guys just do all you know bc we have many many new ppl here!!! my dms are always open and so is my inbox whether you need advice, have a question, wanna chat/tell me something, or whatever!!
⤿ BRUCE WAYNE wasn't the type of man to get caught up on the headlines about himself. Then your article came out and sent waves through his socialite lifestyle.
!! tension. fem!reader. journalist!reader. i geeked out a bit w the journalist concept. for those who don't know im a journalist. ignore the run on sentences pls. not fully proofed. i also ran out of bruce pictures that i haven't used yet so enjoy lego bruce. taglist open. comments encouraged as always. ENJOY.
Bruce Wayne hated bad press.
Not because it damaged Wayne Enterprises, because Lucius usually fixed that before it became a real problem. And definitely not because Gotham’s elite whispered about him over expensive champagne either, because Bruce had learned years ago that rich people would gossip about anything if they got bored enough.
He hated bad press because you wrote it well.
Not tabloid garbage, not shallow billionaire hit pieces filled with lazy commentary and recycled headlines, but articles sharp enough to make people uncomfortable, pieces that dug beneath the polished charity galas and photo ops and exposed the ugly disconnect between Gotham’s suffering and the city’s wealthiest man pretending another fundraiser counted as activism.
Your latest article had been particularly brutal.
The article had gone live at 6:12 AM.
By 7:00, every major Gotham outlet had reposted excerpts.
By 8:30, Wayne Enterprises stock had dipped two percent.
And by noon, Bruce Wayne himself had apparently read it three separate times.
----
Bruce Wayne does not save Gotham. He curates it.
There is a difference.
One requires sacrifice. The other requires branding.
For years Gotham has treated Bruce Wayne like a symbol of civic generosity, the charming billionaire heir photographed beside hospital wings and scholarship funds while reporters eagerly document another smiling donation beneath carefully arranged lighting.
The city calls him compassionate because compassion is easier to market when it wears tailored suits and buys buildings with its last name engraved above the entrance.
But Gotham’s wealthiest son has perfected a version of philanthropy that prioritizes visibility over permanence.
Last Thursday, while residents in the Narrows were still clearing floodwater from apartment buildings the city deemed “structurally inconvenient,” Wayne Enterprises hosted its annual preservation gala downtown beneath imported chandeliers and a floral installation rumored to cost more than the average Gotham household earns in two years.
Inside the gala, donors drank champagne beside ice sculptures.
Six miles away, children slept in water-damaged shelters.
Wayne Foundation representatives later confirmed that emergency aid was distributed to affected neighborhoods by Friday afternoon, complete with media coverage and coordinated press releases.
Convenient timing.
Bruce Wayne has built an empire on being seen caring about Gotham, but visibility has never been the same thing as accountability. Charity offered after cameras arrive is still charity, but it is also performance, and Gotham has mistaken performance for heroism for far too long.
Because the uncomfortable truth beneath Wayne’s carefully maintained image is this:
Gotham does not need another wealthy man funding damage control after tragedy strikes.
It needs someone willing to prevent the tragedy before it becomes profitable to mourn publicly.
And perhaps the cruelest part of Bruce Wayne’s legacy is not that he fails Gotham entirely.
It is that he convinces people that incremental kindness from billionaires should feel revolutionary in the first place.
-----
It spread fast.
By the next morning every media outlet in Gotham had picked it up, and suddenly Bruce Wayne was trending for something other than being photographed falling out of clubs with models draped over his shoulders.
Which was why you nearly dropped your drink when your editor leaned against your desk and casually informed you that Bruce Wayne himself had requested a private interview.
Specifically with you.
“No assistants?” you asked slowly.
Your editor grinned. “No PR team either.”
“That’s suspicious.”
“That’s journalism, good journalism. Means you got to him.”
“No,” you muttered, staring at the forwarded email on your screen, “that’s a setup.”
Still, two days later, you found yourself walking through the front doors of Wayne Tower wearing your nicest blazer and the expression of somebody entering enemy territory.
The receptionist practically melted the second she saw your name on the appointment list.
“Mr. Wayne is expecting you.”
That somehow made it worse.
You expected a boardroom. Or a conference area. Something sterile and corporate where he could smile politely while a legal team watched from the corner.
Instead, they brought you to the penthouse office at the very top floor.
And Bruce Wayne opened the door himself.
It was irritating how attractive he was in person.
You already knew that, obviously, Gotham practically documented the man like he was a national monument, but photographs didn’t capture the size of him properly, or the way his voice settled low and smooth when he spoke directly to you.
“You came.”
You blinked once. “Well.. you did invite me.”
A flicker of amusement crossed his face, subtle enough that you almost missed it.
“Right,” he motioned for you to properly enter. “Come in.”
The office was massive, all dark wood and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Gotham, but somehow it still felt strangely personal. His jacket was tossed over the couch instead of hung up properly, files scattered across the desk like he’d actually been working before you arrived.
Bruce gestured toward the sitting area. “Drink?”
“I don’t take beverages from men, especially those who are trying to sue me.” You smiled, despite the slight bite behind your words.
That got an actual laugh out of him, low and rough.
“I’m not suing you.” He shook his head while pouring himself a glass.
“You should,” you replied. “The article was mean.”
“You think it was unfair?”
“I didn't say that. I think it upset you.”
Bruce sat across from you then, elbows resting against his knees slightly as he studied you in silence for a second too long.
It was unnerving.
Most powerful men interrupted constantly, especially men with reputations like his, but Bruce just watched people, quiet enough that it forced them to keep talking.
“You don’t like me,” he said eventually.
You crossed your legs. “Professionally?”
“Personally.” He corrected without a breath. Your eyes narrowed at that as you took him in. Though you had never spoken to him directly, he was so far looking like everything you had heard.
“I don’t know you personally.”
“You write like you do.”
The air shifted a little after that. Not hostile exactly, but heavier somehow.
You had expected defensiveness. Anger maybe. Instead he seemed calm in a way that felt more dangerous, because every question he asked sounded casual while somehow managing to feel intensely direct at the same time.
“You think I’m shallow.” His eyebrows quirked slightly, allowing himself to lean back instead of sitting in such a defensive manner as he had moments earlier.
“You cultivate shallow.”
“You think the playboy act is fake.”
You held his gaze. “Isn’t it?”
Bruce smiled faintly then, and something about it made your stomach tighten. “That depends who’s asking.”
God.
That was annoying.
Because suddenly this did not feel like an interview anymore.
You glanced down at your notebook mostly to regain control of your own brain.
“So why exactly did you ask for this meeting?” you asked. “Because if it’s just to stare at me while I insult you, I should probably start charging consultation fees.”
Bruce leaned back into the couch slowly, one arm stretched along the back cushion behind you, not touching, but close enough that you became painfully aware of the space anyway.
“I wanted to know if you actually believed what you wrote.”
“I did.”
“Even the part where you called me Gotham’s most emotionally detached philanthropist?”
You smiled despite yourself, a small, amused breath escaping you. “Especially that part.”
Another pause.
And then, infuriatingly, Bruce looked pleased. “You’re different in person,” he noted quietly.
“You sound disappointed.”
“No,” he murmured. “More so... distracted.”
The tension hit so suddenly it almost felt embarrassing.
Because you should not have been reacting to him like this.
Not when you’d spent months publicly criticizing him. Not when half your career currently revolved around dismantling the mythology surrounding Bruce Wayne.
And definitely not when he was looking at you like he already knew exactly what effect he was having.
You cleared your throat. “Do you flirt with every woman who says mean things about you?”
His tongue poked out to run across his bottom lip, while his eyes found something in the room that wasn't you for just a moment before meeting yours once more. “Only the interesting ones.”
“That line probably works often.” You shook your head. This was absolutely feeling like a trap, and you'd make sure your editor knew you were right. You were not going to let Bruce fucking Wayne flirt himself out of your opinions.
“It hasn’t worked on you yet.” The yet lingered after the words died in the air between you two.
You hated that your face felt warm.
Bruce noticed too. You could tell by the way his eyes dropped briefly toward your mouth before returning to your eyes again, slower this time.
The silence stretched.
Outside the windows Gotham glittered in the dark below you, but inside the office everything suddenly felt close and overheated and strangely private.
“You know,” you said carefully, “this is a very manipulative PR strategy.” You shifted, your legs uncrossing briefly as you adjusted your blazer, before your right leg tightly rested atop your left.
Bruce tilted his head slightly. “Is it working?”
Your laugh came out softer than intended. “That depends,” you replied. “Are you this arrogant all the time?”
“No. I'd like to call myself generally humble. I only act like this when someone keeps looking at my lips.”
You stared at him.
He stared back.
And the worst part was that he didn’t even look smug about catching you. If anything he looked more interested now, gaze heavier, sharper, like the tension between you had finally become something undeniable instead of hypothetical.
You shut your notebook sharply and decisively. “Right.. that’s enough interviewing for today.”
Bruce’s eyes flicked down to the motion before lifting again.
“Leaving already?”
“You are a workplace hazard, and I'm not letting that jeopardize the career I've built for myself.” You shook your head with an annoyed huff. This was not how you wanted this to go. You wanted to get him to say something that would prove everything you've ever written to not just be convenient coincidences but rather cold hard truth.
As much as you hated to admit it, you were underprepared. You chose not to believe the idea that he was actually charming (when he wanted to be).
This time, when you turned to look at him after slinging your bag onto your shoulder, his smile was slower.
“Come back tomorrow,” he said.
You stood carefully, trying very hard not to think about how close he was now. “Why would I do that?”
“Because you’re curious.”
He stepped forward then, not enough to crowd you fully, but enough that the space between you narrowed into something charged and dangerous.
“And because,” Bruce added quietly, “I think you want to find out whether you hate me as much as you thought you did.”
i feel like i have so many new people here and i realize ive never done like an intro post i just have my carrd, but perhaps i should make a post on here w like what i write for what i wont write and a bit abt me STAY TUNED
to get 3 hours or sleep and feel like a zombie but a bit okay with the sleep i got, or have a bomb ass sleep tmrw and sleep for 12 hours but feeling slow and unenergized in the meantime …
tough decisions
i love an all nighter but the consequences are terrible... i always end up falling asleep at the worst times but having some bomb ass sleep
i love when my interests become mainstream bc it gives me ppl to talk to it abt, but it also pisses me off bc i don't want to see the dumbification of my favorite media and all the piss poor takes people have
in my heart i'm a gatekeeper but i just talk too much i fear
⤿ JOHN LOGAN was a firm believer that love at first sight was fake, then he saw you get checked into the boards at full strength. That was enough to convince him you were his soulmate.
!! wc: 4.5k. fluff. fem!reader. yearner!logan. hockey player!reader. dean and tucker cameos of course. should i make a mini series about logan x hockey reader. taglist open. ENJOY. COMMENTS ENCOURAGED.
The rink smelled like cold air, sweat, and freshly resurfaced ice, the familiar combination settling heavily into your lungs every time you pushed off the bench and stepped back onto the surface.
Your legs already ached.
The game had turned aggressive halfway through the second period after one shitty call spiraled into another, and now every shift felt sharper around the edges. Faster. Meaner. The kind of game where players stopped caring about penalties and started caring about pride instead.
You preferred games like that, if you had to be honest.
Your ponytail stuck damply to the back of your neck beneath your helmet while you skated toward center ice, adjusting your grip against your stick as the referee dropped the puck between you and the opposing center.
The collision happened almost immediately after that.
Sticks clashed. Skates carved violently against the ice. Somebody shouted from the bench behind you while bodies slammed together hard enough to rattle the boards, but your focus narrowed the way it always did during games until the rest of the rink became background noise.
You stole the puck cleanly and pushed forward.
A defender cut toward you from the left.
You dipped your shoulder, trying to slip around her.
Instead, she drove straight into your side.
The impact sent you hard against the glass with a crack loud enough to echo through the arena, pain blooming sharply along your ribs as the boards shook beneath you.
The crowd reacted instantly, and so did your teammates.
But you barely had time to register any of it before irritation outweighed the pain completely.
You shoved off the glass immediately, stealing the puck back before the defender could recover properly, and skated straight down the ice with enough force behind your strides to make your thighs burn.
Somewhere behind the opposing bench, somebody yelled, “Holy shit.”
The puck left your stick seconds later, and the goal light flashed red.
You barely had time to breathe before gloves slammed against your helmet and arms wrapped around your shoulders, the team crowding around you near the bench while the arena noise swelled louder overhead.
“You’re insane,” your captain laughed breathlessly against the side of your helmet.
You grinned despite yourself, adrenaline still racing violently through your system.
The celebration around you lasted only a few seconds before the line changed again and everybody scattered back into position, skates carving sharply across the ice while the energy in the rink climbed even higher after the goal.
You pushed a hand briefly against your ribs while skating backward toward center, testing the ache already beginning to settle beneath your padding.
It hurt.. not enough to matter, yet.
Across the arena, Logan still had not looked away from you.
He sat forward in his seat slowly, forearms resting against his knees while the rest of the crowd blurred into noise around him. The game continued moving at full speed beneath the arena lights, players shouting over one another while the referees reset the faceoff, but his attention stayed fixed entirely on you.
Dean noticed first, because of course he did.
“You good, bro?” he asked, glancing sideways from his seat beside him.
Logan barely blinked. “Who is that?”
Dean followed his line of sight toward the ice where you were circling near center.
“The defenseman?”
“The one that just got launched into the glass.”
Tucker snorted from Logan’s other side. “That doesn't narrow it down at all. They've been nasty tonight.”
Logan ignored him completely.
You pushed your helmet back slightly while talking to one of your teammates, visibly unfazed by the hit you had taken less than a minute earlier, and something about that seemed to irritate Logan further.
He wasn't irritated with you.
At the fact that nobody else on the ice appeared nearly as bothered by it as he was.
“She’s fine,” Dean said casually, mid bite of his overpriced arena pretzel. “Women’s team plays mean as hell.”
“That wasn’t a casual hit.”
Dean shrugged. “She got back up.”
“Not the point.” Logan groaned, leaning back in his seat and letting his legs spread a bit.
Tucker looked over slowly then, eyebrows lifting slightly as realization started creeping into his expression.
“Oh my God,” he muttered. “You’re obsessed with her.”
Logan finally tore his eyes away from the ice long enough to glare at him.
“I’m not obsessed.”
“You looked ready to fight somebody for checking her.”
“She hit the glass hard.”
“She also scored immediately after.” Dean piped up with a shrug and a wink.
Logan’s jaw tightened slightly.
The game resumed again before Dean could say anything else, but Logan’s attention kept drifting back toward you no matter how hard he tried to focus elsewhere. Every shift you played seemed sharper than everyone else’s. Faster. More aggressive.
You didn’t hesitate.
Most players slowed right before impact without even realizing they were doing it, bodies instinctively bracing against pain before collisions happened.
You didn’t.
You kept driving forward like fear genuinely never occurred to you.
Halfway through the third period, you slammed another player into the boards hard enough that Tucker actually winced.
“Jesus Christ,” he laughed. “She’s terrifying.”
Logan said nothing.
Your helmet turned slightly while backing away from the boards afterward, and for a brief second the arena lights caught the side of your jersey clearly enough for him to see the number stretched across your back.
Twelve.
Before he could make out the name above it, you skated off toward the bench again.
Logan leaned forward immediately.
“Twelve,” he repeated.
Dean stared at him. “What?”
“Her number.”
Dean burst out laughing. “You’re actually trying to identify her right now?”
Logan reached into the pocket of his hoodie and pulled his phone out without answering.
“Oh, this is bad,” Tucker said, grinning openly now. “He’s gone.”
Dean leaned over slightly while Logan opened the Briar women’s hockey roster, scrolling quickly with his thumb while the game continued in the background.
“Twelve,” Logan muttered quietly to himself.
The roster loaded slowly.
Tucker watched him with open amusement. “You don’t even know this girl.”
Logan’s eyes stayed fixed on his phone. “Working on it.”
Dean laughed under his breath. “You got all this from one hit into the boards?”
Logan finally looked back toward the ice.
You were standing near the bench listening to your coach, one glove hanging loosely from your hand while you nodded along absently, cheeks flushed from exertion and baby hairs sticking damply to your forehead beneath your helmet.
Then you smiled at something one of your teammates said.
Five minutes ago you had looked vicious enough to start a fight in the middle of the rink. Now you looked warm and relaxed. The contrast was something that Logan understood and admired.. something that was also making him constantly reconnect his wifi in the hopes that it would load faster.
Logan looked back down at the roster immediately.
“There,” Dean pointed suddenly, leaning closer. “Number twelve.”
Logan’s thumb stopped scrolling.
Your name sat there on the screen beneath your player photo.
Defense. Junior. The same number stitched across your jersey.
For some reason, finally knowing your name only made the strange tight feeling in his chest worse.
Tucker looked between Logan and the phone before laughing again.
“You’re done for, bro.”
Logan barely heard him.
Down on the ice, you stepped back into play again, completely unaware that a man several rows above the rink had just memorized your name like it was something important.
By the final stretch of the third period, Boston College had stopped looking organized and started looking frustrated.
Every pass they attempted felt rushed, every hit carried just a little too much irritation behind it, and Briar only seemed to feed off the shift in energy. The game had become brutal in the way rivalry games always did once pride got involved, fast and physical and loud enough that the sound of skates carving into the ice blended together with the roar of the crowd overhead.
Your lungs burned every time you pushed off into another sprint, exhaustion settling heavily into your legs beneath the adrenaline, but it barely registered anymore. The ache in your ribs from earlier pulsed every time you twisted too sharply, yet even that felt distant compared to the rush of momentum building around your team.
The scoreboard hanging above the rink read 5–1.
Boston looked furious about it.
You stole another pass near center ice before one of their forwards could recover properly, intercepting it so cleanly that she nearly lost her footing trying to turn around after you. The crowd reacted immediately, noise erupting through the arena while you accelerated down the ice with one of your teammates racing alongside you.
A defender moved toward you.
You waited until the very last second before sliding the puck across the ice.
Your teammate buried it immediately.
The red goal light flashed, and before you fully registered it, the arena exploded.
By the time you reached the boards again, your teammates were already swarming you, gloves smacking against your helmet and shoulders while somebody nearly crashed hard enough into your back to knock you forward.
You were laughing before you realized it, adrenaline making everything feel sharp and electric beneath your skin while the Boston goalie snapped her stick against the post in frustration somewhere behind you.
Several rows above the glass, Tucker stood abruptly from his seat with the kind of dramatic excitement only hockey players seemed capable of.
His hands coming together with immense force as his claps echoed alongside the rest of the cheers in the arena.
Dean laughed immediately beside him, though his attention shifted toward Logan a second later once he realized there had been absolutely no reaction.
Logan had not looked away from the ice.
Not once.
His forearms rested against his knees while his eyes tracked you, a small grin tugging at his lips despite the intent behind his eyes.
Dean noticed it first.
Or maybe he had noticed earlier and only now found it entertaining enough to comment on.
“Y'know,” he said slowly, “most people blink occasionally.”
Logan barely reacted.
“You’re staring at her like you’re scouting for the NHL,” Tucker added, dropping back into his seat.
“She’s good,” Logan answered simply.
It came out quieter than either of them expected.
Not dismissive. Not casual. He was just certain.
Dean glanced sideways at him then before looking back toward the ice again where you were circling near the bench waiting for the next line change.
“That is not a normal amount of interest for someone you’ve watched exactly one game of.”
Logan didn’t answer immediately.
The truth was he had stopped paying attention to the rest of the game almost twenty minutes ago. Every time you stepped onto the ice, his focus shifted toward you without thinking. The speed, the aggression, the complete lack of hesitation every time another player came near you. You played like somebody who trusted herself completely, and there was something about that confidence that had rooted itself beneath his skin almost instantly.
The final buzzer sounded not long after.
Briar won 7–1.
The entire team spilled onto the ice immediately afterward while music blasted through the arena speakers and students crowded harder against the glass cheering. Your helmet disappeared during the celebration at some point, leaving your hair flattened messily around your face while one of your teammates jumped against your side hard enough to throw both of you off balance.
You caught her automatically, laughing hard enough that Logan could see it even from the stands.
Dean leaned back in his seat slowly.
“Oh, you are fucked,” he muttered.
Logan finally dragged his attention away from the rink long enough to frown at him slightly. “Fuck off." He shoved Dean's shoulder while the two of them laughed as Logan's eyes wandered back to the ice.
You were standing near the bench now talking to your coach, your gloves tucked beneath one arm while you nodded along absently. The arena lights reflected faintly against the sweat still shining along your forehead, and even exhausted, you still looked completely awake somehow. Alive in a way that made it difficult to stop looking at you once he started.
After a short victory lap, the team slowly started disappearing through the tunnel beneath the stands while the energy in the arena softened into postgame noise. You lingered near the ice longer than most of your teammates, still talking to someone through the glass while tossing a puck over for a kid with a little Briar hockey jersey on.
Then your head turned slightly toward the stands.
Toward him.
Logan went still.
Even from this far away, he could see the brief flicker of awareness cross your expression as your eyes passed over the crowd and paused for half a second too long in his direction.
It wasn't recognition, despite the fact that he wanted it to be. It was really just awareness.. like you had felt someone watching you.
Before either of you could hold the moment long enough for it to become anything real, one of your teammates grabbed your arm and dragged your attention away again, pulling you toward the tunnel with the rest of the team.
Logan kept looking toward the empty space you had left behind long after you disappeared from sight.
The next morning felt painfully slow after the energy of the game the night before.
Campus had settled back into its usual rhythm by the time Logan crossed the quad toward his lecture hall, students moving in uneven streams through the cold while coffee cups steamed between gloved hands and backpacks bumped against shoulders in crowded walkways.
He barely noticed any of it, all he could think about was crawling back into his bed after his classes wrapped up.
Not because anything was wrong, which honestly only irritated him more, but because every time he closed his eyes he kept replaying flashes from the game in frustratingly vivid detail. The sound of skates against the ice. Your laugh during the postgame celebration. The way you kept getting back up after every hit like it genuinely offended you to stay down.
Dean had called him pathetic three separate times already that morning.
Logan still wasn’t entirely convinced he was wrong.
He pushed open the door to the lecture hall a few minutes before class started, stepping into the familiar low buzz of conversation and keyboards tapping. The room smelled faintly like coffee and winter air dragged in from outside, students already settling into seats while the projector glowed dimly against the front wall.
Logan started down the steps automatically, his hands settled in his pockets while he made his way towards the usual row he sat in.
Then, his steps came to a screeching halt.
Three rows from the front sat a navy blue Briar athlete backpack slouched beside one of the seats.
Women’s hockey was embroidered, and small along the top of the front pocket.
His eyes caught on the small keychain hanging from the zipper almost instantly.
#12.
For a second, he just stared at it. Then his gaze lifted higher.
You sat half turned in your seat talking quietly to the girl beside you, one sleeve pulled over your hand while you absentmindedly highlighted something in your notebook with the other. Your hair was perfect, and despite being beneath a helmet earlier that morning for practice, he was sure it smelled like vanilla.
Without all the gear and arena lights around you, you looked softer somehow. Still pretty enough to make his chest tighten annoyingly hard. Just… real now. Close enough to touch.
Logan stood there long enough that somebody behind him had to awkwardly step around him to get down the stairs.
He moved automatically after that, though his attention stayed fixed on you the entire way down the aisle.
You still had not noticed him.
Part of him almost preferred it that way, because now that he was actually standing in the same room as you instead of watching from the stands, he realized he had absolutely no idea what to say.
Which was new.
Logan was not usually nervous around women. Confident, relaxed, occasionally arrogant if Dean was being honest, but never nervous.
Yet suddenly he was hyperaware of everything. The sound of his shoes against the lecture hall floor. The fact that his heartbeat felt stupidly loud. The way your fingers tapped absently against your pen while reading over your notes.
He passed your row. Kept walking. Then, immediately regretted it and pretended to take a phone call to abort back up a few rows.
By the time he dropped into a seat a few rows higher, Dean — who had walked in behind him at some point — looked close to losing his mind laughing.
“Holy shit,” he whispered while sitting beside him. “You panicked.”
“I didn’t fucking panic.”
“You literally walked past her like a Victorian dude seeing an ankle.”
Logan stared straight ahead. “Shut up.”
Dean leaned back in his chair, visibly delighted. “You’re down horrendous.”
Logan ignored him, though not very successfully considering his attention had already drifted back toward you again.
You were still focused on your notebook completely unaware of the crisis currently happening several rows behind you.
Then, as if sensing it somehow, you glanced over your shoulder.
Your eyes landed on him immediately with a flicker of recognition swiping across your face almost instantly.
Logan watched the exact second you noticed him noticing you. You looked away first, and that was enough to make warmth crawl unexpectedly up the back of his neck.
Dean saw the entire interaction and looked ready to combust.
“You made eye contact,” he whispered dramatically, his eyelashes batting in a playful fashion.
“Please be quiet.”
“Are you in love?”
Logan rubbed a hand slowly over his face.
Class started before Dean could keep talking, though that honestly did not help much, considering Logan spent the first twenty minutes hearing absolutely none of the lecture.
His focus kept drifting. He noticed how you chewed lightly on the end of your pen while reading. The way you fidgeted with your necklace while listening to the professor. You wrote quickly, confidently, barely ever crossing things out or hesitating before moving onto the next line.
At one point, you stretched slightly in your seat and winced.
Subtle and quick. But Logan noticed immediately, of course he did, he was noticing everything you had done for the past 30 minutes.
Your ribs.
The hit from yesterday had clearly bruised you worse than you’d acted like it did. The thought of that was enough to bother him for the rest of class.
When the lecture finally ended, students started gathering their things immediately, backpacks zipping loudly while conversations picked up around the room.
Logan watched you zip your backpack shut carefully before standing. Then he watched two different guys notice you at exactly the same time.
One of them moved before he was able to finish fumbling to put his laptop away.
Of course he did.
Tall, confident-looking business major type. The kind of guy that was probably in a frat with a snap score of at least 2 million.
Logan felt irritation spark instantly.
The guy smiled at you while adjusting the strap of his backpack. “Hey, you’re on the hockey team, right? You played last night?”
You looked up politely. “Oh-.. uh, Yeah.”
“You were really good.”
Logan hated how genuine the compliment sounded, he was expecting this douche to be superficial and just ask for your snap to add to his roster.
You smiled softly anyway. “Thank you.”
The guy opened his mouth again, clearly gearing up to continue the conversation.
Then Logan stood.
Dean looked up immediately with the kind of excitement usually reserved for live sporting events.
“Ho-ly shit,” he muttered.
Logan ignored him completely before heading down the stairs.
He wasn’t entirely sure what his plan was, only that the idea of walking out of this room without talking to you suddenly felt impossible.
The guy was still talking by the time Logan reached the bottom of the stairs.
Something about study groups, or maybe coffee. Logan honestly was not listening closely enough to tell the difference.
Your attention stayed politely fixed on him while you adjusted the strap of your backpack higher onto your shoulder, though there was something slightly distracted about your expression, like your mind was already somewhere else entirely. Exhaustion lingered faintly beneath your eyes from the game the night before, softened only slightly by the fact that you still looked unfairly pretty standing there in your Briar hockey sweatshirt and sweatpants.
The small keychain hanging from your backpack zipper knocked lightly against the fabric every time you moved.
#12.
Logan’s eyes caught on it again before he could stop himself.
“You play unbelievable, by the way,” the guy continued. “That goal in the third period was insane.”
You smiled politely, surprised that this guy actually had gone to the game, and wasn't just using it as an excuse to hit on you. “Thanks, Boston's never an easy opponent.”
The conversation should have ended there.
You clearly wanted to end it there.
But the guy kept standing in front of you anyway, lingering just enough that Logan recognized the strategy immediately. Stretch the interaction out long enough and eventually it becomes something else.
Normally he wouldn’t have cared.
Except now he did, annoyingly so, at that.
Before he could overthink it, he stepped closer.
“You should probably ice your ribs.” The words came out naturally, low and calm, though the moment they left his mouth, you turned toward him immediately.
Recognition crossed your face faster, and it wasn't just vague familiarity, but rather memory this time.
You had seen him in the stands last night, and Logan got to watch the exact second it clicked for you.
“The guy from the game,” you smiled before seeming to realize you had spoken out loud.
Your voice sounded rougher than he expected, slightly worn at the edges from yelling over rink noise the night before.
Something about it settled heavily in his chest.
“Yeah,” Logan answered quietly.
For a brief second, the other guy still standing beside you looked deeply confused by the interaction happening in front of him.
“You know each other?” he asked.
“No,” both of you answered at the exact same time.
That seemed to catch you off guard a little because your mouth twitched faintly afterward, like you were trying not to laugh.
Logan felt warmth spread unexpectedly through his chest at the sight of it.
The other guy looked between the two of you again before apparently deciding he was suddenly no longer part of the conversation.
“Well,” he said awkwardly, adjusting his backpack strap, “I’ll see you around.”
You smiled politely again. “See you.”
The second he disappeared into the crowd of students leaving the lecture hall, silence settled briefly between you and Logan.
Up close, he noticed details he hadn’t been able to see clearly from the stands. A faint bruise near your jaw partially hidden beneath your hair. The exhaustion lingering beneath your eyes. The slight stiffness in your posture every time you shifted your weight too quickly.
You were definitely hurting more than you wanted people to notice.
“You really should ice those ribs,” he repeated more quietly this time.
Your eyebrows lifted slightly. “You could tell?”
“You flinched during class.” The answer seemed to surprise you, no one besides your roommate paid enough attention to notice when you had an injury you were insistent on downplaying.
Heat crawled faintly into your expression before you looked away for half a second, adjusting the sleeve pulled over your hand.
“It’s fine,” you murmured. “Just bruised, at least nothing's broken. ”
Logan frowned slightly. “That hit looked bad.”
“It was bad.”
“Yet, you got right back up. Scoring after nearly breaking the glass is some insane shit.”
Something softer flickered briefly across your face then.
“Kind of have to in hockey.” You shrugged in amusement, a smile tugging at your lips that was much more genuine than with the frat guy from a few moments ago.
And Logan was taking that as a win.
Students continued filtering loudly around the two of you while the lecture hall slowly emptied, but Logan barely registered any of it anymore. His attention stayed fixed entirely on you, on the way you shifted your backpack higher against your shoulder or how your fingers tapped absently against the strap while thinking.
“So, you came to the game? There was more turnout than usual for our game's last night, it was fun.” you asked after a second.
The question sounded casual, though curiosity lingered beneath it.
Logan nodded once. “Yeah, I went with some of my roommates, we decided last minute because one of them wanted a fucking pretzel.”
“And now you’re giving medical advice to strangers?”
A smile tugged unexpectedly at his mouth. “You don’t really feel like a stranger.” The sentence slipped out before he could stop it, and immediately his eyes squinted a bit in regret, and his brows furrowed.
Your eyes lifted back to his immediately.
For one horrible second, Logan considered the possibility that he had just sounded insane, but your expression softened instead in a very subtle way.
“Well,” you hummed quietly, “you still don’t know me.”
“I know your name.”
The moment he said it, your eyebrows lifted again.
“I-... uh, looked up the roster.” Logan had the decency to look slightly guilty as the words left his mouth.
You stared at him for half a second longer before laughing softly under your breath, and the sound hit him with the same force it had the night before in the arena.
It was soft and warm, to anyone else it would be like music to their ears, but to Logan? It was dangerous.
“That’s a little insane,” you told him, playfully putting on a disapproving face that quickly dissolved into a smile.
“Yeah, no, for sure.”
The honesty of the answer seemed to catch you off guard enough that you laughed again, shaking your head while starting toward the aisle leading out of the lecture hall.
Logan naturally fell into step beside you without thinking about it. From across the aisle, Dean held up two thumbs-ups and mouthed 'Fuck yeah,' which Logan was happy to drown out with the conversation that was slowly building between the two of you.
⤿ SOLDIER BOY is a vulgar man with a terrible filter. No one at Vought, not even himself, thought that anyone could compare.. except you.
!! wc: 1.3k. innuendoes. fem!reader. supe!reader. language. it's the boys idk what else to warn about but that LMAO. taglist open. ENJOY. COMMENTS ENCOURAGED.
The meeting had barely started before you became a problem, though honestly, the problem had probably started ten minutes earlier in the hallway outside the conference room.
Ben had been in a foul mood all morning.
Not loud about it — not yet, at least — but restless in that particular way he got when Vought insisted on dragging him into anything moderately corporate/businessy. He walked beside you down the hallway with his sunglasses shoved onto the collar of his shirt, one hand flexing impatiently at his side while some terrified assistant rushed ahead trying to explain the purpose of the meeting.
Something about “brand alignment.”
Ben looked ready to commit homicide.. or suicide (or both) before the meeting even began.
“This better not be another one of those fuckin’ seminars where they tell me not to smoke on camera,” he muttered.
You glanced sideways at him while adjusting the sleeve of his jacket where it had twisted slightly at his wrist. “You literally lit a cigarette in a children’s hospital commercial.”
“It was one cigarette.”
“It was during the commercial.”
Ben scoffed softly, though he stayed still while you fixed the sleeve properly. His eyes lingered on you afterward a second too long, dropping briefly toward your mouth before lifting again.
“You’re annoyin’ when you act right,” he said.
“And you’re annoying all the time.”
“That’s charm, sweetheart.”
You snorted, stepping toward the conference room doors just as he caught lightly at your wrist.
The movement stopped you immediately.
Not forceful. Barely even deliberate. Just his fingers wrapping briefly around your wrist before sliding lower until his hand settled at your waist instead, warm and heavy through the fabric of your clothes.
“You gonna behave in there?” he asked, though the grin tugging at his mouth made it clear he already knew the answer.
You looked up at him innocently. “When have I ever embarrassed you professionally?”
Ben laughed quietly under his breath.
“Well that's givin' me zero fuckin' reassurance.”
The doors opened before you could answer him, and the second you walked into the conference room, the atmosphere shifted into the usual miserable Vought nonsense.
A-Train stood near the massive screen at the front of the room, looking incredibly underprepared for somebody allegedly leading a company strategy briefing, one hand moving vaguely through a slideshow filled with statistics nobody cared about while the rest of the Seven suffered through it in varying stages of boredom.
The room itself was painfully sleek in that aggressively corporate way Vought loved, all glass walls and polished surfaces that made every sound echo slightly too much. Homelander sat at the head of the table pretending to pay attention, while Ashley hovered nearby with the expression of someone permanently one inconvenience away from a nervous breakdown.
Ben dropped into the chair beside yours looking miserable already.
He leaned close while A-Train fumbled with the clicker remote and muttered quietly, “Ten bucks says this asshole says synergy in the first five minutes.”
You leaned toward him slightly. “Twenty says he accidentally says something sexual.”
Ben’s grin widened immediately, and sure enough–
“…and if we look at audience retention across the younger male demographic,” A-Train continued, clicking lazily to the next slide, his voice drawling out of boredom, “engagement spikes whenever there’s more direct physical action.”
You glanced at the graph for half a second, your eyebrows knit together while trying to figure out if you were hearing this correctly.
“Direct physical action sounds like we're talking about porn.”
The room went quiet immediately.
A-Train stopped mid-sentence.
Across the table, The Deep snorted before quickly covering it with a cough when Homelander looked over.
Beside you, Ben went completely still for one dangerous second before the corner of his mouth twitched upward.
Ashley closed her eyes like she’d seen death approaching.
“We’re talking about fight sequences,” A-Train clarified tightly, trying to recover some amount of professionalism.
“Sure,” you replied easily. “That’s clearly where my mind goes when a man starts talking about physical action and retention rates.”
Ben laughed under his breath beside you, low enough that only you heard it at first.
His knee bumped yours beneath the table a second later.
Deliberate.
You glanced sideways just in time to catch the look on his face, amused and sharp around the edges in a way that immediately encouraged you further.
A-Train pointed the presentation remote at you accusingly. “Can you let me finish one slide before you start acting like a bitch?”
“I’m listening,” you said. “I just don’t like the weird foreplay, and that's the first time I've ever said that.”
That got a louder reaction.
Even Black Noir tilted his head slightly like he was entertained.
A-Train stared at you for a long moment before looking toward Ben instead.
“You gonna control her or what?”
Ben leaned farther back in his chair, completely relaxed now that the meeting had become entertaining.
“Fuck would I do that for?" he asked. “This is the best presentation Vought’s had in years.”
His arm stretched casually across the back of your chair as he said it, fingers brushing briefly against the top of your shoulder before settling there comfortably.
Ashley made a strained noise somewhere near the coffee station.
A-Train muttered something under his breath and clicked to the next slide harder than necessary.
“Anyway,” he continued tightly, “our social team thinks the public responds better when we appear more emotionally accessible-.."
“Emotionally accessible?” you echoed with an amused look in your eye.
Every time you interrupted the presentation, Ben's attention snapped right back toward you automatically, eyes dragging over your face while he tried — and failed — not to laugh again.
“You got something really fuckin’ wrong with you,” A-Train muttered.
“You’re the one standing in front of a thirty-foot screen saying audience penetration with a straight face.”
“I said audience retention.”
“Same vibe.”
Ben had fully given up pretending to behave at that point.
His hand slid from the back of your chair to your thigh beneath the table sometime during the next slide, settling there lazily like he wasn’t even thinking about it, though the slight squeeze he gave when you made him laugh again suggested otherwise.
And honestly, that only encouraged you further.
The thing about Ben was that he liked vulgarity the way some people liked background music. Most women around him either got uncomfortable or tried to tame him after a while, constantly telling him to lower his voice or stop saying inappropriate shit in public.
You did the opposite.
If anything, you escalated him.
“…focus groups also responded positively to increased chemistry between team members,” A-Train read stiffly from the slide.
You raised a brow. “Now you’re just edging the room on purpose.”
The Deep choked outright on his water.
Ashley physically dropped her pen.
And beside you, Ben laughed so hard he leaned forward, dragging a hand across his face while trying unsuccessfully to pull himself together.
“Jesus fuckin' Christ,” he muttered through another laugh.
His hand tightened briefly against your thigh before he leaned closer, voice dropping lower near your ear.
“You’re gonna get me kicked outta this building.”
You turned your head slightly toward him. “That sounds like foreplay too.”
since u started writing for off campus would u consider writing for john logan or colin?? 😼
COLIN??? COLIN FITZGERALD???? holy ball knowledge omg i never knew that off campus BOOKS would have an audience YESSIR I WILL BE WRITING FOR LOGAN AND NOW ILL ALSO BE WRITING FOR COLIN MY SNOOKUMS
I am unsure of whether to watch the off campus series? Is it any good compared to the books?
i literally adore elle kennedy's books i have everything she's written and ive read ALL briar universe books ANDI LOVED THE SERIES!!! i think they adapted it so well and the casting was so good, my only gripe was that i felt phil was not as evil but it was SO well done i loved it
SO I RECOMMEND!! some people nitpick it, some people said that it's "not their garrett"etc but i HIGHLY recommend
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