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summary - you surprise Garrett after studying abroad for a year
pairing - garrett graham x girlfriend!reader
word count - +2.3k
a/n - lowkey love this duo enough to continue with either a summer series for them or a mom&dad type series!! lmk what you think!
For an off campus party, Garrett Graham seemed pretty miserable.
The party was small and contained. Only close friends of the guys had been invited to celebrate the start of summer. No more exams or schoolwork. Just sun, sand and sex.
Everyone had gathered in the back garden, just outside the house on the decking. Tucker was manning the grill, with Logan supervising. Dean and Allie were attempting to play a game of badminton, but were mostly just arguing. A couple other hockey guys were sitting around chatting, with Grace and Sabrina nearby. And it was Hannah who noticed Garrett sat by himself not taking part in anything.
“You okay?” Hannah asked and sat down on a chair opposite Garrett.
“Yeah.” Garrett gave a fake smile.
“Convincing.” Hannah joked, “What’s up?”
Garrett had become close enough with Hannah to know she wouldn’t take the piss out of him. He was glad that Allie kept bringing her around, because she was one of Garrett’s closest friends now.
Garrett held up his phone briefly, “My, uh, girlfriend hasn’t texted me since yesterday and I’m just a bit worried.” Garrett frowned, looking from Hannah down to his notificationless phone.
“You have a girlfriend?”
“Yeah.” Garrett’s smile went wide.
He noted the shocked expression on Hannah’s face.
Garrett rarely told people about you - not because he wanted to keep you a secret, but because he was just terrible at opening up to people about things like that. You were always encouraging him to be braver with his feelings.
“Since when?” Hannah leaned forwards with interest.
“Coming up to three years now.”
“I’m sorry… You’ve had a girlfriend for three years and I’m only just finding out now?”
“Well I didn’t know you three years ago, Wellsy.” Garrett countered.
Hannah let it slide. “Okay, whatever. Tell me everything about her.”
When someone did finally know of your existence, that was one of Garrett’s favourite things to be asked. He could talk about you for hours, days, forever. He was a healthy amount obsessed with you.
Before Garrett could delve into the 101 reasons why you were his favourite person, Dean had to ruin the moment.
“Jheez, Wellsy, are you a witch? How’d you make G smile?” Dean patted Hannah on the back as he came over with Allie in tow. No doubt their game of badminton had gotten too argumentative to continue safely.
“I was just asking Garrett about…” Hannah cut herself short, realising that she didn’t even know your name.
“Y/N.” Garrett added for her.
Dean clicked his tongue and sighed like a man in love. “Ah, mom and dad.”
“I’m sorry, what?” Hannah laughed, looking between Garrett, Dean and Allie for some explanation.
Allie sat on the arm of the chair that Hannah was sitting on, wrapping her arm around her best friend's shoulder. Dean sat on the same bench that Garrett was sitting on.
“Mom and dad.” Allie repeated, “Y/N and Garrett got the label because they are genuinely like the mom and dad of this group.”
“They’re always keeping us in check. They do the shopping for the house. Y/N actually cleans this place, God knows why. They’re just so mom and dad.”
“She sounds great.” Hannah smiled.
“She is.” Allie nodded.
“Agreed.” Dean added.
Garrett just sat there, quietly smiling to himself as he listened to some of the most important people in his life gush over the most important person.
“So how come I’ve never met her?” Hannah asked.
“She’s spent the last year studying abroad.” Garrett said, frowning again when he realised that this whole conversation had started because he couldn’t get in contact with you.
“That’s so cool. Where abouts?”
“Uh, London– Sorry, I’m just going to–.”
Garrett got up and headed back inside, continuing to stare at his phone like it was personally wronging him.
Allie got up off the end of Hannah’s chair and moved to sit down next to Dean - who immediately pulled her close to his side. Hannah was so happy for her best friend finally being with someone who actually cared for her.
They smiled without looking at each other.
“What?” Hannah asked, wondering what was going on.
“Can you keep a secret, Wellsy, ‘cause we sure can’t.”
“Yeah.”
Dean leaned forwards, double checking the back entrance to the house to make sure that Garrett wasn’t loitering close by. Hannah leaned forwards too.
“Y/N’s surprising Garrett. That’s why he hasn’t heard from her, because fuck knows she’d ruin the surprise if she opened her mouth.”
Hannah’s eyes went wide and her jaw dropped.
“When? Today?”
Allie checked her phone.
“Like, literally any minute.”
Hannah tried to control her excited smile as she leant back in her chair. Dean moved back too, raising his eyebrows to Hannah as if to silently say ‘don’t say a word’.
Logan and Tucker came over minutes later, saying the grill was all prepped and the food was ready to be cooked whenever everyone was ready. They were also in on the secret surprise, so were holding off on cooking until you arrived.
Sabrina and Grace, along with a couple of other hockey guys, had also joined the group so everyone was sitting together, when Allie’s phone pinged.
She opened the notification to see you’d texted to say you were outside.
Allie widened her eyes at the group, all of them visibly lighting up with excitement.
“Where’s G?” Logan asked.
“He went inside before.” Dean said.
“I think he was going to try and contact Y/N again.” Hannah added with a sad pout. She felt for the guy - especially when he had no clue that he was about to see you in a couple of minutes.
Allie stood up, telling everyone that she was going to go and get you. Everyone was in agreement that you should go and see Garrett first, so Tucker and Logan returned to the grill to start cooking in the meantime.
Allie wandered through the house, with no sign of Garrett anywhere.
She opened the front door quietly and silently screamed when she saw you.
You looked tired - no doubt from the long plane ride, lack of sleep and jet lag - but you also looked so happy to be back. You had a big Briar U hoodie on that was no doubt Garrett’s and a pair of navy jogging bottoms on.
You had a shit tonne of luggage bags surrounding you, which Allie would make Dean take in later. It was a mystery how you managed all these bags through the airport yourself.
Allie squeezed you in a tight hug, both of you trying to be as silent as possible.
She let you go, knowing you’d be eager to see Garrett.
You both had a silent conversation with hand gestures, which basically translated to you asking where Garrett was and letting Allie know that’s where you’d be going first. Allie rushed you off, not delaying your reunion any longer.
You tried your best to be quiet up the stairs, the familiarity of the house hitting you all at once. Even the feel of your hand on the wooden bannister felt like coming home.
At the top of the stairs you felt a flurry of butterflies start up in the pit of your stomach. You couldn’t tell whether you were nervous or excited to see Garrett. It was the anticipation that was causing the feeling, you decided.
After texts and face-time calls, every day for the last year, it was hard to believe you were about to see him in real life again. It sounded weird to say, but it was true. The last year had been so great, but it had also been so hard living away from Garrett.
If that made you clingy, then you’d wear that label with pride. So what?
Garrett’s door was closed over, but not shut entirely.
You pushed the door open to find Garrett sat on the edge of his bed, crouched over with his phone in his hands.
You knocked gently so as not to make him jump.
Garrett wiped his eyes, not so subtly, before sitting up to look at you.
His whole body sagged as he saw you standing in his bedroom doorway. He closed his eyes and let his body pull him back to lay back on his bed, legs grounding him to the floor.
Tears started to fill your eyes as Garrett’s chest visibly moved up and down from crying. His hand went to cover his eyes, probably trying to comprehend whether this was a cruel trick or genuinely real.
You didn’t wait any longer to move closer to him.
“Hey.” You laughed through your own tears.
“Fuck.” Garrett sat up, taking you in. You watched the disbelief leave his teary eyes, as he fully understood you were right here with him.
He wasted no more time pulling you the rest of the way towards him - absolutely no distance between you allowed again - until you landed on his lap in an awkward straddle. Your arms wrapped around his neck tightly and his wrapped around your waist.
Both of you sat there, lightly crying.
Your face buried into Garrett’s neck as you breathed in his familiar scent. That smell alone caused a few tears, because it was so nostalgic and homely to you. Garrett’s head rested just beside yours.
Neither of you said anything for what felt like the longest time, both more than happy to just sit silently in each other’s arms.
“I thought something bad had happened.” Garrett mumbled.
You reluctantly pulled your head away from his neck, blinking away the remnants of tears as you pulled Garrett’s head up to see him. His eyes were red-rimmed and his dark circles were as dark as yours.
“What do you mean?”
“You didn’t text me for so long. I thought something bad had happened.” His eyes traced over every inch of your face, scanning every freckle to make sure they were all still there.
“I wanted to surprise you.”
“You did. If 24 hours of no contact is what it takes to be surprised, then, baby, I don’t want it.” He shook his head.
“Okay. Noted.” You brushed your thumb over his cheek back and forth. He melted into your touch, trying to get as physically close to you as possible.
“Can’t believe you’re here.”
“Can’t believe you haven’t kissed me yet.”
Garrett’s hands left your waist instantly to cup your cheeks and bring your lips directly to his, kissing you exactly how one would kiss their significant other after a year apart. The kiss was bruising, barely enough space to breathe between you.
Garrett tilted your head with his hands so he could kiss you deeper, your hips involuntarily rocking over his. The small movement was enough for Garrett to break the kiss, though the distance between you barely existed.
Both of your chests were heaving and your breathing heavy. You leaned in closer with dazed eyes focused on his lips, kissing him again. This time was shorter and with more feeling, before you pulled away with a soft laugh.
“What?” Garrett asked, still holding you close.
“I missed you.”
Garrett smiled, “Yeah, baby. Me too.” He kissed you four times in a row, before breaking off from your lips to kiss your cheeks, nose, eyes and anywhere else he could. The sound of your laughter filled his room for the first time in a year as Garrett kept kissing you.
You forced yourself forwards to make Garrett fall backwards on the bed, because you knew it was the only way to stop him from kissing you for now.
Garrett’s hair flopped around him on the bed, with a little curl falling over his forehead. His hands moved to place over your hips, whilst yours pressed into his bed either side of his head to keep you upright.
“Can’t believe you’re here.” Garrett said.
“You’ve already said that. Have you developed temporary amnesia, baby?” You teased him.
“My brain hasn’t worked since you walked through the door.”
Garrett’s hand tucked underneath the hoodie you were wearing, and traced up and down your bare skin. The featherlight touch made you smile and you rewarded him with another quick kiss.
You moved to sit back up less than gracefully. Luckily Garrett’s arms were there to support you as he mirrored you to sit up as well.
“How was your flight?” He asked, his eyes focused on you. No doubt he wouldn’t be letting you from his sight for the foreseeable future. He was going to attach himself to you like a limpet whether you liked it or not.
“Shall we go downstairs and see everyone so I don’t have to answer that question fifteen more times?”
Garrett grumbled and his eyebrows furrowed, “No.”
“No?”
“I want you to myself.” He said as his hands tightened their grip on your back.
“Baby, don’t be mean.”
“I’m not being mean, I'm being selfish. There’s a difference.”
“Not a good difference.” You argued.
“Did the Brits teach you to be polite or something?”
You tried not to laugh at your boyfriend’s childish behaviour, because, honestly, some part of you understood what he was feeling. You got possessive when he left for a hockey game for just a weekend, let alone you having been gone a full year.
Of course you wanted to just be with him too, but your friends were important to you too. They’d all kept close contact with you, always letting you know how Garrett was really doing and being there for him when he needed people around. You owed a lot to them all.
“C’mon. You’ll get me all evening.” You compromised.
“You’ve finished over there?”
“Yes,” You smiled, brushing a curl back off his forehead, “Finished last week.”
“So you’re here to stay?”
“Baby, I’m back. I’m here for summer, then autumn, winter and spring. Then summer again and autumn…”
“Okay, okay,” Garrett cut you off, “Can we spend summer together?”
“I literally brought all my shit here with me, because I intend on moving in. You’re stuck with me.”
summary: drunk reader confesses her feelings to logan. short fic, requested (via dm)
The glittery eyeshadow makes your eyes pop, Logan thinks as he stares down at you. It’s a shame he has to take it off.
“Why are you staring at me?” You say, giggling.
He shakes his head, “Nothing. Your makeup looks really nice.”
“Thank you.” You say, beaming up at him. “Your face looks really nice.”
Logan lets out an incredulous laugh, but how could he not? You’re stupidly drunk after one of the infamous Briar U Hockey Team parties, and the alcohol seems to have completely removed the filter between your mind and your mouth, leaving you rambling your every thought to him as he decided it’s time for you to go to bed.
Now, there you are, shiny eyes looking tired under the low lights of his room, wearing his clothes, sitting cross-legged on his bed, calling him pretty. It's both adorable and nerve wracking.
“You’re just drunk, honey.”
“I am so drunk.” You nod, chuckling, “But I’ve always thought you were pretty.”
He looks at you, “Yeah?”
“Yes, sir.” You say, solemnly.
Logan shakes his head, grabbing a makeup wipe he got from Hannah’s tiny box of supplies in Garrett’s bathroom. He sits by your side and delicately grabs your chin, holding you in place. “What are you doing?”
“Taking your makeup off.” He says, concentrating on wiping your face gently enough.
“Why? You just said you liked it.”
“Because it’s time for bed. Close your eyes for me?”
You do, and Logan carefully starts removing the smudged glitter on your eyes. You hum as he wipes the make up off of your eyes, “This feels nice.”
“Yeah? Not too harsh on your skin?”
You try shaking your head no, Logan’s hand still holding you in place. You giggle, “No, it’s not harsh at all. Well,” You say, “Your fingers are a bit callous.”
He smiles at your sincerity, “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I like them,” You say, then a little more sure, “I like you.”
Logan’s grip completely falters, and he lets his hands fall to his lap.
He wishes he could’ve said it took him by surprise, but honestly, no, not really. Actually, he should’ve seen it coming tonight.
It was pretty obvious that Logan had a soft spot for you from the moment you got introduced into the group by Hannah, and he might be slow, but he’s not blind — he knows you like him too. It’s like you’ve been playing a silly game of will they, won’t they, both too coy to take the initiative. Until alcohol gets involved, that is. Then all your inhibitions are swallowed down, and next thing he knows, you’re a dream come true confessing your feelings for him.
It can’t be like that, Logan thinks.
You open your left eye just slightly, peeking through your lashes, “Logan?”
“I– I think you should go to bed,” he says, not giving you any time to repeat yourself, getting up from his bed, “We can talk in the morning, yeah?”
You blink, face turning from giddy-drunk to frowny-drunk, “Okay.”
Not okay, he can tell from your curved lips. “Yeah? You good?”
“Yeah.” You say, crawling to the top of his bed. “All good. Night, Logan.”
“Hey,” he says before you can close your eyes, “We talk in the morning, okay?”
You nod, then hide under the covers.
—
Logan doesn’t see you in the morning.
In fact, he wakes up with an awful back pain from sleeping on the big chair near his bed, just to find his bed empty, clothes carefully folded and not another sign of you.
Fuck, he thinks, grabbing his phone from the nightstand to check if there’s any phone calls or texts from you, to no success. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Logan gathers his last bits of hope to go downstairs, but the house is silent, and everyone seems to be asleep still.
He tries calling you, but you won’t answer. He texts you, hey, can we talk? Then, please? to no avail.
By the end of the morning, he’s desperately knocking on your bedroom door.
“Oh, my God,” You show up at the door, flunging it open, “What the fuck is wrong with– Oh. Logan. I– I wasn’t expecting you–”
“I called you.” He cuts you off, “I mean, you weren’t there this morning, and I tried calling but you wouldn’t answer. I– I was hoping we could talk?”
You frown, “So you can reject me to my face? Again? No, thank you. I’m too hungover for this.”
“No, no. What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about me reading this,” you point between you both, frustrated, “all wrong. Look, I’m sorry, but I thought–”
“I like you.” He says, watching as you close your mouth, taking a step back. He follows your step, getting an inch closer.
“You do?”
He scoffs, “Honey, you know I do.”
“I don’t know anything, Logan.” You answer softly, “I thought I did, but…”
“But you were really fucking drunk,” he says, hiding back a laugh as he gets closer, “And calling me pretty, and– And I was thinking, god, I like you so fucking much.”
You grin at him, “Really?”
Logan refuses to answer you, his lips finding the corner of your mouth, chasing your kiss over and over and over again til you’re dizzy again, drunk on something much stronger this time.
notes: thank you for reading! requests are open! likes/reblogs/thoughts are appreciated! <3
summary logan and hannah accidentally walk in on dean making out with his tutor.
contains suggestive content, making out, dean really likes reader's boobs, they get caught (shocker...), down bad dean, mutual pining wc 4k
a/n ive been too busy to sit down and write but this was so fun and silly to write!! likes and reblogs are appreciated :)!!
"I'm just tutoring him."
"That's what Hannah said," Allie states, tone laced with sarcasm. "Now look where she is."
You fight the urge to roll your eyes at the assumption, more so annoyed by the fact that she may be right, even if you don't want to admit it.
You've been tutoring Dean for the past two months, and what starts off as a horrible agreement that you regretted with your entire being turned into an anticipated two hours study that you now look forward to.
Ironic.
At first, you did it for the extra cash. It's easy money, you couldn't refuse the tempting offer when you were already struggling to get by with a part time job. Not only did it pay better, but it consumed less of your time.
It's a good deal, you couldn't pass it down when Dean was practically begging on his knees for you to accept it. He once sent over his hockey teammates just to cozy you up into accepting his offer, causing a whole humiliation ritual in the cafeteria while he watched from the side with puppy eyes and a pout formed across his lips.
It was a ridiculous sight, made you fume for days before finally calming down and eventually agreeing to help him. You regretted it in an instant, watching as a cocky, taunting smile smears all over his face, screaming at you to get away and avoid trouble.
But you didn't. Instead, you showed up, even if you dreaded it, and considered it the worst part of your day. In your defense, Dean is very annoying, and wouldn't take you seriously unless you flashed him a life-threatening glare that would end him in the spot.
He'd pretend not to understand things just to rile you up and make you scold him, almost as if he enjoyed it, amused by the way your face twists into a sour expression. Then comes apologizing, where his voice lowers into a whisper, and you'd fight the urge not to fold over the hushed apologies he mutters to you while tracing soothing patterns to your hand.
You don't know when, or how it starts, but the dreaded sessions suddenly turn into something you look forward to. Two hours oscillate into three then eventually four, until you both lose track of time, and forget the entire reason to you being there.
You hate it, how easy going he is, and how his dimples form when he flashes you a smile, or chuckles at a stupid joke you make just to earn a reaction out of him. Or how your stomach flutters with butterflies when he sits too close, or teases you with that taunting tone that makes you melt.
You hate how easy it is for him to be near you, when you're short of breath half of the time he's around. It's absurd how the compliments he gives you roll off the tongue, like it's natural for him, like he doesn't flirt with half of the girls on campus.
He probably thinks it's some joke, something that started and now you can't seem to get away from it. You know you shouldn't, this is Dean Di Laurentis, everyone knows he's trouble, and you shouldn't have let him cross your boundaries, or get to you with a few flirtatious comments, but somehow he did, and now you're in too deep to end things.
So the least you can do right now is deny it. Deny anything even happened, even though your friends can see right through your lies.
"Like I said," you start, "Nothing's going on between us, I'm simply tutoring him."
"Oh, for fuck' sake." Allie shoots back, "The whole campus thinks you're dating. You know how serious that is for Dean Di Laurentis?"
"It's just rumors, nothing more. People thinking we're together doesn't mean that we are." You mumble, rolling your eyes with offense. "You wouldn't catch me with Dean Di Laurentis even if my life depends on it."
"I call bullshit." Hannah chants from the side, shifting the attention to her.
"Hannah!" You shout, as Allie perks from her seat in agreement. "You're supposed to take my side, why are you feeding into her delusion?!"
"It's not delusion if everyone sees it," Hannah shrugs her shoulders, approaching your bed. "C'mon, I'm dating his best friend, that man never stops talking about you."
"You're lying," Allie gasps, scooting close to Hannah as she throws herself next to her. Her gaze shifts back to you, eyebrows pinching with frustration. "She never tells me stuff!"
"That's because nothing happens." You reason, exhaling with fake annoyance. "We're barely even friends, I doubt he thinks of me like that."
"Calling bullshit again," Hannah's head tilts towards you, not believing a word you muttered. "Have you seen the way that man speaks about you?"
"Stop it!" Allie slaps Hannah's side, excitment visible on her face. "Tell me about it! he mentioned her often?"
"She's all he talks about," Hannah turns back to Allie, ignoring your presence and pretending you're not even there. "Once he stayed by my side for an entire party just to ask about her interests."
"He did that?" You mutter, feigning oblivion to the teasing smile Hannah flashes you. "Okay, why are you talking as if I'm not even here?"
"Oh, come on you have to admit, he likes you." Allie chimes in, "I've never not seen Dean Di Laurentis not have sex at a party. What do you mean he gave that up just to talk about you?"
"Okay," you mumble, slightly convinced. You settle for shaking off that feeling, "That doesn't mean anything, he can, not have sex if he wants, how does that involve me?"
"I need to knock some sense into her," Allie huffs, falling back into the bed. "Do something, Hannah."
"I tried," Hannah pouts, joining Allie's side with disappointment. "She's such an idiot."
"Hey!" Your brows pinch with annoyance, as you sling your backpack over your shoulder. "Anyways, I'm leaving. Do you guys need anything?"
"Where are you going?" Hannah questions, sitting up along with Allie.
"I have a tutoring session with Dean." You reply.
"Oh my God." Allie says under her breath.
"Wait, I'm coming with." Hannah gets up, heading towards her room to grab her stuff.
"Are you going in that?" Allie questions, gaze flickering to the baggy shirt covering all your curves.
"What's wrong with it?" You ask, glancing down as you grab into the hems of it.
"Dress up a little, will you?" Allie groans, grabbing into you as she walks towards her closet.
"You're acting as if I'm going to a party." You mumble, face scrunching with confusion when she throws a pink, spaghetti strapped top over to you.
"Wear this." She orders, observing you with anticipation.
You don't argue, because doing so will only lead to more arguing, and Allie won't give up unless you admit defeat. Instead, you sigh, taking off your shirt and throw the soft material over your head.
It... complements you. Definitely not appropriate for a tutoring session, but you know exactly what Allie intents when she handed it over to you. It scrunches around your chest, showing a bit of cleavage, and it displays all your curves, curling at your waist, and showing the sliver of skin around your stomach.
Then, before you can argue, she throws a denim skirt in your direction, lips pressing into a a thin line as she waits for you to take off your pants.
You do. It's not like you really have a choice.
Your pants slide off your legs easily, soon replaced by the skirt she handed you, which complements the top well. It rests comfortably around your hips, the length of it reaching just below your inner thighs, covering enough for you to not pick a fight.
"I still don't think this is appropriate for a tutoring session." You start, admiring yourself in the mirror.
"Oh, shut it." She huffs, grabbing a necklace and a few bracelets for you to wear. "Here, put these on, I'll find you a pair of sneakers that match with your outfit."
"That's not needed!" You shout, but she ignores it as she digs deep into her closet, only coming back up when she pulls out a white pair of shoes, decorated with a bit of pink.
"Here." She offers them to you, waiting for you to put them on.
"What's taking you so–" Hannah's sentence cuts short as she stills in her spot, taking a moment to admire your outfit. "Oh."
"It's too much, isn't it?" You complain, ready to slide off your top.
But before you can proceed with your action, Hannah perks up again. "No wait!" she says, approaching you. "You look amazing."
"Hannah." Your lips form into a pout, shoulders relaxing with defeat.
"I'm not sure Dean can handle all that." Allie murmurs, checking you out with an amused expression spread all over her face. "You look so sexy, holy shit."
"You did your big one, Al." Hannah shoots back, fist bumping Allie with her attention still glued to you.
"So dramatic," you roll your eyes, failing to hide the smile smothered across your lips. "Should we leave?"
"Oh, yeah." Hannah nods, "We definitely should."
"Is it too late to go back home?" You anxiously look back at Hannah, who's a moment away from knocking on the door.
"Probably," Hannah shrugs her shoulders, glimpsing between you and the door. "Dean's expecting you any second now, Garrett said he's camping by the door for you."
"But–" You start, cutting your sentence short when Hannah sends you a death glare.
With no hesitation, Hannah knocks on the door, barely giving you time to process the gesture before the door's wide open.
Your eyes widen with shock at how quickly the door unlatches, gaze instantly shifting to Dean, whos eyes land on Hannah with a tight-lipped smile that displays his dimples.
"Wellsy!" He leans against the door, feighning surprise, as if he hasn't been waiting for your arrival for the past hour. His attention lands on you, breath cutting short when his eyes lock with yours. He mutters your name, deliberate, quiet, if you weren't paying such close attention, you would've missed it. "Hi."
"Hey."
Tension seeps into the air, and you're sure it's obvious in the way your body tenses, stilling in your spot as Dean's eyes travel from your head, all the way down your legs, then back up again. You fight the urge to come up with an excuse as to why you're dressed up today, but settled on silence when Dean huffs out a ragged breath, one he didn't know he was holding.
"I was waiting for you." He doesn't think when he speaks, mouth moving faster than his brain could process. He clears his throat, cheeks flushing a deep shade of red as he realizes what he said, quickly correcting himself. "Since you're tutoring me. I wasn't sure if you wanted it to take place here, or maybe in the library, since–"
"You don't have to explain yourself," You nervously scratch the back of your neck, an awkward chuckle tumbling past your lips. "I'll make up for it, since I'm a bit late today, sorry."
"Oh, it's totally fine." He emphasizes the 'totally', nodding his head with comprehension. "Should we..." he trails off, stepping to the side. "Come on in."
"About time," Hannah rolls her eyes, walking past Dean into the house. He almost chuckles, face growing serious when you follow behind your friend, nervously fidgeting with yours fingers.
Logan perks up from the couch at the sight of you, tilting his head back as a sigh of relief escapes his throat. "Ugh, finally."
"Hi," you wave, chuckling even though you're confused. Dean closes the door, following behind you as you step up the stairs.
"I'm glad you're here." Logan states before you can disappear, continuing when your eyebrows pinch with confusion. "I've never seen someone this excited to study, he's mentioned you like a million times in the past hour alone."
"John Logan." Dean's tone laces with embarrassment, the threat barely heard through his gritted teeth.
"Oh, be nice to him," you joke, glancing towards Dean from over your shoulder, who's far too busy observing the way your hips sway back and forth to pay your gaze the attention.
The walk up the stairs feels like an eternity, but you eventually get to Dean's room, door instantly clicking shut once you're both inside.
Dean leans against the door, taking a moment to admire as you throw yourself on the bed, making yourself comfortable as you grab out your school stuff. Your head shoots up with confusion once you take notice, lips jutting into a slight pout as you utter your next words.
"Are you not sitting down?"
You ignore the tension cutting through when he flashes you a lazy smile, taunting, yet teasing, tugging at the strings of your heart and making your stomach flutter with butterflies. Your gaze flickers back to your supplies, taking a deep breath to get a hold of yourself.
Why's it so difficult to control yourself?
Dean doesn't say a word, simply walking over to you before he positions himself next to you. He sits close, too close you can smell his musky cologne that impales all your senses, and feel his breath as it lightly fans over your exposed arms.
You cut to the chase, starting your tutoring session like you normally do. Everything's going smoothly, and you're nearing the end of it, but something else is weighing down your chest.
You can clearly feel Dean's gaze on you, burning holes through your skin and flustering you into a mess. Your words stammer past your lips, and a deep breath drags out before you're fed up, finally looking up from the textbook. Your eyes shift to Dean, who's propped against his elbows, too comfortable to move, or take his eyes off of you.
"Someone's paying close attention." You tilt your head, tone filling with sarcasm. Dean laughs at the abrupt change of atmosphere, head leaning back for a moment before his eyes are on you again.
"For sure." He goes along with the 'joke', entertained by the sassiness laced in your voice.
"What did I just say?" You question, your words more of a challenge.
"Don't put me in the spot." He cooes, and if not for how annoyed you are, you would've folded in the spot.
"You're not paying attention!" You state, causing the boy to scrunch his nose with defeat.
"Alright, I'm sorry." He admits, barely earning a smile out of you. "I'll try to pay attention."
"And what's got your attention, Di Laurentis?"
"Something." He says, as he fidgets with the sheets covering the bed.
"And what would that something be?"
His gaze flickers to your cleavage, and it's swift, you would've missed it if you aren't paying such close attention. It's not on purpose. his face turns pale as soon as it happens, and he fight the urge to come up with an excuse as to why he looked, and why he did it right as you asked.
But you know. Deep down you know what's distracting him, and keeping him from paying attention.
"Oh." You mumble. It's barely coherent, but Dean still hears it, cursing under his breath in reaction.
"I'm..." His eyes force shut, head dipping with shame. "I'm trying really hard not to look."
"Wow," you chuckle, entertained by how guilty he seems. "Aren't you the gentleman?"
At that, Dean laughs, tension off his shoulder as his eyes travel back to you. "Trying to be," he reasons, voice lowering into a whisper. "But it's really hard when you look this pretty."
Your breath gets caught in your throat, and it's difficult to control the corners of your lips, tugging into a smile, barely visible, but it's there, enough for Dean to take it as a sign.
He inches close to you, leaning his head down as he traces small circles to your hand, ticklish, and making goosebumps breakout across your arms. You take his action as a challenge, leaning forward so there's barely any distance separating you.
He whispers your name, exhaling through his nose. Like your mere presence is tempting him, pulling at his strings. His gaze flickers down to your lips, keeping contact for a brief second before his eyes lock with yours again.
"You should probably tell me to stop." He states, forehead brushing against yours. His fingers trail up your arms, deliberate, yet casual, halting around the spaghetti strings of your top. He toys with the material, breath shuddering when his knuckles make contact with your bare skin.
"Probably," you repeat, fingers finding the curve of Dean's jaw. Your tone drops to match his, breath shaking as you mutter your next words. "But what if I don't want you to?"
That's the only sign Dean needs.
Dean ceases the distance separating you, capturing your lips in a chaste kiss, needy, and so desperate, it knocks a breath out of you. Your hands move to the back of his neck, grasping onto his hair as he kisses you numb, tugging and nibbling at your lips.
He bites down hard enough, the pressure of the action making you whimper, giving him the opportunity to slide his tongue into your mouth. His tongue meets yours halfway, the warmness of his mouth engulfing the inside of yours in an instant.
Dean's hands trail wherever he can get them, traveling from your waist to your stomach, to your back, and back on your hips when you moan into the kiss. His fingernails dig into the skin, applying enough pressure for it to leave a mark, and the mere thought of that turns you on.
Your body leans into the touch, back arching as he rolls your hips against his knee. The fraction makes you feel funny, tingly all over, he doesn't give you a chance to process it before he does it again, entertained by the mess he creates out of you.
You mewl into the kiss, crying out in pleasure when he disconnects the kiss, not giving you a chance to complain before his lips are back on your skin again. Only this time, he kisses down your throat, licking and nipping at the curve of your jaw, then slowly kissing his way down your neck, where his teeth graze the delicate skin with so much want, you can feel the desperation in his action.
Dean groans against your skin, pressing slick, open-mouthed kisses to your collarbones, while one of his hands messages the exposed flesh of your cleavage. He kisses his way down, taking a mouthful of your chest the moment he has the chance to.
The kisses he litters to your chest are soft, the sensation like feathers on your skin. He presses another kiss, grazing his teeth over the flesh, licking the same spot to soothe any pain away.
"Dean," You whimper, head falling back as you press his face into your chest, chasing after the pleasure he's making you feel. "Please."
"Please what?" He mumbles, kissing your chest once more before he straightens again, sitting up as one of his knees separate your legs, giving him enough space to stand in between.
His hand caresses soft circles to your cheek, now hovering over you, with his legs dipping into the mattress. Then, with a thumb to your chin, he forces your mouth open, pressing a kiss to your lips, licking a stripe of your mouth before he repeats it again.
"God, you know how much I wanted this?" He says in between kisses, gaze growing hazy. "Wanted," another kiss, "you."
You don't say anything, simply letting him tilt your head as he presses open-mouthed kisses to your lips, licking into your mouth and savoring every bit you're offering him. He kisses you like a starved man, like he's never done this before, like he's been dying to feel your lips on his.
"So fucking pretty for me." He says, slowly kissing down your jaw, this time lingering when he sucks on the skin, to mark you for everyone else to see. "You dress up for me, darling? Dolled up all for me."
You whine out in embarrassment, but that doesn't stop the pleasure surging through your body, traveling to in between your legs when Dean's hands reach under your top, massaging the plush skin and pressing you closer than you already are.
He kisses you again, this time deepening it to savor the taste on his tongue. He tilts his head to the side, taking your upper lip between his, fingers occupied with the clip of your bra.
And just as he's about to unclip it the door clicks open.
"Tucker told me to bring over some–" in front of the door stands Logan, with a bunch of snacks scattered on a tray. He almost drops the stuff in his hold, mouth gaping to speak, but falling into utter silence instead.
Your attention shifts to Logan in an instant, and you have to process the situation for a second before realization takes over.
Fuck.
You don't think as you push Dean off of you, causing the boy to lose his balance and fall off the bed. You try to grab onto his shirt, but it happens too fast, he lands on the ground with a thud.
A gasp escapes your throat, attention shifting from Logan to the now stretched out shirt in your grasp, with Dean, a mess on the ground.
Dean's eyes follow yours, flashing his friend a guilty look that tells Logan all he needs to know.
As for Logan, he's awkwardly standing by the door, gaze flickering from Dean to you. His head tilts, and he's contemplating whether right now is a good time to speak, maybe confront you both?
And just as you thought things couldn't get any worse, they do.
Hannah's giggles bounce off the walls as she approaches Dean's room with a plate Logan seemingly forgot.
"You forgot the–" Hannah starts, words dying in her throat when she's met with the awkward position you and Dean are in. "Cashews."
"Fuck." You mumble under your breath, falling into the bed with defeat.
"Are we..." Logan trails off, pointing between you two. "Are we interrupting something?"
"Huh?" Dean starts, too hazed by what just happened to answer. "I–"
"No," you beat him to replying, violently shaking your head. "We were just studying."
"Mhm, just studying." Dean agrees, reaching for the hand you offered him earlier, for the mere purpose of balancing. It doesn't help your situation, causing you to instantly pull back your arm when both Hannah and Logan glance down. "I'll just, stay on the floor."
"Yeah, right." Hannah says, not convinced whatsoever.
"We should probably leave," Logan turns to Hannah, nudging her side as he continue. "We'll leave you to it."
"You are explaining yourself as soon as we're home." Hannah whisper-yells to you, as if the two boys aren't still listening.
"Explain what?" You whisper back.
"This." Hannah points to you, eyes traveling down to your chest, and Dean on the floor, a total mess, he can't even pick himself back up.
You fix your shirt, covering Dean's face with your palm. "Don't look at him."
Hannah's lips tug into a smile, amused by how much you're trying to prove a point.
"He's all yours." Hannah's eyebrows raise with intrigue, giving Logan the signal to leave.
"It's not what it looks like!" You shout, but they don't give you a chance to justify yourself, shutting the door before you can continue.
And through the walls, you can hear Hannah yelling "Guess what we just fucking saw?"
Right, so now everyone will know that happened, no matter how hard you try to deny it.
Isn't this great?
"They left without giving us the snacks." Dean's lips jut into a pout, growing serious when you flash him a death glare.
"Dean Di Laurentis."
"That would be me." He scratches his chin, avoiding your gaze.
₊ ֹ ˖ THE TIME WHEN LOGAN FINDS DEAN IN BED WITH HIS SISTER ᱺㅤㅤ ୨౿
there were certain traumatic events john logan wanted to erase from his brain. scratch that from the existence, and all of that somehow always involved dean. his alleged best friend.
first was when he caught dean taking a bubble bath with a hot pink dildo.
second was when he found his nasty condoms clogging the shower drain.
third—third was when he barged into his room for something and found him naked and all cuddly with his own fucking sister.
he doesn’t have the time to do anything but let out a scream of disgust and slap a hand over his eyes, protecting his innocence.
meanwhile dean doesn’t have the time to react to anything else except let out a high‑pitched scream while you—you, the said sister—roll yourself in your boyfriend’s sheet and out of panic fall right onto the floor, wrapped in his sheets like a marshmallow.
boyfriend you haven’t told a soul about after dating for months, after so many nights of you sneaking into his room from the back door and him sneaking into your dorm every single time your roommate is out.
“are you guys fucking decent yet!?” just from the way your brother yells, unnecessarily loud, you know he’s mad mad.
why wouldn’t he be? his own sister has gone behind his back, dating his manwhore, womanizer best friend.
“yes!” you yell back, just like he did, while dean quickly shoves his junk into his boxers and stands up.
“are you fucking serious, man?” the moment logan opens his eyes, he’s glaring at dean, ready to use his fists on him. “out of all the girls in the world, you go for my sister?”
dean throws his hands up. “i didn’t go for your sister, man, i fell for her. there’s a difference! it just happened!”
“oh, congratulations,” logan snaps. “that makes it soooo much better.”
“i’m not a kid, stop treating me like one, i made my own choice!” you yell, joining their yelling match, and that just earns you a glare from your brother.
“not a word from you.”
“how long has this been going on?” he turns to dean sternly.
“couple months. . ?” dean answers boredly, now more distracted by your current state than the impending murder.
god, you look so hot wrapped up in his shit while you shoot daggers at your brother.
“months?” logan’s eyes go wide. “you’ve been lying to my face for months, you lying slut?!”
“i weren’t lying!” dean snaps. “i was . . selectively honest.”
“that’s literally the definition of lying!” logan practically roars. “you’ve been sneaking my sister into your shithole of a room like some—some raccoon with a sex addiction for months?!”
a mess. it’s all just a mess.
finally after a shit ton of screaming at each other when they’ve both calmed down and you and dean have both made it clear that you’re serious, logan sighs. “let’s get this over with.”
confusion swings across your face as you stare at both of them, worried. “what are you guys talking about?”
dean gets to his feet. so does logan.
“sorry. it needs to be done,” your brother mutters.
“needs to be done,” dean echoes guiltily.
when dean cracks the knuckles of his right hand, understanding dawns in your eyes. “you’re going to hit him?” you exclaim, jumping to your feet. “what the hell! no way!”
“di laurentis knows the code. he didn’t follow it. therefore. . ”
logan’s right. there is a code. other teams might have rules about not dating a teammate’s sister or ex or whoever else is off‑limits, but briars hockey team never strictly adhered to anything like that. their rule was much simpler—ask before you go there.
the code isn’t some random bullshit. it’s about respecting your teammate.
dean cracks the knuckles of his left hand.
“you’re insane. don’t you dare touch him, john!” you clutch the sheets and try to throw yourself toward dean, but he gently moves you to the side.
“just let it happen,” he says. “it’s really not a big de—”
logan doesn’t throw a punch.
he knees dean in the balls.
dean folds like a lawn chair, collapsing onto the bed, croaking as he grabs his junk.
“logan, you piece of shit, not the niece and nephew maker!”
logan just shrugs, his anger totally replaced by satisfaction of the hit, totally unapologetic. “relax, if they’re di laurentis stock, they’ll respawn.”
dean wheezes from the bed. “pretty sure they just rage‑quit, man.”
badly need a tucker x reader fic where she falls first and he falls harder
love on the brain.
summary: you’ve months convincing yourself that john tucker only sees you as a friend. you couldn’t be more wrong. (6.9k)
pairing: john tucker x reader.
content: smut 18+ (MDNI), pining, alcohol, angst, hurt/comfort, idiots in love, tucker being down bad, language, friends to lovers, language, karaoke scenes (it’s a little bit corny but we move).
author’s note: i had to post this request in honour of hitting 600 followers (wtaf is going on) thank you so so much my sweet angels, im indebted to you all ☹️🫀
you were currently pressed flat against the kitchen counter, gripping a plastic cup filled with a concerning ratio of vodka to blackcurrant squash.
you were trying your hardest to look microscopic but for the last ten minutes, a guy you vaguely knew from the theatre club had you pinned in place.
his arm was thrown against the cupboard right next to your head, his alcohol-sour breath fanning over your face.
you were nodding, forcing your most polite, people-pleasing smile, uttering empty "oh, totallys" because you didn't know how to tell him to back off without causing a scene.
the kitchen had exactly everything that the college parties that you had went to occasionally had.
desperate guys, cheap beer, and the overwhelming heat of too many bodies packed into a single room.
you shouldn't even have been here. you weren't a big party person, but john tucker had personally texted you earlier that afternoon, asking if you wanted to come.
and you really couldn't say no to tucker.
you never could, not since the very first semester of freshman year.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
you had been stranded in the commuter parking lot during a freezing september downpour, staring hopelessly at a completely dead engine and crying, when tucker had pulled up in his massive truck.
he hadn't just lent you jumper cables which would've been more than enough.
he had stood out in the freezing rain, hooking up the batteries, talking you through exactly what was wrong and then waited until you safely cleared the campus gates.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
now, a year later into your sophomore year, you two were inseparable.
you weren't just classmates anymore. you had become really good friends. he was one of your anchors on campus, a person you trusted.
and for over a year—for as long as you had known him, really—you had been desperately, quietly drowning in love with him.
your best friend, nadia, had been pushing you for months to just give in and finally make a move, insisting that the chemistry was entirely there.
but you would honestly rather walk face-first into oncoming traffic than risk your friendship by putting yourself out there like that.
so, you had chosen to keep it buried, agonizingly silent.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
you had been able to pinpoint the exact moment you truly fell for him, too.
it was during a chaotic karaoke night at malones.
tucker had practically dragged you up onto the sticky stage to sing mr. brightside with him.
he had wrapped a heavy, protective arm around your shoulder, holding the microphone directly in front of both of you as you both screamed the lyrics.
you had sung quite badly on your end, but he hadn't cared at all.
you even let out a breathless, private kind of laugh as you yelled the words, because the lyrics about jealousy and watching someone else with the person you wanted were so brutally, painfully ironic.
at the time, tucker was kind of seeing another girl, and it had lowkey broke your heart every single time you thought about it.
still, the entire bar had cheered for you, and when the song finished, amidst the flashing lights and laughing crowd, he had leaned down and kissed your forehead.
it was a completely casual, affectionate gesture to him, but it had sent a seismic shock through your chest, and you had had to fight with every ounce of your willpower just to stay composed.
your heart wasn't hammering against your ribs.
not at all.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
the air in the crowded kitchen shifted.
a shadow fell over you, and the oppressive weight of the room seemed to lift.
"hey," a low, steady voice rumbled.
you looked up to see tucker was standing there. he was wearing a black t-shirt that stretched across his shoulders, his curly dark hair slightly mussed from the humidity.
he didn't look angry, just looked immovable.
tucker's eyes flicked briefly to the guy's hand near your head, then down to your face. he read the tight, exhausted strain in your smile instantly.
"sorry to interrupt," tucker said to the guy, his voice entirely polite but carrying an undercurrent that brooked zero argument.
he looked back at you, his brown eyes softening. "but you dropped your sweater on the stairs earlier. want to go grab it before someone spills something on it?"
"oh. uh yes. thank you," you breathed, the relief so sharp it made your knees weak.
the guy blinked and slowly backed away, raising his cup in a silent surrender.
tucker didn't look at him again. instead, he placed a warm, heavy palm against the small of your back.
the heat of his hand burned straight through the thin fabric of your top, guiding you through the crushing crowd and up the stairs toward the quieter, dimly lit second floor.
"you okay?" he asked as soon as the noise of the downstairs dropped by half. he stopped in the hallway, turning to face you fully.
he kept a respectful distance, but his eyes were entirely locked onto yours. "you looked like you were about to faint down there."
"i was just... trying to be nice," you murmured, staring at the collar of his shirt because looking into his eyes felt too dangerous. "i didn't want to make it weird. since you invited me, i didn't want to seem ungrateful."
tucker let out a soft, huffed breath, a mixture of amusement and genuine concern. "you don't have to be nice to people who don't respect your space. you are allowed to say no." he stepped a fraction closer, his head tilting down to catch your gaze. "if you want to leave, i can drive you. my truck is right outside."
you looked up at him then. tucker was the resident 'good guy' of the hockey team. he was the one who did the grocery shopping, the one who cooked the meals, the one who always seemed to have his life entirely together.
he was your friend, the boy who sat next to you in class with perfect posture, taking meticulous notes, always completely steady.
"i don't want to go home yet," you whispered, the alcohol in your system giving you a sudden, terrifying burst of reckless courage. "but i really don't want to go back downstairs either."
tucker's chest rose and fell in a slow, deep breath.
his eyes darkened, the easygoing, polite classmate fading away to reveal something much heavier, much hungrier. "okay," he said, his voice dropping an octave, becoming a rough murmur. "well you know my room is at the end of the hall."
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
you knew exactly which room it was.
you had been in tucker's room to study on multiple occasions before, whenever the house was chaotic and the living room was completely unusable.
you had sat cross-legged on his floor with your notebooks spread out whenever dean decided he was going to aggressively make out with some girl on the couch.
when garrett and logan would yell at each other while playing video games at maximum volume you had sat in his swivel chair.
back then, tucker's room had been a platonic sanctuary.
but the moment the bedroom door clicked shut behind you tonight, the polite boundaries dissolved.
tucker didn't pounce. he moved with a deliberate, agonising slowness that made your blood sing.
he walked up to you, his hands rising to gently cup the sides of your face. his thumbs traced your cheekbones, his callouses catching slightly against your skin.
he waited, his eyes searching yours in the dim light of his bedside lamp. "are you sure? tell me to stop if you want me to stop."
"don't stop," you choked out, reaching up to grip his wrists.
when his mouth finally met yours, it was like a dam breaking. tucker was patient, but there was an underlying desperation in the way he pulled you against him.
his hands moved down your bare back where the halter top exposed your skin, his fingers locking around your waist and lifting you slightly so you were flush against chest.
he tasted like mint and the dark beer he had been sipping, his tongue sliding against yours with a deep, consuming rhythm that made your head spin.
he guided you backward until the backs of your knees hit the edge of his mattress, and then you were falling, tucker coming down with you.
every single movement was an exercise in communication. even when his hands were trembling with the effort to hold himself back, he kept checking in.
"too much?" he whispered, his lips brushing the sensitive skin right beneath your ear, making an involuntary shiver rip through your body.
"no. it's perfect. please, tuck."
he groaned, a low, guttural sound that vibrated against your collarbone. his hands moved to the hem of his t-shirt, pulling it over his head, a few stray dark curls falling into his eyes before his fingers reached for the ties of your top.
he paused for a fraction of a second, waiting until you arched into his touch and gave him the unspoken permission he required.
with a gentle tug, he undone the straps, pulling the fabric away. his eyes roamed over your skin with a reverence that felt almost sacred.
he looked at you like he worshipped you.
his mouth followed the path of his hands, leaving a trail of burning, wet kisses down your throat, across the curve of your shoulder, down to the soft skin of your stomach.
when he finally rid himself of the rest of his clothes, the sheer scale of him took your breath away—all hard muscle and tan skin.
but when he slid between your thighs, he was incredibly gentle. he braced his weight on his forearms, framing your head, his fingers tangling in your hair, winding through it.
"hey, look at me," he asked you softly.
you opened your eyes, blinking through the haze of pleasure. tucker was staring down at you, his jaw clenched, a bead of sweat tracing the line of his temple. his eyes were burning, completely stripped of his usual easygoing charm.
"it's just you and me," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "just us."
you gasped, your fingers digging into his shoulders as a wave of intense, blinding heat flooded your system.
tucker froze, letting you adjust, his chest heaving against yours. he kissed away the tear that leaked from the corner of your eye, murmuring a stream of praise against your skin. "you're so beautiful. come here, sweetheart, i've got you."
you silently choked at the compliment, it almost felt real. but you knew what this was.
when he started to move, the pace was agonizingly perfect. it wasn't the frantic, uncoordinated fumbling you had experienced with other guys. tucker knew his body, and he wanted to know yours.
he set a slow, deep, devastating rhythm, his hips rolling into yours with a physical certainty that had you sobbing his name into the quiet of his room within minutes.
every time you tried to pull away from the sheer intensity of it, his grip on your waist tightened.
he anchored you to him, pulling you deeper into the sensation until the entire world narrowed down to the sound of his ragged breathing and the friction of skin against skin.
you felt the overwhelming, terrifying realization that you were completely, utterly undone by him.
when he finally came, his head buried in the crook of your neck and he gripped you so tight you could barely breathe.
and you held him just as hard, believing, with every fiber of your being, that everything had changed.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
what you could only describe as a cacophony of metal and chaos was coming from the kitchen downstairs.
the alcohol had completely worn off, leaving behind a pounding headache and a sudden, suffocating wave of reality.
the room was cold, but the heater in the corner clicking loudly. next to you, tucker was still asleep, lying on his stomach, the sheets pooled around his lower back, exposing the muscular expanse of his spine.
you sat up slowly, pulling the duvet tightly against your chest, and looked around.
tucker’s hockey gear was stacked neatly in the corner. his textbooks were lined up on his desk. everything about john tucker's life was orderly, structured, and deliberate.
and then there was you.
a heavy, sickening dread began to pool in your stomach. your brain, always hyper-tuned to the threat of rejection, immediately went into overdrive.
what did you do? the unwelcome voice whispered.
he's your friend. you've studied in this exact room so many times as just a friend, completely terrified of ruining what you had, and now you've gone and done exactly that because you basically threw yourself at him.
you remembered how he had said, "we don't have to make a big deal out of this," to a girl at a party a few weeks ago who had been clinging to his arm. you remembered how he valued his peace.
he's going to wake up, look at you, and realize he made a massive mistake and completely ruined our friendship, you thought, the humiliation already burning in your throat.
you wanted to disappear. to protect your own fragile pride, your defenses immediately slammed down.
you pulled your knees to your chest, your expression suddenly turning tight, closed-off, and rigid.
tucker stirred, a low groan escaping his throat as his eyes slowly blinked open.
he turned over, his face soft with sleep, a faint, instinctive smile forming on his lips as he looked at you.
"hey," he rasped, his voice incredibly deep from sleep. he reached out, his hand moving to rest on your thigh over the blanket. "how you feeling?"
you didn't move into his touch. you stayed perfectly still, your voice coming out clipped and distant. "i'm fine. i should probably get going before nadia thinks that i died."
tucker's smile faltered. his hand remained on your thigh, but his fingers went still.
his brown eyes, usually so warm, sharpened as he scanned your face. he saw the tension in your jaw, the way you were holding the blanket like a shield, the complete lack of warmth in your eyes.
he misread it instantly.
to tucker, a guy who prided himself on reading people and making them feel safe, your rigid posture looked like pure, unadulterated regret.
he thought you woke up, looked at him, and wished with everything you had that you hadn't slept with your friend.
a sharp pang of guilt sliced through his chest, followed closely by a dull, hollow ache. his jaw clenched, and he slowly pulled his hand back, tucking it under the pillow.
"right," tucker said. the softness vanished from his voice, replaced by that careful, polite, emotionally controlled tone he used when he was trying to manage a difficult situation.
he didn't want to pressure you. he didn't want to make you feel worse than you clearly already did. "yeah, of course. don't stress about it."
he sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, keeping his back to you as he grabbed his sweatpants from the floor.
"we don't have to make a big deal out of this," tucker murmured, his voice entirely deadpan as he pulled the fabric up.
he turned his head slightly, offering you a small, forced smile that didn't reach his eyes. "it was a crazy night. we're good. i can drive you home, or i can just head down to the kitchen and give you some space to get dressed. whatever you want."
to your ears, it was the ultimate rejection.
we don't have to make a big deal out of this, translated to: it was a mistake. let's forget it happened so our friendship isn't ruined.
"the kitchen is fine," you said, your voice entirely hollow. "and i can walk home. it's close."
tucker swallowed hard, the muscle in his jaw jumping. "okay. uh i'll see you later in class then."
he walked out, closing the door quietly behind him. and you sat in his bed, wrapped in his scent, feeling smaller than you ever had in your life.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
the library basement was freezing.
up on the main floors, people actually studied, but down here in the archives, the air tasted like dust and old paper.
it was the perfect place to hide.
"if we use the third-quarter data for the mock marketing pitch, professor hayes is going to lose his mind," tucker's voice broke through the silence, rich and steady, dragging you back to the present.
you blinked before focusing on the heavy textbook open between you. this was your usual routine. monday and thursday afternoons, tucked away in the back corner, acting like you hadn't map-read every inch of each other's bodies three months ago.
you had become masters at it. you had learned how to position your notebooks so your elbows never brushed. you had learned how to look at his forehead instead of his lips when he spoke.
for three months, you had forced yourself into a grueling routine of emotional detachment. you had systematically taken every memory of that night and buried them under layers of cold logic.
you had forced yourself to fall out of love with him, day by agonising day, because surviving his presence required it.
and the hardest part?
tucker was a good communicator. everyone knew that about him. he was the stable one, the guy who spoke his mind, the guy who handled problems head-on.
so when he had gone completely silent about that night, you hadn't viewed it as hesitation. you had viewed it as an answer.
you assumed his silence meant he didn't want you.
you assumed that to him, it had just been a momentary lapse in judgment, an itch scratched with a convenient friend.
you had no idea how beautifully, tragically wrong you were.
you didn't see the war he was fighting every single day.
tucker wasn't silent because he didn't care.
he was silent because he was terrified.
in his mind, he had already crossed the ultimate line by having sex with you and he was absolutely paralyzed by the fear of losing the only thing he had left.
your friendship.
he was suffocating in his own caution, desperately trying to protect your comfort while his own heart tore itself to pieces in the process.
"right. third-quarter data," you muttered, your fingers hovering uselessly over your keyboard before you typed a string of nonsense sentences just to look busy.
beside you, tucker shifted. even without looking, you were acutely aware of him—the heat radiating off him in the drafty basement, the scent of his laundry detergent mixed with the crisp air he had brought in with him.
your phone buzzed on the wood. the screen lit up, cutting through the dimness of the booth.
isaiah: can't do dinner tonight, forgot i have a group project meeting. come over after? like 11?
you had started hooking up with isaiah a month ago after meeting him at a seminar.
you didn't even like him that much. he was careless, he left you on read for hours, and he never supported your goals.
just last week, when you told him about the competitive summer internship you were applying for, he had barely looked at you, and said, "why do that to yourself? it's a lot of work for a low payoff."
but isaiah was safe. he didn't know the exact cadence of your laugh. he didn't make your chest ache with a heavy, hollow longing every time he walked into a room.
most importantly, isaiah didn't make you feel like you were a mistake.
he was the buffer you needed to prove to yourself that you were over john tucker.
you reached out, your thumb hovering over the screen to type a quick no worries, see you then, but you never got the chance.
a hand suddenly moved across the desk and clamped down around the edges of your phone, and with a swift, deliberate motion, tucker flipped it face-down against the wood.
the sharp clack of the plastic hitting the table echoed in the quiet corner.
but he didn't pull his hand away.
his fingertips brushed against your knuckles, just a fraction of a second too long, a heavy, desperate warmth that sent a jolt straight up your arm.
you looked up, startled, your breath catching in your throat.
tucker was staring at you. the easy, relaxed posture he usually maintained was entirely gone. his jaw was clenched so tight a small muscle was leaping under his tan skin.
he had seen the text. because he sat right next to you, because he was always hyper-aware of your movements, he always saw.
"don't," tucker said.
"tucker, it's fine," you said, your voice shaking slightly as you reached out to pull your phone back.
you tried for a casual, dismissive shrug, but it felt brittle. "it’s just casual—"
"it's not fine," he interrupted.
he leaned forward, planting his forearms on the table, and his massive shadow completely eclipsed you, cutting off the rest of the library.
the polite, stable classmate you had forced yourself to get used to evaporated in a single exhale. in his place was something raw, volatile, and entirely starved.
"he treats you like a late-night option, and you just take it because you think that's all you're worth," tucker hissed, his dark eyes boring into yours, practically stripping away every defense you had spent months building. "it kills me. it is physically killing me to sit here every week, pretending to read these damn chapters, and watch you let him do it."
his gaze dropped to your lips for a devastating, lingering second—a look full of so much unsaid hunger, regret, and agonizing yearning that it made your chest ache.
he looked like a man dying of thirst, staring at water he wasn't allowed to drink.
your breath hitched, your heart hammering a frantic, erratic rhythm against your ribs.
for a second, the sheer intensity in his eyes made you dizzy.
but then, the reality crashed back over you, and the sheer hypocrisy of his words flared a sudden, angry fire in your chest.
"you don't get to say that to me" you whispered fiercely, leaning in too, refusing to let him back you into a corner.
"you don't get to judge who i spend my time with, tucker. not when you're the one who walked out of your room the next morning and told me not to make a big deal out of it. you're a communicator, tucker. you talk when something matters to you. you set the rules with your silence, and i'm just following them."
tucker flinched as if you had physically struck him.
the irony of your words clearly cut him to the bone. his desperate attempt to communicate respect had been read as total indifference.
when his eyes snapped back to yours, they were blazing, but the truth he so desperately wanted to scream was choking him.
he couldn't say it. not here.
not when he was still terrified that pushing too hard would make you run away forever.
he swallowed hard, his throat bobbing, his jaw working as he forced the raw, aching desperation back down, locking it behind a wall of sheer willpower.
"i told you that because you looked like you were going to cry," he said, his voice dropping to a harsh, strained whisper that vibrated with everything he was keeping back.
he ran a hand through his hair, gripping the strands tightly before letting go. his eyes searched yours, pleading, absolutely drowning in a longing he felt entirely unequipped to handle. "i thought i crossed a line. i thought i ruined us."
he looked down at your face-down phone, his mouth pulling into a grim, tight line, his hand twitching on the table as if he was fighting every instinct in his body to reach out, pull you against him, and never let you go.
when he looked back up, the vulnerability was guarded, but his eyes were still heavy with a crushing, silent ache.
"go to his place if you want to," tucker said softly, though the tension in his rigid shoulders betrayed him completely.
he picked up his pen again, his fingers gripping it so hard it looked ready to snap. "but don't pretend you're doing it because you actually want him."
the silence that followed his words was thick enough to suffocate.
tucker didn't look back up at you. he kept his eyes pinned to his textbook, his broad shoulders practically rigid as he turned a page with a sharp, aggressive snap that nearly ripped the paper.
he was completely retreating back into himself, locking the doors and pulling the blinds, leaving you stranded in the wreckage of whatever the hell had just happened.
your chest heaved as you stared at the side of his face.
you wanted to scream at him. you wanted to demand he explain what those words meant, what that look meant, why he was acting like your choices were tearing him apart when he was the one who had drawn the boundary lines in the first place.
but the sheer exhaustion of the last four months caught up to you all at once.
the anger drained out, leaving nothing but a hollow, heavy ache.
without a word, you reached out, snatched your phone from beneath his hand and shoved it into your pocket.
you didn't text isaiah back and for the remaining forty minutes of the study session, neither of you spoke.
the only sounds were the scratching of tucker's pen and the frantic, chaotic thoughts screaming inside your own head.
when the clock finally hit four, you packed your laptop so fast the zipper caught on your cord, and you left without saying goodbye.
he didn't try to follow you.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
what followed was a brutal, agonizing stretch of silence that lasted for days. you skipped your usual thursday afternoon study slot, pretending you had a sudden conflict, unable to face the suffocating atmosphere again.
tucker noticed. of course he did.
by thursday night, the texts started coming. your phone would buzz against your nightstand, and every time you saw his name flash across the screen, your throat would go tight.
j.tucker: hey. can we talk? about tuesday.
you read it from your lock screen, then cleared the notification.
an hour later, another one.
j.tucker: i shouldn't have judged your situation. it wasn't my place. i'm sorry.
you actually opened that one. you let the chat stay open, letting the 'seen' status flash right back at him, a deliberate, quiet retaliation for the months of silence he had handed you first.
it felt petty and cruel, but it was the only armor you had left.
around midnight, one final text slipped through.
j.tucker: please don't freeze me out. i just want to make it right.
you left him on seen for that one, too, staring at the ceiling until three in the morning, wondering how a guy who was usually so perfect at finding the right words could have spent three months completely misreading yours.
you were trying so hard to stay mad at him, because being mad was infinitely easier than acknowledging the terrifying truth.
the truth was that his words had shaken every single defense you had built.
the friction of it all made everything else feel completely unearned.
by friday afternoon, looking at your phone felt like a chore, especially when a text from isaiah popped up asking if you were still coming over later.
tucker's words hung over your head like a dark cloud.
unfortunately he was right. you were using isaiah as a shield, and it wasn't fair to anyone.
so, you called him. it took less than two minutes. you told him it wasn't working out, that you weren't looking for the same things anymore. isaiah barely even sounded surprised—just muttered a careless "alright, cool, catch you around" before hanging up.
it didn't even hurt.
if anything, the lack of effort on his end only proved how right tucker had been.
but dumping him didn't fix the hollow ache in your chest.
it just stripped away your final buffer, leaving you entirely unprotected against the thought of tucker.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
by friday night, you were a complete wreck, which was the only reason you let your friends drag you to malones. it was suffocatingly hot, packed wall-to-wall with sweaty students looking to forget about midterms.
"nadia shoved a plastic cup of mystery liquid into your hand and yelled over the noise vibrating through the floorboards. "stop thinking about isaiah. stop thinking about everything. we are getting drunk."
"i'm trying," you lied to nadia, taking a sip that tasted mostly like foam.
you weren't thinking about isaiah. you were looking for a specific head of curly hair in the crowd, even though you told yourself you hoped he wouldn't show up.
the opening notes of a song started pulsing through the bar's speakers, cutting through the generic pop remixes the student dj had been spinning. it was slow, heavy, and drenched in bass.
love on the brain by rihanna.
a loud cheer went up near the small, makeshift karaoke stage in the corner.
"oh, shit, look who's up," nadia laughed, nudging your shoulder.
your eyes snapped toward the stage.
tucker was standing there, looking like he had been completely hijacked into doing this. he had a beer in one hand and the mic in the other, wearing a simple yellow t-shirt, his shoulders dropped in a lazy, unbothered posture.
down in the front row, dean di laurentis was leaning against a high-top table, a massive, shit-eating grin plastered across his face as he raised his glass toward the stage.
it took you exactly one second to realize what had happened.
dean had requested it.
he was the one who had submitted tucker's name to the dj and picked the track, completely intending to instigate.
dean had been watching the two of you dance around each other for months, picking up on the sharp drops in temperature whenever you walked into a room, and he was clearly done waiting for tucker to make a move.
tucker looked out over the crowd and gave dean a slow, warning glare, pointing a finger at him and mouthing you are dead toward the front row.
he was trying so hard to play it off perfectly—just a guy getting forced into a bad slot on the karaoke wheel by his roommate, keeping it light, keeping it casual so nobody would think twice about it.
but as he leaned into the mic and the first verse started, the athlete front began to quiet down.
tucker didn't do the usual dramatic karaoke bit. he didn't try to perform or work the room.
it was smooth, effortless, and entirely devoid of any theatricality. it was just him.
he kept his eyes on the back wall for the first few bars, entirely focused on maintaining that unbothered, nonchalant vibe.
but as the heavy, aching longing of the chorus started to swell, his focus shifted.
he didn't scan the crowd. his eyes cut through the haze of the bar, landing on the shadow of the pillar where you were standing with a sudden, quiet precision.
he didn't hold your gaze like a man putting on a show.
it was a heavy look—the kind that felt entirely accidental but completely deliberate.
in the brief moments his eyes locked onto yours, the casual act he'd been putting on for the room completely vanished.
the lyrics didn't feel like a performance instead they felt like a confession he was trying very hard to suppress.
his eyes stayed anchored to yours through the bridge. there was a raw, quiet desperation in his expression that he couldn't hide behind a grin anymore.
the noise around you seemed to dull into background static. you couldn't move.
you just watched him, the truth he had been suffocating under laying entirely bare between you across the crowded room.
he wasn't silent because he didn't care.
he was silent because he was drowning.
don't you stop loving me.
his eyes never breaking from yours for even a fraction of a second.
despite how hard he had tried to play it off just moments ago, john tucker was down on his knees, begging you to understand.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
the second the song ended, the bar erupted.
his teammates started shouting, slamming their cups against the tables, and dean was laughing loudly, clapping tucker on the back as he stepped off the low stage.
but tucker didn't look at any of them.
his eyes stayed pinned to yours for one last, heavy second before the moving bodies of the crowded bar finally cut off his view.
"holy shit," nadia breathed next to you, her jaw practically on the floor.
you couldn't even hear her. your lungs felt entirely empty. the heat in the bar was suddenly suffocating, and the walls felt like they were closing in on you.
"i need air," you choked out, not waiting for nadia's response as you shoved your cup into her hand and began pushing your way through the dense crowd toward the exit.
you spilled out of the heavy front doors and into the cool, crisp friday night air.
you walked a few yards down the pavement, ducking into the dim, quiet alleyway beside the building just to get away from the bass vibrating through the brick walls.
you leaned your back against the cool brick, closing your eyes and trying to force your heart to slow down.
don't you stop loving me.
the words were still ringing in your ears, wrapped in that low, gravelly register.
"you left your drink with nadia."
your eyes snapped open.
tucker was standing at the mouth of the alley. the neon red light from the bar's sign caught the edge of his jaw, throwing the rest of his face into deep shadow.
he had his hands buried in his pockets, his shoulders slightly hunched against the night breeze.
he looked completely depleted, the confident front he had maintained on stage entirely gone.
"i didn't want it anyway," you whispered, your voice shaking.
tucker took a slow, deliberate step into the alley, his heavy boots clicking against the pavement.
"didn't know you had a future in r&b, tuck. that was... intense." you said not meeting his eyes.
"dean's a fucking idiot," he said quietly, his voice rough. "he thinks he's funny. i didn't mean to put you on the spot like that."
"didn't you?" you asked, a sudden spark of that old defense mechanism flaring up in your chest to keep you from crying. "because you looked right at me, tucker. you looked right at me and you sang those words like you wanted to kill me."
tucker stopped walking. he was only a few feet away from you now, his frame completely blocking out the streetlights behind him. he pulled his hands out of his pockets, his knuckles twitching.
"i looked at you because i couldn't help it," he confessed, his voice dropping into that low, raw register from the library basement. "i've been trying to help it for months, and i'm done. i'm entirely empty. i have nothing left to fight you with."
"you're the one who started the fight" you cried out, your voice breaking as the tears you had been holding back all week finally blurred your vision.
"you walked out of that room the next morning, tucker. you told me it wasn't a big deal. do you have any idea what that did to me? i had to force myself to fall out of love with you because i thought i was a mistake to you!"
tucker flinched as if you had physically struck him. the word love seemed to hang in the space between you, heavy and terrifying.
"you weren't a mistake," he choked out, stepping closer until the heat radiating off him completely wrapped around you.
his hands came up, hovering just inches from your face, his fingers trembling. "you were the only thing that felt real. i told you that because when i woke up, you were staring at the ceiling looking like you regretted every single second of it. you looked terrified. i thought if i pushed you, i would lose you completely."
he let out a ragged, broken laugh, his eyes swimming with the exact same yearning that had been burning on that stage.
"so i stayed silent. i tried to be the good guy. i tried to be respectful while you started going out with isaiah," tucker hissed, his jaw clenching. "and it was killing me. every single day. i didn't want to break the rules, but then i realized my silence didn't protect you at all. it just let someone else ruin you."
he looked down at his shoes, then back up at you, his eyes entirely bare. "today i saw you standing there, and i realized i would rather dean mock me for the rest the year than spend another day letting you think i didn't want you. it was killing me. you have no idea how much it was killing me."
you stared at him, your heart turning over in your chest.
all this time you thought you were the one drowning, but tucker had been completely underwater.
"i broke it off with him," you whispered.
tucker froze. his chest stopped heaving. "you what?"
"i called isaiah this afternoon. i broke it off," you said, looking up at him through your eyelashes. "because you were right. i was using him as a shield because being with him was safe. it wasn't fair to him, and it wasn't fair to me. because he isn't you."
a soft, fractured sound ripped from tucker's throat.
the next second, his hands were in your hair, his large palms cupping the back of your head as he tilted your face up and brought his lips down against yours.
it was like pouring rain after a drought. the kiss was deep, heavy, and desperate, his mouth moving against yours with a fierce, possessive hunger that made your knees go entirely weak.
you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, tangling your fingers in the short hairs at the nape of his neck as you completely gave in.
tucker groaned against your lips, his hands moving down to grip your waist, lifting you slightly off the ground to press you firmly against the brick wall.
he kissed you like he was trying to make up for every single day of silence, every single unread text, and every single second he had spent starving for you since october.
when he finally pulled back, just an inch, his forehead rested against yours. his breath was coming in short, ragged gasps, his eyes still dark and heavy with emotion as he looked down at you.
"i'm not backing off this time," tucker whispered fiercely, his thumbs wiping the stray tears from your cheeks with a tenderness that made your heart swell. "i don't care about the rules. i don't care about being casual. we are doing this right."
you let out a shaky, breathless laugh, burying your face in the crook of his neck. "okay." you whispered against his skin.
"about fucking time!"
the loud, booming voice shattered the quiet of the alleyway, making both of you jump.
you blinked against the sudden glare of the streetlights as you peeked over tucker's shoulder.
dean and logan were standing at the mouth of the alley, leaning against the brickwork like a pair of absolute menaces.
dean had his arms crossed over his chest, his trademark smug grin practically splitting his face in two, while logan stood beside him, shaking his head with a slow, amused chuckle.
tucker didn't let go of you. if anything, his grip on your waist tightened, a heavy protective weight as he let out a low, deeply irritated sigh.
"go away," tucker muttered, his voice still thick and rough from the kiss, not even turning around to face them.
"oh, come on, tuck, show me some gratitude," dean scoffed, taking a sip from a fresh plastic cup of beer. "i literally orchestrated your entire romantic awakening tonight. if it weren't for my flawless track selection on that karaoke machine, you would still be pining."
"he's right, you know," logan chimed in, tossing an arm over dean's shoulder with a lazy smirk. "we've been suffering through the tension in that house for months. we practically had to hold a house meeting just to discuss how miserable you were."
"seriously," dean agreed, shaking his head dramatically. "the yearning was getting a little pathetic. we had to intervene for our own sanity."
tucker finally turned his head just enough to give his teammates a deadly, unamused glare. "if you two aren't gone by the count of three, i'm letting garrett know who actually broke the blender last weekend."
logan's smirk instantly vanished, and dean straightened up, clearing his throat.
"okay, okay, we're leaving," dean said, raising his hands in surrender as he started to back away toward the bright, noisy entrance of the bar. "but for the record, you're welcome!"
"don't forget to thank us in your wedding speech!" logan shouted back, laughing as dean shoved him back into the crowded bar.
the heavy metal doors slammed shut behind them, cutting off the bass and leaving the alleyway quiet once again.
tucker let out a soft huff of laughter against your hair, the rigid tension finally leaving his shoulders as he looked back down at you.
his eyes were softer now, warmer, but the heavy heat from moments ago was still simmering right beneath the surface.
a slow smile tugged at the corners of his lips as he leaned back in, closing the distance between you again.
summary: reader helps a woman with her baby. logan experiences a little baby fever. fluff, short fic. requested!
The sound of a bell ringing takes you out of your almost meditative state of sweeping floors. You turn to face the door, expecting to see Logan, just to find a woman and her baby staring back at you.
“We’re closed for the night. Sorry, ma’am.”
“No, I know, I’m sorry—” The woman starts saying, her voice apologetic, “I was hoping I could use your bathroom? I– I just need to change, I’m meeting someone and she dropped her juice on my shirt.”
Now that you’re closer, you can see the big, orange spot in her white shirt, along with the way the sling tugs on her shoulders and the frown on her young face, “I won’t take long, I promise.”
“Yeah, absolutely,” you nod, “Second door to the left, ma’am.”
“Uh, one more thing.” Her face twists in embarrassment, “I’m so sorry, do you mind holding her while I do it? I don’t have her stroller with me, I was just going–” She starts rambling, stopping to compose herself, “I’m sorry, it’s been a long day.”
You offer her a reassuring smile, “It’s okay. Here, hand me her–” you leave aside the broom you were holding, quickly cleaning your hands on a cloth over your shoulder. The woman carefully takes her baby out of the sling, handing her to you. The baby starts kicking her legs, making you chuckle, “Someone’s happy to be off the sling.”
She’s a quiet thing, the baby. Chubby face and big, dark eyes looking up at you. “This is Posie.” Her mother says, “I’m Mary. Thank you for watching her.”
“No problem.” You smile at her, Posie looking curiously at you, “Take your time, yeah? There’s paper towels in there, feel free to use it.”
Mary nods thankfully, quickly rushing to the bathroom. You look around the place, holding Posie on your hip as you fish the phone out of your back pocket — Logan was supposed to pick you up after practice today, but you don’t think you’ll close the bar in time. You're trying your best to type a quick message using just one hand when the door bell dings again.
“Hey, hon—” Logan walks in, stopping on his tracks once he sees you holding Posie. He looks around, eyebrows crossed in confusion, “Did I step into an alternate universe? Since when do we have a baby?”
“Ha ha. Very funny, Logan.” You say sarcastically, then smiling at the baby in your arms, “This is Posie. Her mom’s in the back using the restroom.”
Poor little Posie seems to grow fussy over the mention of her mother, face twisting in a frown much like her mother’s, “Aw, darling. You’re alright.” You say, voice so gentle, “Your mom’s in the bathroom. Let’s give her some time, yeah?”
Logan watches as the baby starts blubbering in your arms, and you shift to rest her little head over your shoulder. Your hands move to Posie’s small back, comforting her as you shush her little cries.
He can’t remember if he’s ever seen you interacting with a kid ever, but he thinks it must be the first time. There’s no way he’d ever forget this feeling, he decides, as he feels his ribs tugging, heart melting in such a lovely way.
“It’s okay,” you keep repeating, “You’re okay, Posie. Don’t cry, please. Let’s not startle your mom.”
Posie settles a little, lips still curved but now quiet, eyes fluttering closed.
“You’re good with kids.” He whispers to you, trying not to alarm the baby. You look up at him, watching as his eyes move from little Posie to you, pupils dark and adoring, “I think I’d be good too.”
Your lips quiver into a little smile, “Don’t even think about that.”
“What?” He lets out a quiet, incredulous laugh, “I wasn’t thinking.”
“Yes, you were. I can see it in your face.” You say, and his mouth splits into a smile, “See! Stop!”
He shrugs, still smiling, “Okay, not thinking anymore.” Logan takes a step back, hands on his varsity pockets, “You’d want one?”
Your hand keeps drawing circles on little Posie’s back. “I don’t know. Maybe someday?” You murmur, “Do I have to answer now?”
“No,” he chuckles, “Of course not. I’m just wondering.”
“Okay. Someday, then.”
He hums, “Someday.”
Mary doesn’t take too long in the restroom. You quickly introduce her to your boyfriend, saying he’s here to pick you up. She seems mortified to have stalled you both, but thanks you profusely once she finds her daughter so close to sleeping in your arms.
“She’s so tired, poor thing.” Mary says, adjusting little Posie on her sling, “Thank you again.”
You just shake your head, “Have a good night, you and Posie.”
Logan helps you finish cleaning the place, stacking the chairs as you finish sweeping, a quiet domesticity fog dawning over you both. You watch as he looks up at you every other minute, a chuckle breaking through his lips.
You don’t scold him for his obvious train of thought. Instead, you quickly press a giggly kiss on his cheek, him wrapping his arms around you for a bit. There’s no promise over your heads, just a glimpse of a possible future, someday.
notes: thank you for reading! requests are open! likes/reblogs/thoughts are appreciated! <3
Warning(s): insecurity in a relationship. happy end
The thing about being popular was that people always assumed they knew you. They saw you walking across Briar's campus and immediately made up stories in their heads. They saw how many people waved when you passed. They saw how easily you could slide into any social group and how often your weekends were booked with parties, hockey games, and campus events. To most people, you were the girl who had everything.
They didn't know that popularity had never really interested you. You liked people that was all. You liked making friends. You liked talking to strangers. You liked helping people feel included because you knew what it felt like to be left out. Unfortunately, being friendly often got mistaken for flirting, especially by men. It happened constantly. Guy would stop you after classes, they offered to buy you drinks, asked for your number, they were always convincing themselves that if they tried hard enough, eventually you would say yes. However, you always politely turned them down. Not because they were bad people or because you thought you were too good for them. It was the fact that none of them were John Tucker. And once you had Tucker, nobody else even registered anymore.
The realisation hit you one afternoon while sitting in the student union. You were waiting for Tucker to finish practice, scrolling through your phone while half-listening to a conversation happening nearby. A guy from one of your classes had approached your table twenty minutes earlier and was currently trying very hard to flirt with you, but you weren’t even paying attention, you just kept checking the time and the entrance, patiently waiting for Tucker.
The guy was saying something about a party that weekend when the doors opened, and there he was. Tucker. The moment you spotted him, your entire face lit up without you even realising it. But the guy sitting across from you certainly did because he stopped talking immediately. You were already gathering your things, still smiling, and you walked away from him.
"Tuck!"
The second Tucker heard your voice, his head snapped up. His tired expression disappeared instantly and a smile spread across his face, and just like that, nothing else mattered. Not even the crowded room or the conversations you had been having, just him. Always him. He opened his arms automatically when you reached him, and you stepped right into them. The hug lasted only a few seconds, but it felt like coming home.
"Have you been waiting long?" he asked.
You shook your head against his shoulder. "Nope."
"You lying?"
"Maybe."
His laugh vibrated through his chest, and your heart melted. That always happened, no matter how many times you saw him, or how many dates you went on, or how many nights you spent together. You never got used to him. Never stopped getting butterflies. Never stopped feeling lucky. The funny thing was that Tucker seemed completely unaware of the effect he had on people, including you.
A week later, you were reminded of that fact when you arrived at a hockey party together.
The house was packed, there was music blasting from the speakers, and there were people crowded in every room of the house. The moment you walked inside, several people greeted you, and a few guys immediately wandered over to you. However, you barely noticed them because you were too busy reaching for Tucker’s hand.
As the night went on, you floated from conversation to conversation. Tucker stayed close but eventually got pulled away by some teammates who wanted to discuss practice. You didn't mind. You found yourself talking with a group near the kitchen. At some point, a guy you'd met once before decided to shoot his shot. Again.
"You know," he said with a grin, "I still don't understand why you're dating Tucker."
You blinked. "What?"
"I'm just saying." He shrugged and gestured vaguely, "You could have literally anybody."
The comment annoyed you instantly. Not because it insulted Tucker, but because it completely missed the point. Before you could answer, a familiar voice spoke from behind you.
"She's allowed to have terrible taste." You turned around. It was Tucker. The group started to laugh, and you laughed along with them, but something about Tucker’s smile felt off. It was small and forced.
The feeling lingered all evening, and later that night, after the party ended and the two of you returned to his apartment, you couldn't stop thinking about it. You were curled up beside him on the couch. His arm rested around your shoulders. The television played quietly in the background. Everything looked normal, but something wasn't. You knew Tucker, and he was thinking… a lot. Eventually, you muted the television. He looked down at you.
"What happened?"
You studied him. "You tell me."
"What?" His eyebrows lifted.
"You've been weird all night."
He immediately looked away like he was caught. Your stomach sank, because suddenly you knew. "Tucker."
He sighed. The kind of sigh that suggested he'd been carrying something around for a while. "It's nothing."
"John." That got his attention immediately. You would only use his full name when you were serious.
For a moment he stayed quiet, but then he rubbed a hand across the back of his neck.
"You ever think it's strange?" he started.
You frowned. "What?"
He laughed softly, but there wasn't much humour in it. "You dating me."
Your heart broke immediately. "Oh, Tucker."
"No, seriously." He sat up slightly. "I don't get it."
You stared at him. He looked genuinely confused. As if your relationship were some unsolved mystery. As if he couldn't understand why you'd chosen him.
"Everybody loves you." His eyes stayed fixed on the floor. "You know that, right?"
You said nothing because you already knew where this was heading.
"People remember you when you leave a room." His voice grew quieter. "You've got guys hitting on you all the time."
He laughed once, very dryly. "You could date literally anyone."
Then he finally looked at you, and the vulnerability in his eyes nearly shattered your heart. "But you picked me."
The silence that followed felt heavy and painful because you realised he truly believed he wasn't enough. It wasn’t a joke or false modesty. He genuinely couldn't understand why you loved him.
Slowly, you shifted closer. "Tucker." He didn't answer. "You know what my ex used to do?"
His jaw immediately tightened. You rarely mentioned your ex.
"He forgot anniversaries." Tucker's eyes darkened. "He ignored me when I was upset." A muscle jumped in his jaw. "He made me feel like loving me was a chore."
The room went silent. You reached for his hand, intertwining your fingers, and then you looked directly into his eyes. "You know what you do?" His expression softened.
"You bring me coffee before my morning classes." A tiny smile appeared on his face. "You walk me home." The smile grew. "You text me good luck before every exam."
His cheeks turned pink. "You remember every random thing I tell you."
By now he couldn't even look at you, so you squeezed his hand. "Tucker, you make me feel loved every single day."
The room felt impossibly quiet. The kind of quiet where every word mattered.
"You make me feel safe," you continued. His throat bobbed. "You make me feel important." His eyes grew suspiciously shiny.
"And when I'm with you..." You smiled softly. "I feel happier than I've ever felt in my entire life."
He looked away immediately, he was overwhelmed. You could tell. He closed his eyes briefly, as if he was trying to process your words.
Then he whispered, almost too quietly to hear, "You really mean that?"
The question hurt because he sounded genuinely unsure. You reached up and cupped his face, making him look at you.
"Tucker." Your voice softened. "I am completely in love with you."
His breath caught. "And I don't care how many people know me." A tearful laugh escaped him. "I don't care how many guys flirt with me."
You leaned closer. "The only person I want is you."
For a second, neither of you moved. Neither of you spoke, and then Tucker suddenly pulled you into his lap. Holding you so tightly you could barely breathe.
You laughed. "Tuck—"
"I love you." His voice cracked slightly. The words sounded almost desperate, like he'd needed you to know. "I love you so much."
Your heart swelled. You wrapped your arms around his neck.
"I love you too."
He buried his face against your shoulder, and for several long moments, neither of you spoke. You simply sat there together, wrapped up in each other. It felt safe, comfortable, and loved.
Eventually, Tucker pulled back just enough to look at you. The doubt was still there, but it was smaller now, fading. And you kissed him softly. Once, twice, and three times all over his face until he started smiling. Until the uncertainty disappeared completely. Until all that remained was the look he always gave you. The one that made your heart race. The one that made you feel cherished. The one that reminded you exactly why every other guy on campus faded into the background whenever John Tucker walked into the room. Because no matter how many people wanted your attention, there had only ever been one person who owned your heart. And he was sitting right in front of you, looking at you like you were the best thing that had ever happened to him. The truth was, you felt exactly the same way.
Warnings: alcohol use, drinking to cope, anxiety, angst
Summary: You've been falling apart quietly for three weeks and you're very good at making sure nobody notices, especially your boyfriend Garrett. You're less good at it after four drinks and one overheard conversation you were never supposed to hear.
Author's Note: Thx for all the love on my first Garrett fic! I'm doing an OC rewatch rn and just felt like I needed to get this one off my chest. I <3 bestie Dean fr.
Eight months in and you still hadn't figured out what to do with being someone's favorite thing.
Garrett wasn't subtle about it. That was the thing, he had absolutely no interest in being subtle about it. He'd find you across a dining hall full of people and his whole face would do something embarrassing. He'd mention you to his teammates with the casual frequency of someone who didn't realize he was doing it, which, according to Dean, he wasn't. He'd show up at your dorm with soup when you were sick, uninvited, unashamed, completely certain he was welcome. He was always welcome. That was the other thing.
Eight months. Long enough that his hoodie had more or less permanently become part of your wardrobe. Long enough that you knew exactly which toothpaste brand he preferred, and that he took his coffee wrong, and that he looked up at the stands exactly once per game - same moment every time, right after warm-ups - just to find you.
You were, by every reasonable metric, fine. Good, even. Happy.
You were also, quietly and without telling anyone, coming apart at the seams.
It hadn't started with anything dramatic. That was the part that made it hard to explain. There was no single thing to point to, no moment where it all went wrong. Just a bad exam grade, then another. Readings piling up in two classes, then three. A cold that moved into your chest three weeks ago and apparently liked it there, the kind of tired that sleep didn't touch.
You'd cancelled plans with Garrett twice. Both times he'd said it's okay, babe, seriously, without missing a beat, and both times something in you had gone slightly sideways, because of course he had. Of course he was fine about it. He was always fine about it, which somehow made it worse, because it meant he was noticing, and adjusting around you, and that meant you were someone who needed adjusting around.
He'd started checking in more. Texts a little more often. Soup you hadn't asked for, dropped off with a knock and a smile like it was nothing.
It was nothing. That was the problem. To him it was nothing, and to you it was accumulating into something you didn't have a word for yet.
Too much, something in the back of your head had started saying. Quietly at first. Then less quietly. You're too much right now.
You were good at ignoring things. You'd been ignoring this for three weeks. You were, it turned out, not as good at it as you'd thought.
The party was Garrett's idea. Well, it was everyone's idea. Briar had won the game 4-1, and the hockey house was the kind of loud that rattled inside your skull pleasantly, all bass and laughter and the clatter of the boys being celebratory and stupid. The living room smelled like beer and Axe and the particular chaos of hockey players who were very pleased with themselves.
You'd smiled through most of it. You were good at that, too.
Garrett had kept you close the whole first hour, arm slung around your shoulders, pressing a kiss to your temple every time someone stopped to talk to him, like punctuation. Hannah had found you at some point and the two of you had ended up in the kitchen with drinks you weren't really finishing, talking about nothing, which was nice.
But Garrett had gotten pulled away - something about Dean needing him, something about the highlight reel someone had pulled up on the TV - and you'd drifted. Which was fine. You were fine.
You'd ended up on the back porch without fully meaning to.
The night air was cold as you leaned against the railing, tipped your head back, and breathed.
You're okay. You're fine. You're at a party celebrating your boyfriend's win and everything is fine.
You heard them before you saw them. Two girls tucked into the corner of the porch, half-hidden by the shadows. You hadn't noticed them when you came out.
You recognized one of them.
Kendall. You'd heard the name in the careful, neutral way girls mentioned names when they meant something. She and Garrett had hooked up before. Before you. It wasn't a big deal. You knew it wasn't a big deal.
You turned slightly away, meaning to go back inside, meaning to just not be here for whatever this was.
But her voice carried.
"-no, I just mean, look at her. She's been off all night."
A murmur from the other girl. You went very still.
"I'm not being mean, I'm just - Garrett has a lot going on. He's got scouts looking at him, he's got finals coming up, and now he's got-" a pause, something that wasn't quite a laugh, "-one more thing to manage."
One more thing to manage.
The words landed somewhere below your sternum and just sat there.
"She seems kind of high maintenance," Kendall continued, quieter now. "I heard she's been sick, like, for weeks, and he's been running over there constantly. He doesn't have time for that. He doesn't have time for someone like- I mean, it's Garrett Graham. He could have-"
You stopped hearing the rest.
Not because they stopped talking, you just stopped being able to take anything in. The world narrowed down to the railing under your hands and the cold air in your lungs and the feeling of something fracturing very quietly behind your eyes.
One more thing to manage.
High maintenance.
He doesn't have time for someone like-
You turned around and went inside.
You went for the kitchen.
There was a handle of something on the counter - vodka, cheap, the kind that came in a plastic bottle - and you poured it into whatever cup was closest without really looking at what was already in it. You drank it faster than you should have. Poured another.
This was not something you did. You were not, by nature, a drink-until-it-goes-away person. You'd watched enough people use that particular coping mechanism to know better. You knew better.
You poured a third.
The thing was, and you understood this even as you were doing it, which somehow made it worse, that the words were just sitting there. One more thing to manage. Right in the center of your chest, perfectly placed, like Kendall had known exactly where to aim. And you needed them to move. You needed them to blur, or soften, or stop feeling so much like the thing you'd already been thinking at three in the morning for the past three weeks.
So you drank.
Hannah found you twenty minutes later, laughing too loudly at something a guy from the lacrosse team had said. She gave you a look, the kind that meant how many is that, and you smiled wide enough that she let it go. Or seemed to. You slipped away before she could ask a follow-up question.
The party had taken on that particular underwater quality that meant the alcohol was working. The edges of everything softened. The bass felt further away. You moved through the living room with the careful precision of someone who knew they were drunk and was trying very hard not to show it, which probably meant you were showing it completely.
Garrett was somewhere in this room. You could feel it the way you always could, that low awareness, like a compass needle swinging north. Normally you'd find him without thinking.
Tonight you turned the other direction.
You grabbed someone's abandoned drink off the end table. You didn't know whose, you didn't care, which was so unlike you that some distant sober part of your brain flinched, and made your way to the other side of the room. Someone pulled you into a conversation about something. You nodded. You laughed when they laughed. You were very good at performing fine, even now, even like this.
But Garrett kept appearing at the edges of things. You'd see his shoulder, the back of his head, catch a flash of his smile across the room, and something in your chest would do that terrible thing it always did.
So you kept moving.
You ended up in the hallway. Then near the stairs. Then, without fully deciding to, on the stairs themselves, sitting halfway up with your cup.
You sat for a while.
The alcohol had moved past the useful stage and into something messier, the kind of drunk where everything felt slightly too large and slightly too true at the same time. Your eyes were doing something embarrassing. You pressed the back of your wrist to them, hard.
You're fine. You're not going to do this here.
You stood up. Gripped the railing. Made it to the top of the stairs on the second try.
The upstairs hallway was dark enough that it felt like breathing room. You leaned against the wall and closed your eyes for a second, just long enough to get your legs back under you. Your dorm key was in your jacket pocket. Your jacket was downstairs. You needed to find it and leave before Garrett realized you'd been avoiding him for an hour, because if he looked at you right now with that face - the one he made when he was worried - you were going to fall apart in the middle of his own party, and you would not do that to him, you refused to do that to him tonight...
You pushed off the wall.
Misjudged the distance to the opposite side of the hallway by about four inches.
The door swung open before you could knock properly, or maybe you knocked wrong, and suddenly there was light and Dean Di Laurentis was right there, some girl half visible behind him, and all three of you stared at each other.
"Bathroom," you said, except it came out slightly sideways.
Dean blinked. Looked at you. Looked at the cup in your hand, mostly empty. Looked back at your face.
Something shifted in his expression, fast and uncharacteristically serious.
"Babe." Not to you. He was already half-turning to the girl, his voice dropped low. "I need a minute."
"You're kidding-"
"I'm really not." A beat. Something in his tone that left no room for argument. "Please."
The girl left in the precise way people left when they were furious and had decided to be graceful about it anyway. You watched her go down the hallway and felt vaguely guilty about it.
Dean stepped back from the doorway. "Get in here."
"I don't need-"
"You just walked into my door."
"I knocked."
"With your face, a little bit." He looked at you levelly. "Get in here."
You got in there.
He closed the door. The noise from downstairs dropped to a murmur.
"How much have you had to drink?"
"That's a weird opener."
"It's a normal question for someone who just almost fell through my door." He crossed his arms, leaning against the wall, "How much."
You thought about lying. Decided it wasn't worth the effort. "Enough."
"Enough," he repeated, in the tone of someone doing math. His eyes moved over you, assessing. Quick and thorough the way athletes were sometimes, used to reading situations fast. "You don't drink like this."
"People drink at parties."
"Not you. Not like-" he gestured vaguely at the cup still in your hand, "-whatever this is." A pause. "What happened?"
"Nothing happened. I'm fine."
"Okay."
You stared at him. He stared back. He did not appear to be in any rush whatsoever.
You hated that. You hated the waiting.
"I overheard something," you said, and the words came out a little slurred at the edges. "On the porch. Kendall - you know who that is?"
Something crossed his face. "Yeah. I know who that is."
"She was talking about me." The cup in your hand felt very heavy suddenly. You set it down on the nearest surface. "She said I was one more thing Garrett had to manage." The words tasted exactly as bad coming out as they had going in. Worse, maybe, because you were saying them out loud now, making them real. "That I was high maintenance. That he didn't have time for someone like me."
Dean was quiet for exactly two seconds.
"She said that."
"She's not wrong, that's the thing." You laughed, and it came out wrong, too bright and too brittle. "I've been sick for like three weeks, and stressed, and he keeps showing up for it, and I keep letting him, and he has scouts and he has finals and I just-" You stopped. The room was doing something slightly unsteady. You pressed your fingertips to the dresser behind you. "I just didn't want to feel it. I didn't want to stand there in the middle of his party and feel like that, so I-" You gestured at nothing. At the cup. At yourself.
"So you drank a stranger's leftovers."
"I don't know whose cup it was."
"Yeah, that's the part I'm stuck on." Dean pushed off the wall and grabbed the desk chair, set it down in front of you, and sat in it backwards, arms folded over the top, looking up at you with an expression that was not quite his usual one. "Sit down before you fall down."
"I'm not going to fall-"
"You're leaning."
You looked down. You were, in fact, leaning slightly. You sat on the edge of his bed.
Dean watched you with the particular patience of someone who had decided they weren't going anywhere.
"She's not-" You exhaled, stared at your hands. "She's not some villain. She just said the thing I've already been thinking. And I couldn't-" Your throat tightened. "I couldn't stand there and keep smiling, so I thought if I just-"
"Drank enough that it blurred out?"
"I wasn't going to phrase it like that."
"But yeah?"
A beat.
"Yeah," you said, very quietly.
Dean rubbed the back of his neck. Looked at the ceiling. Then back at you, and something in his face shifted into something more serious, more deliberate, the version of him he mostly kept underneath all the noise he usually made.
"Can I tell you something without you getting weird about it?"
You made a helpless gesture.
"Garrett talked about you at practice last week," he said. "Full cringe, by the way, I'm doing you a public service by telling you this. Tucker asked how you were doing - just like, making conversation - and Garrett stopped mid-drill to answer. Like, stopped skating. Coach blew the whistle. Garrett didn't even flinch, just full-on answeredTucker like they were at brunch." He paused. "It was genuinely awful. The guys made fun of him for four days."
You stared at him.
"He said - and I am going to say this exactly once and then never again - that being with you was the first time in his life that coming home from a game felt better than the game itself." Dean's expression was the one people made when they'd eaten something sour. "Verbatim. He said that. To the whole team. In the locker room. While wearing his pads."
Your eyes were burning again, for a completely different reason.
"He talks about you like-" Dean exhaled through his nose. "Look, I've lived with that guy for three years. I have never, not once, seen him like this. And I mean the whole team. We all, okay, this is going to sound really weird-"
"Just say it."
"We all kind of think of you as ours too. Like, you're around all the time, and you're funny, and you ate nachos with us during the game and didn't complain about the TV volume once-" A pause. "That matters more than you think."
A noise came out of you that was almost a laugh. Wasn't quite.
"Kendall doesn't know what she's talking about," Dean said, and his voice had gone flat again. "She's not a bad person, she's just... she wanted something she didn't get, and that makes people say stupid things. It doesn't make the stupid things true."
Your eyes burned. You pressed the heel of your hand against one of them, hard, like you could physically hold it back, and for a second you almost managed it. Then your breath hitched and you didn't.
You hated it. You hated this, you hated that you were sitting in Dean Di Laurentis' room at your boyfriend's party with someone else's alcohol in your bloodstream, falling apart. This was not you. This was so profoundly, embarrassingly not you - and yet here you were, doing it anyway.
"I hate this," you said, rough.
"The crying or the drinking?"
"Both." You dragged your wrist across your face. "I don't do this. Either of this. I keep it together, and I've been keeping it together for weeks, and then one person says one thing and I'm-" You gestured at yourself. At the whole situation. The cup on his dresser. Your face. "This."
"You can't hold it together forever and then wonder why it comes out somewhere inconvenient." Dean's voice was even. "That's not strength. That's just pressure building."
You looked at him.
"Real talk," he said. "You've been running on empty, you've been pretending you're fine, and tonight cracked it open. And instead of letting yourself feel it, you drank half a mystery cup and were about to walk home alone in the cold." He raised an eyebrow. "Which we are going to circle back to."
"I wasn't going to walk home."
"You were absolutely going to walk home."
You didn't answer.
"Also," he said, and the sarcasm slid back in like he genuinely couldn't help it, "if you tell anyone I said any of this, I will deny it completely. I have a reputation and I'd like to keep it."
A sound came out of you that was almost a laugh. Wasn't quite. But almost.
"Drink some water," he said, standing, already moving to the mini fridge in the corner. He tossed you a bottle without looking. "And hey-"
You looked up.
"He's been looking for you for twenty minutes. Downstairs, increasingly frantic. You should talk to him."
You found Garrett's room because it was the only one with the light on.
The door was cracked. You pushed it open and stood in the doorway for a second, holding onto the frame slightly. The water Dean had given you was helping. A little. The edges of things were still slightly wrong.
You made it to the bed. Sat down. Put your face in your hands.
You heard him on the stairs before the door opened - that particular weight and rhythm, two at a time the way he always took them. And then Garrett was there, filling the doorway, and he stopped.
Just for a second.
Long enough for you to see it, the relief flooding in so fast it almost looked like something else. And underneath it, the residue of the twenty minutes before. He'd been worried. Not panicked, not Garrett, but worried. You could see it in the set of his jaw, the way he exhaled.
Then his eyes moved over you and his expression shifted into something different.
"Hey," he said carefully. "How much did you drink?"
You laughed, and it came out wrong. "Dean already asked me that."
"Dean texted me that you'd had a lot and that you were upset and to be..." he paused, "gentle. His word."
"Dean used the word gentle?"
"I was also surprised." He crossed the room and dropped to his knees in front of you, and it was such a Garrett thing to do - not sitting beside you, not keeping distance, just immediately down to your level, hands finding yours - that your throat tightened all over again. "Look at me."
You did.
He looked back, and he didn't rush it. Just looked at you the way he sometimes did when he thought you weren't paying attention. His thumb rubbed circles on your knuckles.
"I'm okay," you said. Force of habit.
"I know you're not." Not a judgment, just a fact. "Talk to me."
Your jaw worked. "I don't want to..." The words snagged. "I don't want to be something you have to manage, Garrett."
He went very still.
"I heard something tonight." Your voice came out thinner than you wanted, and you couldn't tell anymore how much of it was the alcohol and how much was just you: exhausted, hollowed out, finally out of room to hold it. "Someone saying I was... that I'm a lot right now. That you're running yourself into the ground for me, and you don't have time for someone like..." You stopped. "I've been thinking it for weeks. She just said it out loud."
"Who."
"It doesn't matter."
"It matters to me."
"Garrett." You shook your head, and the room moved slightly with it. "That's not the point. The point is that I believed it. That I heard it and something in me just - yes, obviously, correct. And I hated that. So instead of finding you and telling you I was upset like a normal person, I-" You gestured vaguely at yourself. At the state of you. "This."
He looked at you for a long moment.
"You've been carrying this for weeks," he said. Not a question.
"I didn't want to make it your problem."
Something crossed his face. "You are not a problem."
"You have scouts. You have finals. You've been coming to my dorm every other day with food I didn't ask for-"
"Because I wanted to."
"-and I keep letting you, and I feel like I'm taking something, like I'm-"
"Stop." His hands tightened around yours. "Listen to me. I come over because I want to be there. I text you because I want to know how you are. That's not- it's not labor, it's not obligation, it's not me managing anything. It's me." He exhaled slowly. "You're it for me. You know that."
"You can't just say that."
"I say it constantly. The guys are sick of hearing it."
"Dean told me about the locker room thing."
"Of course he did." No heat in it. Just resignation, and something softer underneath. "It was embarrassing. I meant every word."
You looked at him, and your eyes were burning again, and this time you let them. You were too tired and too drunk and too emptied out to hold that back too.
Garrett rose off his knees and sat beside you on the bed and pulled you into him without any hesitation.
You leaned.
That was the hardest part, always. The leaning. Letting someone else take some of the weight.
You were so tired of holding yourself upright.
"You're not too much," he said, into your hair. "You have never been too much."
You didn't answer.
"I mean it."
"I know you do," you said, very quietly.
He held you tighter. The party carried on below, muffled and oblivious, bass thumping through the floor, and up here it was just this. His arms. The familiar smell of him. The particular exhaustion of something finally, finally spilling over after being held too long.
You didn't feel better.
Not exactly. Not the way you'd maybe hoped. The shame of the drinking wasn't gone - that would probably be worse in the morning, honestly.
But Garrett didn't let go.
He kept one hand moving, slow and steady, through your hair, the way he did when you were half-asleep and he thought you weren't noticing. Like this was something he wanted to do. Like you were something worth being careful with.
You didn't know how to explain what that did to you.
You weren't sure you had to. At least not tonight. Not to Garrett.
Tonight, you closed your eyes and let him hold you, and tried to remember how to just be here. Without managing, without performing.
summary: you spend hours picking the perfect photos to post, while logan insists he doesn't understand instagram. but after becoming your unofficial photographer and photo critic, you learn that his favorite picture of you isn't one you'd ever upload—it’s one he never stopped looking at.
pairings: john logan x reader
RIN'S NOTE: I was just taking a selfie of myself 2 days ago likeee idk I am just a bit confident that day then before I posted it on my insta this just pops out in my mind and go to my laptop to write it, hehe.
【 WC 1.62k 】
You learned a lot from dating John Logan.
Among them were John Logan's ability to score goals under duress, pass college tests that he ought to have studied for sooner, and still manage to be one of the most endearing individuals you've ever encountered.
Another was that he had absolutely no respect for Instagram.
At least, that's what he claimed.
"Why do you need twenty-seven photos?" Logan asked. You looked up from your phone in disbelief.
"Twenty-seven isn't even that many."
Logan glanced down at the screen.
Then at you.
Then back at the screen.
"They're the same picture."
"They're not."
"They absolutely are."
You gasped dramatically. Across the couch, Garrett didn't even look up from his game. "Don't get involved, Logan. You're already losing."
"I'm not losing."
"You are," Garrett said. "Trust me."
You immediately held your phone closer to Logan's face.
"Look."
"I am looking, baby."
"No, actually look."
Logan sighed. The two photos looked nearly identical. Same pose. Same smile. Same coffee cup.
But because he'd been dating you long enough, he knew better than to say that.
So he studied them. Seriously. For you.
Like he was reviewing game footage. Your eyes narrowed suspiciously.
"Well?"
"The second one."
You blinked. "Why?"
Logan shrugged.
"Better lighting."
You stared. Then slowly pointed at him.
"See? You get it."
"No, I don't."
"You do."
"I don't."
"You literally noticed the lighting."
Garrett finally looked over.
"Oh, he's gone."
"What does that mean?" Logan asked.
"It means you've become an Instagram boyfriend."
The horrified look on Logan's face made you laugh.
The problem was that it kept happening.
Every day. Everywhere.
At first, Logan only took your pictures because you asked. Then somehow it became routine.
Walking downtown?
"Babe, picture."
At a café?
"Logan, picture."
Pretty sunset?
"Baby."
And every single time he complained. While still taking the photo.
"Move a little to the left."
You paused.
"What?"
"The light."
You stared. Slowly. Carefully.
"Excuse me?"
Logan immediately realized his mistake.
Across the table, Hannah burst out laughing.
"Oh my god." Dean pointed dramatically.
"He said it."
"Said what?"
"'The light.'"
Garrett looked genuinely emotional.
"They grow up so fast."
"Shut up."
You were already grinning. Because Logan had started noticing things.
The background. The angles. The lighting.
And worst of all? He was good at it. Really good. Sometimes he'd hand your phone back and you'd stare at the pictures in shock.
"Logan."
"What?"
"These are amazing."
He looked confused.
"You just stood there, baby"
"Exactly."
A few weeks later, the situation became even worse. You were sitting on the couch with your head laying on Logan's shoulder while you scroll through your camera roll.
Trying to decide what to post. Again.
"Question."
Logan sighed.
"There it is."
"Which picture?"
You held your phone up. Three selfies. Logan looked. For about two seconds.
"The third one."
Your eyes widened. "That fast?"
"The third one."
"Why?"
"The smile's more real."
Silence. You stared. Logan stared back.
Then slowly returned to his phone. Like he hadn't just completely ruined your day.
Because what did he mean, the smile was more real?
And why he was right?
The thing was, Logan noticed things. Small things. The things nobody else paid attention to.
When you were genuinely happy versus when you were forcing a smile.
When you liked an outfit but were pretending you didn't care.
When you felt confident.
When you didn't.
Which was why he noticed immediately when you stopped asking about pictures.
At first, he didn't think much of it. Then three days passed.
No Instagram questions.
No photo requests.
Nothing.
You were sprawled across Logan's bed while he sat at his desk pretending to study.
Pretending being the important word.
Because every few minutes, his eyes drifted away from his textbook and toward you. At the moment, you were scrolling through your camera roll with a deep frown.
Delete. Delete. Delete.
Another photo disappeared. Then another. Then another.
Logan watched for a minute before finally speaking.
"What happened?"
You didn't look up.
"Nothing."
"That's not true."
You sighed dramatically. "I look weird." Logan blinked.
"What?"
"In the pictures."
He stared at you for a second. Then at your phone. Then back at you.
"You asked me to take those."
"I know."
"And now they're bad?"
"I didn't say bad."
"You literally just deleted twenty of them."
You groaned and flopped backward onto his bed. "Forget it."
Logan immediately knew not to forget it.
Because he knew you. And sometimes, when you got frustrated with yourself, you started seeing flaws nobody else could see.
So he held out his hand.
"Give me the phone." Suspiciously, you handed it over. Logan scrolled.
One picture.
Then another.
Then another.
A few more.
His brows furrowed slightly. You watched him nervously. "Well?"
"I'm confused."
That wasn't the answer you expected.
"What do you mean?"
Logan looked up. "I'm trying to figure out which part is supposed to look weird." Your face immediately heated.
"Logan."
"I'm serious."
"You have boyfriend bias."
"Obviously."
You buried your face in a pillow. Immediately. Because somehow that answer was worse. Logan laughed quietly.
The mattress shifted slightly as he moved closer. Then he gently tugged the pillow down just enough so he could see your eyes.
"There you are."
You glared at him. Weakly. Logan remained completely unbothered.
"You keep looking at the pictures trying to find flaws."
You rolled your eyes.
"And?"
His expression softened.
"And I'm looking at you."
Your heart did something incredibly annoying. Logan seemed completely unaware of the damage he'd just caused.
Typical.
For a second, neither of you spoke. Then he handed the phone back. You glanced down at the screen.
The same pictures. The same lighting. The same smile.
Nothing had changed. Yet somehow they didn't seem quite as bad anymore.
"You know," Logan said casually, leaning back against the headboard.
"Hm?"
"My favorite pictures of you aren't even on Instagram."
You frowned.
"What does that mean?"
"Nothing."
Your eyes narrowed immediately.
"Logan."
"Nothing."
"Logan."
He smiled. The kind of smile that told you he absolutely knew something you didn't.
"What pictures?"
"Not telling you."
"Why?"
"Because you'll make fun of me." Your jaw dropped.
"That's suspicious."
"It should be."
"Logan!"
He laughed. Actually laughed. Then reached over and stole your phone before you could continue interrogating him.
The conversation ended there. Or at least, you thought it did.
Because later that night, when Logan's phone buzzed from the nightstand and he asked you to grab it for him.
The screen lit up. And suddenly, everything made sense.
For a second, you just stared.
Then stared some more. Because there you were. Curled up asleep on Logan's couch.
One of his hoodies swallowed you whole, sleeves covering your hands. Your hair was a complete mess, your cheek squished against a cushion, and one leg was hanging off the edge like you'd fallen asleep halfway through moving.
It wasn't a flattering picture. It wasn't posed. You weren't even looking at the camera. You had no idea it existed.
And yet, it was his lock screen.
Your heart immediately did something stupid.
"Logan."
The second he heard your voice, he knew.
"Oh no."
You slowly turned his phone around.
"What is this?"
Logan dropped his head back against the headboard. Like a man accepting his fate.
"It's a picture."
"Of me."
"Yeah."
"Sleeping."
"You were asleep at the time." You laughed despite yourself.
"That's not the point."
"Seems relevant."
"Logan."
He peeked at you from beneath one eye.
You were smiling. That made this significantly worse. "When did you even take this?" He groaned. "I don't know."
"Logan."
"A few months ago."
"A few months?"
"It sounds worse when you say it like that."
You stared at him. Then back at the phone. Then back at him. Out of every picture he'd ever taken.
The café photos.
The sunset pictures.
The ones you'd actually posted.
The dozens sitting in his camera roll.
He'd picked this one.
This sleepy, messy, completely unplanned picture.
"Why this one?" you asked quietly.
Logan looked genuinely confused by the question. Like the answer should've been obvious.
His gaze flickered toward the screen. Then back to you. And his shoulders lifted in a small shrug.
"Because it's my favorite."
Your chest tightened instantly.
"Why?"
"You want the honest answer?"
"Obviously."
For a second, Logan simply looked at you softly. The same way he always did when he forgot to hide how much he loved you.
Then he reached over and brushed a loose strand of hair behind your ear.
"You looked happy, baby."
The room suddenly felt very quiet. You glanced down at the picture again.
Messy hair. Oversized hoodie. Half hanging off the couch.
Nothing about it was Instagram-worthy. Nothing about it was perfect.
But looking at it now, you remembered that day. Movie playing in the background. Logan studying nearby.
Falling asleep because you felt safe enough to. And somehow, that made your eyes sting a little.
"You know," you said softly, "for someone who claims to hate Instagram, you're kind of sentimental." Logan immediately looked offended.
"I am not sentimental."
"You have a secret collection of candid photos of me, don't you?"
Silence.
Your jaw dropped. "Oh my god."
"It sounds worse than it is."
"How many are there!?"
Logan refused to answer. Which was an answer. You gasped dramatically.
"John Logan."
He was laughing now. Actually laughing. The kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes.
And suddenly you couldn't stop smiling either. Because after all those months of asking.
Which picture should I post?
Which one looks better?
Which song should I use?
You finally realized something. His favorite picture wasn't on your Instagram. It wasn't even on your phone.
pairing – garrett graham x kitty!reader
summary – garrett says they're not dating. kitty decides to make the consequences of that very, very clear.
warnings – arguing, jealousy, sexual references, casual relationship, strong language, garrett being dumb asf
notes from me – based on this request!! thank u anon, we love a jealous girly 🙂↕️
word count – 2.7k
navigation – masterlist | taglist
The hockey house always got stupid on Fridays. There were different kinds of stupid, obviously. There was early-night stupid, when everyone still had most of their balance and someone was pretending the kitchen counter was a DJ booth even though the speaker kept cutting out every time the bass hit too hard.
There was midnight stupid, when beer pong had become a recognised sport in the dining room and three girls from Kappa were screaming over a Nicki Minaj verse like it had been written specifically for them.
And then there was the late, sweaty, wall-leaning kind of stupid, where the whole downstairs smelled like spilled beer, cheap perfume, deodorant giving up under pressure, and whatever Tucker had put in the oven forty minutes ago and then forgotten about because Logan had challenged him to quarters.
She was posted near the mouth of the living room with a red cup she hadn’t sipped from in twenty minutes, one hip against the doorframe, watching Garrett Graham be very, very irritating.
He was on the couch in the far corner, one long leg stretched out, the other bent, beer bottle loose in one hand, shoulders relaxed beneath a faded Briar Hockey hoodie because he had a game tomorrow and one beer was the tragic little line between responsible captain and washed-up campus cautionary tale.
His hair was still damp from whatever shower he’d taken after practice, curls drying messy over his forehead, and he had that clean, warm, unfair look on his face that made girls drift toward him like someone had put out a bowl of candy.
One of them had drifted. She was perched on the arm of the couch beside him, angled in with her knees turned toward him, laughing at something Garrett said like he’d invented humour personally for her benefit.
She had glossy hair and a tiny top and the kind of pretty, easy confidence that came from never having to wonder if people wanted you in a room. Her hand landed on Garrett’s arm once, light and quick. Then again, longer this time, fingers curling around his bicep like she was testing the merchandise.
The red cup crinkled slightly in her hand.
Garrett laughed. A low huff through his nose, mouth tilting, eyes dropping briefly before coming back up. It was the kind of laugh that looked private from across the room even if it wasn’t. The kind of laugh that made something hot and awful crawl up the back of her neck and settle behind her ears.
She took one sip from her cup and tasted nothing but melted ice and bad decisions.
“Careful, Kitty,” Dean said beside her. “Clench your jaw any harder and you’ll crack a tooth.”
She didn’t look at him. “Don’t call me that.”
Dean hummed into the rim of his beer. He’d appeared at her side sometime in the last five minutes, because rich boys had stealth settings when there was drama nearby.
He wore a white t-shirt that probably cost more than her whole outfit and looked entirely too comfortable watching her quietly consider homicide. “It’s a cute nickname.”
“It’s not my name.”
“Yeah, but nicknames usually aren’t.”
She finally turned her head just enough to glare at him. Dean looked delighted, which made her want to shove him and also, unfortunately, made her feel a little less insane.
He had that big, bright, nosy expression on his face, the one that said he had absolutely no intention of helping and every intention of narrating the crash if she drove herself into a wall.
“Mm,” she said flatly. “Whatever.”
Dean followed her gaze back to the couch. The girl was laughing again, leaning so far into Garrett’s space that her hair brushed his shoulder.
Garrett didn’t move away. He didn’t lean in either, which was probably supposed to mean something mature and rational, except her body was not currently accepting evidence from the defence.
Her stomach had gone tight. Her tongue sat sharp behind her teeth. Every inch of her skin felt stupidly aware of how many times Garrett’s hands had been on her that week alone.
His fingers on the back of her neck while he kissed her in the kitchen. His mouth against her ear upstairs. His hoodie shoved into her arms when she’d complained about being cold, like he hadn’t cared, like he hadn’t watched her pull it on and then gone a little quiet around the eyes.
Casual. That was the word he liked so much.
Casual, apparently, meant making space for her at the counter without being asked. It meant texting her u up? and then getting pissy when she said no because she had an early class.
It meant his hand sliding under the back of her shirt while they watched a movie with the guys and him acting like that was somehow normal. It meant his mouth on her throat and his stupid voice saying baby like he’d been born knowing it would make her softer, then turning around two days later and saying, very calmly, very publicly, that they weren’t dating.
Which was true. Technically.
Unfortunately, technically did not stop her from wanting to throw her drink at the girl’s stupid shiny little head.
Dean’s shoulder bumped hers, barely. “You could go over there.”
“And do what?”
“I don’t know. Bite her?”
She gave him a look.
“What?” Dean said, lifting both hands. “I’m workshopping.”
“I’m not jealous.”
Dean blinked at her. Then he looked back at Garrett, then at her again, slow and theatrical. “Oh, okay.”
“I’m not.”
“Right.”
“I just think it’s tacky.”
“Her?”
“Both of them.”
Dean nodded, deeply solemn. “Of course. This is an etiquette issue.”
“It is.”
“Very Miss Manners of you.”
She made a soft, mean little sound and looked away, because if she kept watching him smile at that girl, something was going to snap clean through her. The party kept moving around her like nobody else could feel the pressure building in the walls.
Logan was somewhere near the dining room yelling, “No, no, house rules, you drink on a bounce,” like he was presiding over the Supreme Court.
Tucker walked past with a plate of burnt pizza rolls and paused just long enough to assess her face, then Dean’s face, then Garrett’s corner of the couch.
“Oh,” Tucker said.
Dean nodded. “Yeah.”
Tucker looked back at her, kind but not soft enough to be annoying. “You good?”
“I’m having the best night of my life,” she snapped.
“Cool.” Tucker took one pizza roll off the plate, bit into it, immediately regretted it, and still swallowed because he was committed to dignity. “Just checking.”
She watched him go, jaw working.
Dean leaned closer, lowering his voice. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think he’s doing anything.”
That made something in her chest pull tight, because Dean wasn’t joking now, and that was worse. She could handle him being an idiot. She had built up a tolerance to Dean’s particular strain of idiocy. But concern made the whole thing embarrassing in a way she could feel under her skin.
She kept her eyes on the opposite wall. “He can do whatever he wants.”
“Sure.”
“He’s single.”
He shrugged, lips turning down. “Technically.”
She turned on him. “Don’t do that.”
Dean’s brows lifted. “Do what?”
“That little voice.”
“My voice is beautiful.”
“The thing where you all act like I’m his girlfriend when he’s the one walking around with a public service announcement that I’m not.”
Dean’s face shifted, amusement easing out at the corners. He looked over at Garrett again, and she hated how much she wanted him to tell her she was wrong.
How much she wanted anyone to say Garrett was just being stupid, that everybody could see it, that she wasn’t standing there making herself sick over a guy who would go upstairs with someone else while she was still in the room.
Dean took a slow drink. “Yeah,” he said finally. “He’s an idiot.”
“That wasn’t helpful.”
“Wasn’t trying to be helpful. Just accurate.”
Across the room, Garrett stood, and the girl stood too.
For one second the party muffled itself around her, all the music and laughter and clattering cups dulling under the sudden hard rush of blood in her ears.
Garrett said something to the girl, head tipped down so she could hear him over the noise. The girl smiled up at him, bright and satisfied, then touched his arm again. A small stroke of her thumb over the sleeve of his hoodie.
Her stomach dropped so sharply it almost felt physical, like missing a step in the dark.
Garrett started toward the stairs and the girl followed.
“Oh,” Dean said under his breath, and there was no humour in it this time.
She didn’t move at first. Her hand was still wrapped around the cup. Her mouth felt dry. The room had tilted a little, or maybe she had. She could see Garrett clearly as he cut through the living room, tall and easy and completely unaware that she was standing there with something vicious crawling around inside her ribs.
Or maybe he did know. Maybe that was worse. Maybe he knew exactly where she was and had still decided to walk past her with another girl trailing after him toward the stairs that led to his room.
Casual. Cool. Fine.
She lifted her cup to her mouth and realised it was empty.
Garrett noticed her when he was close enough that it was too late to pretend she hadn’t seen. His gaze flicked from her face to Dean, then back again, and something changed in his expression. Confusion first. A little crease between his brows, mouth settling, shoulders still loose but no longer careless.
The girl came up beside him, close enough that her arm brushed his. Garrett looked at her, nodded toward the stairs, and said, “I’ll meet you up there.”
She nodded, smiling, then slipped around him and went upstairs.
Dean made a noise into his beer that sounded like a man trying very hard not to choke on stupidity.
Garrett watched the girl disappear, then turned back. “What’s wrong?”
Dean coughed. “Brother.”
Garrett’s eyes cut to him. “What?”
Dean shook his head and took one step back. “Nothing. I just love when you’re dumb.”
Garrett ignored him, attention coming back to her. “What’s wrong?”
She looked up at him. He was close now. Close enough that she could see the little damp curls around his hairline, the faint bruise yellowing near his jaw from last weekend’s game, the stupid dark sweep of his lashes when he blinked down at her like she was the one being difficult.
Like he hadn’t just sent another girl upstairs to wait in his room. Like her body wasn’t reacting to the whole thing with an ugly, nauseous twist that made her want to either laugh in his face or claw her way out of her own skin.
“What’s wrong?” she repeated.
Garrett’s brows drew tighter. “Yeah.”
She smiled. It didn’t feel nice on her face. “Don’t be stupid.”
His jaw shifted. “Okay. What’s that supposed to mean?”
Dean took another tiny step away, then immediately stopped because his survival instinct was at war with his need to witness the entire thing.
She set her empty cup on the nearest bookshelf with such careful precision that Garrett’s eyes followed the movement. Then she looked back at him and kept her voice light. Sweet, almost. “If you fuck her, you’re never touching me again.”
Garrett blinked. Dean inhaled so sharply he almost whistled.
For a second, no one said anything. Someone screamed with laughter in the kitchen. A bass-heavy song rattled through the floorboards.
Garrett’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. “What?”
She tipped her head, widening her eyes in a cruel little imitation of him. “What?”
His face hardened by degrees. That familiar Garrett switch where something got too close to an exposed nerve and he decided arrogance was quicker than honesty. “We’re not dating.”
Dean made a strangled sound. “Oh, man.”
Garrett pointed at him without looking away from her. “Stay out of it.”
“No, I’m sorry,” Dean said, not sounding sorry at all. “I’m incapable. You don’t fuck someone else in front of her, dude.”
Garrett glared at him. “I said stay out of it.”
She laughed once, sharp enough to make Garrett’s eyes snap back to hers. “No, no. Let him talk. He’s making sense for once.”
Dean pressed a hand to his chest. “That felt backhanded, but I’ll take it.”
Garrett’s nostrils flared slightly. “I wasn’t–” He cut himself off, dragging a hand over his mouth, then looked down at her again. “You don’t get to make rules for me.”
That landed worse than she wanted it to, because every part of this was built on nothing solid enough to hold. No title. No promise. No soft, stupid conversation in daylight where either of them admitted what they were doing.
She kept smiling anyway.
“I’m not making any rules.” Her voice was calm enough that even Dean looked at her twice. “You can do whatever you want, Garrett. I’m not your girlfriend. You’ve made that incredibly fucking clear. So go upstairs. Have fun. I’m not going to tackle her in the hallway.”
His face flickered. Just once.
She stepped in a fraction closer, because if she stopped now, she might actually start shaking, and she would rather die in the hallway with Dean watching than give Garrett that.
She tipped her chin up, all teeth around the edges of her smile. “But it’s simple, baby. Stick your dick in her, and you never get to stick it in me ever again. Okay?”
Dean stared at the ceiling like he had just seen God. Garrett went very still.
His eyes dropped to her mouth, then came back up. His hand tightened around the neck of his beer bottle. For all his cocky, golden-boy bullshit, for all the easy girls and easy smiles and campus-wide Garrett Graham mythos, he looked briefly like she’d shoved him hard enough to make him feel where the edge was.
“Okay,” he said. It came out low.
She blinked. “Okay?”
His jaw worked once. “Yeah. Okay.”
Dean’s head whipped toward him. “Wow. Love personal growth.”
Garrett shot him a look that should have melted paint off the wall. “Dean.”
“I’m going, I’m going.” Dean lifted both hands and backed up another step, but not before looking at her with open admiration. “For the record, Kitty, that was terrifying.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Yeah, no, for sure.” He nodded, still backing away. “Very scary. Loved it.”
He disappeared toward the kitchen, probably to tell Logan and Tucker immediately.
Garrett looked at her for another second, then glanced toward the stairs. Something in her body tightened again, bracing. Waiting for him to go up anyway. Waiting for him to prove the whole thing meant less to him than it did to her.
Instead, he turned and shoved his beer onto the bookshelf beside her cup. “Stay here.”
Her laugh came out before she could stop it. “Excuse me?”
“Just–” Garrett stopped, visibly swallowed the first version of whatever he wanted to say, and tried again. “Don’t leave.”
It was a little rough around the edges, a little too quick, like the thought of her walking out had gotten under his skin before he could pretend otherwise.
She crossed her arms. “Why?”
Garrett looked at her like she was exhausting, which might have been more effective if he hadn’t just made a girl wait in his room and then told the girl he wasn’t dating not to leave. “Because I’m going upstairs to tell her to go.”
She hated how much that loosened something in her chest. She crossed her arms tighter, because if she didn’t, she might do something embarrassing, like believe him too quickly. “Fine.”
Garrett’s eyes stayed on hers. “Fine?”
“Go.”
He nodded once, then hesitated, hand flexing at his side like he wanted to touch her and knew better. “She’s leaving,” he said.
“She better.”
His mouth twitched despite everything. “Yeah, Kitty.”
“Don’t call me that.”
But this time, she didn’t sound nearly mean enough.
while making out with your boyfriend in the girls bathroom - you can’t help but get invested in Allie Hayes boyfriend drama.
a/n: I saw this idea on tiktok and couldn’t get it out of my head
The lock on the girls’ bathroom stall door was flimsy, but right now, you couldn't care less.
Dean Di Laurentis had you pressed firmly against the graffiti-covered wooden panel, his hands gripping your hips with an urgency that made you feel like you were the only thing keeping him anchored to the earth. He was giving you that devastating, laser-focused attention that usually made your brain completely short-circuit. His lips moved against yours with a slow, deliberate heat, tasting like mint and pure trouble, and your fingers were tangled deep in the ridiculously soft, thick hair at the back of his neck.
You were completely, utterly lost in the moment—right up until the heavy exterior door of the bathroom swung open with a violent, echoing thud.
"I mean, seriously! Who does that? OMG! I'm dating a beige wall! A literal load-bearing pillar would have more personality!"
The voice was loud, sharp, and dripping with theatrical tragedy, bouncing off the porcelain tiles.
You froze, your lips instantly parting from Dean’s. You strained your ears, but there was no sound of a second person entering.
No rustle of a jacket, no responding hum.
Just pure, unfiltered, solo pacing.
Dean groaned against your mouth, a low, needy sound of protest, and tried to nudge his way back in. "Ignore her," he mumbled, his breath hot against your jaw as he trailed a line of kisses down to your neck, desperately trying to salvage the mood. "She's just... yelling at the mirror. Let her yell. People do it all the time."
"No, because it’s an actual crime against womanhood!" the voice continued outside, punctuated by the aggressive, rhythmic thwack-thwack-thwack of the paper towel dispenser.
Allie Hayes was fully, completely alone, pacing the length of the sinks and projecting her voice to the ceiling like she was playing to the back rows of the theater department.
"He didn't just forget our six-month anniversary. He suggested we celebrate it by going to a guest lecture on microeconomics. And this breakout? Oh my god, the breakout. My skin is violently protesting my life choices, and nobody is even here to witness my ultimate demise!"
Your eyes snapped open.
Wait.
Allie Hayes? Alone, spiraling about microeconomics, and destroying her skin?
"Babe," Dean whispered, his thumbs stroking the bare skin just beneath the hem of your shirt, trying everything in his power to reclaim your attention. He leaned back slightly to look at you, his eyes heavy-lidded and dark with frustration.
But as he pulled back, you couldn't help but notice that your signature, highly pigmented red lipstick was smeared spectacularly all over his lips, his chin, and a little patch right near the tip of his nose. He looked like a gorgeous, extremely intense, deeply frustrated clown.
"Hold on," you whispered, gently but firmly pressing a hand against his chest.
"What? No, don't hold on, keep doing exactly what we were doing," Dean pleaded, shifting his weight to crowd you back into the corner of the stall. "She's literally talking to nobody. Do not engage crazy, babe. She doesn't need you. I need you."
Allie Hayes did infact need someone to prove she wasn’t crazy.
That someone became you the second she walked into the bathroom needing emotional support.
"The skin barrier is a delicate, fragile ecosystem!" Allie’s voice wailed from the sink area, followed by the dramatic sound of her slapping both palms against the marble counter. "If I use one more harsh acne wash, my entire face is going to slide off into the drain!"
That did it.
You were a girls' girl first, and a girlfriend second. You absolutely could not sit by and let a sister commit cosmetic suicide in an empty bathroom.
You shoved Dean back with a surprising amount of force. He blinked, stunned and breathless, as you slid the deadbolt open and stepped right out of the stall, smoothing down your shirt.
"Okay, first of all," you said, stepping up to the sinks and instantly startling Allie halfway out of her skin. "Stop using whatever acne wash you're currently using immediately."
Allie spun around, clutching a crumpled paper towel to her chest, her eyes wide with shock. She looked incredibly stressed, a tiny, barely visible spot on her chin being the apparent source of her absolute agony. "Oh! Oh, thank god, a real person. I thought I was going to have to start debating the tiles."
"I was in the stall, and I couldn't sit by and let you destroy your moisture barrier," you said, completely shifting into best-friend-therapist mode, leaning your hip against the counter. "What's the boyfriend's name again? The microeconomics guy?"
"Sean," Allie groaned, instantly accepting you as her savior. She gestured wildly to her outfit—a stunning, perfectly styled vintage leather jacket over a sleek, dark top and tailored pants that made her look like she belonged on a chic European film set. "Like, look at this outfit! I put this together last week, felt amazing, and he genuinely asked if I was wearing it because I ran out of laundry detergent for my regular jeans. He has zero appreciation for personal style. None! The man thinks khakis are a personality trait."
"Grounds for immediate execution," you declared, shaking your head in solidarity.
"Right?! And it gets so much worse," Allie continued, fully on a roll now that she had an actual audience. "He’s already mapping out his post-grad life and just assumes I'm moving to Vermont with him. Vermont! I don't want to live in the middle of a maple syrup forest! And when I remind him that I have auditions in New York and a theater degree to finish, he literally patted my head. He patted my head, you guys, and called drama my 'fun little phase.' A phase! It's the career I am actively pursuing!"
"Oh, absolutely not," you said, crossing your arms, completely invested in the drama. "The disrespect to your craft is wild. And let me guess... that total lack of passion carries over into other departments?"
Allie let out a miserable, soul-crushing laugh, throwing her hands in the air. "Oh, you have no idea. The sex is so vanilla it makes actual vanilla seem exotic. It is completely, devastatingly dull. It’s like he’s following a maintenance manual from 1950. No spice, no spontaneity, just... scheduled, mechanical maintenance. I have to mentally check my grocery list just to get through it."
You couldn't help but wince in pure, deep sympathy. You glanced back toward the stall, where Dean was now standing in the doorway, looking thoroughly disgruntled. His arms were crossed over his chest, his hair was a messy nest from your fingers, and his lips were entirely painted in your bright red lipstick.
In that moment, you felt a massive wave of gratitude for your current situation. Say what you want about Dean Di Laurentis being a dramatic, attention-seeking hockey player, but the boy was a literal god in bed. He was creative, completely attentive, and absolutely feral for you.
He didn't do vanilla; he did breathless, back-arching, lose-your-mind intensity. The idea of having to mentally check a grocery list while someone was touching you made you want to shudder.
Allie deserved so much better.
"Oof. Yeah, you need to run," you told Allie, shaking your head. "Life is way too short for boring sex and a guy who treats your passion like a high school hobby."
Dean stepped up next to you, attempting to plug himself back into the equation. He leaned down, trying to catch your eye, his voice dropping into that smooth, gravelly register he usually used to get exactly what he wanted. "Hey. Come on. I have great taste in outfits. I support the arts. And I definitely don't do vanilla. You can check out my complete lack of a grocery list back at my place." He gave you a slow, heavy wink.
It was totally ruined by the giant smudge of red lipstick right on the bridge of his nose.
"Dean, babe, shush, the women are talking," you said, waving a hand dismissively at him without even breaking eye contact with Allie. "Allie, listen to me. You need to ice that breakout tonight. No picking, no harsh scrubs. And as for Sean, you need to give him the 'it's not me, it's definitely you' text. You’re way too vibrant to be hidden away on a beige wall in Vermont."
"You are so right," Allie said, her eyes beaming as she looked at you like you had just handed her the secrets to the universe. "Wow, having an actual conversation is so much better than talking to the mirror. Hey, I’m actually heading over to the diner right now to grab a mountain of fries and continue this rant with carbs. Do you want to come? You can tell me more about this skin stuff and help me draft the breakup text."
You looked at Allie, then looked at Dean, who was currently staring at you with wide, puppy-dog eyes, silently begging you to remember that he was a desirable man who had been promised a make-out session.
"You know what? I would love to. Let's go get fries," you said, hooking your arm firmly through Allie's.
"Excellent," Allie said, matching your stride. She glanced back at Dean one last time, biting her lip to hide a laugh. "Uh, Di Laurentis? You might want to hit the mirror before you go outside. You look like you got into a fight with a Sephora counter and lost miserably."
"I did lose," Dean muttered, thoroughly defeated. He slumped against the marble sink, watching in absolute disbelief as you and Allie began walking toward the exit, completely locked in conversation about the merits of hyaluronic acid.
"Bye, baby! Text you later!" you called out cheerfully over your shoulder just as the heavy bathroom door swung shut.
The door clicked into place, leaving Dean entirely alone in the fluorescent light. He turned slowly, staring at his own reflection, rubbed a hand over his berry-red lips, and let out a long, exhausted sigh.
"I hate microeconomics," he whispered to the empty room.
blurb: pt. 2 to jealou$y. lingering feelings of jealousy bubble up into desire inside logan. it certainly doesn’t help that you look so good in your costume.
warnings: fem!reader, smut, established relationship, alcohol (not under the influence), CONSENT KING JOHN LOGAN, oral (f!receiving), john logan tits guy CONFIRMED, fingering, riding, lots of praise because it’s john logan i don’t make the rules
You stopped having drinks after that incident. If you were getting lucky tonight, you needed to be sober and ready to pounce on Logan in the right state of mind.
Logan seemed to have the same idea, for you noticed he switched out his bottles of beer for cans of Sprite for the remainder of the night. Neither of you addressed it.
“Bro, don’t be so fucking boring!” Dean clapped him on the back and tried to hand him a suspicious-looking green concoction.
“Not boring, just responsible,” Logan replied, but his eyes were on you when he said it.
He also kept a heavy hand on the small of your back any moment his hand was free. You put on a good act, pretending it didn’t get to you every time his fingers drew small shapes over your top, or whenever his digits slipped beneath the fabric when the boys were too busy laughing, leaving you with a hitched breath and a warm feeling between your legs.
When the other half to your dynamic duo, Kendall, stepped between the two of you and grabbed your hand, spluttering something about dancing to her favorite song, Logan’s grip tightened on you for a moment before he loosened up and plastered a pursed smile on his face.
“As long as you bring her back to me,” he said. Kendall laughed at his joke as she dragged you away. But one look between you and Logan and you knew he wasn’t trying to be funny.
“He’s so down bad for you, it’s hilarious,” Kendall giggled to you with a roll of her eyes. “He needs to lighten up.”
The pair of you danced to an ABBA song, laughing and belting out the lyrics. You closed your eyes and let loose, submitting to the tingle of whatever alcohol remained in your system.
John watched like a hawk. The irony wasn’t lost on him considering his bird costume. You looked so good. He wanted to hold you from behind and make you feel how heavy his—
“Any more staring and she’ll burst into flames.”
Logan snapped out of it and turned to Garrett, who wore a knowing smirk and offered him another can of Sprite.
“Thanks, man,” Logan said gratefully, taking the refill.
Garrett looked at your dancing figure. “Freshmen on the team were asking about her.”
“Yeah? What’d they say?” Logan replied almost absentmindedly, sipping his drink and staring at you.
Garrett sighed. “Rather not say. I’m supposed to be Hannah’s ‘boyfriend’ and all.”
Logan peered at him from the corner of his eyes, feeling his protective instincts start to wake. Garrett noticed and gently bumped their shoulders together.
“Not like that. Wasn’t bad. Just…” Garrett hummed into his red solo cup. “Horny.” He settled on that word.
That was enough.
Logan chugged down whatever was left in the can of soda before making his way over to you. He crossed the room in quick strides, ignoring Kendall’s amused voice when she cooed, “Uh oh, return to sender already?”
Logan took your hand and pulled you away; away from the dance floor, away from the party, and most importantly—away from the lingering gazes so many guys sent your way.
“Logan?” You queried as he brought you up the stairs.
He didn’t respond, just kept tugging you along.
“Logan.”
Nothing.
“Baby—”
He finally stopped and turned to look at you. His stature towered over you and you suddenly felt small with the way he was staring down at your face.
He exhaled a heavy breath. “Fuck, baby, I’m trying really hard to be respectful.”
You cupped his cheek. His skin was hot to the touch. He subconsciously burrowed closer into the palm of your hand.
“You don’t have to be,” you murmured.
He closed his eyes for a moment. “How many drinks have you had?”
“A can and a half of beer,” you answered.
He opened his eyes to make sure you were being honest. You stood unwavering.
“You’re sober?” He asked.
“Mhm.”
“You’re sure?”
“100%. Are you?”
He sighed, turning away. “Yeah. Yeah, I made sure not to…” his words trailed off.
You smiled. “You made sure not to drink too much so we could fuck?”
He looked at you again. “Don’t say it like that.”
You giggled, pushing away a strand of fallen hair from his forehead. “I’m saying it as it is.”
“I made sure not to drink too much to be responsible,” he corrected.
You nodded along, “Oh, yeah. Responsible. My responsible and respectful boyfriend.” You teased. He did not appreciate that.
“Okay,” he let out an amused sound as if he were faced with a challenge. He leaned in and whispered, “Let’s see who’s laughing when I stop respecting you and start doing all the things I plan to do to you.”
You gulped.
+
He led you to the nearest vacant bedroom in the Maxwell family home before pushing you inside and locking the door behind him. You thought he’d pin you against the door and makeout with you.
Instead, he said, “Sit on the bed,” in that husky voice you rarely hear so you knew you had to listen.
You sat down. The covers were soft and cool. You watched and waited for his next words, but Logan was too busy pacing in front of the door and running his hands through his hair. He looked so yummy.
“Take your clothes off. Let me see you.”
You blinked. You weren’t used to Logan being like this. He usually did all the work. But this new side of him was hot, so very hot.
You slowly unzipped your boots and kicked them off along with your socks. Next, your headpiece with the sprinkles. Then, your tube top, revealing your bare breasts, and lastly, your skirt, leaving you in nothing but underwear.
You felt exposed, just sitting there on the bed as Logan stared at you without a word. His eyes were nearly black from how blown out his pupils were, his bottom lip chewed and slightly pink from how much he dragged it beneath his teeth.
“Pretty,” he finally commented. “That’s new.”
You glanced down to where he gestured, looking at the lace thong you wore. He was right; it was new. You and Kendall bought matching ones for the costumes, but you didn’t need to tell him that bit right now.
“Yeah,” you confirmed.
“Was it expensive?” He asked.
“Not…really…”
“Good,” he nodded to himself. He pushed off the wings he wore for his costume and pulled his shirt over his head, tossing it aside.
He knelt down in front of you and spread your legs apart. “So I can ruin it, right?”
That shot up your spine. Your thighs wanted to rub against one another at his remark, but he held your knees firmly. “Answer.”
You nodded without thinking. “Yes.”
He smiled at your obedience and nodded. “Yeah, we’ll get to that. But for now…” his words died down as his lips attached to yours.
It was all tongue and messy. Logan pinned your wrists to the mattress as he kissed you. He grunted against your lips every time you bit his lip teasingly. Eventually, his kisses trailed downwards. To your neck, your shoulder, your collarbone. He made sure to give all your sensitive spots an abundance of attention.
Then? His favorite bit. Your tits. John Logan was a tits guy, through and through. Doesn’t matter what size or shape, he was enamored with them.
“Missed my girls,” he murmured before he took one of your breasts into his mouth, swirling his tongue over your pebbled nipple and sucking softly, then switching to the other boob and giving it the same treatment.
Your head tilted back and let out soft sighs. The comfort of him mouthing at your breasts left you aching and squirming on the bed. “Oh, baby…”
He pulled away at your voice and left a sloppy kiss between your tits. He peppered a few more kisses on your abdomen—nipping an especially ticklish spot below your rib—before diving in and licking you over the fabric of your lace thong. You gasped, your hand flying to his hair like second instinct.
He groaned against you, the sound muffled but the vibrations sending sparks to your core. “Already so wet for me. I hardly did anything.”
“Logan, please…”
He kept licking up your slit through your panties. He could feel your juices seep through the delicate material. The friction was doing wonders for your pleasure, but you grew impatient. “Logan…”
He finally pulled your thong to the side and resumed his ministrations with extra fervor. The direct contact had you jumping in your seat, but Logan’s strong arms held your hips down.
He groaned again, pulling away just to mutter, “Fuck, gorgeous, maybe he was right to call you cupcake. You taste so fucking sweet.”
Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion before his words fully registered in your head. “James?” You asked, breathlessly.
He pulled away and looked at you with a deadpan expression. He crawled up your body until he was face-to-face with you and said, “Please don’t ever say another man’s name when my tongue is inside you.”
That had your hole clenching around nothing.
“Got that?” He asked.
You nodded right away, “Mhm.”
“Words,” he demanded.
“Yes. Got it.” You responded quietly.
“Good,” he murmured before smoothing your hair down and admiring you for a moment. Then, his head was back between your thighs.
“Ah, Logan!” You breathed out, digging your nails into his scalp.
He raised up two fingers to your lips without stopping. You blinked back bleary eyed at that. “Open,” he said.
Immediately, you parted your lips. He shoved his ring and middle fingers inside your mouth and you sucked on them diligently, running your tongue over his calluses earned from hockey and various handyman jobs. Once they were appropriately wet, he pulled his fingers out and into your pussy.
You keeled over with a loud cry, “John!”
He raised his head up, letting his fingers do all the work now. “You like that? Yeah?”
You bobbed your head up and down, unable to find any words left in you from how nicely Logan scissored his fingers inside you, all whilst keeping his thumb on your clit in steady motions.
“Look at you. So pretty and whiny for me,” he murmured, voice smooth as honey. “Letting me wreck you like this and I haven’t even used my cock yet.”
You whimpered, hand gripping onto his bicep. You were sure you’d see nail marks on his skin even tomorrow morning.
“Oh, you like that?” He asked, tilting his head. “You want me to fuck you stupid with my cock?” The pace of his fingers increased.
Your eyes screwed shut. “Yes! Please, I want that.” You tugged him closer so you could bury your face in his neck, feeling so overwhelmed by pleasure.
He let out an airy chuckle. “Such a good girl. Just for that? I’ll reward you.”
He made you cum on his fingers. The heel of his hand applied pressure on your sensitive bundle of nerves until you seized and melted against him with a moan.
“Shhh, that’s it. Come down from it, you’re okay,” he kissed the top of your head.
You mumbled incoherent sentences into his neck and he merely smiled and rubbed your back.
After a minute of breathing, he pulled back slightly to look at your face. “You okay?” He asked, pushing a lock of hair away from your face.
You nodded, still buzzing from what had happened. “Yeah,” you exhaled.
He nodded, watching you carefully in the vulnerable afterglow. Your hands trailed down to his jeans, tugging at his belt, silently asking for it to come off.
Logan chuckled softly before helping you remove his belt and jeans. He reached into the pocket then chucked them on the floor and you instantly started palming his eager boner through his boxers.
He hissed, tossing his head back. “Fuck, baby.”
“Please tell me you have a condom,” you said.
He held the small foil up in his fingers.
At that, you rid him of his boxers and watched in tense awe as he teared the packet open with his teeth and rolled the condom on. You settled back against the bed pillows as you waited in hot anticipation.
“Uh uh,” he wagged his finger before curling it in a come hither gesture.
You sat up, letting out a surprised squeal when he lifted you by your thighs and settled on the bed before placing you above him. Your hands scrambled until they settled on his abs.
He looked up at you with hooded eyes, “Look good for me, gorgeous. I want a show.”
You leaned down and peppered kisses over his face. He let out a relaxed sigh and rubbed up and down your sides lazily. You nibbled on a spot right below his ear, earning you a delicious whimper from him.
“Tease,” he muttered and you grinned.
“Thought you wanted a show,” you remarked.
He hummed, “Mm, yeah. But just for me. No one else.”
You looked down at him, realizing he’s still a bit hung up from the incident earlier that night. Your finger slid sensually from his adam’s apple to his naval. “No one else. Only you.”
“Yeah?” His voice got deeper. “Show me.”
Sir, yes, sir. You held his dick from the base and slowly sank down on him. Logan groaned, his grip on your hips tightening. The stretch of him filling you up was deliriously good. You bit your lip as you took him in, inch by inch.
Finally, you both let out a sigh in unison. You planted your palms flat on his abdomen and started rocking back and forth.
The room succumbed to the sounds of soft moans and the subtle creak from the bed. The party downstairs was long forgotten. Here, it was just you and Logan.
“Just like that, baby, hah,” he breathed out, moving you back and forth. Even if he put you on top, Logan would always end up doing the work for you. You were his pampered princess.
You threw your head back, feeling the pleasure build up in your tummy once again. You took one of Logan’s hands and guided him through rubbing circles on your clit.
“Do you like that, sweetheart?” He asked.
You nodded fervently. “Yes. Fuck, yes, Logan. Keep doing that, baby, I’m so close.”
He held you firmly and started bucking up into you. You cried out, slumping against his chest as he thrusted in and out of you, reaching so deep inside, hitting that spongy part that left you seeing stars.
“Cum for me, baby. I know you can do it,” he said.
The coil snapped and you released, letting out a long moan. Your body shook, the pleasure and adrenaline rushing through you like a live wire meeting water. You collapsed against him, your bones feeling like putty.
He took your chin in his hand and tilted your head up to meet his face. He was still rocking into you. “Need to see you, baby. Need to see your pretty face when I cum.”
You were so out of it, barely processing his words. You simply nodded and chewed on your bottom lip. He looked so hot all sweaty and breathing heavily.
His eyes squeezed shut when he came, letting out a guttural groan. You felt his hips falter as he bucked up into you, rhythm sloppy and erratic. He let out a shuddering breath and dropped his head back onto the pillow.
The room was quiet now. The hum of electrical circuits and the distant noise of the party below filling up the space. You traced shapes onto his ribs, your touch barely skimming his skin. His hands caressed your back slowly, giving a small squeeze every now and then.
“Not jealous anymore?” You murmured, looking at him with an amused smirk.
He scoffed. “I wasn’t jealous.”
You hummed, “Ohhh, okay. Not jealous. Just possessive.”
He rolled his eyes fondly, a smile threatening to tear his lips wide. “Just…want you to be mine. All the time.”
You smiled, “I am.”
“I know you are.”
mr. i get wet at the thought of you being a responsible guy fr
coule you do a dean di laurentis x fem!reader where the reader shows him her party trick of being able to tie a cherry stem with her tongue?
Cherry Red
Pairing: Dean Di Laurentis x Reader
Word Count: 1353
Request open!
Off campus masterlist
Dean Di Laurentis had seen a lot of things at Briar.
He had seen Garrett lose his mind over a bad call, Tucker calmly survive every disaster the hockey house could throw at him, and John Logan somehow become the emotional glue holding all of them together. So by the time you showed up at a party with a bright red cherry stem between your fingers and a very innocent look on your face, Dean thought he was prepared for whatever you were about to do.
He was not.
You found him in the kitchen, one hip against the counter, a drink in his hand, looking infuriatingly good in the kind of effortless way he always did. He looked up when you walked in and smiled immediately, like he had been waiting for you without meaning to.
“There you are,” he said.
You held up the drink you’d just taken from the counter. “I found a cherry.”
Dean’s eyebrows lifted. “Okay?”
You looked at him for a second, then gave him a tiny, mischievous smile. “I have a party trick.”
That immediately got his attention. “That sounds dangerous.”
“It’s not dangerous.”
“It sounds like something you say right before it gets dangerous.”
You laughed softly and moved closer. “You want to see it or not?”
Dean’s mouth curved. “Absolutely.”
He said it too quickly, which made you smile bigger.
A few of the guys nearby noticed the sudden shift in attention and started paying very obvious attention. Garrett leaned against the fridge like he was settling in for a show. Tucker looked curious. Logan looked amused in the quiet way he got when he knew something entertaining was about to happen.
Dean glanced around and then back at you. “Are you performing for the whole room?”
You shrugged. “Maybe.”
He folded his arms. “That feels like a trap.”
You reached out and plucked the cherry stem from the drink with slow, deliberate confidence. “You’ll see.”
Dean watched every movement like he’d stopped breathing on purpose.
You put the stem in your mouth and tilted your head slightly, eyes still on his. Then you concentrated, tongue moving carefully as you worked the stem against itself, twisting and folding it with practiced ease.
Because he was staring at you like he had forgotten how to function.
You kept going for just a second longer, then pulled the tied stem from your mouth and held it up between two fingers.
There. Perfectly tied.
The room exploded.
Garrett pointed at you like he’d just witnessed magic. “That is absurd.”
Tucker laughed. “How did you do that?”
Logan shook his head in disbelief. “That should not be possible.”
You grinned, pleased with yourself, and then looked at Dean.
He was still staring.
“Dean?” you asked, trying not to laugh at the look on his face.
He blinked once. Then twice.
Then he took a step closer, slow and very deliberate. “Do that again.”
You laughed. “Why?”
“Because I need to be sure I didn’t hallucinate it.”
Garrett immediately started cackling. “Oh, he’s gone.”
You looked at Dean, amused now. “You missed it?”
“I was distracted.”
“That sounds like a personal problem.”
His eyes dropped briefly to your mouth before coming back to your face. “You have no idea.”
That made something warm run through your chest.
You held the cherry stem up again and wiggled your brows. “You want to know the best part?”
Dean’s voice went a little rougher. “There’s more?”
You nodded. “Only a few people have seen me do it.”
Garrett made an offended sound. “I feel violated.”
You ignored him and kept your eyes on Dean. “And now you’ve seen it.”
Dean’s expression had gone a little too focused, a little too quiet. “Yeah?”
You smiled, soft and teasing. “Yeah.”
He looked at the tied stem in your fingers, then back at you, and there was a change in his face that made your pulse jump.
“Jesus,” he muttered.
You laughed. “That’s your reaction?”
“That’s all I’ve got.”
Garrett made a choking sound into his drink. Tucker was smiling openly now. Logan looked like he was trying very hard not to laugh at Dean’s complete malfunction.
Dean ignored all of them and just looked at you like you had thoroughly ruined his evening in the best possible way.
Then he said, very quietly, “You’re kidding me.”
“About what?”
His gaze was fixed on your mouth again. “You can do that, and you’re just acting normal?”
You tilted your head. “What else am I supposed to do?”
Dean gave a short, disbelieving laugh and stepped closer until there was barely any space left between you. “You’re not allowed to do party tricks that way.”
You blinked. “That way?”
He looked at you for a second, jaw flexing slightly, then said, “You know exactly what you’re doing.”
That made your face warm.
Garrett immediately looked delighted. “Oh, this is good.”
Dean shot him a look without looking away from you. “Go away.”
Garrett raised both hands. “I’m not even talking.”
You looked between all of them, then back at Dean. “You okay?”
Dean let out a breath and ran a hand through his hair. “No.”
That made you laugh.
He looked at you like your laugh was its own separate problem.
You lifted the cherry stem a little higher between you. “Want to keep it?”
Dean stared at it, then at you. “No.”
“Why not?”
His mouth curved just barely. “Because I’m trying to be normal.”
You smiled. “You’re failing.”
Dean leaned in a fraction, voice low enough that only you could hear it. “That’s because you did that on purpose.”
You raised your brows. “Did what?”
He glanced at the stem, then at your mouth again, and his expression went entirely unfairly soft. “That.”
You laughed, then covered your smile with your hand because his face was doing something to your nervous system that felt deeply inconvenient.
Dean caught your wrist gently and lowered your hand from your mouth. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Look at me like that.”
Your breath hitched.
The kitchen noise around you faded out again. Garrett and Tucker had clearly become very invested in pretending not to watch. Logan had finally given up pretending altogether.
Dean’s thumb brushed your wrist once. “You really can tie a cherry stem with your tongue.”
You smiled slowly. “Yeah.”
He leaned closer, smiling now too, but it was the kind of smile that looked like surrender. “That’s dangerous information.”
“Why?”
“Because now I’m going to think about it every time I see a cherry.”
That made you laugh outright.
And Dean, apparently having had enough of being emotionally obliterated in front of his friends, took the cherry stem from your fingers, folded it once, and tucked it into his pocket like it was precious.
You stared. “What are you doing?”
He gave you a look. “Keeping it.”
Garrett made a noise like he had just seen true love in its rawest form.
You smiled at Dean, warm and a little stunned. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I know.”
“And very affected by a cherry stem.”
He looked at you for a long second, then said, “I’m affected by the whole situation.”
That made you bite your lip.
Dean noticed.
Of course he did.
His expression shifted again, softer now and much more dangerous. “There,” he murmured. “That.”
You shook your head, laughing, and Dean looked absurdly pleased with himself for having gotten that reaction out of you.
Garrett, from across the kitchen, muttered, “I’m never recovering from this.”
Logan laughed quietly.
Tucker just shook his head and smiled like he was witnessing a disaster with excellent timing.
Dean, meanwhile, didn’t look away from you once.
And now, every time he saw a cherry stem, he was going to remember exactly how easily you made him forget how to breathe.
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: i lowk wanna make a smut pt. 2
“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.
he’s fucked you so good it feels like you’ve just gone through a three hour workout session. you’re sprawled on his bed, his whole weight pressed on top of you, when your stomach clearly didn’t get the memo and lets out a loud grumble.
“you hungry?”
“a little.” you nod, a little breathless. his expression softens instantly, thumb brushing gently over your cheek. “say less. your favorite, yeah?”
which is what brings you both into the kitchen at one in the morning.
he’s quietly whipping up the ingredients for your favorite cinnamon pancakes, trying not to wake the others, while you sit on the counter beside him, a bowl of strawberries balanced between your legs. you bite into one, watching—no, openly admiring—your very attractive boyfriend.
soon-to-be husband, if he keeps this gentleman act up.
the whole “being quiet” thing fails miserably because garrett can’t help cracking dumb jokes and throwing in terrible pickup lines. you laugh way too loud, and he uses it as an excuse to kiss you just to shut you up.
“can you get me the chocolate chips, please?” he mumbles, focused adorably on mixing the dry with the wet ingredients.
you reach into the drawer next to you and hand them over. he leans in to peck your lips in return. “thank you, baby.”
“mhm.”
while waiting for the pancakes to cook, he stands between your legs as you feed him strawberries, rewarding you each time with a soft kiss.
who knew garret “i-don’t-do-girlfriends” graham would be standing in a dimly lit kitchen, hand-feeding his girl pancakes he made from scratch at one in the morning without a single complaint—kissing the syrup off her lips after every bite, making her giggle hysterically. the kind of giggle that makes him grin so wide, looking at her like she’s the only girl in the world.
blurb: a rich uptown girl with car issues keeps visiting the small garage off the highway where the owner’s super hot son works.
warnings: fem!reader, fluff, lowk ditzy!reader but not really, yummy mechanic!logan.
Logan heard you before he saw you.
He memorized the sound of those heels clicking against the rough pavement like a second heartbeat. After all, not many girls around this side of town wore vintage Prada pumps to an off-highway garage.
And even if they did, they most certainly did not own a BMW 6er f12 convertible.
Logan’s older brother Jeff was leaning against the workshop desk and sipping on a can of Coke when he saw you strut in. He sighed, “Here comes Lottie.”
The nickname was a running joke between the brothers. Jeff had muttered it under his breath when you first visited the shop and asked a question about diesel gas. He took one look at you and knew you were a clueless, rich girl who shouldn’t be visiting garages such as theirs.
Logan hadn’t entertained the nickname so much. He thought it was unnecessarily mean. Besides, Lottie was always a sweetheart in Princess and the Frog.
Jeff turned on his heels and disappeared into the garage’s office, leaving Logan to deal with you on his own.
Logan put down a spare part he was working on and turned around, leaning back against the counter.
You waved excitedly with a cheerful grin. “Hi, Logan!”
He smiled politely, “Hey…”
“Did you save my girl?” You asked, batting your lashes.
Logan nodded, “She’s all fixed up for you,” he said, walking over to the wall of car keys hung on hooks to retrieve yours.
You clapped your hands, “Yay!”
He chuckled whilst shaking his head. You got happy over the simplest of things. He thought it was endearing.
You walked over to your car. Nebula, as you called her. A fitting name for a sleek, black convertible with dark purple leather upholstery and shiny silver rims.
Logan came over and handed you your keys. “You wanna try her out?”
You nodded and unlocked your car before opening the driver’s side door. No beeping. Perfect.
You beamed at Logan. “You did it!”
He smiled with an easy laugh, feeling proud of his work. In reality, your car issue was a minor one; the door sensor just needed a replacement. Nothing about it required a lick of rocket science, and yet you looked at him as if he hung the stars in your galaxy.
You put your designer bag into your car and bent over to fish out your wallet. Logan stared at your body for a second before he caught himself, clearing his throat and looking away respectfully.
You stood up straight, holding your leather wallet between both hands, looking at him with a doe-eyed expression.
He scratched the back of his neck and gestured for you to follow him to the counter. The gritty sounds of his boots crunching the gravel below and the rhythmic click click click of your heels echoed through the garage.
Logan went around the counter and pulled out a receipt and wrote down the service you needed with the price. He slid the piece of paper to you but you just kept looking at his face with a smile. He blinked before realizing you didn’t care for the price. Right, he thought. Rich girls don’t worry about those things.
“Cash or card?” He asked.
You held up your metal black credit card.
Logan pursed his lips and nodded as he pulled out a card reader. You tapped your card without even glancing at the screen and clapped your hands when the machine beeped in satisfaction.
“Thank you, Logan,” you told him kindly.
He shrugged politely, “It’s no problem.”
You smiled at him. He returned it, “Do you want your recei—“
Before he could even hand you your proof of service, you were walking back to your car. He nodded to himself and stuffed the receipt into the cash register.
He watched as you exited the garage, waving at him enthusiastically as you drove by. He gave a small wave back.
+
A week later, your BMW pulled into the garage whilst Logan was working under a car.
He didn’t hear the sound of your heels this time as he had headphones in, blasting a classic rock song. He felt a shadow looming nearby so he turned and saw your heels appear. He paused and rolled out from under the car, meeting the sight of your broad smile peering down at him.
“Hi, Logan!”
“Hey…” He sounded confused. His eyebrows furrowed and he glanced around, “Didn’t you pick up your car last week?”
You nodded. “Yep. But my AC is broken now…” You pouted.
Hm, Logan thought. He sat up, “Oh, I didn’t see that when I did the diagnostic last week—“
“Must be a new issue, then. These foreign cars are all funny,” you replied, tilting your head.
He cleaned his hands with a rag before standing up. He had oil stains on his shirt and just a little smudge on his face. You thought he looked so ruggedly handsome.
“Let me take a look,” he said and you stepped out the way for him to crank open your hood and inspect the situation.
As he got to work, you leaned against your car and watched. After a moment, you asked, “How was your weekend?”
People don’t usually talk to Logan when he repairs their cars. Especially not pretty, rich girls like you.
“It was good, played hockey, worked here in the shop,” he responded casually.
You nodded along even though he couldn’t see you.
“Did you win?” You asked.
He laughed, an amused sound. “Yeah…yeah, we won.”
You clapped your hands, “Yay!”
Logan laughed again. It was cute, he thought, how you always clapped at good news.
“You like hockey?” He asked, looking over your hood to meet your eyes.
You hummed, “I only recently got into it. My family prefers watching polo, golf, or tennis.”
Rich people sports, he wanted to say. That made sense.
“Recently, huh?” He said instead, ducking his head to keep working. “Who should I thank for putting you onto hockey?” He joked.
You smiled shyly and said, “You…”
His hand paused. The parts of your car suddenly looking like alphabet soup moving in jumbled letters. He lifted his head to meet your gaze again. But before he could manage a reply, you changed the subject. “Is it broken beyond repair?” You asked, turning your attention to your car parts.
He snapped out of his daze and shook his head. “Uhh, no. No, you just need AC coolant.”
“Is that an easy fix?” You asked.
He nodded, “Yeah, the easiest.” He said.
You smiled in relief. “Thank goodness I have you fixing my car,” you told him.
He smiled at that.
He fixed your car, you chirped out a “Thank you, Logan!”, you paid without looking at the bill, and waved goodbye as you left.
“That the BMW girl again?” Logan’s dad asked as he stepped out the office.
“Yeah,” Logan replied, wiping his hands.
“Lottie back again so soon?” Jeff teased. Logan rolled his eyes at the jab.
“You overcharge her?” His dad asked.
Logan looked at him, “Why would I do that?”
His dad shrugged, “Luxurious car fee?”
Logan squinted his eyes, “We don’t do that.”
Jeff piped in, “We could. She doesn’t even check her receipts.”
Logan looked between his dad and brother, “So what? We charge her fair and square.”
His dad shared a looked with Jeff before he went back inside the office.
+
Week after week, you came by to the garage. First it was an oil change, then a rim replacement, then a loose window ribbon, then a tire with low air, and so on.
By week 7, Logan had had enough. It’s not that he didn’t like seeing you, no. Far from it. He actually enjoyed your company. He often looked forward to when you’d come by and say Hi, Logan! in that sing-song voice of yours, your joyful smile, and innocent questions.
But now he was noticing a pattern.
So when you rolled in that Thursday night like clockwork, he didn’t go up to you. He stayed by the workshop desk and watched you with his arms crossed over his chest.
“Hi, Logan!” You beamed with a gleeful wave.
But upon meeting his stern expression, your smile faltered and your hand slowly dropped back to your side. You looked around the empty garage before walking over to him in hesitant steps. The sound of your heels filled the space between the two of you. You stopped in front of him and flattened down your skirt, a nervous tic of yours that you never noticed before.
“Y/n,” he said, his tone serious. “This is the seventh time you’ve come to the garage.”
You nodded, “Nebula keeps acting up—“
“No, she doesn’t.”
You looked at your feet. No smile, no lively clapping.
His arms uncrossed and he stepped closer. He wasn’t angry. No, it wasn’t that. Logan isn’t an idiot. He knew. He knew you had a crush on him, knew the only reason you showed up time and time again was just to spend time with him. Why else would you come? He knew families like yours had their own repairmen at fancy dealerships who could fix any problem. You didn’t need to come into his family’s garage.
Yet, you did.
Logan figured it out by week 4. But truth be told, he never mentioned it because a part of him liked being around you too. He liked hearing your upbeat voice, the familiar tap of your heels, the sound of your laugh. So he stayed quiet, he fixed your tires, and refilled your car’s oil. He went along with it. Because he liked your company just as much as you liked his.
Unable to lie to him, you lifted your head and met his eyes. “I did those things to my car on purpose.” You confessed quietly.
Logan blinked. His stance eased at your admission and he looked at you with soft eyes.
“I watched a YouTube video on how to drain AC coolant,” you added. “And drove around until my tires lost some of its pressure, and—”
“Y/n,” he held your chin with his hand. “You didn’t have to do all that to see me.”
Your eyes widened as you stared at him. He smiled gently, “I…like seeing you. With or without Nebula.”
“You do?” You asked.
He nodded, “I do.”
He leaned in slowly, giving you the chance to pull away. But you stayed. His lips met yours in a gentle kiss. Not hungry or desperate, just a soft sealing; a mutual understanding—I like you and you like me.
When he pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours. You looked at him with a honeyed, dazed expression. He smiled down at you and pecked your lips once more. You weren’t a spoiled, rich girl to him. Not clueless or ditzy. You were just…you. A sweetheart with a crush on a cute guy who would do anything to see him. You were Lottie.
He glanced behind you at your car. He pulled away with a reluctant sigh, “What did you do to her this time?”
You smiled sheepishly, “I jammed my gearshift…”
He chuckled softly, both amused and fondly exasperated by you. “Okay…let me take a look.” He said, lacing his hand with yours and bringing it up to his lips to press a kiss.
omg first off campus post, i’m nervy xx
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