cassi 🪐

she/her | omnisexual | twenty-three | French | Stiles Stilinski | “Dead Poets Society” | Eddie Munson | “Lockwood & Co” | Hobie Brown | involved in way too many fandoms | fanfic writer, compulsive creator of original characters | ✊🏻 🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍⚧️ • 🇵🇸🇨🇩🇸🇩 🕊

[911onabc-inactive-deactivated20]

fanfiction is like. here's a piece of my soul! here's the parts of me i didn't know what else to do with! i wrapped them up in something i love in an attempt to understand my own feelings and morals and maybe the whole world. hope you like it.

[sunnydilaurentis]

home is wherever you are | john logan ✶

summary: in which logan proves, once again, that loving someone means making space for the life they actually want, not the one everyone expects.

pairing: john logan x fem!reader

notes: hi!! this was such a lovely idea, thank you for your request! 🥹 i hope you enjoy <3

ꪆৎ

the conversation starts innocently.

all eight of you are at the hockey house, sprawled across the living room after dinner.

dean and allie are tucked into the corner of the couch, her legs thrown over his lap while he absently plays with the sleeve of her hoodie. tucker is half-sprawled across the rug, sabrina sitting beside him with one hand resting absentmindedly in his hair. hannah is curled into the armchair beside garret, socks on, knees tucked to her chest.

you’re pressed against logan’s side on the other end of the couch, your legs draped over his lap while his hand moves lazily up and down your shin in slow, absent strokes.

you feel comfortable, safe.

the conversation drifts the way it always does, towards the future.

"i feel like dean is going to be such an annoying dad," tucker says, the words leaving his mouth unprompted.

dean immediately looks offended. "annoying?"

allie snorts beside him. "you would be."

"how?"

she grins. "you would act chill until one of our kids get a cold and then suddenly you would be googling every symptom and trying to call three different doctors at once."

sabrina laughs. "unfortunately, that sounds incredibly accurate."

garrett smiles from where he’s leaning back on the chair, arms crossed loosely over his chest, clearly enjoying the direction of the conversation.

hannah glances over, her eyes landing on you two. "logan would be good with kids."

everyone turns to look at him, because of course they do. logan is easygoing, warm, steady, patient in a way most people don’t fully notice until they know him properly, so of course the idea of him as a dad feels easy to imagine.

he lifts one shoulder. "maybe."

allie grins. "logan as a girl dad, i can definitely picture it."

everyone starts laughing and throwing out opinions. dean says absolutely not, tucker insists logan would be wrapped around his daughter’s finger, sabrina agrees immediately.

logan just shakes his head, smiling faintly. you laugh softly with everyone else, but something in your chest feels tight.

small, uncomfortable.

the conversation keeps moving. future houses, engagements, marriage, kids. always kids, like it’s inevitable. like it’s just what happens. slowly, the warmth of the room starts feeling strange.

too small, too loud.

the truth is, you’ve never really wanted that. not children, not in the way everyone seems to expect. a part of you has always felt quietly guilty about it.

every time people talk about the future, they talk like children are the obvious next step, like it's the goal, like wanting anything else requires justification.

logan’s hand stills against your leg, just briefly. he notices the exact second you go quiet. he glances down at you. you’re smiling, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. his thumb brushes lightly over your knee in small, gentle strokes.

you know that look, the one that says he’s noticed something, clocked it, stored it away. he doesn’t say anything yet, just keeps listening.

allie turns toward you. her expression soft and curious. "what about you, y/n?"

you blink. "what?"

"kids."

the room goes quiet enough that suddenly all you can hear is the television murmuring in the background and the humming of the fridge in the kitchen.

allie’s expression softens instantly, not pushing, simply asking out of curiosity. you hesitate. logan’s hand squeezes your leg once, an obvious attempt at providing some comfort.

you swallow. "i…" you let out a nervous laugh. "i don’t know."

logan says nothing, he just watches you, waiting, giving you space. your voice comes out quieter this time.

"i don’t actually think i want kids."

silence.

your heart pounds immediately. you hate how vulnerable saying it feels. you stare down at your hands twisted in your lap, fiddling mindlessly with your fingers.

"i don’t know. i just…" you exhale shakily. "i’ve never really pictured that for myself."

your voice drops softer. "and i always feel weird saying that because everyone talks like it’s just what you do."

nobody interrupts, nobody looks shocked, so you keep going.

"but i don’t think i want that kind of life."

your voice wavers slightly. you look up. nerves written across your features.

"i want a future. i want love and stability and a home and all of that."

your throat tightens. "i just don’t think kids are part of that for me."

the room's completely silent, until your boyfriend speaks up beside you, calmly.

"yeah."

you turn to him. his expression is soft, completely unbothered. his hand slides from your leg to lace your fingers together, reassuring you, backing you.

"me neither."

the weight of his answer hits you all at once. you blink, trying to gather your thoughts.

"what?"

logan’s mouth lifts slightly. "i said me neither."

you stare at him, your eyes widening, completely stunned.

"you don’t?"

he shakes his head once. "not really."

his thumb strokes over your knuckles. "i’ve never felt strongly about it. never really pictured that for myself."

your chest tightens. not painfully. something warmer, something bigger, something that feels dangerously close to relief.

"why didn’t you ever say anything?"

his expression softens even further. "because you never did." his words come out simply, like his answer is obvious.

"and i figured if it mattered, we’d talk about it when we were ready."

you feel your eyes sting, tears threatening to spill out. somehow logan had taken the thing you felt most scared to admit and made it feel safe. made it feel normal, made it feel okay.

logan leans closer, close enough that everything else fades slightly at the edges. his voice drops, quieter now, meant only for you. suddenly, the moment feels achingly intimate.

"baby, there’s nothing wrong with wanting a different life." his gaze doesn’t leave yours. "people act like there’s only one version of happy."

his fingers squeeze yours gently in assurance. "there isn’t."

his smile is small, warm, certain. "maybe our version looks different."

your throat feels tight. "our version?"

logan’s smile grows. "yeah." his voice is impossibly soft now. "you. me. us."

his free hand gestures vaguely around the room. "some nice place." his lips twitch. "probably a dog." a small laugh falls from your mouth, and he smiles in response.

"maybe two dogs."

tucker immediately cuts in. "you two would absolutely own the most spoiled dogs on earth."

dean nods once. "that part is true."

the tension breaks, and it feels like the entire room exhales, like everyone relaxes.

allie smiles at you from across the couch, gently, understanding. "for what it’s worth," she says softly, "there’s nothing wrong with that."

hannah nods, adding on. "at all."

sabrina smiles. "happy is happy."

you look back at logan and notice him still holding your hand. still looking at you like nothing about this sudden opinion had changed the way he saw you. if anything, he looks softer, like he’s glad you said it, glad you trusted him enough to finally vocalise it.

you lean into him, quietly. "two dogs?"

logan grins. "minimum."

you laugh, finally breathing properly again.

for the first time in a long time, the future doesn’t feel like something you’re failing to fit into. it feels like something you get to build, with him, on your own terms.

[cassiopeiia24]

let's normalise this, please. 😌

[pinkfairydreamgirl]

Thick and Thin

pairing: john logan x f!reader

summary: based on this ask!

contains: established relationship, hurt/comfort, talks of depression & mental health, logan takes care of you <3 (bathing, brushing and braiding hair), no use of y/n, pet names (baby, sweetheart, honey), fluffy ending :3

author’s note: FINALLY some logan fluff from me lol thank u so much anon for trusting me w this, i really enjoyed writing it <3

You weren’t ashamed of having depression.

You weren’t.

Of course, you hated having to deal with it. You hated that at such a young age, you were taking three different medications just to get yourself to functioning human being level. It was frustrating that you could do everything you’re meant to; see a therapist, get on medication, try to implement a healthy lifestyle, and yet all there was to do most times was just wait it out. Suffer, essentially. Which sounded dark, but those with depression got it. And it was difficult explaining it to those who didn’t get it, but you didn’t feel ashamed—it wasn’t like it was a choice you were making.

However, you did at times feel embarrassed.

The winter was the hardest time. There had been times when even the summer was bad, when you were meant to want to be outside and enjoying the nice weather, but all you really wanted to do was lay in bed in a dark room and sleep. Ordinarily though, it was when the sun set far too early and the holiday excitement ended, nothing but the long stretch of winter laid out ahead of you that you began experiencing that sinking feeling in your chest.

Everything felt hard; brushing your teeth, making your bed, washing your face. And the fact that you had to do it every single day, over and over again? It’s brought you to the point of tears on multiple occasions.

These were things everyone had to do. These were things that were easy for most people. And especially as a woman, how were you meant to look attractive and put together when you couldn’t bother putting on moisturizer, let alone some makeup?

Before being in a relationship, you thought less about that aspect. Now, though…

You’d made plans with John days ago. It had been too long since you’d seen each other for more than a brief meeting, between hockey stuff and your classes, and agreed to meet at his place before going out for dinner and a movie.

It wasn’t like you needed to dress up. You were likely to just go to Malone’s and then sit in a dark theater where no one could really see you anyway, but you hadn’t been dating long enough to feel comfortable going out in public in sweatpants and a sweatshirt. He wouldn’t care, but you did. And it was very inconvenient.

You texted him about an hour before you were meant to be at his place and told him something came up. You were vague—just too much homework and not feeling super well. He offered to come over and help you, but you told him he would just distract you. He didn’t argue further. And knowing John, you probably should have took that as a warning sign.

You were cocooned in your bed when you heard the knocks at your front door, your boyfriend calling through to you on the other side, “baby, open up!”

You shuffle closer, keeping your blankets around you and call through the door back to him, “Logan, I told you not to come.”

“Just open the door.”

You take a deep breath and do as he asks, wincing once you’re within view like you can see exactly what you look like to him. His face never changes, though. He doesn’t give you a look of pity or concern, he just smiles shyly and holds up the bag of takeout he brought with him.

“I can’t have my girl going hungry.”

You step back to allow him in, wondering how he knew you hadn’t eaten. You didn’t have plans to either, between not having anything here and not having the money to afford DoorDash.

“Okay…” he takes out all the food he ordered and spreads it out across your coffee table. “We’ve got the favorites. I wasn’t sure what you were in the mood for so I ordered Chinese and picked up some of the—hey…” He rushes back over to you once he notices you’re crying, his eyebrows furrowed in concern as he hurriedly wipes your tears. “What’s wrong? Do you want something different because I can—“

“No, no.” You laugh lightly at his sweetness. “No, this is…perfect. You’re perfect. I’m sorry, I’m just in a weird place right now.”

He hums and nods in understanding, tucking your hair behind your ears for you. “Weird like you wanna be alone or weird you want me to stay?”

You feel like you wanna cry again suddenly. “I don’t know.”

“Okay. Well, if you’d comfortable, I’d really like to stay for a while? Maybe just eat with you? And then after, or even before, if you decide you want me to, I can go.”

You nod, feeling a little guilty for all the effort he’s putting in while you give nothing back. It makes you go further into your shell. The both of you sit on your couch and watch some show he’d turned on that looked decent. Your chicken fried rice remains untouched even as you hold in it in your hand, just moving the spoon around and flicking at pieces of peas and carrots.

“Hey,” you hear John say softly from the other side of the couch, his fingers brushing your shoulder as his arm rests along the back of the sofa. “You don’t have to eat it if you don’t want to.”

“I’m sorry.” You lean forward to place the takeout container on the table. “I just feel like my brain is all scrambled and…loud. And at the same time completely empty. I don’t know, I don’t even know what I’m saying right now.”

“C’mere.” He motions you over. You go with little protest, immediately melting into his hold, your cheek pressed to his chest that is warm beneath his shirt.

“I probably smell,” you murmur. You feel his chuckle vibrate through his chest. “I haven’t showered in days.” You don’t know why you confess it to him. You immediately regret the words once they’re out.

“Why?” He asks softly. It’s a genuine question, he’s not concerned or disgusted. You knew he wouldn’t be, but you release a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding.

“I don’t know,” you answer honestly. “I know I need to. I want to, but I just can’t make myself do it. And then, I spiral because I think of all the things I need to do but haven’t done and they just pile up and it feels like someone stacked them on top of my chest and they’re weighing me down.” You wait for him to say something, but when he remains quiet, you continue. “I get like this sometimes. This time of year is hard.”

He hums in acknowledgement and you feel him nod. He knows you struggle with depression, you don’t need to be so vague, but the words feel too…heavy to say for some reason. Too intense.

“Can I help you?” You look up at him, his brown eyes soft like the rest of him. “Would that make it worse or better?”

“I don’t wanna burden you.” It’s not really an answer.

“Honey.” He gives you a look. “You’re not burdening me. I want to spend time with you, I want to help you.”

“Yeah, but this isn’t like helping me study, John. I don’t want you to have to take care of me like I’m some elderly person who can’t bathe themselves, especially when I’m fully capable of doing so.”

“Baby, everybody goes through hard times. You’ve seen me at some pretty low points, right? When my mom went into rehab for the fifth time, or when I had that bad panic attack before the Eastwood game. Did either of those times feel like a burden to you when you helped me?”

You look away. “…no.”

“Exactly.” He pushes a hair out of your eyes and turns your head to look back at him. “Lean on me. I’ve got you.”

You do. Albeit, begrudgingly, but you do.

He runs you a bath and lights candles with your favorite scents. Then, he leaves you to soak and you can hear him from your bathroom cleaning up the mess from dinner. He comes back in once he’s done to drain some of the water and run the tap to keep it warm for you.

“Turn around for me.” He gently guides you to lean your back against the side of the tub so he can reach you and squirts some of your shampoo into the palm of his hand, then begins lathering up your hair.

You close your eyes at the feel of his strong hands being used for such a delicate task, his short nails scraping over your scalp and making it tingle slightly. He washes you, stealing kisses every so often, and it makes you feel so light and airy that you feel good enough to jokingly blow some of the bubbles into his face when he’s not paying attention and get some of the suds stuck in his short beard.

He feigns annoyance at your bubble ambush, but his eyes look relieved that you’re seemingly feeling better.

He towels you off after and covers your body in a soft robe. He’s so gentle with you, it makes you feel as warm and safe as the soft fabric at your shoulders.

He guides you over to your bed and has you sit in the middle and situates himself behind you. You eye him curiously before he turns your face forward with a hand at the top of your head, making you laugh lightly.

You feel the soft bristles of your brush glide through your wet hair and close your eyes at the feel. He just brushes for a while, slowly detangling the strands before setting the brush aside and running his fingers through.

You notice him sectioning pieces off and then feel the slight tug like he’s styling it.

“Are you braiding my hair?” You ask in a disbelieving sort of tone. “Where did you learn to do that?”

“Jules,” he answers simply. “Before they cut their hair short, they always wanted it up and away. Mom wasn’t usually around, so…”

“So, you learned,” you finish.

He hums in agreement and the both of you sink back into a comfortable silence, enjoying the feel of his hands in your hair.

After he ties it off at the end, you turn around to face him, leaning in to give him a soft kiss.

“Thank you, baby.” You whisper, watching his expression melt a bit at the praise. “Really. Thank you.”

He smiles shyly and leans forward to press his lips to yours again. “Anytime, sweetheart. Anytime.”

And you know he means it.

masterlist

requests are open!

[cassiopeiia24]

very, very sweet

[pinkfairydreamgirl]

Come Under the Covers

part 1

pairing: john logan x f!reader

summary: You and John Logan are childhood best friends. You share the kind of emotional intimacy only two people who have seen each other grow up can have, but now you’re no longer kids, you’re college students and trying to navigate the complex time between childhood and adulthood. Before joining John at Briar U a year after him, you were convinced your silly crush had faded, but now that you’re back in his orbit, you’re no longer so sure. You try your best to remain just friends, but watching him turn from the boy down the street to the big man on campus is harder than you thought. And you’re not sure how much more you can take of watching him overlook you time and time again.

contains: friends to enemies (sort of) to lovers, unrequited love, talk of childhood trauma (abandonment, addiction), no use of y/n, Logan calls reader by nickname (Birdie), cursing, kissing, angst, logan being a dummy

author’s note: inspired by one of my favorite songs :) this was stupid long, i got kinda carried away but i love writing about nostalgia <3 this was just the intro so we’ll get into the actual plot/current day next chapter! also, this is gonna be a series :))) i’m not exactly sure how many parts yet, but i’ll keep u guys updated! lmk what you think 💕

series playlist

You remember the exact day that John Logan moved in a few houses down.

It was a seemingly unremarkable afternoon on an uncharacteristically hot Monday in June. You were only about a week into summer vacation and had already grown bored of the monotonous routine of your day without school.

The windows were open and blowing a warm breeze onto your wet toenails where the white-out you had painted on was still drying. You had positioned yourself on the window bench seat in your bedroom to be able to see down the street to where the moving truck currently was and were watching while the new neighbors slowly moved things in.

Your older sister suddenly whirled into your shared bedroom and flopped onto her bed on the other side of your space with a huff, her swimsuit likely still wet from swim practice and making the comforter beneath damp.

“Are they still unpacking?” She asked without looking.

“Mhmm,” you hummed.

In your small community, it was rare when something happened that the whole neighborhood didn’t know about, and the new neighbors who would be moving into the beloved Kershaw house were a hot topic. Especially for your oldest sister who’d had her first kiss with the oldest Kershaw boy, Josh.

She’d been devastated when Josh told her they were moving to Florida, hence her being shut away in her room all day. Apparently it didn’t matter that she and Josh hadn’t hung out in quite some time, she had explained to you that she and Josh shared a connection that transcended time.

She threw a pillow at you when you laughed.

And then, when your mom told you to go knock on her door afterwards and check to see if she wanted lunch, you tentatively obeyed, knocking the softest you could, though the eldest of you still screamed to go away through the door like you had banged on it.

You could faintly hear her strumming her guitar behind the chipped, white wood, only minor chords ringing out as her soft voice sung some heartbroken melody. You were tempted to sit outside and listen, but you knew if she caught you, you’d likely get kicked in the face.

“Did you catch what they look like?” Your other sister was now leaning over you to get a look for herself, her wet hair flopping onto your shoulder and you swatted at her to get her chlorine soaked body away.

“You’re dripping on me,” you complained instead of answering, wiping the droplets of moisture off your arms.

“Sorry,” she muttered distractedly, still staring out the window. You bent down to gently touch your freshly painted nails to check if they were dry and cringed when the white out stuck to your finger like glue and created a gap where the white liquid previously was. “I don’t know why you do that,” your sister commented. “We have white nail polish.”

“I saw it in a movie once,” you grumbled, leaning over to grab a tissue to wipe your finger off.

“Ooh, there’s a boy.” The both of you immediately stood up and squished together to be able to see out the window. And there he was, a boy likely somewhere between your ages carrying a large cardboard box into his new house. “Dibs.”

You groaned in protest. “C’mon, no fair.”

“Sorry, you snooze, you lose.”

“How do you even know he’s your age?” You questioned. Though there wasn’t that big of an age difference between you two, a few years felt like decades. You were a good bit younger than both of your sisters and it felt like it. While they were getting their first phones and having their first kisses, you were still playing with Barbie dolls.

While you were painting your nails with white-out, your eldest sister was writing sad love songs in her room about a real experience she had. You had yet to have any.

Unless you were to count Connor Gregory confessing his love for you on the playground in first grade before picking a cicada off the mulch and eating it.

So no, you didn’t count that.

And if either of your sisters continued to keep calling dibs before you, it would likely be a while before you had any.

“I guess we’ll see.” She wiggles her eyebrows at you before running from the room, still in only her swimsuit, and leaves you there sputtering and scrambling to follow.

You both run outside barefoot, the rough concrete of the sidewalk feeling familiar under your feet as you make your way toward the house with the moving truck and various cardboard boxes lying in the yard out front.

The boy you saw from your window was now carrying a box labeled ‘kitchen stuff’ and paused on the sidewalk as he watched you and your sister approach. A woman, who you assumed was his mother, passed by while carrying another box, and began shouting to someone inside to “help your brother.”

His smile warm and kind, his brown hair a little curly and flopping a bit in his eyes. You watched his attention flick back and forth between the two of you before landing on your sister who wasted no time greeting him in her usual fearlessness.

“Hi. What’s your name?”

“John.” You heard it echo in your head like he had shouted it into a tunnel and you let the word reverberate around you. “What’s yours?”

She told him and then introduced you, and when his gaze landed on you once again, you could feel your cheeks heating as you raised your hand in a shy wave. He returned it kindly, his brown eyes soft and curious.

“We live just a few doors down,” your sister explained. “The one with the yellow door if you ever wanna hangout.” She shrugged like she didn’t care either way and then left before hearing John’s response.

The two of you stood there in silence for a beat, the both of you a little struck by your sisters abrupt departure, your eyes looking anywhere but each other.

“Bye,” you blurted suddenly and turned to leave just as quickly as your sister had.

“Bye,” you heard John gently murmur from behind you, and you struggled not to turn back and look at him once again.

You didn’t see John again until a few days later, when the moving trucks were gone and the boxes were off of their lawn and finally inside of their new house.

It was in the evening, the street lights had just come on with a crackle and buzz to paint the street in an orange sort of glow to match the setting sun. You were sitting in one of your favorite pine trees; one that was easiest to climb and had the least amount of sticky sap drooling from its branches.

The rest of the kids had gone inside for dinner, including both of your sisters, but since your dad usually worked late, you wouldn’t actually eat until he got home, which wasn’t until another hour.

You enjoyed the solitude at the end of the day, when your only company was the chirping of insects and the rustling of the wind through the tree branches. You were humming some tune and watching as a daddy long leg crawled across your palms as you alternated hands.

You hadn’t seen him approach, so you jumped when you heard his voice call from down below to ask, “can I come up?”

The daddy long leg had begun to crawl around your hand and up your arm without your attention, the bug completely indifferent to the nervous fluttering in your chest, so you quickly redirected the eight-legged arachnid and croaked out, “uhm…sure.”

You made yourself wait to look at John until he was seated in front of you, his legs swinging from the branch where he sat and chest rising and falling rapidly from the excursion of his climb. You took in his sports jersey that you didn’t recognize and the worn fabric of his converse before finally meeting his gaze, his smile just as friendly as the first time you met him.

As you stared at each other, you scrambled for something—anything to say. But all you could think was that you weren’t your sisters. You weren’t good with your words.

Luckily, he spoke first. “I noticed you like climbing trees.” You could feel your mouth drying up. How did he know? Had he been watching you? “I saw you the past few days, always sitting in this one. It’s nice up here. I like it.”

“I like the view,” you heard yourself say, sudden and clumsy like you were having to rip the words out. He looked out between the branches and nodded, the field below bathed in the warmth of the sunset. “And one time I found a family of birds. They hatched and flew off last year. I left them alone because my mom told me the mama bird may not come back if I touch them, so I just watched. I was sad when they left, though. Sometimes I still think about where they went. If they ever come back. If birds can recognize people.”

When you dared to look at him again, he was watching you with that smile, the one that made your mouth feel dry and your hands clammy. You continued your nervous rambling and avoided eye contact once again.

“Sometimes I think about what it would be like to be a bird. I bet it feels really cool to fly. Freeing. Sometimes I wonder what clouds feel like, if they’re like cotton candy, if they taste like cotton candy. That’d be cool. But then your hands would probably feel sticky afterwards. That’s another reason why I like this tree. It doesn’t have as much sap on its branches. My mom is always getting mad at me for getting sap on my clothes and in my hair.” You pat down your hair then self consciously, knowing your face is likely as red as a tomato with how warm it feels. He’s still staring at you with that same smile and you almost want to yell at him to stop.

“You remind me of a bird.”

It’s the first time you go still since he came up here to join you.

“What?”

“Yeah. I mean, you sit up in trees like a bird. You’re kind of twitchy like birds.”

“Twitchy?” You repeat, deciding you do not like that word.

He laughs. “I don’t know. You seem gentle like a bird, too.” He shrugs, and this time you don’t totally hate the picture he’s painting of how he sees you. “Where would you go?” You look back up at him, unsure of what he means. “If you could fly. Where would you go?”

“Oh.” You think about it. “I don’t know. I haven’t been many places before.”

“Me neither,” he confesses, beginning to pick at his finger nails.

“Maybe somewhere cold?” You guess. “I like the cold.”

“You do?” He seems to perk up at this.

“Yeah.” You shrug. “I like the winter, when the lake freezes over and everything is kinda quiet. I like skating.”

He scoots closer toward the edge of the branch, his eyes wider and more excited. “You skate? Have you ever played hockey?”

“No, not really. I’m still learning how to not just fall.” You giggle.

“Maybe I could teach you.” You turn your head at his suggestion, a smile overtaking your face.

“Okay,” you agree. He smiles. You sit in silence for a few more moments before suddenly, you’re breaking it again. “How old are you?”

“Ten. How old are you?”

“Nine.” Then he asks you how old your sisters are. “Twelve and fourteen.”

He nods and then asks you to tell him about them and you wonder if you light up like he did when you brought up hockey. This was a topic you knew, this was something you could talk about for hours.

You tell him about Josh Kershaw and about your sister’s friends; the ones you like and don’t like. You talk about movies and TV shows and the music you like to listen to. He tells you about his younger sibling and his mom, how they had to move when his dad left them. You talk until you hear your mom calling from around the corner that dinner is ready, the both of you reluctantly pausing to climb down.

You think you talk more with him than you have with anyone else, outside of your family.

When you arrive at your front door, you both promise to meet back at the tree the next day, excited and grinning at each other.

And when he turns to leave, he offers a small wave, and tells you, “Goodnight, Birdie.”

You feel like you float home.

It wasn’t until about three years later that you realized what you felt for John Logan was not just friendship.

You were twelve, he was thirteen and already in middle school—as popular and talked about as any beautiful boy was in a small town. You were…not.

Your sisters had been, to a certain extent. But they were often mistaken for twins with them being closer in age and more alike with their tameable hair and lithe bodies. They were talkative and somehow always knew what to say. They made friends easily.

You weren’t the antithesis of those things, you were just…different. Something you didn’t previously know to be a bad thing, but somewhere, somehow that word had begun to morph into something else; something much less appealing.

For starters, you were big for your age. Your mom had told you that you were an early bloomer, whatever that meant. You felt like a weed; growing uncontrollably and unwantedly. Your limbs felt too long, your shins ached at night, and you had been made to start wearing a training bra that was itchy and uncomfortable.

The mirror had never been a place you would stand in front of for very long, but recently it seemed to be where your feet would often take you. And there, you couldn’t help but closely examine the parts of you that were foreign, and specifically, different from my sisters. You had messier hair, half because it was a different texture than theirs, and half because you hardly ever brushed it—despite your mother’s protests. You almost always had sap on your hands and dirt on your knees, and you were thicker in places your sisters weren’t. Your thighs were wider, your belly fuller, and your cheeks rounder.

You weren’t as into sports as your sisters were either; always preferring to write a story or play pretend in your head rather than compete in any sort of competition.

It was a year ago now that your mom suggested theater classes to you, which terrified you at first. The thought of having to stand up on a stage in front of a room full of people and talk paralyzed you.

It had taken you a few classes to like it, but not many more to fall in love with it.

It was just like playing pretend, just with someone else making the rules, and you found that you loved not having to think about what to say since someone had already written the script.

You loved the friends you made doing it. You loved who you were while doing it.

And you loved that it was yours and no one else’s.

And that had been another development in recent months that you had come to hate.

The jealousy.

Sometimes it felt like your world shrunk down to your neighborhood and you would forget all you were without it.

You and John had grown close, but that also meant he had grown close to your family as well, and more specifically, your sisters. And you did not like who you were with the two of them and John around.

The three of you bickered more with him there and it made you feel splayed open; your anger never something you felt comfortable displaying to anyone besides your family.

The biggest fight you and your sisters ever had was over John. He had come over to play some video game. You split up into teams and your middle sister kept picking John for hers. You told her she wasn’t being fair, then your eldest sister jumped in and threatened to involve mom, which only escalated the whole ordeal.

Then, the room finally exploded with, “you only want to switch teams because you have a crush on John!”

The basement was dead silent after that. You could feel your face getting hot and your eyes stinging. When your bottom lip started to wobble, your sister’s face crumpled and she immediately started apologizing.

You ran upstairs to your room, unable to look John in the eye. You cried so hard you felt sick and locked everyone out of your room. Your sister had to sleep in the other room that night and the three of you didn’t speak for a week.

Not until your mom made you all sit on the couch and stare at each other until you made up. It took an hour.

Your crush had begun to feel dirty and wrong more than anything else. You hated the feelings it gave you. You hated what it did to your sisters and you.

You didn’t understand why it seemed like you had to keep your worlds separate; one for John and one for your sisters. It didn’t make sense.

When it was just the three of you, you had so much fun. You loved the moments when you were inside playing rummy on a rainy day. You loved watching your favorite movies and quoting each line because you’d seen them countless times. You even loved fighting over who got to hold the popcorn bowl. You loved the rare nights when you would have sleepovers in your shared room, your eldest in the sleeping bag nestled between your beds. You loved how your stomach and cheeks hurt after a night spent laughing. You loved how warm you felt and how full your chest was. You loved the moments right before bed when you were all too tired to fake not liking each other and you could whisper, “I think you guys are my best friends,” into the dark quiet and not get only laughs in reply.

You wondered if this is what boys did to all girls. Made them isolate themselves in bedrooms and write sad songs, or compete with each other to win their affection but lose each other in the process.

Your crush had begun to resemble spoiled milk. It was sour and curdled in your mouth, and when you were alone you would take it out and examine it. You would shuffle through the mess and analyze your interactions.

But when John was in front of you, it was like you could see nothing else. You thought only of the good times. And there were many.

You thought of the nights when you’d laugh so hard you’d risk falling to the ground, out of your tree. You thought about how you didn’t need to speak, how you could communicate with a simple look and understand exactly what the other was thinking. You thought of how thoughtful he was, how kind.

Luckily, he never mentioned what your sister had said that day in your basement. You went on pretending like nothing ever happened, meeting in your tree each night when the rest of the neighborhood had gone inside.

You’re not sure when exactly it became your shared tree, but somewhere between then and now, it had become a ritual.

Most times, you’d sit in the quiet and listen to the bugs and birds and watch the sun set slowly. Even in the winter, you would bundle up in your coats and brave climbing the slippery, snowy branches to sit up where you had created a little break in the needles, your weight bending the branches slowly over time to create a larger window.

One Christmas, John had gotten walkie-talkies as a present, and he brought them to the tree excitedly, climbing up as high as he could, where the branches were thinner, to talk down to you through the small, handheld device. You’d pretend you couldn’t already hear him without it and listen to the crunchy sound of his voice coming through the speaker.

It was a chilly fall night when he climbed up to meet you, thoughts of the two of you swirling around your brain and leaving space for nothing else. His sweatshirt looked soft and warm. You had brought a blanket with you that your mom would undoubtedly be furious with you over later for bringing and getting sap on, but you liked the feeling of bundling up while leaning against the trunk of the tree.

Most nights, he would talk and you would listen, and somewhere between ten and thirteen, the topics got heavier. He would tell you about his mom, how she tended to drink so much she would fall asleep in random places. Then his dad, how he left and he hasn’t seen him since he was eight.

Sometimes you wondered if you were the only person he was telling this to. You wondered if there was a reason for that.

It was that very thought that made you interrupt his speech about the latest Boston Bruins game to ask, “do you think I’m pretty?”

You didn’t look at him, but you could tell he was surprised by the sudden question. He laughed nervously and then asked, “what?”

“Do you think I’m pretty? I know my sisters are pretty. I know my mom is pretty. But…I don’t really look like them, so I’m wondering if I’m pretty.”

You were poking the bubbles of sap in the tree bark as you awaited his answer, trying not to let it show that your breath was stuck in your throat and your cheeks had reddened in the night’s dark.

”I don’t know, you’re just…Birdie.” You looked at him then, unsure of his meaning. You’re not sure if he knew it either. “You’re something different.”

And there was that word again. The one that had begun to mean something much more ugly than it had before. You decided then that you wished you hadn’t asked at all, because somehow his answer was worse than if he had just said ‘no.’

You never allowed yourself to ask another question that toed the line of your friendship. You cherished you and John’s relationship too much to risk muddying the waters and fucking things up.

It wasn’t until the summer before he left for college that things shifted. And to your surprise, it wasn’t your doing.

You had been sitting up in your tree, dreading the coming of fall that meant not only your sisters leaving, but now John as well. And without your sisters around the past few years, the house felt hollow. Everything was too quiet. It was too easy to fill up all the empty spaces with John.

It was the night before he left, and he met you in your tree late, like he had so many nights before, climbing up with ease and then perching on his branch with a relieved sigh.

“I’m gonna miss this,” he confessed after a few beats.

You couldn’t help but smile. “There will be trees at Briar.”

“Yeah,” he conceded, sounded unconvinced. “But none of them will have you. I’ll miss our conversations.”

When you looked over at him, he was already looking at you with this expression you couldn’t quite name. The last few nights had been like this; heavy with something that lingered and left you feeling achy. You swallowed to try and moisten your dry throat, but you found you couldn’t.

You laughed lightly, trying to recover quickly from his confession, trying hard not to seem too affected. “You mean the ones where you talk and I listen?”

“Hey,” he fakes offense. “I listen plenty. When you have something to say.”

“Which is…not often.”

“Nothing wrong with that,” he reasons. You send him a look. “What? It just means when you do say something, I know it’s important. You don’t just talk to talk.”

Again, you’re stunned by his words and unsure what to do with them. You felt like you had been handed something you weren’t sure you were supposed to be carrying.

“Most times. Other times, I babble like an idiot.” He laughs fondly like he remembers the days before you were comfortable enough with him to allow the silences to stretch between you.

“A very cute idiot.” You’re almost angry with him for saying it, though you smile. You don’t understand when or why this shift between you happened. You wondered if it was because he was leaving. Was this some last ditch effort? You tried not to think on it too hard. “At least I won’t have to wait too long. Only a year before you join me at Briar.”

“I don’t know if I’ve got in yet,” you remind him softly, picking at some of the pine needles on the branch beside you.

“Oh come on.” He rolls his eyes. “We both know you’re getting in. If I got in, then you got in.”

“Yes, but you got a hockey scholarship. Briar doesn’t offer those for lowly theater kids like me,” you tease, only half kidding. He extends his leg across the space between you to lightly kick your shin in jest.

“You’ll get in.” He sounds so sure, and you wonder if he’s convincing himself or you. “You have to. I don’t know what I’ll do without you.”

“You’ll survive,” you tell him without doubt. “Briar U’s entire female student population will quiver at the sight of the great John Logan gracing their hollowed halls.”

He snorts a laugh, his eyes alight even in the dimmed hue of the evening.

Your chuckles fizzle out, and then you’re left with this heady sort of air between you, his smile soft and fond, his eyes hazy like he’s tipsy.

“What?” You ask him, though you’re scared to.

“Nothing.” He shrugs, though you know he isn’t finished yet and you wait with bated breath for him to continue his thought. “I just really want you there. I need my Birdie.”

His Birdie.

His.

You stare at him for what feels like hours, trying to find something in his face that would reveal the trick or truth. He stares back openly, like he has nothing to hide.

You find it hard to breathe.

Then, you eat up the space between you quickly, vaguely registering that it’s a miracle you don’t knock the both of you out of the tree with how quickly and forcefully you fling yourself at him to kiss him. You’re standing on the branch just below the one he’s sitting on, his hands immediately going to your hips while yours wrap around his neck.

His mouth is still beneath yours for a few beats before he starts to reciprocate, his mouth curving into a smile as he squeezes your hips. You don’t know how long you kiss for, but it feels like one second and one hour all at the same time.

You don’t climb down until your completely out of breath, your skin feeling tight and sensitive as his fingers find where your shirt has ridden up, or his lips at the hollow of your neck just above where your collar starts. When you do make it down, he’s standing at the bottom and reaching up to grab hold of you by the waist, keeping you suspended in the air there for a moment before kissing you again.

Your back hits the bark when he pushes you against the trunk of the tree and you instinctively wrap your legs around him, his hands moving to the backs of your thighs.

You don’t know how or when you finally make it home. You’d start the walk back and then pause again to kiss like you’re starved for each other. You’re giggling like idiots when you finally make it to your front door, his hand in yours tugging you into him to feel his lips again.

“So what does this mean now?” You hear yourself ask, letting your fingers tangle in the soft hair at the nape of his neck.

“What does what mean now?” You watch his swollen mouth move that now resembles a darker pink than usual from your attention. You fight the urge to feel your own then, your mind hazy and limbs heavy like you’re drunk.

“This, us.”

You don’t sober until he pulls back with a sort of concerned look. “What do you mean ‘us’?”

“Well—“ You find yourself at a loss, unsure what to say. “I thought…” you trail off again.

“Birdie,” he says it low, like you’re a child. A kid who got caught with their hand in the cookie jar. Your hands fall to your sides as you back away. ”I’m leaving in a few days.”

“I know,” you reply firmly, your hands balling into fists to keep yourself from reaching back out. You feel shaky all of a sudden, like you’re coming down too quick. You feel desperate to rewind and go back to a few minutes ago.

“We were just…it can’t mean anything.”

And just like that, you feel yourself completely deflate; the needle of truth popping your balloon and you’re yanked back down to reality.

“Why…did you do it then?” You don’t understand and you hate that you don’t. You feel like crying and you hate that you do.

“We were just having fun.”

“Fun?” You echo woodenly, not really sure how what you did constitutes as fun. Enjoyable? Yes. Mind-melting? Absolutely. But fun? Not really. And especially not now.

“I…look, I’m sorry. I just broke up with Janelle and I was feeling lonely. I probably shouldn’t have sought you out like that.” He’s running his hands through his hair, but it just flops back into his face and you itch to push it back but don’t.

“You think?” You laugh bitterly. You hadn’t even known he’d a girlfriend, let alone that her name was Janelle. You feel stupid. You feel used. “So, that’s what these past few days were? Your ego was bruised so you came to me to make yourself feel better? Bigger?”

“No, Birdie—“

“You knew I’d be waiting for you,” You cut him off. “You knew you could kiss me just for fun and I’d let you. That I’d want you to.” You’re not asking because you know. You know your crush hasn’t ever been a secret—not to him, not to anyone. You knew how vulnerable and sad that made you, and yet you didn’t stop him.

“You kissed me,” he corrects, passing blame.

“Because you told me I was yours,” you cry out. “And you knew for years that’s all I’d been dying to be.”

The tears are freely flowing now as you angrily swipe at them. John’s face is crumpled by guilt as he reaches for you but you step away.

“Bird, please. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.” Your words lash out like a whip. “I gave you every reason to think you could.”

When you turn to go inside, he doesn’t stop you.

And the next day, he’s gone.

next part

masterlist

requests are open!

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dividers by: @pixopix @koosuvi

all writing is mine. please do not copy, translate, or post to another forum without my permission.

[cassiopeiia24]

*me when best friends to lovers with a little spice (the spice is the ennemies bit)*

[indecisivemuch]

fun fact

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader

Summary: You came in to work every day with a fun fact, determined to catch the BAU's genius with one that he wouldn't know (friends to lovers, co-workers to lovers, mutual feelings, fluff, confession)

Note: my spencer reid debut fic <3 sorry if there are any inaccuracy, just started rewatching after 3 years

Word count: 10.9k (sorry) 

“Small facts lead to great knowing” - Patrick Rothfuss (2011)

“I can’t believe anybody would do something like this,” you commented whilst looking down at the two documents in your hands—your thoroughly highlighted case dossier and your finished report. Every new case always exhibits unimaginable horror and unfortunately, there will always be something worse than your current worst. 

You turned to Spencer whilst perched cross-legged on the edge of his table.

The corner of the genius’s mouth curled at your words. They were the very same ones that sprouted daily despite the nature of your job. But to Spencer, there was a strange comfort in such small repetitive murmurs of disbelief.

“I gotta agree with Rossi. This job really includes some of the worst lunatics out there.” You sighed before straightening up at a sudden thought. “Actually, fun fact…” You noticed the way your words peeled Spencer’s attention from his report. He finally glanced up, eager for the second half of that sentence. 

“The word lunatic was invented based on the belief that mental illnesses were affected by moon phases.” You beamed at the idea of potentially providing your genius friend with new knowledge. 

“Yeah, and it actually originated from the Latin word ‘lunaticus,’ which means moonstruck or influenced by the moon. The word was first used for conditions like epilepsy or overall just madness,” Spencer replied, perking up at the thought of a potential conversation about this.

The excited smile on your face instantly faltered and you groaned in feigned annoyance. Perhaps you should have known better than to think you could out-fact Spencer and say something he had not already known.

“Is there anything you don’t know, Spence?” you glowered jokingly.

“Well, it’s hard when you’re a child prodigy and genius.” You let out a scoff-like laugh at Spencer’s cocky admission, but you knew he was joking. Despite his IQ of 187, Spencer rarely ever announced himself a genius. It was a title dubbed by those around him. You knew if you had Spencer’s brain, though, you would hardly ever stay as humble as him.

“I’ll get you someday.”

Your declaration drew a snort from another work desk and you twisted around to face the source of such a faithless sound.

“You don’t believe in me, Derek?” You arched a brow, your competitiveness rising to the surface.

“Sweet girl, I believe in you for many things, but this is just not one of them.”

“But surely there is one single fact out there that Spencer doesn’t know about.” Penelope piped up from next to Derek, defending you.

“We’re talking about the same Spencer, right? Spencer Reid? Three PhDs and an IQ of Einstein?” JJ spoke as she made her way down the bullpen.

“Actually, there is no way of measuring Einstein’s IQ as he never took the test, so to say that—” Derek quickly interrupted Spencer.

“Come on, pretty boy. She’s backing you up.”

“Sounds like grounds to start a betting pool going,” Rossi spoke up as he approached the whole group, briefcase in one hand, car keys in the other. “$20 says she’ll do it within four months.”

“I think she can do it within three months.” Emily chimed up from her desk.

“I’m placing my bet on eight months,” Penelope added confidently.

“Alright, and if she can’t do it within one year, JJ and I will split the win,” Derek announced before directing his next words to you, “Stakes are on, sweetheart.” He winked.

“Yeah, yeah. I got it.” You rolled your eyes before turning towards Spencer, declaring to him with exaggerated cockiness, “I’m gonna get you real soon, just wait.”

“You’re welcome to try.” The challenging glint in Spencer’s eyes met your own. Again, you knew better than to think that you would know something Spencer did not already know. He was practically the master of facts. But, unfortunately, you were incredibly bad at quitting.

So, let the challenge begin.

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

“Did you know that Australia is wider than the moon?” you questioned the second you saw Spencer enter the office the next morning. “Fun fact.”

“Yes, diameter-wise. Australia is almost 4,000 kilometres wide, while the moon’s diameter is nearly 3,500 kilometres. However, in terms of their masses, the moon is still larger.” You sighed dramatically at Spencer’s reply before spinning your chair towards your computer, turning the device on.

“And day one status: unsuccessful,” you grunted to yourself, catching Spencer’s grin from your peripheral vision.

“Oh? It’s gonna be daily?”

“You bet your ass it’s gonna be. There’s a betting pool and I’m unfortunately too competitive for my own good.” You caught the amusement dancing in Spencer’s gaze. 

“Well then, good luck.”

“Won’t need it.”

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

“Did you know a cloud can weigh like a million pounds?” You crossed your arms while peering at the cotton candy-like objects floating amidst the bright blue summer sky. “Fun fact.”

Both of you had your bulletproof vests on, leaning against a car while waiting for JJ to finish speaking to the press before driving back to the precinct. Another case wrapped. Another unsub locked up.

Under the nice weather, you had your cap and Spencer’s sunglasses on, having forgotten yours. He had heavily insisted so, even after you had declined a handful of times.

You turned and looked at Spencer briefly. Though, for a split second, your body stilled as the sun played in his favor, casting nice highlights to his woodsy colored locks. The light crinkle of his nose and his squinting eyes made your lips curl, cause once again, it showcased just how self-sacrificing Spencer can be when it came to the people close to him.

“Yeah, because they contain different states of matter like trillions of condensed water droplets and ice crystals. Its weight is equivalent to the world’s largest aircraft working at full capacity. Though despite its heaviness, clouds have lower density in comparison to the dry air around them, enabling them to float in the same way as oil floats on water.” Spencer tried to maintain eye contact with you despite the blaring sun shining into his eyes.

“Hmm…” you pursed your lips before removing your navy blue cap and placing it on your friend’s head. This cast a shadow over his eyes, blocking the harsh sun from blinding his vision. “Beautiful weather to fail at winning this fun fact thing again.”

Spencer didn’t reject the clothing item.

Some time in the history of human beings, the act of sporting others’ clothing items—especially of the opposite gender—had been made to seem important. Spencer has never understood the significance in such a small exchange. But as your hat landed on his head, Spencer felt an added weight that was beyond the small clothing item. 

Neither did he have it in him to adjust how you had left the cap on him, even if it didn’t sit on his head perfectly.

“I still have time to get you,” you continued after a moment of silence.

“359 days left.”

“More than enough.”

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

The clock was close to hitting 11pm. The whole team was taking a short break for a fresh perspective. Most were on their phones or taking a quick nap, but Spencer and you were playing a round of cards.

“Did you know ketchup used to be medicine? Fun fact.”

Both Emily’s and Derek’s watchful gaze panned from you to Spencer, anticipating his reaction to your daily shot at winning the bet.

“Around the 1830s, yeah. They marketed it as a cure for various ailments such as indigestion and diarrhea.” 

Emily instantly groaned at Spencer’s reply while Derek snickered. Once again, Spencer already knew the information you provided, just like the 13 previous times.

“See? Not a single thing he doesn’t know,” Derek chirped up, earning him a glare from the co-worker beside him.

You finally placed your next card down, instantly eying Spencer, wanting a read of his reaction to your play. There was a distant look in his eyes, a clear indication that he was taking this game just as seriously as you were.

Your eyes swept over the rest of your opponent. The un-neat edges in his usually tidy work attire and the way his hair stuck in different directions had your lips curling. They were details that only unveil during late work hours after a long day. But strangely enough, there was something endearing about the slight tiredness in his eyes and the way his cardigan hung disheveledly on him. 

“I won.”

Your eyes snapped to the pile of cards on the table at Spencer’s declaration.

“What?! No way. You must have cheated.”

“Now, now, don’t be a sore loser just because pretty boy over here won,” Derek teased you, despite also highly suspecting that Reid had cheated.

“Are we talking about the same pretty boy who is banned from many Vegas casinos because of his expert skill in counting cards?” JJ countered, placing her phone down. 

Your co-workers’ discourse began fading out of your focus as Spencer took out a ticket from his bag and handed it to you with a cheeky grin. With hesitation, you took the paper begrudgingly. You knew you had to hold your end of the deal. You had lost, after all.

You glanced back at the winner of the card game, catching his toothy grin at your sulking manners. Against all maturity, you poked your tongue out in petulance, but such childish action had Spencer laughing quietly in his spot, eyes gleaming with fondness.

“Sore loser.”

“Cheater.”

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

Hotch halted in his tracks upon spotting you and Reid in the break room.

Both of your heads were side by side, just a hair short from touching, fighting to have adequate sight of the newspaper that the two of you were sharing. Each of you also sported a pen in hand, scribbling hastily onto the delicate paper with vigorous competitiveness.

The unit chief entered to refill his coffee, though his eyes continued investigating you two. In the narrow gap between your heads, Hotch caught sight of Spencer rapidly filling out a crossword puzzle. Meanwhile, just as fast, you were solving a Sudoku piece that resided on the same page.

“Did you know, like fingerprints, people also have unique tongue prints?” you murmured, eyes still glued onto the puzzle in front of you. “Fun fact.”

“Yeah, humans have unique color, tongue shape, and textural features, therefore making it a great form of identification. However, we currently do not have the suitable technology to capture intricate surface details of tongue prints. Also, switching costs are high partially because the idea of having to stick one's tongue out in public for authentication can be seen as rather awkward, unhygienic, and undignifying.”

You pursed your lips at another unsuccessful day. But such expression vanished when you dropped your pen on the table and declared with unadulterated joy:

“Done!”

Your victory drew a defeated noise from Spencer.

“Imagine though, having to stick your tongue out at airport immigration and place it onto a public scanner or something like that.” You cackled at Spencer's grimace and the way his body slightly shivered from such a mental image. Eventually though, your laugh reduced to a teasing smile.

Spencer’s gaze lowered to the little crinkle that appeared around your eyes as you smiled, before holding eye contact with you. Spencer knew there was no such thing as “eyes twinkling,” but you had him doubting that scientifically established truth for a second. It was lighting and he knew that, but he had to admit that he could finally somewhat understand why poets and writers were so obsessed with dedicating lines towards such a tiny detail. 

Because even though there was no reason for him to, his own lips began to curl, mirroring the smile on your face.

From behind you both, Aaron Hotchner took a sip of his coffee before departing the room. Though on his way out, his eyes glinted a knowing look, while his lips lifted just the slightest bit before schooling back to a neutral expression again. 

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

“Did you know that back then, when raising a toast, people would literally drop a piece of toast into their wine?” you blurted out the second you slid yourself into the empty seat opposite Spencer at his breakfast table. Never have you ever skipped free hotel breakfast and today was no exception.

“Well, hello to you too.” Spencer grinned at your straight-to-business behavior. 

He carefully placed the coffee he made for you into your hand—a casual daily routine. You took a good whiff of the comforting aroma before humming at the first taste. It was exactly how you liked it: a dash of milk along with two and a quarter teaspoon of sugar.

To date, Spencer has never asked how you liked your coffee. 

He simply has always gotten it right.

It was not hard to guess that he had learnt your preferences from watching you make your coffee in the past. But you could not help but wonder if he took mental notes on others the same way he did with you. However, like every other time, you dismissed it as an occupational habit. Every member has been trained to be observant and notice little details. Spencer probably knew everybody’s coffee preferences.

“It actually originated from Ancient Rome, and back then, toast was an act to honor the gods and people would pour wine onto the floor. However, the custom evolved in many ways over time, depending on geographic regions. Around the 1600s, it became a common custom in England and this is where people would put a piece of spiced toast into their wine. They did it to improve the flavor of their beverage and also to “toast” to good health.”

Spencer caught your hum of satisfaction at the coffee and instantly felt pleased.

Science has long documented humans as naturally validation-seeking creatures. Your existence often humbled him from thinking he was not a recurring participant in that particular human instinct.

His eyes fell from you to your coffee—a particular mix that has ingrained itself into his memory since your first meeting. Funny that some time since then, he could no longer look at the beverage without ever thinking of you.

Neither could Spencer for the life of him recite the coffee order of anybody else at the BAU.

“36 days down…” you murmured, already picturing yourself rummaging the internet for more fun facts tonight.

“Maybe tomorrow.” The words came out softly, almost encouragingly. You hummed before matching his tone.

“Maybe.”

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

“Flies rub their hands as a sanitizing act, rather clean for an insect commonly associated with dirty places, no?” you murmured before peering up from your book whilst curled up in your seat on the BAU’s jet.

“Yes, it’s a self-grooming act. They do this primarily for two reasons. First and foremost, it’s because their legs are their flavour receptors, so they rub their front legs to ensure they can taste when eating. The other motivation is to remove dust and debris, therefore, ensuring survival.”

Your bottom lip jutted out slightly at another unsuccessful attempt.

“I’ll get you tomorrow…” you murmured with a teasing smile before re-immersing yourself in the fantasy world of your current novel.

Reading has become your escapism and method of self-grounding prior to any case. You tried to plunge into fictional worlds while flying to prepare yourself for the terrible realities that accompanied upcoming cases. Though at one point, Spencer started joining in. But instead of having his own book, he would lean over and scan your current page with unrealistic speed while you leisurely let each letter sink in. It became a routine that occupied your journey from Quantico, whereas on the way back, Spencer and you maintained your tradition of engaging in chess matches. 

Spencer spotted your finger flipping the page once more and his eyes instantly swept over the printed words hastily.

Twenty thousand words per minute. That was Spencer’s known reading speed, which meant in merely two seconds or three, he was already done with the two pages in front of you both. As always, you were still reading at your own pace, unhurried. He knew he could adopt a slower speed to enjoy your chosen fictional literature. But lately, he found himself in a hurry, rushing himself to finish pages in a way that made him think maybe he was now above his previously established reading speed. 

Why?

His gaze flicked over to you, mulling over the familiar details that made you, you. He studied the way your fingers trace the fore-edge of the book mindlessly, lingering on the way you tease your lips with your teeth as you registered the adventure that the story was taking you on. Spencer caught the slight shift in the space between your eyebrows and how they slightly twitch according to plot progression, displaying your commitment to your reading content.

Spencer would not classify himself as a people watcher, despite his necessary observant and analytical traits as a profiler. Yet, somehow, watching you had become one of his favorite quiet activities. In your little habits were his comfort. In moments when cases were overwhelming, his eyes have made a tendency to land on you. The spike in his heartbeat would normalize, whilst rapid thoughts would regulate. It was only in moments when Spencer would get caught by you that he would tear his gaze away sheepishly, before attempting to pretend that he was looking elsewhere instead.

The sound of paper rustling pulled Spencer out of his mind, and he instantly plunged himself into the same self-established cycle again.

And despite his fondness for literature, for once, it did not hold a candle in his eyes.

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

“Cows have best friends, how great is that?”

Spencer stopped eating his ice cream the second he spotted someone passing the two of you in a cow onesie, giving away why you decided on that particular fun fact. His eyes fell back on you, glimmering with amusement. 

“Yes, cows do have a ‘best friend’ who they tend to share spaces and rest side by side with. Research shows that when separated, these cows would show signs of stress and anxiety with higher heart rates.”

You hummed at that. By now, you were used to his immediate expansion on your facts, no longer surprised or disappointed every time he added onto your words. 

In fact, you fondly looked forward to hearing what he had to say about whatever fact you would sprout. There was a deep sense of appreciation that you have grown for this challenge. You felt like, intellectually, your general knowledge had expanded immensely, both from researching fun facts to tell Spencer and also from the informative responses that you would receive from him.

“You know, cows also can develop what some may refer to as ‘accents.’ Research observed variations in their moos based on different regions and herds.” Spencer leaned closer to you before adding cheekily, “Fun fact.”

“Nuh uh, don’t go stealing my line. You’re not allowed to put me out of business.”

This tore a laugh out of Spencer, and you immediately bit back a smile at such a sound. 

If humans have the ability to bottle noises for keepsake, you know now what sound you would try to capture.

Surprisingly, this was only the second time that Spencer and you had spent time together one-on-one out of work. 

With the working hours at the BAU that forced you and all your co-workers to be in close proximity for an extensive amount of time, you tend to allocate your scarce free time to those who were outside of your work circle. But something about spending time with Spencer today had struck you with an epiphany:

You really, really wanted to see Spencer outside of work more often.

Both your phones started ringing at the same time.

“Penelope, is everything okay?” you answered quietly.

“Emily?” Spencer whispered at the same time into his phone.

After a few seconds, you both ended your respective phone calls before slowly turning to face each other again. You scanned yours and Spencer’s outfit before sighing.

“There’s not enough time to go home and change.” The devastation in your voice was imminent.

“I know.”

A few minutes later, both of you entered the office, and almost instantly, the noise level declined significantly as the whole team paused their actions. You winced, knowing immediately that you two were about to be the butt of many incoming jokes.

“Whoa, what time period did you guys travel back from?” Emily teased.

“We were at a convention, okay?” You huffed, picking up your go-bag from under your desk for a change of clothes.

“And you two are dressed up as…?” Rossi crossed his arms, undoubtedly amused.

The team scanned over both of your outfits. Spencer was wearing a brown fedora hat, an oxblood colored corduroy jacket, and grey pants. Despite the only semi-chilly weather, he also sported a colorful striped knitted scarf around his neck. As for you, you were in an all pink attire, but what stood out was your long pink coat, high pink boots, and long white scarf.

“The fourth doctor and Romana II, from Doctor Who,” Spencer answered, grabbing his go bag.

Derek’s eyes comedically bulged out at that, and he immediately spun his chair towards you. “Blink twice if Reid is blackmailing you with something to make you go to this convention with him.” You laughed at his remark.

“Listen, remember the card game I lost two months ago? That’s why I had to go, but when I actually started the show, I really enjoyed it.” You raised your hands in surrender.

“Oh, we lost another one. She got Reid-ified,” Derek exclaimed dramatically before placing a hand on his chest in jest heartbreak, grinning at your eye roll.

By now, Spencer had returned to your side with his go-bag. Though just as you two turned around to head off and change, an abrupt flash halted you both in your steps. Blinking away the after-effect of the blinding light, you saw Penelope with her phone facing you two and a cheeky grin on her face.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Delete that,” you immediately instructed, hands on your hips while your brows furrowed in fussiness. You then sucked in a deep breath and used your hand to comb through your hair before a smile broke your feigned annoyed expression. “I was not ready.”

Then, with dramatic flair, you posed properly for the camera, grabbing Spencer’s scarf exaggeratedly with both hands while tugging him lightly. 

Spencer was unsure if his knees had buckled due to a slight loss of balance or from your proximity. He glanced at the camera, face slightly flushed, before witnessing another flash go off, evidencing his blush and putting it on record.

Your hands were gone from his scarf like a breeze. 

“Alright, I’m gonna go change now.” By the time Spencer registered your words, you were already gone. All that was left at the spot you previously occupied was his attention. Spencer's eyes eventually moved when he heard a quiet giggle from Penelope, who was indescribably entertained by the dazed look on his face.

The tech expert slowly angled her phone towards Spencer to show what she had captured, and she carefully observed Spencer’s contemplative gaze. His eyes landed on you first, and they softened at the sight of your beaming face. They then traced the slope of your smile and the crinkle of your eyes before reluctantly trailing down to your hands and the way they bossily clung onto his scarf. 

The sentiment of pictures has always been just a concept to Spencer Reid. He does understand the logic behind people’s attachment to colored captures of moments and why people have ‘important’ photos in their wallets or have framed physical copies. But personally, he rarely ever practiced it. Yet, in this precise moment, he suddenly wanted to begin.

Without even looking at himself in the photo, Spencer murmured to Penelope:

“Can you send that to me, please? Thank you.”

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

“Where is she?” Derek’s gaze darted up to his friend. One glance at Spencer and the man already knew who he was referring to.

“Garcia said she called in sick this morning. Why?”

“Nothing.”

Derek scanned over Spencer from head to toe properly this time. Realisation flashed through his eyes before the man smirked as he looked back down at his work. 

Ah, the perks of being a profiler.

“Sure, pretty boy.”

“What was that loo—” 

The sound of Spencer’s phone ringing interrupted his question. He took the device out of his pocket, and the phone almost flew out of his hand when he saw your name flashing on the screen. He immediately picked up and placed the device beside his ear, breathing out your name in greeting.

Instead of your usual cheery tone, Spencer was met with a muffled voice and snifflings.

Immediately, his body stiffened.

“Are you okay?” He was by his desk within seconds. His fingers grazed over his jacket, as if prepared to scoop the clothing up and dash out of the office if your answer indicated any distress. 

“My nose is blocked. Both sides. It’s horrendous,” then came a dramatic sigh, “I’m becoming a mouth breather, Spence.”

Your melodrama tore a laugh from Spencer’s throat.

Derek’s lips curled discreetly at the noise.

“Anyway, don’t think you can escape your daily fun fact just because I’m not physically in the office.” Spencer was glad you were not physically with him, because if you were, you would have seen the idiotic grin stretching his face. But how could he not smile at your stubborn resilience, and the cute sound of your nasally voice that was slightly more high-pitched than normal. 

“You’re sick, and you took a day off work, but not off the fun fact thing?”

“In sickness and in health, as they say.”

Spencer accidentally snorted at your words and immediately cleared his throat in an attempt to cover it.

Derek’s brows scrunched at that.

“Apparently, while wired to specific scientific machines and whatnot, two lucid dreamers can have two-way communication in real time. How cool is that?” Spencer hummed fondly at your words before sitting down, his plan to flee from office hours long gone.

“That’s quite a recent fun fact. The study was recently concluded just about two years ago,” his voice came out soft as he focused on any sound that the technological device beside his ear could carry over from your end. 

He caught your hum, though the sound resembled the same one you always did while sitting next to him on the jet as the team flew back to Quantico. The noise that often preceded the soft landing of your head on his shoulder and the way he’d sit straighter up to accommodate you entirely despite his germaphobia-led touch aversion.

“You should sleep and rest,” he whispered, despite wanting to hear your voice for longer. But selflessness came easy when you were in consideration.

Spencer carefully began listing all the things you ought to do later to get better. But halfway through, he noticed the lack of noise from the other end, except for your rhythmic breathing, signaling your sound asleep state. Spencer sighed before removing the phone from his ear. He stared at the device in long contemplation before clicking the end call button.

Finally placing down the device that signified his only contact with you today, Spencer flipped open today’s case dossier. However, he found himself re-reading the first sentence over and over again. His eyes kept scanning over the same words, and he felt the way they slid past his comprehension the same way small external details occasionally would escape his notice whenever he spent time with you. 

Spencer’s mind kept trailing back to the phone call and to you.

It’s familiarity—he tried to tell himself. Humans were, afterall, creatures of habit, and considering you have been swirled into his daily routine like a necessity, it made sense that the lack of your presence had set him off balance. 

Eventually, Spencer got up and went to the break room for coffee. But the second he opened the cupboard and his eyes landed on your mug, he felt his mouth run dry. 

For the past one and a half years, he has always made two cups of coffee instead of one at the start of each day.

His eyes darted to his mug right next to yours. The idea of separating them sent some sort of ache in his heart, even if logically they were just ceramic vessels.

Perhaps he had mislabeled what missing someone meant all along, because your absence was bringing a hollowness that nobody had managed to carve out of him before. It was the kind of emptiness that made him feel incomplete, as if a piece of himself was not with him. Yet, as opposed to the expected numbness that often accompanied such a feeling, Spencer felt every second of your absence with a constant stinging ache that felt too akin to withdrawal symptoms. 

Eventually, Spencer shut the cupboard and returned to his desk, coffee-less.

That evening after work, Spencer made a detour instead of going straight home, missing the way his friends huddled together, exchanging hushed whispers about his departure.

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

Twenty two hours, forty eight minutes, and thirty one seconds.

Spencer witnessed as time quietly slipped through the cracks of his remaining strength. 

The whole bullpen lacked the life his work family usually colored in. The janitor had long shut off the main lights, so the only thing illuminating the space near Spencer was his desk lamp. Everybody else had gone home except for Hotch, but the unit chief was in his office, leaving Spencer as the last man standing in the bullpen.

After a few more ticks, Spencer finally tore his gaze from the timing instrument and glided his vision back down to the pen in his hand, forcing it to ink his unfinished report, but words refused to string together. 

Spencer’s free hand began tapping his desk rhythmically in a pathetic attempt to comfort himself.

Twenty two hours, fifty one minutes, and twenty one seconds.

Spencer wanted to say that it didn’t matter. Why should it? But he knew damn well that the answer was because the team mattered to him. 

However, perspective was truly a funny thing. Someone could be your number one priority, and you barely just made it in their list.

Spencer averted his gaze from the unfinished report to the brand new photo frame on his desk, where a captured version of the recent memory of you two as Doctor Who characters resided.

It did not take a genius to see that you two were closer to one another than with others on the team. However, the fun fact challenge had truly unlocked another level of bond. It was the kind of connection that meant he had started placing you above the others, a position that implied he also expected more from you, cause perhaps he thought you had also valued him just as much as he treasured you in his mind. 

So as much as the whole team was the source of his dismay, there was a spotlight reserved for your absence, one that was beyond glaring and punched his guts in ways that others could not.

His eyes traced your face in the photograph again, like they had done every morning since he had gotten the picture framed. 

Oftentimes, you could never be absolutely sure where you stand in someone’s life.

Twenty two hours, fifty nine minutes, and ten seconds.

A resigned breath escaped the narrow gap between his lips.

With more effort than it usually took, Spencer got on his feet, hoping that another cup of coffee would be the cure for his inefficiency. He slowly placed more weight on one side of his body to turn around. At the same time, Spencer began rubbing his face in hopes that exhaustion and melancholy would push themselves aside for a brief moment so that he could finish this impending task. 

When Spencer finally reopened his eyes to navigate the darkness, he froze at the sight that was once behind him.

Eight steps away was you, looking like a deer caught in headlights. 

Then came your escaped nervous laughter, like you were scared of screwing up, but that was only because you were unaware that you could almost never do wrong in Spencer’s eyes. His heart—which Spencer’s brain has been having a harder time controlling lately—provided you with a much larger margin for error than anybody else.

Your gentle tone filled the fragile silence that was intertwined with suspense.

“Fun fact, birthday cakes are traditionally round as an Ancient Greek tradition to resemble the moon for the goddess Artemis.” Your eyes crinkled as your lips curled into that familiar smile that had previously held Spencer powerless on numerous occasions. “Happy Birthday, Spence.”

There you were, cake in hand after a long day of work on a gruesome case.

There you were, with a homemade cake after a long day of him thinking everybody had forgotten his birthday, or more importantly, that you had forgotten.

But maybe his probability was not entirely against him. 

“I know I’m quite late, but trust me, there’s an explanation. When I got to the office this morning, I realized that I had forgotten your cake at home. I was planning to grab it after work, but the case kept us all back so late, and then traffic was super bad because of a concert today. But hey, I got the cake now, and I really hope you like it.”

You peered down at your own baking product and the slightly wonky penmanship before turning your eyes back onto Spencer.

“Also, since it’s your birthday, I’ll give you a bonus fun fact. There are roughly 30,000 people who have their birthdays on October 12th in the States, but…” 

Your voice fell quiet as your eyes diverted back to the cake again. 

“You’re my favorite October 12th.”

And right at that second, all of Spencer’s previous attempts at rationalising his feelings via scientific explanations collapsed. For once, science could no longer shield him, because as much as it was a field built on facts of concrete evidence, there was also an undeniable truth: he liked you.

It might not be rational, but it was still a fact, and that alone terrified Spencer. 

And while he was your favorite October 12th, you were his favorite every day.

Spencer glanced down at the handmade cake and the singular purple candle pierced in the center. The tiny flame provided just enough light for the space between you both. His eyes then flicked back onto you, and they softened.

God, you were so clueless about the effect your actions have on him and his whole world.

One breath extinguished the fire, and grey smoke fluttered into the air.

Then, for the first time since he saw you five minutes ago, Spencer managed to form the only words he felt were worthy enough of your time.

“Thank you.”

Even if the significance behind those words didn’t reach you today, it was okay. But they carry the weight of his whole heart and every unspoken reason behind his gratefulness. 

Thank you for not forgetting about him today. Thank you for always being so kind and paying attention to the details about him. Thank you for being such an important part of his life. Thank you for choosing the exact career path that you did to lead you to him. Thank you for existing. 

And someday, maybe Spencer Reid will gather enough courage to tell you all of this.

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

You halted in your step, and almost immediately Spencer followed suit. His eyesight followed yours, and he instantly knew what you were gonna ask from him.

“Come on, can you play for me? Please?” you urged, and it didn’t take more than your pleading face to make him approach the instrument that lay abandoned in the corner of the hotel where the whole team was staying.

Saying “no” became a significantly harder task for Spencer ever since he realised what kind of position his feelings were in when it came to you. It especially felt like an impossible task when your words came in that pleading tone and the smile that had him wishing stopping time was one of his abilities.

You followed Spencer and leaned against the instrument eagerly. You observed as he lightly cracked his knuckles, eying the mixture of ivory and ink-dark keys with a calculative gaze before placing his fingers delicately on them while his foot pressed gently on one of the pedals at the base.

For a moment, you wondered what Spencer would play. Maybe one of the classical pieces he liked a lot. Perhaps Bach? Or—  

A familiar tune overtook the pleasant quietness in the empty hotel lobby, and recognition struck you with every flawless execution of each note.

First off, you knew he was a liar, saying he only dabbled in piano. But what caught you off-guard was hearing the piano version of your favorite song. 

It was things like this that made you conclude that Spencer Reid was one of the sweetest individuals you have ever had the privilege to know. From making you coffee daily to hunting down first editions of your favorite books (the most recent one in which he handed over along with soup the day you got sick and were off work). Now, he was learning your favorite song on the piano. 

Lucky felt like an inadequate word to describe your position in life when Spencer was in the equation.

Only when he finished the very modern composition did you speak up.

“I thought you only listened to classical?”

“I…did,” was all that came out of Spencer’s mouth, but it was enough for you to catch his implication that he had learnt this song specifically on the piano for you.

Spencer sniffled, diverting his gaze from you shyly as he inspected the keys in front of him again.

Ever since his birthday, Spencer could constantly feel the urge to confess right on the tip of his tongue while his lips trembled in self-control to keep them to himself for now. According to the internet and its various articles, he should try to ‘woo’ you first, and hence these actions instead of confessing right away. He wondered if you got his message. He wondered if you could tell this was his version of flirting. However, Spencer also knew that he had accidentally portrayed himself as an extremely sweet friend from your perspective, so thoughtful actions with the aim of impressing you romantically were most likely ruled as platonic gestures. 

You began toying with the ring on your middle finger, the flattery from his sweet action manifested itself through the heat beneath your cheeks. For the first time in your almost three years of friendship with Spencer, you were struck by a minor nerve-wracking sensation. There was also a fleeting stutter in your chest that you decisively ignored.

You moved on with a quiet murmur.

“You know, humans owe squirrels a lot. They have planted at least thousands of trees.” You gave him a soft smile when his eyes met yours again. “It’s accidental, but no less a noble act contributing to the environment.”

“Yeah, they would bury nuts for later usage, but forget their locations. Many forgotten nuts can grow into trees, therefore, contributing to forest regeneration.” 

“Anddd another fun fact failure.” You groaned, though your expression melted into a smile when you heard Spencer chuckle at that. 

“We should head up. It’s getting late.”

You nodded in agreement and began walking, but looked back briefly at Spencer. “But it’s not too late for an episode of Doctor Who, right?”

An outstretched grin spread across Spencer’s face at your words.

“Never.”

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

“No way.” You were speechless as you made way out of Spencer’s car, staring at the building in front of you in disbelief. “Don’t tell me…”

“Yeah, it’s for your favorite film,” Spencer confirmed your suspicion.

“So, it didn’t matter that I had lost, huh?”

Shortly after your Doctor Who convention together, Spencer had invited you to this event that was two and a half months after. Though he insisted on keeping the details a secret, relaying only the dress code—smart casual, but whatever you were most comfortable with.

The secretive factor of the whole ordeal had you guessing in suspense for the entire two months, but now that you were here, you fully understood why.

This was the event that you both would have gone to instead of the Doctor Who convention if you had won that game of cards.

An orchestra movie concert of your favourite movie.

Spencer sucked in a deep breath, fingers toying with the loose threads of his cardigan. There he went again, attempting to present to you that he was an option—the best one, at that—and giving signals that he was pursuing you. He has read at least five hundred online articles on the art of flirting in the past week alone. If Derek ever found his online searching history, Reid would never live it down.

“God, this is the best thing ever.” Seeing how pleased you were with his action made Spencer want to physically preen with pride.

Once you two had settled down inside, you took a couple of photos and observed your surroundings. You looked around at your neighboring audiences before averting your gaze to the empty chairs that were soon to be filled by instrumental experts. Your body was flooded with excitement at the prospect of finally being at this event. 

You decided to chime in with your daily fun fact just minutes before the concert was due to start.

“Did you know that there’s a planet that is ⅓ made of diamonds?” you whispered.

“55 Cancri e, right?” he matched your volume, shifting in the chair beside you to make himself comfortable.

“Yeah, that one,” you confirmed, turning your head back to him. “Go on, I know you have details on it.” You encouraged, shifting yourself into a comfortable position as well.

“55 Cancri e is a super-Earth exoplanet, approximately twice the size of Earth, though roughly eight times heavier in terms of mass. First sighted and discovered in 2004, scientists have found that it is a very hot and rocky planet with a molten lava ocean surface due to its incredibly close orbit to its star…”

You were leaning into your palm while listening to him, clinging onto every word as they absorbed into your brain. The space you left in between you both out of consideration for Spencer gradually lessened as he leaned in closer the more he talked. His tone, too, grew more quiet as he went on, as if the information he was telling you did not exist in some cyclopaedia, but a secret passed in full trust. 

The corners of your lips curled at the twinkle in Spencer’s eyes as he detailed out knowledge that previously sat in the corner of his brain, collecting dust.

Spencer’s intellectual rambling will always be one of your favorite things about him. You loved hearing him talk and the way he enunciated each syllable so clearly, as well as his wordings and his tonal patterns. You should have gotten used to it by now, but it marvelled you every single time that you had the chance to listen to him talk about things you would rely on an internet search to know. Just like usual, today was no different.

Spencer Reid was remarkable. It was almost impossible to take your eyes off him when he talked. He was a bundle of many things that made him an individual worth a lifetime of getting to know.

You wondered if you were looking at him a little bit too fondly right now. But how could you not when he was whispering sweet facts to you as if he only wanted you to know of it? It felt almost as if this fun fact challenge had turned into a sacred tradition between you two. 

“Even though it is widely said that the planet is ⅓ of diamond, this is actually still only a theory and yet to be proven. So, to dub it the Diamond Planet when they’re not even sure if there are diamonds on the planet itself is like…suspecting you are a quarter or half French and then introducing yourself as French to people anyway.”

Your laughter burst out unfiltered, and you instantly grounded yourself by clearing your throat and pulling yourself away from Spencer slightly, putting yourself on timeout.

That was kind of embarrassing. 

The joke was slightly funny, but nowhere close to warranting that kind of laughter.

It sort of reminded you of the videos you have seen on the internet about the kind of laugh that people would let out in reaction to their crush’s jok—

Oh.

You subtly slid deeper into your chair as thoughts shot in your mind at a hundred miles per second. Your fingers immediately curled into your palms to dig at it. You could not look back at Spencer in fear that he would notice that something was wrong. 

Oh God. 

But were you really surprised though? 

A part of you had seen it coming, because as much as you adore all your co-workers, you knew in the bottom of your heart that Spencer was the only one you were willing to lessen your sleeping hours to prolong hanging out and conversing with. Also, to be immune to such sweet actions, you would have to be some statue made of stone. For years now, Spencer had intently taken time to know you and go out of his way just to make you happy. If anything, you were grateful that your heart had picked someone so kind and worthy to give itself away to.

You glanced at Spencer from the corner of your eyes, and just the sight of him alone had your heart hiccupping in a way that you had become familiar with for the past month. It was the kind of stutter that you had outright been trying to ignore and written off as nothing. But unlike all the previous times, you knew you could no longer deny that man next to you was the reason for such palpitations.

And maybe it was also time to face it: you like Spencer Reid, your genius of a friend and very much also a profiler.

Your eyes snapped away from him the moment you realized the significance of playing it cool. You could not have him picking up the signs and figuring out that you have feelings for him. But then again, you have seen how clueless he was around women who were hitting on him and failing to pick up their signals. So, maybe he would not notice your current body language either.

Before you could think more on the matter, the lights dimmed and instruments began stringing together in a well-rehearsed manner. It was only then that you began breathing again, relieved that you had two hours to collect your thoughts and come to terms with the newly attained knowledge about yourself.

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

“Alright, what’s the fun fact of today?” you heard Spencer’s voice before peering up and seeing him behind your chair, hands on the back of the furniture, looking down at you with a shy smile. The sight of his adorable expression made your cheeks heat up, and you had to avert your gaze to prevent him from spotting signs of your flustered state.

The other members just boarded the jet as well, settling into their own spots after a tiring case. You were much less the same, sporting the now more noticeable eye bags that matched Spencer’s. Yet, that does not deter his gaze from the warmth they hold.

You gestured to Spencer’s usual seat right next to you. Once he had settled down, you made your next move on his chessboard, resuming your current ongoing match with him. You could see the instant way the cogs in his brain started spinning. At that, you provided your fun fact of the day, hoping it would serve as a distraction.

“You know, I read that there are more possible variations of chess games than the number of atoms in the universe.”

“Yeah, it’s known as the Shannon number—the number of possible chess games, I mean, which is 10 to the power of 120. Meanwhile, the estimated number of atoms in the observable universe is 10 to the power of 80, to 10 to the power of 82.”

He made his move, catching your discreet yawn in the corner of his eyes.

“Fascinating, isn’t it?” The weight behind your eyes turned them half-lidded. They landed on the chessboard, trying to formulate the next best move, but your brain refused to cooperate as a fog of sleepiness overclouded your judgments.

“You don’t have to play now, you know. We can just play next time.”

“No, no. Give me a second, I’ll make my move.”

“You’re tired.”

You slowly turned your head towards Spencer, and there it was again. You caught the concern leaking from his gaze, and it instantly reminded you just how caring Spencer was to those in his life and especially you. Your mouth formed a tired yet grateful smile at his expressed worry.

You felt sorry for those who have never had the opportunity to be the subject of his affections.

For a split second, you pondered the kind of doting that Spencer would do if he were pursuing someone romantically. You have never seen him express interest in any woman during your time at the BAU, despite the advances he has gotten from various good-looking women. But if he was already this sweet platonically, you were fairly certain your heart would give out at what he had in mind as romance.

Your shoulders finally slumped before a truthful sigh escaped from you. “Yeah.”

Unlike usual, where you would fall asleep and land on his shoulder while you were knocked out, he outright shifted to sit up straighter for you, offering his shoulder.

Spencer never admitted it out loud, but he had foolishly started wanting the friction of your skin against his or the fabric of his belongings. It was an impossible he thought would never occur, but here he was, anticipating the next rare moment of physical touch beside the one where his shoulder would become your pillow. 

Of course, he had noticed it—your lack of touch when it came to him. He was devastatingly aware of your mindfulness of his germaphobia, and Spencer was grateful, he really was. However, your reservation to accommodate his tendencies had begun feeling like deprivation. In fact, Spencer could count on one hand the amount of times you had ever touched him deliberately, with the last one being one hundred and sixty three days ago.

But it was that particular initiative factor that Spencer deeply yearned for. He craved and awaited for a touch made with purpose. 

He wanted you to mean it.

You stilled at such a small action, gaze stopping on his shoulder. You did not want to over-interpret such a simple movement, but knowing Spencer, there were implications and significance in that little offering. 

You knew it had become a recurring thing. As embarrassed as you were, you could not help the fact that you were the type to move around a lot in your sleep. You had tried using an airplane pillow, leaning against the wall, and so many other methods. However, most of the time, you would still wake up on Spencer’s shoulder before instantly jolting up and freeing him from the physical touch.

But the certainty on Spencer’s face left your rejection stuck in your throat.

Hesitantly, you began shifting closer, giving Spencer just enough time to retract the offer if he wanted to. But he stayed confidently still as your head started leaning down before finally landing on his shoulder.

One single small action had Spencer questioning how much longer he could go on like this. How much longer could he keep these feelings tightly locked and concealed? Because Spencer was utterly gone for you. Gone in the kind of way where one casual compliment from you about the cardigan he was wearing had him immediately putting the item into his clothing rotation a lot more frequently.

“I’m gonna get you some day, Spence…” Spencer watched as you drifted to sleep before closing his own eyes, all while he wished the flight back would last forever.

Unbeknownst to you both, the team exchanged knowing looks and discreet smiles at the sight they were witnessing. There had been nothing more obvious to them than this, but instead of intervening, they decided to let things play its course. 

Because, despite the uncertain nature surrounding the occurrence of events in life, this was the one thing everybody was sure was inevitable.

﹏ ﹏ ﹏

The jet finally arrived back at Quantico around 11pm. Spencer had finished his report a few minutes before you did, but lingered behind as usual to wait for you. About two weeks ago, he had established a new routine between you both. 

“Ready?” Spencer carefully peeled your bag from your hand, checking his watch to see that it was already past midnight, marking a new day.

“Yeah…” you breathed out tiredly, eager to collapse in bed. “More than ready.”

You like to think you have kept it cool well, in general. But Spencer’s new routine of walking you to your car after work had you a nail tip away from laying all your cards bare and revealing your feelings. Even on days when you finished your report first, he would walk you to your car before returning to the office. But the thing was:

Spencer Reid rarely ever drove to work, which meant he was going to the employee parking lot every day with you for no reason. 

Well, for no reason but you.

The elevator began making its descent from the sixth floor with both of you inside. You were listening carefully as Spencer discussed an academic paper he had read last night. The doors soon jerked open, revealing the fairly empty parking lot. At the sight of your car, you subtly began slowing down your steps, biting back a smile when you noticed him mirroring your change of pace. 

You observed as he animatedly gushed about the methodology of the research paper, paying particular attention to the tiny detail of his body language. The way his hands were passionately waving around, exaggerating certain points Spencer was trying to make. The flutter of his eyelashes as he blinked a bit faster than he usually would—a habit that often occurs when he speaks quickly, as you have learned. The smooth movements of his lips as his mouth tried to rush out words to match the pace of his incredibly brilliant brain.

Now that you were looking at his lips, you have to admit that it was kind of hard to look away.

Suddenly, an idea brewed in your mind, and it felt like the holy grail had finally landed in your lap. Who would have known that a random Thursday would be the day you ought to finally win this challenge and put Spencer in checkmate.

“Spence?” Your lips curled mischievously, observing the way Spencer halted in his steps at your tone. 

God, despite being subjected to harsh and unflattering parking lot lights, Spencer still had the audacity to look good in a way that tugged at your heartstrings. The sight had you questioning if he was capable of ever looking bad. His warm eyes colored with interest as he eagerly awaited your next words. You took a couple more steps forward, wanting to hide the plotting expression on your face. 

“Fun fact…” You paused before peering back at him. At those two words, you instantly caught the anticipation rolling off him. There was also a subtle confidence from him that signalled he was sure he already knew whatever you were planning to tell him. But you knew that this time, things would be different. 

With a competitive glint in your eyes, you finally divulged today’s fun fact, your voice calm and stable.

“I like you.”

Just as you predicted, Spencer froze while his mouth fell agape. No words fell out of those talkative lips, a stark contrast to how fast he was speaking a couple of seconds ago. You practically beamed in victory at such a reaction. You wanted to celebrate, you really did. But you decided not to gloat about your win yet. Instead, you prioritised the better option: teasing your friend.

“I recalled you mentioning once that kissing spreads fewer germs than shaking hands?” You winked playfully, expecting nothing from it. It was simply a joke to make Spencer flustered for your entertainment, and there was zero expectation that he would somehow miraculously confess that he had been secretly liking you too and would actually kiss you at your workplace’s parking lot at 1am.

Because there was no way Doctor Spencer Reid liked you, right?

You observed as his lips slowly curled up in amusement as your words sunk in, and that partially made your shoulders relaxed. Well, at least your joke landed, and your friendship would make it out intact despite your confession.

But then, out of nowhere, that closed-mouth smile stretched into a full-on grin before a chuckle of disbelief escaped from Spencer. 

Now, you were on alert. Instantly, you tried to read his reaction—was he in disbelief that he was finally stumped by a fact he had not yet known of? Was he amused by your clever trick of using your own feelings as a fun fact? But the elation on his face and the awestruck look in his eyes hardly aligned with someone who had just lost a long-term challenge.

Your lips parted as you continued assessing the man, but you caught the way his eyes flickered down at that small movement before he sucked in a deep breath.

Oh…?

Suspicion crept in, but confirmation came quicker.

In the blink of an eye, Spencer had completely eliminated the two steps between you both, sealing you two in a proximity that was closer than you had ever been with him. His palms found your face, and they cupped your cheeks in a careful yet certain way.

Spencer’s eyes darted all over your face, searching for all the clues that you were okay with what he had next in mind. He could see that your pupils were slightly dilated, as well as feel the way you were leaning into his touch and the heat that was transferring from your cheeks to his hands. Though it was only when you did not pull away and instead, had your tongue dart out to wet your lips, did Spencer kill the remaining space between your faces.

His lips slanted against yours in a desperate manner that outmatched his need for oxygen, kissing you like it was long overdue. He swallowed the gasp escaping your throat and the surprised noise that followed. There was an urgency he could not hide as his straining self-control snapped from your green light. 

You began kissing him back just a second or two after, and almost instantly, you heard a sigh of relief. Your lips curled, but any trace of smugness vanished when his thumb began rubbing your cheek fondly. Suddenly, you were aware of just how close you two were. Every point of contact was sending a searing heat through your body, because despite his fears of germs, Spencer was touching your skin like it was a need, rather than an obligation for moments like these. 

You pressed your lips harder against his.

Good lord, Spencer could do this forever. 

He might have been able to count the number of times you have touched him on one hand, but even with the whole team, there were not enough fingers to account for the number of times he had glanced at your lips this week alone.

Your own hands touched the sides of his waist, and you instantly caught the longing noise that escaped from Spencer’s throat, echoing onto your lips. At such an encouraging sound, you curled your hands to the back of his body and snaked them up his back. Your lips smirked against his at the way he arched into your touch. 

One hundred and sixty three days—Spencer reminded himself again, humming in utter satisfaction at the way those numbers spun down to zero. Finally, you were touching him on purpose and with purpose. He practically melted at the way your hands roamed so confidently without any trace of guilt that he was uncomfortable, because he was far from that.

In fact, he eagerly wanted to keep the number of days since the last time you touched him at zero permanently. 

You picked that precise moment to pull away, documenting the way his eyes fluttered open and dawned into existence the unadulterated glimmer of yearning in them. 

You have always thought he was gorgeous, but how he looked right then rendered the word inadequate. It was a vision exceeding all your daydreams, and to be the reason behind the look made you feel like you were an award winning fashion designer who had just invented a magnificent masterpiece. But unlike most, you had no intention of sharing this artwork with the world or with anybody else.

Spencer felt his heart squeeze at the sight of you again. Was it possible to miss someone so badly from not having a visual on them for approximately a minute? Maybe he was more screwed than he thought.

Breathlessly, he finally whispered the confession that he had long to say for a month.

“Despite all the facts I already know and have learnt during my whole entire life, you’re my favorite thing to study and know more about, and have been since you stepped into my life. Nothing I learnt after felt like it could outrank anything I learnt about you.” It was true.  Every speck of information about you gets the forefront of his memory’s line-up, taking priority over every other knowledge. Spencer licked his own lips for remnants of you before continuing, “You’re my favorite fun fact, you know that?”

Your heart tugged at his words. You had no idea how you managed to compete with the vast amount of interesting information that existed in the world, but under Spencer’s stare, you truly could see he meant every word.

“But…” The smile on your face instantly dropped at that single word from Spencer. Good rarely ever followed that three-letter conjunction.

“But?”

“I do have to admit that, uhm…” The familiar sheepish glint in his eyes had one of your eyebrows shooting up. “I kinda already know that fun fact already, that you liked me.” Your hands on him stilled their movement before falling onto your sides in disbelief.

“Oh, come on. You can’t be serious.” He resisted the urge to whine at the lack of physical touch from you. “But you looked shocked.”

“I was shocked you actually said it. I didn't think you’d do it today…or tomorrow…or maybe ever–” You slapped his arm, but he gladly welcomed that contact. Anything was better than nothing.

“I thought you’re like highly oblivious to romantic signals? I’ve seen you being completely clueless and not picking up on the fact that women were flirting with you.”

“I think I wasn’t clueless when it came to you because my eyes were always on you.” Those words came out shamelessly. In fact, Spencer almost sounded proud of himself. You tried not to let his words make you flustered.

“When did you figure it out?”

“That you like me? At the orchestra.”

“How? I barely figured it out myself that I liked you then.”

“Yeah, I could tell.” Your huff drew a chuckle from him.

You finally peeled yourself completely away from Spencer, grabbing your bag from his hand before making your way to your car. As you unlocked the vehicle and swung the driver’s door open, you could hear his footsteps following. You crouched to lean into your car and place your bag onto the passenger seat. You could feel Spencer’s presence stopping just behind you, standing much closer than he had ever before tonight.

As you bent back up and leaned against your car, you didn't miss the way Spencer’s fingers twitched, giving away his urges for physical contact. You crossed your arms before tilting your head back teasingly.

“I’m still gonna get you someday.”

Spencer’s gaze melted to an even softer look than before at your declaration. There was a freeing component in his eyes, showcasing the joy from being able to openly look at you in the way he had really wanted to for a while. His voice lowered to a sweet, promising whisper.

“I’m counting on that.”

With that, Spencer leaned in again, wanting a second run of things before the two of you had to part ways for the night.

You grinned into the kiss and quickly wrapped your arms around him again. Quietly, your mind logged in today’s score. 

Day 187 status: unsuccessful. 

But it hardly matters when you think you’ve already won something a lot better.

link to: epilogue/bonus bit

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━━ john logan x graham!reader ; wc 7.6k tw ; mention of parental abuse ( phil graham ) , secret relationship/brothers best friend , unedited part one \ part two

Hannah sat at the tiny kitchen table with her laptop open in front of her, one foot tucked beneath her as she worked through a mountain of notes for one of her classes. 

Across the room, you occumpied your usual spot on the couch. At some point over the last week, the couch had become yours. It wasn't like you moved in or anything but your blanket was always there. Your charger was permanently plugged into the outlet beside it. One of your textbooks sat abandoned on the coffee table beside an empty mug from earlier. 

It wasn't home but it was beginning to feel dangerously close. 

You highlighted the passage in your textbook before scribbling something into the margin. The movement felt mechanical at this point. You'd spent the better part of the week trying to convince yourself everything was normal by throwing yourself into your studies. 

Though it wasn't as easy as you thought it would be. You had convinced yourself that simply leaving hockey house for the time being would be enough to forget your problems. 

Perhaps if you'd really thought about it, you probably shouldn't have moved in with Allie and Hannah if you were trying to avoid anything and everything hockey. 

They were your best friends but unfortunately, Hannah and Allie weren't exactly neutral territory. They were also both dating members of the team and not just any members but Dean and your brother Garrett.

Avoiding hockey while living with them was a little like trying to avoid water while sitting at the bottom of a swimming pool.

They tried their best not to bring it in conversation too much or bring them around but there was bound to be mess ups. 

The front door burst open. You didn't even need to look up to know that today was going to be significantly harder to run away from your problems. The sheer force of his entrance announced him before he every spoke. 

He was mumbling something to Allie that you didn't quite catch but you definitely heard both of their laughs bouncing off the dorm room walls. You look up just in time to watch them stumble past the walk way and further into the dorm. 

Dean had one arm slung around Allie's shoulders while she attempted and failed to push him away playfully. The sight was so aggressively normal it almost made you smile. 

Allie's eye landed on you as they approached the couch. 

The smile vanished from her face so quickly it was almost impressive. You knew exactly what she was thinking. The realization hit her and immediately triggered a mountain of guilt. You could see it in her eyes. 

"Oh my god."

You immediately sat up straighter. "It's ok," you reassured. 

She still looked horrified. "I totally forgot—"

"Seriously," you offered her the most reassuring smile you could manage with everyone staring at you. "It's fine."

You stomach had already started twisting itself into knots but that wasn't Allie's fault and the last thing you wanted was for her to have to walk on eggshells in her own dorm room. 

"This is your dorm, Al," you continued. "If anything, I'm the one intruding."

The words came so naturally you barely thought about them. That was probably apart of the problem because immediately afterward you recognized exactly what you'd done. 

You had minimized your pain in the service of making someone else feel better. Again. Making yourself smaller. You were getting disturbingly good at it. 

Allie's expression softened slightly. You smiled again, one last attempt to convince her. This time the smile reached your eyes or at least you hoped it did. 

Eventually she offered one back. Unfortunately, Dean chose that exact moment to pull the conversation back. "Damn, Graham."

Your stomach sank immediately. You tried to prepare yourself what what he might say but there were too many possibilities. You could only hope that he didn't mention what you think he was about to. 

He was completely oblivious. "You really know how to wreck a hockey house," a laugh escaped him. 

You managed a tiny smile in hopes that would make him move on faster. Dean, of course, interpreted it as encouragement. 

"Seriously though," he dropped dramatically on to the couch next to you. One arm stretched lazily across the back of the couch behind you. "Logan looks like absolute shit."

You shifted and suddenly you couldn't feel your hands properly. 

Across the room, Hannah looked up from her laptop. You didn't miss the way her eyes immediately found yours. Dean missed it entirely. 

"Dean—" Allie tried. 

But once Dean started talking it was like trying to stop a freight train. "What?" he asked genuinely confused but he still continued. "Like I knew you two sneaking around was gonna blow up eventually but Jesus!"

Humiliation flooded your chest so quickly it almost stole your breath. Not because Dean sounded angry. Not because he was blaming you. Because he wasn't.

"Dean," this time it was Hannah.

"Him and Garrett, like cats and fucking dogs, bro." He immediately started making clawing motions with his fingers. Dean continued. "They can't even be in the same room right now."

Something inside your chest dropped. The room suddenly felt too small. And your brain did what it always did. It twisted and it weaponized your own misgivings. 

You ruined everything. 

You ruined Garrett's friendship. 

You ruined the house. 

You ruined Logan. 

The thoughts all arrived at once. Fast enough to make your stomach hurt. 

Before anyone could stop you, you stood. The motion was abrupt enough to startle everyone, even Dean. You grabbed the first excuse you could fine. "I need some air." They were thinner than you intended. 

You didn't give them a chance to respond because then you were moving and you didn't stop. Not even when you heard the tail end of Allie scolding her boyfriends. "Are you actually fucking stupid?" You practically heard the thump she gave him on the head. 

You didn't stop when you heard Hannah mutter, "I'll talk to her," or the soft padding of her foot steps behind you. 

You didn't stop until your feet carried you all the way outside. 

Cold air hit your face the second the dorm building shut behind you. 

It should have helped, the air, you mean. 

Instead your lungs still felt tight, like Dean's words had followed you outside and lodged themselves somewhere beneath your ribs. 

You stopped near the concrete steps leading down towards the parking lot, foling your arms tightly across your chest against the wind. Campus looked different this late at night. 

Softer in a way you almost despised. The sidewalks glowed gold beneath the street lamps while distant dorm window flickered with movement and television light. 

Somewhere farther across Briar's campus, you swore you could hear people laughing. Normal people. The kind got into fights and hookups and messy college drama without accidentally detonating years worth of trauma in the process. 

The door opened behind you again. You didn't need to turn around to know it was Hannah. "Dean's an idiot," she states, simply. 

Despite everything, a quiet breath of amusement escaped you. "You're just now figuring that out?" 

Hannah moved to stand beside you, leaning her elbows against the railing in mirror of you. She wore one of Garrett's hoddies, you recognized, over leggings, sleeves pushed halfway up her forearms. Her brunette hair pulled into a messy knot that looked like she'd done it without much thought to how it looked. You craved her effortlessness. 

"He really didn't mean to upset you," she said gently, "You better than anyone know he has absolutely no filter."

"I know," you rubbed your hands over your arm absentmindedly. "I know he didn't." You stared out towards the empty parking lot for a second before adding quietly, "I'm fine."

The lie settled between you immediately. It wasn't dramatic but it wasn't wholly convincing either. Hannah was quiet long enough that you finally looked over at her. 

"You don't have to pretend you're okay with me," she muttered. Something in your chest tightened painfully at how easily she said it. When she spoke to you, it didn't feel like the others. It didn't feel like she was accusing you of anything or trying to pity you. 

It was like she was just saying statement. Just matter of fact. 

She'd already noticed the way you'd spent the last week making yourself smaller in her dorm. Sleeping on the couch despite both her and Allie offering their beds more than once. Keeping your clothes folded neatly in one tiny overnight bag near the armrest like you were afraid to spread it out too much. 

You looked away first. You feared that if you looked at her any longer you'd be helpless to spill your guts to her. She just had that way about her. You thought perhaps that was what drew Garrett to her in the first place. 

"Look, Hannah," you swallowed once. "I know Garrett's told you all about—" the words stalled out halfway. You made a vague motion with your hand instead, hoping she understood what you were trying to say. "You know."

You saw her expression shift almost immediately. Suddenly more hesitant and more careful then you'd seen her before. Like she thought you were about to tell her Garrett never should have said anything in the first place. 

Honestly, maybe you should have felt that way. 

Because it wasn't just Garrett's story to tell, it was yours too. But the idea of him carrying all of that around alone somehow felt worse than the alternitive. 

"Hey," you said quickly before she could apologize for something you weren't mad at. "Really. I'm glad he told you."

Hannah frowned slightly. 

"He deserves somebody he can trust. Especially with something like that." Something soft and sad flickered across her face then, gone almost instantly. For a minute neither of you said anything.

Then Hannah asked quietly, "Did you want to tell Logan eventually?"

"Yes," the answer came out so fast it surprised even you. Your voice held no hesitation, no uncertainty. Because the truth was that you had wanted to tell him someday. You just hadn't gotten there yet. 

Hannah glanced toward you carefully. "What made you wait?"

You let out a breath that sounded almost like a laugh. 

It felt strangely easy talking to Hannah out here in the dark where nobody could really look at you directly. Maybe because Garrett had already trusted her with the ugliest parts of the story. Maybe because Hannah was unique positioned to give you an insight on how both Garrett and Logan were feeling and why. 

Or maybe it was because you were exhausted from carrying this around by yourself. And now that Logan knew anyway, what did it matter? Either way, this was the situation you were in. "I didn't want it to change the way looked at me," you confessed. The words had come out quicker and more true than you had intended. 

Your throat tightened and you looked hard down at the concrete beneath your shoes. "Turns out I had a reason to be scared."

Hannah didn't interrupt, she didn't rush to reassure you, she just let you be. That almost made it easier to keep going. "You didn't see his face, Hannah."

Your vision blurred suddenly enough that you had to blink hard against it. "Before . . ," you swallowed, "before he looked at me and saw—" The word caught somewhere deep in your chest. "Me."

"And now?" Hannah's voice stayed soft. 

A horrible ache spread through you so sharply it almost made your stomach hurt. "Now all he sees is what happened to me." The sentence hung there between you. Raw and humiliating. 

You wrapped your arms tighter around yourself. "And fuck, I get it," your laugh this time sound thin even to your own ears. "When Garrett started saying all that shit—" You stopped, jaw tightening hard enough to ache. "How was Logan supposed to look at me normally after that?"

For a second all you could hear was the distant traffic and the hum of campus life. Then Hannah sighed quietly beside you. "I really can't speak for Garrett or what he was feeling in that moment," she admitted carefully. "But right now? He's terrified."

"I know that."

"No," Hannah said gently, "I don't think you do."

That made you turn and look at her. She leaned further against the railing to catch your eye. "Maybe on some level you understand it," she continued, "But you and Garrett are looking at this from completely different places."

The knot in your chest tightened.

"Garrett doesn't think Logan is like your father," you frown slightly, "He thinks anger turns men into him."

The words hit hard enough that you physically stilled. Because suddenly Garrett's face in your bedroom looked differently in your memory. Less controling and furious and more terrified. You wonder how you didn't see it before. 

"Logan would never hurt me," you stated firmly. You knew that with complete certainty. Hannah nodded immediately. "I know," and her voice held no doubt or hesistation. 

"Garrett knows that too," she said softly, "But he thought the same thing about your dad once too."

The air left your lungs slowly. And for the first time since the fight happened, the situation shifted slightly beneath your feet. Because until now you'd only been seeing it from your side, the humiliation, the exposure, the way Logan looked at you afterward. 

You hadn't really stopped to consider what Garrett must have seen standing in that doorway. Not Logan, but your father in another form. 

"I wasn't there for the fight," Hannah said after a minute. "But I saw the aftermath." You looked at her quietly. "You know what I saw when Logan went looking for Garrett afterward?"

Your stomach twisted painfully. "What?" you ask. 

Hannah's expression softened immeasurably. "A guy who looked completely fucking heartbroken." Your eyes burned with fresh tears at the new revelation. "There wasn't any pity," she said firmly. "I saw somebody realizing how much pain you've been carrying around alone and having absolutely no idea how to help you."

The hockey house is rarely quiet.

There was usually a hockey game playing somewhere, or Tucker making some kind of extravagant lunch, or Dean arguing with somebody just for the sake of arguing. 

Today there was nothing. 

Just the soft hum of the refrigerator and the sound of your own footsteps as you climbed the stairs.

No Tucker or Dean. 

No Logan. 

That last thought hit harder than it should have and you immediately try to shove it aside. You weren't here for Logan and you weren't here for Garrett either. 

The only reason you have been brave enough to even step in the vicinity of hockey house was that Hannah had promised the house was empty for at least an hour and you were running out of clothes. 

That was it. 

Nothing more.

The lie sounded flimsy even inside your own head. 

The last couple of days had made you a stranger in your own home. The realization landed harder than it should have. Days of sleeping on Hannah and Allie's couch. Days of pretending you weren't checking your phone every five minutes. Days of deliberately avoiding every place on campus where you might accidentally run into Logan. 

The hallway upstairs looked unchanged too. Even the hole in the wall next to your bedroom door was still there. It was smaller than you remember, though. You can tell someone had tried to patch it up. A rough square of spackle sat over the damage, uneven and obvious against the surrounding paint. 

Your stomach twisted as your mind played the scene in your head unexpectedly. The crack of Garrett's fist going through the sheet rock. The sharp sting of fear behind your ribs that you had been helpless to stop. And the humiliation that had followed immediately afterward when you realized that Logan had seen you flinch. 

You pack quickly because you feared if you spent any longer in this house you'd probably start crying. 

Pulling a duffle from your closet, you yanked open your drawers, one after the other. There wasn't really any rhyme or reason to the clothes you grabbed. 

The faster you left, the better. 

The faster you moved, the less opportunity there was to think. 

Unfortunately, thinking found you anyway. Your eye caught your dresser where one of Logan's cologne sat. Your desk chair in which his hoodie was draped. 

They were normal things. Stupid things. Things that shouldn't have felt like somebody sticking their fingers directly into your ribcage. But everywhere you looked was piece of Logan. 

It's a wonder Garrett hadn't found out sooner. 

Twenty minutes later your bag was full. You slung the strap over your shoulder and headed down stairs before you could change your mind. 

Or worse, before you abandoned your whole plan and just laid in your bed. 

The front door opened just as you reached the foyer. You froze immediately, hoping it was either Dean or Tucker, but mostly the latter. The universe, apparently, had a sick sense of humor. 

Garrett stepped in carrying a hockey bag over one shoulder. He stopped just as abruptly when he saw you standing there. He looked tired in a way you'd never seen before. More than just bags under his eyes, his shoulders sagged. Something uncomfortable shifted inside your chest. You tried to ignore it.

For a second, neither of you spoke. The surprise on his face mirrored your own. Then something else settled over it. Some thing sickeningly familiar and your stomach sank. 

You were starting to think that Hannah's definition of an empty house and your definition were two very different things. 

"What are you doing here?" you asked. 

Garrett blinked once then scoffed, incredulously. "Besides the fact that I live here?" 

Your rolled your eyes, not because the answer particularly annoyed you but because it sounded so painfully like Garrett. The same sarcastic tone. The same smartass response. 

The same brother who used to steal your fries then act confused when you got mad about it. 

You both dropped your bag simultaneously with thuds on the ground as you stared each other down. You crossed your arms because he did not answer your question. 

"Han is coming over," he relented, reluctantly. 

Understanding hit you immediately. You stared at him, then the front door, then at him again. You wondered how he would react if you'd just left. 

"Fucking Hannah," you grumbled.

"Excuse me?" Garrett narrowed his eyes quickly. Despite yourself, despite everything, a tiny piece of your irritation shifted. Because of course of all things happening right now, Garrett was offended on Hannah's behalf. 

You almost laugh despite yourself. It was a clever plan, you had to admit. You never thought she would stoop so low as to trick you into running into your brother. 

"I was just leaving," you explained before reaching down and grabbing your discarded bag. You stepped around him and curled your hand around the door knob but before you could so much as turn it you heard Garrett scoff behind you. "I see you're still running away."

The doorknob suddenly felt very cold beneath your fingers. You froze for a second but then you were whipping around. "Excuse me?" 

Garrett crossed him arms. "That's what you do." Something dangerous flickered in his expression and suddenly it felt less like talking to your brother and more like standing across from the captain of the hockey team. "When things get hard, you run away. Did when you were younger, doing it now," he finished. 

The words landed exactly where they were supposed to, right beneath your ribs. The accusation tasted like bile on your tongue. Maybe because some small, ugly part knew there was a small truth to his words. "Fuck you, Garrett."

The word practically launched out of your mouth before you could really think about it. Garrett, though, didn't even flinch. If anything, his expression hardened further. 

"Don't get mad at me because I'm the only one telling the truth around here," he crossed his arms. 

You laughed once, sharp and humorless. You understood exactly what he meant. The months you spent sneaking around his back with Logan. "Obviously I was right not to tell you."

Garrett's head snapped back slightly, like your words had caught him off guard. "This isn't my fault," he snapped. 

The sheer audacity of that statement almost made you laugh again. "Isn't it?" you ask. 

"Yeah," he mumbled, sarcastically as he threw a hand out between you, "it's my fault you fucked my best friend." 

Something hot and immediate flared in your chest. Anger or embarrassment, you didn't know. Maybe both. "Not that it's any of your fucking business," you shot back, "but Logan and I haven't fucked." 

You hated the term but it only seemed appropriate for the way he was behaving. For the first time since he'd walked in on you and Logan, Garrett looked genuinely surprised. 

It lasted but a second before his mouth flattened back into a thin line. You wave both your hands around him wildly. "So this whole thing—," you continued to gesture between the two of you, the house, the most miserable couple of days of your life, "is all fucking you!"

"Coulda fooled me." 

"Oh my god!"

You stared at him because somehow he still wasn't getting it. Or maybe he was and was simply too stubborn to admit it. Both options equally screamed Garrett and it was making your head spin. 

"You promised me," the words cracked through the foyer. 

They were quiet. You could hear how much he meant them. "You stood right there and promised me you'd stay away from the team."

The guilt hit you unexpectedly, wholly sharp and unwanted because he wasn't wrong. You had promised. Standing in this very house, actually. At the time you thought Garrett was being ridiculous, overprotective and annoying. 

Now look where all of that had gotten you. 

Your guilt had only lasted a second before the anger returned. "Not every fucking hockey player is dad."

The words echoed through the silence that followed. Neither of you moved nor looked away. "I don't go around accusing you of being just like him." The second the sentence left your mouth you knew you'd gone too far.

Garrett's entire body went still. "What the hell does that mean?"

You swallowed. "Your a hockey player," you started. Your brain was screaming at you to stop, to shut up, but instead you continued. "So by your twisted logic, you're him."

"I'm nothing like him," Garrett snapped with no hesitation. 

The fight leaked right out of you because of course he wasn't. You had never, not once in your entire life, looked at Garrett and seen your father. Not when he was sixteen and standing between you and a slammed bedroom door. Not when he was eighteen and moving heaven and earth to get you in to Briar. Not even when he'd been so angry he'd punched a hole in your bedroom wall. 

And judging by the look on Garrett's face that wasn't what he'd heard. Guilt twisted in your stomach. "I didn't mean it like that."

Garrett looked away first. Which somehow made it worse. 

"I just don't understand why you keep trying to turn Logan into Dad," you explained. Your voice came out quieter now, less angry and more defeated. "You know better than anyone that he'd never do that."

"I don't know that."

You were at a loss. You couldn't even begin to comprehend why Garrett wasn't willing to give Logan the benefit of the doubt that he was giving himself. He'd insisted he wasn't his father simply because he was a hockey player so why did that alone mean Logan was. 

"Bullshit."

His eyes snapped back to yours. "Can you for once just try and look at this from my perspective?" The frustration in his voice caught you off guard. Because beneath the anger and stubborness and accusations, there was something that sounded suspiciously like desperation. 

You stared at him then slowly shook your head. "I am looking at this from your perspective," you explained. Garrett opened his mouth to refute. You didn't let him speak. "You don't trust me."

It landed between you with startling clarity. Because that was it, wasn't it?

That was the the thing you'd been carrying around since the fight. The fact that Garrett looked at your relationship and saw a disaster waiting to happen. That he looked at you and apparently saw someone incapable of protecting herself. 

"Do you honestly think I wouldn't be able to spot the signs?" you asked, incredulously. 

Your throat tightened as years flashed through your head all at once. Locked doors, raised voices, the careful way your mother used to watch the room whenever your father came home. 

You knew what fear looked like. You knew what apologies sounded like when they were't really apologies. 

You knew. 

"Do you think I wouldn't protect myself?" 

Garrett's expression cracked for a second and you saw it immediately. "We both know how hard it is to walk away from something like that," he confessed. 

The fight drained out of you so suddenly it made you dizzy. Because for the first time since this whole mess started, you finally understood what Hannah had been trying to tell you. 

It was fear. That's was Garrett was feeling right now. Not anger because you had broken the promise. Not betrayal because the one you had chose had been his best friends. 

Fear. 

"I'm just trying to protect you."

"Did it ever occur to you that I don't want it?" The question stopped him cold. He blinked once then again. Like the possibility had genuinely never crossed his mind before. 

You had spent your whole life living behind Garrett. He was your shield and when you were young, that was what you need to protect yourself from your father. Garrett didn't understand why now that wasn't what you needed.

"What?" 

You swallowed hard. "You are my brother," the emotion was pressing hard against your ribs. It made every word ache. "And I love you more than anyone in the world. But you have to let me make my own decisions," your eyes burned, "and my own mistakes."

The house seeming impossibly quiet around you. Then his shoulders sagged, suddenly looking older than you remembered. "I just don't want to see you hurt."

"I know that."

Garrett rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, despretely trying to look anywhere except at you. 

"But bad things happen, Garrett. People get hurt. Relationships end and if that happens, I will deal with it."

He closed his eyes for a second and another. Finally he dragged both ahnds over his face and when he spoke again, his voice was quiet. "I'm so fucking sorry."

Your brother had never been particularly good at apologies.

Not because he wasn't sorry when he screwed up. Quite the opposite, actually. Garrett felt everything so intensely that sometimes it seemed to swallow him whole. He just wasn't very good at saying it out loud.

So when he did, you knew he meant it. 

Garrett's hands were still covering part of his face, his gaze fixed firmly on the hardwood floor like he couldn't quite bring himself to look at you.

The sight hurt because he'd looked guilty and for as angry as you'd been these past couple of days, that was never what you'd wanted. You'd wanted him to understand.

There was a difference.

Garrett finally looked up. His eyes found yours for the first time in what felt like hours.

You weren't even entirely sure what there was left to say. Because the truth was that Garrett had hurt you, badly.

The truth was also that you'd hurt him too.

You'd lied.

You'd hidden Logan.

You'd broken a promise.

And somewhere in the middle of all that hurt, the two of you had forgotten something embarrassingly simple.

You were on the same side. 

The realization hit with enough force to make your chest ache. Garrett wasn't your enemy. He never had been. He was just your brother. Your stupid, stubborn, overprotective brother who loved you so much that sometimes he forgot where protecting ended and controlling began.

The same brother who used to leave his bedroom door cracked open when you were kids because he knew thunderstorms scared you.

The same brother who stood between you and your father more times than you could count.

Your vision blurred, again.

God, you were getting really tired of crying.

Garrett saw it immediately. The guilt on his face somehow deepened. "Hey," he said quietly. The single word sounded wrecked.

You shook your head before he could continue. Then you crossed the distance between you. Garrett barely had time to react. One second there was space between you. The next your arms were around him.

For half a heartbeat he froze. Then both of his arms wrapped around you so quickly it almost knocked the air from your lungs.

His chin settled against the top of your head. Your face buried itself against his chest. And just like that you were twelve years old again.

"I'm sorry," Garrett said again. His voice rumbled through his chest beneath your cheek. You felt it more than heard it.

"I'm sorry." This time it sounded less like an apology and more like a confession. He'd been carrying the words around for days.

You squeezed him tighter. Not because it fixed everything. It didn't.

Not because you suddenly agreed with what he'd done. You didn't.

But because forgiveness and understanding weren't the same thing. And right now understanding was enough.

The dorm felt too quiet without Hannah and Allie in it.

One of Hannah's sociology textbooks sat open on the kitchen table beside a half finished iced coffee. Allie's shoes had been kicked off by the couch in a careless little trail toward her bedroom door.

The space felt wholly not like yours, something you tried to remember as you moved around. Always putting things back where you found them, if you even gathered the courage to touch them at all.

You sat curled beneath a throw blanket on Hannah and Allie's couch, scrolling through the schools social media to see if there were any students looking to get out of their apartment leases. Not that you'd even be able to afford taking over someones lease, but you could get a job.

Anyway, you'd been looking at the same post for the last twenty minutes and not because it had potential. Rain tapped softly against the dorm windows. The harder it came down the more distracted you got.

You chuck your phone towards the end of the couch by your feet and you felt it buzz right after. But you had become strangely good at not checking it so you didn't.

The knock at the door shattered the fragile silence so abruptly your shoulders jumped. You stood to answer it but froze when you thought about it more. What was the etiquette for answering someone else's front door?

There was another knock the longer you waited to open it. Then, through the wood, you heard a voice. "I know you're in there. Fucking Dean told me."

Your heart stopped. Every muscle in your body locked at the sound of John Logan's voice through the door. You stayed completely still, as if he could see you though the thick wood of the door.

Like maybe if you didn't breathe too loudly he would think you weren't here and eventually leave without you having to say a word.

The hallway outside the dorm creaked softly beneath his shifting weight. "Look," Logan started, voice rougher than you remember it sounding, "I know you worked things out with Garrett and I'm really fucking glad you guys patched things up."

Your throat tightened.

It had taken over a week.

A week of avoiding the hockey house and all its inhabitants entirely. A week of Garrett apologizing in every way except directly at first because guilt made him clumsy. And a whole week of Hannah quietly acting as a bridge between the two of you until she finally had to trick you two into the same place to work things out.

You had fixed things with Garrett.

Well, you had at least started the process.

Logan kept talking through the door, knocking you out of your spiral before you fell too deeply into it. "But I also know that means the only reason you haven't come home is because of me."

The words landed like a bruise pressed too hard. "And I can't fucking live with that," he admitted quietly. "Hockey house is your home too."

You squeeze your eyes shut.

Don't answer. Don't answer. Don't answer.

You answered. "I don't want to see you, Logan."

The lies tasted horrible on your tongue and even more vile as it left your mouth. Silence was all that answered you in return for a while.

"Yeah. I know," he said it so softly you almost didn't hear it through the door. Your chest physically hurt at how defeated he sounded. "I know you don't."

Rainwater streaked slowly down the dorm windows behind you while the quiet stretched between the two of you. Then, his voice interrupted the quiet once again. "God," Logan whispered hoarsely, probably more to himself than to you, but you listened anyway. "I don't know how all this got so fucked up."

Your eyes burned. You hated this. You hated every bit.

"Listen," he continues after another pause, "I just—I want you to come home and I'll figure out somewhere else to stay. I can sleep at the auto shop or some shit."

The image hit you instantly, him sleeping on the old dusty couch in the office of his older brother's mechanics auto shop. Accepting all that uncomfort just so you could return to hockey house, your home.

"Point is," he finished quietly, "I won't be there, so you should go home." Your stomach twisted violently.

I won't be there. As if that would magically making everything all better. I won't be there. As if that would change anything. I won't be there. As if that was what you wanted.

He seemed to take your silence as agreement because a few seconds later, you heard soft footstep against the hallway floor, walking away from you. He was leaving.

Something ugly and desperate clawed at your chest immediately. You stilled because this is what you wanted, wasn't it? Distance, space, an end to this horrible tension every time you thought about him.

This was him giving you it. A way out. So why did it make you sick to your stomach? Why did the thought of him walking away suddenly feel unbearable?

Before you could stop yourself, you crossed the room and yanked open the dorm door, the words spilling out of your mouth with out your permission. "Don't—" your voice cracked instantly.

Logan stopped hallway down the hallway. "Don't do that."

He went completely still but he didn't turn around. For one terrible second your brain tried to convince you it was because he couldn't stand looking at you either.

The truth was much worse.

If Logan turned around fully and looked at you right now, he wasn't sure he'd be able to leave at all. "What?"

His head turned slightly over his shoulder, enough that you caught the sharp edge of his profile beneath the ugly fluorescent dorm lights. But he kept his feet planted firmly away from you like physically moving closer might somehow scare you off again.

"You stay at hockey house," you said quietly. Your fingers tightened around the edge of the door. "Allie and Hannah said I can stay here as long as I need until I find somewhere more permanent."

Logan stilled completely, you almost thought he might have stopped breathing.

You don't really know why you told him that. It wasn't like you moving out was a done deal. You hadn't told anyone yet and you hadn't fully decided on it. But if it was between you or him living at hockey house, you wanted it to be him.

The hallway suddenly felt too narrow and Logan felt the bile reaching the back of his throat. Because in his head, there was only one reason you would rather leave entirely than exist in the same house as him now.

Your father and what he now represented after the fight.

"You're moving out?" This time he fully turned towards you. You hated how nervous his expression made you feel now. "I think it's best for everyone," you confessed, nodding your head to try and give him more reassurance that this is what you wanted.

"That's bullshit." The words came out immediately and low. You can tell that he didn't mean to stay that out loud. It was written all over his face and somehow that made your stomach churn worse.

"Excuse me?"

Logan dragged a hand through his damp hair roughly and you wonder for a split second if he got caught in the rain on his way here. Frustration flashed over his face before he tried forcing it back down again.

"You're not fucking moving out," his voice was a bit louder than he meant to and it only added fuel to the fire. Because the second the words left his mouth, regret crossed his features.

Because he knew.

He knew exactly how bad that sounded in light of everything he now knew about your past. He knew what he did and didn't get to demand from you anymore. "You don't get to tell me what to do," you snapped.

Your voice had come out sharper than either of you expected. Logan's expression immediately shifted. "You're right," he said quickly. "Shit. I'm sorry."

And there it was again.

That look.

The same one he'd worn after Garrett accidentally let your entire childhood spill out into the open. It was the same expression he'd had standing in your bedroom while you ripped his jersey off and threw it back at him like it burned.

It made something hot and furious twist violently all over you. Because you had spent years clawing your way out of being treated like a victim. And now every time Logan looked at you like that, you felt like one all over again. "Stop that!" The shout echoed harshly down the hallway.

Logan blinked hard, completely thrown. "Stop what?"

The carefulness somehow got worse. "Stop looking at me like that!"

"Like what?"

"Like I'm fucking glass!" you snapped. "Like I'm gonna break!" Your breathing had started shaking now. "You're angry? Then be angry! Fight with me! Yell at me!"

Logan stared at you like he genuinely couldn't process what you were asking of him. "You want me to fight with you?" he asked incredulously.

"I want you to stop treating me differently!"

The words cracked out of you painfully. Because that was the real wound underneath all of this. It didn't matter that Garrett had found out about you and Logan. It didn't even matter so much that Logan now knew what your father had done to you.

It was this.

The shift.

The way Logan hesitated to touch you. The way he spoke softer to you. Looked at you like he was terrified one wrong move would shatter you apart.

Logan opened his mouth and then closed it again. He had nothing to say because you were right. He had been treating you differently.

How the hell was he supposed to not after watching you physically flinch when Garrett punched the wall? After hearing the panic in your voice every time he'd brought your father up?

"Fuck."

"Come on!" you yelled, tears already threatening your vision. The truth was that if Logan had yelled then you would know what to do. You would know how to navigate the situation because it was what you had done your whole life. But this guilt and carefulness that he now treated you with was something you didn't understand. You didn't know what to do with it.

"Don't clam up now! Yell at me!" Something sharp flashed across Logan's face then. Hurt or anger or fear, you don't know but you don't care because you knew this is going to give you exactly what you were asking for.

"All right, fine!" The words bounced hard off the walls. "Is that what you want?" he snapped. "You want to turn me into your father?"

Your stomach dropped instantly. "Is that why did didn't tell me?" Logan asked. You didn't need to ask him to know what he was talking about. He wants to know why you never told him about your father. But to insinuate that you didn't because you were afraid that that information would somehow turn him into your father was preposterous.

"You thought I'd be just like him?"

"What? No!" You sounded genuinely horrified because from your perspective that had never been the problem.

Garrett feared men turning into your father. You feared people looking at you like his victim. Those were very different things.

"What the fuck am I supposed to think?" Logan shot back, voice cracking at the edges. "You left! You kicked me out and then disappeared without saying anything!"

The anger dissolved suddenly from his face, leaving behind something more wounded. "You flinched away from me," he said quieter. "Like I was gonna—" He couldn't finish it.

But the sentence hung there anyway. Your chest ached. "I left because I ruined everything," you confessed.

Logan stared at you like you'd spoken another language. "What are you talking about?" he asked.

"I thought Garrett was never gonna talk to me again," you admitted shakily, "I ruined us and I ruined you and Garrett and—" you didn't know how much further you could get without breaking down crying.

"He's your best friend, John. I couldn't take that away from you." Logan's face twisted painfully. "You need him," you finished.

"I need you!"

The words hit so hard your heart stopped and you don't know if or when it would start again. "You don't," you insist. Because between you and Garrett, in your eyes, the choice was obvious. Garrett had so much more going for him, he was the logical choice.

"Fucking stop with that self deprecating bullshit," Logan stepped closer finally, frustration bleeding through every word now. "I need you," he repeated fiercely, "and if Garrett hates my guts for the rest of my life, so be it because I love you."

Your eyes flood instantly.

"So quit telling me what I need."

A broken sound escaped your throat before you could stop it. Humiliation hit immediately afterward. You covered your face with both hands on instinct because Logan seeing you cry only made you cry harder.

Everything hurt. Your chest, your throat, your head. Your heart beat so loud in your ears that you didn't hear him move. You didn't realize just how close he had gotten until his warm fingers touched your wrist carefully.

It wasn't hesitant but it was gentle all the same. "Please stop pushing me away," he begged. The quietness of his voice broke something open inside of you.

Slowly, you let him guide your hands away from your face. Your vision blurred with tears but you had never seen him so clearly. "I don't want everything to change," you whisper.

Logan searched your face for a long moment. "Because I know now?" he asked, though you surmised he already knew the answer. You nodded once.

He exhaled shakily before his hands slid from your wrists to cradle your face fully, thumbs brushing softly beneath tear stained cheeks.

"Baby," he said quietly, "knowing what happened doesn't change who you are." His face so close to yours now, your foreheads almost touched. "And it doesn't change how I feel."

Your eyes squeezed shut. "But I won't lie to you," he admitted softly, "I do look at you differently."

Your entire body tensed instantly.

There it was.

The thing you had spent the last week and a half running from.

Logan felt it happen beneath his hands immediately but he didn't let go as he continued. "Because now I understand," he whispered, "I understand why you always apologize for taking up space."

A tear slipped down your cheek.

"Why loud noises make you jump and why you put everybody else's feeling before your own." His thumbs brush beneath your eyes carefully.

"You're still you," he murmured, "and I'm still me. That hasn't changed and I won't let it."

Your hands lifted slowly to cover his where they still held your face. For a second neither of you moved. Then you kissed him. It was short and sweet and a little salty from the tears but no less impactful. 

Logan exhaled shakily against your mouth like he'd been holding his breath for weeks.

"I'm sorry," you whispered. His eyes softened immediately again. "You have nothing to be sorry for, baby," he assured.

The hallway fell quiet except for the rain tapping softly against distant dorm windows. Then, almost like he was afraid it would shatter the moment, his voice started again, "Please come home."

⋆ ⁺₊ ❅ . © jacksabbotts

[cassiopeiia24]

they have my heart, pt.2.

[jacksabbotts]

. ⋆ ⁺₊ ❅ .   NO HOCKEY PLAYERS

━━ john logan x graham!reader ; wc 3.5k tw ; mention of parental abuse ( phil graham ) , secret relationship/brothers best friend , kissing , unedited part one \ part two

You should have been asleep. 

Honestly, you had every intention of staying asleep.

You'd barely stirred when Logan carefully untangled himself from around you a few hours earlier. The second Logan's warmth disappeared from around you, sleep had abandoned you completely. You remembered the sleepy press of lips against your temple, remembered him whispering something about emergency practice before disappearing back through the bathroom with more effort than a six foot hockey player should have needed to move quietly. 

You had laid there for nearly twenty minutes staring at the ceiling while cold air slowly replaced the heat his body had left behind. That had been the end of sleep.

Eventually, you gave up and grabbed your laptop instead. 

Which was how you ended up cross legged in the middle of your unmade bed at six in the morning, drowning in English literature notes while wearing one of Logan's old briar jerseys like a sleep shirt. 

The sleeves hung past your wrist, and the stitched hem brushed against your thighs whenever you shifted beneath the blankets. Your laptop sat balanced on your knees in front of you while color coded note card littered the comforter around your legs in chaotic little piles. 

The room smelled faintly like vanilla coffee creamer and Logan's cologne. The thought probably should have bothered you more than it did. Garrett would lose his fucking mind if he saw this. 

The thought flickered through your head so automatically it barely registered anymore. By now sneaking around with Logan had become muscle memory. You were half way through rereading your notes on gothic symbolism when the bathroom door connecting your room to his clicked softly. 

You barely looked up. That alone probably should have been alarming. But the only people who used that bathroom were you and Logan.

He paused halfway through the doorway, one hand still resting against the door knob as surprise crossed his face. His dark hair was damp from a rushed shower after practice, curling slightly at the ends, and he’d traded his gear for gray sweatpants and a black Briar Hockey hoodie that looked like he’d pulled it on without fully drying off first.

“You’re awake?" His hockey bag hit the bathroom floor softly behind him as he nudged the door shut with his foot.

You hummed absently, eyes still scanning the highlighted paragraph glowing on your laptop screen.

A beat of silence passed.

“Tell me I didn’t wake you when I left.”

That finally dragged your attention toward him.

You scrunched your nose automatically, guilt flashing across his face the second he saw it.

“Oh, baby,” he groaned quietly. 

You shrugged one shoulder, trying to dismiss it, but Logan already looked annoyed with himself as he crossed the room.

The mattress dipped beneath his weight when he dropped onto the bed beside you, close enough that his thigh pressed against yours immediately. Warmth radiated off him in sleepy waves, carrying traces of cold winter air, clean soap, and lingering hockey equipment beneath it all.

“I’m sorry.”

"You're loud," you mumbled, teasingly. 

"I was not loud."

"You're, like, genetically incapable of being quiet."

"That is offensive."

“What’d they drag you guys in so early for anyway?” you asked, eyes drifting back toward your screen.

Logan rested his chin against your shoulder, close enough that his voice vibrated lightly through your skin when he answered.

“Cody got drunk at a frat and fell off a table. Dislocated his shoulder.”

You snorted softly.

“And you have a game tomorrow,” you murmured, piecing it together out loud. “Hence the emergency practice.”

He hummed against your shoulder in confirmation, the vibration making you shiver slightly before his mouth followed after it, pressing a lazy kiss against the fabric stretched over it.

Then another.

Then another higher up near your neck where the oversized collar slipped low against your skin.

Your fingers paused over the keyboard.

“Come on,” Logan mumbled against your throat. “Take a break?”

You ignored him on purpose.

It was almost impossible to study with Logan around. Not because he was obnoxious about it but mostly because he wanted your attention with the same attention he wanted ice time, and when John Logan wanted something, he tened to throw his whole body at it. 

Which, unfortunately for your GPA, usually worked. 

He sighed dramatically.

“Baby.”

“Logan.”

His mouth curved against your skin at the warning in your voice.

Logan lifted his head just enough to pout at you, and unfortunately for your concentration, he looked unfairly good like this—fresh from practice, slightly sleepy, soft around the edges in a way nobody else ever got to see.

He knew it too.

“I missed you,” he added, pouting still. You laughed quietly before you could stop yourself, turning your head enough to look at him properly. Logan immediately brightened like he’d won something. “You were at practice for like two hours.”

“Hey,” he said, nudging your knee with his. “Don’t be mean just because I like you.” The teasing grin lingered for only a second before something softer settled over his face.

His hand slid over your thigh absentmindedly, thumb brushing against the bare skin beneath the hem of his jersey. “I’m serious, though,” he said quietly. “I really like you.”

The words still did strange things to your chest no matter how many times he said them. Not because you doubted him. But because part of you still wasn’t entirely used to being wanted this gently.

You looked at him fully. “I know,” you said softly. “I like you too.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

His entire face changed.

It hit you suddenly sometimes, how different he was with you compared to everybody else downstairs. The version of Logan most people got was loud laughter, easy flirting, cocky one-liners, and chaotic energy spilling into every room he entered.

With you, he was soft in a way nobody would believe if they only knew him from hockey games and party stories and whispered puck bunny gossip around campus.

This version belonged only to you.

Before you could process the thought too deeply, Logan reached over and closed your laptop. “Hey,” you protested immediately. “I’m studying.”

“Nuh uh.” He grabbed the laptop before you could reclaim it and set it carefully on the nightstand. “Break time.”

“Logan.”

But he was already gathering your note cards into one messy stack, ignoring your increasingly offended expression entirely.

“You are the worst,” you informed him.

“Mm. Keep talking. Gets me all hot.” He tossed the final stack of cards aside before turning back toward you fully. Your pout barely lasted two seconds before he kissed you.

Heat crept into your face immediately. You hated how easily he could still do that to you. Logan was your first relationship.

Briar had been your first real school, your first time living around people your age instead of watching normal life through windows and secondhand stories from Garrett. 

Your first sememster had felt like everybody else had recived some invisible handbook you'd somehow missed entirely. Parties, flirting, hookups, dorm drama, it all seemed to come naturally to everyone exept you. 

Especially hockey culture. 

You still remember Garrett standing in the kitchen before the semester started, arms crossed while Dean snickered into a beer beside him. "No hockey players," Garrett had said flatly. 

You remember rolling your eyes so hard it hurt. Dean had immediately pointed at himself and Tucker. "What about us?"

"You especially," Garrett had laid the law. At the time, you'd thought it was stupid, embarrassing overprotective older brother bullshit. You'd assumed Garrett simply didn't want to hear locker room stories about his little sister from his teammates. 

Now, with Logan's mouth brushing yours softly while morning light spilled gold across your tangled bedsheets, it almost felt funny. 

Logans kisses were slow, not rushed the way your kisses sometimes became when you were sneaking around the house trying not to get caught.

This kiss felt like exactly what he’d said earlier.

I missed you.

Your fingers curled automatically into the front of his hoodie as he kissed you deeper, patient and unhurried as he pulled you closer across the mattress. 

Even now, months into sneaking around, it still caught you off guard sometimes—the way he touched you carefully without making you feel fragile, the way he held your waist like it belonged beneath his hands naturally, the way he kissed you like he genuinely missed you after only a few hours apart.

Your hands slid into his damp hair as he shifted closer, and suddenly your laptop and exam and notecards felt impossibly far away. “Missed you so much,” he mumbled again against your mouth.

You smiled helplessly into the kiss. “Needy.”

“For you? Yeah.”

Somewhere between one kiss and the next, you ended up in his lap.

One second he was beside you and the next his hands were spread warm against your waist, guiding you over his thighs while your knees pressed into the mattress on either side of him. The position pulled a quiet sound from him, one that made your pulse jump embarrassingly fast.

The jersey had ridden dangerously high up your legs by now.

Logan noticed. His hands slid carefully from your waist to your hips, fingertips brushing beneath the hem just enough to make your breath catch against his mouth.

The look he gave you afterward nearly unraveled you completely.

Your heart hammered hard enough to make your chest ache. Maybe this would be the moment. The thought arrived suddenly and stayed there.

Heat bloomed low in your stomach when Logan kissed you again, slower this time, one hand slipping up your spine while the other settled low against your hip.

The knock at your bedroom door barely registered. You froze. Neither of you had time to move before the door opened.

Garrett stepped inside.

For one horrible second, nobody moved.

His gaze swept across the room slowly. The abandoned study notes, Logan’s practice bag at the foot of the bed, your bare legs over Logan’s lap, his jersey hanging off your body, Logan’s hands still spread across your body.

The silence turned suffocating.

You scrambled off Logan immediately, yanking the jersey down your thighs as heat flooded your face. Garrett looked stunned until his expression twisted. "Are you fucking kidding me right now?"

The words cracked through the room so sharply that it felt like the temperature dropped with them.

Garrett stood frozen in the doorway, broad shoulders filling the frame completely, hockey hoodie half-zipped. His eyes moved once more across the scene in front of him like he still couldn’t quite make sense of it.

You in Logan’s jersey.

Logan sitting on your bed.

His practice bag on your floor.

Your flushed face.

The way Logan’s hands had only just left your body.

You and Logan began speaking at the same time. "Garrett—"

"G—"

"No," Garrett snapped immediately, voice rough enough to cut skin. "Don't 'Garrett' me right now." Logan stood slowly from the bed to stand beside you. 

Garrett laughed once under his breath, but there was nothing amused about. "How long?" The question was simple enough but neither of you answered fast enough. 

Garrett looked at you then. Anyone else might have mistaken his expression for just pure rage, but you could see the fear in his eyes. "You promised me."

Your stomach twisted. Because you remembered it. You remember Garrett standing in this exact house, telling every guy under this roof to stay away from you and more importantly you had promised, no hockey players. 

"G, listen, man—"

"Do not call me that right now!" Garrett barked. The force of it made silence slam back into the room. Then Garrett looked at Logan fully for the first time since walking in, betrayal twisting ugly across his face. 

"Out of every girl at Briar," he started harshly, "you just had to pick my baby sister to get you fucking dick wet?"

"What the fuck, bro?" And again, you and Logan spoke simultaneously. "Garrett, back off!"

The second the words left your mouth, Garrett went still. Something flickered across his face so quickly most people probably wouldn't have caught it, but you knew Garrett too well not to. 

It was shock. Not because you had yelled but because you had defended Logan. And suddenly Garrett was looking at the two of you like a pissed off older brother anymore. 

Logan stepped forward slightly. "I swear it's not like that, man," his voice was strained now, confused and defensive all at once, "we haven't had sex."

You actually thought, for one horrible second, that maybe that would help. Maybe if Garrett understood that this wasn't just some reckless hookup, he'd calm down. Maybe if he understood that Logan cared about you, really cared about you, the situation would stop spiraling so fast. 

Instead Garrett covered his whole face with both hands. "Jesus fucking Christ."

You chest tightened, you hated what this secret had done. "I really care about her, G," Logan confessed. 

Garrett dropped his hands slowly, then he laughed. Not because anything was particularly funny, but because he knew he was on the brink of loosing control. The sound had come jagged and breathless and it had made a knot form in your throat. 

"You care about her?"

Logan frowned immediately, he was really trying to not get worked up. But his defensiveness got the better of him as he yelled, "Yeah," he shot back. "I really fucking do."

The volume of it bounced off the bedroom walls. You recoiled, but the only person who saw was Garrett because Logan stood in front of you. The motion had practically confirmed every fear that Garrett was trying to prevent. 

And then suddenly he wasn’t standing in your bedroom anymore.

You could see it happen in real time.

His eyes stopped focusing properly. His jaw locked so tightly a muscle ticked there. Whatever Garrett was seeing now wasn’t you and Logan anymore—it was memory layered over reality until he couldn’t separate the two.

“What happens after a bad game?”

“Garrett—”

“What happens when your pissed off and she the only one home?”

Your blood ran cold. Logan's brows furrowed in confusion. “Garrett.” You try to pull his attention to you, anything to get him to stop talking, but his sights are solely set on Logan. “What happens when you start drinking too much and she says the wrong thing—”

“Garrett!”

The shout ripped out of you loud enough to sting your throat.

Garrett sucked his top teeth with his tongue hard enough for you to hear it. It took him a second to drag his glare away from Logan and back toward you.

Beside you, Logan had gone very still.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

But Garrett wasn’t even looking at him anymore.

Your palms were slick with sweat now. Your heart hammered so violently it made your ribs ache. Logan was standing right there. Right there. And Garrett was too angry to stop talking and Logan was far too smart not to put the pieces together eventually.

One more sentence.

That was all it would take and the one person in the entire world you tried to shield this from, would know everything. 

“You think dad walked around acting like a monster all the time?” Your stomach dropped. “Stop it, Garrett!” You stepped forward until you were standing in front of Logan, closer to Garrett. You don't know what you were going to do, but some insane part of you wanted to shield Logan even though he probably already understood what was happening. 

“You think mom didn’t love dad once too?” 

The room tilted. You made the mistake of glancing toward Logan and immediately regretted it because there it was.

That look.

Your entire body flushed hot with humiliation so intense it almost made you dizzy.

“Fuck you, Garrett!”

“Woah, baby—” Logan started but he was quickly cut off by Garrett.

“Fuck me?” Garrett snapped, pointing at himself before swinging that same finger toward Logan. “No, fuck him!” If not for pointing at Logan, you might have thought the him he was refering to was your father. 

Your chest hurt.

You suddenly couldn’t stand the way Logan was looking at you. Couldn’t stand the fact that he knew now. Maybe not every detail, maybe not every ugly memory, but enough.

Enough to understand.

“I watched mom make excuses for him for years—”

“I know,” you fired back instantly, voice shaking now. “I was there too.”

Garrett’s expression cracked for half a second. Then hardened again. “Then why are you making the same mistakes she did?”

“Shut up!” The words tore out of you so violently they almost sounded broken. Silence crashed over the room. Nobody moved. Your breathing sounded too loud. So did Logan’s.

Garrett stared at you like he wanted to say more and knew he shouldn’t. Logan looked like somebody had knocked the air out of him entirely. You suddenly felt sick standing in Logan’s jersey.

Like your own skin didn’t fit correctly anymore. “Get out,” you whispered. Garrett hesitated.

“Get out!”

The shout echoed off the walls.

Something ugly flashed across Garrett’s face then, anger winning over reason for one disastrous second. He slammed his fist into the hallway wall hard enough to shake the framed picture hanging beside your bedroom door.

The sound cracked through you instantly. You flinched before you could stop yourself. Tears burned your eyes immediately afterward, humiliation following close behind them. Because Garrett saw it. You knew he saw it.

Garrett looked horrified for exactly half a heartbeat. Then he walked out. The bedroom door stayed open behind him. Silence swallowed the room again. 

Logan moved first, slowly and carefully, as if approaching a wounded animal. “Baby—” You stepped backward immediately.

“Oh my god,” you whispered, shaking your head before he could touch you. “Just please get out.”

He stopped a few feet away from you, chest still rising hard from everything that had just happened. His eyes flickered over your face quickly, like he was trying to figure out which version of this situation he was standing in now.

The girl he’d been kissing five minutes ago.

Or this one.

The one standing barefoot in the middle of her bedroom looking like the floor had dropped out from beneath her.

“Baby,” he said carefully, voice quieter than you had ever heard it. “Please just let me—”

“Get out!” Your breathing shook. Logan froze completely.

Heat crawled viciously up your throat. You suddenly couldn’t stand the feeling of the jersey against your skin anymore. Couldn’t stand standing there wrapped in something that belonged to him while he looked at you like that.

Before you could stop yourself, your fingers hooked beneath the hem of the oversized Briar jersey and yanked it harshly over your head.

Logan’s eyes widened instantly.

The cold air hit your skin all at once, leaving you standing there in nothing but your bra and underwear, chest heaving unevenly.

For one horrible second, nobody moved. Then you threw the jersey at him.

The fabric smacked against his chest before falling halfway down his arm, and Logan caught it automatically out of reflex more than anything else.

The expression on his face wrecked something inside you further. He was in complete and utter shock. Not because you were half-dressed, he’d seen you in less before.

Shock because he understood what you were doing.

Your eyes burned. “Take it,” you snapped, voice trembling despite your best efforts. “Take your shit and just go.”

“Baby—”

“No!”

Your gaze caught on the hockey bag sitting at the foot of your bed. Still sitting exactly where he'd dropped it after practice because he had come straight here. Like this room had become home to him too. 

The thought made something sharp twist painfully in your chest. Before you could think better of it, you grabbed the strap and hurled the bag toward him. It hit the floor beside his feet heavily with a dull thud, one skate shifting loudly inside the bag from the force.

Logan stared at it for half a second.

Then at you.

You hated how careful he looked now, how cautious. That look was exactly what you had spent your entire relationship terrified of.

Your throat tightened painfully. “Please,” you whispered this time, weaker now. “Just leave.”

Something else flickered across his face but it wasn't pity like you expected. God, somehow that would have been easier, you think. 

It was the look of pure heartbreak. Which was way way worse. Logan swallowed hard once before bending slowly to pick up his bag. He gathered the jersey after it, fingers tightening around the crumpled fabric for a brief second.

At the bathroom door, he hesitated but you couldn’t look at him anymore so you kept your gaze on the floor. 

A second later, the door shut softly behind him

⋆ ⁺₊ ❅ . © jacksabbotts

[cassiopeiia24]

they have my heart, pt.1.

[darkkdamsel00]

GRAHAM'S LITTLE SISTER

Pairing: John Logan x Graham!Sister!Reader

Summary: You return to Boston for spring break determined to keep your secret relationship with your brother’s best friend hidden, but one look from John Logan is enough to unravel every boundary you swore you’d keep.

You’d been dreading this trip for weeks, but the second you stepped off the plane and saw Garrett waiting at arrivals with that stupid, familiar grin, your stomach flipped for an entirely different reason. Spring break. One week back in Boston with your brother and his crew. One week pretending John Logan wasn’t the guy who’d been fucking you senseless for the past twelve months.

Garrett pulled you into a bear hug, lifting you clear off the ground like you were still fifteen. “There’s my favorite sister.”

“I’m your only sister, dumbass.”

“Still favorite.” He set you down and ruffled your hair. “Hannah’s waiting in the car. Dean and Allie are already at the house pre-gaming. Logan’s… somewhere.”

Your pulse spiked at his name. You kept your face neutral. “Cool.”

The drive to the off-campus house was loud with Hannah’s laughter and Garrett’s terrible playlist. You sat in the back, phone buzzing in your lap.

Logan: You here yet, baby? I’m losing my mind.

You bit your lip and angled the screen away.

You: Just pulled up. Behave.

Logan: No.

The house looked the same—slightly worse for wear after another hockey season. Dean opened the door shirtless, Allie tucked under his arm, both of them already tipsy.

“Graham’s little sister!” Dean crowed, pulling you into a hug that smelled like tequila and cologne. “Look at you, all NYU sophisticated. Break any Ivy League hearts yet?”

“Only the ones that deserve it,” you shot back.

Then Logan appeared in the hallway behind him.

God, he looked good. Dark jeans, black thermal stretched across his shoulders, Bruins cap backwards. His brown eyes locked on you and the corner of his mouth twitched, the same smirk he gave you right before he buried his face between your thighs.

“Yo, Logan, come say hi to my sister,” Garrett called, oblivious.

Logan sauntered over, casual as hell. “Hey, stranger.” His voice was low, rough. His fingers brushed your waist as he hugged you—quick, friendly, brother-approved. But his hand lingered half a second too long, thumb pressing just above your hip bone where only he knew you were ticklish.

“Missed you,” he murmured against your ear, so soft no one else could hear.

You swallowed. “Missed you more.”

The first night was torture.

Everyone gathered in the living room, drinking, playing cards, telling stories. You sat on the couch between Hannah and Allie, laughing at Dean’s ridiculous impressions, while Logan lounged in the armchair across from you. His legs were spread, one ankle hooked over his knee, eyes never leaving you. Every time you crossed your legs, his gaze dropped. Every time you licked salt off your thumb after a tequila shot, his jaw tightened.

Around two a.m., people started drifting to bed. Garrett kissed Hannah goodnight and clapped Logan on the shoulder. “Don’t stay up too late, man. We’ve got ice time tomorrow.”

Logan’s smile was easy. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

You waited fifteen agonizing minutes in the guest room before your phone lit up.

Logan: Back door. Now.

You crept downstairs in nothing but an oversized hoodie and panties. The kitchen was dark. The second you stepped outside onto the back porch, strong arms yanked you against a hard chest. Logan’s mouth crashed into yours, hungry and desperate, a whole year of secret touches and stolen weekends exploding between you.

“Fuck, I missed this mouth,” he growled, backing you against the siding. His hands slid under the hoodie, palming your ass, lifting you so your legs wrapped around his waist. “Missed how wet you get for me.”

“Logan—” You gasped as he ground his erection against you. “We can’t—not here—”

“Inside. My room. Now.”

He carried you through the dark house like you weighed nothing. The second his bedroom door clicked shut, clothes hit the floor. Your hoodie, his shirt, your panties, his jeans. He pushed you onto the bed, mouth on your neck, your tits, sucking hard enough to leave marks you’d have to hide tomorrow.

“You’ve been driving me crazy all night,” he muttered against your stomach, kissing lower. “Sitting there in those little shorts, knowing I can’t touch you.”

“Then touch me now.”

He did. Two thick fingers pushed inside you without warning, curling just right. His tongue flicked your clit and your back arched off the bed. You shoved a pillow over your face to muffle the moan.

Logan ripped it away. “Let me hear you. Been too fucking long.”

He ate you out like a man starved—messy, filthy, perfect. You came hard, thighs shaking around his head, whispering his name like a prayer. Before you could recover, he was over you, condom on, cock nudging your entrance.

“Look at me,” he ordered.

You did. Blue eyes dark with lust and something deeper. He pushed in slowly, stretching you, filling you until you couldn’t breathe.

“Fuck, you feel like home,” he groaned.

Then he fucked you. Hard. Deep. The headboard banged against the wall and you didn’t even care. You clawed at his back, met every thrust, whispered dirty things in his ear that made him lose control. He flipped you over, pulled your hips up, and took you from behind, one hand fisted in your hair.

“Come on my cock, baby. Let me feel it.”

You shattered again. He followed right after, burying himself deep and groaning your name into your shoulder.

You collapsed together, sweaty and tangled. Logan pulled you against his chest, pressing lazy kisses to your temple.

“I hate hiding this,” he said quietly.

“Me too. But Garrett…”

“Yeah.” His arms tightened. “I know.”

The next three days were a blur of stolen moments. Quick kisses in the hallway when everyone was distracted. Logan’s hand up your skirt under the dinner table. A frantic blowjob in his truck in the driveway at 3 a.m. while Garrett and Hannah slept upstairs.

You almost got caught twice. Once when Dean nearly walked in on Logan fingering you in the laundry room. Another when Garrett asked why your neck looked “weird” and you lied about a curling iron burn.

By day four, the tension was unbearable.

It snapped at the bonfire.

The guys had dragged an old fire pit into the backyard. Beers flowed. Music thumped. You were tipsy, wearing Logan’s hoodie because it smelled like him and because he’d growled in your ear to put it on before you came outside.

Garrett was telling some story about a game last season when he noticed you laughing at something Logan whispered.

His eyes narrowed. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” you said quickly.

Logan leaned back, casual. “Just telling her about the time Dean face-planted during warm-ups.”

Garrett didn’t laugh. His gaze flicked between you and Logan. Something shifted in his expression—suspicion hardening into realization.

Later, when you slipped inside for another drink, Garrett followed.

In the kitchen, he cornered you. “You and Logan.”

It wasn’t a question.

Your heart stopped. “Garrett—”

“Don’t.” His voice was low, dangerous. “I saw the way he looked at you. The fucking hoodie. How long?”

You swallowed. “A year.”

“A year?” He looked like you’d slapped him. “My best friend has been screwing my little sister behind my back for a goddamn year?”

“It’s not like that. We’re together. For real.”

Garrett dragged a hand through his hair. “Jesus Christ. I trusted him. I told him you were off-limits. I specifically said—”

“I’m not a kid anymore,” you snapped. “I’m twenty-one. I make my own choices.”

“Not with him.” His jaw clenched. “Not with Logan. He’s a fucking mess. Hockey, parties, girls—”

“He hasn’t touched anyone else since we started. He loves me, Garrett.”

The back door slammed. Logan stepped in, eyes blazing. “You got something to say to me, Graham?”

Garrett turned on him. “Yeah. Get the fuck away from my sister.”

Logan’s hands fisted at his sides. “Too late for that.”

The first punch came from Garrett. It cracked across Logan’s jaw, sending him stumbling into the counter. Logan roared and tackled him. They crashed to the floor in a mess of limbs and fury—fists flying, grunts, the sound of knuckles on flesh.

“Stop!” you screamed.

Dean and Allie rushed in. Dean grabbed Garrett, Allie tried to pull Logan back, but the two men were too far gone.

“You’re supposed to be my brother!” Garrett shouted, blood on his lip. “I would’ve taken a bullet for you, man!”

“And I love her!” Logan yelled back, shoving Dean off. His eye was already swelling. “I’m in love with her, you idiot. Have been for years. I tried to stay away. I couldn’t.”

Garrett lunged again. Another punch landed. Blood splattered the tile.

You stepped between them, hands out. “Enough!”

Both men froze, breathing hard.

Garrett wiped his mouth, glaring at Logan with pure betrayal. “Break it off. Right now. Or we’re done. Friendship. Everything.”

The silence was deafening.

Logan looked at you. Really looked. The fear in his eyes broke your heart.

“No,” he said quietly. “I won’t.”

Garrett’s laugh was bitter. “Then get the fuck out of my house.”

You found Logan in his room twenty minutes later, packing a duffel with jerky movements. His face was bruised, lip split.

“Logan…”

“I’m not ending this.” His voice cracked. “I can’t. Not anymore.”

You crossed the room and wrapped your arms around him from behind. He turned, buried his face in your neck, holding you so tight it hurt.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

“Not your fault. Should’ve told him sooner. Or not at all. I don’t know anymore.”

You kissed his bruised jaw, his split lip, gentle and reverent. He shuddered.

“Stay with me tonight,” you said. “One more night before everything explodes.”

He hesitated, then nodded.

You made love slowly this time. No rushing. Logan laid you down on his bed and worshipped every inch of you, his mouth on your breasts, hands mapping your curves like he was memorizing. When he finally slid inside you, it was deep and unhurried, eyes locked the entire time.

“I love you,” he whispered against your lips as he moved. “So fucking much.”

You came together, clinging to each other like the world outside might tear you apart.

Afterward, tangled in sheets, he traced patterns on your bare back. “Whatever happens tomorrow… I’m not letting you go.”

You believed him.

The next morning was war.

Garrett was in the kitchen nursing coffee and a black eye when you came downstairs with Logan right behind you. Hannah stood beside him, looking torn. Dean and Allie hovered awkwardly by the fridge.

Garrett’s eyes hardened. “You didn’t break it off.”

“No,” Logan said flatly. “And I’m not going to.”

Garrett stood. “Then you’re not welcome here.”

“Garrett, stop,” Hannah said softly. “They’re adults. They love each other.”

“He lied to me. For a year.” Garrett’s voice rose. “My best friend and my sister. Behind my back. How the fuck am I supposed to be okay with that?”

Logan stepped forward. “I know I fucked up the way we did it. But I’m not sorry for loving her. She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

You slipped your hand into Logan’s. “I love him too. And if you make me choose, Garrett… I’ll choose him.”

The words landed like another punch. Garrett flinched.

For a long moment, no one spoke.

Then Garrett exhaled, long and shaky. “I’m disappointed in you, man. Really fucking disappointed.” He looked at you, eyes glassy. “Both of you.”

He walked out.

The rest of spring break was strained. Garrett barely spoke to either of you. Logan crashed at Dean’s for a couple nights. You spent every free second with Logan, talking, fucking, planning how to make this work when you went back to NYU and he stayed in Boston for the summer.

On the last night, Garrett cornered Logan on the back porch while you pretended not to watch from the window.

“I still want to kill you,” Garrett said gruffly.

“Fair.”

“But… if you hurt her, I will kill you. Slowly.”

Logan nodded. “I’d let you.”

Garrett sighed. “She’s happy. I can see that. Doesn’t mean I like it.”

“I know.”

A long pause.

“Don’t fuck it up, Logan.”

“I won’t.”

They didn’t hug. Not yet. But the fist bump was something. A start.

You left for NYU the next day. Logan drove you to the airport. In the parking garage, he kissed you like the plane might leave without you. Deep, claiming, hands in your hair.

“Call me when you land,” he said.

“I will.” You touched his still-bruised cheek. “I love you.”

“Love you more, baby.”

[cassiopeiia24]

painful. ANOTHER!

[puckingcuckbunny]

𝐣𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐲 𝐢𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐞𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐥𝐲 ✪

𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐞 : john logan x fem! di Laurentis!reader

𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐤 𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 : points of tension? but not angst, secret relationship

𝐞𝐯𝐚𝐥𝐮𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 : Being Dean di daurentis' little sister came with many...features, hundreds of eyes would be trained on the both of you- a dynamic pairing that was sure to breathe life into a party just by blinking at the venue, lavish lives of comfort and quiet luxury, it didn't help you had killer genes on top of it all. With those abilities came challenges, such as, your personal lives being the literal talk of the town.

Meaning you'd be willing to do just about anything to protect the one good thing you had kept to yourself since you lied to your parents about getting drunk for the first time. That included, a bunch of brain rotting dates with the most eligible bachelors at Briar, which, fair warning- will lead to your boyfriend not being the happiest man on earth.

𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐧 𝐢𝐜𝐞 : 7k words

𝐛𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐲’𝐬 𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐫 : What can I say for this one. I just hope you guys think I still have a life. I do, it's just a bit lost at the moment. I swear. I'm also on break right now- so I have alot of free time haha. catch me not uploading anything when teaching starts again. Anyway, just goes to show that when I get requests I don't half ass them haha. Thank you @pinkyups for the gif and @onyxdaze for the dividers !

𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 : I would really appreciate if you could send in an ask to be on my taglist, it's easier for me to manage and make sure everyone is added!! here is the post of my current taglist. Also, if your user is bolded, I'm going on a prayer that youve been tagged but Tumblr wouldn't let me properly do so. I would recommend checking your privacy settings to allow other people to tag you.

The hockey house was always, somehow, loud. Loud in that pre-party way on a Friday night that made your head spin and bring a giddy smile to your face. The warm-up stage, if you will. Everyone half-distracted and talking over each other while deciding what the night was actually going to become.

Which was exactly why Dean had decided it was the perfect time to ruin your life.

“No seriously,” your brother insisted from across the kitchen island, pointing his beer bottle at you like he was presenting a business proposal to investors instead of actively setting his sister up on a date, “this guy is perfect for you.”

You stared at him flatly and leaned on your elbows, the stool you were sat on tipped dangerously.

“Every time you say that, I suffer.”

“That’s because you keep picking emotionally unavailable weirdos.”

Everyone partially ignored Dean, he was always doing this- offering to set you up with the next eligible bachelor that he had scouted in his classes, or mutual friends, one time he set you up with one of his ex-hookup’s hookup. That one didn’t go as well as the majority of your brother’s matchmaking pursuits.

From the couch, Logan’s ears perked up and he choked slightly on his drink; he glanced around hoping nobody noticed, and it didn’t seem like they did.

Except Garrett.

Garrett glanced up from his phone, eyes moving from Logan to you and then back to Logan again with the expression of somebody who had just noticed a bomb underneath the dining table.

Your eyes flicked to Logan, a secret twinkle in them before you steeled and ignored him. Dean, fortunately for you didn’t even notice and continued talking.

“He’s pre-law,” he said proudly.

Logan rolled his eyes and scoffed before he could stop himself. He didn’t even recognise the noise that he made, but he stilled when he felt the group’s eyes on him.

Allie frowned from where she sat cross-legged on the floor. “Why did you react like that?”

Logan shrugged quickly, leaning further back into the couch cushions beside Tucker. “I didn’t.”

“You literally scoffed.”

“I breathed.”

“That was a judgmental breath.”

“It’s pre-law,” Logan muttered, finger running along the rim of his beer bottle.

Dean narrowed his eyes immediately, “What’s wrong with pre-law?”

Logan took another sip of his drink like he hadn’t just entered the conversation voluntarily. “Sounds evil.”

Tucker barked out a laugh from beside him. “Bro, weren't you considering law for a bit?”

“We don’t about that dark time of my life,” Logan muttered, he nodded silently as the yeasty alcohol slipped down his throat- his eyes flicked to you but he refocussed on the conversation at hand.

You bit the inside of your cheek hard enough to stop yourself smiling.

The two of you had agreed on the secrecy together.

Mostly because your friends were all deeply nosy and incapable of minding their own business for longer than six consecutive minutes, but also because you and Logan had somehow slipped into dating without fully meaning to and then panicked slightly once you realised how serious it had become.

Now here you were.

Four months deep into a relationship that you couldn’t reveal, unless you wanted to bring about the next Dean-meltdown. The last one almost ended with him moving to Australia and making a life with the kangaroos. 

Which meant that every time somebody tried setting one of you up with another person, you both had to sit there pretending it was completely normal.

You liked to think that you had been handling it significantly better than Logan.

“All I’m saying,” Dean continued, oblivious to the psychological warfare occurring three feet away from him, “is that he’s smart, he’s tall, he cooks-”

“That’s manipulative,” Logan interrupted.

The room went quiet.

You looked at him.

Dean looked at him.

Even Hannah slowly lowered her phone.

“What?” Dean said eventually.

Logan blinked once like he had only just realised he’d spoken aloud.

“What?” he repeated.

“You think cooking is manipulative?”

Logan shifted slightly in his seat. “Sometimes.”

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

“Neither does pre-law.”

Allie turned fully toward him now, deeply suspicious. “Why do you care?”

“I don’t.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, “You seem weirdly invested.”

“I’m not invested.” He quickly replied. 

Garrett spoke without looking up from his phone.

“You wanna explain why you’re reacting like a divorced father who just found out his ex-wife is dating again?”

Tucker physically folded over laughing.

Logan pointed at Garrett immediately. “See? This is why nobody likes you.”

“People love me.”

“Your own girlfriend looks tired.”

Hannah snorted into her can of coke and ran her hand through her boyfriend’s hair, who was staring daggers at Logan until he melted into her touch.

You looked away before you snorted at Logan’s antics, which probably in hindsight wasn’t the best idea, because the second your attention drifted away- you could feel him boring holes into the side of your face, like he was trying to telepathically communicate his annoyance across the room.

Your phone buzzed against the counter and you grabbed it quickly before someone noticed the way you grinned to yourself, biting down on your lip you checked the notifications; even though you already knew who it was.

Hockey boy 💗 stop smiling at dean about another guy before i lose my mind

Across the room, Logan stared at his own phone with the deeply concentrated expression of someone trying not to commit homicide.

You typed back carefully, intentionally slower so as not to alert your brother- who was now chattering with his girlfriend across the room. 

You: you are being unbelievably dramatic rn

Hockey boy 💗 he said the guy cooks

You: so…do you?

Hockey boy 💗 yeah but i do it sexier

You physically had to cough to disguise the laugh that escaped you.

Hannah looked over instantly.

“What?” she asked suspiciously.

“Nothing.”

“You just giggled at your phone.”

“I did not.”

“You literally did.”

Dean pointed at you accusingly. “Wait. Is there already another guy?”

You jumped so hard that your knee hit the island and you hissed. Logan had sat up straighter, fast enough that it alarmed Tucker, who was sunken into the couch next to him.

“No,” he said immediately.

The entire room turned toward him.

A beat passed.

Logan slowly leaned back again, cringing and half hoping the universe would grant him reprise in the deepest black hole it could create.

“I mean,” he added poorly, “how would I know?”

Garrett finally looked up fully now, staring directly at Logan with open fascination, his eyes widening as he properly studied the both of you. His mouth popped open in an O shape.

Your heart launched into your throat as you met the captain’s eyes, half pleading that he was as slow as his stereotype allowed him to be. But before Garrett could elaborate further, Dean steamrolled right over the moment.

“Whatever,” he said dismissively, already pulling out his phone again, “look at this guy and tell me I’m wrong.”

He shoved the screen in your direction, you squinted and slumped forward, hitting your older brother with a dead look.

You hated how attractive the man was.

Tall. Dark hair. Nice smile.

One of those annoyingly clean-looking corporate boys that somehow always smelled expensive.

Before you could stop yourself, your eyes flicked instinctively toward Logan. If there was a bigger mistake you could've made, it would be murder. Because he was already looking at you, his eyes inquisitively blinking between you and Dean.

Waiting.

You raised one eyebrow slightly, teasing him and Logan narrowed his eyes immediately. Then, because apparently self-preservation had abandoned him entirely tonight, he muttered,

“He looks like he moisturizes too much.”

Dean stared at him, baffled that this was coming from the same man who probably owned 500 different types of skincare. What Dean didn’t know is that each time a new product would pop up on his sink, it was actually yours. 

“All humans should moisturize.”

“Not that much.”

“John,” Hannah said slowly, “you own more hair products than me.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

Logan opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

“It just is.”

“You are such a fucking hater,” Tucker wheezed.

Logan looked genuinely offended, looking at the group, whipping around like a broken spinning top, “I’m not a hater.”

“You’re beefing with a man none of us have met.”

“I’m not beefing with him.”

“You called his face moisturized in a derogatory way.”

Logan rolled his eyes and slumped again, tapping at his phone. Yours buzzed against your thigh- it seems secrecy had flown out of the window tonight. Four months of perfect sneak-ins, disguised dates and unknown sleepovers flushed away.

Hockey boy 💗 if he touches you im transferring schools

You stared at the text for a full three seconds before looking up, Logan was already messing with his hair absently, jaw tight, eyes narrowed at absolutely nothing.

God.

He was unbelievable, you tried not to gape at him while tapping on your phone,

“He wants to meet tonight?” You ask Dean, feigning interest as you squinted at the phone over the lip of your cup. 

Dean perked up and texted this guy, Ethan, Evan? You didn’t care, “He says…” Dean held the room still with his hands outstretched, “He’ll be over in an hour!” Your brother jumped triumphantly into Beau, who had missed the entire debacle when he disappeared into the toilet.

That gave you the perfect window to meet Logan’s gaze, which had flared considerably. You shrugged and winked at him, biting your cheek when he blushed and huffed, turning away to down the rest of his drink. 

You managed to escape upstairs under the guise of getting ready for this date- far away from Tucker, who had gotten into the habit of critiquing your outfit choices like he was one planned ensemble away from Vogue.

You slipped into the bathroom, starting to wash your face with products that Logan had shamelessly claimed as his, just so you could keep more of your stuff over on his shelf. 

You towel dried your face when the door to the bathroom cracked open with a dull knock. You didn’t turn around immediately, mostly because you already knew who it was.

“Baby.”

There it was, you huffed, hands barely pausing their circular movements of rubbing moisturizer into your skin. You glanced over bemused with the puppy act that Logan was currently playing at the doorway. That tone is exactly the tone he used on you when he was not happy about what your secret relationship brought along with it- it was low, annoyed in a way that immediately made warmth crawl up your spine despite your best efforts

Adjusting one of your earrings in the mirror and pressing your lips together with a new layer of lipgloss, you watched him click the door behind him and lean against it- bashfully looking at you from below his eyelashes

“You know following me upstairs while I’m getting ready for another guy is objectively making this situation weirder.”

He crossed his arms over his chest as you adjusted your skirt.

“Another guy,” he repeated flatly.

You met his eyes through the mirror.

Your boyfriend looked deeply unimpressed by the entire concept of tonight, which was slightly ironic considering he’d spent the last few months allowing Allie to continuously set him up with girls under the assumption he was still hopelessly into Hannah.

“You’ve literally gone on three dates this month,” you reminded him.

“They barely count.”

You turned around fully then, eyebrows lifting. “One of them took you mini golfing.”

“She talked about her ex for forty minutes.”

“That’s still a date.”

“It was psychological warfare.”

You snorted and planted your hands on your hips, your resolve barely holding when his eyes softened slightly at the sound, that was part of the reason you both worked. No matter how irritated he got, no matter how jealous or grumpy or territorial he became, there was always this underlying tenderness to him around you that completely gave him away if you paid attention for long enough.

And you were always paying attention to him. 

His gaze dragged over you slowly now. Taking in the dress, your hair, the shimmer of your lipgloss that he interrupted the application of. Your eyes widened when his jaw tightened

“Oh my god,” you laughed quietly, shaking your head, “you’re actually jealous.”

“I’m not jealous.”

“You compared his moisturizer usage to shooting puppies.”

“He looks slippery.”

“That is not a real critique.”

“It could be.”

You laughed again, properly this time- Logan’s expression immediately worsened, as if he couldn’t believe that you were going to look like that for a guy that wasn’t him.

“You look too pretty for this,” he muttered.

Your stomach flipped, your laugh settling to a soft smile. Logan always spoke like that, somehow injecting sincerity into everything he said even when he was irrationally possessive.

You tried very hard not to melt visibly.

“Well unfortunately,” you said lightly instead, stepping closer to him, “our friends are insane and think you’re still in love with Hannah.”

“I haven’t liked Hannah in like 6 months.” Your eyebrows lifted slightly with a grin

“6 months?”

Logan realised his mistake immediately.

“Don’t do that,” he warned.

You cheekily bit your tongue, “Do what?” 

“That thing where you look smug.”

“I’m not smug.”

“You’re literally smirking.”

You were doing the mental maths, because if Logan stopped liking Hannah almost 6 months ago.. Well. 

You’d started sleeping together six months ago and got together two months after that.

Interesting timeline.

Your boyfriend stepped closer before you could weaponize that information further, hands finding your waist automatically like muscle memory. Like he physically couldn’t stand within arm’s reach of you without touching you somehow.

“You better not actually like this guy,” he muttered.

You blinked once. Twice. Then brought your arms to his shoulders- comfortingly rubbing the soft flannel

“John Logan,” you said slowly, “are you trying to establish rules for a date I didn’t even want to go on?”

His hands tightened slightly against your waist.

“No.”

“Yes you are.”

“No I’m not.”

“You’re literally pouting.”

“I don’t pout.”

You reached up immediately and pressed your thumb against his lower lip, his eyes darkened. 

“There,” you whispered sweetly. “That. That’s pouting.”

Logan grabbed your wrist before you could pull away, dragging you flush against him in one smooth movement that made your breath catch embarrassingly fast.

“You think this is funny,” he said quietly.

“A little bit.”

“That’s concerning.”

“You’re being insane.”

“I’m being reasonable.”

“You called him slippery.”

“He is slippery.”

You dissolved into laughter again, forehead dropping briefly against his chest. Logan exhaled heavily above you, one hand sliding up your spine slowly - exposed from the cutout of your dress. His fingers curled at the back of your neck.

“Don’t let him kiss you,” he murmured.

You tilted your head back immediately and grinned at him- as if you would ever consider the ridiculous idea.

“Oh my god.”

“I’m serious.”

“You are unbelievable.”

“I mean it.”

Your amusement faded slightly then, into something gentler that settled underneath your expression, beneath all the jealousy and dramatics and weird comments about moisturizer, you knew what this actually was.

Logan wasn’t angry, he was scared. Not of you cheating- you’d threatened him enough that you’d need to be held at gun point for the thought to even breach your mind. He was worried that someone better would come along, someone more charming, someone who was a part of your world. The world that Dean and you shared along with the ultra elite trust-fund babies.

Your expression softened.

“You know I’m yours, right?” you asked quietly.

The change in Logan's face made your chest hurt ever so slightly- he sighed and dropped his forehead against yours,

“Yeah?” he asked softly.

You swallow away the knot in your throat and kiss his nose, “Yeah.”

Logan smiled at the feeling of your lips on his face, grinning at the triumphant look on your face. And for a second, neither of you moved, just basking in the feeling of each other's closeness. Then his hand slid properly into your hair and he kissed you, and just like every time this man kissed you, your knees felt weak and you leaned into him.

His mouth moved against yours slowly at first, careful and lingering and familiar enough to make your sigh slightly before he deepened it with the quiet sort of desperation that always seemed to sneak into him around you, you hum softly into his mouth, fingers curling into the front of his hoodie.

“John,” you whispered when he kissed down your jaw.

“Hm?”

“If you leave a mark on me before my date I’m actually going to kill you.”

Logan kissed your neck again deliberately then started nipping at the skin purposefully, you whacked his head, groaning when he soothed over the stinging skin with his tongue.

“You asshole.”

“You said no marks,” he murmured smugly against your skin, “these are just... friendly reminders.”

You were seconds away from shoving him when Dean’s voice suddenly echoed up the stairs.

“HEY!”

You gasped and jumped apart violently, his hands tightened on your waist and you could feel his heartbeat thumping wildly below your hand.

“IS MY SISTER READY YET OR IS SHE MAKING THIS GUY WAIT ON PURPOSE?”

Logan inhaled sharply, squeezing his eyes shut . You bit down on your smile and turned to fix your makeup, your lipgloss smudged to your chin and all over his mouth. You usher him towards the mirror to wipe it off.

Then Dean yelled again,

“AND LOGAN WHERE THE FUCK DID YOU GO?”

The two of you stared at each other, a short moment of silence passed, then you both had to stifle laughs against the other, your mouth pressed into his shoulder as he cradled your head and pressed a hand to his lips. 

Logan dragged one hand down his face. “I hate everyone in this house.”

“You live here.”

“Don’t remind me.”

You grinned and reached up, gently fixing the collar of his shirt where you’d wrinkled it. His eyes softened again immediately and he smoothed out your hair,

“Go on your stupid date,” he muttered, rubbing away the last of the lipgloss from your chin.

“You’re adorable when you’re jealous.”

“I’m not jealous.”

“You followed me upstairs.”

“I was stretching my legs.”

“Through my tonsils?”

Logan rolled his eyes and kissed your forehead

If you were to be objective about the situation your brother had put you in- you’d have to say that he did an annoyingly good job. You’d never tell him that of course, you’d prefer to use Logan’s pliers to rip your teeth out individually. 

But the guy sitting across from you was genuinely perfect on paper.

Ethan was funny in that easy, socially polished way corporate aspirants somehow always were, where every joke sounded rehearsed enough to land properly but natural enough that you couldn’t call him out on it. He opened doors without making a huge deal out of it, remembered details from previous conversations Dean had apparently told him about you, and somehow managed to make expensive restaurants feel casual instead of pretentious.

Worst of all. He was genuinely attractive. You could think of at least 5 of your girlfriends who would happily take the inconvenience out of your hands.

Dark hair slightly messy in that intentional way rich men cultivated, broad shoulders underneath a fitted black sweater, stupidly nice hands that looked like they belonged in a watch advertisement.

You hated how much Dean would enjoy being right about this.

“And then Di Laurentis told me,” Ethan laughed lightly, leaning back in his chair, “that if I hurt you he’d apparently feed my body to the hockey team.”

You snorted into your drink. “Yeah, that sounds like my brother.”

“He’s weirdly intimidating for a guy that owns that many tank tops.”

“He weaponizes confidence.”

Ethan grinned and held eye contact with you while he sipped from his whiskey glass. And you stumbled into the same feeling you had been experiencing the entire evening, everytime Evan smiled- your brain automatically compared it to Logan.

Ezra’s smile was clean, polished and pristine. You’d go as far as to say it was pretty under most lighting.

You couldn’t help the comparison. Logan’s smiles made your stomach flip and consciousness flutter in a way only he could manage. Split lips after hockey games- stretched into victorious laughter, crooked smirks when he was about to say something unbelievably annoying and your favourite, the devastatingly soft grin he got only around you, like his entire body was tuned to your reactions. 

Your throat dried and you worked hard to keep an uncomfortable grimace at bay.

“So,” Eli said, resting his chin against his hand slightly, “Dean says you practically live at the hockey house.”

You nearly choked on your drink.

The statement itself wasn’t inaccurate, you did spend a lot of time at the house. But if Elijah knew how much of that time you’d spent in John Logan’s bedroom, you’re pretty sure he would evaporate on the spot.  

“Yeah.. They’re my brother’s teammates, we all just ended up becoming friends,” you said carefully.

“You and Logan seem close.”

Your heart skipped once at the mention of his name and you fought against the natural instinct to bite back a smile, instead you kept your expression neutral with the kind of effort that deserved academic recognition.

“Logan?”

“Yeah.” Everett shrugged lightly. “He looked like he wanted to kill me earlier.”

You laughed too quickly, waving off the notion that Logan would be anything but jealous.

“He’s just weird.”

Eric nodded thoughtfully, studying your face in a way that made you send an impromptu prayer up to God that he wasn’t putting the badly veiled pieces together, then he grinned and shrugged.

“I figured.”

The waiter arrived then, setting down your desserts while Edward thanked him politely. You mentally facepalmed, again, this guy was objectively perfect. But you had to stop yourself from recoiling away when his hand brushed yours, gentle and hesitant across the table.

Your mind flashed back to the most recent date Logan took you on, a small, independent coffee shop outside of the Briar locality- away from prying, gossiping eyes. He had grimaced as he paid for your drink and stifled his love for it when you made him take a sip, your hands were intertwined the entire time, a carefree momentum settled in your conversation whilst he played with the rings on your fingers, openly, unabashedly. 

The memory hit you so suddenly you almost laughed. Dean had hit gold with this guy, you could read Erik like an open book, and the entire time he had been nothing but sweet, smart at points and attentive nearly the entire length of the date. Your friends would probably start planning a big, upper-east side wedding by next week.

But still your mind drifted back to the only man you could see yourself marrying, and how much he would absolutely hate this restaurant. The excess of cloth napkins would make him tense, the dim lighting irritating him enough to make his entire face scrunch up and the lack of fries would be considered diabolical. 

But you knew, with absolute certainty, that if you wanted to dine in a restaurant like this, he would suffer an eternity in these four walls if it meant he was with you.

Your phone buzzed against your lap, breaking your chain of thought. 

Hockey boy 💗: Are you home yet?

You stared at the carousel of messages prior to this, and the timestamps

9:14 PM. 9:26 PM. 9:41 PM. 9:57 PM.

Four separate messages.

Your lips twitched helplessly, all of them were as performatively nonchalant as the others.

Hockey boy 💗 If this Egbert guy touches you, I'm keying his daddy’s jeep. 

Hockey boy 💗 Don’t ask how i know this but his linkedin is not very impressive- not good enough to date my girl that’s for sure. 

Hockey boy 💗 I miss you.

Ethan noticed immediately, the way your eyes softened and a huff made your lips part in a ghost of a smile.

“Boyfriend?” he asked casually.

Your head snapped up.

“What?”

He smiled, cocking his head slightly, “You’ve checked your phone every five minutes since we got here.”

Heat crawled up your neck instantly and you furrowed your brows in apology,

“No,” The lie felt bitter on your tongue, but you silenced your phone and set it down face first on the table.  Eran hummed like he didn’t fully believe you, but thankfully let it go.

The rest of the date shifted slightly after that, not awkward since poor Edmund hadn’t let the clarifying moment put a dent in his enthusiasm. It just meant that his hand hadn’t touched yours since you replied to Logan.

You wanted to apologise to him, to say that it wasn’t working out for any reason that didn’t involve Logan. But you opted for polite, self-explanatory silence on the matter. Letting Edwin slip on your jacket for you and engaged in a cursory side hug that made you both cringe a little, but it was easier than explaining to him that instead of his simple affection, you wanted the idiot currently losing his mind back at the hockey house over a pre-law major named Elton.

Logan would honestly rather take a hundred slapshots straight to the ribs without pads than listen to Dean brag about what a 'good guy' he’d set his sister up with.

It started with a passing comment, then a phone lighting up on the coffee table which led to Dean half-paying attention to the loud conversation being had in the living room while scrolling. This cumulative, slow motion train crash in front of Logan’s eyes, meant he had gone suspiciously quiet in the midst of the heated debate between Allie and Tucker and was now focussing on his friend who was grinning like a Cheshire cat at his phone.

Dean eventually spoke, stretching back into the couch like he owns it, a triumphant look spread across his face. The group quietens when they notice the smug expression, which either meant he was about to announce something gross or he was going to be an ass about being right. 

“She just got dessert,” he casually reports, looking around the room, like a king would look at his subjects- pompous and on the highest horse possible.

Logan does not respond immediately. He just leans forward slightly, fiddling with the loose thread fraying from the cuff of his sleeve, when he does decide to grace Dean with an answer- it takes everything in him to keep his voice steady and flat in a way that should come across as disinterested. 

“That’s nice.” His tone was clipped, a stark difference from his usual charismatic demeanor. The rest of the group makes up for his lack of enthusiasm, the girls giggled and congratulated Dean on finding such a catch, the guys laugh and speculate that in the dating world- getting dessert is equivalent to a perfectly timed, public, flash-mob proposal. 

Logan prayed for it to end there. It normally would’ve, Dean hadn’t said anything that would invite continuation. You had ordered dessert and that meant Logan would need to become a world class pastry chef as soon as possible. Case closed. Goodnight. 

“And he says she’s laughing a lot.” 

A badly stifled suffering sigh escapes Logan’s lips, his body briefly pauses, as if it had forgotten how to act normal and instead decided to shut down.

He recalibrated, ignoring the ugly, curling sensation that lurched in his stomach and instead, rather stiffly, managed to say,

“Good for her,” he says. Perfect. His voice was still intensely calm, still controlled and his answer invited no follow-up.

Across the room, Tucker glances up from his seat with the vague expression of someone who is only half following the conversation but is starting to sense that the topic was sprinting full speed down an unexplored path . Hannah leans toward Allie, lowering her voice.

“Why is he talking like that?” she asks.

Allie glances between them. “Like what?”

Hannah thinks for a second, “Remember the time he walked in on you and Dean?”

Allie sighs dreamily at the memory, obviously not remembering the avoidant, distasteful tone that Logan had adopted for the rest of that night.

“Ohhhh,” Allie nodded slowly, the specifics hazy in her mind, but she could clearly remember Logan looking like he would let Garrett shave off the outer layer of his eyeballs with his skates.

Dean hears this and instead of doing the smart thing for everyone in the vicinity, he contributes to the analysis,

“That’s what it is!,” he snaps his fingers and points at Logan, who glanced at the perky blonde out of his periphery and slapped his outstretched fingers with his palm. 

Garrett in the middle of the exchange has stopped pretending entirely that he is not listening. He doesn’t dare react, but his attention splits between Logan and Dean regularly, as if he was the first to picture something that everyone else had not yet realised. 

Dean’s phone vibrates in his hand, “Oh,” he says after a moment, like he is remembering another detail. “He also says she’s really pretty when she’s concentrating.”

Logan exhales through his nose, slow and controlled, and finally looks down at his hands as if the table in front of him has suddenly become more interesting than anything else in the room, focussing more on the worn out grain and the used fibres of the carpet beneath it. When he speaks again, his tone is still even, but it takes slightly longer to form the sentence.

“That’s… nice.”

Hannah slowly sits up a little straighter, her brows knitting together in mild confusion rather than concern.

“Am I crazy,” she mutters, “or does this feel weird?”

“You are always slightly crazy,” Tucker replies automatically but he shares the same, puzzled look.

“That is not helpful.”

Allie is also watching Logan, like she is trying to decide whether this is something she is allowed to comment on or whether it falls into the category of things that will resolve themselves without intervention.

Garrett still says nothing, opting to sit with his discovery in unparalleled superiority. 

The room continues as if it is trying to behave normally around something that it does not fully understand yet. Dean scrolls again, far too unaware of the pressure building in the man beside him.

“Oh,” he adds, like he has found another harmless detail. “She keeps fixing her hair when she laughs.”

Logan stills, properly this time. A eerie calm settles over his body, because he was internally cursing himself for being in this situation, damn his friends and their nosey tendencies and damn you for being the sister of his teammate.

He ruminates on the choices that brought him here today, coming to the conclusion, that he'd rather be trapped in an endless, no-whistle bag skate at five AM than endure these idle, cheerful updates. A bag skate ended eventually. This felt like it never would.

But Tucker leans slightly toward Hannah and whispers, “Is he doing okay?”

Hannah whispers back, “I think we are all missing something.”

Allie does not take her eyes off Logan, morbidly fascinated at the fact that the world’s most suave person, had his lips pressed against his hands and had managed to end up with a raincloud over his head in the middle of July. “Something is definitely happening.”

Garrett shifts against Hannah, still choosing to be an idle spectator in Logan’s ruin, but even he could muster up a sympathetic grimace when Dean chose to continue the narration. 

Logan finally cuts in.

“Can you stop reading that out loud.”

Dean looks up, “Why?”

A pause.

“Just tired. Honestly, I’d rather coach put us through a three-hour gauntlet drill right now than hear any more details about your sister’s love life. It’s weird, man.”

Dean’s eyes widened by a fraction, “Woah, is everything alright?” He looks genuinely concerned and that just makes Logan want to run into a wall at full speed. Because the whole room was staring at him, blinking like a flock of owls that were studying their latest choice of prey.

He scratches the back of his neck, hoping that nobody notices the nervous tick, “Sorry..” Logan grabs his hoodie as he takes his leave, “My coursework has been killer lately, must not be getting enough sleep. My bad man.” He pats Dean’s shoulder once and moves towards the staircase.

The entire house seemed to be suspended in awkward confusion- and Logan was prepared to add homicidal undertones as he reached the top step and Dean’s voice fluttered after him,

“Allie-cat what kind of girls have you been setting him up with? Maybe I should take over his matchmaking”

Logan groans and flops into his bed the minute the door creaks shut behind him, too dejected to glance up when his comforter vibrates beneath him.

The window is not the traditional avenue to enter a room, you realised that throughout the entirety of your senior year of highschool. It always requires a small negotiation with physics, a bit of careful balance, and the kind of confidence that suggests you have done this before and will probably do it again.

Which you admittedly have, given that you had memorised the best notches in the brick to wedge your foot into and where not to grab unless you wanted to end up face to face with a view directly into your brother's window.

When you finally reach your destination and fiddle with the window enough to coax it open, a soft creak permeates in the summer breeze- which you immediately curse because you had dedicated a solid 20 minutes to convince yourself that you were being quiet and the window very clearly disagrees.

You pause with your knee digging into the frame, listening as your heartbeat hammers in your ears. The night answered you, a dainty chirp of a cricket paired with the whirring of traffic further away in the city made you relax, continuing your journey into the room.

Inside, the lighting is low in a way that makes everything feel softer than it probably is in reality.

A desk lamp glows in the corner, throwing warm light across the room, and Logan is sitting on the edge of his bed like he has been doing exactly that for a while without moving very much at all.

Logan looks up when he hears your pants replace the faint buzz of the house, he doesn’t startle- just rushes over as silently as possible to grab your waist before you nosedive into his bedside table.

“Woah.” He steps back whilst keeping his hands firmly planted on your waist, watching you topple slightly on your heels, “What are you doing here?”

You look up at him, your lips downturning in a confused smile, “Hello to you too,” a peck to his lips interrupts your answer, “You said you missed me, so I'm here.”

The dress you had on stretches in tandem with your movements, stepping out of his loose hold to flop onto his bed- which protested slightly with a pained squeak, “You could say the feeling was mutual” You grinned up at him, leaning back onto your hands in the process.

He purses his lips, trying to hide a smile- which he does worryingly well. The neutrality in his eyes makes your spine rigid.

“You used the window,” he says, glancing at his curtains that now flitter along the wall.

You blink at him. “Yeah… Like I’ve done since we started hooking up”

Logan exhales through his nose, but it doesn’t fully commit to being a sigh.

“You could’ve used the door,” he clarifies.

“I didn’t want to wake anyone,” you reply, finally swinging your leg onto the duvet leaving your heel to topple uselessly to the floor with a dull thud. 

Logan stays where he is for a second longer, watching you like he is trying to decide whether to stay where he is or act like a normal person and come closer. You match his gaze cheekily, shrugging off your bag while taking the room in, “God I love your room baby, it's so you.”

He stands up from where he was leaning against his desk, and crosses over to you in that slightly controlled way he gets when he is pretending he is not emotional, while very obviously being emotional in a quiet, annoyed-at-himself kind of way.

“You were gone longer than you said,” he mutters.

You pause mid-unzip of your dress.

“I said I’d be out for a bit.”

“That is not a time.”

You finally look at him properly.

There it is, a signature Logan pout. You’d gotten used to every version of them, since he knew how to use his artillery- but this one wasn’t one that sat well with you, it buried its way into your chest and blossomed into a pang of anxiety.

“Oh my god,” you say mainly to yourself, pushing up so you could stand chest to chest with him, inspecting his face.

Logan barely tilts his head to meet your scrutiny, “What?” he asks, like he already knows he is about to lose this conversation.

You shake your head, “You’re pouting.”

“I’m not pouting.”

“You are absolutely pouting.”

“I’m not-”

He stops mid-sentence, watching your hands come up to his face and gently squish his cheeks just enough that his expression breaks in a way that is immediately unfair to him.

“There,” you say softly. “That one.”

His brows knit together.

“This is not-”

You lean in and press a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth.

He pauses.

You do it again, slightly higher this time, like you are correcting the unhappy crease of his lips. His hands hover for a second like he is deciding whether to be annoyed or affectionate and then, predictably, choose neither and both at the same time as they settle lightly at your waist.

“I don’t like it,” he says finally.

You hum.

“What part?”

His eyes flick to yours properly now.

“The part where you go out with someone else and come back smiling like it’s normal.”

You blink once, then your expression softens in a way that is very deliberately not taking him seriously, even though you absolutely are.

“Logan,” you say, gently.

He looks at you like he is bracing for impact, the undeniable pain of defeat, of losing you to the suave guy who apparently was very focussed on your dessert choice. You lean your forehead against his chin. 

“I was thinking of you the whole time,” you say simply, biting the inside of your cheek when you feel his shoulder drop just a fraction. 

His voice, when he speaks again, is quieter.

“That’s not fair.”

You smile.

“Why?”

“Because I had to be normal about it in front of everyone,” he mutters.

You laugh softly at that, genuinely amused now, and he immediately looks offended by your amusement, which only makes it worse.

“You were not normal about it,” you say.

“I was.”

“You were sitting here brooding like a Victorian man in a tragic novel.”

“I was not brooding.”

“You were brooding.”

He opens his mouth to argue again, but you cut him off by pulling him closer by the front of his hoodie. His protests die unspoken on his lips, as they always do whenever you pull that move.

“There,” you say, softer now, kissing his cheek, then his jaw, deliberately unhurried. “Better?”

Logan exhales, arms coming up to wrap around your shoulders, pressing you tightly against him.

“You’re distracting,” he murmurs into your hair.

You snort against his neck, “That’s kind of the point.”

A short pause takes over the conversation, a lull in his displeasure as you dig your fingers into the plush material that stretched over his back.

Then, Logan sighs and very quietly, in the dark of his room admits, “I didn’t like imagining you laughing at someone else’s jokes.”

You pull back slightly just to look at him, hes looking down at nothing in particular, half of his face glowing a soft amber in the pool of light spilling out from his lamp, the other half hides in the shadows- he turns his head fully into the darkness when you cup his cheek and rub placating lines with your thumb against his stubble. 

“Oh,” you whisper. “You were jealous, jealous.”

“I was not-”

He stops, because you kiss him again a quick, gentle press of your lips against his- barely anything but enough to make him smile slightly and shake his head.

“You’re annoying,” he says again, but there is no heat in it.

You hum, watching how his caramel curls wrap around your fingers as you brush your hand through them. 

“You likeeeee me.” You tease, your voice barely a hushed whisper, “Baby, I don’t even have a way to contact that guy- he could tell I wasn’t into the date.”

Logan blinks at you, “Wait, what?”

“I mean- I made him swear not to tell Dean, but I think it was somewhere between me replying to you every five minutes and the fact I flinched when he tried to hold my hand” You bite your lip sheepishly, “Great guy though! I might have a friend for him.”

He finally smiles properly, small and unwilling, like it slipped out by accident, “Yeah? He can date all your friends,” His hands press against your spine, curving you into him at last. 

Logan ghosts his lips over yours, turning his head out of the shadows and back into the light. Your fingers hover over his jaw, studying the new look in his eye- a twinkle of affection that makes you melt completely into him as he whispers into your mouth, “as long as he doesn’t dare to look at you.”

𝐞𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞

You woke up to the morning light personally burning your eyelids open, which probably serves you right for not bothering to shut the curtains last night. But you were slightly pre-occupied, which was evident at the string of clothes that littered the floor, you blinked sleepily whilst tracing the journey the different articles went on, leading up to the bed. 

Your bra and his shirt were intertwined by his desk while your dress lay pooled at the foot of the bed along with his sweatpants and boxers, the only thing you couldn’t account for were your underwear. 

Strange.

The birds chirped in a messy orchestra by the window, the sharp sound made you groan and stretch lazily, wincing at the delicious ache that licked down from your thighs to your toes and up through your arms. The perpetrator of these pains was still sound asleep, tucked into your shoulder with an arm flung over your bare middle, fingers twitching slightly as you rubbed your eyes and intertwined your legs with his beneath the covers. 

Logan mumbled into the pillow, or your hair, perhaps both since he was face first into the area that had been taken over by the thick fan of wispy strands, “g’morning baby,” His hands tightened on your waist, holding you still as you looped your arms around his neck. He pecked your shoulder, then the curve of your neck and ended up stifling a deep laugh against your jaw when you smacked his arm.

“I will literally snap in half if you start something mister.” You scolded softly, your words not matching your actions entirely, since your fingers had began to scratch his neck softly, grinning when he all but purred at your touch. 

“I didn’t hear you complaining last night.” He mumbled, play-biting your dewy skin. You had wiped up the obvious mess in a sleepy haze, but the dampness of sex still clung to your pores like a condensation on a can. 

You gasped theatrically and flipped the pair of you over, so you were now resting your face on his sternum, “I don’t think you would've heard much since you had me pressed into the pillow.” Your fingers traced the splattering of hair that tickled your face,

Logan smirked down at you, stroking your hair, “Once again I fail to hear a complaint.”

“You-”

“YO LOGAN!” The both of you jumped at the interruption.

“Shitshitshitshitshit” you began whispering hurriedly, your gaze whipping around the room for possible escape plans that involved leaving the premises immediately. 

It was not looking good to say the least, since Logan would probably prefer to get caught than for you to consider sneaking out of his window sans clothes. 

Dean pounded on the door, “HAVE YOU SEEN MY SISTER AROUND? I WANTED TO ASK HER ABOUT THE DATE.”

Logan groaned and was close to petulantly kicking his legs like a toddler reminded about their bedtime, “Dean I think I have more knowledge about bird sphincters than I have about your sister or her sex life.”

You gape incredulously at him and mouth, “Bird sphincters?”

Logan silently stutters and shrugs his shoulders, his hands settling on your bare hips,

You heard Dean thump his head against the door, jiggling the handle but the lock held well against his attempts, “WELL ADAM HASN’T SAID ANYTHING HAPPENED AFTER THE DATE, SO IT MUST'VE GONE BADLY.”

A beat passed where you and Logan stared at each other, “His name was Adam?”

𝐭𝐚𝐠 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭: @harls-sturn, @https-dandelion, @watergirl85, @brianna28483, @irishone11, @anyasthoughts, @kmc1989, @norrisidous, @glorveina, @zophiathefirst, @outpostsworld, @yomamaslays4lyfe, @babblegumgirl101, @itmekelpy, @strengthandstay, @run-for-the-hills

[cassiopeiia24]

ADAM???

[folkloure]

⭑.ᐟ rest on me

john logan x reader

summary: logan feels very on edge after the st. anthony’s game, you help him calm down. hurt/comfort, short fic, requested!

Something’s off about the way the Hawks are playing tonight, and even you can see it — the way Garrett struggles getting rid of the puck, refusing to pass it over to Logan despite his and Coach Jensen’s shouts. You try not to say anything to Jules, who’s already doing a pretty descriptive, crass rendition of the events happening on ice. 

Then Birdie gets slammed, and you can’t help but think they’re fucked. 

You only know for sure that they are fucked when you get a text from Logan during intermission.

logan: garrett is pissing me off rn

Logan never texts you during game intermissions. It’s a basic, personal rule he carries during games: once he steps into the ice, nothing’s distracting him. He knows just how much is at risk, and how harder he has to work to make himself noticed in a team formed by really fucking great players, some who definitely draw more attention than him. In almost a literal sense, he can’t afford to get distracted. 

If he’s texting you right now, he can’t be in a good mood.

you: everything okay? logan: no logan: not at all you: want me to come find you?

It takes him a moment to answer, which makes you think he’s considering it, and that makes it even worse for you to wonder, him being in such a wrecked state that he almost says yes.

logan: sorry  logan: i really can’t logan: see you after the game? you: yeah  you: love you logan: love you too

You sink back into your seat, a weak smile on your lips when Jules starts shaking you by the shoulders in hopes of cheering you up, “It can’t get worse, right?”

By the end of the game, all hell seems to break loose. After Garrett had to be pulled out of the ice after smashing St. Anthony’s captain’s face, the team miserably keeps it together until the game’s over, Coach Jensen huddling them into some kind of emergency meeting. 

You watch your boyfriend’s face switch into something almost unrecognizable for you — anger, sadness, humiliation, all together in the way his eyebrows furrow and lips frown. 

Jules pulls you aside, their own face twitching in a dire way, “I think we should go.”

You want to say no, but deep down, you know they’re right. Jensen would never let that pass without a long, tiring admonition, and this one in particular should take a while, you think. So you sigh, linking your arms with Jules’ as you walk out back to your dorm.

—

You sit in silence, waiting for Logan to send you a text — a call, a smoke signal, any proof of life. Takes him two agonizing hours, and you jump once his name pops up in your screen.

logan: you at your dorm? you: hello to you too you: yes i am you: how did it go? logan: can i sleep at yours tonight Your face drops. Much worse than you imagine, then. you: of course you: come over

It’s a 20 minute drive from their place to yours. Logan makes it in 12, knocking on your dorm exactly 15 minutes after he texts you. You open the door to find him looking knackered, shoulders crouched like he’s carrying the whole world over his shoulders.

“Aw, Logan,” you say, slightly opening your arms, a suggestion of a hug that he takes without hesitation, swooping you into his chest, “That bad?”

You feel him shaking his head, but he doesn’t say a word. You murmur, “Did you talk to him?”

He shrugs, letting go of you to walk into your bedroom. You notice he doesn’t have a bag with him, and you wonder if it’s anything to do with the conversation with Garrett, if he simply didn’t bother going back inside to pick anything up. 

You sit in bed, patting on your pillow so he can lay down with you, “Get comfortable.” 

His mouth opens into a soft grin, and he takes off his jeans before dropping into your bed and burrowing himself into your side.

“We’re fucked,” Logan says in a low, resigned voice, “Garrett’s out for the next four games.”

“No, you’re not,” your hand moves to his hair in a comforting manner, “Have you talked to him?”

He lets out a humourless chuckle, “I wouldn’t call it talking,” he says, “We had a pretty ugly argument back at the game.”

You hum, “I figured.”

“Then he wouldn’t talk about it when he got home.” He continues, “I got so mad– I couldn’t even face him.”

“That’s alright.”

Logan looks up at you, “Is it?”

“I mean, yeah. I think it’s okay for you to be mad at Garrett, as long as you two find a way to work it out.” You say, nails scratching the back of his head, “So what you yelled at each other? You both wait for things to calm down, you sit and talk. You’ll make it up.”

He lets out a chuckle, “Why do you always make it sound so much easier than it looks like?”

“Because it is. You boys just like making it harder,” you joke, then gently move your hand to his jaw, pulling his face up, forcing him to look in your eyes, “You’re good, Logan. A good player, sure. But also a really fucking good friend, yeah? You two will come around.”

He hums, turning his head to press a quick kiss to your hand, “I hope you’re right, honey.”

“I know I am.” You say, lightly pushing him, “Now get under the covers, you need to sleep. Take this day out of your system.”

Logan grins, then shifts to get under the covers, holding the blanket for you to join him, a makeshift fort around his shoulders for you to get under — which you do, gladly. 

His arms sneak around your body, pulling you into him, “Thank you.” He murmurs, so quiet that you can feel his lips moving against your skin more than you can listen to him actually say it. 

You turn to face him, fingertips brushing over his face for him to close his eyes, “Rest, honey. I got you.”

notes: thank you for reading! requests are open, likes/reblogs/thoughts are appreciated! <3

john logan masterlist

[cassiopeiia24]

always in for a good hurt/comfort. 🙂‍↕️

[alierecss]

I said "I love you". You say nothing back | John Logan

summary: the arrangement was simple: keep it casual, don't catch feelings, don't ask for more than what's on the table. 338 days later, you're starting to think simple was never really an option with john logan.

notes: hii, i'm back!! i was genuinely so overwhelmed by the response to my first one shot. you guys are so kind and it inspired me to keep writing. so here we are, back with more yearning, more angst, and more logan being an idiot about his feelings. my requests are open if you have any ideas or characters you want to see i'd love to hear from you. thank you so much for reading and enjoy ❤️❤️

warnings: swearing, alcohol, light angst, situationships, a puck bunny accusation and a confession in the rain.

word count: 8k

The thing with Logan had started exactly 338 days ago. Almost one year. One full lap around the sun. You knew because you had been counting, the days and the hours and even the minutes since this situationship from hell, as your dear friends had taken to calling it, had installed itself in your life like an antivirus app you hadn't downloaded and couldn't figure out how to delete.

It had started on Halloween, and at the time it hadn't seemed like a bad idea. It was just past eleven and the house off campus that your friends had dragged you to smelled like dry ice and weed, and you were tired and ready to leave, which was an anomaly. You were usually the last one standing, your friends had given you the nickname ending antagonist for a reason. In hindsight, that probably should have been a warning sign. The one night you wanted to go home early was the night everything started.

Though to be fair, things with Logan are not bad. That's the thing people don't understand when they hear situationship from hell. On the contrary, things with Logan are very good. Too good. Too good to look at directly without feeling something inconvenient shift behind your ribs, which is precisely why it's bad. Because he had been so genuinely, almost aggressively nice about the whole thing. He had found you at the edge of that party and sat next to you and talked to you for hours like you were the most interesting thing in the room, and he had made a real effort not to look at your boobs while you were talking, which in that particular environment was either extremely respectful or a sign that he was raised correctly, and either way it had done something to you.

And then you had woken up on his chest the next morning. His warm skin and steady heartbeat, the sort of light that meant it was too early to be awake, and done the awkward post-hookup shuffle of words, and heard: I'm not really looking for anything serious.

A bucket of cold water dropped directly on your head would have been less effective. More merciful, probably.

What else could you have done except agree? For god's sake, he was sitting there in black boxers holding a cup of coffee, extending it toward you like a peace offering, brown eyes looking at you with an expression that was genuinely, unfairly soft for seven in the morning. You took the cup. He readjusted against the headboard and looked at you with those eyes and said, simply: "So?"

So. So what? What were you supposed to say?

"Sure," you heard yourself say. "I'm interested in that too."

Sure. I'm interested in that too. Your internal voice repeated it back to you with the tone of a younger sibling trying to get a rise out of you. That was, objectively, the least true thing you had ever said out loud. You had been raised on Bridget Jones and every famous rom-com ever committed to film. You believed in love, in its inconvenience and its necessity and its complete refusal to be reasoned with. Casual did not cut it for you. It never had.

But god. If Bridget could have seen John Logan in that particular light, with that particular bed head, she would have understood completely.

So you agreed. And after that came the encounters.

At first they were private, almost secretive, you telling your friends you were going for a run and then actually running, just in the wrong direction entirely. Logan telling his that he was going to study somewhere, which was technically true, depending on your definition of anatomy. It gave everything a specific kind of thrill, the pleasant urgency of something that existed slightly outside the normal rules, and for a while that was enough.

But time has a way of dissolving things like that. Gradually, without either of you deciding to, you stopped hiding. And that was when the real problem arrived.

You and Logan became friends.

Not the convenient, surface-level kind, the real kind, the kind that builds without you noticing until one day you look around and realize that this person has become load-bearing in your life. You were always at the house. You knew the full taxonomy of Dean's recent romantic encounters, the specificity of Garrett's current problems, the ongoing narrative of Tucker's various endeavors. You didn't just know about them, you helped. You were involved. You had opinions and history and context, and they knew it, and they came to you with things.

And it went the other way too. Logan had gotten so close to your friends that he would voluntarily drive Marissa to her therapy appointments in Boston without being asked, would send Benny reels about topics they'd talked about the week before, remembered details that even you sometimes forgot. He had threaded himself into the fabric of your life so completely and so quietly that you could no longer locate the seam.

And finally, finally, things had started to feel like they were moving in the right direction. The direction they probably should have been heading since the morning after Halloween. Maybe the casual arrangement had just been a detour — a scenic route to the same destination. All's well that ends well.

And then you and Logan would go to Malone's, and a waitress would glance between you with a smile and say what a nice couple you made, and Logan would laugh in that easy, noncommittal way of his and say: we're just friends.

And there it was. Bucket of cold water. Every time, without fail, like a reset button neither of you had agreed to keep pressing.

Every single time.

Which brings you to now.

You are sitting on Logan's couch, draped over him, legs intertwined, peppering kisses down his neck while he makes a valiant and increasingly unsuccessful effort to tell you about the new episode of some reality show he has gotten inexplicably invested in. Something about traitors in a castle. Who cares. Not you. Not when Logan smelled like that and the house was quiet and his hands were doing that thing where they moved without him seeming to notice.

You sank further into him. The kisses started to linger. His words got sparse.

"Are you even listening to me?" Logan murmured, his voice coming out considerably less steady than he had probably intended.

You hummed against his pulse point by way of answer.

The front door opened.

You both startled, pulling apart with the practiced efficiency of people who had been interrupted before, but the moment you registered it was Dean you settled back into exactly the position you'd been in. Dean didn't care about PDA. He actively encouraged it.

He dropped onto the opposite couch, looked at the ceiling briefly, then at you.

"Okay, I have a question," he said. "Logan, dude, this is for science, please don't be weird about it."

At this point you were sitting upright, Logan's arms still looped around you, his chin finding your shoulder, using you as a very comfortable shield against whatever Dean was about to say.

"Shoot," you said.

Dean took a breath with the energy of someone preparing to say something they had already decided to say regardless of the response. "Do you think I should buy a vibrator for a friend of mine?"

Logan laughed against your neck. You shivered slightly at the warmth of his breath.

"Are you the friend?" you asked. "Are you buying a vibrator for yourself?"

"What? No. I'm a man."

"That doesn't mean anything. Men are allowed to have vibrators."

"I know that. It's not for me."

"I really think you should get one though. For yourself. If you want to be the Samantha of the group you have to commit to the bit."

"I am the Samantha," Dean said, with genuine offense. "And it's not for me."

"Have you even watched Sex and the City?"

"Yes. I'm from New York, for god's sake and you're being such a Carrie right now."

You settled back against Logan's chest, his arms tightening around you automatically, like a reflex, like something he did without thinking about it anymore.

Yes, you thought. And my own Mr. Big is currently holding me on this couch.

Garrett and Hannah came down the stairs in what you assumed were their stay-at-home outfits: sweatpants, hockey jersey, the specific comfort of two people who had stopped performing around each other. The moment they came into view you felt Logan's hand still. Not move away just still. And then he shifted from behind you to sitting beside you, technically still touching but the warmth of it had changed completely. It was less person you are tangled up with and more person you happen to be sitting next to on public transport.

You knew that shift. You had felt it before.

The first time, you had told yourself you were imagining things.

It was a Tuesday, nothing special about it, the kind of evening that had become completely ordinary, you at the house, Logan beside you on the couch, his thumb making absent circles on your knee while Dean argued with Tucker about something that didn't matter. Hannah had stopped by to pick up something she'd left there the week before, and the moment the door opened Logan's hand had stilled. Not moved away. Just stilled. Like an animal that had heard something.

You hadn't said anything. You'd filed it away in the part of your brain reserved for things you weren't ready to look at yet.

The second time was at one of Garrett's games. You had been standing with Logan at the edge of the rink afterward, his jacket half around your shoulders the way it always ended up, and Hannah had appeared through the crowd. Logan had straightened. Subtly, almost imperceptibly, but you felt it the slight shift in his posture, the way his jacket had slipped back off your shoulders without him seeming to notice he'd let it go.

You'd picked it up off the floor and handed it back to him without a word.

The third time you stopped counting.

Malone's on a Friday night had a particular energy loud enough to feel festive, familiar enough to feel like home. Your usual table was in the corner, the big one that fit all of you without anyone having to pull up an extra chair, and the evening had been good. Genuinely good, the kind that reminded you why you had agreed to this arrangement in the first place, Logan's knee against yours under the table, his arm finding the back of your chair sometime around the second round of drinks, the easy warmth of being somewhere you belonged.

You were mid-story , a good one, the kind that had the whole table leaning in and you could feel it landing, the timing was right, and Garrett was already laughing before you got to the punchline and Dean had that look on his face that meant he was going to steal this story and tell it as his own later, and Tucker was—

You glanced at Logan.

He wasn't laughing.

He was looking across the table at Hannah with an expression you recognized because you had spent the better part of a year learning every single detail of his face, and what was on it right now was something soft and slightly helpless the expression of someone watching something they had decided they couldn't have.

The story finished without you. Somewhere far away, the table laughed.

You picked up your drink. Set it down. Picked it up again.

"I'm going to step outside," you said. "Just — smoke a bit."

"You don't even smoke, (Y/N)!" Tucker replied, laughing, and it killed you because all of Logan's friends had come to know you so well.

"You okay?" Garrett asked.

"Fine. Just air."

You were already standing. Already reaching for your jacket. Logan was on his feet before you made it two steps.

"I'll come with you," he said.

The parking lot outside Malone's was cold and poorly lit. You got about twenty feet from the door before you stopped walking. The noise from inside filtered out muffled and distant, everyone still laughing, completely unaware.

Logan stopped beside you. Waited. He had always been good at waiting, which was one of the things you had loved about him and one of the things that had slowly, quietly driven you insane.

"Don't," you said.

"Don't what?"

"Don't do the thing where you stand there and wait for me to calm down." You turned to face him. The cold air hit your face and you were glad for it. "I'm not going to calm down. So just talk to me. Tell me the truth. Please. Don't bullshit me right now, Logan, I am asking you to not bullshit me right now."

"Baby—"

"Don't baby me, Logan. Not right now"

He looked at you with that steady, unhurried patience of his, which tonight felt less like a quality and more like a weapon.

"What do you want me to say?" he asked.

"I want you to tell me if you have a crush on Hannah." The word crush felt absurdly small for the moment but you couldn't bear the weight of the more accurate alternatives.

Something shifted in his face. Not guilt exactly, something deeper than that. The specific expression of someone who had been quietly hoping a question wouldn't arrive and had known, somewhere underneath the hoping, that it always was going to.

"It's not—" he started.

"Logan."

He exhaled. Looked at the ground briefly. Looked back at you.

"It's not serious," he said. "It's nothing. She's with Garrett. It's not like I would ever—"

"Oh my god." The laugh that came out of you had nothing to do with anything being funny. "Oh my god, you actually do. You actually have a crush on her."

"It's not a big deal—"

"You have a crush on your best friend's girlfriend and it's not a big deal." You repeated it back to him slowly. "I have been right here, Logan. For almost a year I have been right here, and you have a crush on Hannah."

"It's just a feeling. It doesn't mean anything." His voice had an edge to it now, something defensive sharpening underneath the calm. "And you don't get to be mad at me for it."

"Excuse me?"

"You don't get to be mad at me for having feelings." The words were coming faster now, the composure cracking in a way you almost never saw from him. "We said casual. That was the agreement. I can't be accountable to you for things I feel when you are not my girlfriend."

The word landed like a slap.

Girlfriend.

"Right," you said. Your voice had gone very quiet. "I'm not your girlfriend."

"That's not what I—"

"No, you're right. I'm not." You looked at him. Really looked at him — this person whose coffee order you knew by heart, whose nightmares you had talked him through at two in the morning, whose hand had reached for yours in his sleep so many times you had stopped counting. "Can I ask you something? And I need you to actually answer me. Not just wait until I stop talking."

He said nothing, which you took as a yes.

"What did you think this was?" Your voice was still quiet. Controlled. "Not what we agreed on in the beginning. What did you think it was last week? Last month? What did you think it was tonight when you had your arm around me at that table? When you picked me up from my house and kissed me in your truck?" You took a breath. "Because I need to understand how you look at what we have been doing and see something casual. I genuinely need you to explain that to me."

"It's complicated—"

"It's not complicated. It's actually very simple. I just need you to say it out loud."

"You knew what this was when we started—"

"I know what it was when we started. I'm asking what it is now." You crossed your arms against the cold. "Because from where I'm standing it looks a lot like a relationship. It looks like you drive my friends places and remember things about them they never told you twice, and I know every single thing about your life, and we spend more nights together than apart, and you reach for me when you're asleep like I'm something you don't want to lose." Your voice cracked slightly and you pushed past it. "So you'll have to forgive me for being confused about the casual part."

"I can't—" He stopped. Started again. "It's not about not wanting to. It's about what I can actually give right now. Hockey takes everything. My family, my mother, I don't have money, I don't have stability, I don't have any of the things that—"

"I'm not asking you for stability. I'm not asking you for money." Something in your chest had cracked open and you were past the point of closing it. "I'm asking you to admit what this already is. That's all."

"I am being honest—"

"Then be more honest." Your voice broke on the last word and you kept going anyway. "Because I'm in love with you."

The parking lot went completely silent.

Logan stared at you. The words sat between you in the cold air like something that had changed the temperature.

"What?" His voice came out barely above a breath.

"I'm in love with you." Steadier the second time. "I have been for a long time. And I know that's not what we agreed on. But I can't stand here and pretend I don't while you tell me it's not a big deal that you have feelings for someone else." You looked at him. "We are already a couple, Logan. In every single way that actually matters, we already are. The only thing missing is you admitting it."

Something moved across his face — something large and unguarded and almost frightened.

"It's not that simple," he said, quieter now, the defensiveness gone out of it.

"I know it's not simple. I know about hockey. I know about your mom. I know all of it, Logan, because you told me, because that's what we do. But none of that changes what I just said." You took a breath. "So just tell me. Do you have feelings for me? Yes or no. That's all I'm asking."

Logan looked at you.

And said nothing.

The silence stretched between you, long and terrible. His jaw was tight. His eyes moved across your face like he was looking for something he either couldn't find or couldn't say, and the longer the silence went on the more clearly you understood that the silence was itself an answer.

"Wow," you said finally. Very quietly. "Okay."

You picked up your bag. Straightened your jacket. Looked at him one more time this person you had spent 338 days loving in whatever form he would accept.

"Don't follow me," you said.

He didn't.

You walked back toward the warm light spilling out of Malone's windows, past your friends still laughing, past the table that an hour ago had felt like home, and you kept walking. Past the door, past the window, down the street, into the cold.

Too angry to cry. Too tired to pretend. Too done to look back.

Behind you, in the parking lot, Logan stood very still and said nothing which was the thing he was best at, and the thing that had finally cost him everything.

It had been a hard couple of days. But the upside of a not-breakup in college was that you didn't get to wallow, no watching rom-coms until the wee hours, no doing the Bella, watching the months pass from your bedroom window. Life was as it had always been, minus the space Logan had occupied in your weekly schedule. Not a metaphysical space, a literal one. When you opened your Google Calendar you found his game days still blocked out in blue, his training days still marked, everything still there like a calendar that hadn't gotten the news yet.

Pathetic, you thought, and deleted them.

Your days now belonged entirely to yourself, which should have felt like freedom and mostly felt like a lot of unscheduled Tuesday afternoons. No more disappearing in the middle of the day, no more make-out sessions in the library during lunch break. Just you and your own company and the slow, unglamorous work of being fine.

You weren't fine. You were something adjacent to fine that required daily maintenance and the careful avoidance of certain songs.

Marissa had noticed, she called it being under the weather, which was such a specific and old-fashioned way of putting it that in the beginning you had found it strange and now found it completely endearing. Your own personal nanna, showing up with iced coffee and terrible ideas at exactly the right moments.

The terrible idea this time was an underground bar in Boston she had found, which was a surprise since Marissa was fundamentally a sports bar person. You had a strong suspicion the entire excursion was engineered entirely for your benefit and the benefit of your appetite for expensive, colorful drinks, and you loved her for it and didn't say so.

The drive took exactly long enough to hype yourself up.

I'm pretty. I'm smart. I'm a catch.

The bar was dimly lit in a way that felt intentional rather than neglected, all low ceilings and good music and the general atmosphere of a place that didn't need to try. You, Marissa and Benny settled into a corner booth and approximately ninety seconds later Benny's elbow was in your ribs.

"Cute guy. Nine o'clock," he said, in what he apparently believed was a whisper.

You glanced toward the bar. Tall, white jacket, the kind of easy posture that meant he wasn't thinking about his posture at all.

"I'm not really looking for anything," you said.

"You're single. He's cute. The bar has drinks. What exactly is the problem?" Benny tilted his head. "Go order our drinks and make some poor decisions. You've earned it."

"I didn't bring my ID."

Benny stared at you. "You came to a bar without your ID?"

"I forgot." You shrugged.

"(Y/N)." His voice had the specific tone of someone choosing their words carefully. "What is wrong with you. Go. Drinks. Now. The ID thing is a you problem, figure it out."

You slid out of the booth before he could say anything else.

The guy at the bar was, up close, even more irritatingly attractive than he had been from across the room. He glanced over when you appeared beside him, and then glanced again in a way that was not subtle and didn't try to be.

"You look like you're deciding something," he said.

"Whether to admit I forgot my ID at a bar."

He looked at you for a moment. Then he smiled easy and genuine. "Hunter," he said, and held out his hand.

"((Y/N))."

"I'll vouch for you," he said. "If you tell me what you're drinking."

You told him. He ordered both without being asked, which was either presumptuous or exactly right, and you decided it was exactly right.

By the time you made it back to the booth with four drinks and Hunter's number in your phone, Benny was looking at you with the expression of someone who had orchestrated something and was very pleased about it.

You didn't tell him he was right. But you didn't have to.

The thing about Hunter Davenport was that he was genuinely, irritatingly likeable.

You had not been thinking about Logan when you said yes to Hunter's suggestion of getting coffee. You had not been thinking about Logan when the coffee turned into a walk, and the walk turned into two hours of easy conversation that asked nothing from you and gave something back.

That was the point.

You had gotten very good at not thinking about Logan in the weeks since Malone's. It was a skill, like any other, it required practice and the occasional forcible redirection of your own brain, but you were nothing if not disciplined when the situation called for it. You had been showing up to things. Laughing at the right moments. Sleeping through the night, mostly.

You were fine. You were getting finer by the day, which was either progress or a very convincing impression of it, and right now you weren't examining the difference too closely.

Hunter was easy. That was the thing about him. He was warm and uncomplicated and he looked at you like you were worth looking at, which was something you had apparently needed more than you realized.

It was nothing serious. You had been very clear about that with yourself. You were not ready for serious. But his hand was warm when it found yours walking back from the coffee place, and you let it stay there.

You were almost believing it.

The team was at the rink for an open practice, one of the informal ones that sometimes drew a small crowd of friends and the generally affiliated. You had come with Marissa, which gave you plausible deniability about why you were there, and you had sat in the third row and watched without watching, which was a skill you had also been practicing.

Hunter had waved at you from the ice. You had waved back.

You had not looked at Logan. You had been extremely disciplined about not looking at Logan, which meant you were also extremely aware of exactly where he was at every moment without technically looking at him, which was its own kind of exhausting.

After practice, Hunter had come off the ice still in half his gear and found you immediately, easy and unhurried, and said something that made you laugh. Your hand had gone to his arm the way hands do when you're laughing at something someone said, and it had stayed there for approximately four seconds.

Four seconds.

You knew it was four seconds because you had counted them, which meant some part of you had been paying attention to something you were pretending not to pay attention to.

The locker room door swung shut behind Logan without him looking back.

You found a quiet corner of the rink lobby while Hunter went to get his bag. You were looking at your phone, not reading anything on it, when you heard footsteps and looked up.

Logan.

He had changed out of his gear. His jaw was doing the thing: the tight, controlled thing that meant something was happening underneath the composure that the composure was working very hard to contain. His eyes moved from your face to the door Hunter had gone through and back.

"Hey," you said carefully.

"You and Hunter," he said. Not a question.

"That's not really your business."

"You're spending a lot of time with him."

"Logan—"

"I'm just making an observation." His voice was very even. The voice he used when he was the least controlled.

"Make it somewhere else."

He laughed short and humorless. "Right. Okay." He looked at the floor. Looked back at you. "I just didn't think you were the type."

You went very still. "The type to?"

"To go after a guy because of who he plays for." Quiet. Measured. Like he had chosen this version of the sentence carefully. "I didn't think that was your thing."

The lobby was very quiet.

You looked at him for a long moment. Long enough to make sure you had heard what you thought you'd heard. Long enough to see something flicker in his expression, the immediate, unmistakable recognition that he had gone too far.

"Say that again," you said softly.

"I didn't mean—"

"No." Your voice was calm in a way that had nothing to do with being calm. "Say it again. I want to make sure I understood you. Are you calling me a puck bunny?"

Logan said nothing. The flicker had become something closer to horror.

"Because that's what you just said." You tilted your head slightly. "After everything. That's what you went with."

"I didn't — that's not what I meant—"

"Then what did you mean?" You took a step toward him. "Because I have been patient, Logan. I have been so patient with you. I said the most honest thing I have ever said to anyone in that parking lot and you said nothing back, which I am trying. I am actively trying to make my peace with. But you do not get to say that to me. You don't get to do that."

"I know." His voice had lost all its evenness. "I shouldn't have—"

"Why did you say it?"

He looked at you.

"Tell me why." Your voice cracked slightly and you kept going. "Because it wasn't an observation. So tell me why."

Something moved across his face the composure fracturing in a way you had only seen once or twice in all the time you had known him.

"Because I can't—" He stopped.

"Can't what?"

"Because I can't watch you with him and not—" He stopped again. Pressed his mouth shut. Looked at the ceiling briefly.

"Not what?" Your voice was barely above a whisper.

He looked at you. Right at you. And for one unguarded, terrible second you could see everything, all of it, the whole enormous weight of everything he hadn't said in the parking lot outside Malone's, sitting right there on his face with nowhere left to hide.

And then he looked away.

"I'm sorry," he said. "It was wrong."

You looked at him for a long moment.

"Yeah," you said. "It was."

You picked up your bag. Hunter had reappeared at the far end of the lobby, jacket on, easy smile, completely unaware of the wreckage he had wandered back into. You walked toward him and did not look back at Logan.

But you heard him the sharp exhale of someone who had just watched something leave that they weren't sure was coming back.

Good, you thought.

And hated that you thought it.

Here was the thing about being called a puck bunny: it wasn't the word itself that got to you.

Puck bunnies weren't the worst thing a person could be.

Men were allowed their types, allowed to prefer blondes or brunettes or redheads, to only date younger women, to have a thing for accents, to announce their type to anyone who will listen like it’s a personality trait, to want someone tall or short or with a specific laugh, or say things like "I have never been with a Brazilian before". They were allowed to say these things out loud, to Tinder-filter by height, and if it was possible they would do by weight too, to have opinions about bodies that they shared freely and without apology.

But god forbid a woman had a type. God forbid a woman found hockey players attractive or musicians, or academics, or anyone with a specific quality she was drawn to. Then she was something to be named and categorized and looked down upon. Then she was a bunny.

You were not offended by the word.

You were offended that Logan, who had been silent while you poured your heart out in a cold parking lot, who had said nothing when you asked him the most direct question you had ever asked another human being , had found his voice again specifically to say that. That of all the things he could have finally said to you, after all the silence, this was the one he chose.

That was what got to you.

Not the word. The timing. The source. The specific, devastating irony of a man who couldn't say I have feelings for you finding it very easy to say something that small.

You didn't tell anyone what he said.

That was the first decision you made, walking out of that rink lobby with Hunter's hand in yours and Logan's exhale still somewhere in your chest. You were not going to tell Dean, who would say something devastatingly accurate about it. You were not going to tell Marissa, who would want to talk about it for three hours. You were not going to tell anyone, because telling someone meant turning it over, examining it, and you were not ready to examine the specific shape of what Logan had said to you and what it meant that he had said it.

You knew what it meant. That was the problem.

You had known the moment you saw his face, that flicker of something before the composure reassembled itself, the way his eyes had moved to Hunter and back to you with an expression that had nothing casual about it. You had spent 338 days learning the map of Logan's face and you knew exactly what that look was. You had just also heard what came out of his mouth immediately afterward, which meant that what Logan felt and what Logan was willing to do about it were, as always, two completely different countries.

You were done trying to travel between them.

The week that followed was quiet and it felt different from the other times you had gone quiet. Before, the silence had always been temporary, a held breath. This felt more like an exhale. Like something had finally, after a very long time, finished.

You went to class. You had coffee with Hunter on Tuesday, which was easy and warm and asked nothing from you. You went to Marissa's on Thursday and watched something forgettable on her laptop and fell asleep on her couch, and she put a blanket over you without waking you up, which was the kindest thing anyone had done for you in recent memory.

You did not go to the house off campus. You did not text Logan. You did not check if he had texted you, which required leaving your phone face-down on your desk for approximately four days straight, which was its own kind of discipline.

You were fine. You were getting finer.

You were also absolutely not fine.

Dean found you on a Wednesday.

Not dramatically, he just appeared at the coffee shop near your building where you went on Wednesday mornings, which you had mentioned to him exactly once four months ago, which meant he had remembered it and filed it away and was now using it, which was such a Dean thing to do that you almost smiled.

He sat down across from you without asking if it was okay and stole a sip of your coffee before saying anything.

"He told me what he said," Dean said, without preamble.

You looked at your coffee. "Okay."

"He feels terrible."

"Good."

"I mean genuinely terrible. Like, I've known Logan for three years and I've never seen him—" Dean stopped. Seemed to decide something. "He's not sleeping. He's barely eating. He showed up to practice yesterday and coach pulled him aside after because his head wasn't in it, which has never happened, not once in three years."

"Dean." You looked up at him. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because you deserve to know that it cost him something." His voice was straightforward, without manipulation. "I'm not asking you to forgive him. What he said was awful and he knows it. I'm just, you spent a long time showing up for him and I don't want you to think that none of it landed. It all landed. It's landing right now. It's just landing a little late."

You were quiet for a moment.

"A little late," you repeated.

"Okay, very late."

"Dean." You wrapped your hands around your cup. "He called me a puck bunny."

"I know." Dean had the grace to look genuinely pained. "He said it because he was jealous and scared and he handled it in the worst possible way and there is no defense for it. I'm not here to defend it."

"Then what are you here for?"

Dean looked at you across the table, this person who had been in your corner since before you had any idea how much you would need someone in your corner, and his expression was very honest.

"I'm here because he's my best friend and he's falling apart," he said. "And you're also my friend. And I hate watching both of you be miserable when I know exactly why you're miserable." He paused. "I'm not asking you to do anything. I just wanted you to know."

You looked out the window. The street outside was grey and unremarkable, the specific flatness of a Wednesday in November.

"How long has he known?" you asked quietly. "That he has feelings for me. How long has he actually known?"

Dean was quiet for a moment.

"A while," he said carefully.

"How long is a while, Dean."

Another pause. Longer this time.

"Since pretty much the beginning," he said.

You closed your eyes briefly. Opened them.

"Okay," you said.

"(Y/N)—"

"I'm not angry." And you weren't, which was almost surprising. You were something quieter and more tired than angry. "I just needed to know." You picked up your coffee. "Tell him I said he needs to sleep."

Dean looked at you. "That's it?"

"That's it." You met his eyes. "I'm not ready for anything else right now. But tell him to sleep."

Dean nodded slowly. He finished stealing your coffee and stood up and put his jacket on, and then he stopped with his hand on the back of the chair.

"For what it's worth," he said. "The Hannah thing. It was never real. He told me that too. He said he thinks he latched onto it because it was safer than admitting what was actually happening."

You didn't say anything.

"Okay," Dean said. "I'll see you around."

He left. You sat there with your cold coffee and the grey Wednesday street outside and the specific, exhausting weight of loving someone who had known the whole time and chosen, over and over, to say nothing.

Since pretty much the beginning.

338 days. And he had known since pretty much the beginning.

You sat with that for a long time.

It had been raining since noon.

Not the dramatic, cinematic kind of rain that arrived with thunder and purpose, just the steady, grey, unrelenting kind that soaked through your jacket in the first thirty seconds and didn't apologize for it.

You were on your way back from the library, hood up, head down, thinking about nothing in particular, which you had gotten very good at recently. The art of thinking about nothing. Occupying your own brain with the immediate and the logistical the paper due Thursday, the coffee you were going to make when you got home, the question of whether you had remembered to charge your phone.

You had not been thinking about Logan.

You were almost at your building when you heard him.

"(Y/N)."

You stopped walking.

He was standing at the bottom of your building's front steps, which meant he had been waiting in the rain for some amount of time, which was evident from the state of him soaked through, hair flat, jacket dark with water. He looked like someone who had arrived with a plan and abandoned it somewhere on the walk over and was now operating on something more basic and less manageable.

He looked, for the first time in all the time you had known him, completely unguarded.

"Logan." Your voice came out carefully. "What are you doing here?"

"I need to talk to you."

"It's raining."

"I know."

"You're soaked."

"I know." He took a step toward you. "I've been standing here for forty minutes trying to figure out what to say and I still don't know, so I'm just going to say it badly and hope that counts for something."

You looked at him. The rain came down steadily between you.

"You have two minutes," you said.

He exhaled. Ran a hand through his wet hair. Looked at you with the expression of someone stepping off a ledge they had been standing on for a very long time.

"I have been in love with you," he said, "since pretty much the beginning."

The rain was very loud suddenly.

"I knew it when we agreed to casual. I knew it when we stopped hiding. I knew it every time I reached for you in my sleep and every time a stranger called us a couple and I laughed it off, and I knew it in that parking lot outside Malone's when you told me the truth and I stood there and said nothing back." His voice was steady but only barely, the steadiness of someone gripping something very hard. "I said nothing because I was terrified. Not of you. Never of you. Of what it meant. Of what I would owe you if I said it out loud. Hockey takes everything I have and my family situation is a disaster and I don't have money or stability or any of the things that a person is supposed to have before they ask someone to—" He stopped. "But Dean said something to me last week. He said that I was losing you anyway. That all my careful management of the situation had achieved was losing you slowly instead of all at once, and somehow I had convinced myself that was the better outcome."

You said nothing. The rain soaked through your hood and you didn't move.

"And then I said what I said to you at the rink." His jaw tightened. "I have replayed that moment every day since it happened. There is no version of it that I can make okay. I said it because I saw you with Hunter and something in me just broke. Not a good break. Not the kind that leads anywhere useful. Just — I broke, and I said the cruelest thing I could think of, and I aimed it at you, and I have hated myself for it every single day since." He looked at you. "I'm not telling you that to make you feel sorry for me. I'm telling you because you deserve to know that it was never about you. It was never about who you are. It was about me being terrified and handling it in the worst possible way, and I'm sorry. I am so sorry."

The rain fell between you, steady and indifferent.

"You knew since the beginning," you said finally. Your voice came out quieter than you intended.

"Yes."

"A year."

"Yes."

"And you said nothing."

"Yes." He didn't flinch from it. "I said nothing, and I let you carry it alone, and I told myself I was protecting you from the complications of my life, but I think I was just protecting myself. From having to be as brave as you were in that parking lot." Something moved across his face. "You were so brave. You said the true thing and I just stood there. And I have thought about that every day since. About what it cost you to say it and what it cost me to say nothing back."

You looked at him. This person. Soaked through and unguarded and finally, finally saying the thing he had been not saying for 338 days.

"The Hannah thing," you said.

"Wasn't real." Immediate. Certain. "I think I needed it to be real because it was safer than admitting what was actually happening. She has what you and I have, what you and I were and I think I confused wanting that with wanting her. It was never her." He held your gaze. "It was always you. It has only ever been you."

The rain had soaked through your jacket completely now. You were cold in a way that had stopped being uncomfortable and become simply the condition of the moment.

"I'm not asking you to forgive me tonight," Logan said. "I'm not asking you to do anything. I just needed you to know that I heard you in that parking lot. I heard every word. And I should have said this then, and I'm sorry that I didn't, and I'm saying it now because Dean was right, I am losing you anyway, and I would rather lose you having finally told the truth than keep you at a distance by staying silent." He paused. "I love you. I have loved you for a long time. And I'm sorry it took me this long to be brave enough to say it."

The street was very quiet under the rain.

You looked at him for a long moment. Long enough to turn it over. Long enough to feel the full weight of 338 days, of every almost-conversation and loaded silence and reset button and bucket of cold water. Long enough to remember his hand going still when Hannah walked in, and the parking lot, and the rink lobby, and the specific sound of his exhale when you walked away.

Long enough to remember, underneath all of it, a Halloween party and a wall and two people waiting out the night from the edges of it, talking like they had nothing to prove to each other.

The beginning, before it got complicated. Before it got careful.

"You're an idiot," you said.

Something shifted in his expression. Not quite hope. Something more tentative than hope.

"I know," he said.

"You made everything so much harder than it needed to be."

"I know."

"I carried that alone for a very long time, Logan."

"I know." His voice broke slightly on it. "I know you did. I'm sorry."

The rain came down. You looked at him this soaked, unguarded, finally honest person standing at the bottom of your steps and felt something in your chest that had been braced for a very long time slowly, carefully release.

"You should have just said it," you said. "In the beginning. You should have just said it."

"I know." He took a step closer. Close enough that you could see the rain on his face, the wet dark of his hair, the expression underneath all the composure that had finally run out of places to hide. "I know. I'm saying it now."

You looked at him.

"Say it again," you said quietly.

"I love you." No hesitation. No composure. Just Logan, standing in the rain, finally saying the true thing. "I love you. I have loved you since pretty much the beginning and I am done pretending I don't."

The rain fell between you and neither of you moved and the street was quiet and everything was very still.

Then you closed the distance.

You kissed him in the rain, which was cold and slightly impractical and nothing like the careful, managed version of Logan you had spent 338 days trying to navigate. This was different. This was him kissing you back with both hands and no hesitation and none of the holding back, and it felt finally, finally like the true thing. Like the version of this that had been waiting underneath all the other versions the whole time.

When you pulled back you were both soaked and breathing slightly unsteadily and his forehead dropped to yours in the rain.

"I'm still mad at you," you said.

"I know." His arms tightened around you. "I know you are."

"The puck bunny thing is going to take a while."

"I know. Whatever it takes."

"And you have to tell me things." Your voice was muffled against his jacket. "When you're scared, when it gets complicated, when your brain does the thing where it decides silence is the safe option. You have to tell me instead."

"I will." He said it simply, without qualification, which was how you knew he meant it. "I will."

You stood there in the rain outside your building, soaked through and slightly ridiculous, and you thought about Halloween and 338 days and parking lots and rink lobbies and all the long, complicated distance between the beginning and right now.

Worth it, you thought.

Embarrassingly, completely, entirely worth it.

[cassiopeiia24]

he's so stupid and lovely, I hate him.

[folkloure]

⭑.ᐟ as long as you want

john logan x reader

summary: the first time you stay with him until the morning. short fic, smut-implied but mostly fluff. inspired by one of @rebelfell's headcanons, thank you! <3

Logan shifts in his sleep once he feels you trying to slip out the bed. 

“Don’t.” He says, voice hoarse from waking up in the middle of the night and arm stretching out to find you. “Don’t move.”

You have been on this same bed before, multiple times. First after one of his team’s winning games, two beers in, both giggling on the stools at Malone’s. Then again the next night, then the next week, always a fun fling before kissing goodbye and each going their own way. You and Logan have never had a talk about how things were moving, but oh, they were moving. 

You turn around to face him, his pretty eyes still closed, chest going up and down in a steady rhythm. He looks so… peaceful.

“I think I should go,” you whisper. Logan’s eyes open slightly, eyebrows furrowing before he starts shaking his head, and you giggle, “Before it gets too late.”

“Just stay the night,” he says, like it’s the obvious thing to do, “I’ll take you home in the morning.”

Thing is, John Logan might not reach the same level of whorish fame of his teammates, but you know the guy. Before this all started, you’ve heard through the grapevine of different girls (puckbunnies, if you will) who were once in your position: between his sheets after a good night — but never the morning. 

Guys like John Logan don’t do mornings. 

Your hands move to his head, fingers fixing his hair off his face. His eyes flutter closed from the tender touch, “Logan…”

“I know. I know, just–” he stops for a yawn, half his face squished on his pillow again while his hand pulls you gently, “Just stay, please?”

You stare at his sleepy face for a second, taking a deep breath before you answer, “Okay.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Logan’s mouth splits in a tired smile, “Cool. C’mere then.” 

—

He wakes up before you, nose pressed on the corner between your neck and shoulder, the soft reminiscence of perfume you were wearing last night the very first thing he acknowledges. Then, the morning light, and that’s where it hits him. 

You stayed the night.

Logan doesn’t want to wake you, but he can’t help himself. He presses his lips to your shoulder, voice muttering so low, “You’re here.”

“I am.” you mutter back, almost refusing to move and disturb the quietness. Actually, all you do is pull the bedsheets — his bedsheets — closer, bundling yourself under the comfiness of his blankets. Logan lets out a small chuckle, despite feeling the cold reaching his legs. He moves an inch closer, following you under the covers.

Logan moves his lips slowly from your shoulder up to your jaw, placing soft kisses. His arms move around your torso, bringing you closer to his chest. “You’re warm,” he says in a low voice, the low stubble on his face slightly tickling you, “And you’re so soft.”

His lips keep moving over to your behind your ear, then back to your neck, kissing and nibbling. Logan shifts, swiftly pining you to bed and astriding you. His arms are on each side of your body and your hands are moving, fingers brushing his forearms like you’re trying to memorize the shivers on his skin, nails scratching the back of his neck as he kisses you deeply.

It’s all so agonizingly slow — the way he moves, the sun peeking through the white curtains casting a glow over the room, his naked back looking golden under the haze. You close your eyes, and all you hear is a soft chuckle leaving Logan’s lips, trailing down your body again. He presses a kiss on your sternum, “So, so pretty.”

There’s no rush to it, and still, you can’t pinpoint when one movement changes to another, your limbs tangled with his, hips moving together and your quiet moans muffled by his lips. It’s different from all the frantic nights you’ve shared together until now. 

Slower, quieter, lovelier. 

Logan’s voice whispers soft words in your ear as your chest finds a rhythm again, “You’re good, honey. You’re perfect.”

You open your eyes and find he’s intently watching you, and you press a quick kiss on his lips, then a couple more over his nose and face. He relaxes his body, arms faltering beside you, whole weight now resting on top of you. 

“I’m assuming you’re not taking me home now, are you?”

Logan lets out an amused chuckle, “No, you stay as long as you want.” 

You don’t see yourself leaving his bed anytime soon.

notes: thank you for reading! first time writing for off campus <3 requests are open! likes/reblogs/thoughts are appreciated!

john logan masterlist

[cassiopeiia24]

girlie in Logan's bed:

[rinvvii]

too pretty to keep secret; john logan

summary: Dating John Logan in secret would be easier if he knew how to act normal around you. Unfortunately, Logan is hopelessly in love, terrible at hiding it, and one affectionate comment away from exposing your entire relationship.

pairings: john logan x FIGURE SKATER!reader

RIN'S NOTE: i watch the show for dean and garret. but the one who caught my heart? John the freaking logan, he is such a yearner!! Ugh.

【WC 2k】

part one, part two

The first rule of dating John Logan was simple.

Never let him hold your hand in public. Not because he wouldn’t.

God, if it were up to Logan, he’d probably walk around campus announcing it with a megaphone.

The problem was that John Logan was impossible to miss. Hockey star. Campus heartthrob. Professional flirt. Owner of an unfortunately charming smile that seemed capable of making half the female population lose their minds.

And you?

You preferred quiet.

You liked empty skating rinks before sunrise, oversized sweaters, and slipping through campus unnoticed. Attention made your skin crawl in ways you could never properly explain, and being publicly attached to someone like Logan sounded less like romance and more like a nightmare.

So your relationship stayed private.

Mostly.

Which was harder than it sounded when your boyfriend was John Logan.

Because John Logan loved loudly. Even when he tried not to.

“Logan.”

“No.”

You sighed, adjusting the strap of your skate bag over your shoulder while Logan leaned casually against your dorm room doorway.

“You don’t even know what I was gonna say.”

“Yes, I do.” Logan grinned lazily. “You’re about to tell me not to kiss you goodbye in the hallway.”

“…Because the hockey team is literally downstairs.”

“Counterargument.”

He stepped forward suddenly, large hands sliding around your waist before you could escape. You immediately hissed, “John.”

His grin widened.

“You only use my first name when you’re stressed. It’s adorable.”

“Some of us value survival.”

“Some of us,” he murmured dramatically, “are being denied affection.”

Despite yourself, a laugh escaped you. Logan looked unbearably pleased about it.

God. That was another problem.

He looked at you like every smile was something he personally accomplished.

“You’re impossible,” you muttered.

“And yet,” Logan said thoughtfully, leaning closer, “you’re still dating me. Curious.”

Before you could respond, voices echoed faintly from downstairs. Hockey players. Your eyes widened immediately.

“Logan.”

“I hear them.”

“Then MOVE.”

He laughed under his breath but finally stepped back, hands lingering at your waist for one last second before letting go.

And even then, he still looked offended.

“This relationship is so hard for me,” he informed you solemnly.

“You’re so dramatic.”

“You’re withholding public boyfriend privileges.”

“That is not a real thing.”

“It should be.”

A knock suddenly sounded somewhere downstairs. Then Garrett’s voice. “Logan! Are you alive or did you finally die flirting?”

You slapped a hand over your mouth to stop your laugh.Logan looked deeply betrayed. “You know,” he said quietly, “the lack of support in this relationship is devastating.”

“Go downstairs.”

“You wound me.”

“Logan.”

“Okay, okay.”

But before leaving, he leaned in quickly and pressed a soft kiss against your forehead. Gentle. Automatic. Like he couldn’t leave without doing it.

Your chest tightened immediately. And Logan completely unfairly noticed. That smug grin appeared again.

“There she is,” he murmured. You narrowed your eyes.

“Go away.”

“See you tonight, sweetheart.”

He lean again to kiss your lips this time.

Then he disappeared downstairs like nothing happened. Meanwhile you stood frozen in your dorm doorway trying not to smile like an idiot. Hopeless. Absolutely hopeless.

Logan was trying very hard to respect your boundaries. Really. He deserved credit for that.

Because keeping your relationship private might’ve been physically painful for him. Not because he was embarrassed.

The opposite, actually.

He liked you so much it was becoming a legitimate issue. And Logan had never exactly been subtle about his feelings. Unfortunately for him, subtlety was now required.

Which meant he had to settle for smaller things.

Watching your skating practices from the highest row in the rink where fewer people noticed him. Sneaking you coffee before your early morning sessions. Texting you terrible pickup lines during class. Current favorite:

Are you made of ice? Because you make me fall constantly.

You had responded with:

I’m blocking your number.

Which, to Logan, translated directly into marriage.

“Dude.” Logan blinked, dragged abruptly back to reality. Garrett was staring at him from across the cafeteria table.

“…What?” Logan asked.

“You’re smiling at your phone like a divorced dad learning Facebook.”

Dean snorted into his drink. Logan immediately locked his phone. “Mind your business.” Garrett narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

“No, seriously. What’s going on with you lately?”

“Nothing.”

“You disappeared for three hours last night.”

“I have hobbies.”

“Tinder doesn’t count as a hobby.”

Logan looked offended.

“For your information, I’m deeply emotionally unavailable now.”

Dean blinked once.

“…That sounded weirdly sincere.”

Shit.

Logan grabbed his drink quickly. Too quickly. Because Garrett suddenly sat up straighter.

“Oh my god.”

Logan froze internally.

“You’re dating someone.”

Dean nearly choked laughing. “No way.” Logan scoffed immediately.

“You guys are insane.”

“Logan,” Garrett said slowly, “you’ve checked your phone fourteen times in two minutes.”

“That’s called having friends.”

“You hate people.”

“Valid point.”

Garrett leaned forward dramatically.

“Who is she?”

“Nobody.”

“AHA.”

Logan groaned.

“You sound like a conspiracy theorist.”

“Because you’re acting suspicious!” Garrett accused. “You keep disappearing at night, smiling at your phone, and wearing actual cologne to class.” Dean pointed at him immediately.

“The cologne thing is huge.” Logan rubbed a tired hand down his face.

The worst part? He wanted to tell them.

He wanted to talk about you constantly. Wanted to mention how pretty you looked after skating practice when your cheeks turned pink from the cold. Wanted to brag about how talented you were. Wanted to tell people about the way you laughed when you got sleepy.

But he also knew how anxious public attention made you.

So instead, he shrugged lazily.

“You guys are dramatic.”

Garrett stared at him.

“…You’re in love.”

Logan nearly spit out his drink.

“WHAT?”

Dean started wheezing.

“Oh my god, he totally is.”

“I hate both of you.”

“Who is she?” Garrett demanded.

Logan stood abruptly.

“Enjoy your lunch.”

“LOGAN.”

Too late. He was already leaving.

Mostly because if he stayed another minute, he might accidentally start talking about you.

And once Logan started talking about you, he genuinely wasn’t sure he’d ever stop.

The ice rink was nearly empty by the time your evening practice ended. Only a few overhead lights remained on, casting soft reflections across the ice. You glided toward the rink barrier slowly, exhausted but satisfied after landing your final combination successfully.

Then you spotted him immediately. Of course.

John Logan sat sprawled dramatically across the bleachers wearing a backward baseball cap and Bruins hoodie, one arm stretched behind his head while the other held a cup carrier from the campus café.

The second he noticed you looking, his entire face lit up. Like you were the best thing he’d seen all day.

Your heart did that stupid little thing again. “You’re late,” you called lightly while stepping off the ice. Logan gasped. “I bring beverages and this is the thanks I get?”

“You’re ten minutes late.”

“I was fighting for my life in line.”

“You literally play hockey.”

“Exactly. I’m fragile.”

You laughed softly while walking toward him. Logan’s expression changed instantly at the sound. Softer. Warmer.

God.

Sometimes the way he looked at you felt unfair. You dropped your skate guards onto the bench beside him.

“Did you watch the whole practice?”

“Obviously.”

“You had practice too.”

“I escaped early.”

“John.”

“What?” he defended immediately. “My girlfriend was doing cool spinny things.”

“That is not figure skating terminology.”

“It should be.”

You rolled your eyes affectionately. Logan handed you one of the drinks. “Hot chocolate,” he announced proudly. Your expression softened immediately.

“You remembered.”

“Sweetheart, I remember everything about you.”

And just like that, your brain stopped functioning. The worst part was that he said things like that casually. Like he had no idea the effect they had on you. Meanwhile Logan was busy watching your expression change with obvious satisfaction. Cute. Ridiculously cute.

He loved making you flustered. Probably too much.

You sat beside him carefully, shoulders brushing. Logan relaxed instantly at the contact. Small things affected him embarrassingly fast when it came to you. He took a sip of his coffee before speaking again.

“You looked incredible out there tonight.”

You stared down at your cup. “I messed up the landing during the second pass.”

“You landed it the next time.”

“Still.”

Logan frowned slightly. He hated when you did that. Minimized yourself. Because from where he sat every single practice, you looked unreal. Beautiful. Focused.

Completely in your element. Sometimes watching you skate actually stole the words out of his mouth.

Which was saying something, considering he normally never shut up. “You know,” Logan said slowly, “normal people would just accept compliments.”

“I do accept compliments.”

“No, you politely fight them.”

“That’s not true.”

“Last week I called you gorgeous and you said, ‘probably the lighting.’”

You looked embarrassed immediately. Logan grinned.

“There it is.”

“You’re annoying.”

“And yet deeply lovable.”

“That remains unconfirmed.”

Logan placed a dramatic hand against his chest. “You say the cruelest things to me.”

Another laugh. God. I love it so much.

He’d do literally anything to keep hearing that sound. The rink settled into comfortable silence afterward. Your head rested lightly against Logan’s shoulder while he absentmindedly played with your fingers.

No audience. No hiding. Just the two of you.

This was his favorite version of your relationship. The quiet parts. The moments nobody else saw.

“You know,” Logan murmured eventually, “I still think it’s insane nobody knows about us.” You tensed slightly beside him. Immediately, Logan regretted bringing it up.

“Hey.” His voice softened.

“You know I don’t care, right?”

You looked down at your hands.

“I know.”

“No, seriously.” Logan turned toward you more fully now.

“I’d date you in secret forever if that’s what makes you comfortable.”

Your chest tightened painfully. Because he meant it. There wasn’t even hesitation in his voice.

“You don’t ever get tired of hiding?” you asked quietly. Logan blinked.

“Hiding you?”

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Baby, I’m barely succeeding.”

You laughed softly.

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

Logan’s thumb brushed gently across your knuckles.

“Yeah, I wanna tell people sometimes,” he admitted. “Mostly because I think you’re amazing and I have absolutely zero self-control around you.”

“That’s the most honest thing you’ve ever said.”

“Thank you.”

“But…”

His expression softened again. “If being private makes you feel safe, then that matters more.”

You stared at him quietly. And Logan, poor guy, immediately started overthinking.

Too much?

Too cheesy?

Then suddenly you leaned forward and kissed him. Soft. Quick. But enough to completely derail his brain. Logan blinked after you pulled away.

“…Whoa.”

You laughed immediately. “What?”

“I just had a religious experience.”

“Oh my god.”

“I’m serious.” He pointed at you accusingly. “You can’t just do that without warning.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“And deeply in love with you.”

The words slipped out naturally. Effortlessly. Like breathing. And Logan froze the second he realized what he said.

Oh. Shit.

Your eyes widened slightly. The rink suddenly felt very quiet. Logan opened his mouth immediately.

“I mean—not that I—well, obviously I do, but I wasn’t trying to—”

You started laughing. Actually laughing. Logan looked deeply offended.

“I’m emotionally vulnerable right now.”

“You’re rambling.”

“You make me nervous.”

That only made you laugh harder. Hopelessly in love. That’s what this was doing to him.

And honestly?

Logan didn’t mind one bit. Eventually your laughter softened into something gentler.

You reached over and fixed the brim of his backwards cap carefully.

Cute. Everything you did was cute. It was becoming a serious condition.

“You know,” you said quietly, “I think being private is easier because this feels… ours.”

Logan’s expression softened instantly. The teasing disappeared. Just sincerity left.

“Yeah?” You nodded.

“No pressure. No people watching. Just you and me.” Something warm settled heavily in Logan’s chest.

God. He loved you. Hopelessly. Ridiculously. Completely.

And maybe someday the rest of the world would know. But for now?

This was enough. The empty rink. Your hand in his. Your head against his shoulder.

And the way you smiled at him like he was already home.

© 2026 rinvvii

[cassiopeiia24]

when the title says "too pretty", it's about Logan. 🙂‍↕️

[fezrus]

Seven steps, one word

John Logan (Off Campus) x Reader

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 ♡

[cassiopeiia24]

well, fuck, that was good.

[puckmegirl]

JEALOU$Y (ft. John Logan)

blurb: john logan claims that he doesn’t do jealousy. he thinks he’s above such petty feelings. but what happens when his girlfriend gets hit on at a house party?

warnings: fem!reader, suggestive, established relationship, alcohol

note: smut pt. 2 here

“Cupcake?”

You turned around at the voice, meeting the face of a 6’2” football player you didn’t know personally but recognized from the Briar sports Instagram account.

He was staring at your headpiece; a frosting top with colorful sprinkles. You realized what he was trying to say.

“Oh, no. I’m chocolate,” you said.

He raised an amused brow, “Chocolate?”

You nodded, sipping your beer. “Chocolate.” You confirmed, then pointed across the room to where Kendall was busy making out with one of the hockey players. “She’s vanilla. We’re chocolate and vanilla swirl.”

The football player nodded in understanding. “Ah. I see,” he said before looking over at Kendall. “Though vanilla isn’t very vanilla.”

You laughed at his witty joke, both of you watching Kendall as she did a body shot off of the hockey player she was kissing two seconds ago. She was dressed in the same tube top and bubble skirt set you were wearing, complete with the knee-high boots and matching headpiece; hers a whipped white color, yours a cocoa brown.

From the other side of the room, Tucker and Logan were talking when the former spotted you chatting with the tall football player.

Tucker nudged Logan, “Yo, is that your girl?”

Logan followed his line of sight and it landed on you, leaning against the kitchen counter and speaking to the good-looking stranger with an easy smile on your lips.

Logan looked away and gulped down his beverage. “She’s a big girl.”

Logan wasn’t one of those insecure, pompous boyfriends. He didn’t do jealousy. He’s convinced jealousy was invented by a short dick man with an easily bruised ego. Logan was secure enough in his relationship with you to never have any reason to feel jealous.

You turned to the jock and gave his costume a once-over. Knitting your brows together, you racked your brain’s storage full of pop culture references and iconic fictional characters.

“Timothée Chalamet in Call Me by Your Name?” You tried.

He let out a huff of laughter, “Close. I’m Luca from the Disney-Pixar movie.”

“Ahh,” you nodded. “Practically the same.”

He flashed a charming smile, dragging a sip from his bottle. He extended his hand to you, “James.”

You shook his hand and told him your name.

“Pretty name,” he responded. “Though…” he leaned in closer, “…cupcake fits better, don’t you think?”

Ah. At that, you picked up that he was attempting to flirt with you. Forever loyal to your boyfriend, you opened your mouth to turn his advances down. But before you could, you felt an arm wrap around your waist from behind and find purchase on your hipbone. You knew who it was without even looking.

“Hey, got you a refill,” Logan said, taking the half empty can from your hands and replacing it with a new one.

“Thanks,” you said. As your hand moved to pop the can open, Logan’s deft fingers beat you to it and he cracked the tab for you.

The football player, James, eyed the two of you, biting his lip whilst reconfiguring his whole plan. “You’re both…?”

“Air signs,” Logan teasingly remarked with a straight face, casually drinking from his red solo cup. You elbowed him with a small smirk.

“No,” James shook his head. “I mean—”

“Together,” Logan told him, putting his now empty plastic cup down on the counter. His newly freed hand joined the other by holding onto your other hip and giving it a squeeze.

James nodded to himself. “Got it.” And away he went. Probably off to find his Alberto.

Logan’s eyes followed his retreating figure, not easing up until he was out of sight. Only then did he drop his hands off your body.

You turned around and looked up at your boyfriend with a wide smile. “What was that?”

“What was what?” He returned, pouring himself a new drink.

“That whole thing,” you responded.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?” You repeated.

Logan shrugged. “A normal interaction, no?”

“He was flirting with me before that.”

“Oh so you’re aware.”

Your expression dropped. Oh, is that why—

“Logan.”

“Hm.”

“Logan.”

“Hm?”

You tilted his face down to look at him. “I wasn’t going to entertain it.”

“I know,” he replied.

“I was going to shut it down right before you showed up.”

“I know.”

“I want to make sure you know that.”

“And I know that.”

You squinted your eyes. This was suspiciously too easy. “Okay.”

“Okay.”

You stared at one another for a beat longer than necessary.

“You’re still upset,” you observed.

“I’m not upset,” he answered.

“So what are you feeling?” You asked.

“I don’t like how he called you cupcake,” Logan told you.

“Me neither. Not when I’m so clearly chocolate.”

“I’m being serious.”

“So am I.”

“Y/n.”

You sighed softly, “Okay, sorry. I thought humor would make it better.”

Your fingers curled into the hair at the nape of his neck, hoping to relieve some of his tension. It worked. A little.

“It was a shitty pickup line,” you said. “Wouldn’t work on me even if I was single.”

“I hope so.”

“Oh, please, Logan. Take me out the back and shoot me if you ever see me falling for that,” you commented. He let out a small laugh. That’s progress

His hands returned to your hips and he pulled you closer. Your arms instinctively wrapped around his neck. His large hands rested just above your ass.

“What if I called you that?” Logan said lowly.

“Wanna give it a try?” You offered.

He leaned in, his lips hovering right by your ear. You could feel his warm breath fanning over your sensitive flesh. “Would you be into that, cupcake?” He whispered, ending it with a gentle nibble on your earlobe.

You shivered, feeling goosebumps crawl over your skin. “Fuck, I guess you have to take me out back with a gun, Logan.”

He pulled back with a hearty chuckle. You gave a matching smile and he held your face, brushing his thumb across your cheekbone.

As he looked at you, his face turned thoughtful for a moment. You squeezed his hand reassuringly.

He leaned in again. “I didn’t like how he looked at you.”

“How’d he look at me?” You wondered.

“Like how I look at you.”

You stared up at him, biting your lip. “And how do you look at me?” You whispered.

He brought his forehead against yours, gazing deep into your eyes. “Like I want you.”

Oh screw your sexy boyfriend and his even sexier responses. And that’s exactly what you wanted to do now—if only you weren’t in the middle of Beau and Dean’s birthday bash.

You had enough of this game. You raised yourself up and pressed your lips to his. Logan was hungry; he seemed to devour your kiss, swallowing every soft sound you made. His hand strayed down to grip your ass, the other held your waist comfortably. His tongue was already begging to enter your mouth, and you obliged without hesitation.

When you pulled away several moments later, Logan chased your lips with eagerness, gently biting your bottom lip as you separated.

“Mine,” he breathed out under his breath.

You bared a dazed smile, “I only want you.” You mouthed silently.

Logan let out a soft sound of amusement, nodding more to himself than to you. Satisfied and high off your impromptu makeout session, he pressed one last kiss to your forehead before rejoining his friends, this time with a protective hand on the small of your back.

i’m such a logan girl, sorry not sorry

[cassiopeiia24]

🧁🧁🧁

[bluetimeombre]

The bassist

Request: Where they are friends who slowly realize that they have to face that their friendship can't stay the same after had some type of incident where they almost kissed or something 🫰thanks so much for the requests, I hope you like!

Joe didn't say a thank you, or a goodnight! He lifted his guitar in the air as the cheers of the crowd grew louder. He waved and smiled before setting it down, the rest of the band following him.

There was a pat on your back as you set the guitar down, Adam pushing you down the stage as you tried not to trip over the wire.

It was a Boston night, playing in Boston or Chiacgo or Atlanta always drew in the biggest crowd, the most passionate of people. It worked on Joe, he sang louder, with more purpose, witch such love and care for places he'd lived and grown up.

And there he was- casting a smile back at you as he waited, chest rising and falling in his blue clad tight shirt, arm lifted as he waited to tug you under it. He was grinning. He'd never looked at you with anything less.

Joe's arm draped around your shoulder as you joined the band in leaving the buzzing stage, the lights flickering and the steady vibration. "You killed it out there!"

"Oh please."

"Oh please," he teased jutting his hip into yours as you grabbed onto the wrist that was slung over your shoulder.

It had been like this for as long as you could remember. You were a bassist in Post Animal but when Joe recognised things were going to change with his rising fame in 'Stranger things' he decided to get out. Make something him.

'Come with me,' he'd asked.

Since then you'd followed him everywhere. His north star. The steady beat of his heart.

You'd been friends- always.

It just didn't feel so simple as of late.

The tugging into his side was persistent, the smiles lingered and his gaze softened. Your coffee was always in your hand before his own had been poured. You jacket was always slung over his shoulders before his own was tugged on. You were always the last he introduced but with the loudest cheer.

Fans noticed when you dares search what they were thinking. The boys in the band knew it. His sisters knew it.

Your bones were still buzzing as you and Joe- in your own little worlds- fell into his dressing room. It was littered with as much as your stuff as it was his. Your scarf was on the floor, your jacket slung over the back of the couch. Your perfume on the vanity.

Your perfume? You didn't bring it. You remembered that cause your almost empty bottle was in your bag in the hotel you were staying at. But this bottle looked loved, half of the mist missing.

Joe dropped down onto the couch, pushing back his sweaty hair. "God, that was incredible."

You wondered over to his vanity, picking up the bottle. "What's this?" you asked with a smile, a teasing glint you hoped convinced him. If it was another girls, a keepsake... what would you do? What would you do with all these little hints and signs.

Joe looked back, un-disturbed by the question. He gestured to it in your hand. "It's yours."

You chuckled. "It's not."

"Well it's mine but it's your perfume," he said, pushing himself up from the sofa and took three strides in front of you. He plucked it from your hands.

From this close you could see the gleam of sweat on his neck and how the sleeves stuck to his biceps.

"It's the perfume that you wear but it's mine. I-" he chuckled to himself as he eyed it. "I always spray a bit on before I go on stage. Good luck kinda thing."

Your mind went blank. You'd never even noticed he smelt like you. Was on purpose making him smell like you for good luck?

"Here-" Joe tilted his neck back, showing you an expanse of the skin.

It was temptation on a plate. An invitation in. A 'you want me' in gold, glowing skin.

You shuffled closer, the tips of your shoes against his cowboy boots as you leant up. The heat of his body radiated against yours, making you dizzy and you grabbed a hold of his bicep to steady yourself.

Joe's body was inching closer, his hand ghosting up your back in a touch as soft as a summer's breeze.

There it was. Your perfume on him, under the sweat you were stapled there.

By the time you tilted your neck back to see him, he was already leaning down.

His lips were soft but insistent pushing into yours until your whole body caved into his. His arms snapped around your waist, pulling you in and backing you up into the vanity. It rocked once and steadied but you continued to move.

He urged you up as his hands groped at your thighs, his lips moving against yours without daring to ask for entrance, his nose bumped yours, his hand travelled up to your neck to tilt your head back so he could reach you deeper.

Your hands ran over his shoulders, squeezing at his biceps until he had to take a deep breath against your lips. Your hands followed down his back, urging him in closer when it wasn't even possible-

There was a quick rattle of knuckles on the door that you'd left open.

"Keep it in your pants kids we've got to be moving!"

The hotel felt too hot to bare, too warm even as you kept the windows open as the clock ticked closer to midnight. Closer to a day where you wouldn't have kissed Joe. A new day.

You didn't want a new day. You wanted him.

After being caught you were both too busy in getting your stuff together and leaving in separate cars and buses to get back to the hotel. You hadn't seen him but your body still held the traces of him. The way you sat up on your bed when you heard footsteps down the corridor. The way your body pulsated when you ran your finger over your bottom lip.

But had it been nothing for him? Had it meant anything?

You were trying to journal, trying to write anything to keep your .... hands busy.

There was the smallest of taps at the door, as if a small creature wanting attention.

You were ashamed to admit how fast you fell upon the door, opening it.

"Hey," said Joe, breathless, still un-changed from his show wears.

You held onto the door. "Hey."

"About earlier-"

"Oh-"

"I'm sorry if it was un-toward-"

"Oh totally-"

"-just the adrenaline of the show I think-"

"-yeah, yeah-"

"-you know, I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable-"

"-no!" you didn't realise how quick you'd said it until it fell from your mouth and the silence dropped between you.

Joe looked at you, flushed in the cheeks. "No? No, it didn't make you uncomfortable?"

"No, it-it didn't at all."

"Oh," he said, nodding. His hands slid into his pockets- maybe because he didn't know what to do with them. "Okay."

The two of you stood there, neither dismissing the other.

Somewhere behind you a clock ticked at midnight and the realisation that you'd go into a day without Joe scared you. You realised, you didn't want to go a day without kissing him.

He seemed to have the same thought at just the right time as your bodies collided. Your arms were around his neck, his around your waist as you kissed him quick and fierce, making every move and every sound count.

Joe groaned into you as he stepped into your room and you reached blindly out behind him to close the door. His tongue ran over your bottom lip and you welcomed him warmly. "Are you-are you-" he tried to ask against you as his hands wandered under the shirt and felt across your back.

"Yes." You'd never been more sure of anything.

Brooklyn was a crowd eating out of the palm of your hands. The night was spent in buzzes and vibrations, of chants and cheers, of lyrics sang back at you.

Joe rocked the crowd, rocked the stage with a new found need in every movement. The guitar was slung over low on his hips. Any other time he was moving into the mic stand.

For half the night he played in your direction, eyeing you up from where you stood behind your own mic, with your own guitar he'd gifted you on one of your birthdays. There was a dark and all knowing glint in his eyes whenever you stepped out with that chosen guitar, but now you had a word for it.

"Brooklyn, you're incredible!" said Joe into his mic late into the night. He wondered over to you, working his fingers against the strings of his guitar as you sang backing vocals in the mic.

You knew the fans were watching.

Knew maybe even that they'd spot the bandana in your hair was once his before he tied it up.

Joe was a teaser, he was bossy, he knew what you liked from years of friendship and whatever else was happening between you. He leant into your own mic, deeming his too far to get there in time.

"- who leave on a light for me-"

By the time the sets were finished and the night was over Joe was looming over you, arms around your neck as he tested his weight on your back as you all but dragged him off stage.

But when you were behind the scenes, the curtains closed, his hands grew restless. They were feeling all over you, his hips falling into the curve of your backside till Teddy, Adam and the rest of them were urging you all to 'be safe' and 'responsible'.

You found yourself in his dressing room five minutes later in quick kisses and pulling of clothes.

It last like that for cities, states, countries, a small intimate thing growing between the two of you without a name.

When you checked into hotels the team stopped booking a room for Joe as he always found himself in your bed and they moved your things into his dressing room.

By the time you were in London he was placing one of his many hats on you and taking you around the city. Taking your hand when he could, stealing kisses in lines for coffee, buying you anything you wanted. You in turn posed for him when he got his camera out.

But there was a nagging in your mind that was impossible to ignore. Was this a game? Something to be played to dim the boredom of tour when your heart was already singing for him.

Could Joe even hear it?

Maybe not, but by the Europe shows he could see it.

When he bounced over toward you you smiled and focused. When he offered you a hat or bandana of his it was on you before the stage and off afterward.

Still, the shared rooms and moments didn't change. But you were thinking... maybe too much.

"Smile," said Joe one night when the two of you were waiting in his dressing room. Your legs entwined with his as you both leant back into your respected ends of the sofa.

You shook your head but grinned anyway. The flash of the camera marking the moment caught in time.

Joe would have to wait to see it, so he tucked his camera away and leant into you. "What's going on?" he asked.

"Hmm?"

"What's going on in here-" he poked at your head, before his fingers caressed your cheek. "What's going on in that pretty head of yours, huh?"

You tried to shake it off, tried to convince yourself you could go on. Having Joe at arms length was better than potentially not having it at all. But you couldn't not have him these ways you'd grown accustom to. Not anymore. "I just-"

"Just what?" asked Joe, close to you. He was yet to throw on a shirt and you were trying hard not to stare. To not shuffle into his lap and claim his lips as your own. But Joe's anxiety was hardly tempered down. "You can talk to me about anything, you know you can." His arm laid on the back of the couch, gently brushing your shoulder.

"We're not friends anymore.... are we?"

Joe's face fell. "What makes you say that?"

It wasn't exactly the response you were hoping for.

Your shoulders lifted. "Do friends have sex in different hotel rooms in different cities?"

"Some, maybe. Is that what's this is about?" he straightened up, hand pulling away from your body slightly.

It was like he was already leaving, shutting the door on what would have been a funny chapter in your friendship. You'd go back to being the bassist in his band and a friend he sometimes put an arm around. There'd be the faint smell of you on his shirts reminding him of a person he used to know.

You cursed yourself for the words you were about to say. "I just.... I don't know how to be your friend anymore."

He paused a moment. It was like he wasn't breathing as he heard your words and let them settle.

Then he looked away and the room grew cold.

You shifted, itching to move.

Joe's hands were quick on your shins, keeping you down. "Maybe that's not such a bad thing."

"What?"

Joe wet his lips before urging you close to him, your legs thrown over his lap as his hands settled in your lap. "I think it's pretty obvious I don't want to be your friend anymore. I-I had it all planned out, I wanted to wait till after the tour to tell you- or ask you, I didn't want you to think you were just some fun on the road but then the other night and you-" Joe looked back at you from his rambling. He took a deep breath and released it like it was a relief. "You. You ruined everything."

You rolled your eyes with a teasing grin. "Oh I'm so sorry."

Joe laughed. "I wanted to make it all romantic but I can't keep my hands off you."

You waited, sitting, wondering if his next words would be 'but this could never work' or a 'you've been great but don't you think we're better as friends?'

Joe tilted his head down till you were looking at him. His nose bumped yours as his grin widened. He was toying with you. He knew it and liked it. "Why do you think I wear your perfume before a show? Why I always wear that blue shirt you like? Always use the guitar strap you got me? The hat you found for me that goes everywhere? Why I only ever want you to play bass with me? I could leave this all tomorrow with nothing but the shirt on my back... and you."

You glanced up at him, your lips brushing his. "I think there's supposed to be a question here, Joe."

His forehead laid against yours. His teeth sank into his bottom lip as he suppressed a wide grin. "I... I don't want you like a friend. I haven't for a long time. So, what'd you say about being mine?"

Mine.

His.

A reason to kiss him when the sun came up. A reason to pull the covers over you and stay in the warmth for a little longer. A reason to wait because he was tying a lace. A reason to admire the view and capture it.

His.

Joe waited with a knowing glint.

A laugh escaped you as you wrapped your arms around his neck and looked away with a smirk.

"Well, I don't know I'll have to think about it-"

"You-"

A squeal of delight left you as Joe wrapped his arms around you, pushing you into the plush of the sofa and laying on top of you. His hands crawled under your shirt, digging into your side as his teeth nipped at your neck.

"Say yes," he said into your skin, kissing over where he laid the words. "Say yes!" He licked a stripe up your neck until he pecked your lips over and over.

"Yes!" you shouted when his hands dug into your sensitive sides, a tickle threatened. "Yes."

Joe pulled back enough to look at you, his laughter replaced by something. A needing to know. "Yes?"

"Yes."

"Yes you'll be mine?"

You nodded, fingers winding his curls at the nape of his neck. "It's all I've ever wanted."

Joe quirked a brow. "Well that makes Christmas easy."

You didn't have a chance to swat at him before he laid atop you, working your mouth open with his until his tongue was in your mouth, his knee parting your legs and getting himself comfortable. There was no telling where he was in you or where you were as your hands buried themselves in his hair, tilting to find his lips every time they strayed.

The knock at the door didn't even stir you. "You're on in five!"

You'd waited long enough.

The crowd could wait an extra ten.

[cassiopeiia24]

friends to lovers 🫠🫠🫠

[jinxispunk]

hello lovely!! I am BEYOND obsessed with your writing aaaahhh! I’m a big lover of dance music and wondered if you could write a one shot with Joe where him and reader meet at a dance festival? Thinking he’s having a break off tour letting his hair down etc, and sees this beauty in the crowd mesmerised by the music, hot dancing etc etc. Thank you so much xxxx

this vibe is EVERYTHING to me. i love requests so much because it inspires me to write things i never would have thought to write, and this was so fun!

something about meeting somebody in the middle of loud music and flashing lights and immediately feeling weirdly magnetised towards them??? joe seeing reader dancing like she’s completely lost in the music and just being absolutely doomed from that moment onwards pahah

body language

Joe Keery x reader

Summary: Joe meets reader in the middle of a sweaty dance festival crowd and spends the entire night hopelessly drawn to her, all flashing lights, tangled bodies and stolen kisses.

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, minors DNI, no use of y/n, strangers to lovers, alcohol, illusions to smut, fluff (lmk if i missed anything)

W/C: 1.9k

Read more of my writing here: [masterlist]

Festivals always make Joe feel vaguely unreal by midnight.

Too much bass vibrating through his ribs. Too many bodies moving under strobe lights like one enormous living thing. Sweat and smoke and warm summer air thick enough to blur at the edges.

Then he sees you in the crowd, dancing like the music’s got its hands on you, and suddenly the whole night sharpens into focus.

You’re a few people back from the barrier, completely absorbed in the set. Your eyes are closed, head tipped slightly backwards while blue and pink lights flash over the crowd in uneven waves. Glitter catches along your collarbones every time you move. One of your hands disappears into the air with the beat, slow and careless and completely unselfconscious.

Joe knows he's fucked immediately.

“You’re staring,” one of his friends yells over the music.

Joe doesn’t even look away from you. “I know.”

“She’s not gonna disappear if you blink.”

“Don’t ruin this for me.”

His friend laughs, shoving lightly at his shoulder before disappearing back into the crowd.

Festivals are full of gorgeous people. Sweat-slick skin and tiny outfits and strangers kissing in the middle of crowds like the world’s ending tomorrow.

But there’s something different about you.

You look happy.

Not curated, trying to look wild or cool or detached enough to impress people around you.

Just genuinely, fully inside the music.

Then you open your eyes.

And catch him staring straight away.

For half a second, he thinks maybe he should look embarrassed.

Instead, he smiles automatically.

Your eyebrow lifts slightly.

Then, unexpectedly, you smile back.

Fuck.

Joe pushes through the crowd before he can think too hard about it.

People knock shoulders against him the whole way there, drinks spilling somewhere nearby while bass rattles through the ground hard enough to shake his chest. By the time he reaches you, you’re already looking amused.

“You’ve been staring at me for like five minutes,” you say.

Joe laughs softly. “Was it that obvious?”

“Painfully.”

“Damn. Thought I was being mysterious.”

“Yeah, not a chance.”

Joe grins despite himself.

Up close, you’re somehow even prettier. Glitter dusted messily across your cheeks. Pupils blown wide beneath flashing lights. Slightly sweaty from dancing already.

You smell faintly like perfume and summer heat and vodka.

Joe suddenly understands why people make terrible decisions at festivals.

“You having fun?” he asks.

You glance back toward the stage instinctively, smiling immediately as the music swells louder.

“Obviously.”

Joe watches your face instead of the stage.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “Obviously.”

Your eyes flick back toward him then, catching something in his expression that suddenly makes the air between you feel warmer.

“What about you?” you ask.

Joe shrugs lightly. “Think my night just improved significantly actually.”

You laugh properly at that.

God.

There it is.

Joe thinks he could spend the rest of his life trying to hear that sound again.

Conversation comes strangely easily afterwards. Not smooth exactly - too many interruptions for that. Music cutting sentences in half. Drunk strangers stumbling through the crowd. Both of you yelling “what?” every thirty seconds whenever the bass gets too violent.

But easy.

Joe learns your name between songs. Learns you came here with friends from uni who are currently “somewhere absolutely off their heads probably.” You learn he’s taking a break from touring for a while because “living on buses starts feeling vaguely haunted after enough months.”

“You’re in a band?” you ask immediately.

Joe grimaces jokingly. “Unfortunately.”

“You saying unfortunately tells me you’re definitely in a band.”

“Rude.”

“You’ve got the hair for it.”

Joe bursts out laughing.

“You flirting with me?”

“Maybe.”

The honesty catches him off guard enough that he actually goes quiet for a second.

You notice immediately.

“That bad, huh?”

“No,” Joe says quickly. “No, I just…” He smiles crookedly. “You’re very direct.”

You lean slightly closer so he can hear you over the music.

“And you’re very pretty when you’re flustered.”

Jesus Christ.

Joe’s doomed.

By midnight, you’re dancing together.

The crowd’s gotten denser now, bodies packed tightly together beneath strobing lights while heat clings heavily to everyone’s skin. Joe keeps instinctively reaching for your waist whenever people shove past too hard. Your hands settle loosely around his shoulders every time you laugh.

At some point, one of your palms slides briefly against his chest while talking.

Neither of you moves away afterwards.

The music changes gradually. Slower now. Heavier bass vibrating low enough to feel inside your lungs.

You turn instinctively toward the stage again, already swaying slightly with the beat, and Joe genuinely forgets what you were talking about midway through your sentence.

“You always dance like this?” he asks.

You glance back at him. “Like what?”

“Like you’re, I dunno, possessed by the music.”

You laugh loudly enough that a few people nearby glance over.

“That’s the nicest thing anybody’s ever said to me actually.”

Joe grins.

Then somebody crashes through the crowd behind you hard enough that you stumble forward slightly, fingers catching in the front of Joe’s shirt to steady yourself.

The movement pulls you flush against him.

Both of you go still.

Oh.

Joe’s hand tightens instinctively against your waist while festival lights flash gold across your face.

“Hi,” he says quietly.

Your smile softens around the edges somehow.

“Hi.”

Something shifts after that.

The space between you disappears completely.

Joe’s hands settle properly at your hips now while you dance together, your body moving naturally with his every time the crowd sways around you. Sweat sticks damp curls against his forehead. Your glitter’s transferred faintly onto his jaw at some point.

Neither of you mentions it.

There’s something weirdly intimate about all of this. Meeting somebody in the middle of thousands of strangers and somehow ending up in your own little world anyway.

At one point you lean close enough to murmur against his ear, “You know, you’re significantly less annoying than most men at festivals.”

Joe gasps dramatically. “That’s huge for me actually.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Too late.”

You’re both a little drunk by the time the final set starts.

Not messy drunk. Just warm and loose and glowing pleasantly beneath festival lights.

Joe buys you overpriced drinks that taste vaguely like battery acid. You steal sips from his cup anyway. He loses his sunglasses at some point and spends fifteen minutes mourning them before realising they’re hanging from the collar of his shirt.

“You’re hopeless,” you laugh.

Joe points at you immediately. “You like me though.”

You pause.

Then smile slowly.

“Yeah,” you admit. “Think I do.”

The honesty knocks the breath clean out of him.

For a second neither of you says anything.

The crowd screams as the headliner walks onstage somewhere behind you, lights exploding across the festival grounds while bass rattles violently through the air.

Joe barely notices.

Because suddenly you’re looking at him like he’s worth paying attention to more than whoever's on stage.

Like maybe this whole strange sweaty night means something to you too.

“You wanna know something embarrassing?” Joe asks quietly.

“What?”

“I saw you dancing earlier and immediately forgot how to breathe.”

You laugh softly. “Joe, I don’t think you’ve breathed once since meeting me.”

“Yeah, that’s fair.”

You’re still smiling when he kisses you.

It happens naturally.

One second you’re laughing beneath flashing neon lights and the next Joe’s hand is warm against your jaw pulling you softly toward him while your fingers curl instinctively into the front of his shirt.

The kiss tastes like vodka, summer heat, and something electric.

Not rushed.

Inevitable.

The crowd erupts around you as the music drops harder, lights flashing white across thousands of moving bodies, while Joe kisses you like he’s been trying not to since the second he saw you.

You kiss him back just as hard.

And suddenly it’s dangerous.

Because Joe makes this soft rough sound against your mouth that shoots straight through your stomach, and your hands slide instinctively into his hair, lightly tugging at the curls damp at the nape of his neck.

“Fuck,” he breathes quietly against your lips.

You smile slightly. “You okay there?”

“No,” Joe says honestly. “Think you might actually kill me.”

You laugh softly into the next kiss, but it gets swallowed quickly when Joe’s hands tighten at your waist hard enough to pull you flush against him again.

The music’s still pounding around you, bodies moving shoulder-to-shoulder in every direction, but suddenly all Joe can focus on is the heat of your skin beneath his hands and the way your mouth keeps parting softly against his.

You kiss like people who already know each other.

Like this isn’t the first night.

Like maybe you’ve been heading toward each other longer than either of you realised.

By the time you finally pull apart properly, both of you look slightly wrecked by it.

“Well,” Joe says breathlessly.

You laugh softly against his mouth.

“Well.”

He kisses you again immediately.

This time you’re the one smiling into it first.

Eventually, still tangled together slightly, you end up wandering away from the main stage toward the food trucks lining the edge of the festival grounds. The music sounds duller out here, bass still vibrating through the air but softened enough that conversation no longer requires yelling.

The air smells like fried food and smoke and summer rain lingering somewhere in the distance.

“You hungry?” Joe asks.

“Starving.”

“What’s your drunk festival food order?”

You think for a second. “Something aggressively greasy that’ll definitely ruin my life tomorrow.”

Joe nods approvingly. “Good answer.”

You end up standing beside one of the food trucks sharing chips drowned in cheese while sitting on the curb together. Joe steals most of them despite claiming he “just wanted one.”

“You are literally eating all my chips.”

“They’re our chips now.”

“Communist behaviour.”

Joe laughs loudly enough to startle somebody walking past.

God.

You really like him.

That becomes a genuine problem about twenty minutes later when Joe’s standing too close beside you again while you wait for another drink, one hand absentmindedly hooked through the belt loop of your shorts like he forgot to stop touching you somewhere along the way.

“You know what’s weird?” he says suddenly.

“What?”

“I feel like I’ve known you longer than four hours.”

Your chest tightens slightly.

Because funnily enough, you know exactly what he means.

The festival lights flash soft blue across Joe’s face while he looks down at you, curls damp with sweat, lips pink from kissing you all night.

You don’t think before leaning up to kiss him again.

Joe makes a startled noise against your mouth before immediately kissing you back harder.

This one turns messy quickly.

Your back presses lightly against the side of the food truck while Joe crowds instinctively closer, one hand sliding warm against your waist beneath the hem of your top. Somewhere nearby, people are laughing and ordering food and spilling drinks, completely oblivious to the fact Joe Keery currently looks seconds away from losing his mind over a stranger he met four hours ago.

His mouth drags hot against yours before kissing lower briefly, just enough to make your breath catch.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters softly against your skin. “You’re trouble.”

“You approached me.”

“Worst decision of my life probably.”

You grin. “Bit late now.”

Joe looks at you for a second then.

Really looks at you.

Something in his expression softens unexpectedly beneath all the heat.

“You know what the worst part is?” he murmurs.

“What?”

“I don’t even care.”

Neither do you.

part 2 here: [body language pt.2]

dividers: saradika-graphics

[cassiopeiia24]

*Joe staring at girlie the whole time like:*