⋮⟢ drabble: pope cody who was your scary best friend before he became your scary boyfriend
── ✦ pope who you’d probably met in a very normal, mundane setting. something like a park, somewhere the wood chips got into your socks and gave you a splinter. you’d been walking on the side of your foot for a while, trying to ignore it, until you asked the boy sitting in front of you on the bench for help with the wood chip stuck to the bottom of your foot.
he’d take your foot in both hands the way you’d hold a bird, turn it toward the sun, and get the splinter out with his thumbnail. he acted like he did this all the time. and then he’d have no clue what to do when your face crumpled, because it still stung.
“it’s out,” pope’d say dumbly, holding up the splinter to show you. and when just the mere fact of stating the removal of your pain didn’t work, he’d awkwardly pat your ankle once.
and when that also didn’t work – dramatic you – he'd sigh through his nose and just put your sock on for you. he’d put on your shoe for you, too, tie the laces in a knot, tight enough that you’d have to cut it off later, and give it one firm pat.
and then you’d just keep materializing over and over again to the point that pope was confused. all he'd done was help you take out a splinter and now it felt like you lived here, on this bench, next to him. forever, seemingly. he’d definitely realize you were the only person in the whole wide world that wasn’t anything like his family and had given him a semblance of attention. sure, he was confused why you’d done it in the first place. but i imagine that earlier – before he’d started dabbling further in his violence and the cody family work – he’d be more prone to accepting a stranger-turned-constant in his life. he still had some trusting instinct in him, choosing to believe you when you honestly told him you liked hanging out with him.
── ✦ pope who was sometimes very strange and didn’t know he was. he’d bring you rocks because you once said – while walking past an enormous house in oceanside – that the quartz gravel in somebody’s driveway was pretty. so naturally he picked up a random little rock from the gutter two streets over, wiped it on his shirt, and gave it to you.
he did it again and again and again because you found that you were more endeared than anything and had started keeping these rocks first in your pocket, then in a shoebox, and finally on your windowsill. you could’ve told anyone which came from where. so even if you didn’t particularly have a fondness for random rocks when you noticed the quartz gravel, you definitely grew one!
(pope who also later replaced said rocks with the real thing when he came into money he had no idea what to use for, only ever remembering how your older tastes had sometimes made you look through the window at the jewelers and your eyes had lingered too long on a little diamond necklace. he never saw the necklace, really, only noticed you wanting it. he knew how to take care of that)
pope who wasn’t really sure how a simple hangout worked, so when you’d asked him to come over later on saturday without specifying when, he sat on your porch step for two and a half hours. when your mother asked him if he wanted to come inside and eat something, he’d say no, because he was supposed to be hanging out with you, not your mother.
when you finally came, you just sat next to him on the step and stayed there, finding it all so natural.
── ✦ and when he’d begrudgingly agree to hang out with your other friends, it’d accidentally lead into him drawing them away from the both of you. he hadn’t even meant to do that (not at first, at least).
he’d watched your friend hand you some shitty snack and said something like “don’t give her those,” without any explanation, smacking the snack away from your hand gently (though the explanation was that you’d ate one of those and promptly threw up on the ferris wheel, and it’d put you off of them for life).
if someone asked if you wanted beer, he’d say “she’s driving.” you were?
if someone asked you if you were cold, he was already handing you his jacket, mentally beating himself up for not having noticed sooner.
he’d move his chair to face the door wherever he was sitting, because ever since he’d watched people break into their little trailer as a kid – smurf, always tangled up in some shit – he’d learned to stay alert. so people always thought he was rude when he randomly turned his chair away from the group while someone was speaking and they were forced to stare at his back.
── ✦ pope who during your surprise birthday party (that he was only invited to because everyone knew how mad you’d be if they didn’t invite your best friend since you were a kid) would just stand in the corner and watch everyone with a frown, and when it got too late he’d tell everyone that the party was meant to end at ten even though that was never decided. and everyone would leave because you’d just stand there beside pope being like “yup!”
and then you and pope would spend the next three hours bagging cans, wiping down corners, finding a nickel or two between the couch cushions because of how thorough the two of you were. that was the good part. he’d wait for that.
after, he’d say, “that was fun.” and you’d think he was talking about the party.
── ✦ pope who kept saying “i can take care of it,” whenever one of your friends mentioned someone bothering them. at first, they thought it was a turn of phrase – ugh, i’ll beat him up for you, but in pope’s language – until pope started asking where he worked, where he lived, and what his car looked like.
pope who had punched a guy for you, a boyfriend-of-a-friend, when he’d said something about you while you were in the bathroom. he’d asked the guy to go outside to smoke a cigarette, decked him, and come back with his hands in his pockets.
you were a little confused when your friends told you pope had gone out for a smoke, because pope doesn’t smoke, and because the six of them had squeaked it out at once.
he knew your friends knew, so when he came back, he’d just looked at all of them as he stood behind your chair as you and your friends sat in silence, tilting his head to the side to confirm whatever social contract he’d expected from them. then he’d simply shrugged and said, “he had to go home.”
── ✦ and when pope started noticing that you were being invited to hang out less with your other friends, consequently meaning he was being invited by you less with your other friends, he’d ask, “is it ‘cause of me?”
you’d immediately say “no!”
because even you hardly believed that it was because of him; pope was so good. he read the manuals for everything you got, peeled oranges for you – handed over in an unbroken coil, because a torn piece would've bothered him – fixed your bike chain, and made you the perfect sandwiches.
sure, he had a tendency to sometimes growl when a stranger got too close to you or a little puppy barked at you. sureee, he always had bruises on his knuckles without ever having a story for them (or rather, without giving one). and he sometimes glared when your girlfriends asked you to go on a double date. or appointed himself as the designated driver when they specifically asked you to have girls night.
on the occasion you actually did go, he’d sit outside in the car watching you through the window of some restaurant or bar.
he’d come in just once – after he saw a guy linger at your table for nineteen minutes and thought it was fucking girls night, waiting until the guy went to the bathroom – and when you gave him a questioning look he just pointed toward the bathroom, forcing an embarrassed shrug like he just wanted to take a leak.
maybe it was just a coincidence that you nor your friends saw the guy come out of the bathroom! pope stopped at your table on the way back, hands in his pockets, knuckles freshly pink, and said, “want anything?” and when you said no, he went back to his car.
“isn’t he so sweet?” you’d say to your friends, misty-eyed and dreamily, watching him sit in the parked car like he was a pretty sunset.
“the sweetest,” they’d say, three of them in unison like they’d been trained. you were completely unaware that they were in the midst of realizing you were a lost cause.
so obviously you could not, for the life of you, imagine that people wanted to not hang out with you because of pope. it was their loss, anyway, you thought.
pope was so relieved once he realized he wouldn’t have to spend time with other people, just so he could hang out with you.
── ✦ pope who took over their vacancy so quickly that you didn’t even consider it as a loss even for a day.
if you wanted to get drunk at a bar, he’d go with you and get a beer while you slammed three cocktails within an hour. he’d try to gossip with you when you asked him to “tell me something fun.”
“craig and renn had a fight.”
you’d light up because that was interesting. “good. he’s bad for her anyway.”
“yes,” he’d simply say.
and when you’d press for the details (what did they fight about? who started it? did anyone cry? on a scale of one-to-ten, how bad?), and he’d have none, he’d noticed how you’d slumped slightly, ever the nosy little thing he’d been hauling around for years, he’d frown. he genuinely had no more details to give you because he hadn’t cared enough to listen to craig’s tangent. but clearly you cared, so he’d say, “i’ll ask him.”
after he managed to get the hang of it – and found he liked it, talking shit, the whole nine yards of "but you didn't hear it from me – you’d both end up laughing.
and when you’d ask him for another story (because he had so many; the cody house was so weird), he’d say, “smurf woke up so late this morning,” thinking it held the same value as baz breaking up with his girlfriend at the time.
when you opened your mouth without saying a single word, stumped, he'd double down, "like ten," like you just didn't get it yet.
pope who somehow started filling every single shoe of the people in your life. pope, your girl best friend. pope, your mother (“did you eat?” “yes.”). pope, your dad, apparently, at some point (making it his mission to check your car).
pope, your dog (waits by the door and knows the sound of your car pulling in). pope, your bodyguard (constantly scaring away everyone, threat or not). pope, your financial advisor (“you don’t need to spend that kinda money on that.”) pope, your sugar daddy, immediately after (“fine. give it to me.” “what?” “i’m getting it.”)
pope, when you’d run him through the list, just looked at you confused and said, “someone’s gotta.”
once again, he was right. you’d gotten so lucky with pope, what were the odds of that? astronomical, you’d think, cheerfully. and then you’d wonder if he’d like one more shoe to fill.
Most of the fics on here have smut so 18+, minors do not interact. I had so much fun doing these while I'm trying to get out of the writer's block that has plagued me for a month. Many of these fics are written by my beloved moots 🫶 Please show these incredibly talented writers some love!
My favourite series:
The Crush (stepdad!Jack Abbot x f!reader) | @ptolemaea444
Soft!Brendon Park doesn't want a one night stand (Brendon Park x reader) | @louloops
don't go wasting your emotions (Brendon Park x f!reader) | @ceijoh
My favourite one shots:
Are you coming on or what? (Jack Abbot x nightshift!sunshine!reader) | @whatif-ialreadydid
Eat out a girl in need (Brendon Park x reader) | @impactmintsfreshagain
Things a man provides (Jack Abbot x fem!reader) | @annsfics
joie de vivre (Jack Abbot x f!reader, Michael Robinavitch x f!reader) | @grimgasm
My moon, my man (Brendon Park x reader) | @seraphk1ss
It started out with a kiss (Brendon Park x reader) | @ceijoh
Everything Feels Right (Andrew Cody x reader) | @mast3rbait3r
Jealous!Robby wants you to himself (Michael Robinavitch x reader) | @louloops
My Man's In Touch With His Emotions! My Man Won't Touch Me With A 20 Foot Pole... (Michael Robinvitch x reader) | @ceriseangels
My Man's Forgotten His Devotion, Where's He Gone? God Only Knows... (Michael Robinavitch x reader) | @ceriseangels
Jealousy, Jealousy (Michael Robinavitch x fem!resident!reader) | @metal-armed-muse
Does your husband know? (Michael Robinavitch x reader) | @keytomylockhart
Hurt Forever (Michael Robinavitch x reader) | @bluetimeombre
Pussy inspection with Pope (Pope Cody x reader) | @groovyangelkisses
My favourite blurbs/drabbles:
Tactical (Jack Abbot x reader) | @grimgasm
Fucking actor!Robby at a party (Michael Robinavitch x reader) | @robinavitchslut
Husband!Sammy (Sammy Bryant x reader) | @medusasfics
baby don't you know the walls are thin? (Jack Abbot x f!reader) | @grimgasm
Pope Cody x virgin!reader | @sugartalkingwrites
Mornings with Titus (Titus Danforth x reader) | @in-ky
best friends dad!jack abbot + 'like what you see?' + pervy old man fantasy drabble (Jack Abbot x reader) | @romantic-insomniac
Childhood bsf!Sammy Bryant (Sammy Bryant x reader) | @shoniebalognie
You make Robby get off without you having to do a thing (Pathetic!Robby x reader) | @robbyxabbot
𝐒𝐲𝐩𝐧𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐬: Dean was sweet enough to tag along with you to an away tournament in Colarado, as your 'lucky charm.' Between takings strolls, meeting horses and sneaking out to stargaze together — the trip quickly became quite a memorable one
a.n: super super fluffy! Just watched s2 of My life with the Walter boys so I got some influence from it. Dean acts like a sweetheart. Please like/reblog if you enjoyed this fic!
Dean knew he was done for the moment you two met. When you accidently fell ontop of him after trying to show off a cool trick to your friends on campus grounds. Knocking the wind out of him in the process when he lands on his back. Even so — Dean was Dean. His hands instinctively straddled your hips without a second thought. And he thinks nothing of it.
"Woah! Uhh. That's one way to get my attention."He whispers quietly. A smirk playing his lips when he lifts his head to ask if you were okay. Then his voice wavers when he see's how gorgeous you looked. Your long legs caging him on either side. With you also being equally as stunned. I mean — you were straddling the Dean Di Laurentis. The guy that every girl fawns over. Now you were ontop of him, drowning in his pretty, blue eyes.
"Shit — sorry. Uhh. " you scramble out of his grasp, cheeks flushed. Got up and stuck out your hand. Which Dean takes in almost a dazed manner. You laugh softly and brushed off your jeans. "I didn't see where I was going."
For once — he doesn't make a witty, flirtatious remark. All while the rest of the students around them witnessing the whole ordeal, whispered amongst eachother. Including your friends who were giggling after seeing this new side of Dean. Where he looked abosolutely smitten with pink blush dusting his cheeks.
"Dean hey — " You stood there infront of him, with unspoken confidence. Just barely a an inch or two shorter than he was. Head tilting to the side in curiousity. And finally managing to break him out of his trance. While you let out a breathy laugh." You okay? Thought I lost you there for a moment."
He clears his throat and nervously runs his fingers through his hair. Trying to play cool. Flashing you his dimples when he smiled down at you. "Yeahh no — I'm fine. By the way... Are you free after this?"
3 months passed since then. In that short span, Dean does officially becomes your boyfriend. And with a little help, the casual hookups he used to have with other girls began to stop.
Dean leaned against the wall outside the conference room where your team had just finished it's evening meeting. Hands tucked in the pockets of his navy blue jeans as he struggled to stay warm. It was fall time in Colorado — so the air was much chillier than back at Briar U's Campus.
"You done?" He asks. Immediately pushing himself upright. Now more awake after seeing you. Considering he had zoned out for a while.
"Yeah." You respond. Letting out an exhausted sigh. Yet you couldn't help but smile when Dean stuck out his arm for you to hold onto. Speaking with an amused tone as you take the offer willingly. "Well aren't you a gentleman?"
Which Dean returns with the tip of his camel brown cowboy hat. His response being in the form of a well versed midwestern accent. "Anythin' for you doll."
The away tournament had brought your team to a small town in Colarado. Surrounded by rolling hills and open stretches of countryside. The hotel sat on the edge of town, far enough that the stars would be visible at night without light pollution.
You walked together towards the elevators while the two of you had a hushed conversation. When you make it to the ground floor, Dean glances around to spot your coach before in the quiet hallway before lowering his voice to speak to you. "Wanna sneak out?"
Despite his intentions — you had doubts ofcourse. It's Dean we're talking about. You loved him, but the man lives and breathes for trouble. You narrowed your eyes at the blonde suspiciously. All while he tried to feign his innocence with a tired, boyish grin. "That look usually means trouble."
Dean hesitates but still gave you an answer that didn't sound too convincing. "Maybe."
You had no time to argue with him because he was already tugging you gently down the hallway. Leading you towards the side exit of the hotel as your nerves start to kick in. "This is a terrible idea."
"Actually." He says, with a pause. Holding the door open for you with a polite grin and a glint in his eyes. "It's one of the best ideas I've had all day."
As soon as he does. The crisp, cold air hits your face almost immediately. In contrast to the toasty warm heat from the hotel lobby. There before you was a wild, untouched, beautiful piece of land that was just begging to be explored. Mountains with their bluish grey peaks in the distance softened by the glow of the summer haze. A vast area of pine forests that carried their scent in the breeze — sharp and earthy.
You stood there taking in the view before Dean breaks your trance. Instead, he makes you follow him down a trail that leads away from the hotel. A dirt path that disappeared between fields beyond the parking lot. Dark and peaceful beneath the night sky.
You held his caloused, yet warm hand carefully. He held yours, tight and firm so that you wouldn't fall as he helps you walk on a wooden fence. "If coach finds out -"
"She won't find out." Dean intercepts quickly. But in a reassuring tone. Despite that, you couldn't help but worry. And Dean could see it in your face as it contourts from relaxed to concern. "But if she does."
Dean hums then gives you a shrug. "Then I'll tell her I kidnapped you."
It should've been a serious answer but it makes you snort instead. Which Dean took offence to. "That won't help."
"Ehh who cares. Her star player deserves a break anway."
You wanted to protest but his comment makes you smile. Considering he disguised it in a form of a compliment.
The further you walked away, the more you could hear from the nature around you. Not the sound of trucks and cars on the mainroad, no teammates laughing in neighbouring rooms and no tournament pressure.
Just the sound of crickets, the gentle fall wind and Dean's warm hand in yours to guide you. He gives a gentle squeeze before finally breaking the comfortable silence. "You nervous for tomorrow?"
You hesitate in your step and licked your lips out of habit when you were nervous. Dean helped you down onto the ground before you spoke. "Uhh to be honest? Yeah. I am."
Dean doesn't let you dwell on it so he coerces you to look at him with a finger tucked under your chin. "Hey look at me — You'll be fine."
"You don't know that - " You pushed back with an exhasperated sigh. Dean stops you midway through your sentence. The teasing expression now gone. "You've worked your ass off all season." He says, his gaze softening. "Besides — if anyone should be nervous. It's the girls from the opposing team. Especially when they see how scary you are on court."
His comment alone makes you roll your eyes at him playfully before letting out a breathy laugh. The path wound through tall grass that brushed against your legs and beneath the grove of aspens.
Hand in hand, you walked along the weaving river banks. Sunlight reflecting off it's surface, giving the water the impression of liquid gold. The steady rush of the current became a comforting sound in the background. As you two conversed all the way.
A little further down the path. You spotted horses grazing behind a wooden fence in a ranch. The team had visited that same ranch earlier that day before practice but didn't get to spend too much time with them.
Dean notices your lingering gaze and follows it. And without questioning it, he gently tugs your towards the herd. Several lifted their heads when you and Dean approached them.
"Looks like they're excited meet you too." Dean jokingly whispers beside your ear. Making you smile sheepishly, while he moved behind you. As one chesnut mare wandered close, her ears flickering curiously.
"Hi pretty girl." you say softly. Reaching out to let the horses head stretch her neck towards you. With Dean resting his chin above your head to observe the innocent gesture.
After a while, you hear him sigh. His arms now wrapped around your waist and face buried into the crook of your neck as he mumbled with his eyes closed. "Well... Looks like I've been officially replaced."
A smile tugs at your lips as you groomed the horses mane with the brush given to you. Soon putting it away to give attention to your childish boyfriend instead. Turning your head slightly to look at him as he cracks one eye open when he feels your fingers brush through his tousled blonde hair. His cowboy hat now rested on your head as he had given it to you back at the trail.
"Don't be jealous." You'd say softly.
Dean lets out a small laugh and then grumbled with a hoarse voice. "Too late."
You were about to retort but then felt the horse nudge your shoulder. In turn, making Dean prove a point rather dramatically. "See? She's stealing your attention right now."
"You'll survive." You argued. With Dean letting out a dissatisfied hum when you kiss his cheek in an attempt to cheer him up. A second, custard cream horse soon approaches them. And to your surprise. It immediately shoves it's nose into Dean's hair, letting out a soft neigh.
You burst out laughing as both horses now had the couples attention. Dean pulls away from your embrace, but only for a moment so he could stand by your side. He then stares up at the horse before it nudges his chest ernestly. "Sir."
"Sir." He repeats once more as the horse ignores him and he nudges again. Much to your amusement as you held back a laugh. Watching the cream coloured horse and your seemingly bothered boyfriend, interact sweetly. "Hey — you're invading my personal space."
He does eventually give in as the horse's charm began to rub off on him. Opting to scratch his forehead with a defeated laugh. "There. Satisfied?"
"You two seem to be getting along." You comment while the chestnut horse is fed oats from a bag. Dean blows out the hair from covering his eyes. "Uhh I dunno. I feel like he's extorting me."
Time passes by rather peacefully. Basking in eachothers presence as the two of you stood there petting their noses and making small talk with dusk drawing near.
Neither of you wanted to leave. So you and Dean found a quiet clearing beside the river. Then, a thought comes to his mind. A rather naughty one. "You trust me right?"
You should have known this was coming by the way he was looking at you with a playful glint in his eyes. Now standing ankle deep in the freezing cold river. You laughed and blocked his attack as Dean splashes water at you with malice. "Dean!"
"What?" He says innocently, throwing his arms up in the air. Though the boyish grin on his face completely gave him away, while you scoffed. Within seconds, the two of you were engaged in a full scale water fight. Darting between smooth river rocks and laughing so hard that neither of you could breathe properly.
At one point Dean lifts you off your feet from behind when you tried to escape. Laughing softly beside your ear when you struggle in his grasp. "Got you ~ I dunno why you thought running away was an option."
"Huh." You scoffed. "Maybe because someone attacked me out of nowhere." You sassed back, which Dean couldn't really argue with. "Uhh. Fair point."
He sets you back down on your feet, both of you soaked, smiling and out of breath from the spontanious moment. The sun was sinking lower behind the mountains. Illuminating your features with a warm light when Dean brushed a wet strand of hair behind your ear. With an affectionate gaze. "There you are."
You felt heat rise to your cheeks at the simple gesture. But that's what you loved about Dean. He makes you feel noticed and adored.
Soon after, he sets down a blanket that he brought with him from his backpack. The grass was soft to the touch when Dean pulls you down to join him, sitting down together. His cologne invading your senses as he pulls you into his side by your waist. Darkness arrived slowly, the air growing cooler with every passing minute.
First came the evening stars, scattered sparingly across the deepening midnight blue sky. Away from the city lights, the milkyway stretched overhead looked brighter, clearer and more captivating than you had expected. You were speechless ofcourse, and Dean notices. He tucks you into his side as you stare up in awe, whispering softly next to you. "This — is why I snuck you out."
"It's beautiful..." you whispered back. Totally captivated by the spectacle above. And ignoring the fact that Dean was staring at you instead in a dazed manner.
"It is." He mumbled quietly, thinking you wouldn't hear. But you do. Your cheeks warm, because when turn your head to speak to him. His face was enticingly close, nose bumping against yours. Lids heavy as he flashes you a playful grin, with his dimples making an appearance. Still, you try to keep your cool. "You're not seriously talking about me. Are you?"
"What else would I be referring to." Dean muses as you let out a scoff. Yet your heart hammering against your chest would contradict your reaction otherwise. "You know what I'm talking about."
Dean knew. But he still chose to mess with you. Soon pivoting the conversation to something else. " You know why I came on this trip to watch you play?"
"Why?" You asked quietly.
"Because I get to watch you do something you love."
You were once again, speechless. Warmth blossoming in your chest from his confession. His jacket keeping you warm around your shoulders. The stars reflecting in his ocean blue eyes. "And because I get to spend time with you."
He leans in, long lashes tickling your skin as he does so. Lips inches away from yours making you hold your breath in anticipation. Dean paused, fluttering his eyes open only see yours was still closed. Most likely waiting for him to make a move.
"Cute..." he'd whisper softly, a finger tracing your warm skin as you internally screamed. This man was either making fun of you or was being a tease, no inbetween.
"I hate you," you'd whisper, growing frustrated at his antics. He found your little ouburst amusing as he flashed you a cheeky grin. Before pressing a gentle kiss to your cheek, whispering softly. "I know you don't mean that..."
You admire him for a brief moment. Feeling the light stubble beneath your palms as you cupped his face with your hands "You're right. I do love you. Even if you're a stupid ass sometimes."
The way the words so easily escapes your lips makes Dean smile. A genuine smile since he was getting used to it. His eyes flickers towards your lips. He hesitates ofcourse, wanting your permission first. At this point,
Dean was pleading with his eyes for permission to kiss you. His breath heavy against yours as his nose gently nudged yours, eyes flickering towards your lips. "Can I?"
"Yes," you mumbled in a breathless way. And with that, his lips engulfs yours.
Dean groaned into the kiss from pure satisfaction. Chapped, yet soft lips moving effortlessly against your plush ones. Slow and intent.
Time stopped for a moment. Like it always does whenever you were with Dean. Embracing eachother beneath the endless Colorado sky.
one thing about dean di laurentis was that this man had no sense of privacy when it came to you.
pussy so good he wanted to know everything about you, see everything there was.
changing? he’s there looking you up and down appreciatively with a glint in his eyes.
showering? great, he’s bringing a chair and keeping you company.
on an important phone call? he’s begging and promising to behave and be good and not bother, only if you keep sitting in his lap and don’t leave.
a busybody, nosy parker is what he is. an annoying one.
he’s in his usual element, post-practice, with his naked chest and blond hair all wet, moving around your room trying to keep himself busy because you need to finish your essay that’s due tomorrow, and you threatened that if he came near you or even touched pinkies, he would be on a sex ban for three whole weeks.
that got him to sober up real quick and leave you alone.
he’s moving his snooping onto your dresser, touching all your photos in there, some trinkets, books you’ve stacked, your jewelry, opening your pajama drawer but your quick to whip your head and glare at him because you could feel his evil amusement at the sight of your panties in there, from afar.
and seeing that look, he innocently smiles at you before shutting the drawer and moving on to checking out the top one.
was it mentioned that you told him he’s also not allowed to speak?
you just have so much to do, you’re stressed and you’re grouchy, and if he even utters a word your gonna take it out on him.
shit, this was real productive and you’re actually almost done. maybe you should threaten him like this more often—
you stop typing when you hear his overdramatic gasp at the sight of something he’s holding as he flops onto your bed—the said something is the fucking calendar you’ve shoved at the bottom of your mess-you-need-to-get-rid-of pile.
“shit, give that back,” you groan as you leave whatever you were doing behind and lunge on top of him onto your bed, desperately trying to grasp it from his hands, but the idiot just shoves it under his fat ass.
it was a funny, diabolical inside joke between you and one of your closest friends, hence the calendar was gifted to you on your birthday as a joke.
“i thought we weren’t allowed to speak?” he teases, with a hand protectively on your hip keeping you from squirming in his lap, the other folded behind his head like he’s laying on a beach.
“dean—”
“baby—”
“dean!” you slap his chest, trying to pull on his blonde strands.
“ow, ow, fuck—fine, if you want it, get it yourself.” he pulls his head back from your grabby hands. jesus, that hurt.
you groan and curse him as you try to move his bum aside to grab the calendar from underneath him.
massive fail.
moving your tactic to wanting to shove your hand to get it, but just by looking at his overly smug face you know he’s gonna make it weird.
you’re left with no choice but to roll him to the side of your bed with as much force as you can, which makes him actually get you down as well, putting his whole weight on top of you, blocking your body from any movement, but not before taking your calendar with him before you can even grab it.
“why are you the way you are. lord.” you try to shove him off you, but with two hands holding both your wrists in one, he laughs while opening the calendar page by page with the other hand.
“now what do we have here, hm?” he says way too cheerfully, completely ignoring your “i wanna bury you alive at the moment” face.
he reads out crazy, diabolical positions for all the twelve months, giggling like a schoolgirl when he sees your fuming expression, and then having the audacity to add an “oooh, we could try that?” in between just because it makes you thrash against him like crazy.
“are you done?” you deadpan, completely unimpressed.
dean flips one more page like he’s conducting serious research, then hums thoughtfully. “mm. no, actually, i think i’ve just found our summer schedule.”
you stare at him in disbelief. your one hundred percent sure he was dropped as a baby.
he beams in return.
you try like really try to stay annoyed, but the sheer stupidity of him sprawled on top of you, soaking your bedsheets with his delicious smell, holding a ridiculous calendar like it’s a sacred book. . it cracks something.
he’s so stupid.
a small snort slips out before you can stop it.
dean freezes before pressing knowing he’s accomplished his goal of distracting you. “wait—was that—” his eyes light up, “—was that a laugh?”
“shut up,” you mumble, turning your face away, but now your shoulders are shaking.
“oh my god, it was,” he gasps, delighted, dropping the calendar somewhere behind him like it no longer matters. “i did it. i fixed her. i cured the grumpiness.”
“you bring out the grumpiness in me, there is no way that could be fixed in your presence,” you mutter, still smiling, the stress of your essay long forgotten as you stare at his sparkly eyes and flushed cheeks as he leans in for a kiss, laughing into it, making you full-on laugh now.
you kiss him messily, with your teeth clinking, totally uncoordinated, giggling like you’re drunk, and he’s just happy you’re giving him that.
he’s just happy you’re giving him even an ounce of your attention.
jesus, that sounds pathetic, but this boy has been gone for you since day one—sue him if he just wants to soak in all the moments with the love of his life (even if she might not know that).
masterlist was rewatching off campus and allie cats calendar inspired this lol
Graham and Dean Threesome with the reader pleaseee
𝑷𝒖𝒄𝒌 𝑩𝒖𝒏𝒏𝒚 ꨄ︎ (Garrett Graham And Dean DiLaurentis X FemReader)
Content: Smut, Kinda One Night Stand, Working At The Rink, Oral All Receiving, Double P, Unprotected Sex, Pullout Backshots, Hockey Players Are Hoes, Shower Sex
A/N: I didn't posted yesterday so I owed y'all a fic here's my compensation 😇
A/N2: I'm gonna cry WAAAA I feel like didn't got the boys vibe but I promise I'll put more effort
The arena lights buzzed overhead as the Briar University hockey team filed into the rink for their pre-game warm-up. The cold air hit Garrett Graham and Dean Di Laurentis like a familiar slap, sharp and invigorating.
Most of the guys were already lacing up or joking around on the benches, but Garrett and Dean hung back near the tunnel, helmets tucked under their arms, scanning the freshly smoothed ice.
“New girl on the ice crew,” Dean muttered, his signature smirk tugging at his lips as he nodded toward the center of the rink. “Fuck, look at her.”
You were out there alone, pushing the big resurfacing machine with practiced ease, the hum of the Zamboni echoing softly in the empty arena. Your work jacket hugged your curves just enough to catch the eye, hair pulled back, cheeks flushed from the cold.
The previous guy who used to handle the ice had been some old-timer who barely said two words. You? You were new. Fresh. And way too fucking hot to be ignored.
Garrett’s jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing as he watched you guide the machine in slow, perfect lines. He wasn’t the type to get distracted before a game, but damn… something about the way your body moved, confident and focused, made heat pool low in his stomach.
“Jesus Christ,” Garrett breathed, voice low. “When the hell did they hire her?”
Dean let out a quiet laugh, already shifting on his skates like he was itching to glide out there. “Doesn’t matter. She’s here now. And I’m suddenly very interested in ice maintenance.”
You hadn’t noticed them yet. Your focus was on the rink, making sure the surface was perfect for the game.
You knew the reputation of these hockey boys total players who fucked anything with a pulse and moved on. You’d heard the stories. You weren’t about to become another bunny puck.
But Garrett and Dean couldn’t stop staring. The way your ass looked when you leaned over the controls, the little puff of cold breath escaping your lips, the way the arena lights caught on your skin… both of them were already half-hard in their gear just from watching you work.
Dean licked his bottom lip, voice dropping into that dangerous, teasing tone. “Bet she tastes so fucking sweet, bro.”
Garrett didn’t answer right away. He just kept his eyes locked on you, something darker and hungrier flickering behind his usual captain composure. “We’ve got twenty minutes before the rest of the team finishes changing…”
The two of them exchanged a look. No words needed. They were on the same page—filthy, greedy, and completely hirny.
And you were still completely unaware that the two star players of Briar were already imagining exactly how they’d ruin you on that fresh, cold ice.
You wiped your hands on your work jacket, breath visible in the cold air, when you heard the scrape of skates cutting across the fresh ice behind you.
Two sets of skates. Two very tall, very built figures gliding toward you with easy confidence.
Dean reached you first, that lazy, panty-dropping smirk already in place. Graham was right beside him, taller and broader, his expression more intense, hazel eyes locked on you like you were the only thing in the entire arena.
“Hey there, ice queen,” Dean said, voice smooth and warm despite the chill. He stopped a respectful distance away, tilting his head. “You’re new right? We would’ve remembered someone who looks like you handling our ice.”
You straightened up, crossing your arms over your chest. They were even more stupidly attractive up close—sharp jawlines, broad shoulders under their practice jerseys, that unmistakable hockey-boy swagger. But you weren’t new to this game.
“New to this rink, yeah,” you replied, voice calm and unimpressed. “But not new to guys like you. Let me guess hockey players… you’re here to flirt, tell me how hot I look pushing the Zamboni, maybe invite me to a post-game party where I’ll magically end up in one of your beds?”
Dean chuckled, low and appreciative, clearly not expecting the directness. Garrett’s lips twitched into a small, genuine smile.
Garrett skated a little closer, his gaze steady and surprisingly soft for someone with his reputation. “Fair shot,” he admitted, voice deep and velvet-rough. “Most girls around here are puck bunnies. But you… you don’t seem like the type who falls for the usual bullshit.”
You raised an eyebrow, refusing to melt even though the way he looked at you made heat bloom low in your belly. “Exactly. I’m not another puck bunny. I know how this works—you two are the stars. You fuck around, get what you want, and move on. I’m here to do my job and keep the ice perfect, not become tonight’s locker room story.”
Dean’s smirk deepened, eyes sparkling with challenge. “Damn. She’s got us figured out, captain.”
Garrett didn’t laugh. Instead, he stepped off his skates onto the edge of the boards near you, towering but moving with deliberate gentleness. He reached out slowly, giving you time to pull away, and took your gloved hand in his much larger, warmer one.
“Why don’t you get to know us first?” he murmured, voice low enough that it felt intimate even in the arena. His thumb brushed over your knuckles once before he lifted your hand and pressed a slow, respectful kiss to the back of it.His lips were surprisingly soft and warm against your cold skin, lingering just a second longer than strictly polite.
The eye contact never broke—intense, sincere, and laced with something darker, hungrier. “I’m Garrett. This is Dean. And I promise… we’re not like the rest.”
The kiss sent an involuntary shiver down your spine that had nothing to do with the temperature. Dean watched the whole thing with hooded eyes, biting his lower lip like he was already imagining much filthier things.
You pulled your hand back, heart beating faster than you wanted to admit, but kept your voice steady. “Nice try, gentlemen. But I still don’t fuck hockey players.”
A sharp whistle cut through the cold air like a blade.
“Graham! Di Laurentis! What the hell are you two doing over there flirting instead of warming up? Get your asses on the ice right now or you’re riding the bench for the entire goddamn game!”
Coach’s voice boomed from the tunnel, pissed and impatient. The rest of the team was already skating drills, shooting pucks, and glancing over with amused smirks.
You couldn’t help it — a soft giggle escaped your lips, bright and teasing, as you watched the two star players get scolded like horny teenagers. Garrett straightened up immediately, captain instincts kicking in, but Dean just grinned wider, completely unbothered.
“Well…” you said, tilting your head with a playful little smile, arms still crossed. “If you don’t play this warm-up, you’re not really players, are you? Better go be good boys for Coach.”
Dean’s eyes darkened instantly at your words. He stepped closer on his skates, towering over you, voice dropping into that low, filthy register.
“Good girl,” he murmured, the praise rough and dripping with promise. His hand came up, fingers brushing your jaw as he leaned in, clearly aiming to steal a kiss right there on the edge of the rink.
Your heart slammed against your ribs. Heat flooded your body despite the freezing arena. But you weren’t about to make it that easy.
You pressed two fingers firmly against his full lips, stopping him inches away. Dean’s breath was hot against your skin, eyes blazing with lust. With your other hand, you reached out and grabbed the front of Garrett’s practice jersey, tugging him closer until both of them were crowding you against the boards — one cocky smirk, one intense stare.
“I want both, actually,” you whispered, voice low and bold, looking straight into their eyes. “See you after training. Don’t go anywhere.”
You dragged your fingers slowly down Dean’s lips before pulling your hand back. Garrett’s jaw flexed, his eyes burning with raw hunger as he stared at your mouth like he was already imagining claiming it. Dean let out a quiet, wrecked groan, biting his lip hard enough that it left a mark.
“Fuck,” Garrett muttered under his breath, the word barely audible.
“After training,” Dean repeated, voice thick with filthy promise. “You just made a very dangerous promise, baby.”
Coach yelled again, louder this time. The two of them finally pushed off the boards, skating backward with matching predatory grins locked on you the entire way.
You turned back to your equipment, thighs pressed together, already aching at the thought of what you’d just started.
The whistle blew again and the full warm-up drills kicked off, but the ice might as well have been on fire with the way the tension crackled between the three of you.
Garrett and Dean couldn’t keep their eyes off you. Every time you moved along the boards, adjusting equipment or watching the surface, their gazes followed. During shooting drills Garrett would glide past you slowly, his deep voice low enough for only you to hear:
“Keep looking at me like that and I’m gonna drag you onto the ice and bend you over the goal net, baby.”
You bit your lip, heat pooling between your thighs despite the freezing air. Instead of backing down, you shot back with a sweet, wicked smile. “Focus on the puck, Captain. Wouldn’t want you missing shots because you’re too busy imagining me on my knees.”
Dean, the filthy bastard, was even worse. He made a show of stretching right in front of where you were standing, bending over so his ass and powerful thighs were on full display in those tight hockey pants. When he straightened, he winked and mouthed, “Good girl,” again — the same words that had made your stomach flip earlier.
You answered by slowly licking your lower lip while holding eye contact, then turned and bent over deliberately to pick up a stray puck near the boards, giving them both a perfect view of your ass in your work pants.
“Fuck me,” Dean groaned loud enough that a couple teammates glanced over. Garrett’s jaw was clenched so tight you could see the muscle ticking from across the rink. He slammed a puck into the net with way more force than necessary, clearly imagining something else entirely.
Every time they skated near the boards they found an excuse to get close. Garrett’s gloved hand brushed your waist “by accident” as he reached for water. Dean “accidentally” sprayed ice shavings toward you just so he could skate over and brush them off your jacket, his fingers lingering on your hips.
“You’re killing us, sweetheart,” Dean murmured during one pass, voice rough. “Training can’t end soon enough. I need to hear you moan both our names.”
You looked up at him through your lashes, voice low and teasing. “Then you better finish this fast, pretty boys. I’m getting impatient too.”
Garrett, usually the more controlled one, looked ready to snap. His hazel eyes were dark, pupils blown as he stared at your mouth. The captain was breathing hard, chest heaving under his jersey, and it wasn’t just from the drills. Both of them were visibly hard in their gear now, thick outlines pressing against the fabric every time they glanced your way.
The minutes dragged. Every second of warm-up felt like torture. They kept provoking you with filthy promises muttered under their breath and heated looks that made your pussy throb.
You gave it right back — teasing smiles, deliberate bends, whispered taunts that had them both gripping their sticks like they wanted to break them.
By the time Coach finally called the end of warm-up, Garrett and Dean looked feral. Sweaty, panting, cocks aching, eyes locked on you like predators who’d been denied too long.
You waited until most of them had passed, heart hammering with anticipation, then started walking toward the tunnel that led to the locker room area.
Your work boots echoed softly on the concrete as you moved with deliberate slowness, hips swaying just enough to tease. You could feel their eyes on your ass the entire way — burning, hungry, possessive.
Dean and Garrett didn’t even bother pretending to follow the rest of the team right away.
“Yo!” Dean called out loudly, voice echoing down the hallway as he blocked the entrance to the main locker room with his big body. “Nobody goes into the showers for the next thirty minutes. Captain’s orders. We’ve got… equipment to handle.”
A few of the guys groaned and muttered shit like “Again?” and “Fucking Graham and Di Laurentis,” but no one dared argue with the captain and his right-hand menace when they used that tone. The team scattered toward the benches and secondary areas, leaving the main shower section completely empty.
Garrett was right behind Dean, eyes locked on you as you kept walking deeper into the restricted zone. His voice was low and rough when he spoke, just loud enough for you to hear.
“Smart girl,” he murmured, already peeling off his gloves, blue eyes dark with raw need. “You really meant it.”
You glanced over your shoulder at them, a wicked little smile playing on your lips as you pushed open the door to the private shower area attached to the main locker room — the one usually reserved for staff or injured players. Steam from an earlier use still lingered in the air, making everything feel hotter, heavier.
Dean licked his lips, voice dropping into that filthy, velvet tone. “Lock the door behind you, baby. Or don’t. I don’t give a fuck who hears what I’m about to do to you.”
Garrett’s jaw flexed as he stepped closer, broad shoulders filling the doorway, voice dangerously calm. “You’ve been teasing us for an hour. Now it’s our turn.”
Both of them were still in full gear, sweaty, chests heaving, cocks visibly hard and straining against their hockey pants. They looked feral — like they wanted to devour you right there against the tiled wall.
You stepped further inside the shower area, pulse racing, pussy already wet and aching at the promise in their eyes.
The door clicked shut behind them.
You turned to face them fully, pulse thundering in your ears. Garrett and Dean stood there like two predators finally let off their leash — tall, broad, still half-dressed in sweaty hockey gear, eyes locked on you with pure, unrestrained lust.
“Come here,” you whispered, voice already breathy.
You grabbed Garrett first, fisting his jersey and pulling him down into a deep, filthy kiss. He groaned into your mouth instantly, one big hand sliding to the back of your neck as his tongue claimed yours — hot, demanding, and so fucking good.
The taste of him was pure sin and salt from the training.
Before you could even pull back, Dean was there, spinning you toward him. “My turn, baby.” His kiss was rougher, more teasing, tongue sliding against yours with filthy promise while his hands immediately dropped to your waist, tugging at your work jacket.
You didn’t stop. You kissed them both back and forth — hungry, open-mouthed, desperate. One second Garrett’s tongue was stroking yours, the next Dean was biting your lower lip and sucking it into his mouth. Their hands were everywhere.
Dean’s fingers worked fast, unzipping your jacket and shoving it off your shoulders. Garrett was right behind him, peeling your shirt up and over your head, exposing your bra. You kicked off your boots while they worked, hands shaking with need as you helped them strip.
“Fuck, look at you,” Garrett growled, voice low and wrecked as he tossed your shirt aside. His large palms cupped your breasts through your bra, thumbs brushing your hardening nipples.
Dean dropped to his knees for a second just to rip your work pants down your legs, kissing the exposed skin of your thighs on the way. “Such a pretty little tease. Been dying to get you naked since you bent over on the ice.”
You moaned softly, hands tugging at their jerseys. They helped you, yanking off their own gear — shoulder pads, jerseys, compression shirts hitting the tiled floor with wet slaps. Hard, sculpted chests, abs glistening with sweat, and those deep V-lines disappearing into their hockey pants made your mouth water.
Dean reached out and twisted the shower knob. Hot water exploded from the overhead sprays, filling the room with steam and loud rushing noise — perfect cover for whatever sounds you were about to make.
Water cascaded over all three of you as you stood there in just your underwear, them in their pants and compression shorts, bodies already pressing close.
Garrett grabbed your chin, kissing you again, deeper, while Dean pressed against your back, hard cock grinding against your ass through the wet fabric. His mouth found your neck, sucking and biting.
“You wanted both,” Dean rasped against your wet skin, voice pure filth. “Now you’re gonna fucking get both, sweetheart. Gonna ruin this pretty pussy until you can’t walk straight.”
Garrett’s hand slid down your stomach, fingers teasing the edge of your soaked panties. “Tell us how you want it, baby. We’re not stopping until you’re screaming our names.”
Hot water cascaded over your bodies, steam thick and heavy around you. Your bra was already gone, tossed somewhere on the wet tiles, and your panties were soaked through — both from the shower and from how fucking turned on you were.
You didn’t wait.
With a wicked little smile, you sank smoothly to your knees right there between them, water streaming down your face and chest as you looked up at Garrett and Dean through wet lashes.
“Fuck…” Garrett breathed, his voice rough as gravel. His cock was already straining hard against his compression shorts, thick and obvious.
Dean let out a low, surprised laugh, pushing wet hair back from his forehead. “Hold up, baby. You sure you’re not a puck bunny? Because getting on your knees this fast after all that ‘I don’t fuck hockey players’ talk…”
You giggled, the sound bright and filthy under the rushing water, and hooked your fingers into both their waistbands, tugging their shorts and pants down in one hungry motion.
Their cocks sprang free — hard, heavy, and perfect. Garrett’s was thicker, veiny, the head already glistening. Dean’s was long and slightly curved, twitching under your gaze.
“Mmm… look at you two,” you purred, voice sweet and dripping with lust. You wrapped a hand around each of them, stroking slowly from base to tip. “Such pretty, big cocks. So hard for me already… Garrett, fuck, you’re so thick I know you’re gonna stretch me so good. And Dean… this long dick is gonna hit so deep. I can’t wait to choke on both of you.”
You leaned in and dragged your tongue teasingly along Garrett’s shaft, then turned and gave Dean’s tip a wet, open-mouthed kiss, moaning softly like you were tasting something delicious.
Both men groaned loudly, the sound echoing under the shower spray.
“Nuh uh, baby,” Garrett growled, his big hand sliding into your wet hair, not pushing, just holding. “None of that. We praise you.”
Dean’s fingers joined Garrett’s in your hair, tilting your face up so you were looking at both of them. His usual cocky smirk had turned darker, hungrier.
“That’s right, sweetheart,” Dean rasped, thumb brushing your bottom lip. “Look at you… so fucking gorgeous on your knees for us. Such a good girl, taking what you want. That pretty mouth, those tits covered in water… you’re driving us fucking insane.”
Garrett’s voice dropped even lower, eyes burning down at you. “You’re not some puck bunny. You’re our filthy, confident little ice queen who told us you wanted both. And fuck, you look perfect like this — dripping wet, stroking our cocks, begging with those pretty eyes.”
You shivered hard at their words, pussy clenching around nothing as they kept praising you, their hands gentle but possessive in your hair, cocks twitching in your grip.
Dean leaned down slightly, voice pure sin. “Now be a good girl and open that mouth. Let us watch you worship these cocks you just praised so nicely… while we tell you exactly how perfect you are.”
You started slow and teasing, just the way you knew would drive them crazy.
Leaning in, you pressed soft, wet little kisses to the swollen tip of Garrett’s cock, then turned and did the same to Dean’s — gentle, adoring kisses that made both men hiss through their teeth. You swirled your tongue around Garrett’s head, sucking lightly on the sensitive tip before moving to Dean, taking him into your warm mouth with a soft, wet pop.
“Fuck… wow,” Garrett groaned, his voice wrecked as he stared down at you. “Look at her, Dean. So fucking beautiful.”
Dean’s hand tightened gently in your wet hair, breathing hard. “She’s gorgeous. That pretty mouth worshipping our cocks like she was made for it. Such a good fucking girl.”
You moaned around Dean’s length, the vibration making him curse. Then you pulled off with a filthy pop and started alternating — kissing, licking, and sucking the heads of both cocks, switching back and forth like you couldn’t get enough of them. Your hands stroked what your mouth wasn’t sucking, twisting and pumping in rhythm with the shower spray.
Their praises only made you wetter.
“Jesus Christ, baby,” Garrett murmured, thumb stroking your cheek. “You look so pretty like this… sucking us so sweetly. Those eyes looking up at us while your lips are all stretched and shiny.”
Dean chuckled breathlessly, but it came out more like a groan. “Our perfect little ice queen. Keep going just like that — fuck, your mouth feels incredible.”
Feeling bold and filthy, you pulled both cocks closer, pressing the heads together against your cheek. Then, with a naughty little smile, you started slapping your own face with them — first Garrett’s thick cock, then Dean’s long one, letting the heavy, wet smacks echo under the running water. The sound was obscene, and you loved it.
You rubbed their tips over your lips, your tongue, your cheeks, slapping them softly against your face again and again while looking straight up at them.
“Shit —” Dean’s hips twitched, eyes dark with lust. “You’re so fucking dirty and beautiful. Slapping that pretty face with our cocks like a perfect little slut for us.”
Garrett’s breathing was ragged, his hand cupping the back of your head. “Yeah… just like that, baby. Use us. You’re stunning. So eager, so wet for us already. Keep slapping those gorgeous lips with our cocks — fuck, you’re gonna make us lose it.”
You giggled softly around the heads of their cocks, the sound muffled and playful, then took turns sucking them deeper while continuing to rub and slap their hard lengths against your flushed, wet cheeks.
The filthy sounds of your mouth working their cocks mixed with the steady rush of the shower water, but Garrett and Dean had reached their limit.
With a shared look, they moved in perfect sync. Garrett hooked his big hands under your thighs while Dean grabbed your waist. In one smooth, powerful motion they lifted you clean off your knees, your back pressed against the warm tiled wall as your legs wrapped around Garrett’s hips. Water streamed down your bodies, making everything slick and hot.
“Fuck, come here, baby,” Dean growled, crashing his mouth against yours in a deep, possessive kiss. Garrett attacked the other side of your neck, sucking hard enough to leave a dark hickey right below your ear. Their mouths were everywhere — kissing, licking, biting. Dean moved lower, latching onto your breast and sucking a fresh bruise into the soft flesh while Garrett claimed the other side, teeth grazing your nipple before sucking hard.
You moaned loudly, arching into them, fingers tangled in their wet hair as they marked you up. Hickeys bloomed across your neck and tits, red and purple against your skin, each one a filthy claim.
“I need you,” you gasped between kisses, voice desperate and broken. “I need you so bad… One in my mouth and one in my pussy, please— I want both of you inside me right now.”
Garrett pulled back from your breast with a wet pop, blue eyes almost black with lust as he stared at your flushed, marked-up body. His thick cock was pressed right against your soaked pussy, sliding between your folds teasingly.
Dean chuckled darkly against your neck, biting down on a new spot as he ground his hard length against your ass. “Hear that, captain? Our girl is greedy.”
Garrett’s voice came out low and rough, dangerous. “I know something that's better baby” He rocked his hips, letting the head of his cock nudge your entrance while Dean’s pressed insistently against your tight back hole. “One in your ass and one in your pussy. Double stuffed. That’s gonna feel so much fucking better. You can take us, can’t you, pretty girl? We’ll open you up nice and slow… then fuck you stupid.”
You whimpered at his words, pussy clenching hard around nothing as fresh heat flooded your body. The idea made you dizzy with need.
Dean nipped at your earlobe, voice pure filth. “Yeah… we’re gonna fill both your tight little holes until you’re crying for us. But you have to beg nicely first, sweetheart.”
Garrett kissed you hard, tongue fucking your mouth while his cock kept teasing your dripping cunt. “Tell us you want it, baby. Tell us you want us to wreck both your holes right here in the shower.”
The steam was so thick it felt like the whole world had narrowed down to just the three of you under the hot spray.
Dean didn’t wait any longer. With a low growl he spun you around in his arms, lifting you effortlessly so your back was pressed to his strong chest. Your legs spread open as he held you up, one arm hooked under your thigh while his other hand guided his long, hard cock. He nudged the thick head right against your tight asshole, rubbing it in slow, teasing circles.
At the same time, Garrett stepped in front of you, towering and intense. He cupped your face with both hands and kissed you deep and hungry, tongue sliding against yours as he rocked his hips forward. His thick cock nudged insistently against your dripping pussy, sliding through your wet folds and bumping your swollen clit with every slow grind.
You were shaking between them, overwhelmed and aching.
“Please…” you whimpered desperately against Garrett’s mouth, voice breaking. “Please just put it in already— I need you both inside me. Fuck me, please, I can’t take any more teasing. Fill me up, I’m begging you…”
Dean chuckled darkly behind you, the sound pure sin. He pressed one thick finger against your tight ring of muscle, circling it before slowly pushing inside, stretching you open while his cock continued teasing right next to it.
“Listen to our greedy girl,” Dean murmured, lips brushing your ear as he worked a second finger into your ass, scissoring gently. “Already begging so pretty. You want both holes stuffed full, don’t you, baby?”
Garrett pulled back from the kiss just enough to look into your eyes, his own dark with lust. His cock kept nudging your entrance, coating himself in your slick. “So fucking desperate for us… You’re perfect.”
You moaned loudly, hips twitching helplessly between them. “Please— I need your cocks. Please fuck me, please—”
Dean kissed the side of your neck, sucking another hickey as he pumped his fingers deeper. “Your wish is our command, sweetheart.”
Garrett’s voice was rough and low as he lined himself up. “Hold on tight, baby. We’re gonna give you exactly what you asked for.”
Dean pulled his fingers out slowly, replacing them with the blunt head of his cock pressing firmly against your ass. Garrett’s thick tip pushed against your soaked pussy at the same time.
“Easy, baby… nice and slow,” Garrett murmured against your lips, voice strained with control. He pushed forward first, the thick head of his cock stretching your soaked pussy open inch by inch. At the same time, Dean gripped your hips tighter and slowly pressed into your ass, his long cock sliding in deeper with every careful thrust.
“Oh… fuck,” you moaned brokenly as they filled you up together. The overwhelming sensation of both holes being stretched and claimed at once made your eyes roll back, head falling against Dean’s shoulder. “That feels so fucking good… so so good—”
Your voice cracked into a desperate whimper as they bottomed out inside you, buried to the hilt. You felt impossibly full, every nerve lighting up with raw pleasure. Your walls clenched hard around both cocks, making both men groan loudly.
“Shit, she’s squeezing us so tight,” Dean growled against your neck, lips latching onto your skin as he sucked another dark hickey right below your ear. He kissed and bit along your throat, tongue soothing the marks while he stayed buried deep in your ass.
Garrett cupped your face with one big hand and kissed you slow and deep, swallowing every moan as his tongue tangled with yours. His other hand gripped your thigh, holding you open while he rocked gently inside your pussy, savoring how wet and hot you felt around him.
“You’re doing so good, baby,” Garrett praised between kisses, voice rough and tender at the same time. “Taking both our cocks like you were made for us. Fuck… you feel incredible.”
Dean kept kissing and sucking on your neck, one hand sliding up to pinch and roll your nipple while he started a slow, shallow thrust. “So fucking tight and perfect. Listen to those pretty sounds you’re making… You love being stuffed full, don’t you, sweetheart?”
You could barely speak, only managing broken moans and whimpers as they held you there, impaled on both thick cocks, kissing you senseless — Garrett claiming your mouth, Dean devouring your neck and shoulders.
The stretch burned so good, pleasure bordering on overwhelming as they started moving in a slow, coordinated rhythm.
Water cascaded down your bodies, mixing with sweat. Your eyes stayed half-lidded, rolling back every time they pressed deeper.
The slow, deep rhythm they’d started with didn’t last long.
Garrett and Dean exchanged one heated look over your shoulder and then began to move harder, deeper, perfectly in sync. Garrett drove his thick cock into your dripping pussy with powerful strokes while Dean fucked your tight ass from behind, their bodies pinning you between them against the tiled wall.
“Fuck— yes!” you cried out, the intense pleasure slamming through you with every thrust. The feeling of both holes being fucked at the same time was overwhelming, their cocks rubbing against each other through the thin wall inside you.
They picked up speed, wet skin slapping against wet skin, the shower barely covering your loud moans. Garrett’s hips snapped forward, grinding against your clit with every thrust while Dean pounded into your ass, gripping your thighs hard enough to leave marks.
“You’re taking us so fucking well,” Garrett groaned against your mouth, kissing you messily as he fucked you harder. “Such a perfect little slut for us.”
Dean bit down on your shoulder, voice rough and filthy. “That’s it, baby. Let us ruin these pretty holes.”
The coil in your belly snapped without warning.
Your orgasm crashed over you violently. Your eyes rolled back again, body shaking between them as your pussy and ass clenched hard around both cocks. A loud, broken scream tore from your throat, echoing off the shower walls.
“Oh my god— I’m cumming— fuck, fuck, fuck!” you sobbed, thighs trembling, juices gushing around Garrett’s cock as wave after wave of pleasure ripped through you.
Both men groaned loudly, fucking you through it, drawing out your orgasm until your vision went white.
“Good girl,” Garrett praised, voice deep and wrecked as he kissed you softly, still thrusting through your spasms. “Such a good fucking girl cumming so hard on our cocks.”
Dean chuckled breathlessly against your neck, sucking another hickey while slowing his thrusts just enough to let you ride it out. “That’s our baby. You liked getting fucked full like this, didn’t you? Look at you shaking so pretty for us.”
You could barely breathe, whimpering and twitching between their strong bodies, completely blissed out as they kept moving inside you, slower now but still deep, praising you the whole time.
“Good girl… so fucking perfect,” they kept murmuring, hands stroking your skin, lips kissing every part of you they could reach.
They didn’t stop.
Even after your first orgasm left you shaking and whimpering, Garrett and Dean kept fucking you through it — deep, powerful thrusts that had you sobbing with overstimulation and pleasure. The wet slap of their hips against your body mixed with the shower spray as they used both your holes like they owned them.
“Fuck, you feel too good,” Garrett growled, pounding into your pussy harder. “Gonna cum soon, baby.”
Dean groaned behind you, slamming deep into your ass. “Me too. This tight little ass is squeezing me so fucking perfect.”
You were ruined — legs trembling, eyes glassy, moans broken and constant as they fucked you senseless between their strong bodies.
Then, right when you felt them start to throb inside you, they pulled out at the same time.
Dean spun you around quickly and pushed you gently against the wall. Both of them stroked their cocks furiously, aiming at your body.
“Shit— take it, baby,” Garrett groaned.
Thick ropes of hot cum splashed across your stomach and tits as Garrett came hard, groaning your name. Dean followed right after, painting your back and ass with his own load, cursing filthy praises under his breath.
You looked absolutely wrecked — covered in their cum, hickeys blooming all over your neck and breasts, legs barely holding you up under the hot water.
They didn’t let you fall.
Garrett pulled you into his chest first, strong arms wrapping around you tightly. Dean pressed in from behind, sandwiching you between their warm, muscular bodies as the shower washed their cum down your skin. They held you close, kissing your shoulders, your temple, your wet hair, murmuring soft praises.
“You did so good, baby,” Garrett whispered, voice gentle now. “So fucking perfect for us.”
Dean nuzzled your neck, arms tight around your waist. “Our beautiful ice queen. You okay? We got you.”
You leaned into them completely, blissed-out and ruined in the best way, a tired, satisfied giggle escaping your lips.
“Okay… maybe I’m a puck bunny after all,” you mumbled against Garrett’s chest, voice hoarse and playful.
Both of them laughed — deep, warm, genuine laughs that vibrated against your body.
Dean kissed the top of your head. “Damn right you are. Our puck bunny now.”
Garrett tilted your chin up and kissed you slow and sweet. “Good. Because we’re nowhere near done with you.”
The three of you stayed under the hot water for a long time, wrapped up in each other, hearts still racing, the steam hiding your secret from the rest of the world.
word count: 3,525
ship: Garrett Graham x reader
rating: PG-13
summary: The guy you're dating is a dick and Garrett is done keeping his commentary to himself.
notes: this is a picture of me because who thought i could ever just write one (1) reader insert: 🤡
notes2: gifs are from this gifpack :)
notes3: my other GG x reader insert is here, and if you like reader inserts, I also wrote a bunch of nick leister (my fault london) ones
You’re pretty sure you’ve never felt heat crawl up your neck like this before, animosity licking at your nerve endings as you direct your gaze to someone you’ve always considered your best friend. Look, you’re not someone who gets pissed off easily. Not really. You’ll feel other emotions deeply—happiness, hurt, jealousy, but anger? It’s a wasted sensation. It burns too hot and takes too much out of you.
Yet here you are, willing Garrett Graham to ashes at your feet because how does he have the audacity?
“Who I date is not your business.” You snap.
Garrett scoffs, his hands falling to his hips as he tears his gaze away from you. He’s smiling, but not in a way that’s amused. Good, he’s pissed too. Glad you’re not alone in this.
You’ve been best friends with Garrett for years, he’s one of the first people you met when you were a freshman at Briar U. You clicked, connected, had a lot of the same classes and circles of friends. It’s always been something easy—like wearing your favorite sweater, or falling asleep. Something expected and automatic. Garrett is someone who’s been warm, dependable, loyal and there. He’s the person you turn to when you need advice or a shoulder to cry on, there’s no one better to dance with, to jump around and sing too loud, to join a drinking game with because you know you’re going to win with him by your side. You’d choose him time and time again; a whispered promise, a hand in the dark.
Every single time.
And yet—
“Not my business?” He asks, raising his eyebrows, “It became my business when we sat in there with that dumbfuck,” He points to the large windows of Malone’s, “and he didn’t know when your birthday was.”
You swallow, wrapping your arms around yourself. You try to convince yourself that it’s cold, that there’s a breeze scraping by and getting through the thin layer of the puffy sweater you have on, but you know better. Unease skitters through your bloodstream like spiders. You hate that Garrett is bringing this up again.
And you hate that he’s right.
Tonight was supposed to be a chill night, hanging out with some of Garrett’s teammates who are your friends too, their girlfriends, your other friends and the guy you’ve been seeing for a month, Mark. Mark, who Garrett can’t stand and has been very clear on this fact ever since he met him. Which you just…you don’t understand. Yeah, Mark has his moments, but he’s…he’s a decent guy?
One of the topics that had been brought up at dinner was your birthday. You had a huge party last year and Dean was wondering if it was business as usual for the weekend. Mark had asked if it was this upcoming weekend and Garrett had looked like he was ready to throw a napkin dispenser at his head.
“Okay so—what, you’re the only person who hasn’t forgotten anything?”
Garrett sighs impatiently from his nose, “Don’t,” He says after a moment, “C’mon, sunshine, Mark didn’t forget, he never knew when your birthday was. I bet you he still doesn’t know.”
Sunshine. A nickname you’re so used to hearing coming from Garrett’s mouth. Something he’s called you for years now, ever since he teased you about always having a sunny disposition—it, for whatever reason, is making the bridge of your nose sting.
“What are you doing?” Garrett asks, taking a step forward. His voice is strained; a frustrated hand winding through his curls, “Why are you wasting your time with this guy?”
That same heat you felt before prickles underneath your skin. You know that Garrett is asking from a place of concern, even though his stance is unyielding and his voice is sharp. He cares about you and he’s frustrated because of it. But you hate the feeling of existing underneath a microscope, like you’re the only person in the history of ever to be in a relationship with someone where there was a hint of imbalance. As if everyone Garrett’s ever been with, which aren’t many if we’re being honest, were somehow perfect.
“Okay,” You shake your head, a wet laugh falling from your lips. You can’t look at him, a thin vibration of an emotion you can’t name causing a slight tremble in your voice, “Just because Mark isn’t some sort of Briar U hockey legend doesn’t mean I’m wasting my time.”
The argument lacks evidence and purpose and you know it. Garrett knows it. You know that Garrett knows it. You can feel him walk closer to you even though you’re not looking at him. Your bodies are like magnets, you can sense him even when far away.
He reaches out and touches the pink fluffiness of your sweater, playing with the fabric between his fingers. You close your eyes when his fingers brush along your chin, knowing he wants you to look at him. You steel yourself, biting down so hard you swear you hear your molars crack.
But your eyes find his hazel ones. A port in the storm, even now.
“You know I don’t give a shit if he plays hockey,” Garrett replies quietly, voice and gaze softer than before. “I give a shit about you.”
A breath skitters out of your lungs, your heartbeat hammering against your ribcage. And despite the fact that you know this, that it’s no different than things he’s said to you before, it feels too real, too sharp against your body. His words are like a knife sliding into all of your soft parts.
“Well don’t,” You snap, pulling back from him. You wrap your sweater further around your body, turning on your heel, “I can take care of myself.” You walk away, keeping your gaze forward and your feet moving so that you don’t do something stupid—like allowing Garrett to hug you, like changing your mind.
—
There’s radio silence from Garrett for the next two days. Which is…which is fine. That’s what you wanted, right? That’s what you asked for? When you put your phone down for the third time, it lands with a noisy clatter. You’re annoyed with yourself that you can’t just be the bigger person and reach out to him. Soft shame licks against your nerve endings —I can take care of myself.
Fuck.
“Where’s your head at?” Mark asks, turning your attention towards him.
You’re at a bar, supposed to be on a date, but you’re definitely not the best company right now. And he can sense it. You swallow and turn your body to face him on the stool, a tight smile spreading across your face.
“Sorry I’m here. Just some stuff on my mind.”
“For your birthday?” He has another onion ring, wiping his mouth with a napkin. For some reason the act of him eating food, his attention wholeheartedly on the appetizer instead of you digs under your skin. You clear your throat, tapping your fingers against the bar.
“Yeah, sort of.”
He smiles, his hand coming down on your thigh. You try not to flinch. “I was thinking babe, forget some sort of big thing. You know? We could have a romantic getaway. Just the two of us.”
You blink at him, your mouth opening but no words spilling out. Then, “I can’t do that to my friends.”
He has another onion ring, raising his eyebrows, “I mean, it’s your birthday. It’s your decision—you don’t have to throw a ridiculous party just for them.”
A pain pings in your chest at the word ridiculous. The thing is, it’s not like your friends just want another excuse to party (though you’re not going to pretend that some of them definitely enjoy the prospect), at the end of the day, they want to celebrate you.
Emotion clogs the back of your throat and you struggle to speak for a moment, licking your lips. Your thoughts wander back to last year, the party you had, the cake Garrett went out of his way to make sure he got for you from that bakery a town over.
You can’t imagine having your birthday without him.
The audacity of Mark who— “Mhm,” You hum, pausing, then— “And when’s my birthday?”
Mark crumples the napkin in his hand, “What do you mean?” You stare at him. Oh my god. “It’s this weekend.”
No, it’s not. It’s Friday. As in tomorrow. You’re just planning the bulk of the celebration for the weekend.
Something akin to disappointment swirls in your chest, though you’re not sure why. Why would Mark remember your birthday when you just brought it up at Malone’s? The thought that all of this caused a stupid fight between you and Garrett swirls like acid behind your chest, dipping into your stomach, making you nauseous.
You shake your head, pulling back from the bar, “I have to go.” You slide off the stool.
Mark frowns, “Wait, what?”
You draw in a breath, trying to keep yourself from shaking, “I’m breaking up with you. I should have done it sooner.”
Before you can slip away from the bar, Mark’s hand comes down on your forearm, yanking you back into place. You wince, trying to pull your arm out of his grasp. You open your mouth to say something but he talks over you, gaze suddenly blazing—apparently he did not see this coming, “Don’t be a fucking brat.”
“Don’t be a fucking asshole,” You snap.
“Let her go.” The bartender’s voice sounds, causing Mark to immediately drop your arm. He continues to ask if you need a ride called but you don’t stick around long enough to reply.
Mark can pick up the tab; it’ll keep him inside a little longer as you begin walking down the street, just wanting to put distance in-between you and your ex. You debate calling a ride to head back to your place but…distantly, you know there’s only one place you want to be. Only one person you want to see.
Tugging out your phone, you tap on Garrett’s message thread,
y/n: are you home?
—
It’s late by the time you’re walking up the steps of the off-campus house that Garrett and a few other of his teammates live in, but he’s already opening the door. In a pair of black sweatpants and t-shirt to match, he doesn’t ask questions as you walk over the threshold. The fact that he doesn’t say a word, that he just guides you into the kitchen with a gentle hand on your back, has to be chipping away at his well-practiced control.
Garrett sits you at the island counter, moving towards the fridge. There’s a pint of ice cream in his hands a second later and two spoons, setting them down in front of you. His movements are calm and gentle, the only thing giving away the storm brewing inside is the occasional flexing of the muscle in his jaw and the flaring of his nostrils.
But still he doesn’t ask. He just pulls a stool up beside you. And waits.
You don’t deserve this. You don’t deserve him up at a ridiculous hour when he was probably sleeping, giving you ice cream and caring about you after the last thing you said to him. Tears sting the back of your eyelids and with trembling fingers, you reach for the ice cream container.
“Just have this on hand, do you?” You ask, voice cracking.
Garrett lets out a slow breath, peeling it open when your hands keep fumbling. “I think we both know emergency ice cream is a must.” He picks up a spoon, scraping it over the chocolate to spoonful a bite into his mouth, “Pretty sure it was in the bylaws of the friendship contract we signed.”
Your lips twitch, “I must have missed that page.”
He scoffs, “It was on the same page that mentioned you being unable to sleep without an extra pillow against your back and that you consider chocolate ice cream to be the only acceptable dessert…otherwise you’d rather have mozz sticks from Malone’s. You didn’t miss it.”
A sudden swell of emotion crashes into you like a physical wave, your hand coming up to cover your face. Fuck. Fuck. Garrett knows you well, he knows you so well and—and the fact that you’d been so angry at him for calling out something you should have been brave enough to say to Mark yourself…
You hate that your anger was so misplaced. You lashed out at Garrett not because he knew you, but because he knew you better than someone you were dating.
How fucking embarrasing.
“Hey no,” Garrett says gently, putting the spoon down, “Don’t do that.” His stool skids along the floor as he stands, moving to shift right beside you. When he pulls your hand away from your face, a shuddered sob slips out of your mouth.
“Come here.” He whispers, tugging you against his chest. Because of the height difference, your head tucks itself underneath his collarbone, his firm arms wrapping around your back. He keeps you close, an open palm up and down your spine while the other tucks itself against your hair.
You can feel his nose and lips press into your temple, his breath hot as he lets out a long sigh from his nose. Your fingers dig into his t-shirt, grounding yourself in his presence, the familiar scent of his cologne mixing with laundry detergent and something purely Garrett reaching into the branches of your lungs.
This is not the first time you’ve cried so openly in front of Garrett and you know it won’t be the last, either, but some part of you hates knowing that this never would have happened in the first place if you just would have listened to what your friend was trying to tell you.
Garrett only pulls back when he senses you’re ready, tipping his chin down to try and catch your gaze.
You shake your head, his thumb dragging across your cheek to catch a tear track, “I’m sorry.”
His eyebrows draw together and he reaches for a napkin on the counter to hand you, “You have nothing to be sorry for.”
A small laugh escapes, the back of your neck heating along with your cheeks because really? “I kinda do.”
His voice is firm, fingers on your chin again so your gaze meets his, “You really don’t.”
Garrett pulls your stool closer to his own with his foot before he sits down again, handing you the extra spoon on the counter. His body is angled to face yours, his knee bumping into your leg. He does a playful cheers motion by tapping his spoon into the one you have, making a small smile pull into your face.
“You gonna tell me what happened? Cause using my imagination isn’t helping.”
You use the napkin on your face, tucking it into one of your pockets before spooning some chocolate ice cream into your mouth. Part of you really doesn’t want to tell him. You know that in all aspects of things that could have happened, it could have been worse. But…that same sort of sensation of shame wraps around you like barbed wire as you recall the interaction between you and Mark. Garrett is not the type of person to say I told you so; at least not about this. But you can still feel that ugly sentiment pressing against your throat at having to tell him what happened.
“You don’t have to,” Garrett adds when you remain silent, “If it’s—”
“No,” You interrupt, shaking your head. “I’m just…” You let out a long sigh, curling your hair around your ear, “I’m just embarrassed, that’s all. I should have listened to you.”
“And if this were any other situation, I would ask you to repeat that sentence.”
You roll your eyes, encouraging a soft laugh to leave his chest. The sound warms you from the inside out.
“But,” He continues, “That’s not what this is.” He bumps you with his knee, drawing your attention to his face. When your gaze meets his, he offers you a small smile, “You can talk to me, sunshine. You know that.”
You do know that. So you tell him about being at the bar. About Mark wanting the birthday celebration to just be you and him, how he was insistent on leaving your friends out. And then about how it got worse—about how, even after all of this, he still didn’t know what day your birthday was, and how when you tried to break up with him—
“He was just being a dick, almost wouldn’t let me leave the bar.” Your fingers rub absently at your wrist.
Garrett clocks the movement, slowly setting his spoon down near the carton, “Do we think he’s still there? At the bar?”
Your hand comes down on Garrett’s arm before he can stand up, “It doesn’t matter if he is, don’t even think about it.”
He purses his lips, standing as if his intention was always to put his spoon in the sink, “No idea what you’re talking about.”
You have one more scoop of ice cream before putting the lid on it, carrying it over to the freezer to put away, “Mark isn’t worth it.”
Garrett catches your hand, gently smoothing his fingers over the red marks on your forearm. His nostrils flare again as he draws in a breath but his eyes are calm and warm. “No,” He agrees, “He’s not.”
The air feels filled with static electricity connecting both of your bodies and for a second you…your gaze finds Garrett’s mouth. There’s this moment where you think about how Garrett never liked Mark, about that argument outside of Malone’s, how maybe it had nothing to do with your ex not remembering your birthday and everything to do with something else. Something that’s clearly simmering for you both directly under the surface, that’s been there the whole time and you didn’t see it until now.
Your stomach flips. It’d be so easy to close the distance, to lean and kiss him.
“Sunshine,” Garrett says gently, his hand falling onto your shoulder to stop you from—
“Oh my god,” You take a step back, your hand covering your mouth, “I’m sorry, I don’t know…”
“No,” Garrett says quickly, reaching for you before you can do something drastic like…rush out of the house. Heat gathers along the back of your neck and flutters your pulse as Garrett hooks his hand behind your elbow. “We’re very much on the same page,” He promises, “I just don’t want to kiss you while you’re upset over another guy.”
It’s not the worst let-down you’ve ever heard and besides…Garrett’s right. Tonight might have unlocked something in you but it wouldn’t be fair to take time to decompress, to push everything into these wee hours of the morning.
Garrett leans down and plants a kiss to your cheekbone, “C’mon, I’ll get you settled upstairs.”
He offers you a hand that you take; one of the easiest things you’ve ever done.
—
You sleep in Garrett’s bed, which isn’t completely out of the ordinary. What is different, however, is how you’re woken up.
Sunlight streams in through the curtains and there’s quiet shuffling before a weight sinks in beside your knee. It takes you a moment to fully wake up, to realize what’s going on. You drag a hand over your face, squinting before Garrett slowly comes into focus.
He’s dressed comfortably, a t-shirt and sweatpants, his hair slightly damp like he recently showered. Drowsiness lingers before you realize he’s holding a chocolate cupcake in his hand, a skinny green candle sticking out of it.
He smiles, “Morning sunshine.”
Shifting in bed, you lean back against a small stack of pillows. “What’s this?” You raise your eyebrows.
“This?” He asks, pursing his lips, “Birthday cupcake.”
Your teeth sink into your bottom lip and you touch the tip of the unlit candle, “Tucker?”
Garrett’s mouth opens in mock offense before he laughs, the sound making your stomach flutter, “Okay, contrary to having a chef in the house, I can make things without burning the kitchen down.”
A breath catches in your throat, your eyes falling to the chocolate cupcake with white icing and tiny pink sprinkles, “You got up and made these?” There’s a sensation building in your chest like a rolling wave, utterly touched that Garrett would do something like this. Especially when you showed up last night out of the blue, freshly broken up with fucking Mark.
Garrett remembers things easily—things that matter to you. Things that remind you that you’re not difficult to love.
“Well…” He trails off, “If you don’t want it…” He pretends he’s going to get up.
You quickly gather his shirt in your hands, pulling him close. His smile is wide again, eyes warm, “I want it.” You insist, then, “Guess what my wish is.”
Garrett holds your gaze for a long moment before it dips to your mouth, “I don’t think I have to guess.” And draws you into a slow kiss. The cupcake will just have to wait.
⌗ synopsis — A game night at the Briar hockey house spirals out of control when an unexpected answer wounds Dean Di Laurentis’s massive pride. Determined to challenge her boyfriend’s ego, the heroine sparks an entertaining war of jealousy and drama within the team.
⌗ author’s note — We establish the initial atmosphere at the hockey guys' house (Dean, Garrett, Logan, and Tucker) on a typical Friday night, filled with banter, music, and the group's usual camaraderie.
The living room of the hockey house was the epicenter of the usual Friday night chaos at Briar. The air smelled of a mix of cold pizza, cheap beer, and that expensive cologne Dean insisted on wearing in industrial quantities. In the background, a Spotify playlist blasted at a volume loud enough to force everyone to practically shout, competing with the sounds of laughter and biting remarks about next weekend's game.
I was sunk into the worn-out but comfortable main sofa, practically buried under Dean’s arm. He had one of his legs draped over mine and was completely unconsciously playing with a strand of my hair, twirling it around his index finger while maintaining a heated debate with Logan about whether a Rangers player deserved the suspension he’d been handed that week.
"I’m telling you, Tucker," Dean insisted, gesturing with his free hand—the one holding a cup filled with some strange concoction of rum and soda. "The guy went straight for the knee. That’s not physical play; that’s being a damn criminal."
"Oh, please, Di Laurentis," Logan scoffed from the armchair, his feet propped up on the coffee table. "If you had made that exact same play, you’d be calling it pure poetry in motion and saying the ref is just sensitive."
"That is slander," Dean replied, dramatically offended, pressing his hand against his chest. "I play with elegance. I’m an artist on the ice, right, babe?" He turned toward me, planting a quick, loud kiss on my temple before looking back at Logan with smug superiority.
I just laughed, snuggling closer against his side. Loving Dean meant accepting that his ego had its own zip code, but it also meant enjoying moments like this, where we could just be ourselves surrounded by the people we loved.
At the other end of the room, Allie shifted on Sean’s lap, adjusting her denim shorts before resting her elbows on her knees. She had that look in her eyes—that spark of boredom mixed with the sudden urge to stir up a debate out of nowhere. She locked her gaze onto Garrett, who was sitting on the floor, leaning against the base of the couch, checking something on his phone.
"Hey, Graham," Allie called out, raising her voice to cut through the music. "Serious question. I’ve been thinking about this for days, and I need you to be honest. What exactly is your type? Like, your ultimate ideal in life?"
Garrett didn't even look up from his phone at first. "If you’re going to ask me to help you move your stuff again, the answer is no. My back is still paying the price for last time."
"Not that, idiot," Allie threw a small throw pillow at him, which Garrett caught in midair with flawless athlete reflexes, finally looking up with a raised eyebrow. "It’s a theoretical question. What’s your type?"
Garrett let out a dry chuckle, setting his phone down on the rug. He looked over at the kitchen bar dividing the space, where Hannah stood with her back to us, reaching for some snacks on the top shelves. Garrett’s expression softened with that trademark self-assurance of his, but it was filled with genuine affection.
"My type is Hannah Wells," he declared, raising his beer can toward the kitchen as if making a toast. "It’s obvious, isn't it? Brunette, talented, with a hell of a backbone that keeps me in line and doesn't buy into any of my bullshit. I don't need to look anywhere else. I already won the lottery."
A collective chorus of mock boos, dramatic groans, and fake gagging noises flooded the room. Logan pretended to shove a finger down his throat, and Tucker simply shook his head, smiling.
"God, Graham, you’re a disgusting softie," Logan yelled at him. "You’re going to give me diabetes if you keep talking like that."
"Shut up, Logan, you’d do the same if anyone could stand you," Garrett shot back, taking a swig of his beer, completely unbothered by the teasing.
Allie rolled her eyes with amusement, satisfied with the answer, but her eyes flashed with a new wave of mischief. She turned slowly in our direction, crossing her arms, and pointed her index finger straight at me.
"Okay, fine. We know the guys' side. But you," Allie said, capturing the attention of the entire room, "if you had to choose... what exactly is your type?"
Hearing the question, I felt Dean’s body subtly tense beside me—not out of discomfort, but out of pure anticipation. His arm around my shoulders tightened a fraction, and he shifted on the couch with a look of absolute smugness plastered across his face. His dimples popped instantly. He was so damn sure of what I was going to say. I could practically read his mind, already collecting the compliment headed his way: a hockey player, blonde, light eyes, a body sculpted by the gods, and natural charm. He brought his cup to his mouth again, ready to take a long sip while basking in my public declaration of love.
I kept my face completely deadpan. I looked at Allie, then flicked my gaze over to Dean, who cocked an arrogant wink at me, and finally looked down at Garrett, who remained seated on the floor watching the scene with curiosity.
To me, Hannah was one of my best friends. We understood each other perfectly, shared secrets, and always had each other’s backs; my love for her was massive, platonic, and filled with a brutal admiration for how amazing she was as a woman. So, with that complicity in mind and with an immense urge to blow up my boyfriend's ego, I smirked and spoke with absolute serenity.
"Honestly... my type is Graham's girlfriend."
The silence that fell over the room was so sudden and absolute that you could have heard a pin drop, despite the music still pulsing in the background.
Dean, who at that exact microsecond was taking a deep gulp of his rum mixture, froze mid-sip. His eyes widened so much I thought they would pop right out of his skull. The liquid diverted straight down the wrong pipe. Immediately, he slammed his cup onto the coffee table—spilling half of it in the process—and broke into a violent, desperate coughing fit, clutching his throat as he doubled over.
A few feet away, Garrett went completely rigid. His beer can stopped inches from his lips. He looked left, then right, utterly disoriented, as if trying to process whether the sentence he had just heard came from a hallucination or reality.
"What...?" Garrett managed to articulate, blinking repeatedly as he stared at me, entirely thrown off. His athlete brain seemed to have short-circuited.
Exactly three seconds of collective shock passed before the room erupted into a madhouse.
Logan let out a screech of pure disbelief and threw himself backward into his chair, covering his face with a cushion while his shoulders shook with uncontrollable laughter. Tucker, for his part, let out a laugh so loud he banged his knee against the coffee table, completely losing his usual calm composure.
"No way! This is pure gold!" Logan roared, frantically pointing a finger at Dean and Garrett. "Look at their faces! They’re pale! It looks like someone just stole their souls!"
"You hit them right where it hurts!" Tucker mocked, wiping away a tear from laughing so hard while looking at Dean, who was still trying to catch his breath.
Dean finally managed to steady his breathing, though his cheeks were completely flushed, his eyes watering from choking, and his chest heaving up and down rapidly. He straightened up slowly, glaring at me as if he couldn't believe the betrayal he had just suffered. Then he looked at Garrett, then back to me, and finally ran a hand through his hair, completely indignant but with a comical spark of genuine panic in his eyes.
He leaned forward, stretching out an arm to point his index finger at me while staring intently at his best friend.
"Garrett..." Dean said, his voice noticeably hoarse and raspy from the coughing. "My girl wants to eat yours."
"Whoa, whoa, whoa... hold on a second," Garrett reacted instantly, dropping his beer can and throwing both hands up in the air in self-defense, looking at me as if I were a predator stalking its prey. "Wells is off-limits. Get away from my girl. Find your own prospect."
"Bro, I swear on my life!" Dean exclaimed, raising his voice with that theatrical drama that defined him so well, bringing a hand dramatically to his heart as he turned toward Logan and Tucker. "I have never felt so threatened by a girl in my entire existence! My masculinity is bruised! My ego is bleeding out on the floor of this living room!"
"She completely blindsided you, Di Laurentis!" Logan mocked, slapping the armrest of the chair. "She traded you for your female version with a better singing voice!"
Right at that precise moment of absolute chaos, Hannah walked out of the kitchen holding a plate of pretzels and a couple of glasses of water. She stopped dead in her tracks right at the threshold connecting the two spaces, looking at the scene with a raised eyebrow and an expression of deep confusion. She observed Logan and Tucker dying of laughter, Garrett on the defensive, and Dean looking like someone had just stolen his most prized possession.
"What did I miss?" Hannah asked, crossing her arms as she looked at all of us. "Why does Dean look like he saw a ghost, and why is Garrett looking at you like you’re going to steal his hockey skates?"
Hannah took a step into the living room, setting the plate of pretzels carefully onto the coffee table right next to the mess of spilled soda Dean had left behind during his coughing fit. She looked at me, then at Dean—who was still holding his hand over his chest, breathing as if he had just run a marathon—and finally at Garrett, who maintained his maximum alert posture.
"Seriously, is anyone going to explain what's going on?" Hannah insisted, amused but confused, resting a hand on her hip. "It looks like you guys just witnessed a crime."
"Not a crime, Wells," Logan let out, trying to catch his breath as he wiped away a tear. "A declaration of war! Your boyfriend and Di Laurentis just got displaced from the market by the most unexpected competition."
Garrett leaped up from the floor, brushing off his pants with comical seriousness. He walked straight over to Hannah, took her gently by the shoulders, and positioned her behind him, as if shielding her from an imminent danger.
"Don't look to the left, Wells. Keep your eyes on me," Garrett told her in a solemn voice, earning a look of utter disbelief from her. "There are dark forces in this room attempting to destabilize our relationship."
"What are you talking about, Graham?" Hannah let out a laugh, breaking free from his grip to look him in the face. "Did you take a hit to the head at practice today or what?"
Dean, feeling it was time to defend his wounded honor, straightened up on the couch. He turned toward me, narrowing his eyes with that blend of indignation and dramatic arrogance that made him so him.
"Explain it to her, babe," Dean demanded, crossing his arms. "Tell Hannah what just came out of that pretty little mouth of yours. Tell her how you destroyed my self-esteem in a single second."
I shrugged, maintaining an angelic smile that only succeeded in making Dean more nervous. I looked at Hannah, who was waiting for the resolution of the mystery.
"Allie asked me what my type was," I said with total tranquility, stretching my legs out onto the coffee table. "And I was just honest. I said my type is Graham's girlfriend."
Hannah stood frozen for a brief second, processing my words. She looked at Garrett, then at Dean—who was nodding his head dramatically, as if saying 'see? I told you!'— and finally, she looked at me. A massive, radiant smile began to spread across her face.
"Oh, my God," Hannah whispered, and immediately let out a clear, ringing laugh, completely delighted. "That is the best thing I have heard all semester!"
She walked right past Garrett, completely ignoring her boyfriend's look of utter betrayal, and approached my side of the couch. I high-fived her, laughing at the situation. Our friendship had always been like this: a safe harbor, full of mutual support and jokes the guys often couldn't decipher. The platonic love I had for Hannah was built on how incredibly smart and talented she was, and seeing her enjoy the mental collapse of the two biggest egos on the hockey team was simply glorious.
"Hey, Wells, don't encourage her behavior," Garrett protested, crossing his arms and pretending to be deeply offended. "You’re supposed to say your only type is me. With my muscles, my captaincy, and my charming smile."
"Sorry, Graham, but she has excellent taste," Hannah winked at him, sitting down on the armrest of the couch right next to me. "Besides, let’s admit she’s a considerable upgrade from you two."
"Join me in my sorrow, brother!" Dean exclaimed, throwing himself dramatically backward onto the couch, covering his eyes with his forearm. "My own girlfriend has publicly rejected me for my best friend’s girlfriend. This is a low blow for the Di Laurentis dynasty. I will never be the same again."
Tucker, who had finally stopped laughing so hard, tossed a closed beer can at Dean, who caught it in midair by pure athletic instinct without removing his arm from his face.
"Drop the drama, Dean," Tucker told him with a sly grin. "At least now you know you have to try harder. The competition is stiff in your own house."
Dean slowly uncovered his eyes, looking at me sideways with a spark of mischief and determination in his gaze. He leaned into me, invading my personal space until his face was just inches from mine. His cologne completely enveloped me, and that smug smirk reappeared on his lips, though this time with a hint of a challenge.
"So, Wellsy, huh?" Dean whispered, loud enough for everyone to hear, gently catching my chin between his fingers. "I think I’m going to have to remind you why you chose me, babe. Get ready, because starting tomorrow, I’m going to be the most fucking perfect boyfriend on this campus just to erase Wells from your mental map."
"I’d love to see that, Di Laurentis," I replied, holding his gaze with amusement. "The bar is set pretty high."
"Please, get a room!" Logan shouted, tossing a pretzel at us from across the room, as everyone burst into laughter once again, closing out one of the most memorable nights at the Briar house.
Pairings: John Logan x FigureSkater!Y/N, mentions of John Logan x Hannah Wells
Genre: fluff (for now), hint of angst, some smut, yearning and crushes!
Warnings: some swearing, mentions of nudity, Y/N and Logan being a bunch of pining idiots.
Words: 7.7k
Summary: You don't know where you stand with Logan, but it seems that everywhere you go, he shows up. You're unsure if there's mixed signals or if there's something Logan is trying to tell you.
Read Part 1 Here!
You woke up realizing what had happened in the past 24 hours. Had you just gone on a study date with John Logan? I mean, technically not, Olivia was there. Whatever, he probably goes on millions of those with other girls across campus. In your bed, you rubbed your eyes as you grabbed for your phone, checking the time. You saw it was still early, around 9:00, and Olivia was getting ready for class.
“Good morning, Y/N, how are you feeling?”
“I’m alright, I gotta head to Malone’s to do some work before class. I need one of Della’s iced coffees pronto.”
“And you also need to get all your work done before the party on Saturday!” Olivia exclaimed, shimmying in a little dance as you walked over to your closet to get dressed.
You rolled your eyes, secretly dreading going to the party, partially because of Logan, but also cause of going to a college party in general. You got dressed, did your hair, packed your bag, and had Olivia drop you off at Malone’s before she headed to class. You found a small booth and set your bag down.
“Y/N?”
The voice was semi-familiar until you turned and saw her blue eyes. It was Hannah.
“Oh, hey, Hannah right? I didn’t know you worked here.”
“Yeah, I do. Is there anything I can get you at the moment?”
“An iced coffee and what bakery or pastry items do you guys have?”
“They just baked some delicious blueberry muffins. Do you want one of those?”
“Sure”
“Great, I’ll bring that right out when it’s ready!”
Looking at Hannah only made the pit in your stomach feel worse. She was a sweetheart. You understood why Logan might have a small crush on her. Her body’s beautiful, super nice, kind, and hard-working. You could not imagine taking on part-time jobs on top of schoolwork and figure skating. The more you looked at her, the more you understood why Logan liked her so much. To distract yourself, you brought out your laptop and edited your routine music to fit the allotted free-skate time. You were also making a warm-up mix you can listen to before competitions. Hannah floated over with your coffee and muffin.
“Sorry to be nosy, but what are you working on?”
“I’m editing some music for my figure skating competitions.”
“Oh, that's so cool, I use the same software when I’m editing songs.”
“Do you also play a sport here?”
“No, no, I’m a music major.”
“That make’s more sense,” you awkwardly chuckle.
“Just let me know if you need anything else. Good luck with the music mixing.”
You thanked her and smiled, turning back to adjust transitions on your warm-up mix. You watched as people went in and out of Malone’s. You eventually finished your warm-up mix. You played it in the background as you moved on to finish some of your mockups for a marketing class.
Logan skipped his class to see if he could grab a snack at Malone’s before heading home. The fries alone could drag him out of bed from a nasty hangover. When he walked in, he was greeted by Hannah.
“Logan! Hey! How are you?”
Hannah pulled him into a hug. That made his heart want to burst out of his chest. Hannah smelled like warm vanilla and roses. Logan swore he could melt in her arms. Hannah let go as she had to bring some food to another table.
“So, Logan, what are you doing here? Let me guess, Della’s fries.”
“You, unfortunately, would be correct,” Logan smiled.
“You know the drill, just grab anywhere to sit, and I’ll bring them to you. And a heads up.”
Hannah nudged Logan, and he followed her eyes to you, staring deeply into your computer.
Logan rolled his eyes. “How much did Garrett tell you?”
“I have no idea what you are talking about,” Hannah winked and walked away to take another booth’s order.
Logan sighed as he walked over to you. Surprisingly, you didn’t notice until you felt the table move. You jumped, seeing Logan now in front of you, pausing your music.
“Jeez! Do you like sneaking up on girls or something?”
“Not particularly, especially when they have the best noise-canceling headphones. Seriously, they need to sponsor you or something for those.”
“What are you doing here? Stalking me?”
“How dare you? I happen to enjoy Della’s fries, and wanted to get some before I head home for the day.”
“It’s only like 12:00, do you not have any classes later?”
“They only exist if I attend them.”
“Wow, so studious of you.”
“Anyways, I have to set up for a fundraiser for a youth hockey camp, the Hurricaines.”
Hannah then walks over with Logan’s fries.
“Oh are you talking about the hockey fundraiser? Y/N, you should totally come.”
You looked as Logan’s eyes were filled with panic.
“Um, yeah if you want to, you can come unless you’re going to be busy.”
“Oh, c’mon, Logan.” Hannah turns to you, “He’s just shy because he was a little caine, so this fundraiser means a lot to him.”
“A little caine?” You joked.
“Yeah, if I didn’t get help from them, I wouldn’t be here playing hockey.”
You saw Logan’s face soften as he spoke. It was nice to see him speak so fondly about the organization.
“Sure, I’d love to come and support the cause.” You replied.
Hannah giggled with excitement, while you looked at Logan, who seemed a little awkward about the interaction.
“It’s going to be here at Malone’s at 8:00 PM, and bring all the friends and money you have with you,” Hannah squealed while Logan chuckled.
You agreed it sounded nice as you finished up your work and talked to Logan while he ate his fries.
“So what are you doing after this?”
“Class, unlike some people, I have to go. I have a presentation for a marketing class, and I wanted to see if I could skate on the rink before dinner.”
“What time were you thinking?” Logan inquired
“After my class, so around 4:00, why do you want to crash my rehearsal session again?”
“Not necessarily, I thought you’d like some company. Also, you owe me, its my turn to showcase my amazing hockey skills.”
“I can pay a $5 student ticket to watch that. It’s not that hard to skate and move a stick around a rink.”
“You wanna bet? Meet me at the rink. 4:00. Don’t be late.”
Logan then got up before you could rebut, leaving to prepare for the fundraiser later. You sighed as you packed up your work and got up to ask Hannah how much you owed her. She mentioned you were all set as Logan paid for you on his way out. Damn it, John Logan, why’d you have to be so nice?
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
You were restless in your marketing class. You gave your initial prototype presentation as the professor gave feedback and a few marketing notes for your future presentations. You spaced out so badly that you didn’t pay attention to the other student’s presentation. You were busy staring at your laptop, begging for time to slow down. Your heart was pounding, and your hands were sweating at the idea of being alone on the rink again with John Logan. You haven’t felt this nervous since your first figure skating recital, which did not go well. Unfortunately, class had ended about half an hour early because some students needed extensions or didn't show up for their presentations, so you headed back to your dorm to change and grab your skating gear.
Olivia came in as you were changing, about to head out.
“Hey cutie, you heading to the rink?”
“No, I’m just wearing a full practice uniform and a skate bag.”
“Hey, I don’t need the sarcasm. I was just about to go take a shower.”
“Sorry, I’m just really nervous, the room’s all yours.”
“Is your routine not going well?”
“Yes and no, I mean, I’m still trying to land my triple lutz and toe loops, but let’s just say I won’t be at the rink alone.” You started to fiddle with your hands.
“Are you meeting Erin there? I know she’s been hard on you ever since you joined the team.”
“No…”
“No. You’re going on a skating date with John Logan.”
You whined as you moved your hands in front of your face in embarrassment.
“Maybe.”
“Y/N.”
“I’m overthinking it, he’s definitely into Hannah, so I shouldn’t be nervous right?”
“Who cares what he thinks? You just need to go out on the rink and be you.”
“Thanks, Olivia.”
“Make him do some spins so he can get his head screwed on right.”
You laughed and hugged Olivia goodbye before walking over to the rink. You texted Logan to make sure he would still be there.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Y/N: Hey, I’m heading over to the rink now, and should be there in 5-10 minutes or so. If you can’t make it, no worries, I’ll see you at the fundraiser later.
You stared at your phone, begging that he wouldn’t be there so you could take some time to practice your routine more and get your mind off of him. Your phone buzzed about 2 minutes later from Logan.
Logan: I’m already here, sweetheart. 😉
You rolled your eyes as you continued to walk to the rink. You aimlessly wandered for a few minutes before finding the entrance to the rink again. There, you saw Logan running drills. He had a speaker playing 80s rock, and he was speeding through, doing some shooting drills. You weren’t going to lie to yourself. It was impressive and hot. You found yourself walking towards the bench with your gear, lacing up your skates, and taking your guards off. Logan skates up to the bench, noticing you as you enter.
“About time you showed up, I was worried you were flaking on me.”
“I totally wouldn’t miss this for the world,” you noted sarcastically.
Logan lowers his music so he can hear you better.
“You ready to learn how to score?”
“Hold on. I did not come here to hold a stick and hit it around with a puck. I need to practice.”
“Trust me, sweetheart, you don’t need it. You were saying earlier that it’s not that hard to move a stick on the ice. Well, let’s prove it.”
“You’re ridiculous Logan, what is this, elementary school?”
“Sure, sure, back out now, chicken.”
“What did you just call me?!” You stood up from the bench to meet
Logan at the barricade face-to-face.
Logan bent down and whispered. “I said, chicken, bok bok.”
You immediately opened the door to the rink and grabbed his stick. Logan laughed as he collected some of the pucks for you and put them at center ice.
“Watch me,” you said, lining up a shot.
You shoved the stick into the puck and completely missed the goal by a few feet. You continued to fuss and miss the goal as Logan looked at you, laughing on the side.
“Fine, Mr. Hockey, you do it then.” You pouted.
Logan skated up to you. “Watch and learn.”
In one quick swing, you saw him score a goal with ease. You huffed and refused to look at him. You started to skate away in embarrassment. Logan grabbed your arm.
“C’mon, sweetheart, let me show you how.”
“Alright, but stop calling me that!” You nearly blushed every time he called you that.
Logan laughed, gave you his stick, and stood behind you. He wrapped his arms around you, and his hands covered yours around the stick. Your body felt on fire. You could smell his light sweat mixed with the scent of his Old Spice deodorant. His silver chain brushed cooly against the back of your neck. You felt his hot breath on your cheek as he whispered how to move your hands with the puck.
“Luckily, we are dead center on the ice. People also underestimate how heavy the puck is so, we’re going to give a big swing straight across and…”
You watched as the puck easily went into the net. You spaced out whatever you were thinking, as you could only hear the silence after the puck went into the net. You lifted your body and turned to face Logan. God, those eyes made you want to sink into them. He had a smug look on his face.
“Congrats, you officially know how to move a stick on the ice.” He grinned.
Part of you was speechless. You didn’t know whether to thank him or keep your guard up. Why was he being so nice to you?
“Logan?”
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“Why are you so nice to me? I mean, we barely know each other.”
“I thought I’d just help out a friend, I don’t mind meeting new people. Plus, I’d probably be seeing you on the rink a lot.”
Your eyes burned at the word friend. Right, we are just friends. Nothing more. He probably has Hannah on his mind anyway. He probably does this with all the girls he meets.
“So, are we done with this hockey lesson so we can showcase the real talent?” you bit back, protecting your heart.
“Fair enough, the ice is yours, Y/N.”
You skated around practicing some spins and jumps, eventually finally landing your toe loops. You attempted to land your triple lutz again, and it stuck. Logan tapped his stick on the bench, cheering for you. You skated back towards the bench and grabbed Logan’s hand. For the first time, you saw his cheeks lightly blush.
“It’s your turn now, Logan.”
“What?!”
Before he could continue to speak, you dragged him onto the ice.
“Y/N, you know this can only end in me falling.”
“So what? You got hockey pads on, can’t be worse than a guy slamming you into the boards. Just copy me.”
You started to gain some speed and do a simple scratch spin. Logan looks as if you performed a magic trick.
“If you want to a two-toe spin you can. Go ahead.”
Logan skates, attempts to spin on two feet, then tries to lift his foot, causing him to fall on his butt. You laughed as you skated over to him in an attempt to help him up.
“Nothing to say?”
“Remind me to never challenge a figure skater again.”
Logan was heavy as you tried to help him up, and you guys are holding hands again. You quickly let go as you hear your phone's ringtone go off. Embarrassingly, it was “Love Me Harder” by Ariana Grande. You quickly skated to the bench to see it’s from Olivia.
“Hey, what’s up?”
“I got some bad news, there was something wrong with the dorm’s boiler so they shut off all the water for the night. They said it should be fixed by the morning. Thought I’d tell you before you got back.”
“Oh no, thanks Olivia, I’ll figure something out.”
“Worst case, you should probably text the girls on your team if anyone with an apartment will let you shower there.”
“Good idea, thanks for letting me know.”
You hung up as Logan skated over to you, concerned.
“Everything ok?”
“Yeah, apparently the dorm’s shower is out, so I gotta figure out where to shower before the fundraiser.”
“You could always shower at my place.”
You looked at him in mild disgust.
“Are you sure? I don’t even have a change of clothes with me.”
“We can swing by your place and then head to mine. Make’s it easier, you can hang out at the house before we all go to the fundraiser.”
“What’s the state of your bathroom? I can’t imagine living with all boys makes it the most clean.”
“Considering I just deep-cleaned it, I’d say it's pretty decent, and the hot water is a plus. Hannah uses it all the time when she’s over.”
“I guess it wouldn’t hurt, thanks.” You quietly replied, dreading the idea of knowing Logan imagining Hannah in the shower.
“We should go now, it’s almost dinnertime, I’m sure Tucker will be excited to have a new guest try his food. I’m going to hit the showers in the locker room real quick.”
Logan grabbed his things before heading towards the men’s locker room. As you were unlacing your skates, you realized Logan forgot his speaker. You wondered if he wanted to listen to music in the shower, so with your things, you made your way to find the men’s locker room. Unfortunately for you, no one had told you that men’s locker rooms don’t have shower curtains.
“Hey, Logan! You left your speaker, I didn’t know if you-” You stopped dead in your tracks as you saw Logan butt-ass naked before he faced you. If you weren’t already lost for words, you definitely were now.
You saw Logan’s well-defined abs and a muscular, but slim, athletic build. You watched as the water beads rippled down his body. You shouldn’t be staring for this long. It was like you were a kid in a candy store again. Not that you meant to look, but you can see why Olivia said the rumors about him being good in bed. He had a small happy trail that led to his groin. He kept it neatly trimmed, but not bald. You also were not complaining about the size. Once you came out of your daze, you immediately caught yourself shielding your eyes, rambling, and apologizing profusely.
“O-Oh my god, I’m so sorry, Logan, I promise I didn’t see anything. I’m just going to leave the speaker here. I’ll see you outside.”
Before Logan could answer, you rushed outside of the men’s locker room, leaning against the wall and slowly trickling down to the floor with your head in your knees of embarrassment. God, how could I be so stupid? And why don’t the showers here have curtains? You blushed, rethinking the sight of Logan naked. It only made you want to fall harder into his arms.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Logan didn’t know how to feel. Surely you’ve seen a guy naked. But he didn’t hate the idea of you seeing him like this. After you stormed out, Logan felt himself getting hard. Did he like you? He knew his body did, but blamed himself for being a horndog and that Dean was rubbing off on him. He refocused his attention on other things that helped calm him down. He dried off his body and changed into new clothes before stepping out of the locker room to find you with your head in your knees. Logan bent down and gave you a tap on your head.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” you replied, not willing to lift your head from your knees.
“If it makes you feel any better, my whole team has seen me naked.”
“It doesn’t.”
“Hey, look at me.”
You lifted your head. Logan grabbed your head softly, rubbed your hair soothingly, and stared straight into your eyes.
“Did you like what you saw?”
“Oh my god Logan!”
“What? I meant it as a joke to make you feel better. Now will you get up so we can get you into a warm shower?”
You reluctantly got up, once again holding Logan’s hands.
“That’s my girl.”
“Shut up.” You quickly responded.
You both let go as you once again walked to his truck, and he drove you back to your dorm.
“I’ll be back in 10.” You said as you walked to the front steps of your dorm.
“I’ll be waiting!” Logan yelled and honked his car, making you even more embarrassed and rushing towards your dorm hall.
You headed back to your dorm room to see Olivia watching a show on her bed. You grabbed some clothes and toiletries as Olivia perked up.
“You’re back, how was your skate date?”
“Don’t call it that.”
“Where are you going to go shower?”
You remained silent.
“Let me guess, Logan offered you to go shower at his place.”
“How can you read me so well?”
“Being a psych major has it’s perks. So you’re going to the hockey house? Girls have told me its a nice house.”
“I seriously doubt that if its 4 dudes living there.”
“Four hot dudes.” Olivia replied with a wink.
“Anyways I have to go, Logan’s waiting for me.”
“He’s here?!” Olivia immediately turned to look out the window to see Logan’s truck waiting in front of our dorm hall.
“Can you keep your voice down? Our window is open. I’ll see you at the fundraiser”
“See ya, have fun!”
You left your dorm and went back to Logan’s truck, throwing your small duffel into the backseat of his truck. You assured him everything was all set, and you drove off to the hockey house. You were nervous about meeting all his roommates, seeing the house, his room, everything. Logan could tell something was off because you were quiet and looked out the window for most of the ride.
“We’re almost there, are you ok? Do you need to use the bathroom?”
“Yeah, I’m fine, just feels awkward having to use the bathroom in a house I’ve never been in before.”
“Don’t worry about that, I texted my roommates about it, and they were cool with it.”
Great. Now all his roommates are going to walk on eggshells around me, wondering who this mystery girl is coming to their house to shower and have dinner. Totally not panicking. We pull up to a big house with a long staircase. It has a big front porch and looks decent from the outside. Logan grabbed all of the bags and opened the car door for you, gesturing for you to follow him. He opened the front door and let you in first.
In all honesty, you’ve seen worse. You see the living room with very lived-in couches, an air hockey table, a pool table converted into a dining room table, and a kitchen with a counter. You can also see another glass door in the back, which you assumed led to the back yard. You see the people you knew as Tucker, Dean, and Hannah in the kitchen, helping make dinner. Well, Hannah and Tucker were cooking, and Dean was tasting everything while looking at his phone.
“Hey guys, this is Y/N, Y/N, the one with the pink apron is John Tucker, but you can call him Tucker, and Dean Di Laurentis, you’ve already met Hannah.”
They all said their "his" and "hellos".
“Thank you guys so much for letting me stay here for a bit and borrow your shower.” You kindly replied.
“I’m sorry about what happened at your dorm. That sucks,” Hannah said as she went to cut up vegetables for a salad.
“Well, Logan kindly offered, I’m gna head up and shower, I smell like BO.”
“Let me show you the way,” Logan quickly added. Logan let you go up the stairs first, trailing shortly behind. Logan shot looks at Dean and Tucker, who were busy pretending they were minding their own business. In the upstairs hallway, you run into Garrett, who looks fresh out of the shower in new clothes.
“Oh, hey, Y/N, don’t worry about me, my room has its own shower. I didn’t mess up the communal one.”
You smile as Logan guides you into his room. It’s surprisingly neat. You see some Boston Bruins hockey posters in his room, a toolbox tucked next to his dresser, and a closet full of flannels and hoodies. His bed had grey bedsheets, and there was a small photo on his nightstand of him, Garrett, and Dean, presumably from last year’s hockey season.
“You can leave your stuff in here and change in the bathroom before and after you take your shower, need anything?”
“Not that I can think of, thanks again.”
“Not a problem, enjoy a nice shower. I’ll try to keep the boys downstairs so you have some privacy.”
Logan then closed his door, and you heard his footsteps down the stairs. You grabbed your t-shirt, underwear, and leggings and brought them into the bathroom. You stared at the Head & Shoulders shampoo and Old Spice body wash options and thanked yourself for packing your Sol De Janerio travel kit. Your mom gave you this before you headed off to college, in case you were going to spend the night at a teammate's apartment or go on a school trip. You undressed and hopped in the shower, tuning out that you were in Logan’s bathroom.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Downstairs became a nightmare for Logan.
“So Logan, you’re not going to join her?” Dean teased.
“Lay off of him, Dean, he’s nervous around the poor girl,” Hannah said while holding a fruit knife mildly threatening him.
“She’s staying for dinner, right? No food allergies?” Tucker chimed in, seasoning some salmon before sticking them in the oven.
“I’m not sure, should I ask her?” Logan replied.
“Unless you want to land that girl in the hospital before her figure skating season, I suggest you go ask her.” Tucker spoke seriously.
Logan walked up to ask you, knocking on the bathroom door.
“Hey Y/N?”
“Yeah?”
“Tucker’s asking if you have food allergies. He’s making salmon, rice, and a cucumber salad.”
“That should be all good for me, I don’t have any.”
“Sounds good.”
“Hey Logan?”
“Yeah?”
“I forgot to ask about a towel. Can you bring one into the bathroom for me?”
“Sure.”
Logan walked across to his bedroom and neatly folded a towel. He went back and quietly opened the bathroom door, trying to place the towel carefully on the sink. He heard a quick rustle of the shower curtain opening and panicked, looking up at you. Fully naked. That turned him on immediately. The way your wet hair dripped along each curve of your body. He didn’t even know how fit figure skaters were. You had a small imprint of abs, muscular thighs, and a great ass. Not to even mention your breasts. They were perky and the perfect size for him. You were surprisingly clean-shaven down there, with nearly not a single hair on you.
“Sorry, here’s your towel.”
Logan quickly closed the bathroom door before cursing to himself about how stupid he was. He should've sent Hannah to drop off the towel.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Logan was distraught.
He noticed he had a giant boner from the sight of you. He wasn’t sure if he just messed everything up. He was still unsure of his feelings for Hannah, but with you, he felt at ease. He loved your sarcastic remarks and never gave in to his flirtatious moves. Even though you kept your ground, you still let him in bit by bit. Logan didn’t even bother to go downstairs. He waited for you in his room to apologize before you both had to sit down for dinner.
You were stunned, getting déjà vu, as if this hadn’t happened the other way around half an hour ago. You could hear Logan lightly pacing in the hallway before hearing him retreat to his room. You picked up the towel he neatly folded for you and dried yourself off before changing your clothes. You walked out with your hair still a little wet, holding your dirty clothes. You went into Logan’s room to see him on his bed, sitting as you had just put him in timeout. You put your clothes into a laundry bag you had stashed in your duffel.
“Hey”
“Hey, I’m so sorry about that, I should’ve knocked or something.” Logan kept glancing between you and the floor.
You walked towards him and sat next to him.
“Let’s just call it even? Ok?”
Logan stayed silent.
“I promise I’m not mad at you, ok? I mean I saw you naked too.”
Logan looked up at you. “Really? I feel like I completely invaded your privacy.”
You laughed, “How do you think I felt half an hour ago?”
You don’t know what compelled you, but you decided to kiss his cheek.
“Does that make you feel better?”
Logan was stunned. Logan looked at you with your damp hair and your old high school t-shirt. You smelled freshly of your Dove body wash and whatever good-smelling shampoo you put in your hair. Compared to Hannah, you smelled like fresh fruit from the farmer’s market, and he loved it.
“Y-Yeah, uh let’s go downstairs to help Tucker with dinner.”
Logan got up and reached out a hand to lead you downstairs. Once you reach the bottom, he lets go and asks Tucker if there is anything else the two of them can do to help. Tucker tasked you guys with setting the table. By the time Tucker was done plating all of the food to perfection. You all finally sat down for dinner, with Logan sitting on your right and Hannah sitting on your left. Dean was about to scarf the food down when Tucker swatted his hand so he could take a selfie to send to his mom. Then he let everyone eat. Everyone thanked Tucker and Hannah for cooking and for you and Logan for setting the table.
“So Y/N, talk to me, how is it tasting?” Tucker asked eagerly across the table
“It’s really good, thank you so much for cooking it.”
“What about the flavor profiles? Is there anything that sticks out or-”
“Dude, just let the girl eat.” Garrett chimed in, shutting Tucker down.
“The cucumber salad is really good”
“That was all, Hannah,” Tucker gestured a small applause towards her.
Garrett then kissed her on the cheek, proud of his little chef. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see Logan’s jaw clench slightly at the sight of their brief PDA. You tapped Logan’s foot under the table to get his attention, and Logan began to look at you.
“Thanks for inviting me over. This was really nice.”
“Of course.”
Logan thought to himself that no other girl had ever thanked him when they stayed the night. You only stayed for an hour and were nothing but grateful for everything. He looked at Hannah and Garrett, then at you. He felt a small jump in his heart when he saw you smiling after each bite. You looked so happy eating the dinner that you had finished your meal before Logan.
“Damn, Y/N, you sure know how to pack food away,” Dean smirked.
“I might not be a 6-foot-whatsoever hockey player, but I’m still an athlete.”
Logan laughed at your response.
“And a good one at that.” Logan noted.
Everyone also finished their meals shortly, and you offered to take everyone's plates and wash them. But before you could turn on the sink, Tucker stopped you in your tracks.
“Woah, woah, woah, Y/N. You’re a guest. You definitely do not need to do the dishes. Also, my mom will kill me if I have a guest wash the dishes.”
You raised your hands in defeat but offered to wipe down the table, which Tucker obliged with. Logan was watching you openly help and talk with the guys. You looked so at home. It made his heart feel warm. Logan invited you to help load stuff for the fundraiser into his truck. The moment you stepped outside, you realized how cold it was. You kicked yourself for forgetting to bring a jacket. Logan noticed you rubbing the sides of your arms.
“Are you cold?”
“A little, I should be fine. I’ll go grab my jacket from the rink.”
“No offense sweetheart, but that jacket definitely smells like sweat and BO. Just grab something from my closet, dealer’s choice.”
“Thanks.”
You walked upstairs to Logan's room and found his closet. You grabbed the first hoodie you saw, which was a Briar U Hawks hoodie with his name on the back. You threw it over your head and realized how oversized it was. You even had little sweater paws that you rolled up so they wouldn’t get in the way of helping Logan move things. You immediately smelled the same warm leather and musk mixed with a hint of his laundry detergent. When you stepped back outside with another box, you noticed Logan smiling and walking towards you to take it.
Logan didn’t realize he had a thing for girls in his clothes until he saw you in his hoodie. He originally thought it was because he was jealous of Hannah in Garrett’s clothes, wishing it were his own. But seeing how oversized it was over your torso made Logan a little flustered.
“Sorry, the hoodie’s too big on you.”
“It’s alright, it's keeping me warm. Thanks.”
Logan caught himself staring at you for a little too long before you snapped him out of his trance.
“So, is there anything else we need to grab?”
“What? No, I think we got everything.”
You and Logan walked back inside, realizing it was almost time to leave. You grabbed your duffel from Logan’s room and accidentally heard a conversation you probably weren’t meant to hear.
“What do you mean you don’t have the signed jersey from your dad?”
“I told you I’m not speaking with him at the moment.”
“You couldn’t put your petty drama aside for a fundraiser? I’m sure your dad would gladly send one over. I’ve seen the Graham merchandise room.”
“It’s not that simple. It’s not like everyone has perfect relationships with their parents. It’s not my fault my dad is an NHL hockey star, and yours isn’t.”
“You know what? Fuck you, G. You didn’t have to go there.”
“Fuck you too, Logan, and your stupid fundraiser!”
Logan almost jumped across the table to punch Garrett, but Dean, Tucker, and Hannah stopped them before you rushed down the stairs. Hannah held Garrett and started lecturing the two of them.
“Guys! Stop it! You guys are best friends. Garrett, you know how much this fundraiser means to Logan. Logan, you know Garrett has a rocky relationship with his dad right now. Let’s focus on getting as much money as we can, ok?”
Both of them huffed, but it seemed to calm both of them down for now. You hated how much grasp Hannah had on Garrett and Logan. You could learn a thing or two. You grabbed Logan’s arm, suggesting that you two should leave to set up and also to get him away from Garrett. He harshly yanked his arm off you and stormed to the front door, slamming it. A part of your heart chipped away seeing him close off after one argument. Hannah looked at you with sympathy.
“Go catch up with him. I’ll talk some sense into Garrett, and we’ll see you both at the fundraiser.”
You walked out to see Logan sitting on the porch, his hands resting at the sides of his head.
“Hey, we should get going before people show up.”
Logan was still looking towards the ground.
You put your duffle down and sat next to him.
“Earth to Logan? We gotta go.”
“These kids really need the money. I need this fundraiser to go well.”
“I’m sure it will still go well. I invited Olivia and my whole team. I’m sure dozens of people will show up and donate.”
“I just know what it feels like, you dream to play a sport your whole life, but your family can barely afford it and don’t approve of it.”
His words hit home for you. When you were growing up, your dad always wanted you to play hockey. He was the one who got you on skates in the first place. He wanted you to play in college and go to the PWHL. But one ice skating video changed your life. It was 2010, and you were watching Yuna Kim’s free skate routine. Mainly because you loved her outfit, but the way she effortlessly spun and glided on that ice made you fall in love with figure skating. When you told your dad, he was heartbroken and stubborn. So stubborn that he had never once been to your competitive ice skating recitals.
“Yeah, I know what it’s like. My dad was furious when I told him I wanted to do ice skating.”
Logan looked up at you in confusion. “Why? You’re clearly very talented.”
“Do you want to know who my dad is?”
Logan nodded in anticipation.
“My dad is Mike Modano.”
Logan looked at you, as if he had never heard that name before.
“Ok, Boston boy, he’s huge in Dallas, he got them a Stanley Cup. He wanted me to play hockey my whole life. Despite my achievements, he still hasn’t attended my recitals, claims it’s not a real sport, or is busy with NHL appearances.”
Logan looked at you with sympathy. He wondered how a parent could be so heartless. It made him put Garrett’s dad into perspective. He can’t imagine the insane pressure Garrett must be under.
“Damn, why are hockey dads the worst?”
“Don’t count them all out, I have amazing NHL uncles who are great parents.”
You stood up and reached a hand out to Logan.
“So are we going to sit here and pout, or are we going to kick ass at this fundraiser?”
Logan grabbed your hand.
“Let’s go kick ass at this fundraiser.”
You smiled and grabbed your duffel, which Logan took out of your hands. He put it in the back with the rest of the stuff, and you both got into his truck. He reached out to grab your hand and made eye contact.
“Thanks, by the way.”
“Anytime, Boston boy.”
“You’re seriously going to start calling me that?”
“Until you brush up on your sports knowledge outside of Boston, yes.”
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Logan let go of your hand as he started driving to Malone’s. You both unloaded his truck and set up. It wasn’t too hard. You put out the silent auction cards while Logan hung up some fun decorations and checked in with the band. Shortly after, Garrett, Hannah, Dean, and Tucker show up to help and support. Garrett walked up to Logan, who was on the stage hanging up some streamers.
“Hey man, I just wanted to apologize for earlier. I know getting a lot of money for this fundraiser means a lot to you.”
Logan jumped down to meet Garrett’s eye level.
“No worries, G, I’m sorry I said those things about your dad. I’m sure it’s hard having him breathe down your neck 24/7 about hockey.”
“As an olive branch…” Garrett brought out two box seat tickets for the New York Rangers.
“I know it’s not Boston, but I still wanted to help out.” Garrett looked apologetically.
“Thanks, G, you didn’t have to.” Logan brought him in for a hug.
You were sitting at the counter, talking to Allie and Hannah, making sure they had enough food and drinks for tonight, and if they needed any help serving. Garrett floated over to Hannah.
“How’d it go?” Hannah inquired.
“Strangely well, he also seemed empathetic about my dad for once,” Garrett responded.
“Not sure that has anything to do with you, does it?” Hannah pointed her head towards you.
You gave in, “Just gave him some perspective on life, that’s all.”
Garrett whispered a thank you before focusing back on Hannah. Eventually, it was time to start the fundraiser. Massive groups of people came in, from various athletic teams, theatre students, and even general students who were fans of the hockey team. Olivia eventually showed up and hugged you, complementing the setup. She also tried to inquire about the hoodie you were wearing and wouldn’t buy the “I was cold” sentiment. Olivia then walked off to greet some friends she had met at a few parties.
Eventually, your figure skating team showed up, and they all put down bids at the silent auction, bought raffle tickets, and requested a few songs. Towards the end of the night, Dean, who was emceeing, started listing the winners of each raffle. You had put your name down for a few, but definitely did not beat out the other students in the crowd. Dean then announced a last-minute live auction, a date with John Logan.
Dean, earlier that night, had been going on and on about how hot and single Logan was. Several girls came up to him, saying they’d be willing to pay hundreds of dollars even to have a chance to go on a date with him. You looked at Logan, who was busy collecting donations, and he turned to Dean with his face looking like he saw a ghost. He tried to argue, saying he hadn’t agreed to that before the girls started shouting dollar amounts. It was at times like these that you secretly wished you were dating Logan. You didn’t have much left and jokingly said $50. Logan looked at you offensively and headed over to you.
“I didn’t think you’d be willing to pay money to hang out with me.” Your smile lasted as long as another girl shouted $100. The bidding eventually reached $500. A girl sitting by the stage won and started jumping up and down. Logan looked back at you. What could you be jealous of? It’s not like you guys were dating. But Logan did something unexpected.
Logan started to walk towards the mic and swiped it out of Dean’s hand while trying to keep a smile.
“Ladies, ladies, while I appreciate the enthusiasm, I am unfortunately not up for auction.”
The girl looked immediately upset.
“But, how about you can keep your $500, and I give you these box tickets for free?”
The girl looked pleased and took the tickets. Logan then encouraged the other eager ladies to donate directly if they so choose. A few slipped some 5s and 10s his way. Why did he do that?
Logan walked back over to you, starting to count up the money for tonight.
“Wow, I can’t imagine turning down $500.”
“I just wanted people to donate for the right reasons. Selling my time the day I have to set up for a party isn’t ideal.”
So there was the real answer. Logan didn’t want to overbook himself. Why would he turn down a date? Cause he had feelings for you? Crazy for you to even think that. Logan counted up all of the money and realized he had raised more than enough to support the Hurricanes. He looked over the moon, running over to the mic.
“Hey everyone, I just wanted to thank you all for coming out tonight. I can officially announce that we raised over $2,000 for the Hurricanes! Thank you all again. This will help support so many kids who dream of playing hockey. Cheers!”
Everyone raised their glasses in celebration, and Logan briefly stopped to talk to the Hurricane’s organizers. They were thanking him, and he’d send them a check in the mail for the donation money. He then met your eyes with you before coming over to hug you. You let go of the hug, still holding onto his arms.
“I knew you could do it.” You smiled.
“Only cause you were here.” He smiled back.
Eventually, all of the other hockey teammates came over to congratulate him. Giving him little head rubs and big bear hugs. You had stayed late with him, his roommates, Hannah, and Allie to help take down decorations and clean up.
“Y/N, you really don’t have to stay.” Logan insisted.
“Don’t worry about it, it’s not like we have school tomorrow.” You stood up on a stool to take down some hanging stars from the ceiling.
Logan walked over subconsciously to hold onto the stool to make sure it was stable in case you fell. You noticed Logan behind you and smiled as you safely got down. You thanked him for packing everything back into boxes. They wanted to reuse some of the decorations for the party tomorrow. About an hour passed, and you let out an audible yawn, and Logan looked at you, concerned.
“Hey guys, do you mind finishing up without me? I’m going to take Y/N back to her dorm.” You were about to tell him it was fine until your eyes started to droop.
You probably should go to bed. The group assured him they’d leave it spotless, as they also said goodbye to you and Logan. Logan once again opened the car door for you and drove off to your dorm. On the way, you had fallen asleep in the passenger seat. When you guys arrived, Logan was nervous to wake you up. You looked so comfortable in his hoodie, leaning against the window. He brushed some of the hair out of your face. You looked beautiful, even without makeup. When he opened his car door, the noise woke you up, as you blinked, realizing you were back at your dorm. Logan opened the door for you and gave you a hand as you stepped out of the truck. He handed you your duffel. You quickly realized you were still wearing his hoodie.
“Oh, sorry, this is your hoodie.” You started to take off the hoodie.
“No.” Logan stopped you in your tracks. “You keep it, it's cold.”
He raised the hood over your head. And leaned in to kiss you lightly on the forehead.
“Goodnight, Y/N.”
“Goodnight.”
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
He waited for you to go safely into your dorm building. He didn’t want the night to end. Some part of him wished you had invited him up to your dorm room. But he can tell you were exhausted and needed the sleep. Plus, you looked so comfortable in that hoodie. He smiled bitterly as he drove back to Malone’s to pick up some more boxes.
You had wandered into your dorm room with Olivia’s night light on. Thank god Olivia was a heavy sleeper, she’s not the happiest when people wake her up from a nap. You changed out of your leggings and into sleep shorts. You briefly stepped into your ensuite bathroom to brush your teeth and tucked yourself into bed. You smelled Logan’s hoodie one last time before drifting off to sleep, wondering if this was all still real or if it was a dream.
A/N: Thank you guys so much for the support in part 1! I never realized how much I missed writing, I hope you all enjoyed! And yes, there will be a part 3 coming soon! If you aren't already on the taglist and want to be added, be sure to comment!
John Tucker hated confrontation. Whether it be the “southern charm” or just his general dislike for conflict, he always tried to make himself the one to fix it or avoid it.
John Tucker, also was never the kind to go for things that were unobtainable. Sure, there was the impossible dream that fell into his lap from time to time but if he knew the odds weren’t in his favor, he felt inclined to step away from it.
Then there was you: the opposition to all of that.
You with your style that made you stand out at any party. The way you seemed so sure about every little thing you did. The way you dressed, acted, and did whatever you wanted and never let anyone stamp that out.
Tucker admired that.
But it didn’t change one little fact that loomed over Tucker’s ever single thought about you: you were fucking terrifying.
You weren’t afraid to rip into someone who’s pissed you off—especially men. You weren’t afraid to publicly humiliate someone who’s chosen to push your buttons. You took no bullshit.
It scared the hell out of Tucker and part of him secretly loved it. The rest of him however, wasn’t sure how ready he was to be that the receiving end of that.
Especially since he was sure you hated him.
You were Jules’ friend which meant he didn’t see you often, but when he did, usually at parties, you would glare at him with such an intensity that he couldn’t help but shrink back to his corner of the room with the rest of the guys.
The first time you had been dancing with your friends before he attempted to approach with a pleasant smile, yet you looked him up and down and squinted harshly before he even made half the distance.
But surely once is only a mistake.
The second time was at Malone’s as he slid into the bar stool next to yours and cooked up the courage to ask what you liked to drink.
You had turned to him sharply and frowned with a heart-shaking ‘Excuse me?’, which only made Tucker slip out his seat with ushered sorries.
Dean tried to reassure him that twice was surely a coincidence.
However, three times was indefinitely a pattern that aimed to tell Tucker ‘back the fuck off’ and he was sure that tonight would prove the simple fact that you couldn’t stand him.
It was an intimate gathering, something fun for friends of the hockey house before finals seasons kicked in and you were Jules’ plus one.
He noted it the second he stepped into the door from his grocery run, your big chunky black boots left next to everyone else’s.
He could feel his heart drop in his chest as he zeroed in on the sight, then looking up to see you leaned against the counter top as you laughed with Jules’ and Logan.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost, man,” Dean exclaimed, suddenly appearing at the man’s side with a hand on his shoulder.
“What,” he blurted out, a heat spreading up his cheeks as he tore his eyes away from you. “No, no I’m fine. Why do you ask?”
A look crossed Dean’s face, first an unsure smile as he looked at Tucker oddly before he whipped his head around to spot you and finally a sly grin spread slowly across his lips.
“No,” Tucker protested before any words were spoken, already anticipating Dean’s motivational speech. “I’m not doing it.”
“C’mon man. You miss every chance you don’t take.”
Tucker shook his head, pushing past Dean. “Not if I know exactly what will happen if I even entertain whatever you think will happen.”
“Have you even properly asked them out,” Dean questioned, putting himself in front of the boy.
“Ooo ask out who?”
Tucker’s eyes went wide as he realized not only Jules but also you were sucked into their conversation, both of their attentions centered on him.
You seemed to watch him knowingly, observing him with a scrutinizing glare that made him squirm under your gaze.
“No one,” Tuck eventually spoke, drawing out his words a bit as he dipped his head down at Jules then turning to Dean. “Both of you. Mind your business.”
You tsked into your cup, hiding a tantalizing grin behind it. “Touchy subject, Tuck?”
If his heart dropped before, then it must have stopped as you looked at him with that glare. He felt as if he was at the end of a trick question, unsure of what to say to avoid your anticipated berate-ment.
“Don’t say anything around Jules you don’t want all of Briar to know, right?”
And maybe he was just dreaming, but he swore he saw a smile cross your lips, not the teasing grin or snarl, but a smile. Or maybe he was just dreaming.
Whichever way your lips turned, Tucker didn’t get much time before you turned away with what sounded like an unamused hum.
He watched quietly as you a Jules made your way out of the room, settling on the couch without giving Tucker so much of a second glance.
“That’s your sign.”
Dean moved in next to Tucker, hand returning back to his shoulder. Tucker could practically hear the smile that slid onto Dean’s face as he looked eagerly between you and him.
With a simple swipe of his hand, Tucker swatted Dean’s hand from his shoulder. “That was not a sign, dude.”
“Then what do you call it?”
Hesitation lingered with the boy for a moment before rolling his eyes and moving further into the kitchen. “Happenstance,” he called from over his shoulder.
The night lingered with uncertainty for Tuck as he remained to be the quiet observer of your presence. He didn’t try to approach you, nor did he try to grab your attention—as Dean and anyone else would’ve pressed him to do.
For a guy so enamored by you, he was too scared to even entertain the thought of approaching you.
“You good, man?”
Tucker blinked, almost startled by Logan’s sudden appearance.
“Yeah,” he pushed out. “Why do you ask?”
Logan shrugged in that way that seemed to imply he knew exactly why he was asking, but he just did what he did best: play coy and stupid. “You’ve been spaced out for the past…I dunno 5 minutes?”
Tucker shook his head, brushing off Logan’s words with a laugh. “No yeah I’m fine, just tired man.”
Logan hummed and nodded, taking a sip from his drink as if he was tossing around something he was contemplating in his head. “If you’re not too tired can you do me a solid?”
“Yeah, what’s up?”
“The fire pit. I think Dean was supposed to put it out a while ago but Jules said it was getting pretty smoky outside. You think you can set it out before the neighbors get on our ass again.”
Tucker’s brows flinched down in a beat of confusion, almost expecting something else. “Yeah man sure.
Tucker carried himself outside of the house expecting some sort of raging fire or at least smoke, but surely not the sight of you curled up in the patio couch watching the fire in all of your silence.
Hesitation lingered over him as he questioned his next move. His first instinct seemed to carry him back into the house and leave you be.
Unfortunately for him, hockey players weren’t exactly light on their feet. Almost like a deer, your head snapped and swiveled towards the boy at the simple sound of a leaf crunching under Tucker’s foot.
Tucker was the first one to say anything.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to uhm intrude—I’ll just,” he jabbed his thumb behind him at the door. “—yeah.”
He managed to carry himself all the way back to the door when the sound of your voice halted him in his movements.
“You wanna sit down with me, Tuck?”
At first he was sure he was imagining it, the same way he was imagining that ghost of a smile you gave him, but when he turned back around to you, you were moving so there was space on that couch for you.
Like on autopilot, his feet moved before his brain. “Uh, yeah. Yeah sure.”
While Tucker was more reserved in comparison to the other boys, he wouldn’t consider himself to be socially awkward. He knew how told hold himself, when to talk, and knew how to charm himself in and out of situations, yet somehow around you he felt completely stiff.
Suddenly, he didn’t know what to do with his arms, his hands, or even how to sit as he settled in next to you.
You made him nervous and he couldn’t help but wonder if you knew.
“I’m not gonna bite,” you laughed, taking in his stiffness.
You looked at him with that unreadable look in your eyes—what he thought was some scrutinizing glare, yet with a newfound softness behind it.
“Are you?”
He might as well blurted it out with the way he didn’t intend on letting those words come out, with the level on sass that he delivered it with.
He was like a man possessed and you could see it with the way his eyes widened barely even a beat after it slipped past his lips.
Releasing his poor heart from the torture, however, was your laughter—a giggle even. You bowed your head down as you let your hand lay on his bicep through your laughter. “I’m not that scary, am I?”
“I mean,” Tucker trailed off, a smile slowly easing onto his lips as well. “You have your moments.”
“God,” you laughed, sitting back in the couch. “Jules was right.”
The boy’s brows dipped down for a moment, looking at you with intrigue before following your lead and leaning back against the couch with you. “Right about what?”
“That uhm…” you hesitated for a moment, possibly even the first time Tucker had seen it in your face. You looked to him, almost as if you were daring yourself to spit out the words. With a sigh, you jutted your chin up and looked him in the eye. “That I’ll scare away the guy I like if I keep being so scary.”
It was like it all screeched to a stop or as if someone pulled a record scratch in Tucker’s head as your words caught up to him. He didn’t even have a chance to come up with anything to say before you continued on.
“Apparently, I have really bad rbf, especially when I like someone and instead of just talking to them like a normal person, I clam up and I end up looking like a major bitch and scare them away before they’ve even talked to me.”
Tucker could feel his throat bob as he swallowed back half of his words and let out whatever was left. “When you say them you mean—,”
“You,” you confirmed, voice firm with no room for confusion. “I like you, John Tucker. As juvenile as it sounds, I hope I didn’t scare you off like Jules said I would.”
“Scare me off? I don’t think you could.”
Another laugh escaped you. “You literally ran away when you last saw me in Malone’s!”
“Because you looked at me like I asked you to kill someone’s dog!”
“Oh my god,” you groaned, still laughing as you buried your face in your hands. “It’s worse than I thought. It might be chronic.”
Your laugh was contagious the way it spread to Tucker so easily. Without thinking, he reached for your wrists, lowering them so that you looked him in the eye. “If it makes it any better…I like you too.”
It was like a sigh of relief, your smile. Tucker could feel as your muscles eased up under his touch. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. And if you don’t suddenly decide that you really hated me this whole time—,”
“—I didn’t,” you interrupted.
“—then I’d love to take you out. On a date.”
You smiled before leaning forward, pressing the gentlest of kisses on his cheek. “I’d love that.”
@whothehellismack @sleepiscrazy
we love rbf representation, this was so fun to write!!
this was vaguely based on these interviews i keep seeing between mika and stephen where he says that he was totally scared of her at first, also lightly inspired by jade west and andre harris for my victorious fans!!
Summary: when a ridiculously sized water bottle hits you in the back of the head during your first week of college lectures. you never expected the culprit to become your best friend, his roommates to become brothers, and a crowded table to feel like home. everyone knew that what you and garrett had was something special. well, everyone except the both of you.
Warnings: best friends to lovers trope. no mention of y/n, but the nickname Missy is used a lot to refer to the reader. found family. seriously, so much fluff. one kiss. two rather stupid idiots in love.
a/n: i’ve risen and written this as a comeback fic. admittedly, i wrote this in a span of three days, and you can tell when i was hungry while writing it. or the fact cherry coke is my favorite. also my inspiration for the nickname came from an off campus interview where i heard stephen say missy. (let me know your thoughts on this! i would love to hear them:)
Word count: 6.9k
masterlist
Music blared as you walked into the Boys’ house, which was home to Dean Di Laurentis, John Tucker, John Logan, and Garrett Graham. A blur of drunken college students and bodies pushed together in random small spaces that they thought fit for privacy passed by as you made your way to the kitchen to grab a drink.
You checked in the fridge, knowing there would be a stock of mini cherry Coke cans waiting for you. A grin grew on your face as you reached for one.
“Missy!” you heard someone call from behind. You grabbed a can and turned away from the fridge to the sound of the voice. “Missy, Missy, we were wondering when you were stopping by,” Dean tutted as Beau and Logan were beside him with smugness written across their faces.
“As if I would miss seeing drunk Tucker and Logan,” you joked as you walked towards them. “Maybe we can convince Tucker to make ricotta tortellini for dinner tomorrow. You know he’ll feel bad if he agrees tonight and doesn’t go through with it.”
“I’m picking up what you’re putting down, and I will go find Tucker to give him another beer.” Logan saluted you as he went to grab a new beer and locate Tucker.
“Am I invited to this dinner tomorrow?” Beau quipped to Dean.
“I don’t know, man. Are you?” Dean teased. “Missy, here is the woman of the house. You’ll have to ask her,” Dean jutted his thumb in your direction.
Beau turned to face you and pouted as he asked, “May I please come over for dinner tomorrow night?”
“Excuse me, I do not live here,” you mocked in defense. “But, yes, you are invited to family dinner.”
"Don't even start with that," Dean waved you off.
“Family dinner?” Beau questioned you and Dean.
Dean let out a laugh, “Yeah, Tucker and Missy have been alternating in cooking on Sundays, and now it’s family dinner,” as if that explained why you and the boys considered it family dinner.
“Garrett invited me over to dinner at the beginning of sophomore year, and Tucker was cooking tortellini. We were all hanging out afterward, and I told them how I would cook more if I wasn’t in the dorms. I hated cooking in the dorms because the smell lingered way too long,” you started. “Anyways, he cooked dinner that night, and the next weekend I cooked, so it just kind of became a cycle. A routine.”
“Why haven’t I been invited to family dinners until now?” Beau raised a brow at Dean. “I would’ve brought something!”
You let out a giggle at his dramatics. “Yeah! Why didn’t you invite Beau?” you goaded.
“Not you too, Missy,” Dean groaned into his drink. The red solo cup is blocking the view of his face.
Allie approached you guys and poked at Dean’s side, causing him to choke on his drink. You and Beau try not to laugh, but the second you look at each other, the laughter spills out. “What are you guys going on about?”
“Family dinner,” Dean answered her.
“Is Tucker cooking tomorrow or Missy?” Allie pondered for a moment. “Oh, wait! She cooked last weekend, so Tucker’s definitely cooking.”
“Missy wants to get him drunk tonight, so we can get him to agree to make tortellini tomorrow,” Dean explained the plan to Allie as he pulled her into his side. “You know he’ll feel bad if Missy asks and he doesn’t follow through with it since she made her famous dish last week per his request.”
Beau quit mid-laugh the second he comprehended that Allie had been attending these family dinners. “Am I the only one not attending these dinners?” he called out, exasperated.
“Dean should’ve invited you earlier.” Garrett slapped a hand to Dean’s shoulder as he joined you all.
“G, not cool, man.”
Garrett made his way to you with a new can of cherry Coke in hand. “For the lady,” he presented it to you and took the empty can. He set it down on the counter before turning back to you. “I’ve been wondering where you were, but I found you with these bozos and Allie.”
“Beau is very upset that he hasn’t been in attendance for family dinners on Sundays,” you whispered to him as he snuck an arm around your shoulder.
Your eyes were on Dean and Beau as they started going at it again, but this time Allie joined Beau’s side. Dean’s eyes flared open with joking betrayal. “Babydoll, not you too. Please.”
“You want to make rounds?” Garrett asked softly, leaning down to speak into your ear.
“Yeah, I want to check in with Tucker. Make sure Logan is getting him drunk, so we can get Tuck’s delicious ricotta tortellini.”
Garrett guided you away from the group in the kitchen. You both navigated through the living room in search of the fellow housemates. You see Tucker downing a beer and Logan immediately offering him another, which Tucker greedily took into his hands. Logan winked at you knowingly as you and Garrett approached the pair.
“How you feeling, Tucker?” Garrett asked him, amused.
“Great, G!”
“You’re cooking dinner tomorrow, right?” you questioned, trying to seem like you weren’t sure.
Tucker scratched his head and looked at Logan, who gave him a nod. “Yeah! Of course I am,” he blurted out.
You unconsciously leaned your head against Garrett’s shoulder. “Do you have anything specific in mind?” You glanced over to Logan with a slight smirk.
“Dude, you should totally make tortellini again!” Logan suggested.
Tucker immediately started shaking his head, “Absolutely not. Do you have any idea how long that takes to make?”
“But, Tuck, you know how that’s my favorite! Won’t you even think about it?” You pull away from Garrett’s side to go to Tucker with the biggest pout you managed to put out.
Tucker took one look at your face, then another at Garrett, and he folded quickly. “Yes, I will,” he sighed, knowing there was no point in saying no to you. “Only because you’re my favorite.”
You let a short cheer out and pressed a kiss to Tucker’s cheek. “You’re the best, Tuck!”
“Enough of that,” Garrett interjected you two, and he gently grabbed your hip to pull you back beside him.
“Mr. Best Friend is jealous that I’m going to steal your heart, Missy,” Tucker joked.
Logan doubled over in laughter, fully shaking with amusement, “Oh, you know that a way to a woman’s heart is food.”
“Might just take Missy right from you.” Tucker playfully reached out for you with a smirk, pinching at his cheeks.
Garrett’s grip on your hip tightened just enough for you to notice. Heat flooded your cheeks, and you felt like the room was getting hotter by the second. You should’ve been used to the jokes by now, but being Garrett Graham’s best friend since freshman year came with lots of teasing.
The day you and Garrett met was in a history lecture, and he was sitting behind you. When class ended on the last day of the first week, you were still gathering your stuff, and Garrett was getting up to head out. In a rush to grab his ginormous water bottle, he brought it up, and it hit you right in the back of the head.
The professor whose name you hadn’t quite remembered yet just dismissed class, and the usual chaos of shuffling backpacks with everyone gathering their things filled the room. You remained seated as you were putting away your notebook and trying to search for your headphones in your backpack. With your head slightly tucked down, you weren’t really too aware of your surroundings, and something had smacked into the back of your head.
Thunk.
It wasn’t hard enough to hurt badly. Just hard enough that it made you jump. You let out a surprised yelp and gently rubbed the sore spot before putting your arm back down.
“Oh shit.” You heard some mutter behind you. Garrett instinctively reached to touch the back of your head with his free hand but retracted, realizing it probably isn’t appropriate to do that to someone you’ve just met, even less so after you accidentally hit them in the head. “I’m so sorry,” he blurted out.
You turn around, and a guy is staring at you in complete horror. It was only a few seconds later when you realized that he was the new hot shot hockey player. Which from what you’ve seen on The Fifth Line, there was a bit of emphasis on the player part.
The expression on his face caught you off guard.
He genuinely looked like he thought he just committed a crime.
You shook your head, amused despite the small sting. “It’s okay! Things happen.” You laughed off, softly giving him a smile, trying to let him know you weren’t mad.
Somehow, the poor guy looked even more distressed.
“No, seriously,” he says. “Are you okay?”
You glanced at the water bottle that is ridiculously large.
Then back at him.
“Yes, totally.”
“No, seriously.”
“I am serious.”
“I just hit you with my water bottle.”
You laughed at the redundancy. “It was a light tap.”
He doesn’t seem reassured whatsoever. “I know that’s got to hurt a bit.”
“Nothing I can’t handle.”
He frowned.
You could practically see him trying to decide whether you’ve secretly suffered a concussion. The thought almost made you laugh again.
“Seriously,” you told him. “It’s okay.”
“Why do you have to be so nice?” he grumbled, and the look on his face made this far funnier than it should be.
“You seem to be more upset about this than I am,” you teased, watching as his shoulders slumped.
“That’s probably true,” he mumbled softly as he kept eye contact with you. There was a twinkle in his eye that you just knew was trouble.
“There he is.”
“What?”
“The normal person.” You get a laugh from that, escaping before he could stop it.
“I should probably introduce myself.” His lips quirked into a smile as he shook his head.
“Officially?”
He paused, confused, “What?”
“I know who you are, Garrett Graham.”
His expression fell blank for a split second before he quickly recovered it with a grin. “So you do.”
“People tend to know you when that’s the only name you hear people cheering at hockey games this year,” you confessed to Garrett.
“You’re very observant.”
“More like I have eyes and ears,” you grinned back at him.
He dropped his head into one hand with a slight chuckle. “Well, I apparently know much less about you than you know about me.”
“That sounds right.”
“So let me make it up to you.”
“By how exactly?” You quirked an eyebrow at him.
“Coffee,” he offered.
You pretended to think about it, but mostly because you’re curious what he would do.
“Coffee?” you repeated in question.
“I owe you.”
“You really don’t.”
“Oh, c’mon. I’m buying you coffee.”
You smiled, “Okay.”
His eyebrows lifted. “Okay?”
“Sure,” you answered again.
“Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
He looked suspicious for a moment, like he thought there was a catch. You decided not to tell him there is one. Namely, that he still didn’t know your name. And you’re not intentionally volunteering it. You finished gathering your stuff and started to head toward the exit.
He followed right behind you.
The hallway outside is crowded with students weaving between classes. He made a quick step around you to be ahead, so he could hold the door open for you as you left the lecture hall.
Still no name. You took a short look at him, and you could tell he’d noticed.
The occasional glance he sent your way confirmed it.
You don’t say anything.
Neither does he.
The silence stretched all the way out of the building. Then a voice called out, “There you are, G!” A tall blond jogged towards you two. “Thought you vanished.”
Your water bottle assailant immediately groaned, “Unfortunately not.”
The blond glanced between you and Garrett. His gaze immediately stuck to you, and a faint smirk played at the corner of his lips. “Oh.”
“No.” Garrett immediately shut him down.
“Oh, absolutely.”
“It’s not–” Garrett was cut off, and the blond ignored him completely. You could tell that they were good friends.
“Who’s your friend?” he asked Garrett with a growing smile. A dangerous smile. Before either of you could answer, he added, “And why does she look like she knows every embarrassing thing you’ve ever done, G?”
You laughed, and Garrett pointed at you. “That’s exactly the problem.”
The blond stuck out his hand. “I’m Dean,” he introduced himself jokingly formally.
You reciprocated by shaking his hand, “Nice to meet you.”
“You too, beautiful.”
You playfully rolled your eyes and decided that it was time to put the poor guy out of his misery. You tell Dean your name while purposely trying to keep your attention on him rather than Garrett.
Dean repeated your name out loud. “Nice.”
From the corner of your eye, you caught Garrett repeating your name quietly to himself like he was trying to memorize it.
Cute. You thought to yourself.
Then Dean glanced between the two of you again, “So what happened with Missy here?”
You blinked at the nickname. “Missy?”
Garrett groaned again, and you were ignored by the two. “No.”
Dean pointed at him knowingly, “You did something! Because when I walked up, you looked like you’d spent the last ten minutes apologizing.”
“He basically has,” you snorted.
“Exactly,” Dean grinned. “So I figured he’d messed something up.”
“Maybe not messed anything up but a first impression,” you pretended to ponder as you rubbed the back of your head, hoping that it would mess with Garrett. You hid your laugh when you saw that he noticed your little joke.
Garrett looked ready to walk directly into traffic just to distance himself from the embarrassment from you and Dean.
You laughed, and when you glanced back over to Garrett, you caught a look on his face. A wide grin. The one that says he’s just had an idea. Probably a terrible one while you guys were at it.
You narrowed your eyes at him, “What now?”
“What?” he tried to play it off.
“You have that look.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do,” you insisted.
Dean stopped mid-walk as he burst out laughing, “Oh shit, G. She’s already figured you out.”
That’s when Garrett said, “Nothing, Missy.” You stopped walking. He kept going.
Dean nearly choked.
“Don’t.” You shook your head at him, but you were talking to Garrett.
“Don’t what?” he responded.
“That.”
“What?”
“Missy.” Garrett’s smile turned innocent. Entirely too innocent. “You literally just learned my name,” you told him.
“Yeah.”
“And?”
“And that’s not it,” he said as if it were the most obvious thing.
Dean was at the point of laughing so hard that he was barely breathing.
Garrett just shrugged.
You should probably have been annoyed. Instead, despite yourself, you fought a smile. Because somehow the nickname sounded ridiculous enough to work. Then, judging by the look on Garrett’s face, there was no chance he was going to let it go.
“Coffee,” you said, shaking your head.
“Coffee,” he agreed.
Somehow, before you’ve even made it to the coffee shop, the nickname Missy is already stuck.
By the time that Garrett invited you to hang out with his friends in his line, the two of you had long since become inseparable.
At some point, coffee turned into study sessions.
Study sessions turned into lunch, which led to spending entire afternoons together.
Somewhere along the way, the nickname still followed you.
No matter how many times you complain. No matter how many times you reminded Garrett, you did have an actual name.
To Garrett (plus Dean), you would always be Missy,
Which is why you weren’t surprised when he texted you one Friday afternoon midway through the semester.
You rolled your eyes as you read his last text and scanned around your room to search for this man’s colossal bottle. How did he forget it? Beats you.
Bingo.
You found the bottle and headed out to finally make introductions to Garrett’s friends. Who has been bugging Garrett the moment they found out he was hanging out with a girl and not hooking up with her.
The house itself is exactly what you would have expected when four college freshmen are given a place together. It’s not particularly messy, but it felt lived in.
The kind of place where people actually spend time together and enjoy each other’s company instead of disappearing into separate rooms 24/7.
The front door barely closed behind you before Dean appeared.
“There she is!”
You pointed at him, “You’re responsible for the nickname.”
“And proud of it,” he cheesed, that kind smile that is always so infectious that you felt your own lips curling.
Garrett appeared behind him. “You absolutely should not be.”
“She still answers it.”
You hated that he was right.
The grin he gave you says he knows it too.
A few moments later, you’re introduced to the remaining roommates. John and John, or better known as Tucker and Logan.
The pair bombarded you with questions, and within five minutes, they somehow learned your major, favorite coffee order, and your favorite drink.
“You seem normal enough,” Logan deemed as a proclamation as you guys talked in the living room.
“Excuse me?”
“I expected worse,” he shrugged.
You looked at Garrett and asked the other boys, “What exactly has he been saying about me?”
Each of the boys quipped a response.
“A lot.”
“Enough.”
“Some would say too much.”
“I hate all of you,” Garrett muttered under his breath.
“You’ll fit right in,” Logan finished.
By the end of the night, you all were sprawled across the living room arguing over movies and laughing so hard at shared stories that your stomachs started to hurt.
You sat on one side of the couch with Garrett. You were leaning against him while you were talking to Tucker and Logan about the best Batman movie. Garrett was talking to Dean about some girl Dean saw working at Malone’s. Garrett had his arm loosely wrapped around your waist, and his hand was messing with the hem of your shirt.
At some point, you realized something.
You didn’t feel like a guest.
It was almost like you’d always been there.
And judging by the way nobody bothered treating you differently, the guys seemed to feel the same way too.
It was the start of sophomore year, and your presence in the Boys’ house was now such a regular occurrence that you had a drawer in Garrett’s room, a toothbrush next to his, and under the sink, he had a bottle of your perfume.
When you’d pointed it out the first time, he’d shrugged. “You forget stuff.”
“I won't forget perfume.”
“You might.”
“I won’t.”
“Baby, it’s there just in case.”
He claimed that he just wanted you to be comfortable and feel at home, but you knew one of the real reasons was that he was obsessed with seeing your stuff in his room.
You thought that people would get better about your and Garrett’s friendship, but it seemed that people could never fathom the fact that Garrett Graham had a girl best friend.
Frankly, sometimes you couldn’t believe it yourself.
As much as the rest of the boys in the line teased you, they were fiercely protective of you and defended you against any rumors that people tried to start. It is endearing how much you and the boys treated each other like family.
Something you would never admit out loud is the fact you knew that you and Garrett crossed the boundary of best friends a long time ago. Sure, you were attracted to him and cared for him like no other, but his constant saying that he doesn’t have time for a girlfriend really messed with your head.
You loved him. There was no doubt about it. You tried putting yourself out there and dating, but a lot of the time, guys weren’t interested when they found out your best friend was Garrett Graham.
It didn’t help that Garrett’s love language is physical touch. He constantly found ways to be close and touch you, whether it was an arm around your shoulder, holding your hand in his lap under the table when you and the boys hung out at Malone’s, or a hand that always found your back or hip when you guys navigated through crowds.
Even with that, there were the puck bunnies to consider, the numerous girls who seemed to gravitate to Garrett the second he flashed that damned smile. But they wouldn’t be able to say they knew him. They didn’t know his favorite band, what major he’s pursuing, how he liked his coffee, or what his mother’s name was. But you did. Of course, you knew him like the back of your hand.
“Missy, do you know where my–” Garrett’s voice from the bathroom snapped you out of your thoughts.
You responded before he even finished his sentence: “Bub, your phone is still charging by the bed.”
You were sitting by the window, and the book you were reading had long been forgotten in your hands. You set it aside near a couple of other books you kept there.
Garrett walked out of the bathroom with his hair still damp from the shower he had just taken, and a towel wrapped around his waist. You hadn’t looked over to him yet as you were folding a blanket that you kept by the window. He watched you with a soft gaze, and a smile budded on his lips.
He went over to the bed and tapped on his phone to check the time. His wallpaper flashed at him. It was a photo of you in the kitchen blowing out your birthday cake candles when he and the boys surprised you with a mini celebration last semester.
“Hey, we should probably head down soon. I think Tuck is done cooking dinner,” he suggested. “Let me put something on, and we can go.” He went to his closet to grab some clothes.
You nodded at him and grabbed your phone. “I’m going to head down now to see if he needs any help.” You pressed a kiss on his jawline when you headed out of the room.
You wandered down to the kitchen. “It smells like a restaurant in here.”
“Of course, with Tuck cooking,” Dean said as he carried a case of beers to the fridge.
“I’m making tortellini,” Tucker called out on the stove.
Your eyes scanned the room and saw several pots going at once and the counters covered with ingredients. It almost looked suspiciously professional.
“You need any help with anything, Tuck? I’m all yours.”
“Don’t let G hear you say that.” Logan chuckled as he walked into the kitchen, holding something behind his back.
“Whatcha got, Logan?”
“You know we’d never forget about you.” Logan brought his arm around to his front, revealing a case of mini cherry cokes.
“You guys are the best.” You buttered them up with a cheesy smile.
He took one from the case before handing it to Dean to put in the fridge. “For the lady,” he exaggeratedly presented the can to you while bowing.
“Why, thank you, kind sir.” You accepted the drink in curtsy.
“Where’s G, man? Foods ready to be served, and his ass is still in his room,” Tucker howled out as he started serving the plates.
You expected to hear a response, but you noticed the silence rather quickly. You looked up from opening your can and saw all three of the guys staring at you for a response. “Why are you guys looking at me?” You blurted.
“Well, where is he?” Dean prompted.
“Up in his room.”
“Why is he not down here with us?” Logan added.
“You guys know that I’m not his keeper, right?” you groaned exasperated.
The boys all mirrored the same look that screamed, “Are you being serious right now?”
“I’m not!” Your voice cracked at the delivery, causing the others to laugh.
“What are you all laughing about?” Garrett’s voice broke through the laughter.
Silence fell upon the room for a few short moments before Dean made a joke: “Just about Missy’s obsession with cherry cokes.” He held up another can to set on the table.
“G took you long enough, man,” Logan greeted Garrett.
“We were just about to start with you,” Tucker playfully told him.
You all crowded around the old kitchen table. Nobody bothered about matching plates or utensils. One of the chairs wobbled, and Dean had the luck of getting it for the night. You were seated next to Garrett, close enough for your knees to knock into each other and neither of you cared to move.
The meal was perfect.
You took one bite.
Then another.
Followed by another.
“This is the best thing I’ve ever had,” you praised.
Tucker laughed, “What?”
“I’m not kidding, this is heaven,” you hummed happily.
“Babe, if you think this is heaven, maybe I can show you what real heaven feels like,” Dean dramatically winked at you knowing that it would get on Garrett’s nerves.
“Quit it,” Garrett told him but turned his attention to Tucker, “I told you she’d love it.”
You narrowed your eyes between the pair, “You discussed this beforehand?”
“Obviously,” Garrett stated.
“You are all weird,” you declared to the room.
“And yet you’re here with us on a Sunday night,” Logan bemused.
You pointed your fork at each of the boys, “I regret befriending you all.”
“No, you don’t,” Garrett affirmed.
“No, I don’t,” you admitted with a smile creeping on your lips.
The table fell quiet for a half second. Not awkward. Just one of those moments that everyone wanted to take in and keep as a treasured memory. Everyone glanced at each other with fondness.
The moment faded when Dean threw a bread roll at Garrett.
If someone were to ask you what your favorite meal is, this would still be the answer.
Maybe not fully because of the tortellini. Which was genuinely incredible.
It was because of this. The table. The laughter. Logan arguing with Dean. Tucker pretending not to be pleased with himself that everyone kept going back for seconds (and thirds and fourths for the fellow hockey men). Garrett stealing food directly off your plate despite having an identical serving.
You felt like you always belonged there.
The tortellini just became attached to the memory. After dinner, everyone helped to clean up. Or at least claimed to. Dean somehow managed to disappear. Tucker offered moral support rather than actual labor for once in the night as he sat on the counter, keeping you guys company. You and Garrett ended up doing most of the dishes. Logan cleaned the counters quietly.
“You know I wish I cooked more,” you said to no one in particular.
Tucker glanced over. “You cook?”
“A little.”
“A little means yes.”
You shrugged, “I used to a lot when I was home, but with the dorms the smells lingered too long, and just not enough space.”
“That’s fair,” Tucker hummed.
“And cooking for one kind of sucks,” you whispered but it was loud enough for the boys to catch it.
“It does,” Garrett nodded.
“Nobody asked you, bub,” you retorted.
“I’m supporting you.”
“More like interrupting,” you kid.
Tucker laughed, you brought your gaze to him. “You should cook here.”
You blinked at him, “What?”
Dean chose that exact moment to reappear, “Absolutely.”
Logan pointed dramatically, “I second this.”
“You guys haven’t even tasted my cooking,” you cautioned them.
“We’re willing to take risks,” Garrett grinned at you.
The look made you suspicious. “Oh no.”
“What?” Garrett questioned with false innocence.
“You have an idea.”
The other three just watched the banter between you two.
“I always have ideas,” Garrett claimed.
“That’s worse,” Logan whispered to Tucker.
You looked around the kitchen. At the house. At the boys who were crowded into it. There was a familiar comfort that you don’t remember forming. And for the first time, the idea didn’t feel strange.
It felt natural.
“Okay.”
“Done.”
By the end of the night, Sunday family dinners existed.
Every Sunday.
One week Tucker cooked. The next week you did. On a rare occasion, Dean, Garrett, and Logan teamed up to cook for the night.
Nobody was allowed to skip without a legitimate emergency.
Dean attempted to argue that hungry bunnies counted as an emergency. That one earned him a slap on the back of the head from the other three.
The dinners became routine. Then tradition.
Followed by something more. People started planning their schedules around them. Sometimes new people were invited.
Bad weeks felt easier knowing when Sunday was coming.
Good weeks feel better when there are others to celebrate with.
By the end of the semester, everyone stopped pretending. Not about the dinner, but about you and Garrett. The two of you still insisted that you were strictly best friends.
Everyone else nodded along, desperately waiting for one of you to say something about it.
Because whenever someone looked around the table, the picture was always the same.
Garrett grabbed you a cherry Coke every time he reached for his one beer for the night without thinking.
You saved him a portion when he was running late.
The pair of you always sat beside one another.
Nobody said anything. Mostly because they knew that you both would deny it.
But every Sunday, around that crowded table, the rest of the house watched the two of you and thought the same thing.
That you two loved each other. That you lived better being next to each other.
“Yo! Missy, do a shot with Beau and me,” Dean shouted from the kitchen, setting out the shot cups.
Before you replied, you looked to Garrett, and as if he could read your mind. “Just spend the night. It's not like you were planning to go home anyway. Go enjoy yourself.”
“Thanks, handsome.” You pressed a quick kiss against the edge of his jaw. “What is it?” you questioned when you went over to Dean and Beau.
“A shot,” Dean answered.
“Very informative.”
You looked toward Beau, maybe the only responsible person in the house right now. He glanced up to hand you the shot. “Don’t ask me. This was all him.”
Dean’s grin was concerning. You groaned dramatically, “I feel like this is a bad idea.”
“It absolutely is,” Logan agreed.
“Not helping, Logan,” you murmured under your breath.
Dean wiggled his shot.
You turned your head to look back at Garrett. Automatically. The same way you always did. In a way, you didn’t realize you did so often, but Garrett noticed. One look and he already knew exactly what you were asking.
The corner of his mouth lifted. “You’ll be okay. I’ll take care of you, baby,” he reassured you.
“Will I?” You smelled the shot, causing your nose to scrunch up.
“Probably.”
“Probably?” He laughed at your echo as he shuffled over to you guys.
“If Dean somehow tricks you into doing more than one…” he trailed off, looking at Dean, who was setting up even more shots.
“I heard that, G,” Dean quipped at him.
“I’ll drag you upstairs before you make any life-ruining or altering decisions,” Garrett finished.
There was a certainty in it that made you smile. It was the thing that always settled something inside you. No matter the situation, you knew that Garrett would take care of you.
Not because he thought you couldn’t take care of yourself. Just because that’s what the two of you did for each other.
The same way you always made sure he wasn’t overworking himself with practices, games, studying, etc. The same way you brought him his protein shakes to practice when he forgot.
The same way you both somehow always knew when the other needed support before having to ask for it.
“You ready, Missy?” Dean winked at you.
“Yup,” you cheered with Beau and Dean. You downed the shot, and Garrett was already next to you with a chaser to help.
“One day you’re going to explain this thing between you two,” Dean pointed at you and Garrett.
“Never,” you and Garrett said simultaneously.
Logan nearly doubled over laughing.
Tucker giggled to himself, having found his way over to the kitchen a few moments before.
Dean looked personally offended.
And Garrett just looked at you with the same twinkle in his eye from the moment you first met.
The party died slowly with people filtering out in groups. The music was playing low. Empty cups and bottles accumulated on every available surface. By three in the morning, the Boys’ house was mostly quiet.
Tucker was passed out on the couch nearly an hour ago. He mumbled something about tortellini right before knocking out.
Around the same time, Logan disappeared upstairs after making sure everyone downed a water bottle and some ibuprofen.
Dean was last seen stealing leftover pizza before vanishing into his room.
You were gathering the scattered trash left around the house, with Garrett following you with a trash bag in hand. You two worked your way around the house, making sure that nobody broke anything and didn't say anything about it.
You headed upstairs when Garrett went to throw out the bag outside.
You found yourself curled into the corner of Garrett’s bed, wearing one of his hoodies that ended up living in your drawer here just for you to wear. You nursed another bottle of water. Not because you got particularly drunk. Because Garrett had handed it to you without asking before you went upstairs.
The room was dim except for his lamp. Your drawer was half-open. A pair of your socks were sticking out. Your charger is plugged into the wall.
There is so much evidence of you in this room now that it would be impossible to explain away. Not that either of you really tried to anymore.
Garrett entered the room and headed straight to grab a pair of sweats. He went over to the bathroom.
He came back out now shirtless, just in his sweats, and he threw his clothes into the hamper, which landed right on top of yours.
Garrett sat beside you on the bed. Close enough that your arms brushed against each other.
Neither of you said much for a while.
The silence wasn’t awkward. It never really was. It was one of your favorite things about him. The ability to simply coexist together.
Eventually, he glanced over, “Tired?”
“Exhausted.”
“Did you have fun tonight?”
“I always do with you.” Your body started to lean into him.
Garrett brought you into his chest. The smell of your perfume overtook his senses.
“Ready to go to bed?” he hummed into your hair.
You nodded gently and tore yourself from his grasp to look him in the eyes. Your gaze traveled from his lips to his eyes. Suddenly, neither of you was looking away.
Something shifted. Not all at once. Just enough. Enough that you felt it, and you knew he did too.
Garrett exhaled slowly. “Can I tell you something?”
The question snapped you out of your daze because Garrett sounded nervous. He never sounded like that around you, not anymore.
His laugh was quiet. A little disbelieving. Like he was debating with himself.
Then he shakes his head, “I think I’ve been trying not to say this for months, hell, since the moment you cooked dinner for all of us while we were at practice back in sophomore year.”
Your heart immediately started beating faster. “Okay.”
“I keep telling myself we’re fine just the way we are.”
You blinked, “We are fine.”
“We are,” he smiled. “That’s part of the problem.”
You stared at him, and the room felt like it was getting warmer by the second.
Garrett ran a hand through his hair. “I like you.”
“Wow.”
“What?” he quirked his brow at you.
“That sounded odd,” you giggled to yourself in disbelief.
“It didn’t,” he defended weakly.
“It definitely did.”
“It really didn’t.” he shifted closer. “I mean it.”
Your chest hurts in the best possible way. “I know you do.” He froze at your confession.
Not because he’s told you before, but because he’d shown you.
Every coffee he gave you when he knew you stayed up late studying.
Every late-night conversation in his room pretending that what you guys had was a normal friendship.
Every time he remembered something small.
Every time he made space for you in crowded places.
Every time his eyes searched for yours after he scored a winning goal.
Every time he looked at you like you were the best part of his day.
You already knew, but hearing it made it real.
“What?”
You smiled, “I know.”
His expression looked almost offended. “You were supposed to be surprised.”
“You have a bottle of my perfume under your sink.”
“In my defense–” you cut him off.
“You gave me a drawer.”
“You needed a drawer. How else were you supposed to stay over so often?” he shrugged.
“Maybe.” You reached for his hand. The movement was natural, like everything else with him. “I like you too.”
The room went still. Garrett stared back at you. “You do?”
You snickered. “Seriously?”
“I just want confirmation.”
“You have been my favorite person since the moment you almost concussed me freshman year.”
He covered his eyes with his hand. “Okay, moment ruined.” But when he uncovered his face, the smile that spread across his lips was devastating. Warm and content. Happy.
“So?”
“So what?”
You shifted closer. “What does this mean for us?” You pretended to ponder. “Hm.”
“Missy.”
“I think…” You cocked your head to the side. “This means we should probably stop pretending we’re just friends.”
Garrett laughed. A real laugh. The kind that only came out around people he felt completely comfortable with. “Yeah.”
“Yeah?” you repeated.
Then he leaned forward, slowly. His hand settled against your cheek. And when he kissed you, it didn’t feel new. It felt like something you’ve been waiting for a very long time.
When you finally pull apart, both of you are smiling. A little stunned. Definitely giddy. Garrett rested his forehead against yours. “So we’re not telling them.”
You softly chuckled to yourself, “Absolutely not.”
“They’re going to be unbearable.”
“Especially Dean.”
“He’ll claim responsibility.”
“Too bad it’s thanks to your ridiculous bottle.”
He groaned, “We are keeping this to ourselves.”
“Agreed.”
The agreement lasted less than eight hours.
The next morning, the kitchen smelled like coffee and bacon.
Logan was standing at the stove.
Tucker was sitting by the counter with his head in his hands.
Dean was eating cereal directly from the box.
Nobody looked particularly awake. You shuffled into the kitchen wearing another one of Garrett’s hoodies, which wasn't unusual.
Garrett followed a minute later. Also not unusual.
Nobody paid attention.
Logan continued cooking his bacon.
Tucker still hadn’t lifted his head up yet.
Dean kept munching on the cereal.
Garrett walked directly to the coffee pot. Also normal.
He poured a cup. He added exactly the amount of cream and sugar you liked. He carried it over to you. Still normal.
“Morning, Missy.” You heard Logan call from the stove.
“Morning,” You replied.
You accepted the mug from Garrett. And without thinking or planning, you leaned up and pecked his lips. Quick. Easy.
And not normal.
The room went silent. The silence lasted exactly two seconds.
Then Dean practically launched out of his chair, “I KNEW IT!”
You immediately dropped your head. “No.”
“YES.”
“It has been like six hours.”
“I KNEW IT.”
Garrett groaned.
Dean pointed to himself, “This happened because of me.”
“It absolutely did not,” Garrett remarked.
“I brought you together.”
“You really didn’t,” you laughed.
Tucker finally lifted his head and studied you and Garrett for a moment. Then nodded, “About time.”
Garrett pointed at him, “Thank you.”
“No problem,” Tucker muttered as he dropped his head back down.
Dean looked betrayed. “That’s all you have to say?”
“What else is there to say?” Tucker’s voice was muffled.
“They’re dating!” Dean proclaimed.
“They’ve been emotionally dating for like over a year,” Logan shrugged off.
“Fair,” you mouthed to Garrett.
Logan flipped another piece of bacon, completely unfazed. “Bacon’s almost done.”
The room erupted.
Dean started shouting. Garrett was laughing. You nearly spilled your coffee when Dean came up to pick you up in a spin, barely giving you time to set down the mug. Garrett made quick work of grabbing it out of your hands. “I call being the godfather to your future children.”
Life seemed to be put back into Tucker, and Logan flipped around, pointing the tongs at Dean. “No man, that’s not how that works.”
Tucker looked more alive than ever. “My sous chef would never pick you, dude.”
Dean sat you down on the counter and immediately started arguing with the other two.
And standing next to you was Garrett. His shoulder pressed against yours while he handed your coffee back.
You realized something. Nothing felt different. Not really. The house was still home. The boys are still family.
Garrett was still your favorite person.
The only difference was that now everybody knew it, including you and Garrett.
𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐓 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: where you decide to prank logan by pretending to be excited for a date he never planned. unfortunately, your boyfriend's response to being pranked is to take you on the most thoughtful, romantic date of your life.
𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: boyfriend!john logan x fem!reader
𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 2.8k
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: pure fluff, established relationship, prank gone wrong (or right?), logan being aggressively boyfriend-shaped, excessive sweetness, reader trying and failing to outsmart her boyfriend, garrett graham being a surprisingly useful best friend, bookstore dates, flowers, lots of hand-holding, kissing, logan remembering every little thing about reader, weaponized thoughtfulness, excessive use of "babe", use of she/her pronouns, reader is explicitly referred to as "girl", emotional damage via acts of service, let me know if i missed any!
all characters in this story are adults.
english is not my first language, so please forgive me for any errors.
𝐀/𝐍: alt title: john "whatever my girlfriend wants, she gets" logan. dedicated to the wonderful anon who brought to my attention that using the small font on here made fics hard to read—thank you for helping me get better <3
𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓’𝐒 𝐊𝐀𝐈 𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐎: so high school by taylor swift.
18+; mdni.
The plan had seemed significantly funnier about three hours ago.
The idea started with Hannah—which, in hindsight, should've been your first warning sign.
"Hear me out," she'd said, abandoning her Philosophy textbook entirely to lean across the table toward you and Allie. "You should tell Logan you're excited for the date he planned."
You had frowned. "What date?"
"Exactly."
Across from you, Allie had immediately burst out laughing. For a long moment, you simply stared at the two of them, confused. Then, the realization dawned on you. "Oh, that's evil."
Hannah leaned back in her chair, looking mighty pleased with herself. "Why, thank you."
Now, as you stood in front of the mirror in your bedroom, half your closet scattered across the room, you were beginning to realize that there was a very real possibility that Logan would simply smile and nod. The man was impossible to prank—partly because he was so observant, partly because he was so annoyingly nice.
You lifted your favourite dress to your chest, studying it with a critical eye, just as the bedroom door creaked open.
Speak of the devil.
Logan stepped inside, hair still damp around the ends from his shower after practice. He was dressed in a Bruins t-shirt and grey sweatpants that hung low on his hips. Your eyes met his brown ones, the corner of his mouth tipped upward into that gorgeous smile.
You watched his face as gaze shifted from your face to the mess covering the bed and half of the floor space of the room, then landed right back to you, meeting your eyes in the mirror. His smile widened at the sight of you with that dress. "What happened in here, babe?"
Game time, you thought to yourself, turning to him. "Oh good, you're here."
"Yeah?" confusion flickered across his face as you held up the dress, raising your eyebrows at him in question.
"What do you think of this?" you asked, cocking your head to the side.
Logan dropped his duffel back beside the bedside table, kicking off his shoes. He walked over to you, placing a hand on your waist, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder. "You know I love you in everything, babe. But yeah, that dress always looks incredible on you."
You smiled, turning back to the mirror. In the reflection, you could see the mattress dip beneath his weight as Logan perched on the edge of the bed, still studying you with that smile on his face.
You met his stare in the mirror, your mind playing the opening notes of your master plan. "God, I'm so excited for tomorrow."
Logan blinked. "What's tomorrow?"
You almost laughed—almost. But you were determined not to break character, so instead, you forced your face into a look of utter confusion. "What do you mean, what's tomorrow? Its the date you planned for us."
A long pause stretched out between the two of you. Then, Logan's brow creased into a tiny frown. "The... date. Right."
The words coming out of his mouth were perfectly calm, which immediately threw you off, because other than the little crease on his brow, there was no evidence of panic, or confusion—not even concern. You narrowed your eyes.
Interesting.
Logan reached for the TV remote, casually crossing his legs as he leaned back. Your suspicion deepened, because there was no way he was this calm, this collected. There was no date. No reservation, no plans, nothing.
You would've known. He would've told you... unless. A horrible possibility entered your mind, because John Logan was the kindest, most thoughtful man ever, and more importantly, he knew how much you loved surprises. So maybe, just maybe... he'd actually planned something, and you'd accidentally stumbled right into it?
The thought almost made your confidence waver, until you caught the look on his face. His eyes were fixed on the TV, but you knew the expression in his eyes. You'd seen it before—during games, while the two of you studied for finals, before presentations. John Logan was thinking.
You bit back your smile, trying not to completely ruin your own prank, especially as Logan, in the most faux-casual voice you'd ever heard, asked: "So, babe, what're you most excited about?"
Oh, he was fishing—you could almost see the gears turning in his head as he tried to figure out exactly what you were talking about. The realization nearly made you giddy, even as you fought to keep a straight face, shrugging. "Oh, you know what I'm most excited about."
"No, I don't know." The innocence in his voice was almost convincing—almost.
"No?" you asked, fighting to keep a straight face. The two of you stared at each other for a minute, and then—then, Logan's face split into a smile. A beautiful, Logan smile.
Suddenly, your faith in the plan working out wavered, because somehow, against all logic, it suddenly felt like he wasn't the one being set up—you were.
The second the bedroom door snapped shut behind him, Logan knew he was fucked.
Not because there was definitely a date, but because there might be. Which was, somehow, infinitely worse.
"You're pacing, man."
Logan looked up from where he'd been wearing a path into the carpet of his friend's bedroom. Garrett was sprawled across his bed, one arm tucked behind his head as he watched Logan with growing amusement.
Logan opened his mouth to protest, but Garret raised an eyebrow, glancing pointedly down at Logan's feet.
Right. He was, in fact, pacing.
Garrett sat up. "Come on, man. What's wrong."
Logan sighed, dragging a hand through his hair, contemplating whether or not he should keep the thoughts plaguing his mind to himself... then immediately abandoned that plan—because Garrett was his best friend, and he was rapidly losing his mind. "She says she's really excited for our date tomorrow."
Garrett blinked. "Is there a reason she should not be?"
"I don't even know if there's a date tomorrow," Logan sighed, running a hand through his hair.
"What the fuck?" Garrett ran a hand over his face. "How could you not know?"
Logan shrugged. "There's a possibility she might be messing with me."
Garrett nodded slowly. "Okay."
"Or," Logan sighed dramatically, collapsing onto the foot of Garrett's bed. "I forgot."
"You forgot a date?" Garrett burst out laughing, and for a moment, Logan genuinely looked around the room for something to throw at his head.
"This isn't funny."
Garrett only laughed harder. "Sorry, man. It kinda is, though."
Logan burrowed his face into the mattress, groaning. "She's picking out dresses and shit, dude."
"Huh."
Logan lifted his head. "What?"
"No idea," Garrett shrugged. "But... if she's trying to prank you, that's hilarious."
Logan narrowed his eyes at Garrett, but his grin only widened. Then, after a moment, he sighed. "Okay, worst-case scenario: you forgot a date with your girlfriend."
Logan winced. "Jesus."
Garrett leaned forward. "No, listen. This is simple. You just need to take her on the greatest date of all time."
Logan blinked. "What?"
"Yeah, man. It's the only way. You gotta plan the date to end all dates."
"Come on, man. This is serious."
"I'm being serious." Garret sat up, his brow furrowing, deep in thought. "Think about it."
Logan usually hated when Garrett said that—because it meant that his friend was about to make an annoyingly good point. And it stood true this time too. Because either way, regardless of whether he was being pranked, or if he'd actually fucked up and forgotten, his girl deserved a date. Heck, his girl deserved everything. "Fuck."
Garrett leaned, back against the headboard, smug smile on his face. "Exactly."
If there really was a date he'd somehow forgotten, this fixed the problem. And if there wasn't—well, he still got to spend a day with you. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, and Garrett smirked. "There's that face again."
"What face?"
"The one you make whenever she's involved."
Logan rolled his eyes. "Shut up."
Garrett ignored him, grabbing Logan's phone. "Okay, let's plan the greatest date ever."
An hour later, what had somehow started as a joke had somehow turned into a full-scale operation.
Logan's notebook was open between the two of them, Garrett's laptop balanced on the edge of the bed.
"What's her favorite restaurant?" Garrett asked, frowning at the listings on the screen.
"The sushi place downtown."
The keys on Garrett's keyboard clacked as he wrote it down. "Favorite dessert?"
"Cheesecake from the bakery near campus."
"Favorite flowers?"
Logan didn't even take a moment. "Pink lillies."
Garrett paused, slowly turning his head to look at Logan. "Dude, you answered that way too quickly."
Logan frowned. "I know my girlfriend."
"You know your girlfriend's favorite flower. I don't even know my favorite flower."
Logan couldn't help but let out a laugh at the genuinely offended look on Garrett's face, because it made sense. He'd never felt this way about anyone before, and he wasn't about to let anything—anything—get in the way of making you happy, not even himself.
He could already feel the tension he'd been carrying since leaving the bedroom easing slightly, because now, he had a plan.
Actually, he had several plans—dinner, dessert, a walk afterward, maybe the bookstore you'd been talking about for months. Things that might not look like grand, extravagant gestures on the outside, but things he knew you'd love anyway. Things he knew would make you smile.
He could feel Garrett's watchful eyes on him and the realization settled warmly in his chest. "You know she's probably fucking with you, right?"
Logan could feel his face splitting into a slow, soft smile, "I know."
Garrett froze, the room enveloped in silence for a moment. Then: "What do you mean, you know? You spent an hour freaking out."
"I wasn't freaking out."
"You absolutely were."
Logan ignored him—because the truth was, he'd known almost immediately. The second you said it, the second he'd seen that look in your eyes—the one you got whenever you were trying not to laugh, he knew.
But that wasn't the point, it was never going to be. Because whether there had been a date or not, now there was. If his girlfriend wanted to spend a entire day together, Logan wasn't going to complain.
Garrett groaned. "Oh, my God."
"What?
"You're so disgustingly in love with her."
Logan considered arguing but instead, he just smiled. "Yeah, man. I am."
For once, Garrett didn't make fun of him for it.
By the time Logan picked you up the next evening, you were beginning to regret everything.
Not because the prank wasn't funny—it was downright hilarious. Or at least, it had been, right until a gorgeous bouquet of pink lillies had appeared on your bedside table with a note in Logan's handwriting.
Fuck, you loved them. They were your favorite flower.
The note read, Pick you up at 8. Wear the blue dress.
Now, standing in front of your mirror, smoothing down the skirt of the blue dress you loved so much, you were beginning to suspect that somewhere along the way, things had gotten out of hand.
A knock sounded from the other side of the door, making your stomach flutter. It was ridiculous—you'd been dating Logan for three years, and yet, as you opened the door, you immediately forgot every coherent thought you'd ever had.
Logan stood in the hallway, hands shoved into the pockets of dark jeans, navy button-down rolled up to his elbows. His dark hair was falling across his forehead, his brown eyes softening the second they found you— like they always did. Every. Single. Time.
No matter how many years passed, they always softened. "Hi, babe."
A smile spread across your face automatically. "Hi."
For a second, neither of you moved. Then, Logan's gaze landed on the vase of flowers sitting on your bedside table. "You got the flowers I sent you?"
Your heart squeezed. "They're beautiful, Logan."
"I know."
You blinked, and Logan immediately cringed. "Oh, fuck. That sounded terrible.""
A laugh escaped you. "It really did."
He groaned. "I meant you're beautiful."
Your laugh grew louder, and Logan pressed his forehead against the doorframe, hiding his face and the shy, pink flush that was creeping up his cheeks. "I somehow made it worse."
"You absolutely did."
His answering grin was sheepish, beautiful. You slipped your hand into his, softly closing the door behind you. "Ready?"
Logan squeezed your fingers. "Always."
The date was perfect.
Not because of where he took you— though the restaurant was lovely. The bookstore afterward was also lovely. And the bakery where he insisted on buying three different desserts "for research purposes" was lovely.
Not because of any of it. The date was perfect because every stop felt intentional, like Logan had built the entire evening out of tiny pieces of you.
At dinner, he'd ordered an appetizer while you ducked into the restroom right after the two of you arrived, because he knew you always got hungry while looking at menus. At the bookstore, he somehow remembered the title of a novel you'd mentioned wanting to read six months ago. At the bakery, he'd walked directly to your favorite cheesecake without even glancing at the display.
By the time the two of you found yourselves walking along the Charles River, the city lights glittering across the water, you were fairly certain you'd accidentally created the best date of your life.
The realization was mildly infuriating.
Logan glanced at you. "What?"
"What do you mean, what?" you frowned.
"You've got your thinking face on."
You rolled your eyes. "I do not."
Logan laughed, the sound settling warmly in your chest. For a while, neither of you spoke. The night air was cool, your hand fit perfectly in his. The city hummed around you—comfortable, easy.
Eventually Logan guided you toward a quiet bench overlooking the water. You sat down beside him, your shoulder brushing his. You could smell his cologne, could feel your heart beginning to stutter like it always did around him.
"You know," you said, carefully. "I had a really good time tonight."
Logan smiled. "I'm glad, babe. I did too."
You sighed, because you could feel the guilt winning. "I have to tell you something."
Immediately, Logan looked concerned. Your stomach twisted at the look on his face. God, he was too nice. "I kinda feel bad."
His eyebrows lifted. "About?"
You looked away, suddenly fascinated by the water. "The date thing."
"What about it?"
"Okay," you sucked in a deep breath. "I made it up. There wasn't actually a date."
The silence stretched out between the two of you—unbearable, suffocating, until you couldn't take it anymore. A groan escaped your lips. "Oh, my God, please stop looking at me like that."
Logan laughed. You froze, because it wasn't a surprised laugh, or even a confused one. No, he sounded... amused?
Slowly, you turned toward him, meeting his eyes. He was smiling.
Your eyes narrowed. "John Logan."
His grin widened. "Yeah, babe?"
"Oh, fuck off." The pieces clicked together all at once—the confidence, the calmness, the complete lack of panic. Your jaw slacked. "You knew."
Logan laughed. "I knew."
You stared at him, horrified, offended and impressed. Mostly offended. "When did you know?"
"The moment you said it."
Your mouth fully fell open this time. "You fucking liar."
Logan's shoulders shook with laughter. "You were picking out dresses, way too excited."
"I was acting," you gasped.
"Babe, come on." The words carried approximately zero belief.
You slapped his arm, and Logan caught your wrist immediately, still laughing. "You are unbelievable. You let me think I was winning!"
His grin softened. "You looked so excited." The words came out quietly, simply, like they explained everything.
And maybe, they did.
Logan continued, like it was obvious, like anyone else would've done the same thing. "You were excited, and I like taking you on dates."
You chest tightened. "So you planned all of this?"
"Yeah."
"Why?"
The answer left his lips immediately, without hesitation, without uncertainty. "Because I love you."
The words settled softly between the two of you, warm and certain.
You groaned. "Fuck off, Logan. You can't be cute when I'm being mean and trying to prank you."
Logan chuckled, leaning forward, his forehead brushing yours. "You're not mean. You're perfect. And, you're so, so impressed by the fact that I pulled this off."
"I'm not," you scoffed, but you both knew you were lying.
His grin widened knowingly. You hated it—and you hated it even more when he kissed you, slow and sweet, smiling against your mouth, his hands tangling in your hair.
When he finally pulled away, your heart was somewhere around your ankles. "You know what?"
"What?"
You jammed a finger in his chest. "This still counts as me pranking you."
Logan laughed so hard he nearly fell off the bench—and somehow, that felt like victory enough.
Summary: you don’t tell him your last name. By the time Dean finds out, he’s too far gone to do anything but brace for impact. Falling for the ice-cold, vodka-drinking Russian freshman is one thing. Falling for Ilya Rozanov’s little sister is a death wish. Dean decides he doesn’t care
Warning: 18+ content
Read part one here
The last agonizing tremor of your climax finally fades, leaving your body entirely boneless against the tangled sheets of Dean’s bed.
You are staring blindly at the ceiling, your chest heaving as you drag oxygen back into your lungs. Your mind feels completely blank, blissfully scrubbed clean of everything except the heavy, throbbing ache between your thighs and the lingering heat of Dean’s mouth.
Dean shifts his weight at the foot of the bed. He pulls away from your wet center with a soft, indecent sound, resting his cheek against your inner thigh for a long second to catch his own breath. His blond hair is a messy, sweat-dampened halo, and his broad shoulders rise and fall rapidly.
Slowly, he pushes himself up, crawling up the length of the mattress until he is hovering over you.
He looks completely wrecked in the best possible way. His lips are slick and slightly swollen, his green eyes dark and blown wide. He drops down onto the mattress beside you, flopping heavily onto his back and letting out a long, exhausted groan.
He doesn’t give you any space. He immediately rolls onto his side, throwing one heavy arm across your stomach and pulling you flush against his warm, sweat-slicked chest. He presses a soft, lingering kiss to your bare shoulder, tasting you on his own lips.
“Jesus,” Dean murmurs into the quiet room. “You taste so fucking good, Y/N.”
“You are …” you start, but your voice comes out as a weak, raspy croak. You clear your throat, trying to summon a shred of your usual dignity. “You are very enthusiastic.”
Dean chuckles, the sound vibrating against your ribcage. “Enthusiastic. That’s one word for it. I was going for ’life-changing,’ but I’ll take it.”
You let your eyes slip shut, resting your head against the pillow and enjoying the heavy, comforting weight of his body against yours. The room is quiet, the only sounds the faint hum of the heating vent and the synchronized rhythm of your breathing. It is peaceful. It is perfect.
Which is exactly why your instincts tell you to ruin it.
Ilya’s voice echoes in the back of your mind. Men like that, they get attached. They get possessive. You shift slightly, trying to put an inch of space between you so you can clear your head, but Dean’s arm immediately tightens like a vise around your waist, locking you in place.
“Don’t move,” Dean says quietly. The playful, post-coital banter is suddenly gone from his voice. It is replaced by a low, serious tone that makes your heart give a hard, erratic thump.
“I am sweating,” you complain, though you make no further effort to move. “Your body heat is excessive.”
“Tough. You’re staying right here.” Dean props himself up on one elbow, looking down at you. The dim light from the bedside lamp casts sharp shadows across his face, highlighting the firm, resolute set of his jaw. “We need to talk.”
Your stomach drops. You hate talking. Talking leads to feelings, and feelings lead to a loss of control.
“If this is about your performance on the ice yesterday,” you deflect smoothly, keeping your expression perfectly blank, “I already told you that your gap control was acceptable. Not great, but acceptable.”
“It’s not about hockey, Y/N,” Dean says, refusing to take the bait. He reaches up, brushing a damp strand of hair off your forehead. His touch is incredibly gentle, completely at odds with the intense, unwavering look in his eyes. “It’s about us.”
“There is no us, Di Laurentis,” you remind him, clinging to the rules you established on day one. “This is an arrangement. It is mutually beneficial. It is casual.”
“Right. Casual,” Dean repeats. He lets out a dry, humorless laugh. “I have a toothbrush in your bathroom. I know your coffee order by heart. You know my stats better than my head coach does. And I just spent the last twenty minutes making you scream my name in two different languages.”
He leans down, his face inches from yours. “Tell me again how casual this is.”
You swallow hard, your throat suddenly dry. “Those are just details.”
“Bullshit,” Dean fires back. He isn’t angry, but he is completely uncompromising. “It’s not casual for me. Not anymore. I’m not doing this halfway, Y/N. I want you.”
“You have me,” you point out, gesturing vaguely to your naked body trapped beneath his.
“You know what I mean,” Dean says, his voice dropping an octave, turning raw and gravelly. “I want all of you. I don’t want you going on dates with other guys. I don’t want you looking at anyone else. Hell, I barely want you looking at my teammates.”
“You are being ridiculous.” You push against his chest, finally managing to sit up slightly, though Dean simply shifts his weight to keep you pinned to the mattress. You pull the sheet up to cover your breasts, suddenly feeling incredibly exposed. “I do not go on dates with other men. I do not have the time or the patience.”
“But you could,” Dean presses, his green eyes locking onto yours. “You could walk out of here tomorrow and hook up with some finance bro from Harvard, and I wouldn’t have the right to say a damn thing about it.”
“And you could hook up with a sorority girl,” you counter, lifting your chin. “That is the point of being casual. We are both free to do as we please.”
“I haven’t even looked at another girl since the night you insulted my backhand,” Dean admits bluntly. The raw honesty in his voice actually makes you flinch. He doesn’t hide behind a smirk. He just lays his cards on the table, completely vulnerable. “I don’t want anyone else. I just want you. I want to be your boyfriend.”
The word hangs in the air between you, heavy and terrifying.
You stare at him, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. You came to America to escape the suffocating control of the men in your family. You promised yourself you wouldn’t get tied down. You promised yourself you would always hold all the cards.
“Dean,” you say, your voice tight, your Russian accent slipping out heavily. “You do not want this. I am difficult. I am demanding. My brother is a literal psychopath who will probably put you in the hospital when he finds out.”
“I don’t give a fuck about Ilya,” Dean says instantly. “Let him try. I’ll take a beating if it means I get to keep you.”
“It is not just him,” you argue, shaking your head. Your chest aches. You hate how much you want to say yes. “We are entirely different. You are … you are Dean Di Laurentis. You are the party guy. You do not do commitment.”
“I do now,” Dean says simply.
“People do not change that fast.”
“Watch me.”
“I cannot do this,” you say, a genuine edge of panic creeping into your voice. You try to scramble backward against the headboard, desperate to put physical distance between you so you can think straight.
But Dean is faster.
He shifts forward, following you up the bed. Before you can retreat, his hands come up, gripping your wrists firmly but gently, pulling them away from the sheet you are clutching like a shield. He pins your hands flat against the mattress on either side of your head.
“Don’t run away from me,” Dean murmurs, his face hovering just above yours.
“I am not running,” you lie, your breathing turning shallow. “I am simply concluding this conversation.”
“The conversation isn’t over.”
Dean leans down, and instead of kissing your lips, he presses his open mouth against the pulse point just below your jaw.
You let out a sharp, involuntary gasp.
“Dean,” you warn him, though your voice lacks any real authority.
He ignores you. He traces the line of your jaw with his tongue, his breath hot against your skin. “You talk too much when you’re scared, Y/N.”
“I am not scared.”
“Yes, you are,” he whispers against your skin. He trails a line of soft, open-mouthed kisses down your neck, lingering on the sensitive spot right at the base of your throat. “You’re terrified. You like being in control, and right now, you realize you don’t have it. Because you want me just as much as I want you.”
“Arrogant,” you breathe, your eyes fluttering shut as his teeth lightly scrape against your collarbone. A violent shudder rips through your body.
“Honest,” he corrects.
He shifts his weight, sliding his knee securely between your thighs, forcing your legs apart. You are completely pinned beneath him, completely at his mercy, and the terrifying truth is that you don’t want to be anywhere else.
Dean releases one of your wrists, using his newly freed hand to slowly, deliberately trace a path down your stomach. His rough calluses drag against your soft skin, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. He dips his fingers just below your navel, pressing lightly against your lower abdomen.
You arch your back instinctively, a soft moan escaping your lips. You are still so incredibly sensitive from your earlier climax, and his proximity is short-circuiting your brain.
“Tell me this is casual,” Dean challenges, his voice dark and raspy. He moves his mouth to the swell of your breast, his tongue swirling around the tight peak.
“Dean,” you gasp, your fingers curling into the sheets. “Stop playing fair.”
“I’m playing to win,” he mumbles against your skin, lightly sucking the sensitive flesh into his mouth.
You cry out, your hips bucking up against his thigh. Your defenses are crumbling. They are completely, utterly disintegrating under the sheer, focused intensity of his attention. He knows your body perfectly. He knows exactly how to dismantle you.
He slides his hand lower, his long fingers finding your wet, aching center. He doesn’t enter you. He just traces the slick folds, pressing firmly against your clit with his thumb.
“Look at me,” Dean commands softly.
You force your eyes open. The cocky, easygoing college boy is gone. The man hovering over you is lethal, focused, and entirely devoted to you. His green eyes are burning into yours, completely stripping away every wall you have ever built.
“Be mine,” Dean whispers, his thumb slowly, agonizingly circling your most sensitive spot. “Just mine, Y/N. Say yes.”
“If I say yes,” you grit out, your accent thick, your body trembling under his touch, “you are going to regret it. I will ruin your life.”
Dean smiles. It is a devastating, triumphant smile.
“Ruin it, then,” he says. “But you’re doing it as my girlfriend.”
He presses his thumb down harder, and you shatter.
“Fine!” You gasp out, the word tearing from your throat as pleasure spikes sharply in your core. “Fine, yes. I am yours. We are exclusive.”
Dean stops moving his hand. He freezes, staring down at you, his chest heaving. The triumph in his eyes is so bright it’s almost blinding.
“Say it again,” he breathes.
“Do not push your luck, Di Laurentis,” you groan, turning your head against the pillow to hide the flush creeping up your cheeks.
Dean laughs, a sound of pure joy. He releases your other wrist, using both hands to cup your face, forcing you to look at him. He kisses you — hard, deep, and impossibly sweet. It isn’t a demanding kiss. It is a promise. It tastes like victory and relief.
“My girl,” Dean murmurs against your lips. “God, I love the sound of that.”
“Do not get used to it,” you warn him weakly, though you kiss him back, your hands tangling in his thick blond hair. “If you do anything to annoy me, I am breaking up with you.”
“You can try,” Dean grins, pulling back slightly to look down at you. His eyes darken, the playful energy suddenly shifting back into something entirely carnal. He looks at your flushed skin, your bruised lips, your dark hair spread wildly across his pillows.
“And now,” Dean says, his voice dropping into a rough, gravelly purr that makes your stomach clench. “For being such a good girl and finally admitting the truth, I think you deserve a reward.”
You raise an eyebrow, trying to summon your haughty persona, but it’s completely ruined by the way your chest is heaving. “A reward? You think you are training a dog?”
“I think,” Dean says, sliding his hand down your stomach to grip your hip firmly, “I’m going to fuck you so hard you forget how to speak entirely.”
Your breath hitches.
Dean doesn’t hesitate. He reaches over to the nightstand, grabbing a foil packet. He rips it open with his teeth, his eyes never leaving yours, and rolls it on with quick, practiced efficiency.
When he settles back over you, the air in the room feels thick enough to cut with a knife. He hooks his hands under your knees, dragging your legs up high and hooking them over his broad shoulders. The position completely opens you up to him, leaving you entirely exposed and deeply vulnerable.
“Dean,” you whisper, your eyes widening slightly at the intense, predatory look on his face.
“I’ve got you,” he promises softly.
He aligns his hips with yours, the thick, blunt head of his length resting against your slick opening. He doesn’t thrust right away. He just lets you feel the size of him, the heavy, pulsing heat waiting at your entrance.
“Tell me who you belong to,” Dean demands, his voice a low, rough rumble.
“I belong to myself,” you fire back stubbornly, even as your hips instinctively tilt up, silently begging him to enter you.
Dean chuckles darkly. He pushes forward just an inch, stretching your tight entrance, and then pulls back.
You let out a frustrated whine, your hands gripping the sheets. “Dean. Please.”
“Say it,” he insists, repeating the agonizingly slow, teasing motion. “Who are you exclusive with, Y/N?”
“You,” you gasp, your resistance completely snapping. “You. Just you.”
“That’s right.”
Dean grips your hips tight enough to leave bruises and drives forward in one long, brutal thrust, burying himself inside you to the hilt.
You scream, your head throwing back against the mattress. The feeling of him filling you completely, stretching you so deeply, is overwhelming. It is painful and pleasurable and incredibly intense. You are so wet from his mouth earlier that he glides in smoothly, but the sheer size of him makes you completely breathless.
Dean groans, his jaw clenching as he forces himself to hold still for a second, letting your body adjust. His chest is heaving, a sheen of sweat coating his skin.
“Fuck,” he grates out, his eyes squeezed shut. “You are so perfect. So tight.”
“Do not stop,” you beg, your accent thick and heavy. You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling his chest down flush against yours. You need the friction. You need him.
Dean opens his eyes, looking down at you with a gaze that is pure, unfiltered fire. “I’m not stopping until the sun comes up.”
He starts to move.
The first few thrusts are slow and incredibly deep. He pulls almost all the way out, letting the sensitive head drag against your entrance, before slamming his hips forward and burying himself inside you again. The skin-on-skin slap of his body meeting yours echoes loudly in the quiet room.
You sob out a breath, your nails digging into his shoulders. “Dean … oh my god.”
“Look at me,” he commands, his voice tight with his own strain.
You open your eyes, meeting his intense green gaze. He wants you to see this. He wants you to see exactly what he is doing to you, exactly who is making you feel like this.
He speeds up, his thrusts becoming harder, faster, and more punishing. The angle is devastating. With your legs hooked over his shoulders, every single stroke hits deep, striking that bundle of nerves that sends blinding sparks behind your eyelids.
The room spins. The only things anchoring you to reality are the heavy weight of Dean’s body, the burning heat inside you, and the relentless, driving rhythm of his hips.
“Are you mine?” Dean asks, his voice harsh as he pounds into you.
“Yes,” you gasp, entirely broken down.
“Just mine?” He thrusts harder, the head of the bed frame banging rhythmically against the wall.
“Yes!” You cry out.
“Good.” Dean shifts his grip, sliding one hand under your lower back to angle your hips even higher. The penetration becomes impossibly deeper. “Because I am completely fucking obsessed with you.”
The dirty, possessive words act like a match to a powder keg.
Your entire body goes rigid. The pleasure spikes so sharply it steals your vision. You feel the climax building in the pit of your stomach, tightening like a coiled spring, hot and frantic.
“Dean,” you sob, the syllables fracturing. You try to push back against him, chasing the friction, completely desperate.
“I know,” he rasps, reading your body perfectly. He leans down, capturing your lips in a messy, bruising kiss, swallowing your moans as he increases his pace to a frantic, relentless sprint.
He is relentless. He doesn’t give you a single second to catch your breath. He just keeps driving into you, deep and hard, pushing you higher and higher until you are completely teetering on the edge.
“Pozhaluysta,” you beg wildly against his mouth.
“Come for me, Y/N,” Dean growls, tearing his mouth away to look at your face. “Let it go.”
You shatter.
Your climax rips through you with violent force, a massive, overwhelming wave of pure ecstasy. You scream his name into the quiet room, your inner walls clamping down hard and fast around his thick length.
Dean shouts, a raw, guttural sound of triumph. He drives his hips forward two more times, impossibly deep, and completely falls apart with you. He empties himself inside the condom with heavy, shuddering groans, his entire body trembling as he collapses against you.
He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his weight crushing you into the mattress. His chest heaves against yours, his heart hammering a frantic, terrifying rhythm directly over your own.
For a very long time, neither of you moves. The only sound in the room is the ragged, desperate panting of two people completely wrecked by each other.
Slowly, the adrenaline begins to fade, replaced by a heavy, bone-deep exhaustion.
Dean stirs first. He pulls out of you with a soft sound, disposing of the condom before crawling right back into bed beside you. He doesn’t give you a chance to retreat to your side of the mattress. He wraps his arms around you, pulling your back flush against his chest, and tangles his legs with yours.
He presses a soft, lingering kiss to the back of your neck.
“Mine,” Dean whispers into the dark room, his voice completely satisfied.
You let out a soft sigh, too tired to argue, too happy to care. You close your eyes, letting the warmth of his body envelop you. You know you are going to have to deal with Ilya eventually. You know your perfectly controlled life is completely off the rails.
But as Dean’s hand rests heavily over your heart, keeping you grounded, you smile into the darkness.
Let the game begin.
***
The arena is absolutely deafening on a Friday night in early December.
You are sitting in your usual spot in the lower bowl, your heavy winter coat unzipped, the collar of your dark sweater pulled up against the chill of the rink. The air smells exactly the same as it always does — cold ice, stale popcorn, and the sharp, metallic tang of sweat and adrenaline.
Down on the ice, game is tied 2-2 in the middle of the second period against a viciously aggressive opponent. The play is fast, sloppy, and heavily physical.
“I still don’t understand icing,” Morgan says loudly, leaning close to your ear to be heard over the roar of the student section behind you. She is clutching a massive pretzel and shivering, despite wearing three layers. “Like, why can’t they just hit it to the other side?”
“Because it slows down the pace of the game and rewards lazy defensive zone breakouts,” you explain automatically, your eyes tracking the puck as it cycles behind the Briar net. “It forces the team to skate the puck over the red line before dumping it.”
“Right. Obviously.” Morgan takes a bite of her pretzel. “Are you going to Dean’s house after this?”
You don’t look away from the ice. “Maybe.”
“That means yes,” Morgan singsongs. “You guys are, like, practically married now. It’s actually kind of gross how obsessed he is with you.”
You finally tear your gaze away from the game, shooting your roommate a flat, unimpressed look. “We are not married. We have been exclusive for exactly one month. And he is not obsessed.”
“He literally brought you a coffee in the middle of a blizzard on Wednesday just because you texted him that the dining hall espresso machine was broken,” Morgan points out dryly. “He treats you like a queen.”
“I am a queen,” you say smoothly, turning back to the game. “He is simply acting accordingly.”
Before Morgan can argue, a sudden, massive shadow falls over your row.
The overhead arena lights are blocked out. The people sitting in the row behind you suddenly go dead silent. You feel a distinct, heavy shift in the air, followed by the undeniable scent of expensive Tom Ford cologne and a hint of winter frost.
“Move over,” a deep, booming voice commands in heavily accented English.
Morgan jumps, her eyes going completely wide. She scrambles to the left, practically throwing herself into the empty seat beside her to clear the space.
You turn your head slowly.
Dropping down into the newly vacated plastic seat next to you, completely unannounced and looking like a mob boss, is your older brother.
Ilya stretches his long, powerful legs out, resting his forearms on his knees as he peers down at the ice. He is wearing a dark, tailored wool peacoat over a black turtleneck, a dark beanie pulled low over his forehead. He looks entirely out of place in the sea of drunk college students wearing cheap synthetic jerseys, and yet, he looks like he owns the entire building.
“Ilya?” You ask, your voice dropping perfectly into Russian. “What are you doing here?”
“The Bruins have a home stand,” Ilya replies in Russian, not taking his eyes off the ice. “We played last night. We play again on Sunday. I was bored. And you were not answering your texts.”
“I am watching a hockey game.”
“You are watching boys chase a piece of rubber like blind dogs,” Ilya corrects, gesturing vaguely toward the ice as the opposing team fumbles a pass. “Look at this. The neutral zone is completely wide open. It is a tragedy.”
You sigh, rubbing your temples. “You cannot just show up to my university unannounced, Ilya. You are going to cause a riot.”
It’s true. Whispers are already breaking out in the surrounding rows. People are pointing. The Briar student section is heavily populated by hockey fans, and the Boston Bruins’ star center sitting casually in Section 104 is not going unnoticed.
“Let them riot,” Ilya says dismissively, switching back to English for Morgan’s benefit, shooting her a devastating, perfectly charming smile that makes her blush furiously. “Hello, Morgan. Are you learning about hockey?”
“H-hi, Ilya,” Morgan stammers, completely starstruck. “Yes. I mean, Y/N is trying to teach me.”
“Good luck,” Ilya snorts. He leans forward, resting his chin on his fist. His eyes narrow as he begins to analyze the play with ruthless, surgical precision. “Look at this power play. It is pathetic. The umbrella formation is too flat. The center is not moving his feet.”
You cross your arms, sinking slightly lower in your seat. “They are college students, Ilya. Not professionals.”
“They are pretending to be hockey players,” Ilya grumbles. “Ah, look. Number … sixty-six.”
Your breath hitches slightly.
Down on the ice, Dean receives a pass at the point. He looks incredibly sharp tonight, his skating fluid and effortless. He drags the puck along the blue line, walking it away from a diving defender, and snaps a crisp, perfect pass right into the slot for a waiting forward.
“Number sixty-six,” Ilya repeats, his eyes tracking Dean’s movement. “He is fast. I will give him that. Good edge work. But he is arrogant.”
“You are calling someone arrogant?” You ask dryly. “That is rich.”
“I am arrogant because I am the best,” Ilya states, entirely serious. “This boy, he plays with a chip on his shoulder. Look at his gap control. It is … acceptable.”
Coming from Ilya, the word ‘acceptable’ is essentially a glowing endorsement. It takes everything in your power not to smile.
“He is the leading scoring defenseman in the conference,” you point out casually, playing devil’s advocate.
“Because he plays against children,” Ilya counters immediately. “But he has good hands. And he hits hard.”
As if on cue, an opposing forward tries to enter the Briar zone with his head down. Dean steps up, dropping his shoulder, and delivers a clean, crushing open-ice hit that sends the forward flying into the boards.
The crowd erupts into cheers. You offer a small, proud clap.
Ilya nods slowly, a grudging look of respect crossing his face. “Okay. That was not terrible. He has decent timing.”
You turn your head to hide your smirk. Ilya is literally analyzing your boyfriend, completely unaware that the “acceptable” defenseman currently dominating the ice is the exact same boy who has been leaving bruises on your hips for the last month.
For the rest of the game, Ilya provides a running, highly critical commentary. He complains about the coaching. He complains about the referees. He loudly predicts every single play before it happens, much to the awe of the frat boys sitting three rows back who are currently taking notes.
When the final buzzer sounds, securing a 4-2 victory for Briar, the arena explodes with noise.
“Finally,” Ilya sighs, standing up and stretching his massive frame. “I was beginning to lose brain cells.”
“You only have three left to lose,” you tease, grabbing your purse. You look up at him. “So, are you taking me to dinner? Or did you just come here to complain?”
“I am taking you to dinner,” Ilya confirms, wrapping a heavy arm around your shoulders and pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “But first, I want to see the locker room. I want to see where these boys pretend to be athletes.”
Your stomach drops. “You want to go to the locker room?”
“Why not?” Ilya smirks, his dark eyes gleaming with amusement. “I am Ilya Rozanov. I go where I want.”
You look at Morgan, who gives you a wide-eyed, terrified look. You promised to wait for Dean outside the locker room after the game. It’s part of your routine. Dean comes out, fresh from the shower, pulls you into a dark corner, kisses you senseless, and then drags you to his car.
Now, you are going to be waiting outside the locker room with the most overprotective, terrifying player in the NHL.
The game is officially up.
“Fine,” you say, your voice perfectly calm despite the frantic hammering of your heart. “Let us go.”
***
The hallway outside the locker room is usually heavily guarded, restricted to team personnel and family. But when a six-foot-four Russian tank with a multi-million dollar NHL contract walks down the corridor, the security guards practically stumble over themselves to hold the doors open.
You stand with your back against the cinderblock wall, arms crossed, trying to look completely unbothered. Ilya stands next to you, taking up half the hallway, looking around with a deeply unimpressed expression.
“It smells like wet dog,” Ilya observes loudly.
“It is a hockey locker room, Ilya,” you remind him.
The heavy double doors swing open.
The first person to walk out is Garrett. The Briar captain is dressed in a sharp suit, his gym bag slung over his shoulder, chatting over his shoulder to Logan.
Garrett steps out into the hallway, turns his head, and freezes.
He stops so abruptly that Logan literally crashes into his back.
“What the hell, G?” Logan complains, rubbing his shoulder. “Keep walking-”
Logan looks up. He sees you. Then, his eyes track to the right, and he sees the massive, brooding figure standing next to you.
Logan’s mouth drops open.
Garrett looks like he is going to faint. He is staring at Ilya with the wide, terrified, awestruck expression of a man who has just met God.
“Holy shit,” Garrett whispers.
Ilya raises an eyebrow. He looks Garrett up and down, his gaze heavily calculating. “You are the captain. Graham. Yes?”
“Y-yes,” Garrett stammers. His voice actually cracks. The captain of the Briar hockey team, the guy who fights defensemen twice his size on the ice without blinking, is currently sweating through his suit jacket. “Yes, sir. Garrett Graham.”
“I have seen your tapes,” Ilya says casually, though his tone is terrifyingly flat. “Your face-off percentage is acceptable. But you rely too much on your wingers to dig the puck out of the corners. You need to use your body more.”
“I will,” Garrett says immediately, nodding so fast he looks like a bobblehead. “I’ll do that. Thank you, Mr. Rozanov. Sir.”
“Do not call me sir,” Ilya grunts. “You make me sound old.”
Tucker walks out next, stops dead in his tracks, and slowly backs away until he is pressed against the opposite wall, trying to make himself entirely invisible.
And then, the doors swing open one last time.
Dean steps out into the hallway.
His blonde hair is damp from the shower, pushed back in a messy, effortless style. He is wearing a tailored grey suit jacket with the collar open, no tie, looking entirely too cocky for his own good. He is laughing at something one of the assistant coaches said inside.
He turns the corner, his green eyes scanning the hallway. They find you instantly.
A massive, devastatingly handsome smile breaks across his face. He takes a step toward you, his entire body language softening, lighting up with that intense, focused devotion he saves entirely for you.
“Hey, beautiful,” Dean says, closing the distance. “Sorry I took so long, I had to-”
Dean stops.
He is exactly three feet away from you. He finally realizes that the massive, dark-coated wall of muscle standing right next to you is not a security guard.
Dean’s eyes slowly travel up from the expensive black combat boots, over the tailored peacoat, and finally lock onto the dark, lethal face of Ilya Rozanov.
The silence in the hallway is absolute.
Garrett is holding his breath. Logan is slowly inching toward the exit, ready to call an ambulance. Tucker has closed his eyes, preparing for the gore.
You stand perfectly still. You look at Dean, and then you look at your brother.
“Ilya,” you say, your voice ringing clearly in the dead-silent corridor. “This is Dean Di Laurentis. Dean, this is my brother, Ilya.”
Ilya slowly turns his head to look at Dean. The casual, slightly bored older-brother aura completely vanishes. His posture straightens, his shoulders expanding, taking up every inch of available space. He looks down at Dean with eyes so dark and cold they could freeze the Charles River.
“Ah,” Ilya says softly. The Russian accent is suddenly much, much thicker. “Number sixty-six.”
Dean swallows. You can literally see the Adam’s apple bob in his throat. But to his absolute credit, he doesn’t take a step back.
He squares his own shoulders. He pulls himself up to his full height, refusing to cower. He meets Ilya’s terrifying gaze head-on, the cocky, playful college boy completely melting away, replaced by the stubborn, unyielding defenseman who refuses to give up his blue line.
“It’s an honor to meet you,” Dean says, his voice steady, offering his hand.
Ilya looks at Dean’s outstretched hand for a long, agonizing five seconds. He does not take it.
Dean slowly lowers his hand, entirely unbothered, tucking it into the pocket of his slacks. He holds Ilya’s stare.
“You are dating my sister,” Ilya states. It is not a question. It is an accusation, heavy with the promise of violence.
“Yes,” Dean says simply. “I am.”
“She is nineteen years old,” Ilya says, taking a single, slow step closer to Dean. He is invading his space, using his size to intimidate. “She is brilliant. She is perfect. And she is the only family I have that matters.”
“I know,” Dean replies, his jaw tightening slightly. “She talks about you all the time.”
“Then she has told you what I do to people who cross me,” Ilya murmurs, his voice dropping so low it’s almost a growl. “She has told you that I do not play games, Di Laurentis. I end them.”
“She mentioned it,” Dean agrees, his green eyes flashing with a sudden, dark challenge.
“Let me make this very clear,” Ilya says, leaning down slightly so he is perfectly eye-level with Dean. “If you make her cry, you will not have to worry about a career in the NHL. Because they will not find enough of you to bury in a matchbox. Do you understand me?”
Garrett actually whimpers.
You cross your arms tighter, watching Dean closely. Most men would apologize. Most men would stammer, back away, and promise to be perfect.
Dean just stares right back into the eyes of the most dangerous man in hockey.
“If I make her cry,” Dean says, his voice low, steady, and vibrating with absolute certainty, “you can have a free shot. You can break both my legs. But it won’t happen.”
Ilya’s eyes narrow to slits.
“Because I’m not going to hurt her,” Dean continues, leaning in a fraction of an inch himself, refusing to back down. “I’m keeping her.”
The tension is so thick you could carve it with a steak knife. The two men stare at each other, neither blinking, neither giving an inch. It is an absolute standoff of alpha male ego and fierce, unyielding protectiveness.
And then, suddenly, the ice breaks.
Ilya lets out a sharp, barking laugh.
He lifts his massive hand and claps Dean on the shoulder. The force of the hit is so hard it actually makes Dean stumble half a step, but Ilya grips his shoulder tightly, hauling him back up.
“I like this one!” Ilya booms, turning to look at you, his eyes sparkling with genuine amusement. “He has spine! He is stupid, but he has spine!”
The collective exhale from Garrett, Logan, and Tucker sounds like a punctured tire.
Dean blinks, totally caught off guard by the sudden shift in energy, but a slow, cocky smirk immediately begins to form on his lips. “I prefer the term confident, but I’ll take stupid if it means you aren’t going to murder me.”
“Oh, I might still murder you,” Ilya says cheerfully, releasing Dean’s shoulder. “We will see how the season goes. Your backhand is still weak.”
“It’s getting better,” Dean fires back effortlessly, leaning casually against the wall. The fear is completely gone, replaced by his usual, charming swagger. “Y/N runs drills with me. She’s a brutal coach.”
“She learned from me,” Ilya points out, puffing out his chest slightly. “The Russian system is superior.”
“I don’t know,” Dean argues playfully, crossing his arms. “The North American system focuses more on creativity. Let the players make plays.”
“Creativity is an excuse for a lack of discipline,” Ilya scoffs, waving a hand dismissively.
“Discipline doesn’t score the game-winner in overtime.”
“I scored the game-winner in overtime last night!”
As you watch them argue, a strange, creeping realization begins to settle over the hallway.
You watch Dean lean against the wall, one ankle crossed over the other, a completely arrogant, completely self-assured smirk on his face. He is talking with his hands, completely relaxed, verbally sparring just for the fun of it.
Then, you look at Ilya. He is leaning against the opposite wall, one ankle crossed over the other, wearing the exact same arrogant, self-assured smirk. He is talking with his hands, arguing just to hear his own voice, completely thriving on the friction.
They have the exact same posture.
They have the exact same cocky, infuriating grin.
They radiate the exact same possessive, fiercely loyal energy hidden beneath layers of playboy swagger and ego.
You look over at Garrett, Logan, and Tucker.
The three Briar players are staring at Dean and Ilya with wide, horrified eyes. Logan slowly turns his head, making eye contact with you.
“Do you see this?” Logan whispers, his voice trembling slightly. He points a shaking finger between the two men. “They are … they are the exact same person.”
“It’s like looking at a multiverse variant,” Tucker mutters, completely disturbed. “Same font, different languages.”
“She’s dating the American version of her brother,” Garrett says, looking like he might actually throw up. “This is a psychological nightmare. Freud would have a field day with this.”
“Shut up, Garrett,” you hiss, your cheeks flushing violently.
But as you look back at them, you can’t deny it. Dean laughs at something Ilya says, throwing his head back in that rich, booming way that echoes down the hall. Ilya claps him on the shoulder again, offering a sharp, sarcastic insult that Dean immediately deflects with a perfectly timed chirp.
They are getting along flawlessly. They are practically speaking their own language — a language built entirely on hockey stats, trash talk, and massive egos.
And the scariest part? Neither of them seems to realize it.
“So,” Ilya says, pulling a sleek black card case out of his coat pocket. “You boys are hungry? I am buying dinner. The steaks in this town are acceptable. Come, Di Laurentis. You will sit next to me and explain why your power play is so predictable.”
“It’s not predictable,” Dean argues, pushing off the wall and falling into step beside Ilya as they start walking down the hall. “We run a one-three-one. It’s designed to open up the half-wall.”
“It is designed for lazy wingers,” Ilya corrects loudly.
They walk down the corridor together, completely ignoring the rest of you, deeply engrossed in an argument about special teams tactics.
You stand in the hallway, watching them go.
“Well,” you sigh, rubbing your temples again. “That went better than expected.”
Garrett slowly walks up next to you, his eyes still glued to Ilya’s retreating back. “Y/N.”
“Yes, Garrett?”
“Can you ask your brother to sign my chest at dinner?”
You close your eyes. “I am going to pretend you did not just ask me that.”
“Please,” Garrett begs, sounding entirely pathetic. “I have a sharpie in my bag.”
“We are leaving,” you announce, grabbing Garrett by the sleeve of his expensive suit and dragging him down the hall after Dean and Ilya. Logan and Tucker follow silently behind, both looking like they are still trying to process the sheer psychological horror of what they just witnessed.
As you catch up to them, Dean glances over his shoulder. He spots you, stops walking for a second, and waits for you to reach his side.
When you do, he doesn’t say a word. He just reaches out, sliding his large, warm hand around your waist and pulling you flush against his side. He presses a soft kiss to your temple, right in front of your brother.
Ilya stops talking. He looks at Dean’s arm around your waist. He looks at the way you lean into Dean’s side, completely relaxed.
For a second, the dangerous, protective older brother flares up in Ilya’s eyes.
But then, he looks at Dean’s face. He sees the absolute devotion there. He sees the way Dean looks at you like you are the only thing in the entire arena that matters.
Ilya huffs a soft breath, shaking his head. He turns around, shoving his hands into the pockets of his peacoat.
“Come on, children,” Ilya calls out, a rare, genuine smile touching his lips. “Dinner is on me. And Di Laurentis?”
“Yeah?” Dean asks.
“If you order your steak well-done,” Ilya warns over his shoulder, “I will revoke my approval.”
Dean laughs, pulling you a little tighter against his side.
“Don’t worry, old man,” Dean calls back playfully. “I like it raw.”
You let out a long, exasperated sigh, hiding a smile against Dean’s shoulder as you all walk out into the freezing Boston night.
One arrogant, hockey-obsessed idiot was hard enough to manage. Now, you officially have two of them.
You really are going to need more deadbolts.
***
The Ottawa winter is absolutely brutal, the kind of biting, deep-freeze cold that makes your lungs ache the second you step outside.
“I don’t understand how people survive here,” Dean complains, his teeth actually chattering as he parks his sleek SUV in the sprawling, snow-covered driveway of the massive luxury estate. “It’s negative twelve degrees, Y/N. Negative twelve. The air hurts my face.”
“You play a sport that takes place entirely on a sheet of frozen water,” you point out dryly, unbuckling your seatbelt. “You should be used to the cold.”
“Arena cold is different from Canadian tundra cold,” Dean argues. He kills the engine and turns to look at you.
The dashboard lights cast a soft glow across his face. He is older now, his jawline sharper, his shoulders broader from years of NHL conditioning. He has a tiny, faded scar above his left eyebrow from a high stick three seasons ago, but he is still, undeniably, the most devastatingly handsome man you have ever seen. And the heavy platinum band resting on his left ring finger — matching the diamond currently sparkling on your own — is still the best decision you have ever made.
“Besides,” Dean says, reaching across the center console to cup your face, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone. “Your brother chose to sign with Ottawa just to punish me. I know it. He wants me to freeze to death during the holidays.”
“Ilya did not sign a massive, eight-year contract with the Senators to punish you,” you laugh, leaning into his touch. “He signed it to be closer to Shane.”
Dean smiles, a soft, incredibly fond expression that he saves entirely for you. “Yeah, yeah. The greatest love story in the NHL. Come on, Mrs. Di Laurentis. Let’s go freeze.”
You brave the frigid air together, jogging up the salted stone steps to the massive mahogany front door. Before Dean can even ring the bell, the door swings open.
Shane stands in the entryway, wearing a soft grey cashmere sweater and looking every bit the golden boy of the NHL. He holds a can of ginger ale in one hand, his wedding band flashing in the warm foyer light.
“Y/N! Dean! Get in here before you let all the heat out,” Shane laughs, stepping back to let you both inside.
“Shane,” you smile, stepping into the sprawling, gorgeously decorated house and pulling him into a warm hug. “It is good to see you. Smells incredible in here.”
“Ilya’s making my mother’s brisket,” Shane says, rolling his eyes fondly as he claps Dean on the shoulder. “Good to see you, man. Rough game against Tampa on Thursday.”
“Don’t remind me,” Dean groans, shrugging out of his heavy wool coat. “Our penalty kill is a disaster right now.”
“Whose penalty kill is a disaster?” A booming, heavy Russian accent echoes from down the hall.
A second later, Ilya rounds the corner. He is wearing a dark apron over a black t-shirt, a wooden spoon in one hand, and a massive grin on his face. Years of professional hockey have only made him wider and more intimidating, but the sheer joy on his face when he looks at Shane, and then at you, softens his entire demeanor.
“Little bird!” Ilya drops the wooden spoon on a side table and crosses the foyer in three massive strides, scooping you up into a bone-crushing hug. He spins you around once before setting you back on your feet, kissing the top of your head. “You look beautiful. Marriage is treating you well.”
“I am managing,” you reply in Russian, smiling up at him.
Ilya turns his attention to Dean. He looks his brother-in-law up and down, his eyes narrowing in that familiar, hyper-critical way.
“Di Laurentis,” Ilya greets, his voice dropping into a flat, unimpressed drawl. “Your plus-minus this month is embarrassing. You are pinching too high in the offensive zone. Have you forgotten everything I taught you?”
“I play top-pairing minutes for a Cup-contending team, old man,” Dean fires back without missing a beat, a cocky smirk instantly appearing on his face as he shakes Ilya’s hand. “I can afford to take risks. Some of us actually have a reliable defensive partner to cover for us. Not all of us are busy staring at our own husbands across the ice.”
Ilya lets out a sharp, barking laugh, pulling Dean into a rough, one-armed hug. “You are an idiot. Come into the kitchen. The team is here. They want to meet the American liability.”
You follow the boys down the wide hallway, the sound of loud, overlapping voices and clinking glasses growing louder. Ilya and Shane’s house is an architectural masterpiece, completely open-concept, and right now, the massive kitchen and attached living room are overflowing with professional hockey players.
Half the Ottawa Senators roster seems to be lounging around the kitchen island, drinking beers and eating appetizers. When you and Dean walk in, the conversation stutters to a halt.
“Boys,” Ilya announces loudly, gesturing with his wine glass. “This is my little sister, Y/N. And her husband, Dean Di Laurentis. If any of you hit him on the ice next month when we play them, I will buy you a Rolex.”
A chorus of laughter breaks out. You recognize a few of the younger players staring at Dean with wide eyes.
Dean isn’t just a college player anymore. He is a bona fide NHL star, known for his lethal backhand, his punishing hits, and his absolute refusal to back down from a fight. To the young Ottawa players, seeing Dean standing casually in their captain’s kitchen is a surreal experience.
“Nice to meet you guys,” Dean says, leaning against the marble counter and effortlessly sliding into his charismatic, playboy-turned-superstar persona. “Don’t listen to Ilya. If you hit me, he’ll actually cry. He loves me.”
“I tolerate you because my sister likes your face,” Ilya corrects loudly, handing you a glass of white wine.
“Sure you do,” Shane murmurs, stepping up behind Ilya and wrapping his arms casually around his husband’s waist. Ilya immediately leans back against Shane’s chest, the massive, terrifying Russian practically melting into the Canadian. It’s a sight that the hockey world is finally used to — the league’s first openly queer, married power couple — but it still warms your heart every time you see it.
“So, Di Laurentis,” LaPointe asks nervously, holding a beer. “Is it true you guys run a completely fluid neutral zone trap in Boston? Because our coach showed us tape of your game against Florida, and your transition speed is insane.”
Dean’s eyes light up. Hockey is his second favorite topic in the world, right after you.
“It’s not entirely fluid,” Dean says, gesturing with his hands as he launches into a highly technical breakdown of his team’s defensive systems.
You stand back, sipping your wine, and watch the room.
Ilya naturally jumps into the conversation, loudly arguing with Dean about the merits of aggressive forechecking versus positional defense. They are standing mirroring each other — both holding their drinks in their left hands, both gesturing wildly with their right, both wearing identical, arrogant, infuriatingly handsome smirks.
“They are exactly the same,” a voice whispers next to you.
You turn your head to see Haas, the young forward, watching Ilya and Dean with a look of absolute awe and mild terror. He doesn’t realize he spoke out loud until you raise an eyebrow at him.
“Sorry! I mean, ma’am—Y/N—sorry,” Haas stammers, his face flushing bright red. “It’s just they’re both so … intense.”
“You can say cocky, Luca,” Shane laughs, joining you on the outskirts of the hockey debate. “We all know they’re cocky.”
“They’re assholes,” Boodram chimes in from the other side of the counter, keeping his voice low so his captain doesn’t hear. “But, like, in a good way? Like, they know they’re the best players in the room, and they want everyone else to know it too. It’s crazy.”
“It is a carefully cultivated brand,” you say dryly, taking another sip of wine.
“You disagree?” Ilya suddenly calls out, spinning around to point an accusing finger at Dean. “You think a drop pass on the power play entry is a good idea? It is a coward’s move! It slows the momentum!”
“It creates space, Ilya!” Dean argues back, his competitive streak fully ignited. He starts pacing back and forth in front of the island. “If you drop the puck to the trailer, you force the defense to step up, which opens the wings! It’s basic geometry!”
“It is basic stupidity!” Ilya roars, throwing his hands in the air. He turns to the Ottawa rookies. “Do you hear this? This is why the American system is flawed. They rely on tricks instead of brute force.”
The Ottawa players look terrified to be brought into the crossfire.
Shane sighs, setting his empty wine glass on the counter. He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t yell. He simply looks at his massive, raging husband and says, very calmly, “Babe. Inside voice. And pass the salad.”
The transformation is instantaneous.
Ilya stops shouting mid-sentence. His chest heaves once, his eyes completely dial back from murderous enforcer to devoted husband.
“Yes, malysh,” Ilya murmurs softly. He picks up the salad bowl and hands it to Shane, the argument completely forgotten.
Across the kitchen, Dean is still pacing, completely fired up. “I’m telling you, the drop pass is statistically proven to increase zone entries by forty percent! It’s not a trick, it’s-”
“Dean,” you say.
Your voice isn’t loud, but it cuts through the noise of the kitchen with absolute, undeniable authority.
Dean stops pacing instantly. His head snaps toward you, his green eyes wide and completely focused on you.
“Yes, sweetheart?” He asks, his entire posture softening.
“Stop waving your hands around,” you tell him smoothly. “You are making me dizzy. Come here and eat your protein.”
You slide a small plate of sliced brisket across the marble island.
Dean doesn’t hesitate for a single second. The superstar defenseman, the cocky, arrogant NHL playboy, obediently walks over to you, wraps an arm around your waist, presses a kiss to your temple, and spears a piece of meat.
“Sorry, Y/N,” Dean murmurs against your hair. “Got carried away.”
“You always do,” you reply fondly, running a hand through his blond hair.
You look across the island.
LaPointe and Haas are staring at you, and then at Shane, and then back to the two massive, highly dangerous hockey players happily eating their respective bread and carrots.
LaPointe leans over to Haaa, his voice a barely audible whisper of pure disbelief.
“They walk them like dogs,” LaPointe breathes. “It’s insane.”
“Terrifying,” Haas agrees in a hushed, reverent tone. “I want a marriage exactly like that.”
You catch Shane’s eye across the kitchen. The Canadian raises his ginger ale toward you in a silent, perfectly synchronized toast. You raise your wine glass back. The rookies are right, of course, but neither you nor Shane would ever admit it out loud.
***
Dinner is a loud, chaotic, incredibly warm affair.
Ilya’s brisket is perfect, the wine flows freely, and the dining room echoes with laughter, old hockey stories, and ruthless chirping. Dean fits in flawlessly with the Ottawa players, trading insults with Ilya that sound vicious to an outsider but are actually layered with deep mutual respect.
It wasn’t always easy. Those first few years after college were a brutal adjustment. Dean getting signed, the long-distance strains, Ilya’s terrifying protective streak flaring up every time Dean’s name was in the tabloids. But Dean proved him wrong. Every single time, Dean proved that his devotion to you wasn’t just a college phase, it was the defining anchor of his life.
By the time the Ottawa players finally clear out around midnight, retreating into the freezing snow to head home, the massive house is finally quiet.
You, Dean, Ilya, and Shane migrate to the sprawling living room. A fire is cracking in the massive stone fireplace, casting a warm, flickering glow over the leather furniture.
Shane is curled up on the sofa, his head resting in Ilya’s lap. Ilya is absently running his large, calloused fingers through Shane’s hair, looking completely at peace.
You are sitting on the oversized loveseat, your legs draped across Dean’s lap. He is gently massaging your calves through the fabric of your jeans, his thumb pressing into the muscles with practiced ease.
“Good dinner, old man,” Dean says quietly, staring into the flames.
“Yuna’s recipe,” Ilya replies softly, his eyes closed. “It is foolproof. Even you could not ruin it.”
Dean chuckles. He leans his head back against the sofa, his green eyes catching the firelight. For a moment, he is quiet, a rare, reflective look crossing his face.
“You know,” Dean says, his voice losing all its usual sarcastic armor. “Dykstra was asking me earlier about how I got signed m. About how I climbed the undrafted free agent projections.”
Ilya opens one eye, looking at Dean across the room. “You fixed your gap control.”
“Yeah. I did.” Dean’s hand rests heavily on your knee, his thumb stroking your skin. He looks at Ilya, the tension between them completely replaced by a deep, unspoken brotherhood. “But that’s not what got me there. I told him the truth.”
“Which is?” Shane asks gently.
“I wouldn’t be playing in this league if it wasn’t for you guys,” Dean says. He looks down at you, his eyes incredibly soft, and then back to Ilya. “If Y/N hadn’t torn my game apart that night in the lobby … if Ilya hadn’t spent that entire summer in Boston physically beating my ass on the ice … I would have coasted. I would have been a good college player, and then maybe played beer league.”
You feel a tight, warm ache in your chest. You reach out, lacing your fingers through Dean’s.
“You did the work, Dean,” you tell him softly. “We just pointed out your flaws.”
“You pointed them out very aggressively,” Dean grins, though the emotion in his eyes is entirely genuine. He looks at Ilya. “Seriously. Thank you. Both of you. For not letting me settle.”
“You are a good man, Di Laurentis,” Ilya says, his voice thick and sincere. “You are arrogant, and you talk too much, but you take care of my sister. And you are a hell of a defenseman. You earned your spot.”
Dean swallows hard, his jaw tightening as he nods. Coming from Ilya Rozanov, there is no higher praise on earth.
“But don’t think this means I’m not going to put you in the boards next month,” Ilya adds quickly, the gruffness returning to his voice. “If you try that drop pass in my zone, I will end your career.”
“I look forward to seeing you try, grandpa,” Dean fires back instantly, the cocky grin returning in full force.
Shane laughs, sitting up and stretching. “Alright, that’s my cue. If you two start drawing up plays on napkins, I’m going to bed. Goodnight, kids.”
“Goodnight, Shane,” you smile as Ilya stands up, pulling his husband to his feet.
“Sleep well, little bird,” Ilya says, pressing a final kiss to your forehead. He points two fingers at Dean, pointing them back at his own eyes in an I’m watching you gesture, before following Shane down the hallway toward the master suite.
The living room falls quiet again, save for the crackle of the fire.
Dean turns his attention entirely to you. He slides his hands up your thighs, gripping your hips, and pulls you effortlessly across the sofa until you are straddling his lap.
“Hi,” Dean murmurs, his hands resting warmly on the small of your back.
“Hi,” you reply, resting your forearms on his broad shoulders. “You are feeling very sentimental tonight.”
“Can you blame me?” Dean asks, his eyes tracing the line of your jaw, down your neck, and back up to your eyes. “I’m sitting in a mansion in Ottawa, playing in the NHL, holding the most incredible, terrifying, beautiful woman in the world. I’m a lucky guy.”
“You are,” you agree, completely unabashed. “But you earned it.”
Dean smiles, that devastating, million-dollar smile that still makes your heart skip a beat all these years later. He leans in, capturing your lips in a slow, incredibly deep kiss. It tastes like expensive wine, woodsmoke, and years of absolute devotion.
You kiss him back just as fiercely, your fingers tangling in his thick blonde hair. The heat between you flares instantly, burning just as bright and desperate as it did in that tiny college bedroom years ago.
Dean breaks the kiss, pressing his forehead against yours, his breathing slightly elevated.
“You know,” Dean whispers, his hands sliding down to grip the back of your thighs. “The guest room is all the way on the other side of the house. Soundproof walls, too. I checked.”
You raise an eyebrow, your old, haughty confidence returning in full force. “You checked the acoustics of my brother’s guest room?”
“A good player always scouts the arena before the game,” Dean murmurs, his voice dropping into that rough, gravelly register that completely short-circuits your brain. He kisses the sensitive skin just below your ear. “What do you say, Mrs. Di Laurentis? Ready for puck drop?”
You let out a soft, helpless laugh, leaning your head back as his lips trail down your neck.
Some things never change. He is still arrogant, he is still incredibly demanding, and he is still, without a doubt, exactly the game you want to play for the rest of your life.
“Take me upstairs, Di Laurentis,” you whisper into the quiet room.
Dean doesn’t hesitate. He stands up effortlessly, carrying you in his arms as he walks toward the hallway, a triumphant, wicked smirk on his face.
You rest your head against his shoulder, entirely safe, entirely loved, and completely in control.
The Ottawa winter rages outside, but inside, you have never been warmer.
The afternoon was warm and golden, the kind where the sun filtered softly through the leaves and the campus felt slow and peaceful. For the first time in weeks, you had absolutely nothing to do—no classes to rush to, no clinic shifts, no assignments piling up. Just free time.
You walked over to the big oak tree near the library—the same spot where you always stopped to feed the stray cats—and spread your jacket out on the grass. You sat down, opened your book, and settled in to read, fully expecting to be alone. You usually were, when you chose to be.
You were deep into a chapter when you heard footsteps approaching. You looked up and saw Dean walking across the grass.
He wasn’t carrying coffee or sandwiches, wasn’t holding supplies or textbooks, wasn’t coming over with that familiar determined look he always wore when he was trying to help or impress you. He was just… walking. His hands were tucked casually into the pockets of his jeans, his hair a little messy from the breeze, and when he saw you looking at him, he didn’t stop to ask if he could join you. He didn’t say a word.
Instead, he walked over, stopped about three meters away—close enough that you knew he was there, but far enough that you still had your full space—and sat down on the grass, leaning back against the other side of the tree trunk. He pulled a book from his bag, opened it, and immediately started reading.
No jokes. No questions. No demands for attention. Just… quiet.
You watched him for a moment, surprised. The old Dean—the one everyone knew—would have sat right next to you, talked the whole time, tried to make you laugh or look at him, made sure he was the center of whatever was happening. But this Dean? He just sat there, turned the page, and read, completely peaceful, completely comfortable in the silence.
You went back to your own book.
And that was how the next two hours passed. The only sounds were the wind rustling the leaves, the distant chatter of students walking by, and the soft turn of pages. You didn’t speak to each other. You didn’t need to. It was the first time you had ever been together without a task to finish, without work to do, without a reason to be there other than just… existing in the same space. It was calm, easy, and surprisingly nice.
When the sun started to dip lower and you finally closed your book, stretching your legs out, Dean closed his too. He stood up, brushed the grass off his jeans, and walked over to you—slowly, casually, like he didn’t want to break the quiet magic of the afternoon.
He looked down at you, that soft, genuine smile you were starting to know so well on his face.
“Hey,” he said, his voice low and easy.
“Hey,” you answered back, standing up and dusting off your own clothes. “Thanks for… sitting there. You didn’t have to.”
He shrugged, shoving his hands back into his pockets. “I wanted to. Sometimes… I think the best thing you can do for someone is just be there. Not fix anything, not say anything. Just… be there. You do that for people all the time. I wanted to do that for you.”
He paused for a second, then added, “Actually… there’s something else I wanted to ask you.”
You tilted your head, waiting.
“We have a game this Saturday,” he said, a little bit of that familiar nervous energy coming back into his eyes, but still soft, still careful. “Home game. I know you don’t care much about sports, and I know you’re busy… but I’d really like it if you came. If you wanted to, that is. No pressure. You don’t even have to stay the whole time. Just… it would mean a lot to me if you were there.”
You looked at him—at the hope in his face, at how much he had changed, at how hard he had been trying. And you found yourself nodding before you even thought about it.
“Okay,” you said quietly. “I’ll come.”
His face lit up instantly, bright and happy, but he didn’t cheer or make a big deal out of it. He just smiled wider, his blue eyes shining.
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Okay,” he said, sounding pleased. “Okay. I’ll… I’ll see you Saturday then.”
He walked away looking lighter than you had ever seen him, and you stood there for a moment, wondering how just sitting quietly under a tree and saying yes to a game could make you feel so calm, and so excited, all at once.
By Saturday afternoon, you were already dressed and ready, standing in the middle of your room while your roommate and best friend, Sasha, sat on her bed watching you with narrowed eyes.
“Come on,” you said, grabbing your bag and nudging her leg. “Get up. We’re going out.”
Sasha raised an eyebrow. “Going out where? You haven’t left the dorm for anything other than class or the clinic in three weeks. And you usually threaten people with textbooks if they suggest doing anything that isn’t studying.”
You bit your lip, trying to sound casual. “I thought… we could go to the hockey game. It’s at the arena. We both need a break from studying, right? Fresh air, loud noise… it’ll be fun.”
Sasha stood up slowly, crossing her arms over her chest and looking at you like she had just caught you hiding something.
“Wait a second,” she said, her voice dripping with suspicion. “You want to go to a hockey game? You? The girl who doesn’t know a puck from a basketball? The girl who says sports are ‘just people running around in circles’?” She leaned closer, grinning. “You are not a sports fan. You have never willingly gone to any game in all the time I’ve known you. But suddenly you’re dragging me to one? Suspicious. Very suspicious.”
You felt your cheeks warm up as you pulled her toward the door. “It’s just… something different. Come on, please? I’ll buy you hot chocolate after.”
Sasha laughed, shaking her head as she let you pull her along. “Fine, fine. But we both know this has nothing to do with ‘needing a break.’”
When you walked into the arena, it was loud, crowded, and freezing cold. The stands were already half full, everyone cheering, music blasting, people yelling and laughing. You found a spot near the ice, close enough to see everything perfectly, and you realized Dean must have saved this spot—right where the players would be able to see the crowd clearly.
The lights went down, the team came out onto the ice, and the noise got even louder. You watched as they skated out, warm-ups starting, sticks clacking against the ice, players calling to each other.
And then you saw him.
Dean was wearing his jersey, his hair tucked up under his helmet, skates gliding smoothly over the ice like he was born to be there. You had seen him in classrooms, in the clinic, feeding cats, carrying boxes, reading books. You had never seen him like this.
Here, he was fast, sharp, focused. Every movement was confident and strong. He moved across the ice like it was his second home, weaving between teammates, passing the puck hard and fast, calling out plays, directing the others. He wasn’t just the star player—he was the leader. He was everywhere at once, working harder than anyone else, chasing the puck, helping his teammates up when they stumbled, shouting encouragement even when things got messy.
He was completely in his element.
And then, right in the middle of warm-ups, he stopped skating for a second, scanned the crowd, his eyes moving over the stands like he was looking for something. And then they locked right onto you.
He stopped moving entirely for a heartbeat, a slow, bright smile spreading across his face—one that had nothing to do with the game or the crowd or being cool. Just pure happiness that you were actually there.
Then, suddenly, he took off. He weaved around two of his own teammates, stickhandling the puck so fast it was almost a blur, faked out a guy from the other team who was just skating by, and sent the puck flying hard against the boards right in front of where you were sitting—controlled, precise, and impressive. He looked right at you as he did it, a little glint of playfulness in his eyes, showing off, just a little bit, but in the best way possible.
Sasha nudged your arm hard, leaning in close with wide, curious eyes.
“Is Dean looking at you?” she whispered loudly, then gasped, her grin turning mischievous and suspicious all at once. “Oh my god, he is! He keeps looking over here, and he did that whole fancy move right in front of us! Okay, no more hiding. You have to tell me everything. What is going on between you two? I need all the tea, all the drama, every single detail. There is definitely a story here and I am not letting you keep it to yourself!”
You couldn’t even argue. You were too busy watching him, realizing that while he had changed so much—grown up, become kinder, more responsible—this part of him, the part that loved the game, the part that was talented and brilliant and full of life… that was still there, too. And it was amazing to watch.
The game started properly after that, and it was intense. Back and forth, fast and rough, the crowd screaming so loud your ears rang. Dean was everywhere—defending, attacking, passing, shooting. He played with everything he had, every shift like it was the last one he’d ever get. And every time he skated past your section, his eyes found you, just for a second, like he was checking to make sure you were still there.
In the final period, with only two minutes left, the score was tied. Dean got the puck behind the net, fought off two guys from the other team, spun around fast, and sent a perfect pass right onto his teammate’s stick—who shot it straight into the net.
The arena erupted.
They won.
The team piled onto each other, cheering, yelling, hugging, slapping each other on the back. Dean was right in the middle of it, laughing, bright and happy, his face flushed, his helmet off, hair messy and damp with sweat. But even in the middle of the celebration, he was scanning the crowd again, looking for you.
When he found you, standing up and clapping with everyone else, his whole face softened. He didn’t wave, didn’t point, didn’t draw attention to himself. He just smiled—soft, private, only for you—before his teammates dragged him away toward the locker room.
You and Sasha waited outside near the player exit, shivering a little in the cold air, still hearing the noise of the crowd inside. Sasha didn’t let up the whole time, poking your arm and whispering, “You’re telling me everything. Every. Single. Thing. I’m serious.”
It took a while, but eventually, the door opened, and the guys started coming out, laughing and talking, still hyped up from the win.
Dean came out a few minutes later, changed into jeans and a hoodie, hair still damp, looking tired but incredibly happy. As soon as he saw you, he said something quick to Garrett and Logan, who were walking beside him, and came straight over to you.
Sasha winked at you and quickly made an excuse to go find the others, leaving the two of you alone—but not before giving you a pointed look that said I’m still waiting for the story.
Dean stopped in front of you, shoving his hands into his pockets, trying to look casual but failing completely because he was practically glowing.
“Hey,” he said, his voice a little breathless, a little nervous, a lot happy. “You came.”
“I said I would,” you answered, smiling back at him.
He rocked back on his heels, looking down at his shoes for a second before looking back up at you, that bright, giddy energy still all over him.
“So… what did you think?” he asked, almost shyly. “Was it okay? I know it’s kind of loud and crazy…”
You looked at him—really looked at him—and thought about how you had seen him today: quiet and calm under the tree, and then fierce, brilliant, and strong on the ice. You thought about everything he had been doing, every day, every effort, every change.
“You were amazing, Dean,” you said honestly. “Fast, and smart, and you led the whole team. You played really, really good.”
For a second, Dean just stood there, blinking at you. Then, his cheeks turned slightly pink, his smile widened into something so big and genuine it looked like it hurt, and he let out a small, happy, giddy little giggle—soft, boyish, completely unlike the cool, confident guy everyone else knew.
He bit his lip, trying to hold it back, but he couldn’t stop himself.
“Really?” he asked, his voice lighter than air. “You really thought so?”
“Really,” you said, and you found yourself smiling right along with him.
He looked at you, his eyes warm and bright, and for the first time, you didn’t just see a guy who was trying. You saw a guy who was shining. And you realized that seeing him happy—really happy—made you happier than you had been in a long time.
“Thank you,” he said quietly, stepping a little closer, but still careful, still respectful. “For coming. For saying that. It… it means everything to me.”
He stood there for a moment longer, like he didn’t want to leave, like he wanted to stay right there with you forever.
Then, he remembered something, and his face lit up even more.
“Hey… the whole team is throwing a party at the house later tonight to celebrate the win,” he said, hopeful and soft, his eyes searching yours. “Everyone’s going. It’s just… food, music, everyone hanging out. Nothing crazy, I promise. I’d really love it if you came. You don’t have to stay long, and if it gets too loud or too much, I’ll walk you out whenever you want. But… would you come? Please?”
He waited, nervous and eager, standing there with that same look he had when he asked you to the game—like your answer was the only thing that mattered.
You laughed softly, nodding. “Okay. I’ll come. Me and Sasha.”
Dean’s grin got so wide it almost split his face. “Yeah? Really?”
“Really.”
“Okay,” he said, sounding like he was floating on air. “Okay. I’ll see you there then. I’ll save you a spot. And… I’ll be looking for you.”
He watched you walk away to catch up with Sasha, and even when you turned back to look one last time, he was still standing there, watching you go, smiling like he had just won the biggest prize of all.
c/w ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ needy!dean, cutting corsets, unprotected p in v, backstage sex, tearing tights, praise, pet names (baby, beautiful + no y/n) + di laurentis is absolutely 𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓇𝓋𝒾𝓃𝑔 for it
The corset clings to your body like it was painted on, teasing your curves with every shift. The shiny material of your skirt, the little wings, the fishnets stretched across your thighs—you knew he wouldn’t be able to keep his hands to himself and that’s exactly what you wanted.
The second his eyes land on you, you know it’s game over. Dean hasn’t stopped staring at you since you stepped on the stage, his attention zeroed in on you whenever someone so much as breathes your air.
You’re halfway through the first act when your phone buzzes in your hand. You glance down, immediately having to bite back a smile.
. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚛𝚢𝚗𝚊 𝚔𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝?
A second bubble appears before you can answer. You look up through the curtains, seeing him sitting in the crowd with the other hockey boys. His phone rests in one hand while he scans the stage looking for you, his thumb tapping against the screen when you make him wait a few seconds.
. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝚂𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗.
He glances up, catching just a glimpse of you backstage, craning his neck for a better view. He drags a hand across his mouth and shakes his head to himself when he catches you looking, lifting his chin toward the stage, a grin tugging at one corner.
“Text me,” he mouths, his eyebrow arching. “C’mon.”
You bite your lip and roll your eyes, looking down at your phone.
. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝚈𝚘𝚞: 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚘 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚝 💕
The second it delivers, his gaze drops to the screen, the light glowing against his face. His mouth curves, that cute little dimple popping in his cheek.
He runs a hand through his hair before typing something, thinking better of it, then typing again when he just can’t let it go.
The lights flicker and dim, and the next act begins. You look up through the curtains again and catch him leaning forward in his seat, forearms braced against his knees.
The rest of the hockey boys are laughing about something beside him, but Dean doesn’t even glance over. His eyes stay fixed on the stage for another second before he finally looks down at his phone.
The after party rages around you and every time someone leans too close—every time a drunk college boy makes a comment to him about how good you look, he winds up a little tighter until his hand catches your wrist.
“Let’s go. Now.”
Dean wastes no time pushing you into the backstage room, shutting the door with a slam, pressing your back against it. His fingers tilt your chin up, his grip a little rough as his eyes burn into yours.
“You kidding me with this?” He murmurs.
“You don’t like it—”
“I love it,” he stops you before you can even start. His hand skims down your body, over the fabric stretched across your waist and ass, gathering the material in his big hands. “Me and every other guy here.”
“You seem jealous.”
“I am jealous,” he corrects you before his mouth crashes against yours, starved and desperate. You kiss him back just as hard, fingers twisting and tugging at his hair; gasping when he grinds his hard cock against you.
Dean squeezes your ass, dragging his rough hands up your hips before smacking the satin stretched across your skin, letting that satisfying crack fill the room.
The corner of his mouth twitches as he presses his fingers against your clit, cursing under his breath. Sure, you’re in panties, but those little shorts and fishnets are still in his way. That little gasp and a moan don’t tumble from your lips like they usually do. Easy fix.
You break for air, chuckling breathily against his lips. “What’s wrong?” You whisper.
“Can’t get to you,” he pushes out a sharp breath, tugging your shorts off your hips, yanking down your panties between rough kisses, looping his fingers around the fishnets between your thighs just enough to yank a hole.
“Dean!” You gasp and he chuckles.
“Beautiful.” A rough breath leaves him and he rolls his neck once, jaw flexing as his eyes drop to the torn fishnets stretched across your thighs. “Yeah,” he says under his breath. “That was even better than I thought it was gonna be.”
His hands slide to your hips as he kisses you, your heart leaping when he flips you, your hands slapping quickly against the wall.
His lips brush along the side of your neck, chuckling deeply against your skin, pressing wet kisses as his fingers work open the bow of the corset.
“Fuck, baby,” he groans when he feels your ass press back into him, his fingers working at the ribbon faster and faster when it refuses to cooperate. “M’getting—Holy shit,” he mutters. “How do I get you out of this?” His words come out clipped with frustration.
You hear him rummaging through the clutter beside you long enough to snag a pair of scissors. He grabs your hip, huffing out a laugh when you giggle, arching your back to get a better view before—snip!
“Dean!”
“Spare me,” he rasps.
The sound of the blades snapping together makes you gasp as he cuts the ribbon crisscrossed up your back.
He tugs the top ribbon away with a satisfying slip, baring hot skin to the cool air when the corset pulls away. The scissors fall to the dressing room floor with a clatter—the zipper of his pants already down by the time he turns you, lifting you up into his arms, your bare back pressed to the cool brick wall.
Dean pushes his dick into you in one slow, steady stroke. A strangled sound catches in your throat and your hand flies back, grabbing a fistful of his hair while your other hand clamps over your mouth.
“Fuck,” he groans. “Pussy’s so damn good.”
Your head falls back against the wall as he stretches you wide, his big hand tightening on your ass. He rocks back, making you whimper, his lips pressing against yours to swallow your sounds as he pushes back in again.
“Lucky I’m not teasin’ you. Needed you too bad,” Dean sighs, smiling against your lips as you breathe out, hearing just how wet he has you, the sounds of your pleasure filling your room. “These fuckin’ tights, huh? Buying you another pair so I can do this shit again.”
His tongue drags across his bottom lip as his eyes stay locked on yours. Your eyes soften as he slows down, letting gravity do the work, your body sinking down on his cock with his arms locked around you.
“You have any idea how good this feels?” He whispers, burying himself in your neck, thrusting up into you. Your fingers twist into his shirt as he grips you by your hips, drilling into you again and again until your back arches into him, and your pussy gushes, cumming around his while he does everything he can do to keep his pace, but it feels too fucking good.
He grits his teeth, not stopping until he feels your body melt in his arms, his heavy head falling to your shoulder as he breathes out a sigh of satisfaction and relief.
“I was so well behaved, you know that? I could have been so, so much worse,” he says softly, his voice breaking with pleasure as he leans in and presses a slow kiss to your mouth, tender and deep as his rough thumb traces your cheek. “Put on my sweatshirt. Let’s get out of here, huh?” He asks, quiet now, a smile pulling against your lips.
“The after party’s not over,” you tease through a breathless giggle as his nose nuzzles against yours.
He sighs, his big body pressing you up against the wall again, his head falling back with a smirk on his lips when your nails slide through his hair.
𝗢𝗥 𓈒 𓈒 taking care of your boyfriend after a night out celebrating his teams win
contains : established relationship smut sub dean ! unprotected sex soft dom reader ! gif credits to @pomspurin 𝘄 ｡ 3.1k
“Look at you baby,” you coo as your lips leave a wet trail up his bare stomach and chest, his muscles flexing under your touch. Dean tilted his head back, his eyes shut as heavy breaths passed through his lips, trying to calm down from the orgasm you just gave him.
A sense of pride warms your chest at the whimper that escapes your boyfriend's pretty lips when he feels you teasingly swirl your tongue around his sensitive nipple. You crooned with a smile, “Always so responsive.”
“Princess, please,” Dean begged, his tone so whiny that it made you smirk. You placed your hands on his bare thighs, feeling them twitch under your touch as you used them to help you sit up on your knees between his spread legs. You look down at your boyfriend, who was leaning back on his hands, his face contorted as he still felt the tingling aftershocks of his orgasm.
You bring one of your hands up to grab his chin with your pointer finger and thumb; your grip isn’t rough, but it also wasn’t gentle. You smirked, “What is it, baby? Come on, look at me.”
“Please, I need more.” Dean pleads after he flutters his eyes open to look up at you. The sight of you nearly took his breath away. You were so enchanting. The way you looked down at him made him even more desperate for more of your touch, for your lips. His eyes wander down your body, and he feels his mouth water at the sight of you in his favorite-colored lace lingerie that’s been driving him wild since he saw it.
“So needy, was what I have given you already not enough?” you dramatically pout, your tone condescending and teasing. Your hand that was gripping his chin moves to his shoulder while your other hand that was resting on his thigh slowly moves up his chest to rest on his other shoulder, using his shoulders as leverage to straddle his lap.
A small hiss left your boyfriend's lips at the feeling of his throbbing tip brushing against your lace panties when you lean down to whisper in his ear, tauntingly to ask again, “It wasn't good enough?”
“No, no, it was so good…please.” Dean stutters over his words, finding it hard to form words at the feeling of you placing soft kisses on his shoulder and collarbone. You so desperately wanted to give him what he wanted, the wet spot on your panties was almost dripping with your desire…but you couldn't give in so quickly.
“Tell me what you want, baby,” You whispered seductively between the kisses you littered across his neck, his skin burning under the soft but relentless touch of your lips. Dean nearly whimpers at your words, squeezing the sheets in his hands to stop himself from grabbing your hips, his mind running with thoughts of what he wanted
“I wanna feel you wrapped around me,” Dean whined, cutting himself off with a gasp at the feeling of you sucking under his jaw, hissing when you teasingly blow onto it after and nip at his skin. Dean knows that he is going to have to beg if you are really going to give him what he wants. “Please, please, I've been so good.”
“Hmm, you have,” You hummed as you moved your face from his neck to get a look at your boyfriend's pretty face; his eyes were already on you. You can see the pleading look in his eyes; your poor boy was so desperate. You move some of his hair from his forehead and give him a small smile. You couldn't say no to him, not when he looked at you like that. “I’ll give you what you want, baby.”
A breath of relief leaves Dean’s lips, and you let out a small giggle at the look that appears on his face. You lean back on his thighs, and you keep your eyes on his as you move your hand behind your back, unclipping your bra in one quick movement and dropping it somewhere on the bed. A small smirk appears on your lips at the sight of your boyfriend's eyes immediately dropping to your naked chest; he always did have a weakness for your boobs. Dean licks his lips and has to stop himself from cupping your boobs into his hands.
You lean back down, a big smile on your lips at the way he looks up at you with his pretty eyes. You would never get over the way he looked at you; you loved him so much. You place your hand on his cheek before closing your eyes and pulling him into a kiss, Dean moaning as your tongues meet. You kissed him until you felt him pull away to catch his breath. He was quick to lean forward to continue the kiss, but you pulled away and shook your head no.
You smirked when he whined at your rejection. You whisper sweetly, but with an underlying sternness in your tone, “Lay back.”
Your boyfriend was quick to listen to you, lying back and resting his head on the soft pillow. He was pretty sure he would do anything you said just so he could feel you wrapped around him; he couldn't handle any more of your teasing tonight. It all started when you went out with some of his teammates and their girlfriends to celebrate the game. You had dressed up in his favorite dress, and the way you danced against him at the party, and the way you rested your hand on his thigh when you sat, got him all worked up. That was 2 hours ago.
You reached down between the two of you and took him into your hands, a soft moan leaving his lips immediately at your touch. You could feel him throbbing in your hands, and for a second, you felt a little bad for teasing him for so long, but that quickly disappeared as you slowly started to stroke him. The spit and leftover cum from the head you gave him made it easy to move your hand up and down. Dean turns his head to the side, his eyes shutting as moans pass through his parted lips.
You rub your thumb over his tip, watching his reaction as his breath hitches and a sweet whine leaves his lips along with a desperate ‘please’. You decide that that's enough teasing, so you move your hand from his dick and move it between your thighs. A small gasp escaped your lips at the feeling of your fingers brushing against your clit as you move your panties to the side. God, you were sopping.
You hold your panties to the side while your other hand grips onto the base of his dick, teasingly rubbing his tip up and down against your slit, coating his cock in your slick. A whine leaving your boyfriend's lips at the feeling. Once you were content with how wet his cock was, you lined his tip up with your entrance. You look down at your boyfriend and see that he's already looking up at you, and before you can open your mouth to ask, he’s nodding his head yes and whispering “please.”
You guide his cock into you and slowly sink down, the thick head of his cock stretching your velvety walls, your eyes fluttering close at the stretch. Dean’s thighs clench, and a groan leaves his lips at how prettily your walls stretch around his cock. Sweet and loud moans escape your lips as your cunt struggles to take him in, your walls so tight around his thick cock that you can feel every inch and vein. Both of you moaning in unison at the feeling of him being buried to the hilt in your sweet, warm pussy.
You open your eyes and rest your hands on his abdomen, feeling his chest rise and fall with his heavy breaths, still trying to get used to how tight you feel around him. You smile and lean down, one of your hands coming up to cup his cheek. Dean’s eyes flutter open at the feeling of your naked tits against his chest, and before he could let out a moan at the feeling of your fluttering around his dick, you lock his lips in a slow and sensual kiss.
“You feel so good, Dean,” you whisper against his lips after you pull away from the kiss. You watch through your eyelashes as a cocky smile appears on your boyfriend's lips. You caress his cheek with your thumb for a few seconds before you sit up, adjusting your knees at his side. You place both your hands back on his chest, watching his face as you slowly start to move up and down.
“God Dean!” you whined in pleasure as you continued your motions. Bouncing up and down at a slow pace, the stretch was big but felt so good. Dean’s moans become louder as your rhythm starts to pick up. The feeling of your warm, wet walls squeezing him was too much; he didn't know how long he would last.
“You can touch my baby, it's okay,” You coo seductively, you could feel the way he was throbbing in you and the way he was squeezing the sheets, whimpers and pretty moans leaving his parted lips. As soon as those words left your mouth, he quickly stopped squeezing the linen and eagerly moved his hands to your chest, softly groping your tits.
You would have teased him because of his eagerness, but instead, a loud moan came out. Your nipples were always so sensitive, and Dean loved using that to his advantage.
Dean smirked cheekily at the sound, but you were quick to shut down his own teasing when you purposely clenched around him. He drops his hands from your nipples and down to squeeze onto your waist, closing his eyes as a loud groan leaves his lips and his hips jerk up. You rock your hips faster against his, your nails digging into the skin of his chest as you tilt your head back in pleasure.
“Princess, I don't know how much longer I’ll last,” Dean moans out, his thighs were clenching, he was so close. The way your pussy gripped him, and the way he could feel your arousal start to make a mess on his thighs and drip down his balls, was too much.
Don't get him started on the hypnotic sight of your tits bouncing in unison with your fast pace. And he knew you so well that he could tell you were close too. Your movements became more frantic, and the way you fluttered around him proved him right.
“Me to baby—feels so good,” you whimpered, you felt that tight rope in your stomach, and you knew your peak was close. It was almost overwhelming how good it felt; his pelvic bone was hitting your clit every time you came down, and his pretty moans were too much for you.
Dean looks away from your chest and up to your face, and he swore that he could have cummed just at the sight of you. Your mouth was agape, your face twisted in pleasure, your skin glistening beautifully in sweat.
Dean lifts his legs, his feet planted on the bed, and his grip on your hips tightens. Both of you are moaning in unison at the new position. You keep one of your hands on his chest while the other moves behind you to squeeze his knee in pleasure, the new position causing him to go inside you deeper. Dean moves one of his hands from your hips and moves it to his chest, softly squeezing your hand.
Your eyes flutter open, and your movements still, you look down at your boyfriend and see the blissed out look on his face. He was looking up at you with hooded eyes, and his mouth parted as heavy breaths passed through his lips. You could see it in his eyes and the way his hands were clinging to you; he was so close. You smirk and lean down so your chests are almost touching, moving your hand that was now interlocked with his, by the side of his head.
“What? gonna cum already?” you whispered tauntingly in his ear, tangling your hand that was on his chest, in his hair that was at his nape. You continued to rock your hips against his, your ass slapping against his thighs, creating a lewd sound. A loud and embarrassing whine escaped his red and puffy lips, the coil in his stomach only tightening, and so did his grip on your hand and hip.
You knew the more you talked to him like that, the faster he would come undone.
“Gonna fill me up?—Hmm? Make a mess?” You continued to taunt him, your movements becoming more frantic, chasing his and your release. Dean was too fucked out to properly respond; the only sounds leaving his mouth were moans and a pitiful ‘yes’. You move your hand from his nape and softly pat his bottom lip with your pointer and middle finger. Dean knows what it means, and he eagerly opens his mouth for you.
You smile big and bite on your bottom lip, sliding your two fingers into his mouth, his mouth closing around your fingers.
“So good for me,” you coo between your own moans, your eyes not leaving your boyfriend's pretty face. Dean twirled his tongue around your fingers to get them wet, his eyes closed as he couldn't help but moan around them. You pull your wet fingers out of his mouth, smirking at the small whine that leaves his now parted lips. You move your hand between the two of you, your wet fingers making contact with your even wetter clit. Your eyes roll to the back of your head as you start rubbing it.
“I’m so close—please can I cum?” Dean begged as he let out a choked-out moan, tilting his head back in pleasure, blinking away the tears that were stored in his waterline. You can feel him pant against your mouth, the tip of his nose bumping into yours. The pleasure he was feeling was something he's never felt before, the coil in his stomach becoming too much. Your eyes went down to his, and the way he looked nearly brought you over the edge.
“Please, baby, I wanna feel you.” You almost begged, you were so close. The way your thighs clenched and ached at the fast rhythm you had as you rocked against his cock, and your fingers were sopping and ached at how fast you moved them against your clit; but you cherish the ache.
You move to sit up, but a surprised moan leaves your lips as he wraps his arms around your waist, holding you down to his chest. An even louder moan leaves your lips at the feeling of him thrusting up into you.
“Fuuuck.” You whine loudly, your eyes squeezing shut and your fingers moving from your clit to squeeze onto the white linen. The sound of skin slapping was so lewd and echoed across his room, you were thankful that the bed didn't start hitting against the wall from Dean’s movements.
The angle wrenches a sling of moans leaving yours and his lips, his pace becoming delirious, and his grip on you tightens as he cries out, “fuck, ‘m gonna cum.”
“Oh my god, Dean!” you cried out in pleasure as he held you down on his cock. The feeling of his thick head of his cock hitting deep against the sensitive spot of your slick cunt and the feeling of warmth as he spills himself deep inside you with a desperate, choked-out moan of your name, brings you to your own peak. The tight rope rips, and you feel yourself fall into your desire, feeling your walls throb around his cock as you come undone.
A pleasure that left you lightheaded.
It was silent for a long while as you simply held each other, finding comfort in each other's soft touch and the feeling of their beating heartbeat against one another's chests. You moved your hand away from squeezing the linen, a small sting in your fingers from how hard you squeezed, and you moved it up to his cheek. You tilted your head up towards him and watched as his eyes fluttered open at your touch, a tired smile forming on your lips at the beautiful sight of his eyes.
You caress his cheek softly with your thumb before whispering, “You did so good.”
“Tonight, and at the game, I'm so proud” You continue to whisper. You were insanely proud of your boyfriend. The love and trust that you had for each other made tonight even more special for the two of you. Dean felt a little emotional at your words; no matter what, he always knew that you were by his side.
You were the only one who ever made him feel like this; he never knew love could feel like this.
“I love you,” you finally heard his voice; it was quiet and scratchy from all the loud moans that he let out tonight. Your smile gets bigger, and you lean your face closer to his, placing a gentle and slow kiss on his lips. Dean eagerly kissed you back, his hands slowly moving up and down your sides.
You pull away to whisper against his lips, “I love you more.”
“Tucker’s leftovers?” Dean asked in a hopeful tone as he broke the few moments of silence the two of you had shared as you stared into each other's eyes. The two of you didn't have to say anything else; your eyes told each other everything already. You laugh loudly at his words, of course he was thinking about food.
Dean smiles big at the sound of your laugh, bringing one of his hands up to softly play with your hair.
You place a soft kiss on the corner of his lips before you fully sit up, your eyes going down where the two of you meet. You raise your hips and watch as his now soft cock slips out of you, a groan leaving both of your lips at the feeling. A sigh escapes your lips at the feeling of your mixed cum dripping down your thighs. You look up at your boyfriend to see his eyes trained down at your messy cunt, softly biting his lip.
You scoff playfully and nudge him with your knee, his eyes shooting up to yours with a cocky smirk, not shy at all that he got caught. You rolled your eyes in faux annoyance as you playfully corrected him, trying to sound stern, but your big smile betrayed your words.
“Bath and then leftovers.”
┊࿐ ❛❛ continue on to my…. 𝙢𝙖𝙞𝙣 𝙢𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩 ❜❜
Ი𐑼 sub dean ! save meeee …. guys I’m actually so down bad for him and this fucking showww I’ve rewatched it so many times 😭 please tell me your thoughts and opinions , feedback means everything mwah 💖 comments and reblogs are highly appreciated!
᧔᧓ if this seems familiar it’s because I’ve taken it from my old blog and rewrote it with someone new !
from an irritated "oh, fuck!" to a confident "fuck it", your entire relationship with John Logan can be mapped out in seven specific exclamations of his favorite four-letter word.
word count : 6.1k (sorry) — enemies to lovers, kind of — logan is moody — SMUT, minors DNI — Enjoy and please tell me what you think !
One — "Oh, fuck!"
The music wasn’t just loud; it was vibrating through the old floorboards and thumping directly against your ribs. You’d only been there for twenty minutes, entirely dragged along by Hannah, who was currently tucked under Garrett’s arm near the doorway. Watching them was sweet—almost nauseatingly so—but it left you feeling like a ghost drifting through a sea of oversized jerseys, loud hockey players, and the thick scent of cheap beer. For the most part, the rest of the boys were incredibly welcoming; even though you'd just met them tonight, they were already loud, inherently kind and easy to be around.
Except for John Logan.
You hadn’t actually been introduced to him yet, but you’d felt his suffocating vibe the moment he walked through the door. He looked like absolute thunder. Briar had dropped a frustrating, tight game that evening, and while Garrett was channeling his nervous energy into playing the charismatic host, Logan was wearing his irritation like armor. Leaning against the kitchen counter with a dark scowl that practically screamed at people to stay away, his knuckles were white around his glass, his eyes scanning the room as if looking for a reason to snap.
Navigating that crowded, chaotic kitchen with a brim-filled, sticky mixed drink was your first mistake. Your second was catching the rubber toe of your sneaker on the lifting edge of a rogue anti-fatigue mat near the sink.
You stumbled forward, your arms flailing wildly in a desperate, ungraceful bid for balance. You didn’t fall, but your cup did a violent, mid-air flip, slipping from your fingers. A torrential wave of sticky, dark rum and cola splashed directly across the pristine gray fabric of Logan’s Henley shirt, soaking through the chest, darkening the material instantly and dripping down the front of his dark jeans.
Logan froze. His head snapped down slowly, looking at the huge, dark stain spreading across his clothes, and then his gaze lifted to yours. His eyes were blazing, a dangerous brown, entirely unamused and dripping with venom. "Oh, fuck!" he snapped, his voice cutting right through the ambient noise like a knife. He pulled the wet, heavy fabric away from his skin with two fingers, a look of pure annoyance twisting his features. "Are you serious right now? Watch where the hell you're going."
The sheer aggression in his tone caught you completely off guard, instantly sparking your own deeply ingrained, stubborn nature. You had been about to apologize profusely, the words of remorse already forming on your tongue, but the bite in his words choked them right out of your throat. You squared your shoulders, refusing to back down under his glare. "It was an accident," you retorted, pulling a few crumpled, napkins from the counter and shoving them toward his chest. "You don't have to be a complete dick about it. It’s just a shirt, I'm pretty sure you'll survive."
"It's a wet, sticky shirt at the end of a terrible, exhausting fucking day," he growled, his voice dropping an octave as he batted your hand away with a harsh flick of his wrist. He didn't take the napkins; they fluttered uselessly to the floor. Instead, he leaned down slightly, giving you a long, icy glare that made you feel about two inches tall, his jaw clenching so hard you could see the muscle tick. "Next time, look up from your feet." Without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel and storming down the hallway toward the stairs, muttering curses under his breath.
You stood there rooted to the spot, your cheeks burning with a toxic mixture of intense embarrassment and sudden, deep-seated dislike. Garrett materialized at your side a split second later, a sympathetic, slightly apologetic grimace on his face as he patted your shoulder gently. "Hey, don't sweat it," Garrett reassured you quietly, glancing warily toward the stairs where Logan had disappeared. "Logan’s just in a brutal mood because of the game, and he hates losing more than anyone. He's usually a great guy, I swear. He’ll have forgotten all about it by tomorrow morning."
You forced a tight, fake smile and nodded, but as you looked down at your empty, sticky hands, a bitter taste lingered in your mouth. Spoiler alert: he wouldn't forget. and neither would you.
Two — "Fuck you"
A few weeks later, the initial friction hadn’t dissolved; it had hardened into a permanent, icy chill. You tried your best to play nice for the sake of Hannah and Allie, but Logan made it incredibly difficult. You saw how he was with the rest of their circle—fiercely loyal, easygoing, and warm. He was the kind of guy who quietly made sure Allie and Hannah got home safe from their late shifts and spent his free afternoons helping Jules with media stuff. He was patient with the entire world. But the exact millisecond you walked into a room, his posture stiffened and his jaw set. You hated being the sole exception to his good nature, so you simply stayed out of his way.
The breaking point came on a gray, rainy Tuesday afternoon. You and Hannah had walked over to the hockey house to help Tucker untangle a massive, soul-crushing history assignment he was drowning in. The three of you were spread across the dining table, surrounded by a chaotic mess of highlighters, laptop cords, and heavy library textbooks.
The back door clicked open, and Logan walked in. He was wearing his Briar athletic gear, a damp towel slung over his shoulders from a post-practice shower, his hair messy and wet. He looked exhausted, his shoulders tense, carrying the unmistakable hangover of a brutal morning practice. Instead of walking past to the kitchen, he paused by the table, leaning over Tucker’s shoulder to scan the open pages. He let out a heavy, deliberate sigh. "You’re using the wrong primary sources for that era, Tuck," Logan said, his voice dropping into that effortless, uninvited authority. "You need the economic logs from the eastern front, not these political manifestos. You’re going to tank your thesis statement with those."
Tucker blinked up, looking miserable. "Wait, really? I thought—"
"We checked those, Logan," you interrupted, keeping your voice level and calm as you kept your eyes on your notebook. "We've got it handled," you smiled, trying to remain polite.
Logan didn't move. His eyes slid slowly down to the side of your face, unamused. "Right. Because you're an expert on 20th-century economic trade?"
"No," you said, your pen pausing on the page. "But I can read a syllabus. If you're so worried about Tucker's academic results, you could have sat down and helped him yourself already."
Logan’s jaw tightened, a sharp spike of tension instantly replacing his usual easygoing demeanor. He took his hands out of his pockets and leaned forward, bracing his palms on the edge of the table, firmly invading your space. Tucker shot Hannah a wide-eyed, panicked look across the textbooks, both of them suddenly bracing for impact.
"I gave him my old notes weeks ago," Logan shot back, his voice dropping into something smaller, tighter. "But sure, ignore the guy who actually passed the class because you're too stubborn to take a note from me."
"I'm not being stubborn, you're just being a patronizing prick," you retorted, leaning back in your chair. "You’ve been hovering over this table for five minutes just looking for a problem because you had a bad day and want to take it out on someone."
Logan let out a harsh, dry laugh, though there was a flicker of genuine frustration in his eyes—the look of a good guy who couldn't understand why he kept letting you bait him. "Take it out on someone? Trust me, if I wanted to take anything out on someone, I wouldn't waste my time on you. I'm trying to keep my friend from bombing a midterm because he made the mistake of letting you organize his thoughts."
"My thoughts are perfectly fine, Logan," Tucker muttered quietly under his breath, his eyes glued to his laptop screen, desperately trying to dissolve into the background.
"They're fine when you're left alone, Tuck," Logan said, keeping his eyes locked onto yours, completely ignoring his teammate's plea. "Not when you're letting someone drag their own contrarian agenda into your coursework."
"A contrarian agenda?" You stood up, your chair scraping loudly against the hardwood floor. Hannah flinched at the sharp noise, withdrawing her hands from the table and motioning for Tucker to leave the potential future crime scene. They both complied quickly, knowing you both well enough to understand that trying to reason with you in that moment would be pointless. "Are you actually insane? I'm sorry that anyone else having a brain in this house threatens your need to micromanage every single thing that happens under this roof."
"It doesn't threaten me at all," Logan said, standing up straight and towering over you, using his height to crowd your space until his shadow completely blocked out the light from the window. The sheer, uncharacteristic anger rolling off him was suffocating; Tucker actually slid his chair back a few inches, completely done with trying to intervene at this point. "It annoys me. You annoy me, actually. I'm not going to walk on eggshells in my own dining room because you can't handle a basic correction."
"I can handle a correction if it's respectful," you shot back, your heart hammering against your ribs, but you refused to take a step away from him. "You don't want to help Tucker. You just want to feel like the smartest guy in the room and that is annoying."
"I dont—," Logan started, a nervous scoff escaping his lips. "You don't know anything about me. Please let's keep it this way, since you clearly can't stand me anyway."
"You're the one who treats me like an absolute inconvenience the second I breathe in your direction!" you yelled, the weeks of being ignored, brushed off, and glared at finally boiling over into raw, unadulterated anger. "If you hate me being here so much, just say it. But stop acting like I'm the one bringing the venom into this house when you're the one dripping it."
The air between you turned completely volatile, thick enough to choke on. A strange, angry electricity snapped between you, the argument completely detached from history or homework now, exposed and raw. Logan stared down at you, his breathing heavy and uneven as he tried to swallow down the sheer frustration rolling off him in waves. He leaned down slightly, bringing his face inches from yours, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle violently ticked in his cheek.
"Fuck you," he whispered.
The words hit with a cold, deliberate weight that vibrated in the dead-silent room. Before you could fire back, Tucker's voice boomed from the kitchen archway, stern and completely done with both of you. "Enough! Both of you, cut it the hell out."
But the damage was done. The look in Logan's eyes made something tight and painful twist in your chest. You refused to sit there and breathe the same air as him for another second. Blindly turning around, you grabbed your laptop and notebook, shoving them into your backpack with rigid, uncooperative hands.
"I'm leaving," you muttered, keeping your eyes glued firmly to the floor as you pushed past Hannah’s reaching hand on the way out. You grabbed your jacket from the hook and left through the front door, slamming it hard enough to rattle the frame, stepping out into the pouring, cold rain with the echo of his voice looping in your head like a curse.
Three — "Fuck off"
For the next month, you became an absolute expert at avoiding John Logan. You turned it into an art form. If he was at a crowded house party, you stayed firmly in the kitchen or on the opposite porch. If the entire group gathered at Malone's, you ensured you sat on the exact opposite end of the long table, hidden behind Dean's loud gestures.
Because of this, you never saw the way his eyes silently followed you when you entered a room, or the almost guilty look that crossed his face whenever your name came up in conversation. He knew he'd crossed a line by cursing at you like that—but your unbreakable silence gave him absolutely no room to apologize, and his own stubborn pride kept him from forcing the issue.
There were small signs of his guilt, though. One random Thursday afternoon, he showed up at the place you shared with Hannah and Allie, claiming he was just dropping off a spare hockey hoodie Garrett had left in his truck. You had stayed in your room with the door cracked just an inch, watching through the tiny gap as he lingered by the entrance, his eyes constantly drifting toward your door, silently checking to see if you'd come out. You hadn't moved an inch, holding your breath until he finally left.
Eventually, Hannah and Allie staged a full-blown intervention. A brand-new club had opened downtown, and they absolutely refused to let you stay home and rot in your room, even though they openly admitted the boys were all coming along. You finally relented, numbing your spiking anxiety by pouring yourself two heavy pre-game vodka crans before leaving the house.
The club was a massive sensory overload—flashing neon lights, artificial fog, and heavy, chest-thumping bass that made communication impossible. By midnight, everyone was comfortably, heavily drunk. You were leaning your back against the sticky mahogany bar, sipping a gin and tonic, when you finally caught sight of him through the pulsing crowd.
Logan was laughing at something Beau said, a dark red bandana tied tightly around his messy hair, looking effortlessly, devastatingly handsome in a black fitted t-shirt. As if sensing the weight of your gaze, his head turned. His dark eyes locked directly onto yours across the smoky crowded room. He didn’t look away. He held your stare for a second, then two, then three — a strange, intense, unreadable heat settling over his features before a group of dancers blocked your view.
A few minutes later, a guy from one of the campus fraternities slithered up next to you on the edge of the dance floor. He was loud, sweaty, and smelled entirely too much like cheap cologne and whiskey — but a little bit of dancing could help taking your mind off of a certain hockey player, you thought. You enjoyed it at first, moving along, focusing on the music, the stranger getting closer and closer as the playlist progressed. But then, just as you started to feel good - just the right amount of alcohol in your veins to feel lighter and relaxed - he tried to grind his hips against yours. You tried to step back, laughing it off politely at first, pushing his hands away, but he didn't take the hint. His hands came down on your waist, his fingers digging into your hips, pulling you flush against him with a grip that was far too tight and aggressive.
Before you could even raise your hands to shove his chest, a massive shadow loomed over both of you.
A now familiar hand gripped the frat guy’s shoulder, spinning him around with enough force to make his sneakers squeak on the floor.
"Fuck off," Logan snarled, his voice a low, lethal vibration that cut right through the heavy bass of the music. He leaned in until he was nose-to-nose with the guy. "Get your fucking hands off her and fuck off right now."
The guy looked at Logan and wisely raised his hands in surrender, backing away rapidly into the foggy crowd without throwing a single punch.
Logan’s breathing was heavy, his chest heaving, his fists still clenched tightly at his sides as his eyes scanned the immediate area like a wild animal looking for another threat. He looked ready to tear the entire club apart with his bare hands. Anxious that he might actually chase the guy down for a fight, you stepped directly into his line of sight, capturing his attention.
"Logan," you breathed, your voice soft and entirely stripped of its usual sarcasm. Without thinking about the consequences, you reached out, your bare fingers wrapping around his forearm.
The exact millisecond your skin met the warm, rock-hard muscle of his arm, Logan froze entirely. It was the first time the two of you had ever willingly, gently touched, and the effect was instantaneous. The blinding anger seemed to drain out of him in a single breath, replaced by a sudden, sharp intake of air. He looked down at your small hand resting on his arm, his skin tingling where you touched him, and then he slowly, deliberately lifted his gaze to your eyes.
The noisy club, the flashing strobe lights, the roaring bass, the alcohol—it all faded into irrelevant background noise. You stood face-to-face on the crowded dance floor, completely motionless, just looking into each other's eyes. Your heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs, not from fear of the frat guy, but from a sudden, dizzying, terrifying realization. Looking into his wide, intensely focused eyes, you realized you didn't hate him. Not even close. And from the soft, almost vulnerable parting of his lips, he didn't hate you either. You weren't close to being friends yet, but the ice had officially shattered into a million pieces.
Four — "What the fuck"
The shift between you was subtle, but it was absolutely undeniable. The sharp hostility was gone, completely replaced by a quiet, lingering, heavy awareness that neither of you knew quite what to do with.
A week later, you were sitting in a sunlit corner booth at Malone’s. You were completely, entirely absorbed in a brutal, multi-chapter study session for your finals, a pair of heavy over-ear headphones clamped securely over your ears. The sweet, nostalgic melody of American Pie was playing through the speakers, and without even realizing it, you were softly humming along to the chorus, tapping the cap of your yellow highlighter rhythmically against the open pages of your textbook.
You were so deeply focused on your notes that you didn't hear the diner's front door chime, nor did you see Logan walk in. He was there to finalize the last-minute details for the upcoming Hockey Fundraiser with Hannah and Della. But the exact moment his eyes scanned the room and spotted you sitting alone in the corner booth, he stopped dead in his tracks.
He didn’t approach right away. He just stood near the counter, watching you. A soft, genuine smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he listened to your faint, slightly off-key humming.
Prickled by the sudden, distinct sensation of eyes on you, you blinked and lifted your head from your textbook. Logan instantly wiped the smile from his face, clearing his throat roughly and pretending to read a missing cat flyer on the bulletin board.
You pulled your headphones down, a small smirk playing on your lips. "You know, if you stare any harder, you're going to burn a hole right through my skull, Logan."
Instead of snapping back with a sarcastic, biting retort like he used to, Logan let out a soft chuckle. He walked over to your booth and, to your surprise, slid into the bench by your side, his knee almost touching yours.
"Just making sure you weren't torturing the rest of the innocent customers with your singing," he teased gently, his shoulder brushing against yours in the tight space.
You rolled your eyes, but there was no spite left in your expression. "I happen to have the voice of a literal angel, thank you very much. You're just jealous."
The playful banter slowly subsided into a comfortable silence. Logan looked at you, his expression turning a little more serious, his eyes softening as his voice dropped to a much quieter register. "Hey… are you doing okay?" Since what happened the other night, obviously implied by the way he looked at you right now, concern written all over his face.
You felt a warm flush creep up your neck and settle into your cheeks. "I'm okay, thank you" you smiled and he nodded, both silently agreeing not to discuss this unpleasant event anymore. You paused, looking down at his large hands resting on the table before forcing yourself to look back up. "How are you doing ? With the fundraiser and everything, I mean. You look like you haven't slept in a week."
He seemed genuinely surprised that you were asking about him. Really, truly asking. He leaned back against the vinyl booth, a soft sigh escaping his lips as he completely opened up to you. He talked about the immense stress of managing the team's high expectations, his constant worries about Jules’ upcoming exams, and the suffocating pressure of the NHL scouts attending the next three games. You listened intently, never interrupting, offering gentle encouragement and a few dry, sarcastic jokes that had him laughing quietly into his palms. For a full hour, the two most stubborn, argumentative people at Briar University just… talked.
"Well," you finally said, checking the diner clock and reluctantly packing your laptop into your bag. "I have to get to my shift at the library. Don't let Della bully you into paying extra for the tableware."
"I won't," Logan said, his eyes tracking your every movement, lingering on your face. "See you around?"
"See you around." You gave him a small, genuine smile—the first real one he'd ever received from you—and walked out into the crisp afternoon air, your heart feeling lighter than it had in weeks.
Inside the booth, Logan sat completely still for a long, agonizing moment. He watched your retreating figure through the glass window until you turned the corner and disappeared from view. Slowly, he let out a shaky exhale, burying his face entirely in his hands. He rubbed his palms over his eyes, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs.
"What the fuck," he whispered into the empty diner booth, his voice laced with a mixture of absolute awe and sheer, unadulterated panic. He was screwed. He was completely, utterly, hopelessly screwed, and he knew there was no turning back.
Five — "Well, fuck"
The night of the Briar Hockey Fundraiser at Malone’s was a chaotic, high-energy, glittering success. The entire diner had been completely transformed for the evening—the regular tables had been pushed to the far perimeter to create a makeshift dance floor, strings of warm fairy lights hung across the ceiling, and a massive turnout of wealthy alumni, boosters, and students kept the bar utterly slammed.
You had dressed up significantly for the occasion, wearing a form-fitting, emerald green silk dress that Allie let you borrow from her closet - of course. You spent the first half of the night talking to Hannah near the punch bowl, but your eyes kept unconsciously tracking a certain someone across the room.
Logan was entirely in his element—charming the older donors, laughing easily with his teammates, and looking entirely too edible for your own good.
Around midnight, the formal event finally dissolved into a proper, rowdy college party. The DJ cranked up a heavy, slow, rhythmic pop song, the bass echoing through the floor, and the dance floor filled up with couples. You were navigating the edge of the sweaty crowd, trying to find Allie when a sudden, firm, yet gentle pull on your wrist guided you backward.
You spun around on your heels, your chest bumping right into Logan’s broad torso. "You've been actively dodging me all night," he murmured, his deep voice vibrating right against your skin as his large hand settled naturally around yours. The casual, unhesitating intimacy of the gesture sent a fierce, blinding jolt of electricity straight down your spine.
"I wasn't dodging you, I was letting you do your official host duties," you shot back, a wicked, playful smile spreading across your lips. The alcohol gave you a surge of confidence, and you looped your arms slowly around his neck, stepping closer into his personal space until there was absolutely no air left between you. "Besides, I didn't think you could actually handle me dancing with you."
Logan’s dark eyes lit up instantly, a dangerous, competitive challenge flaring in his pupils. He pulled you a fraction of an inch closer. "Oh, really? Try me, sweetheart."
You didn't hesitate. As the heavy beat of the music dropped, you shifted your weight, rolling your hips slowly, deliberately, and sinfully against his. You leaned in close, your lips brushing the warm shell of his ear as you whispered, "You're all talk, John Logan. Let's see if you can actually keep up with me."
You pulled back just enough to look at him, your hands sliding down his chest to grip the crisp fabric of his shirt, tugging him rhythmically, tightly against your body. The friction was immediate, heavy, and intoxicating. Logan’s breath hitched audibly in his throat. A dark, intense flush crept up his neck, coloring his sharp cheekbones as his hands settled on your waist, his fingers digging firmly into your skin through the thin fabric of your dress. He swallowed hard, his eyes dropping helplessly to your parted lips, entirely overwhelmed and undone by the sudden confidence of your movements. He could feel exactly how much you were affecting him, his body reacting instantly to the touch of your hips.
A breathless, desperate laugh escaped him. He jerked his head back for a split second, fighting a losing battle for self-control. "Well, fuck," he muttered, his voice raw, completely devoid of its usual composure.
"Did I break the big, tough hockey player already?" you cooed, tilting your chin up tauntingly, your noses almost touching as you continued to sway against him.
"You wish," he groaned, his thumbs stroking the bare skin of your lower back where your dress dipped low. He didn't pull away. Instead, he pulled you even tighter against his lower body, matching your sinful rhythm perfectly, his dark eyes locked onto yours with a burning intensity that made it very clear the playful teasing was rapidly turning into something much more dangerous and inevitable. When the night finally forced you apart, it didn't feel like a goodbye — it was a promise.
Six — "Fuck"
Some things are bound to reach a breaking point, and the agonizing tension building between you for months was no exception. Three nights later, Briar won a massive game and the ensuing after-party at the boys' house was pure chaotic madness. The house was packed to maximum capacity, a sweaty, pulsing mass of drunken celebration, loud music, and screaming students.
But you and Logan weren't paying any attention to the party. For the past two hours, you had been moving around the house like two high-powered magnets — constantly drawing closer, stealing long, heated glances across the crowded rooms, the unspoken, heavy weight of the fundraiser hanging between you.
Seeking a brief moment of quiet to cool down your flushed skin, you headed down the dark back hallway toward the upstairs bathroom. Just as you reached out for the brass doorknob, the door swung open from the inside.
Logan stepped out.
You nearly crashed straight into his chest, cutting your breath short as you ground to a halt mere inches from him. The hallway was swallowed by shadows, save for the frantic strobe lights bleeding in from the living room. Logan stared down at you, wide-eyed, his chest rising and falling in sync with the thick, suffocating heat pulsing through the house.
Neither of you said a single word. The months of toxic banter, the vicious, screaming arguments, the desperate avoidance, and the agonizing teasing all converged into a single, breathless, breaking second.
Logan reached out with lightning speed, his large hand wrapping around your waist, and shoved you backward into the bathroom, slamming the heavy wooden door shut behind you and twisting the lock with a sharp, echoing click.
Before the sound of the lock could even fade, his mouth crashed onto yours.
It was an absolute explosion. The kiss was passionate, borderline feral, a violent release of pure, pent-up, crazy frustration. You let out a muffled gasp against his lips, your hands flying up to rip into his dark hair, pulling him down toward you out of sheer desperation. He groaned deep in his throat, a sound of pure hunger, pinning your body flat against the heavy wooden door, his thick thighs crowding tightly between yours. His hands were absolutely everywhere—clutching your face, tracing the line of your throat, gripping your hips with a bruising, desperate force that felt incredibly, entirely right.
"Logan," you whimpered against his mouth as he tore his lips away to kiss your jawline, your neck - his hands sliding down to frantically bunch up the silk fabric of your dress.
With a sudden burst of strengh, he hooked his large hands under your thighs and lifted you effortlessly into the air. You wrapped your legs tightly around his waist as he deposited you onto the cold marble edge of the bathroom sink counter. He didn't waste a single second. His hands slid all the way up the bare, warm skin of your thighs, finding the edge of your underwear. His fingers quickly found your slick, burning, over-sensitized core, rubbing against you through the damp fabric with a rhythm that made your head tilt back and earned a large grin from him.
You arched your back off the counter, a loud sob escaping your lips, your fingers digging deep into his shoulders.
"You like that?" Logan growled against your neck, his voice dripping with lust. His fingers moved faster, driving you up a steep, agonizing cliff. "Tell me you want it."
"Logan," you breathed out, "please," you cried out, your head tossing back against the large bathroom mirror. Your hands flew down to his waist, frantically, blindly fumbling with the button of his jeans. You shoved the denim down his hips until his length snapped free—thick, heavy, and pulsing with heat. The moment your fingers wrapped tightly around him, moving in a fast, desperate stroke, Logan’s eyes rolled back.
His jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked violently in his neck. He couldn't endure the exquisite torture for long, his quiet moans matching your own, before his large hand clamped over yours, freezing your movement. "Stop, stop," he panted, his chest wild, his forehead pressing against yours. "I'm going to come right now if you keep doing that. I need to feel you, right now."
With trembling, frantic hands, he reached into the small drawer next to the sink—Dean’s emergency stash—and ripped open a foil condom wrapper, spitting the plastic away and rolling it onto himself in one fluid, desperate motion.
Then he stepped back between your open thighs. His hands gripped your hips with an iron hold, dragging you to the very edge of the marble counter. He aligned himself against you, waiting just long enough for your frantic nod of approval. With one heavy, unyielding, possessive thrust, he buried himself completely inside you.
The sheer, overwhelming pleasure of that sudden fullness hit you both at once, fracturing the quiet of the bathroom with a sharp, mutual gasp. Instead of slowing down, the friction only stoked the fire, drawing a long, ragged, shattered exhale from deep in Logan's chest. His pupils were completely dilated, dark and wild with pure lust as his forehead dropped heavily against your shoulder.
"Fuck," he groaned into the crook of your neck, his voice a raw, visceral prayer vibrating against your collarbone.
His hands tightened on your hips, his fingers digging into your skin like an anchor as he immediately established a rhythm. The restraint dissolved into pure instinct. He pulled you flush against him, his thrusts becoming powerful, deep, and utterly relentless from the very start. Every heavy drive forced a breathless cry from your lips, the sound echoing off the tiled walls. You rocked together on the cold edge of the marble sink, your bodies generating a feverish heat that defied the chilly stone beneath you.
The bass from the after-party still thudded through the floorboards, a distant, muffled reminder of the chaotic world outside, but within the locked walls of the bathroom, that world was entirely forgotten. There was only the slick, friction-heavy slide of skin against skin, the frantic tangle of your fingers in his hair, and the hot, primal rhythm consuming you both.
The friction was dizzying, driving you both toward a precipice that neither of you could fight anymore. Logan’s pace turned frantic, his breath coming in harsh, ragged stabs against your ear as his hips slammed against yours with an undoing, desperate urgency. Every stroke sent a white-hot wave of pleasure straight to your core, tightening the coil inside you until it was agonizing.
You choked out a breathless, broken sound, your hands clamping onto his biceps as your head thrashed back against the mirror once more.
He didn't need words to know you were right there. He buried his face in your hair, his teeth grazing your shoulder as he delivered three more devastatingly deep, relentless thrusts.
That was the final breaking point. Your walls clamped down around him tight and pulsing, fracturing your breath into a loud, ruined cry as your entire body shattered into a blinding, head-to-toe release.
Hearing you break completely ruined him. Logan let out a guttural, unhinged groan that vibrated deep in his chest. His jaw locked, his body rigid and trembling as he gave one last, deeply possessive shove, throwing his weight into you as he came violently inside the condom. He held himself deep within you, his hips shuddering against yours as he rode out the waves of his own release, the two of you panting heavily in the quiet aftermath, entirely spent.
Seven — "Fuck it"
Roughly thirty minutes later, the two of you finally emerged from the bathroom. You had tried your absolute best to fix your chaotic appearance in the mirror—re-applying a bit of smudge-proof lip gloss, smoothing down the wrinkled fabric of your dress, and trying to tame your wildly tangled hair with your fingers—but the physical evidence of what had just occurred was written all over your faces. Your skin was flushed a deep unmistakable pink, your lips were incredibly swollen and red, and Logan was walking with a loose, stupidly contented, proud stride, his hair completely disheveled and sticking up in directions where your fingers had repeatedly torn through it.
The exact moment you stepped back onto the floor of the crowded living room, a loud, piercing whistle cut through the air.
Dean was leaning against the back of the sofa, a beer dangling from his fingers and a knowing smirk plastered across his face. His eyes darted from you to Logan, zeroing in instantly on the faint trace of your lip gloss smeared along Logan’s jawline.
"Well, well, well," he said, loud enough to be heard over the music. "Must have been a pretty intense plumbing emergency in there. Either that, or you two just went ten rounds with a blender. You might want to wipe your face, Logan."
Your cheeks instantly burned. You took a step back. "Dean, shut up, we were just—"
But Logan didn't let you finish the lie. He looked down at you, catching the slight panic in your eyes, and then looked over at Dean, who was practically vibrating with smug satisfaction.
Instead of getting defensive, Logan just let out a short, quiet laugh. The stubbornness, the secrecy, the remnants of your old feud—it all suddenly felt completely irrelevant. He was tired of hiding it.
"You know what? Fuck it," Logan muttered.
Before you could process the words, his hand slid around the back of your neck, his thumb resting against your jaw as he pulled you flush against his chest. Right there by the sofa, he leaned down and kissed you.
Dean threw his arms up in a dramatic, sweeping gesture. "About damn fucking time! Graham, you owe me twenty bucks!"
When Logan finally pulled back, his eyes were bright, a relaxed, genuinely happy smile playing on his lips as his thumb brushed your cheek. You looked up at him, the noise of the party fading into the background, finally realizing that the long, argumentative journey of seven dirty words had brought you exactly where you were supposed to be.
just posted a new John Logan fic <3
my latest fic ♡
Somewhere But Not No-where @butterfly-dearest - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
