasing. 

“Yeah, but it doesn’t end well. Trust me, I know.”

Dean softly, but sternly, gripped your chin and raised your gaze back to his own piercing blue one.

“No. You don’t.”

You dropped the book as he released your chin for your hand and tugged you further into the store. Into the bathroom of all places. 

The lock clicked as he softly pressed you up against the door.

“Let me show you how it ends. Really, because I think you’ll find it’s just the beginning.”

The earnestness in his eyes was almost enough to make you forget your surroundings.

Almost. 

You couldn’t help but laugh. 

“Dean. There will be no happy ending in this gas station bathroom.”

He released his breath in soft laughter and leaned his forehead against your own. Hands smoothing over your denim clad waist. Meeting a respectable end right above your curves.

“Later then?”

“…We’ll have a lot to talk about first.”

“Hmmmm. How about you write it down first? I’d rather have you read to me this time.”

“As long as it’s not the only time.”

Releasing a pained groan he lowered his face into the crook of your neck. Hot breath at your pulse.

And - 

Unlocked the door behind you.

“Deal.”

-

Grinning in disbelief you let him guide you out of the single bathroom. 

Back into the open, and into the awaiting gaze of John Logan.

So he finally woke up, you thought.

Logan rapidly looked from the toilet behind you two, to your flushed face and back. Rubbing his eyes in between each glance. 

“Did you just desecrate the room where I'm about to TAS?”

TAS?

It didn’t even take 10 seconds to figure it out.

“Let me guess. ‘Take A Shit’.” 

You just shook your head at the steep drop in the conversation.

“Correct. This is a nightmare; an unhygienic nightmare.”

“Maybe your nightmare. But my dream bro.”

Dean’s clarification didn’t help the heat crawling up your skin.

“We didn’t -”

“Yet.”

You should have known by now that glaring at Dean wouldn’t dissuade him, but you tried anyway. 

“Slow down hot shot.”

“Oh trust me, I’ll go slow. You can’t spell Dante without Dean, baby.”

And with the combination of Dean’s gleeful expression and the look of sheer disgust on Logan’s face, you knew you were never going to live this moment down. 

And honestly? If Dean had meant what he said about this being just the beginning, you couldn’t bring yourself to care.  

[fairycosmos]

sometimes i just want to shake women who exhaust themselves for the men in their lives like. they would never do that shit for youuuu. they dont even defend you to their friends when youre not around. they would never do that shit for youuuuuuuuu

[flwr-princ3ss]

i love you, i'm sorry

A/N: surprise, I write for characters other than Logan lol.

summary: in which you and Dean broke up months ago because you overcommitted and put your relationship on the back burner. you're left to deal with the fall out, alone. angst.

pairing: Dean Di Laurentis x ex!fem!reader

wc: ~1.8k

warnings: alcohol/party mention, breakups, overextending oneself, miscommunication, relationship missteps etc, swearing

disclaimer: I don't own off campus or any of the characters, all credits to the author/show writers.

-----

No New Notifications.

You sat in your car, one hand to your forehead as your other held your phone, the empty screen practically mocking you as the minutes ticked by.

Once upon a time you would’ve had a barrage of messages and updates waiting for you when you got off work. They’d include jokes and little daily anecdotes as well as little reminders to take care of yourself. Now there was nothing.

You could feel your breath hitching in your throat, a new round of tears threatening to boil over as you tried to steady yourself. 

11:21 pm 

The clock now read, you’d been sitting in your car for over 45 minutes. 

It felt like your world was ending, absolutely nothing was going right for you lately. 

Your department was struggling to make up a budget deficit, so you were at risk of losing some of your funding. You had only wanted to pick up some extra shifts at the café, but one of the new girls unexpectedly quit so you were working what felt like twice as much as before. You had a textbooks and assignments and a paper waiting for you when you got home. You had student org events to coordinate and a charity gala to help plan for your department’s annual fundraiser. Everywhere you turned, it was someone or something else requiring your attention and taking another piece of you and your time.

Not to mention your mom had called and left a voicemail asking when you were going to come home and visit but you couldn’t stomach the idea of looking her in the eyes and telling her everything you were dealing with and that you did not actually have it all under control like you always led people to believe. You were exhausted and overworked. Every single burden was chipping away at your resolve until tonight when a silly social media post made your heart drop right out of your chest.

Even now, swiping your phone lock screen away and hovering over the Fifth Line page, you could feel the bile rising in your throat and a shaky panic washing over your nerves.

The Briar U Hawks hockey team had won their game, which meant that a rager was being thrown across campus at the hockey house. Jules, never to miss any opportunity for drama or intrigue, faithfully recounted every bit of the night and documented it through photographic evidence that damned your feelings to hell.

The post had been at the very top of your feed when you opened the app, you scrolled through the carousel almost unwittingly. You knew you should stop looking at the page, you knew that it was really none of your business anymore. But you couldn’t help it, your heart was still in tatters and you were unable to put those pieces back together by yourself, not just yet. So, against your better judgment you checked the page. And tonight had been proof of why curiosity killed the cat.

It was a candid of Tucker and Logan, laughing and smacking each other in the chest. Unassuming to someone just scrolling through, but your eyes immediately flickered to the scene happening behind the two boys. In the background there was the outline of a tall, broad blonde pressing the willowy silhouette of a woman into a wall.

Dean. Your Dean.

Except he wasn’t yours, not anymore. Not since you two broke up months ago. 

You had unconsciously been drifting away from him, something that haunted you even now. You had been tired and exhausted back then, pushing yourself too hard and it had taken a toll on your relationship.  You had been ignoring messages, canceling dates and pushing Dean out to make room for everything else going on in your life. He could never reach you and every time he had tried to turn up and check on you, you turned him away. It all came to a head during a party you had been practically dragged to by your friends.

———

You had walked in and immediately noticed your boyfriend standing at the kitchen bar, watching as some girl was pouring alcohol into Tucker’s mouth while her friends cheered them on. One of the girls put her hand on Dean’s bicep, trying to get his attention. You stood there and stared, something akin to jealousy and annoyance flooding your features. As if feeling your presence in the doorway, Dean looked up and made eye contact right away.

Your feet felt like concrete bricks holding you in place as he made his way over, your friends having walked away momentarily to give the two of you some much-needed space. The tension was palpable between you two, like there was so much unsaid just waiting to spill over.

“I didn’t think you weren’t coming,” Dean said coolly.

“Why, didn’t want me to see your entourage of puck bunnies?” You scoffed, eyebrows shooting up to your hairline.

“More like I wasn’t even sure I still had a girlfriend, considering my messages have gone unanswered,” Dean was staring at you with an unnamed intensity burning in his eyes.

“You’re sure acting like you don’t have a girlfriend right now, wouldn’t you say?” You were getting progressively heated.

Dean rubbed his hand over his face, you noticed the shadows lingering under his eyes.

“Fucking hell, Y/N. I don’t want any of those girls, I want you. But you’re too busy to notice that,” Dean countered, his tone almost bitter.

“I can’t just stop what I’m doing, Dean! I have commitments and people relying on me." 

“Last time I checked I was one of those commitments, Y/N.” Dean finished.

Silence stretched between the two of you, the meaning of his words hanging over you as your eyes began to fill with frustrated tears. He was right, you had been putting your relationship on the back burner. But that didn’t stop the hurt from flaring up inside you.

“And again, nothing. Maybe that’s all we were ever meant to be,” Dean sounded deflated.

“You—you don’t mean that,” your voice quivered, the reality of what was happening sinking in.

“Call me when you figure it out, Y/N. For now I think it’s best we walk away,” Dean couldn’t meet your eyes anymore, his gaze downward.

You could feel the anxiety crawling up, your lip trembling and vision blurring as tears gathered at your lash line.

You couldn’t bear to be in that house any longer. You spun around on your heel, and ran out of that kitchen and into the night air, your friends chasing after you as you passed by. 

Dean could only stare sullenly at your retreating figure, a mix of regret and deep anguish filling him at once.

———

As you finally made your way out of your car and up the stairs of your building, the sound of light music playing could be heard in your apartment’s hallway. It would’ve brought a smile to your face any other time. But the sadness was beginning to morph into exhaustion, your emotions having wreaked their havoc on your body.

All you wanted was your bed, but you had a seemingly never-ending list of things to do before you could even consider sleep. You fumbled around as you slid your key into the lock, turning the knob and preparing yourself to face your roommate’s inquiry.

“Hey, you’re back! I made—oh whoa, you’ve been crying. Y/N what happened?” Your roommate, Layla, turned down the music before walking closer and gingerly resting her hand on your shoulder.

“Nothing, it’s nothing,” you weren’t sure if you were convincing her or yourself.

“It’s not nothing if you’re crying, you hardly ever cry,” she looked like she didn’t believe you.

Well, at least not in front of other people, you thought. 

You stayed silent, it was easier that way if you just didn’t explain that you were still missing your ex months later. Your glossy eyes were fixated on the floor, unable to meet your Layla’s expectant gaze. She wasn’t going to drop this.

You sighed, pulling your phone out of your pocket and opening your social media. You pulled up the photo on the Fifth Line page that had set off the cascade of emotional turmoil and distress, almost reluctantly flipping the screen so Layla could see.

“Oh, Y/N. I’m so sorry,” sympathy coated every word. For some reason, it felt like a twist of the knife.

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” you murmured, your throat was turning scratchy from all the crying.

“It’s not fine, I’d be upset too if I saw a very public picture of my ex with a girl wrapped around him.”

You shrugged silently, as if resigned to feel this way.

“You miss him, don’t you?” Layla said softly.

“I don’t get to miss him, he has someone else now. Clearly, he doesn’t miss me,” you practically spat, the last part burning like acid as it rolled off your tongue.

“I don’t think you’re being fair to yourself. I know you blame yourself for what happened, but Beau said Dean was a mess without you, you know,” 

“I know what Beau said, but this says otherwise,” you held up your phone in the air.

“Layla, I appreciate you and Beau being there for me. But I’m not what he wants anymore, I need to just get over it and move on,”

“But—” 

“There’s no buts. I messed up, he ended it, he doesn’t want me. He moved on. It’s time I do the same. Besides, I have so many things to worry about, I don't have time to be sad right now. I can't change what happened and I can't just make it okay again so now I just want to drop it please," you practically begged at the end.

You could feel the tears as they started to track down your face, your emotions betraying you as it felt like the world was closing in on you.

“Y/N wait,” Layla called after you, but you had already turned away.

You didn’t want to continue the conversation, rushing into your room and letting the door slam as you threw yourself into your bed. You didn’t even wait to make sure your roommate’s music turned back on before breaking down for the second time that night. Your chest was heaving as you uncontrollably sobbed, your eyes aching and throat raw.

He moved on.

You’d have to accept that.

It was a cycle you kept repeating, telling yourself to move on and trying to distract yourself with everything else in your life. You kept praying it would stick, however it never helped nor did it ever stop the hurt that seemed to follow you everywhere. You still loved him, but you'd lost him.

Damn it, damn it all.

A/N: lmk if we need a part 2 :)

[thememedaddy]

[enba-and-luka]

[timberwind]

you can post on tumblr even when you're trying to take a break from social media it literally doesn't count. it's like pepsi max, or pescatarianism

[juicydangler]

[iceyngi]

The Math of Us

☄︎ Warnings: Body Insecurties, Negative Self-image, Self-talk, Cute!Dean, A lil Angst, not proofread ☄︎ Pairing: (bigger/plus-size) F!Reader x Dean Di Laurentis ☄︎ Rating/Genre: PG. (references to smut but no smut) ☄︎ Words: 3266

💭: I was thinking back to the old steve rodgers / sharon carter insecure fics and the logan / hannah ones and really wanted one for dean that felt relateable, so here we are.

as far as i'm concerned, it's absolute cannon that dean would not give af

Off Campus Masterlist here.〣 Dean Masterlist here.

When your brain was being rational, it told you that Dean was with you because he loved every part of you. And when you struggled to love yourself, he was always there to remind you why you should.

Dean was a very vocal advocate of women. He was a proud, unapologetic, ladies’ man and he knew, with a label like that, he had a responsibility to treat women well. Priding himself on the deep, unshakeable respect he had for women, he made it his mission to understand that womanhood was a beautiful, but complicated, experience that left its mark. It meant that women came in all shapes, and all sizes. It meant that boobs wouldn’t always be perfectly perky or that parts of the body could be darker than the rest of the body. He knew about chafing, stretch marks, and how the skin could jiggle. He loved every part of womanhood, and you knew that.

Logically, you knew there’d be no benefit to Dean being with you if he didn’t want to be.

However, at times like these, logic didn’t mean a damn thing.

You didn’t always feel this way about yourself. Sometimes you just existed, going about your day as any other person. But then, there would be times when you’d get a harsh, unsolicited, reminder that society wasn’t built for people who were bigger. People like you.

You’d go shopping with your friends and try on a pair of jeans, only for the largest size on the rack to barely pass your thighs. You’d notice people looking uncomfortable when you squeezed into the empty seat next to them on the train. You’d worry about what you ordered at restaurant, terrified someone would judge you for eating too much.

It was exhausting.

You couldn’t get away from it at home either. You’d rifle through your closet, looking for something to wear, you’d pick up clothes and think to yourself ‘that’s so big, there’s no way it fits me.’ Only for it to be a perfect fit. Or, even worse, too small.

You really didn’t feel like this all the time. You had worked on yourself and your self-esteem. There were times where you’d wear a crop top because it looked cute, telling yourself that others wore crop tops, so why couldn’t you. Sometimes you’d wear a tight dress because it showed off your curves.

It wasn’t easy to get there, and you weren’t fully there all the time, your mind was a prison sometimes. And society didn’t help. But that’s why you loved Dean. He was so carefree and couldn’t give a toss about societal standards.

That morning had started out fine. You had excitedly put on the form hugging outfit that you were wearing for that reason. However, as you watched the scene in front of you, it all came flooding back.

Dean was leaning against the kitchen counter, laughing at something Allie Hayes, his ex-girlfriend, was saying.

And, as if a magician had snapped their fingers, the mental gymnastics began.

Allie was gorgeous, fitting effortlessly into the swimsuit-model category. She could wear his oversized hockey jersey and look like a delicate dream, rather than looking like she was a defenseman on the team. And, to top it off, she was a lovely person. She had done everything she could to make you feel welcome when you had first started to date Dean, never once made you feel like it was her territory you were stepping into. You honestly couldn’t understand why they had even broken up.

Your brain started to calculate the maths that made sense to nobody but you. You wondered if people looked at the two of you together and couldn’t add the pieces together. The golden-haired hockey god with the sculpted physique and you, a woman who took up space in a society that expected women to shrink. How did that add up?

They wouldn’t do that with Allie. Those pieces made sense together; the maths was simply 2+2 = 4 there.

Your mind, venomous and sharp, kept spinning out of control. Does he look at her and remember how easy it was? Are they laughing together about how he traded down? Is he pleading with her to take him back?

Suddenly, you became very aware of your outfit. The fabric felt suffocatingly tight in all the wrong places. Your curves felt like they were drawing the eyes of everyone in the room as they protruded out over your high-waisted jeans.

At times like these, your brain was a masterclass in self-sabotage.

It didn’t matter that Dean had spent hours tracing your stetch marks like they were roads to heaven.

It didn’t matter that he publicly looked at you with a hunger that made your knees weak.

It didn’t matter that he gently coaxed you into being comfortable sleeping together with the lights on and that he hadn’t run away when he finally saw all of you.

None of that mattered. Your brain was screaming over the bass of the music, over every rational thought you’d ever had, drowning it all out. He wants to get back with Allie. She is everything, and I’m nothing.

It was a horrible, ugly thought that was entirely unfair to yourself and to Dean, who had never given you a single reason to doubt his love and loyalty. But, your insecurities didn’t care about fairness.

You took a shallow, shaky breath, your chest tightening as you watched them. The way everything she did looked effortlessly charming and feminine.

A suffocating, bitter, knot rose in your throat, choking your breath. You had to get out of there before anyone could see the tears pricking at the corners of your eyes.

Dean’s head snapped up, his eyes scanning the room until they locked directly onto yours, as if he had a red alert that signalled to him that you needed him. The easy smile he had been sharing with Allie shifted into something deeper, something warmer, as he looked at you.

He put his cup down on the counter, murmured a quick goodbye to Allie, and began sliding his way through the sea of drunk college students, heading straight for you.

You were standing with two of your friends, desperately trying to signal to them with your eyes that you all should go. Your heart was hammering against your ribs. You felt like you couldn’t move because you knew he would follow. Then you’d have to face him.

Within seconds, Dean arrived and threw a possessive arm around your shoulders, pulling you flush against his chest. The familiar scent of his expensive cologne, usually a smell that provided you with comfort, suffocated you. He leaned down to press a kiss to your lips.

“Hey, beautiful,” he murmured against your lips, pressing another kiss on you. “I missed you.”

Your friends immediately giggled and exchanged knowing glances. “Okay, so that’s our cue to leave!” one of them teased.

“Yup, see you in class tomorrow girlie,” the other said.

They vanished into the crowd before you could even protest, leaving you feeling alone in Dean’s arms.

You forced yourself to tilt your head up, pressing a quick peck to his jaw.

“I missed you too,” you managed out, forcing a smile to hide how you felt.

But Dean knew you better than that, your smiles always reached your eyes. His eyebrows furrow in slight confusion. His eyes scanned your face with an intense scrutiny and he saw the slight glassiness in your eyes.

“Hey,” he said. He dropped his arm to cup your cheeks in both hands. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

The concern in his eyes almost broke you. It would be so easy to tell him, but the shame of your own insecurity felt too heavy, especially with Allie still in the room.

“Nothing,” you lied, voice tight. Your heart thudded painfully in your chest, you didn’t like to lie, especially to Dean. He was big on trust.

You gently pulled away from his touch, his hands dropping from your face. “I’m just… really tired, Dean. I think I need to go.”

“Okay,” Dean said easily. “I’ll come upstairs with you.”

“No,” you rushed out too quickly and too loudly. “I need some space; I need to go… home.”

Dean blinked, looking genuinely confused. “Home? But I thought you were staying here tonight? Your bag is upstairs.”

He was panicked now, eyes searching yours again for some sort of understanding of what was happening. A rare flash of sadness crossed his features and you wanted so desperately to kiss it away but your brain couldn’t stop telling you that this was the right move. That it would be better for him if you left. If you pushed him to want you gone.

“Talk to me, babe. Did I do something wrong? Let’s just go upstairs, just you and me.” The panic in his voice sent a painful pang straight through your chest.

“No, it’s not that,” you choked out, unable to look him in the eye. The sound of voice was enough to make you cry, if you combined that with the look on his face, you were done for. “I just need to be in my own bed tonight. Please.”

Dean felt completely helpless. He hated to let you go, but he also respected your boundaries too much to keep pushing for you to stay when he knew you didn’t want to.

He reached into his pocket, his jaw clenching. “Okay. Okay, yeah. If that’s what you need. I’ve had a few beers, so I can’t drive you.” He sounded incredibly mad at himself for that, as if he could have known he needed to stay sober. “I’m ordering you an Uber.”

You didn’t bother to say goodbye to anyone, or pick up your bag from upstairs, as you weaved your way outside. Dean followed you, keeping a protective hand on the small of your back the entire way.

He waited on the porch with you in the chilly air. There were a few couples out here, cuddling together and giggling as they whispered into each other’s ears. Dean so desperately felt the urge to pull you in and not let go.

After a few long minutes of standing in the heavy silence, the car finally pulled up. He opened the door for you. When you slipped inside, you expected him to shut it immediately, but he didn’t. He kept a tight hold on the handle, leaning down as he pleaded, “text me the second you get in. Please.”

Blue eyes trembled as they watched for your response. Dean looked devastated as he chewed his bottom lip. Unable to bear it, you put on another fake smile and nodded. Anything to get him to go. He closed the door gently, but, to you, it felt like that was the door closing on your entire relationship.

As the Uber pulled away, the tears finally fell. You looked back to see Dean still standing there, watching your car until it disappeared around the corner.

He didn’t wait for you to get home to start texting you.

Dean (22:10): I don’t know what I did, but I’m so sorry. Please let me fix it. Dean (22:10): I love you. So much. Dean (22:11): Just tell me what you need from me.

By the time you unlocked your front door twenty minutes later, your chat history with him looked like a wall of messages.

You stared at your phone screen, the words blurring together through another wave of tears. You wanted to reply. You were going to reply. But how could you? What could you say that would make any sense? That would justify this?

You crawled into bed and immediately pressed your face into the pillow to muffle the sounds of your sobs. Your body convulsed as you cried harder, the weight of everything hitting you at once.

You cried until exhaustion finally took over your body. You cried yourself to sleep without even realising it.  

The next morning, you woke up with a splitting headache and dry throat. Memories of last night came flooding back to you. You were supposed to respond to Dean’s messages, at least to let him know you’d gotten back safely. Instead, he would have seen that you left him on read.

You hurriedly reached for your phone, your heart dropping into your stomach as you saw he had continued to send messages throughout the night.

Dean (02:14): Still haven’t heard from you. Getting worried. Please just let me know you’re safe.

Dean (03:45): I know you asked for space but I cannot sleep until I know you’re okay.

Dean (06:11): I’m coming over.

The last message was sent barely half an hour ago. You jumped out of bed and ran into the bathroom to brush your teeth and try to make yourself look presentable. Your eyes were bloodshot from the tears; you hadn’t even washed the make-up from your face last night.

A heavy, frantic, pounding echoed from your front door. Your mind raced again, given the timing of his texts, you doubted if he had even slept. He should not have been behind the wheel. And how fast did he have to drive to get to you in this time?

You hurriedly wrapped your dressing gown around yourself and padded down the hallway. When you opened the door, the sight of Dean stopped the breath in your lungs.

He looked completely wrecked. He had changed from since the party; but his clothes were already wrinkled. His usually stupidly perfect hair was sticking up in all directions, as if he’d spent all night running his fingers through it. There were dark shadows under his bloodshot eyes. He really hadn’t slept.

A shuddering breath escaped his lips as he saw you. “Thank God.”

Before you could say a word, he stepped across the threshold, closed the door, and pulled you into his arms. He held you so tightly against his chest that you could feel the frantic thumping of his heart. He was trembling.

“You terrified me,” he muttered, his grip tightening. “You told me you needed space from me, didn’t text or answer my calls. I thought you got into an accident, I thought someone hurt you. But then I saw you were reading my messages and… I thought… I thought you were leaving me.”

The rational part of your brain roared back to life, screaming at you to see how much he loved you. He wasn’t thinking about Allie or anyone else. He was falling apart because he thought he had lost you.

“Dean, I’m so sorry,” you whispered, your own voice cracking as you wrapped your arms around his neck. “I’m soso sorry, I’m okay.”

He pulled back just enough to look at your face, his hands moving up to cup your cheeks. His thumbs gentle wiped away a stray tear that you hadn’t even noticed had fallen.

“Are you leaving me?” he asked, voice fragile.

“No,” you sighed, leaning into his touch. “Not if you don’t want to leave me.”

“Of course I don’t, babe. But can you please just talk to me?” he pleaded, his blue eyes searching yours with pure desperation. “Please, I’m losing my mind here.”

He would never admit it to anyone else, but he was a deeply emotional man. He carried the weight of the world on his shoulders while acting like nothing fazed him. But, in front of you, that act was dropped.

You looked down, unable to hold the weight of the guilt you felt. Swallowing hard, the truth came tumbling out of you, tasting bitter and heavy on your tongue.

“I… I saw you talking to Allie and my brain just… it just went haywire. It’s great that you have a healthy relationship with your ex, it just speaks to the kind of man you are but…I… I just...” Your fingers bunched into the fabric of his top as your words trailed off.

He stayed silent, patiently giving you the time you needed to collect your thoughts.  

“She’s amazing and she looks better than I do… physically.” Your voice lowered, it was so embarrassing admitting this out loud to him. No matter how much you trusted him with your feelings. “I just worry that you’re going to wake up one day and realise what you lost.”

Dean let out a sharp, pained, breath, his jaw tightening. Before he could interrupt, you pressed a hand to his chest. “Let me finish, please.”

He gave you a tight, silent nod, urging you continue.

“I know it’s stupid, I know it isn’t a problem that you created, Dean. It’s an insecurity inside of me. I just… yeah, I guess I just have more of a mountain to climb than I thought. I don’t want to leave you, but I’d understand if you wanted to leave me so you don’t have to deal with all of this.”

Dean was quiet for a long moment. When you looked up at him, he didn’t look angry at your explanation or relieved that you had given him an out from this relationship.

“Okay,” he said finally. His voice was steady. “Let me be clear. There is no comparison between you and Allie. She’s my past, which I cherish, but you are my present, and my future. Understand?”

You nod your head, you needed to hear that.

“I have no reason to leave you. No desire to leave you,” he continued. “I’ll admit, I’m not a big fan of the radio silence last night, but I love you. I love us. Part of that love means that we go through some tougher times together, and you are completely insane if you think that I’m leaving you to climb any part of a mountain alone.”

You didn’t know what to say, a thick knot of emotion blocking your throat. Instead of trying to speak, you wrapped your arms around his neck to pull him down to you. Dean didn’t hesitate; he met you halfway as you pressed your lips to his in a kiss. The softness of the kiss showed all the words you wanted to say.

“Thank you,” you mumbled against his mouth before kissing him again.

“I mean it, we’ll work through anything together,” he vowed, his hands sliding down over your curves to rest securely on your hips. “What do you need from me? How can I be better at supporting you?”

You let out the breath that you felt like you’d been holding since last night, the tension finally melting out of your muscles. “Just… please be patient with me while I fight my way back to reality, I guess.”

Dean nodded instantly, his expression serious. “Done.”

“Thank you,” you whispered, leaning up to press a kiss to his jaw. “Thank you for not giving up on me.”

“Never. Now,” he murmured, a lazy grin spreading across his face as he looked at you. “Seeing as neither of us slept well last night, I highly suggest we go catch up on some lost sleep.”

He leaned in close, his lips brushing against your ear as he dropped his voice to a suggestive whisper. “And once we’re rested, I am going to show you, very slowly, exactly how obsessed I am with you and your beautiful body. Does that sound good?”

You nodded, a genuine smile finally breaking across your face.

“Good,” he said. Without another word, he hooked his arms under your thighs, picking you up effortlessly and carrying you down the hall into your bedroom.

[libbyqypu]

needed this

[allywritesmanythings]

The Bet (G. Graham) 18+

Summary; A reclusive college student who despises hockey has her quiet world upended by Garrett Graham, the persistent captain of Briar University's hockey team.

You had mastered the art of staying invisible at Briar University. Books were your shield, thick novels and half-finished short stories that let you disappear into worlds far removed from the loud, sweaty chaos of college hockey. You hated the sport. The constant yelling, the aggressive checks, the overinflated egos of the players who acted like gods on campus. Your journalism elective forced you to attend a handful of games each semester, but you spent most of those nights with a book open on your lap, only glancing up when the crowd roared.

Garrett Graham was the embodiment of everything you avoided. Captain of the Briar hockey team, tall and broad-shouldered with messy dark hair, warm brown eyes, and a cocky grin that could disarm most people. He thrived on attention. You thrived on silence.

The first time he tried to change that was at the Hockey house after a big win. The party was loud, the air thick with beer and victory. You stood near the kitchen with a lukewarm soda, counting down the minutes until you could slip away. Victoria had dragged you there, then vanished with her boyfriend.

Garrett appeared beside you, leaning against the counter like he belonged everywhere. “Hey. You’re the girl who’s always reading in the stands. What’s the book tonight?”

You gave him a flat stare. “Nothing that requires conversation with a hockey player.” You turned on your heel and walked away without waiting for a reply.

He didn’t follow immediately, but that wasn’t the end.

In the weeks that followed, Garrett Graham proved annoyingly persistent. He showed up at the library during your usual study hours, sliding into the chair across from you with coffee and snacks. “Figured the brain needs fuel.”

You packed your bag and left without a word.

Somehow, he never explained how he got your number. The texts started coming: Coffee sometime? No hockey talk if you hate it. Saw that new release you might like in the campus bookstore. You left every message on read and never replied. He was a challenge to him, nothing more. You had come to Briar to escape your past, not collect new complications.

The campus had transformed overnight into a ghost town by the time Thanksgiving break came. It had emptied the dorms and lecture halls, leaving behind only the occasional echo of a distant door or the low hum of vending machines in abandoned common areas. Most students had piled into cars and buses, heading home for turkey dinners and family chaos. You stayed, grateful for the rare silence that wrapped around you like a weighted blanket. No parties thumping through the walls. No frantic study groups crowding the library. Just uninterrupted hours at your desk, fingers flying across the keyboard as your novel finally began to take shape.

That peace shattered one evening when you made the mistake of walking to the corner store for snacks and a fresh notebook. The sky had been deceptively clear when you left, but by the time you stepped outside with your plastic bag rustling in the wind, the storm hit like an ambush. Rain poured down in heavy, relentless sheets, soaking through your jacket in seconds. Thunder rumbled overhead, and the wind whipped stinging droplets into your face. Your phone, already on its last fifteen percent, buzzed weakly in your pocket. The walk back to the dorms felt endless,cold water sloshing in your sneakers, visibility reduced to blurry streaks of streetlights.

You knew Garrett had stayed behind. Something about extra training sessions with the team, or maybe he just didn’t have anywhere pressing to be. Swallowing the last remnants of your pride, you huddled under a flickering awning near the quad and texted him: *Caught in the rain near the quad. Ride?*

His reply came almost instantly: *On my way. Stay under the awning.*

True to his word, his beat-up black truck rumbled up ten minutes later, headlights cutting through the downpour. Garrett jumped out without hesitation, shrugging off his hoodie and draping it over your shoulders before you could protest. The fabric was warm from his body heat, smelling faintly of his soap and the faint trace of the gym. “Get in,” he said, voice steady over the roar of the rain. “You’re freezing.”

You climbed into the passenger seat, teeth chattering, water dripping onto the worn leather. He cranked the heat and didn’t ask questions, just drove with one hand on the wheel and the other occasionally adjusting the vents toward you. The Off Campus house,usually loud with teammates and spilled beer,loomed dark and quiet when you pulled up. Only a few lights glowed from the windows.

That first night stretched into the rest of the break. Your silent dorm room, once a sanctuary, started to feel too empty. The storm knocked out power for a few hours, and the thought of sitting alone in the dark with a dead phone and a half-finished chapter made your skin crawl. So you ended up back at the house. Garrett didn’t make a big deal of it. He just nodded when you showed up at the door the next morning with your laptop bag, like he’d been expecting you.

The days blurred into a strange, quiet rhythm. Mornings found you at the scarred kitchen table, typing away while weak winter sunlight filtered through the blinds. Garrett moved around you like a shadow,never intrusive, but always present. He cooked simple meals: scrambled eggs with whatever was left in the fridge, grilled cheese sandwiches pressed golden in a cast-iron pan, pots of chili that simmered for hours and filled the house with warmth. “Figured you might be hungry,” he’d say, sliding a plate your way. You’d mutter a thanks and keep your eyes on the screen, offering short, distant answers when he tried to draw you out.

One afternoon, he paused the old action movie he’d put on in the living room. “What’s your story about, anyway? You’ve been glued to that thing for days.”

You shrugged, fingers pausing on the keys. “Just… people figuring things out. Messy relationships. Bad decisions.”

He leaned back against the couch, long legs stretched out, watching you with that quiet intensity that always made your chest tighten. “Sounds real.”

You gave a noncommittal hum and returned to typing, but you could feel his gaze lingering. He never pushed too hard. If you wanted space, he gave it,retreating to the basement for weights or disappearing to run errands. Yet whenever you glanced up, he was there: offering a fresh mug of coffee, tossing you an extra blanket when the house grew chilly at night, or silently refilling your water glass without comment.

His presence was constant. Warm. Steady in a way that unsettled you more than any storm. You’d built walls for a reason,past hurts, self-preservation, the fear that letting someone in meant losing the fragile control you’d clawed back. But in the empty house, with rain pattering against the windows and the faint scent of his hoodie still clinging to your shoulders, those walls felt thinner than before.

By the time students started trickling back to campus, the break had shifted something between you. Not dramatically. Not with grand declarations. Just small fractures in the distance you tried to maintain: a shared laugh over a burnt batch of cookies, a late-night conversation about nothing and everything while the TV flickered low. You still kept him at arm’s length most days. But the quiet had a way of revealing truths, and Garrett’s steady warmth was becoming harder to ignore.

The first time you went to one of Garrett’s games, it was by choice. You’d told yourself it was just curiosity,that stubborn pull you couldn’t ignore after all the quiet moments in the library and the little notes he’d started leaving in your books. You climbed into the stands with your paperback tucked under your arm, still muttering under your breath about how barbaric hockey looked, but you chose a seat with a clear view of the ice anyway.

During warm-ups, his gaze found you immediately.

Garrett skated past the glass, helmet under one arm, dark hair messy. That cocky grin faltered for half a second when he spotted you. He lifted his hand in a small, deliberate wave. You waved back before you could stop yourself, a quick flutter of fingers that felt like the start of something dangerous.

That fragile spark didn’t last the night.

You were walking back to your dorm from the showers, hair still damp and skin warm from the steam, when you spotted him,your stepdad,storming up the path with that all-too-familiar furious stride. Panic surged through you. You hurried inside, fumbled your key into the lock, and slipped into your room just as his heavy footsteps thundered closer.

You barely had the door shut before you were dialing Garrett with shaking fingers.

“Garrett,” you whispered the second he answered, voice tight with fear. “I need your help. He’s..,”

The door slammed open behind you. Your stepdad was hot on your heels, shoving his way inside before you could finish the sentence. He snatched the phone from your hand and hurled it against the wall, where it shattered on impact.

“You think you can just hide from your family?” he snarled, towering over you, face flushed with rage. “Your mother was a mess all Thanksgiving. Crying in the kitchen because her ungrateful daughter couldn’t be bothered to show up. After everything we’ve done for you? After I put a roof over your head all these years?”

He backed you toward the wall, his voice rising with every step. “You think running off to this fancy school makes you better than us? You owe her. You owe me. I’m not letting you embarrass her again by pretending we don’t exist.”

His hand cracked across your cheek with a sharp sting that bloomed into burning heat. You tasted blood where your lip split. He grabbed your arm, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, shaking you as he continued the tirade. “She defended us every time, you know that? Protected this family and this is how you repay her,disappearing for the holidays like we’re nothing? You’re selfish, just like your worthless father was!”

You tried to pull away, heart hammering. “Stop. Please, just leave me alone!”

But he shoved you harder against the wall, his breath hot and angry on your face. “You don’t get to tell me what to do, girl. Not after all the trouble you’ve caused this family.”

The door burst open with a crash.

Garrett stormed in, eyes blazing with lethal fury. “Get the fuck away from her!”

In seconds, Garrett had your stepdad by the collar, ripping him off you and shoving him backward into the hallway with raw, powerful force. “Touch her again and I’ll make sure you regret it.”

Your stepdad screamed the whole time: “She’s my daughter! You have no right to interfere in family business! This is none of your concern!”

The RA must have heard the commotion and called campus security. Garrett stayed planted like a shield between you and the chaos, fists clenched at his sides, until officers arrived and dragged your stepdad off campus. Hours later, the school issued a permanent trespass notice. He was banned from Briar grounds.

When the hallway finally fell quiet, Garrett turned to you. His jaw tightened as he gently tilted your chin toward the light, eyes darkening at the fresh handprint blooming across your cheek and the blood on your lip. “Jesus… are you okay?”

You were still trembling, the broken door hanging crooked on its hinges, your shattered phone on the floor. “I can’t stay here,” you whispered. “Not tonight. I don’t feel safe in this dorm anymore. Can we… can we go to your house? To your room?”

Garrett didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. Of course. Grab whatever you need. Let’s get you out of here.”

He guided you through the quiet streets with a protective arm around your shoulders, his presence steady and warm against the lingering chill of fear. At the hockey house, he led you straight to his room and closed the door behind you both. You sat on the edge of his bed in comfortable silence at first, the adrenaline slowly fading.

Then Garrett opened up first, his voice low and rough.

“My dad… he’s a real piece of work,” he said, staring at the floor. “He had hit me when he was pissed off or disappointed, which is pretty much all the time. Nothing I ever do is good enough unless it’s on the ice. It messes with your head, you know? Makes you feel like you’re never enough.”

He swallowed hard before continuing. “And my mom… she had cancer for years. She wanted to leave him, take me with her and start over somewhere safe. But the disease moved too fast. She passed before she could get us out.”

The confessions hung between you, heavy but somehow lighter once shared. His vulnerability gave you the courage to speak.

“My real dad died when I was six,” you said softly, voice cracking. “It was a freak hiking accident,a sudden storm in the mountains, a slick trail, and a boulder came loose and took him over the edge. Mom remarried fast. She said she needed the money and stability. But the man she brought home was a monster.”

You wiped at your eyes as the words kept coming. “The abuse started small and just got worse,for me and for her. Whenever CPS showed up, she lied through her teeth. Acted like everything was perfect while I hid bruises under long sleeves. Eventually the school and social workers stopped believing me. I just… I learned to endure. To bide my time until I could get out.”

You took a shaky breath. “I chose Briar because it’s two full days of driving away from that house. And it has one of the best creative writing programs. I came here to finally breathe.”

Garrett listened without interrupting, his hand steady and warm on your shoulder. When your voice cracked and the tears started falling, he wiped them away with the pad of his thumb, so gently it made your chest ache. “Hey… you’re safe now. I’ve got you.”

He pulled you closer.

You ended up watching half a season of a ridiculous comedy on his laptop, the blue glow the only light in the room, trading quiet comments and small laughs until you both drifted off.

You woke in the early morning wrapped tightly in his arms, his chest rising and falling steadily against your back. For the first time in years, you felt safe,bone-deep, soul-settling safe.

You started showing up at games voluntarily. You still sat with your book open in your lap, still muttered about hating hockey under your breath, and you never wore his jersey. But you were there. Garrett noticed every single time. During warm-ups, his gaze would lock on you instantly. That trademark cocky smile would soften, just a fraction, like a secret meant only for you.

You began talking to him,really talking. Texts turned into long conversations. Walks across campus where your shoulders brushed. Late nights where he listened to you read passages from the stories you were writing, his quiet attention more validating than any grade.

The walls you’d built so carefully were crumbling, and for once, you weren’t terrified of what lay on the other side.

A couple weeks later, Garrett invited you to a party at the Hockey house. The old Victorian-style frat house was packed wall-to-wall with bodies, the air thick and warm with the mingled scents of cheap beer, sweat, spilled vodka, and a faint haze of marijuana drifting in from the backyard. Bass-heavy music thumped through the speakers, vibrating the wooden floors and rattling the red solo cups scattered everywhere. The lights were kept deliberately low,string lights draped across the ceiling and a few flickering lamps creating pockets of intimate shadow amid the chaos. For the first time, you let yourself fully relax around him, the usual nerves and overthinking melting away under the influence of the atmosphere and the drinks you’d shared earlier. No walls, no hesitation.

You danced together right in the middle of the crowded living room, which had been cleared into a makeshift dance floor. At first you felt awkward, self-conscious about your movements, hyper-aware of every sway of your hips and the way your body brushed against his. But Garrett was natural, confident, smooth, and patient. His strong hands found your waist, fingers splaying possessively across your lower back, warm through the thin fabric of your top. He pulled you closer until your bodies pressed together, moving in sync to the rhythm. Your chests brushed with every sway, his thigh slipping between yours, the heat of him making your pulse race. The tension that had been building between you for months,stolen glances, lingering touches, late-night texts,finally snapped like a live wire.

He kissed you right there on the dance floor, deep and consuming, full of all the unspoken desire that had simmered for so long. His mouth was hot and demanding, lips soft yet insistent as they captured yours. His tongue slid against yours in a hungry dance, tasting faintly of beer and mint, while one hand cupped the back of your neck to tilt your head just right. The other gripped your hip tighter, pulling you flush against the growing hardness in his jeans. The kiss grew messier, more desperate,teeth grazing lips, soft moans swallowed by the music. When he finally pulled back, his eyes were dark with raw lust, pupils blown wide, chest heaving. His voice was low and rough against your ear: “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that.” You whispered back, breathless, “Upstairs.”

The walk to his room felt endless and electric, his hand firm and possessive in yours as he led you through the throng of sweaty bodies and up the creaky wooden stairs. Couples made out in corners, laughter and shouts echoed from other rooms, but everything faded into background noise. The second the door to his bedroom clicked shut behind you, muffling the party into a distant heartbeat, Garrett was on you. He backed you against the wall with a low, hungry growl, his tall frame pressing flush against yours so you could feel every hard inch of him,the firm muscles of his chest, the rapid thud of his heart, and the thick ridge of his arousal grinding against your belly.

His hands roamed everywhere, sliding under your shirt, tracing your ribs, thumbs brushing teasingly along the undersides of your breasts. He took off your shirt slowly, almost reverently and worshipping every inch of newly exposed skin with his mouth. He kissed and nipped at your neck, sucking lightly at the sensitive pulse point until you shivered and arched into him. His lips moved to the spot just beneath your ear, then down your collarbone, leaving a trail of heat. When he reached your breasts, he lingered, cupping them in his large hands, sucking one nipple into his mouth while rolling the other between his fingers. His tongue swirled and teeth grazed until they were tight, aching peaks. Lower still, he dropped to his knees, kissing across your stomach, hips, and inner thighs, his hot breath teasing your core as he hooked his fingers into your pants and panties and slowly dragged them down your legs.

“Been dying to taste you,” he murmured, voice rough with need, eyes locked on yours as he spread your thighs wide with strong, calloused hands. He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your mound before his tongue traced your slick folds slowly at first, savoring every drop of your arousal. Then he grew bolder,lapping broad and flat, sucking your swollen clit between his lips, circling it with perfect, relentless pressure that made your hips jerk. A deep groan vibrated through your core as he devoured you, two thick fingers sliding into your soaked heat, curling expertly against that spongy spot inside. Your legs shook uncontrollably; one hand fisted tight in his messy hair, the other braced against the wall for support. You ground against his face shamelessly, chasing the pleasure as it built fast and overwhelming. He added a third finger, sucking harder on your clit, and you came with a sharp, broken cry of his name. Your thighs clamped around his head, release flooding his tongue and chin while he kept licking and sucking you through every pulsing aftershock, drawing it out until you were whimpering, oversensitive, and barely able to stand.

“Fuck, you taste so fucking good,” he murmured, lips glistening as he stood up and kissed you deeply. You tasted yourself on his tongue,tangy and sweet, as the kiss turned messy and desperate, tongues tangling. Your hands roamed down his still-clothed chest, feeling the hard planes of muscle and the heat radiating off him. You reached for his belt, unbuckling it with eager fingers before shoving his jeans and boxers down his hips in one motion. His thick, heavy cock sprang free, veined and throbbing, the head flushed dark and already leaking precum. As you sank to your knees in front of him, Garrett yanked his shirt off over his head, revealing his toned chest and abs, and tossed it aside. You stroked the velvety length with one hand, feeling it twitch hot and heavy in your grip, then leaned in and wrapped your lips around the swollen head. Your tongue swirled around the tip, tasting the salty bead of precum, before you took him deeper, sucking and hollowing your cheeks.

Garrett hissed sharply, one hand gently cupping the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair, while the other braced against the wall. “Shit, baby… your mouth feels incredible. Just like that,fuck, you’re so good.” You bobbed your head, taking more of him with each pass, relaxing your throat to swallow around his girth. Saliva dripped down your chin as you worked him with your hand and mouth in rhythm, eyes watering but locked upward on his hooded, lust-drunk gaze. His hips bucked subtly, low groans and filthy praises spilling from him: “God, look at you… so pretty with my cock in your mouth. You’re gonna make me lose it if you keep that up.” His thighs tensed, breaths coming in harsh pants, muscles flexing under your free hand on his abs, until he gently pulled you up with a strained chuckle, voice wrecked. “I need to be inside you. Now. Can’t wait any longer.”

He rolled on a condom with practiced ease, the latex stretching snugly over his glistening, throbbing length. Then he lifted you effortlessly, hands gripping your ass as he carried you to the bed and laid you down on the rumpled sheets that smelled like him,clean laundry and masculine spice. Hovering over you, eyes locked on yours, he pushed into you slowly at first, inch by thick inch, letting you adjust to his size. Your walls stretched deliciously around him, the fullness overwhelming and perfect as every ridge and vein dragged against your sensitive inner walls. You gasped, nails digging into his shoulders. Once buried to the hilt, balls-deep and pressed tight against your clit, he started thrusting,deep, powerful strokes that had the old bed creaking rhythmically beneath you. Skin slapped wetly against skin, the obscene sounds of sex mixing with your moans and his grunts.

“That’s it, baby. So fucking tight for me,” he growled, voice thick with lust, sweat beading on his forehead and dripping onto your chest. His cocky words mixed with raw, genuine praise as he drove into you harder: “You feel perfect,so wet, so hot, squeezing me like that. Been wanting this for so long… dreaming about fucking you just like this every damn night.” He shifted angles, hooking one of your legs over his shoulder to hit that sweet spot inside you with every thrust. The new depth made stars burst behind your eyes. Your nails raked down his back, leaving red trails as another orgasm built fast and intense, coiling tighter in your core. It crashed over you suddenly,your whole body shuddering, walls clenching rhythmically around his cock as you came hard with a broken moan of his name.

Garrett followed soon after, burying his face in the crook of your neck with a deep, guttural groan. His hips stuttered through the last powerful thrusts as he spilled hard into the condom, pulsing inside you. You both collapsed in a sweaty, satisfied heap, hearts pounding in sync, breaths mingling. After a few moments of lazy recovery, Garrett pulled out carefully, tied off the condom and disposed of it. He disappeared into the attached bathroom for a minute and returned with a warm, damp washcloth. With gentle, tender strokes, he cleaned between your thighs, wiping away the slick mess of your combined arousal while murmuring soft praises. “You were perfect,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh.

Once you were clean, he grabbed his discarded t-shirt from the floor and helped you slip it on. The fabric was soft and warm from his body, falling loosely around your thighs and carrying his scent. He pulled on a pair of clean boxers for himself, then climbed back into bed and drew you close. His arm draped heavy and protective around your waist, pulling you against his chest. He pressed lazy, tender kisses along your shoulder and neck, murmuring, “Stay like this with me.” The distant thump of music faded into background noise as you drifted off to sleep, warm, safe, utterly spent, and content in his embrace. The scent of sex, sweat, and his shirt wrapped around you like a comforting haze.

The next morning, golden sunlight slipped through the half-drawn curtains, casting warm, lazy stripes across the rumpled sheets. You stirred slowly, the faint ache in your muscles a quiet reminder of the night before. His jersey lay draped over the back of the wooden chair in the corner, the dark fabric looking almost intimate in the soft light,like a piece of him had chosen to stay behind even after he’d slipped out before dawn.

Your phone buzzed on the nightstand, pulling you fully awake. You reached for it, squinting at the screen. A text from him, sent just twenty minutes earlier:

*Hey… I had to head out for early practice, didn’t want to wake you. I’d love it if you wore my jersey to tonight’s game. No pressure at all. Just the thought of seeing you in it makes me smile like an idiot. Miss you already.*

You didn’t reply right away. Instead, a small, traitorous smile tugged at the corner of your lips as you read it twice. The butterflies in your stomach felt new,nervous, but not unwelcome. You set the phone down and swung your legs over the edge of the bed, padding across the cool floor to the chair.

The jersey was heavier than you expected, the fabric soft from countless washes but still carrying the unmistakable scent of him: clean laundry detergent mixed with a hint of his woodsy cologne and that faint trace of sweat from yesterday’s game. You lifted it to your face for a second, breathing it in before you could stop yourself. Then, with a quiet laugh at your own impulsiveness, you pulled it on over your soft sweater. The sleeves hung past your wrists, the hem brushing mid-thigh like an oversized dress. It swallowed you in the best way, enveloping you in warmth that had nothing to do with the material.

You caught your reflection in the mirror and paused. The number on the back, his name stitched above it in bold letters,it looked right. Not like you were trying too hard, but like you were finally letting yourself lean into this. Into him.

For the first time, the idea of sitting in the stands tonight didn’t fill you with dread or that familiar knot of anxiety. No more counting down the minutes until you could leave, no more forcing polite smiles while the crowd roared around you. Instead, there was a quiet thrill building in your chest,the anticipation of locking eyes with him across the court, of him spotting you in his jersey and knowing exactly what it meant.

You glanced back at your phone, still silent, and typed out a quick reply before you could overthink it:

See you tonight.

You hit send, the smile on your face growing as you imagined his reaction on the court, that boyish grin breaking through his focused game face. Whatever this was between you, it was starting to feel less like a risk and more like something worth showing up for.

The arena lights blazed overhead as you found your seat,deliberately close to the ice, a few rows behind the home team’s bench. The jersey felt like armor and a secret all at once, the oversized fabric brushing against your thighs every time you shifted. Your heart hammered with a mix of nerves and quiet excitement. You’d never sat this close before.

Warm-ups were already underway when Logan spotted you first. He was mid-stride, stick tapping the ice, when his gaze snagged on you. His eyes widened comically. He immediately skated over and nudged Garrett hard in the ribs with his elbow.

Garrett turned, stick pausing mid-motion as he followed Logan’s gesture. The moment his eyes landed on you,wearing his name and number across your back,his entire face transformed. A slow, genuine smile broke across his lips, the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made something deep in your chest tighten with warmth. He looked almost dazed, like he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. For a second, the arena noise faded, and it felt like it was just the two of you.

Then the rest of the team noticed. A few guys patted Garrett on the back, chirping and laughing as they skated past. One called out something you couldn’t quite hear over the crowd, but Garrett just shook his head, grinning wider, cheeks faintly flushed under his helmet. He lifted his gloved hand in a small wave toward you. You waved back, cheeks burning, unable to stop the smile tugging at your own lips.

Briar crushed the opposing team in a dominant performance. Garrett played like a man on fire,fast, focused, and unstoppable. Every time he glanced toward your section, that same soft smile flickered across his face. By the final buzzer, the home crowd was roaring, and you found yourself cheering right along with them.

The after-party was loud and chaotic, the kind of celebration that spilled from the team house into the backyard. Music thumped through the walls, red Solo cups littered every surface, and the air smelled like cheap beer, pizza, and victory.

You were standing near the kitchen, nursing a drink and waiting for Garrett to finish showering and changing, when she appeared,a tall, blonde puck bunny with sharp eyes and a smirk that instantly set you on edge.

“Cute jersey,” she said, voice sugary but laced with venom. She looked you up and down slowly. “Especially on you. You know it was all a bet, right?”

Your stomach dropped like a stone.

“What?”

“The guys bet Garrett he couldn’t get the bookish ice princess to wear his jersey,” she continued, clearly enjoying herself. “You know,the quiet one who never smiles at the games. Guess he finally won. Congrats, I suppose.”

The room tilted. The music suddenly felt too loud, the lights too bright. You pushed past her without another word, heart pounding in your ears as you searched for Garrett. He was just stepping into the living room, hair still damp, laughing at something one of his teammates said,until he saw your face.

You grabbed his wrist and pulled him into a quieter hallway, ignoring the curious glances.

“Tell me it wasn’t a bet,” you said, voice shaking.

Garrett froze. Guilt flashed raw across his features, his easy smile vanishing instantly. He ran a hand through his hair, looking suddenly sick.

“It… started that way,” he admitted, voice low. “At the first party. The guys were chirping me, saying I couldn’t crack the ice princess. But I swear to you,it stopped being about the bet weeks ago. I fell for you. For real. The way you talk about your books, how you opened up about your family, the way you look at me like I actually matter… none of that was fake.”

The betrayal sliced through you like a blade. All those quiet moments, the late-night texts, the way he’d listened when you told him things you’d never told anyone else,it all felt poisoned now.

“I trusted you,” you whispered, tears burning at the back of your eyes. “I opened up to you about my family. About everything. And you were laughing about it with your teammates?”

“I wasn’t,” He reached for you, but you stepped back.

“Don’t.” Your voice cracked. “We’re done. Don’t call me. Don’t text me. Just… leave me alone.”

You turned and walked away before he could say anything else, pushing through the crowded house and out into the cool night air. The jersey that had felt so warm and right earlier now hung heavy on your shoulders, like a weight you couldn’t wait to shed.

Behind you, you heard him call your name once, raw and desperate, but you didn’t look back.

The next two weeks were hell.

Your phone became a weapon. It buzzed constantly with messages from your mother, your stepdad’s circle of influential friends, and distant relatives who had somehow caught wind of the “drama.” The accusations were vicious: You’re ruining our reputation. How could you embarrass the family like this? Some were outright threats,veiled warnings about cutting you off financially, pulling strings at your university, or making sure you’d never feel welcome at home again. The trespassing incident and the very public fallout had snowballed into something ugly.

You spiraled.

Depression wrapped around you like heavy chains, dragging you down until even getting out of bed felt impossible. You cried every other night in the dim light of your dorm room, curled under your blankets with your knees to your chest, convinced you’d finally let someone in only to become the punchline of a locker-room joke. Food lost its taste; you barely ate more than a few bites a day. Writing,the one thing that had always been your escape,felt impossible. The words wouldn’t come. Every time you opened your laptop, all you saw was Garrett’s smile, the jersey, and the cruel smirk of that puck bunny.

You replayed every moment in your head until it poisoned you.

Garrett wasn’t doing much better.

The change in him was obvious to anyone who watched the games. Where he used to play with sharp focus and controlled aggression, now he was reckless,borderline self-destructive. He threw his body into hits that weren’t necessary, chasing checks that left him sprawled on the ice. He started fights over the smallest chirps, dropping gloves at the slightest provocation. Stupid penalties piled up, costing the team momentum and sometimes even goals.

One night he took a brutal high stick to the face,black eye, split lip, and a headache that kept him off the ice for the next practice. Another game saw him slammed hard into the boards; he came up limping with badly bruised ribs and his left arm swollen and purple from wrist to elbow. He could barely grip his stick properly afterward, but he refused to sit out. The coaches were pissed. The trainers hovered. His teammates exchanged worried glances every time he stormed back to the bench.

In the locker room, the vibe had shifted. The usual banter was subdued. Logan tried pulling him aside more than once, clapping a hand on his shoulder and saying, “Man, you gotta get your head straight. This isn’t you.” Dean had been more direct, practically cornering him after a loss: “She’s not answering your texts because you fucked up, but destroying yourself isn’t going to fix it.”

Garrett just shut down. Jaw tight, eyes distant, he’d shrug them off with a muttered “I’m fine” before shoving his gear into his bag and leaving. He barely slept. He stopped showing up to team dinners. The easy, cocky grin that used to light up his face was gone, replaced by a hollow, haunted look. The guys could see it clearly: Garrett was miserable, and the ice had become the only place he let any of that pain out,violently.

One snowy evening, a sharp knock sounded on your dorm door.

You opened it to find Logan and Dean standing there, both looking rumpled and serious, rainwater dripping from their hoodies onto the hallway floor. Logan shifted uncomfortably, hands shoved in his pockets, while Dean gave you a small, apologetic nod.

“Look,” Logan started, voice low so it wouldn’t carry down the hall, “we know what that puck bunny said to you at the party. It was a stupid, immature bet at the very beginning,just locker-room bullshit to get under Garrett’s skin. The guys were chirping at him, saying there was no way he could get the quiet, bookish girl who always looked like she hated being there to wear his jersey. It was never supposed to go anywhere.”

Dean jumped in, his tone more earnest. “But it changed, fast. Garrett fell for you,hard. He stopped talking about the bet after the first couple weeks. We all saw it. The way he lit up when your name came up, how he’d bail on us to go study with you or sit in the rain just to talk. He’s been a wreck since you walked away. Barely eating, snapping at everyone, playing like he’s trying to get himself hurt on purpose. He’s got bruises on top of bruises. We’re worried he’s going to get seriously injured if this keeps up.”

Logan rubbed the back of his neck. “He needs you. Not just because you’re good for him,you make him better. Calmer. Focused. He talks about you like you’re the only real thing in his life right now. The stories you told him, the way you see through all the hockey crap… he’s never had that with anyone else. And honestly? I think you need him too. We’ve never seen him like this over a girl.”

They both fell quiet, watching you with genuine concern.

Your throat tightened painfully. The words hit harder than you wanted to admit,confirmation that the misery wasn’t one-sided. Still, the hurt ran too deep. Your voice came out flat and exhausted. “No.”

You shut the door in their faces before either could say another word, leaning your back against the cool wood as fresh tears stung your eyes and your chest ached with everything you refused to let out.

---

Still, you went to the next game.

You told yourself it was for closure,that you just needed to see him one last time to finally let go. You sat high in the back rows, hidden in the shadows of the arena, hood up and arms wrapped around yourself. The jersey was underneath your sweatshirt again, a secret you couldn’t quite bring yourself to abandon.

Garrett played like a man possessed,fierce, explosive, almost feral. He dominated the ice until midway through the second period when a nasty chirp from an opposing player pushed him over the edge. Gloves dropped. Punches flew in a brutal, ugly fight. The crowd roared as fists connected. When the refs finally pulled them apart, Garrett was bleeding again, his face twisted in pain and fury. He was benched for the rest of the game and sent straight to the locker room.

Something deeper than logic pulled you after him.

The locker room was quiet and empty except for him. Gear was scattered across the floor where he’d thrown it in frustration. Garrett stood with his back to the door, shoulders heaving, jaw clenched so tight the muscle jumped. Tension radiated off every line of his body.

“Garrett?” you said softly.

He whipped around. The raw anger on his face drained instantly, replaced by shock and something painfully vulnerable when his eyes landed on you,standing there in his jersey, sleeves too long, his name and number 44 stretched across your chest.

“You… you’re here,” he breathed, voice cracking.

ou walked closer, heart hammering. Gently, you reached up and brushed your fingers over the fresh bruising blooming along his cheekbone. His skin was warm, slightly damp from the game.

“Logan and Dean came to my dorm,” you whispered. “They told me everything.”

You didn’t even finish the sentence.

Garrett closed the distance in a few strides, cupping your face with both hands as if you might vanish. His mouth crashed into yours,desperate, heavy, full of weeks of raw longing and misery. This wasn’t the careful first kiss from weeks ago or the heated one from the party. This was something deeper: relief, apology, and aching need all tangled together. His arms banded around you tightly, backing you gently into the corner of the room like he was terrified you’d disappear. The kiss tasted of salt, sweat, and unshed tears. His body trembled slightly against yours as he poured every bit of pain and hope into it.

When you finally broke apart, foreheads pressed together, breathing each other in, he whispered hoarsely, “It started as a stupid bet. I was an idiot. But every moment after,the rain, your stories, the way you looked at me when you finally let me in… that was real. All of it. I’m so fucking sorry.”

You clung to the front of his jersey, fingers twisting in the fabric, the same one you were still wearing. Tears slipped down your cheeks.

“I hate hockey,” you said, voice thick. “But I don’t hate you.”

A wet, relieved laugh escaped him as he pulled you even tighter against his chest, burying his face in your hair. “Good. Because I’m not letting you go again. Not ever.”

For the first time in two weeks, the chains around your chest loosened. In the quiet of the empty locker room, wrapped in his arms, it finally felt like you could breathe again.

In the weeks that followed, you rebuilt slowly,one careful piece at a time.

Garrett proved himself not with grand gestures or flowery words, but with quiet, consistent actions that slowly mended the cracks between you. He started showing up for late-night library dates, sliding into the seat across from you with two coffees in hand and a soft smile that never demanded anything. He’d sit there for hours, pretending to study while you wrote, content just to be near you. When your family’s messages grew vicious again,threats about finances, reputation, and pulling strings,he stepped in without hesitation. Using the school’s support services and a few well-placed calls from the athletic department, he helped you set firm boundaries. He stood beside you during difficult phone calls, his hand warm and steady on your back, reminding you that you weren’t facing them alone anymore.

Most importantly, he let you see the vulnerable side he hid from the rest of the world. Late at night, after games or practices, he’d talk about the pressure of expectations, the fear of failure, and how meeting you had cracked open something in him he hadn’t known was locked away. No more walls. No more easy hockey-guy charm to hide behind. Just Garrett,raw, real, and completely yours.

The team welcomed you without a single chirp or knowing smirk. Logan and Dean in particular treated you like you’d always been part of the group, saving you a seat at gatherings and making sure you felt included. The locker-room bet was never mentioned again; it was as if they’d all silently agreed to let the past stay in the past.

You still hated hockey, the noise, the violence, the toxic culture that had nearly broken you,but you loved the man who played it. Deeply. Fiercely. In a way that surprised you both.

One quiet night back at the Hockey house, the chaos of the season had finally settled into a peaceful lull. Rain pattered softly against the windows, and the living room was dimly lit by a single lamp and the glow of the fireplace. You were curled up on the oversized couch with a well-worn novel in your hands, the pages warm under your fingers. Garrett lay stretched out beside you, his head resting comfortably in your lap, eyes half-closed as he soaked in the rare moment of stillness.

Your free hand moved absently through his hair, fingers threading through the soft, dark strands in slow, soothing strokes. The jersey you wore, his, of course,hung loose around your frame, the sleeves pushed up to your elbows. It had become your favorite comfort item, a quiet symbol of how far you’d come.

Garrett tilted his head slightly, looking up at you with those warm, unguarded eyes. A small, contented smile played on his lips.

“Best bet I ever lost,” he murmured, voice low and rough with affection.

You glanced down at him, your own smile blooming slowly as warmth spread through your chest. You set the book aside and continued running your fingers through his hair, tracing the faint scar near his temple from one of those reckless fights.

“Next time,” you whispered, leaning down to brush a kiss against his forehead, “no bets. Just talk to me like you did.”

His arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer as he let out a soft, relieved chuckle. “Deal.”

In the quiet glow of the fire, with his heartbeat steady against you and the rain whispering outside, everything finally felt right. No more walls. No more doubts. Just the two of you,stronger for the scars, and ready for whatever came next.

[flannelshirts-and-fingerguns]

hey there! :) would you be willing to write first meeting between Garrett and reader's Dad? typical 'take care of my daughter' but with the added dynamic of Garrett going pro and maybe Dad is extra concerned that Garrett may break your heart one day?

I love this prompt so much!! I had soooo much fun with this. I really hope you enjoy reading as much as I enjoyed writing this.

What Do You Mean Your Dad’s A Navy Seal?!

Summary: You and Garrett have been dating a while and it’s finally time for your boyfriend to meet your dad. You are a certified daddies girl and unfortunately for Garrett your dad is a navy seal who hates ‘dumb jocks’.

Pairing: Garrett Graham x Reader

Warning: Tooth rotting fluff??

Note: Seriously I was kicking my feet and giggling as I wrote this. LMK if y’all want a part 2 ft. the protective older brothers! Hope y’all enjoy 🫶

The drive to Kentucky had been filled with a very specific, highly entertaining kind of tension. Garrett Graham—Briar University’s star hockey captain, a guy who routinely stared down 200-pound defensemen without blinking—was sweating through his shirt.

He gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles a little white, as he glanced over at you. You were humming along to the radio, your sundress bunched around your knees, looking like an absolute ray of sunshine.

"You okay, G?" you asked, your voice like sugar. "You're being awfully quiet."

Garrett swallowed hard, reaching over to squeeze your hand. "Just thinking, sweetheart. You, uh... you omitted a few details about your dad until we crossed the state line."

You giggled, a sound that usually melted him instantly, though right now his heart was hammering against his ribs. "I told you! He's just a big teddy bear."

"You told me he was a retired Navy SEAL yesterday," Garrett pointed out, his voice a pitch higher than usual. "Before that, he was just 'Dad who likes gardening.' There is a vast, terrifying gap between a gardener and a guy who knows thirty ways to dismantle a man with a toothpick."

"Oh, Daddy's a teddy bear!" you said earnestly, your big, innocent eyes shining. "He used to let me put glitter clips in his hair for tea parties when I was little. After Momma passed, he and the boys did everything they could to make sure I felt special. He’s just a big softie."

Garrett just laughs in disbelief and panic, “We sure have different definitions of ‘big softie’ Sweetheart!”

You lean over to kiss his cheek. "He’s going to love you."

Garrett swallowed hard. He loved your sweet, gentle nature—it was one of the million reasons he’d fallen completely head over heels for you over the last two years. You were literally studying to be a kindergarten teacher and currently worked as a teaching aid; you didn't have a mean bone in your body. But Garrett was acutely aware that your dad viewed you as their sacred, miraculous "Angel." You were the surprise baby girl they never thought they'd have.

When Garrett pulled the car into the gravel driveway of your childhood home, his stomach did a flip.

Standing on the porch was a big, burly man with heavily tattooed arms, a chest the size of a refrigerator, and an impressively terrifying scowl.

The moment the car doors opened, your face lit up. "Daddy!"

You flew out of the passenger seat and sprinted up the porch steps. In an instant, the terrifying scowl on the giant man’s face melted into pure, unadulterated adoration. He caught you easily, lifting you off your feet into a massive bear hug.

"There’s my Angel," your dad rumbled, his voice deep like thunder, burying his face in your hair. "Look at you. You get prettier every time I see you." To your dad, you weren’t a college student. You were still his miracle baby—the surprise girl born six years after your brothers, the one who used to force him into tiny chairs for tea parties and kiss your brothers' scraped knees.

"I missed you so much," you beamed, kissing his cheek before turning to pull Garrett into the bubble. "Daddy, this is Garrett."

Your dad stood up straight, his scowl snapping back into place like a steel trap as his sharp eyes locked onto Garrett. The tough-guy persona was laid on thick. He stepped down the porch stairs, towering over the hockey player.

"Mr. Y/L/N," Garrett said, stepping forward and extending a hand. "I'm Garrett. It’s an absolute honor to finally meet you, sir."

Your dad stared at Garrett’s hand for a three-second eternity before gripping it. He squeezed. Hard. Garrett didn't flinch, maintaining eye contact despite the literal vice grip on his fingers.

"Garrett," your dad growled, his voice dropping an octave. "Hear a lot about you. Let's get inside."

Dinner was a masterclass in psychological warfare. Your dad laid the tough-guy persona on thick.

Throughout the night, whenever you spoke about your job as a kindergarten teaching aid or your dream of having your own classroom, Garrett listened like you were explaining the secrets of the universe. He beamed with genuine pride, interjecting to tell your dad just how incredibly patient and wonderful you were with the kids.

Later while you were in the kitchen fetching the sweet tea, your dad leaned across the table, looming over Garrett.

"I know who you are, son," your dad said, his voice deadly quiet. "I know you're the big-shot hockey captain. I know you're going pro after graduation. And frankly, that concerns me."

Garrett held his ground, his shoulders square. "Why is that, sir?"

"Pro athletes live in a constant tabloid and media circus," your dad said bluntly. "Temptations, travel, trouble. My Angel is a sweet, innocent girl. She’s gentle. She sees the best in everyone. If you take her into that world and break her heart, Garrett... there isn't a corner of this earth you can hide from me. Understood?"

Garrett didn't blink. He looked your dad dead in the eye. "Sir, with all due respect, I don't care about any of that. I care about your daughter. I've loved her for two years, and my only goal in going pro is to build a life where she never has to worry about a single thing. I would rather take a puck to the face every day for the rest of my life than do anything to hurt her."

Your dad stared at him, analyzing every line of Garrett's face for a hint of a lie. Before he could respond, you walked back into the room, holding a pitcher of tea and smiling brightly.

"What are you guys talking about?" you asked sweetly.

"Just hockey, sweetheart," Garrett said smoothly, his eyes softening the absolute second they landed on you. He reached out, gently pulling your chair out for you and tucking a stray piece of hair behind your ear.

Throughout the rest of the evening, your dad watched like a hawk. He watched how Garrett anticipated your needs, how he jumped up to help clear the dishes before you could even ask, and how, whenever you laughed, Garrett looked at you like you had hung the damn moon.

Later that night, after Garrett had gone upstairs to the guest room to unpack, you were in the kitchen rinsing out the last few glasses. Your dad walked in, his heavy footsteps echoing on the hardwood.

"Angel," he called softly.

You turned around, wiping your hands on a towel. "Yeah, Daddy?"

He walked over, wrapping a massive arm around your shoulders and pulling you into his side. The tough-guy facade was completely gone, replaced by the tired, proud eyes of a father who had raised his daughter right.

"You picked a good one," he murmured.

A massive wave of relief washed over you, and you wrapped your arms around his thick waist. "Oh, Daddy, I'm so glad you see it. I was so nervous you wouldn't like him. I love you so much and I respect your opinion more than anything... but I really, really love Garrett."

You pulled back, looking up at him with wide, curious eyes. "How can you tell, though? You were so tough on him at first."

Your dad gave a soft chuckle, his eyes turning incredibly warm. A distant, beautiful memory flashing in them.

"Because, Angel," he said gently, "I watched him tonight. Garrett looks at you when you’re not looking the exact same way I used to look at your mama when she wasn't looking. It's a look that says you're his entire universe."

Your breath hitched, a beautiful, shy warmth spreading through your chest. You looked down at your hands, a small, hopeful smile gracing your lips. "I honestly see myself spending the rest of my life with him, Daddy." You were silent for a moment, swallowing the sudden lump of emotion in your throat. "I’ve never felt this way about anyone before. It’s a little scary, and I’m a little unsure of what the future holds with his career... but I really hope I get the chance to marry him someday."

Your dad’s chest swelled, a mixture of immense pride and a little bit of heartache at how fast his baby girl had grown up. He pulled you into a tight, fierce hug, burying his chin on top of your head.

As he held you, his eyes drifted past your shoulder, landing on a framed photograph hanging on the kitchen wall. It was a picture of his late wife, smiling radiantly, cuddling a four-year-old version of you. Both of you were beaming at the camera.

Looking at the photo of his wife, your dad let out a soft, breathy exhale, sending a silent, grateful thanks up into the universe. She's okay, baby, he thought, squeezing you a little tighter. Our girl is gonna be just fine.

[flannelshirts-and-fingerguns]

We Listen and We Don’t Judge Pt. 2 (aka the Fire Fiasco)

Summary: A continuation of We Listen and We Don’t Judge. Things escalate but they work out in the end.

Pairing: John Logan x Reader

Warning: Don’t try this at home

Note: My first part 2 for a story. This was so fun to write. Hope y’all enjoy 🫶

The living room of the hockey house looked like a war zone.

Actually, that was insulting to war zones. Smoke rolled lazily across the ceiling, the distinct scent of burnt upholstery hung heavy in the air, and the fire department had only just left after drenching the kitchen in a thick layer of industrial foam.

In the center of the devastation stood Garrett, Hannah, Dean, Allie, and Tucker. They were all soaking wet, dripping with soot-stained water, and covered in varying layers of black ash. Garrett’s signature jawline was tight enough to snap a hockey stick; Hannah was rubbing her temples; Allie’s hair was plastered to her face like a sad sea creature; Tucker looked profoundly disappointed; and Dean was staring at his ruined, soot-covered vintage leather jacket as if his firstborn child had just been taken from him.

They were all staring at the two of you with their arms tightly crossed.

Then there was you and John Logan. Standing side-by-side in the one dry corner of the room, completely pristine, smelling like vanilla and expensive cologne, looking incredibly sheepish. You were twisting your fingers together, while Logan was rubbing the back of his neck, his cheeks a bright, guilty red.

"I mean..." you started, your voice a tiny squeak in the dead silence. "The important thing is that nobody got hurt?"

Garrett’s eye twitched. "You burned down our kitchen, Y/N."

"Technically," Logan interjected, holding up a finger, "it was only a localized cabinet fire that spread to the drywall, G. The structure is totally solid."

Five deadly glares snapped directly to Logan. He quickly dropped his hand and cleared his throat, looking back at the floor. "Right. Sorry. Shutting up."

How had it come to this? To understand the sheer, unhinged logistics of a destroyed hockey house, you have to rewind exactly three hours earlier.

Three Hours Earlier...

It had started with Garrett’s advice. Logan had finally decided to "man up" and ask you on a proper date, completely devoid of broken plumbing or loose screws. He had come over to the girls' dorm, dressed in a nice button-down shirt (sadly hiding the biceps, but still devastatingly handsome), and asked you out to a nice Italian dinner.

You had said yes so fast you nearly gave yourself whiplash.

But because the universe apparently thrives on chaos, your first official date didn't quite make it to the restaurant. Logan had brought you back to the hockey house first to grab his wallet, which he’d forgotten in his room.

"Make yourself at home," Logan had smiled, gesturing to the living room. "I'll be two seconds."

Now, any normal person would have sat on the couch. But you? You were a girl with a mission, a toolkit hidden under your own sofa, and a brain that had been thoroughly rotted by Allie’s whiteboard schemes. You had noticed, upon entering, that the handle on the hockey house’s front door was jiggling. It was a mechanical flaw. An invitation.

While Logan was in his room, you slipped a miniature screwdriver out of your purse (you had started carrying it like lip balm). You figured you would just loosen the internal latch mechanism a tiny bit. Just enough so that when you guys got back from dinner, the lock would stick, and Logan would have to heroically fix it while you watched those glorious shoulder muscles work.

It was a foolproof plan. Until you dropped the tiny, critical screw directly into the floor vent.

"Oh, no, no, no," you whispered, dropping to your knees. You peeked into the metal grate. The screw was gone. Panicking, you tried to pull the grate off the floor to reach for it, but it was stuck. You pulled harder. Your foot slipped, and the grate went flying past the nearby kitchen island, and with a horrific CRACK, you managed to completely dislodge a gas line connector that ran from the floor to the stove.

A faint, ominous hissing sound filled the air.

"Y/N? You find everything okay out here?" Logan asked, walking towards the kitchen.

"Logan!" you gasped, jumping up and accidentally kicking your purse—which slid across the floor, hit the oven door, and knocked a loose dish towel directly onto the stove's pilot light.

FWOOMP.

A spark caught the towel. The hissing gas caught the spark. Within three seconds, the entire back wall of the kitchen was a wall of bright, roaring flames.

"Oh my god!" you screamed.

"Holy shit!" Logan yelled. He didn't even hesitate. He grabbed you by the waist, lifting you completely off your feet, and sprinted backward into the living room, shielding your body with his own. He tried to throw open the front door—which, thanks to your tampering, was immediately jammed shut, trapping the lock in place.

"The door is stuck!" Logan shouted, kicking it. It didn't budge.

"I lost the screw!" you wailed over the sound of the smoke alarm blaring.

By this time, the rest of the crew had been alerted by the sirens. Garrett and Hannah rushed down the stairs; Tucker ran in from the back porch; Dean and Allie, scrambled out of the bathroom.

"What did you do?!" Garrett screamed, coughing through the black smoke that was rapidly filling the house.

"I've got the fire extinguisher!" Tucker yelled, sprinting into the kitchen like a hero, only for the extinguisher to malfunction and spray a massive cloud of white chemical retardant directly into Dean’s face.

"My hair!" Dean shrieked, blindly stumbling backward into Allie, knocking them both into the hallway bookcase, which collapsed, triggering the house's overhead emergency sprinkler system.

Instantly, freezing cold water began pouring from the ceiling. Tucker was battling the grease fire with a failing extinguisher; Garrett was trying to hack the front door open with a hockey stick; Hannah was trying to drag Garrett out of the line of fire; and Allie was screaming because the soot-water was ruining her makeup.

And amidst the absolute, cataclysmic, terrifying screaming match of five people getting drenched, bruised, and covered in ash... Logan had kept you pinned into the one dry corner of the foyer under the hallway archway, entirely protected from the sprinklers and the smoke, his arms wrapped securely around you.

He looked down at you, his blue eyes wide, his chest heaving. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," you whispered, staring up at him, your heart hammering against your ribs. "Logan... I'm so sorry. I was just trying to loosen the door handle so you'd have to fix it later. Because I wanted an excuse to see you again."

Logan blinked, the chaotic screaming of his roommates fading into background noise as things clicked into place for him. "Wait. The plumbing? The cabinets? The drywall?"

"Me," you confessed miserably. "All me. I have zero handy skills. I just wanted to watch you work in those cutoff shirts."

A slow, devastatingly gorgeous grin spread across Logan's face. He let out a breathless, disbelieving laugh. "You’ve accidentally burned down part of the house because you think I'm hot?"

"Essentially, yes."

"God, I love you," Logan muttered. And right there, while the fire department sirens wailed in the distance and Garrett finally broke the front door down with a ferocious body-slam, Logan leaned down and kissed you—deep, sweet, and thoroughly intoxicating.

Present Time...

Back in the smoky, soggy present, the crew was still staring at the two of you. Tucker was wringing out his shirt into a bucket; Dean was literally petting his ruined leather jacket with tears in his eyes.

"So," Garrett said, his voice dangerously calm. "Care to explain how a date turned into a three-alarm fire?"

You and Logan exchanged a look. You stepped forward, clearing your throat, and offered a weak, incredibly apologetic smile.

"Well..." you said, gesturing between yourself and Logan. "Look on the bright side! Logan and I are officially together now. Which means I don't have to break anything else to get his attention. You guys never have to worry about our hijinks ever again!"

Dean looked up from his jacket, his face covered in soot. "I'm going to sleep in my car from now on."

"Yeah," Hannah sighed, leaning her head on Garrett's wet shoulder. "Y/N if you ever come within ten feet of a toolbox again, I'm calling the police."

[flannelshirts-and-fingerguns]

I’m Dating Who??

Summary: With Valentine’s Day around the corner the girls are talking about their plans with their mans. You are planning to spend another Valentine’s Day single… Right?

Pairing: John Tucker x Oblivious!Reader

Warning: None. Reader is just a lil naive

Note: This is an actual story based off my friend. I’ve officially now posted a fic for every boy except Beau. I need to hop on that if anyone has suggestions for him or even Justin? Hope y’all enjoy 🫶

The living room rug was a disaster zone of pink felt, glitter glue, and half-empty wine glasses.

"I'm just saying," Allie said, holding up a crookedly cut paper heart, "if Dean thinks he's getting away with just a reservation this year, he’s sorely mistaken. I want the whole cliché. Flowers. Chocolates. The works."

"Garrett already hinted he bought something," Hannah laughed, taking a sip of her Pinot Noir. "Though knowing him, it’s probably a new pair of skates or a jersey for me."

Grace giggled as she cut out a heart. “I think Logan was planning on hot wheeling my car and taking me out for a drive.”

You smiled, carefully hot-gluing a ribbon onto a homemade Valentine's card for your mom. "Well, I think it’s sweet. You guys all have such cute plans. I’ll probably just order a massive pizza, put on some romcom movies, and enjoy having the bed to myself."

The room went dead silent.

Grace paused mid-snip, her scissors hovering in the air. Hannah slowly lowered her wine glass, while Allie just blinked at you.

"What?" you asked, looking between them, suddenly self-conscious. "Is pizza on Valentine's Day a crime now?"

"Sweetie," Grace said gently, the way one might speak to a confused toddler. "Why would you be eating pizza alone? What about Tucker?"

You blinked. "Tucker? What about him?"

"Your Valentine's plans," Hannah pressed, her eyebrows knitting together. "Are you guys doing something the day before instead? Because of his game schedule?"

"Oh. I mean, we haven't talked about it," you said with a shrug, reaching for another piece of felt. "I assume he’ll be hanging out with the guys, or practicing. I’m sorry- Why would we have plans on Valentine’s Day?"

Allie let out a loud snort, shaking her head. "Okay, very funny. You totally had me for a second. The deadpan delivery was a ten out of ten."

"I'm not joking," you said honestly, your face warming up. "Why would I have Valentine's plans with Tucker?"

The three girls exchanged a long, deeply concerned look.

"Because," Hannah said slowly, leaning forward, "he is your boyfriend."

You let out a soft, genuine laugh. "What? No, he's not! Tucker and I are just really, really good friends."

"Good friends?" Grace squeaked. "You flew to Texas with him over Thanksgiving break to meet his mother!"

"Well, yeah, because I didn't have anywhere else to go, and he's a sweetheart! He didn't want me to be alone."

"He bought you that vintage record player you wanted for Christmas," Allie countered, her eyes wide. "And he literally drives twenty minutes out of his way every single Tuesday morning just to drop off that ridiculous, extra-sweet iced caramel macchiato you like before your 8:00 AM lecture."

"Because he’s a southern gentleman," you insisted, your naive optimism completely unshakeable. "Tucker is just naturally chivalrous. He expects the best out of everyone, so I try to do the same. He’s just being a good guy."

Hannah looked like her brain was short-circuiting. Without a word, she grabbed her phone and hit FaceTime. It rang twice before Garrett’s face filled the screen. He was sitting on the Briar hockey house couch, with Logan and Dean hovering over his shoulder playing a video game.

"Hey, babe," Garrett answered. "What's up? We're right in the middle of—"

"Garrett, put me on speaker. I need a collective consensus from the room," Hannah interrupted flatly.

Garrett’s face shifted to one of pure caution. "Uh, okay. You're on speaker. Logan and Dean are here."

"Great. Boys, quick question," Hannah said, angling the phone so the camera pointed directly at you. "What is the official relationship status between Tucker and y/n?"

Dean didn't even look up from the screen. "They're dating. Obviously. Tucker’s been whipped for like four months."

"Bro, he skipped Sunday football three weeks ago just to stay in bed and cuddle her because she had a head cold," Logan chimed in, shouting over his shoulder. "Why are you asking stupid questions, Wellsy?"

You leaned into the frame, your cheeks burning. "Wait, guys, no. We aren't dating! We've never had the talk. We're just… really close friends!"

On the screen, all three boys froze. Garrett leaned so close to the camera his nose was distorted. "Wait. Hold on. Are you serious right now? Y/n, you literally sleep at our house at least four nights a week. You hold hands in public. He knows your entire five-year career plan, your worst fears, and he practically threatens to murder anyone who breathes too loud near you. You're his girlfriend."

"But he never asked me!" you protested, your voice small. "I thought… I just thought he was being really nice!"

"Oh my god," Dean muttered, finally dropping his controller. "She actually didn't know. Someone text Tuck right now, this is a code red."

Before you could scramble to grab Hannah’s phone to stop them, the front door lock clicked.

The heavy oak door swung open, and John Tucker walked in. He was wearing his Briar hockey hoodie, his hair slightly damp from the snow outside, holding a brown paper bag from the bakery down the street. He looked like a literal textbook definition of a perfect boyfriend.

"Hey, darlin'," Tucker murmured, his deep southern drawl instantly melting through the tension in the room. "Brought those cinnamon rolls you like." He paused, looking at the girls scrambled on the floor and the FaceTime call still blaring from Hannah's phone. "What's going on?"

Hannah, Allie, and Grace immediately grabbed their purses, scrambling to their feet with terrifying speed.

"We're leaving!" Allie announced. "Good luck!" Grace added. "Talk to your woman, Tucker!" Hannah yelled, hanging up the phone and sprinting out the door behind them.

The door slammed shut, leaving a heavy, bewildered silence in the apartment.

Tucker slowly set the bakery bag on the counter, his brow furrowed as he walked over to where you were still sitting on the floor. He dropped to his knees in front of you, his large hands immediately coming to rest on your thighs.

"Hey," he said softly, his dark eyes searching yours. "What's wrong? You look like you've seen a ghost."

You swallowed hard, looking at his beautiful, kind face. "Tucker… can I ask you a question?"

"Anything, darlin'."

"Are we… are we dating?"

Tucker blinked. Once. Twice. The easy, confident smile he usually wore completely vanished. He slowly pulled his hands back, his shoulders squaring as a shadow of hurt crossed his features.

"Are you serious?" Tucker’s voice lost its usual warmth, turning quiet and strained. "Is this a joke?"

"No! I'm not joking," you said quickly, reaching out to touch his arm, but he subtly pulled away, standing up.

"We've been together for four months, y/n," Tucker said, rubbing the back of his neck, his jaw tight. He looked genuinely upset, a rare sight for the usually unshakeable cowboy. "I took you home to Texas. You met my mama. I sleep in your bed almost every night. I haven't looked at another girl since the moment I met you." He let out a harsh, self-deprecating laugh. "I thought… I thought we were completely on the same page. Do you really think so little of me that you thought I was just doing all that for a casual friend?"

"No! No, Tucker, please listen to me," you cried, scrambling to your feet and stepping right into his space, forcing him to look down at you. You wrapped your hands around his wrists, gripping him tightly. "I am just incredibly stupid. I'm naive, okay? Everyone always tells me I am. I just… you never explicitly said the words 'will you be my girlfriend,' and I didn't want to assume and ruin the amazing thing we had."

Tucker stared down at you, the hurt in his eyes still visible, but softening slightly at the desperation in your voice. "You really didn't know?"

"I didn't," you whispered, looking up at him with total embarrassment. "I thought I was just the luckiest girl in the world because this incredibly handsome, amazing hockey player wanted to spend all his time with me. I didn't think it could be real."

Tucker let out a long, heavy breath, the tension finally draining from his broad shoulders. A faint, amused, yet completely exasperated smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

"You are a little piece of work, you know that?" he murmured, stepping forward and wrapping his large arms around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest.

"I'm sorry," you mumbled into his hoodie.

"Don't be sorry," Tucker sighed, resting his chin on the top of your head. "But just to make it crystal clear, so there's absolutely no doubt in that sweet, beautiful head of yours..." He pulled back just enough to cup your face in both of his warm hands, his thumb gently wiping a stray piece of glitter from your cheek.

"Y/n, you are my girlfriend. I am your boyfriend. And I'm cooking you a massive, fancy dinner on Valentine's Day. Clear?"

You beamed, a rush of pure relief and happiness washing over you as you wrapped your arms around his neck. "Crystal clear, Tucker."

Tucker migrated you both from the glitter-strewn floor to the couch. He sat back against the cushions, his long legs stretched out, with you tucked securely between them. Your back was pressed against his broad chest, and his powerful arms were wrapped tightly around your waist, anchoring you to him.

On the coffee table sat the brown paper bag he’d brought, now holding two perfectly warmed cinnamon rolls, but neither of you had touched them yet. Instead, Tucker was busy tracing slow, soothing circles over your hip bones with his thumbs.

"Hey," Tucker murmured, his deep voice vibrating right through your back. "You’ve been quiet for a solid five minutes, darlin’. What’s bouncing around in that head of yours?"

You let out a soft sigh, staring down at your hands, which were resting over his large ones. A familiar wave of embarrassment and lingering guilt washed over you. "I just... I still feel so bad, Tuck. I feel incredibly stupid."

Tucker paused his hands, tightening his grip on you slightly. "We're not still dwelling on that, are we?"

"But I hurt your feelings," you said, turning your head slightly so you could see his sharp jawline. "When I asked you if we were dating, the look on your face... it broke my heart. I can’t believe I was so oblivious. You’ve been treating me like a queen for months, doing all these incredibly sweet, devoted things, and I just thought you were being a nice friend. I feel like an idiot for making you feel, even for a second, like I didn't appreciate you."

Tucker let out a soft, low chuckle—the kind that rolled from deep in his chest. He shifted, pulling you around so you were sitting sideways across his lap, forcing you to look him in the eye. His dark eyes were soft, utterly devoid of any lingering hurt.

"Look at me," he commanded gently, cupping your chin with his hand. "Y/n, you are the sweetest, most genuine girl I have ever met in my entire life. That’s exactly why I fell for you. In a world where everyone is always looking for an angle or playing games, you just... you see the absolute best in people. You didn’t assume we were dating because you’re modest, and because you didn't want to demand anything from me. It’s one of the things I love most about you."

Your heart skipped a beat at the word love, your cheeks flushing a pretty pink.

"So do not spend another second feeling remorseful," Tucker continued, his thumb wiping a soft line across your cheekbone. "I’m not hurt. If anything, it just means I get to spend the rest of our lives making sure there is absolutely, 100% no doubt in your mind that you belong to me. Deal?"

"Deal," you whispered, a tear of pure relief threatening to spill. You leaned forward, burying your face in the crook of his neck, inhaling the crisp, wintry scent of the snow mixed with his familiar, warm cologne.

Tucker wrapped his arms fully around you, completely spoiling you with his undivided warmth and affection. He kissed the top of your head, then your temple, his lips lingering against your skin. "Good. Now, are we gonna eat these cinnamon rolls, or are you just gonna use me as a pillow all night? Not that I’m complaining about the view."

The sweet, emotional weight in the room began to shift, a playful spark taking its place. You pulled back just enough to look at him, a mischievous smile tugging at your lips. "Oh, so now you're complaining about holding your official girlfriend?"

[flannelshirts-and-fingerguns]

We Listen and We Don’t Judge… WTF Y/N?!

Summary: You play a game of ‘we listen and we don’t judge’ with Hannah and Allie. Except when they find out your secret they have to judge

Pairing: John Logan x Reader

Warning: Don’t try this at home

Notes: This was created after looking at all the wonderful JL gifs. Specifically any of the ones where he has a cutoff shirt showing his biceps or where he is fixing things. 😋 Also I’m working on a Dean fic and I cannot nail his f-boy energy. If anyone has request send them my way while I fight my muse. Anyway hope y’all enjoy 🫶

The living room of the girls' dorm was dead silent, save for the hum of the refrigerator and the sudden, synchronized drop of Hannah and Allie’s jaws.

The three of you were sitting in a circle on the floor, playing a sacred game: the “We listen and we don’t judge” game. It was supposed to be a safe space for silly confessions. Hannah had already confessed that she accidentally submitted a recipe for chocolate chip cookies instead of her philosophy essay (and somehow got a B-). Allie had gleefully admitted to hiding Dean’s favorite hair gel because he told her she takes to long to get ready.

Then, it was your turn. And you had just blown the roof off the place.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Hannah held up a hand, her eyes wide. “Rewind. You’re telling us that you are the dorm spirit we’ve been complaining about for the past few months? There is no poltergeist? You’ve been deliberately sabotaging our apartment?”

“Let her cook, Han,” Allie interrupted, leaning forward with sudden, intense fascination. “I want to hear the logistics of this. Go on, Y/N. Explain the sordid details.”

You blushed furiously, pulling your knees to your chest. “Okay, look! It’s not that bad I swear! You know how I take mostly online classes and work from home? I have a lot of free time. And you know I have a massive, hopeless crush on John Logan. But I didn’t know how to get him to notice me!”

“So your grand solution was property damage?” Hannah asked, a grin twitching at the corner of her lips.

“Yes!” you squeaked. “He’s a literal mechanic! It’s his love language! I figured, if things randomly break, he’ll come over to fix them. And oh my god, girls… the cutoff shirts he wears when he works? The sweat? The biceps? It is doing wonderful things for my mental health.”

Allie giggled, “Brilliant. I respect the hustle.”

“You guys were losing your minds wondering why the plumbing and the cabinetry were failing on a weekly basis,” you mumbled into your knees. “I felt a little bad. So, I tried to ‘help’ him when he came over. But… I have zero handy skills.”

Hannah snorted. “Oh, we know. Remember when you tried to hang that picture frame and put a hole through the drywall?”

“Exactly!” you cried. “So whenever Logan’s fixing something, I try to hand him tools or hold things, and I just end up making it so much worse. Last week, I accidentally messed up the screws on the cabinet hinges so badly he had to re-drill the whole frame. I literally added two hours of work to his day. My heart was breaking for him!”

“And what did he do?” Allie cooed.

“He just smiled this devastatingly cute smile, looked at me with those blue eyes, and said, ‘Wow! Thanks for helping, pretty girl. I couldn't have done it without you.’ Meanwhile, I could see his soul leaving his body because I’m a walking disaster. But he’s just so sweet!”

Hannah shook her head, laughing. “Y/N, you are completely ridiculous. You don't need to commit minor acts of vandalism just to see him. You should just tell him how you feel! The guy clearly likes you.”

“No way,” you groaned, burying your face in your hands. “He’s John Logan. He probably thinks I’m just your clumsy, weird roommate.”

Meanwhile, across campus at the hockey house, John Logan was pacing the living room, a wildly whipped expression on his face. Garrett Graham sat on the couch, watching his friend with a mixture of amusement and genuine concern.

“I’m telling you, G, she’s an angel,” Logan gushed, throwing his hands in the air. “A beautiful, clumsy, perfect angel. The campus spirits are blessed, man. Every time something breaks in her apartment, I get to go over there.”

Garrett took a sip of his drink. “Right. Because the plumbing in a university dorm just spontaneously combusts every Tuesday.”

“I don't care why it breaks, I’m just glad it does,” Logan said, a goofy grin spreading across his face. “Ever since the day I met her—when I literally tripped over my own hockey bag and faceplanted right in front of her gorgeous face—I’ve been hooked. And she’s so shy, G. But she tries so hard to help me.”

Garrett raised an eyebrow. “Is she actually helpful?”

Logan’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second. A brief flash of phantom pain crossed his mechanic’s heart. “...She’s enthusiastic. Last time, she tried to help me fix the sink trap and accidentally wrenched the main valve the wrong way. Water sprayed everywhere. We were soaked. It took me three extra hours to clean up her ‘help’.”

“Logan,” Garrett said slowly. “That sounds like a nightmare.”

“No, you don't get it!” Logan defended, his eyes shining. “She looked so cute and guilty, dripping wet and apologizing. I just looked at her and I had no choice but to say, ‘Great job, pretty girl!’ because I didn't want to hurt her feelings. I’d let her break every pipe in that building if it means she stays near me. She’s just… god, she's so gorgeous.”

Garrett stared at his best friend for a long, quiet moment. Finally, he shook his head.

“Man, I am seriously concerned for your mental wellbeing. You’re enabling property damage for a smile,” Garrett said, standing up and clapping a hand on Logan’s shoulder. “Man up, Bob the Builder. Stop waiting for the toilet to overflow. Just ask her out on a proper date.”

Logan blinked, rubbing the back of his neck. “You think? What if she just thinks of me as the handyman?”

Back in the girls dorm, Allie was practically mapping out your next move on a small whiteboard. “Okay, so next is the bathroom door lock. You 'accidentally' get stuck inside, Logan has to break the door down, he carries you out—”

“Allie, stop encouraging her!” Hannah laughed, throwing a pillow at her. She turned to you, her expression softening. “Seriously, Y/N. You don’t need a broken door lock. Just talk to him next time he comes over. No sabotage required.”

You blushed, looking at the toolkit you had hidden under the sofa. “Maybe… but the cutoff shirts, Han. I have to consider the cutoff shirts.”