seven steps, one word*
From an irritated "oh, fuck!" to a confident "fuck it", your entire relationship with John Logan can be mapped out in seven specific exclamations of his favorite four-letter word.
friday i'm in love (series)
Or how John Logan claimed every single day of your week—first as a milestone, now as a minefield.
part one part two* part three
@caspianobsessed @parker-barnes-af @voldyslostnose05 @youngloreninja @juuuniw @loverslakess @iiamgracee08 @rubywingsracing @yoongishawtyyy @stavroulaschreave @adhxmoony @aeyoshinyships @notsosweetcreature @l33nlikeacholo @strangegirl26sff @wilmonyibo7 @kittsylusen @coldheartedmar @melaninbradshaw @imjustagirl-intheworld2 @aeyoshinyships @hehetenya @hteusefam @its-phi @lucine-28 @jordan-connor @staywildflowahchild @zophiathefirst @lucyysthings @vintagefucksstuff @ilovejjmaybank @carpediem1219 @jemimah-b99 @stilinskisensation @starktcc @ellepinkbluepurple @aerinu-blog @mildlyfantasticmanticore @cloeisclaudie @rrosiitas @chocobo522
done being patient
Dean Di Laurentis is clingy, needy, and completely starved for your attention. He doesn't want you to focus on anything else but him—not on your notes, not on your books, and above all, not on that stupid Aaron guy or whatever his name is.
five spots, one hand*
A breakdown of the five specific places Dean Di Laurentis loves to claim you with his palms.
garrett graham
[soon]
(* SMUT or explicit content)
global taglist <3 : @addisondavenport @linnygirl09 @unknownsangel2 @rollsonrollss
if i forgot to tag you 1) i'm so sorry 2) please let me know so i can fix it
if i did tag you but you don't wish to be part to this taglist 1) same 2) same
if you wish to be added to this taglist 1) will do with great joy 2) leave a comment to let me know
Tucker finally catches you staring at his thighs and decides a cooking lesson isn't what you actually need.
word count : 2.1k — explicit — thigh-riding — dry-humping — praise — tuck being super sweet and cute and a giver — tuck (he deserves a warning cause damn) — my boy tucker deserves the filth so i'm not sorry about that one — enjoy and please tell me what you think !
There was a fine line between patience and sheer torture, and John Tucker had been dragging you across it for months.
It wasn't his fault, that was the worst part. He wasn’t playing games—he was just genuinely, wholesomely oblivious. Every time you wore his favorite jersey, or intentionally leaned close to touch his forearm while he laughed, or made a pointed comment about how he’d make an incredible boyfriend, Tucker would just beam, give you that sweet, devastating dimpled smile, and say something like, "Appreciate you, darlin', always so good to me."
Always so good to him. His polite deflections were a special kind of psychological torture.
Right now, you were sitting at his kitchen island, supposed to be chopping garlic for the shrimp scampi alfredo he was teaching you to make. Instead, you were entirely hypnotized by the view.
Tucker was standing at the counter, leaning over a cutting board. He was wearing a pair of very, very thin, gray athletic shorts. Because he was leaning forward, the fabric was pulled tight, completely mapping out the staggering size of his thighs. They were dense, farm-boy quads carved out by years of heavy squats and explosive skating. You could see the distinct, powerful sweep of muscle definition, and the way they flexed every single time he shifted his weight.
You swallowed hard, your grip tightening on the knife. You wanted to bury your face in them. You wanted them gripping your waist. You wanted—
"Uh, darlin'?"
Tucker’s sweet voice shattered your trance.
You blinked, snapping your eyes up. He was looking at you, a half-bun of messy dark curls sitting on top of his head, holding a block of aged asiago cheese. He was frowning slightly, but his eyes were warm and amused.
"You've been hacking at that same clove of garlic for five minutes, and I think you're about to slice your thumb off," he laughed, stepping away from the counter.
"Oh. Right. Sorry," you muttered, looking down at the mangled garlic.
"Everything alright?" He walked over, stopping right beside your stool. He was so close you could feel the heat radiating off his bulky frame. "You've been quiet all evening. Not like you."
"I'm fine, Tuck. Just... distracted."
"By the cooking?" He smiled, entirely missing the mark. "I can take over the chopping if you need a break."
Amused, Tucker leaned closer, resting one hand on the edge of the counter to look down at your messy chopping board. The movement brought him directly into your space. Because you were sitting and he was standing, his broad chest was right at your eye level, and his solid leg was practically brushing against your knee.
The kitchen went dead silent, save for the low sizzle of the butter and garlic simmering on the stove.
You froze, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm. Up close, the sheer size of him was completely overwhelming, and your eyes helplessly darted right back to the thick muscle of his leg, just inches away from you. The weight of your own dirty thoughts made you dizzy, and a wave of mortification washed over you. You couldn't think, couldn't breathe, and you definitely couldn't handle him being this close while your brain was doing that.
"Tuck," you choked out, your voice tight as you gently pressed a hand against his chest to keep him from getting any closer. "Can you... can you back away just a little bit? Please?"
Tucker blinked, completely caught off guard. He froze, looking down at your hand, and then up at your face. The easy, golden-retriever warmth in his eyes instantly shifted into pure, panicked concern. He immediately took a large step back, his shoulders tensing.
"Did... did I do something wrong?" he asked, uncharacteristically quiet and hesitant. He looked entirely heartbroken at the idea that he’d made you uncomfortable. "I swear I didn't mean to overstep, darlin'. If I said something insensitive, or if I'm being a bad teacher—"
"No! No, Tuck, it's really not you," you interrupted quickly, your face burning a violent, hot shade of red as you looked away shyly. You wrung your hands in your lap, wishing the kitchen floor would open up and swallow you. "It’s... it’s a really silly thing. Honestly. I'm just being ridiculous, but I... I haven't been able to stop thinking about it all evening, and having you right there was just too much."
Tucker frowned slightly, his concern melting into soft, focused curiosity. He leaned forward just a fraction, throwing the dishtowel he was holding over his shoulder, trying to catch your eye, his tone incredibly sweet. "What is it? You can tell me. You know you can tell me anything."
You swallowed hard, your throat completely dry. You tried to find the words to explain the last three months of unrequited pining, but your brain entirely short-circuited. Instead of speaking, your gaze helplessly dropped again.
You just stared.
Tucker followed your line of sight. He looked down at his own lower half, at the thin, gray athletic shorts stretched taut over his quads.
He looked back up at you, his brows arching high in utter disbelief. He slowly raised a hand, pointing a thick index finger directly at his own leg.
You gave a tiny, incredibly embarrassed nod.
"You're... you're thinking about my legs?" he breathed, his voice dropping into a register that was completely new. The confusion on his face melted away, replaced by a sudden, breathless warmth.
He didn't back away this time. Instead, he took a slow, deliberate step forward, re entering your space again until your bodies almost touched. Up close, he was so bulky and warm, and as his eyes locked onto yours, his gaze softened into something... different. Heavier. His eyes dropped down, noting the deep flush spreading down your neck, the way your breathing had turned shallow, and the distinct, telling tension in your posture.
Tucker’s breath hitched. A slow realization hit him.
"Oh," he murmured, his voice deep and velvety.
A faint, endearing pink crept up his own neck, but he didn't back down. Instead, a sweet, slightly stunned smile touched his lips. He reached out, his large hands surprisingly gentle as they settled on your cheeks. He leaned in, leaving barely any space between your faces.
"Well, little darlin'," he whispered, his voice low and teasingly soft near your ear. "If it's bothering you that much... do you think you'd let me help you with it?"
You gave a tiny, helpless tremble. You couldn't even breathe, completely undone by the sudden, heavy hunger in his eyes.
"Yes," you whimpered.
The sweet, patient boy didn't hesitate. With one easy, seamless movement, Tucker took a step back, pulling up the barstool right next to yours. He sank onto it heavily, rotating his frame so his back was resting flush against the edge of the countertop.
He looked up at you through his long lashes, his chest heaving as he let out a low exhale. The golden-retriever innocence was far gone, replaced by a quiet intensity that made your pulse skyrocket. Without a word, Tucker raised his hand and firmly patted the top of his rock-hard thigh.
"Come here."
Your breath hitched, a sudden wave of nerves making you freeze. You stared at his leg, then up at his eyes, faltering on the edge of your seat.
Seeing your hesitation, Tucker's expression softened into a look of pure, reassuring patience. He reached out, sliding his hand over yours. His fingers wrapped around your wrist, warm and steady, and he slowly guided you off your stool. He pulled you into the narrow space between his knees, lifting you just enough to guide your legs apart until you were straddling his right thigh.
The contact was electric. Before you could pull away, he took both of your hands in his. He brought them down, pressing your open palms flat against the bare, burning skin at the hem of his shorts. He forced your fingers to curve around the thick, dense sweep of his quad.
"Touch it," he hummed, his voice a sweet command against your ear.
Even now, with the air thick and heavy between you, his true nature didn't change. Tucker was, at his core, a caretaker. He was the boy who always quietly made sure you were looked after, and this moment was another extension of that—him easing the ache you’d been carrying all evening, giving you exactly what you needed. But as your palms settled fully against his skin, his chest rose in a slow, deep breath, his eyes closing as he let out a shaky exhale. His thigh flexed under your hands—not to pull away, but leaning up into your touch, completely yielding to it. Because Tucker wasn't just doing this for you; he was sinking into it just as deeply, needing the closeness just as much.
The sheer sensation of his muscle flexing under your fingertips sent a jolt straight to your core. Your hips twitched instinctively, a helpless, desperate movement that ground your center right against the hard ridge of his leg.
Tucker let out a low, ragged growl, his hands instantly locking onto your waist to hold you right where he wanted you. "Do that again. Ride it, darlin'. Let me feel you."
All your built-up frustration broke. You shifted your weight, and slid your hips down against his leg in a heavy, deliberate rhythm. The friction through your clothes was devastating. Tucker leaned his head back, a choked sound escaping his throat as you rode him, his fingers digging possessively into your hips. He braced his foot against the bottom rung of the stool, angling his thigh up to give you more leverage, matching your frantic pace with steady, torturous upward thrusts.
The friction alone was sending him over the edge. Up close, you could feel the sheer, radiating heat rolling off him; he was burning up, a fine sheen of sweat breaking out on his forehead. Beneath the thin gray fabric of his shorts, his length had grown shockingly hard, straining painfully against his waistband as he watched you work yourself against him.
The pleasure built too fast, coiling tight and sharp in your stomach. You whimpered, your movements turning wild and uncoordinated as the edge rushed up to meet you.
As your body began to tighten and tremble, Tuck reached up. He brought his large hand to your face, cupping your jaw with a fierce devotion. His thumb brushed over your lips, parting them, and he pushed it ever so slightly into your mouth.
You didn't even think. Your eyes locked onto his blown-out pupils as you instantly wrapped your lips around his thumb, sucking on it desperately while your hips shuddered through a hard, breathless climax.
He leaned in close, pulling you up until your foreheads pressed flush together, his hot, heavy breath mingling with yours. As the waves of heat crashed through you, Tucker watched you shake, his attention entirely locked on you as he guided you through it.
"Good girl," he husked, the warm pad of his thumb moving gently inside your mouth. "Look at how perfect you fit against my thighs."
You cried out around his finger, your core pulsing helplessly against his solid quad as the release completely emptied you out. The intense, tight contractions of your climax clamped down on his leg, and the sheer sight and feel of you completely unraveling in his lap shattered whatever remaining restraint Tucker had left.
His jaw went rigid, his eyes rolling back as a harsh, violent shudder tore right through his bulky frame. He choked on a breath, his fingers digging bruisingly deep into your waist as his hips gave one last, desperate, involuntary jerk upward into you. He came hard right there in his pants, the thick heat of his release soaking through the front of his gray athletic shorts, matching the wetness you had left on his thigh.
For a long moment, the only sound in the kitchen was the ragged asymmetry of your shared breathing. Tucker’s forehead rested heavily against yours, his chest heaving as the tremors finally subsided, leaving him thoroughly spent and slumped against the counter.
Gradually, a slow, familiar warmth returned to his eyes. He slipped his wet thumb from your mouth and used it to gently tap the tip of your nose, that devastating dimple finally cutting through his dazed expression.
"You know," he chuckled breathlessly, looking up at you through his messy curls. "Next time you want to skip the lesson, all you have to do is ask."
He gave your waist an affectionate squeeze, his eyes dancing with mischief as he looked down at the dark wetness soaking through his shorts.
"You spent all that time on this one," he teased, his gaze dropping to where your hands were still molded around his right quad. A slow, playful grin touched his lips as he nudged his left leg slightly against yours, drawing your attention to it. "But I promise the other one is just as good."
would love a why choose fic with tucker and logan…👀
ughhhhhhhhhhhh you’re visionary for this.
that mix of tuck’s sweet mama’s boy energy and logan’s fierce hard-worker drive would be genuinely lethal. they’re both so incredibly skilled (in more ways than one lmao), a why choose with them would just be a total bloodbath. consider me highly inspired 😮💨🔥
currently working on a shameless desperate and painfully needy john tucker fic that may or may not be heavily focused on those massive texan farmboy / hockey player thighs wxljhgkglmtmpomzlndjdkps
will post in like, 30 minutes :)))) after that if you're looking for me, i'll probably just be out there stalking jalen thomas brooks on the internet till i fall asleep
john logan—your sworn enemy, literal arch-nemesis, the bane of your existence—doing the iconic mr. darcy hand flex after your fingers accidentally brush for the first time. I said what I said.
me: okay, tonight i’m locking in. i’m going to write all night, become a literary weapon and finish my chapter. i won’t just write the wip, i will be the wip. i’ll be unstoppable! relentless! unbreakable! so powerful the writing gods will have to restrain me themselves—
also me, 3 hours later: *giggling at yet another cursed tumblr post while my opened word doc glares at me with only 5 new words and a shameful half-finished sentence*
I made a book playlist, designed a cover, imagined the ending scene, and rambled about my story idea to all my friends, but somehow the word count is still at 0???
7 ⧽. is there a fic you wish you received feedback on, but didn't get any/much? this ask game is asking someone else to then give feedback on said fic, pretty pretty please!!!
not posted yet but I hope I'll get feedback on my tucker fic !! our sweet angel boy is so underrated and underappreciated :((( even if you hate the fic please give me a feedback hahahaha
14 ⧽. is there anything outside of your normal content that you want to write?
i'd love to write songs but I have no musical ability whatsoever so maybe just poems lol <3
Bunnyyyyyyyyyy !!!! you're so sweet thank you for asking <3333
17 ⧽. are there any songs you want to write a songfic for?
so many !! but mostly :
Would that I (hozier) - would make an excellent logan fic
How to be a heartbreaker (marina) - for garrett or dean
The winner takes it all (ABBA) - angst angst angst we love it
Silver springs (fleetwood mac) - same honestly
Casual (chappell roan) - probably for a tucker series ???? who knows
Sports car (tate mcrae) - again, a tucker fic for obvious reasons
I could go on forever
18 ⧽. how do you want your writing to feel to your readers?
more than anything, I want readers to feel like they're part of the story, not just strangers looking in !! I want them to truly connect with the characters and their relationships
because reading is so personal, I know how it resonates will vary from person to person but as long as it evokes a real emotion, brings some joy, and makes you feel at home in that world, I'm incredibly happy <3
A breakdown of the five specific places Dean Di Laurentis loves to claim you with his palms.
word count : 1.5k — explicit — SMUT minors DNI — spanking / slapping kink — impact play — established relationship — consent is sexy — enjoy and please tell me what you think !
There was one thing Dean Di Laurentis particularly loved in the bedroom—one vice he was completely, unapologetically obsessed with—and that was giving you the sharp, intoxicating sting of a slap.
He loved the friction of it. He loved the way the sudden, biting heat of his palm against your skin shattered whatever wall you had up, pulling you violently and beautifully into the present moment with him. Dean was a man who commanded space, whether he was dominating the ice or wearing that smug, untouchable grin around campus. But behind closed doors, that confidence turned into something primal, intensely vocal, and deeply tactile.
Before a single hand ever came down, there was always that quiet, heavy conversation—the checked boxes, the established safewords, and the dark, intense look in his eyes when he asked, "You ready for me?" and only when he heard your breathless, enthusiastic "yes" did he let that cocky hockey-star exterior melt away into something demanding. He didn't just want to touch you—he wanted to mark you with your full permission, to hear the breathy, undone sounds you only made for him, and to feel the physical evidence of his possession warming up against his hands.
He had five very distinct, highly choreographed ways of taking exactly what he wanted.
One — your ass
This was his go-to when he wanted to assert total control, usually happening late at night when the rest of the off-campus house was dead quiet. He’d have you on your hands and knees in the center of the mattress, completely exposed to him.
Dean never rushed this. He would stand over you for a moment, his eyes tracking the line of your spine, his fingers tracing the curve of your hips just to watch you shiver. Then, his large, heavy hand would anchor firmly on your waist, keeping you perfectly in place so you couldn't shrink away. When the first slap landed, it was a deep, heavy, echoing thud that seemed to vibrate through the entire room.
The shock of it would make you arch your back, a sharp gasp ripping from your throat as your skin instantly blooming into a deep, burning crimson. Dean loved the rhythm of it. He would use the slaps to drive the pace of the sex—worshiping the way the heavy impact made your ass cheeks roll and jiggle violently with every hit. He’d bring his palm down hard just to watch your flesh shake against his thighs, the visual driving him absolutely crazy as you trembled beneath him. By the time he was done, his wide handprints would be burned into your skin, a visual map of exactly where he’d taken you.
Two — your tits
This was a purely visual, frantic kind of worship that usually happened when the tension between you two had been building all day. He would be sitting up against the headboard, and you would be straddling his lap, taking him in slowly while your hands rested on his broad shoulders for balance.
Even though you technically had control over the depth and the speed, Dean’s hands were never lazy. He would watch you intently, his gaze heavy and darkened as he tracked the flush rising from your throat down to your chest. Suddenly, his right hand would leave your waist, his palm flattening out as he brought it down in a swinging slap right across the plush fullness of your breast.
The sound was entirely different from the ones before—it was wet, heavy, and loud. The sudden, biting sting would make your hips stutter, your spine locking up as you cried out, your chest immediately blooming a vibrant, angry pink under his touch. Dean would smirk, a low, pleased rumble vibrating in his chest as his other hand came around to strike the opposite side. He would alternate his palms, striking the soft skin of your breasts in perfect time with the frantic rhythm of your hips, driving you into a breathless, desperate haze where the burning heat on your chest mixed with the friction between your thighs until you were completely unhinged. Only when he was satisfied with the deep blush did his harsh strokes melt into a heavy, thorough massage, his large hands kneading the flesh to soften the sting while his lips followed behind, soothing the fire with hot, bruising kisses.
Three — your pretty face
This was reserved for the most intense, emotionally raw moments in the bedroom—the times when he needed you completely bare, with nowhere left to hide. It usually happened while you were kneeling between his thighs giving him head, or right in the middle of sex when the pleasure became so overwhelming you tried to close your eyes and turn away.
Dean wouldn’t let you. His large hand would slide up your throat, his fingers framing your jaw and tilting your head up, forcing absolute, unbroken eye contact. He would look down at you, his expression dead serious, completely stripped of his usual cocky playfulness.
Then, his palm would snap against your cheek. It wasn't a heavy, brutal blow meant to cause real harm, but a sharp, delicious slap that sounded like a quick clap echoing in the quiet room. The sudden shock of it would make your ears ring a little, a breathy sob catching in your throat. Before you could even blink, Dean’s thumb would gently, almost clinically, swipe over the hot, flushed mark on your skin. "Look at me," he’d rasp, his voice thick and demanding. "Keep those pretty eyes right on mine." Another slap would follow on the opposite cheek, shattering any lingering thoughts, leaving you utterly helpless and entirely focused on the weight of his gaze.
Four — your pussy
This was an exercise in pure vulnerability and exhibitionism. Dean would drag you off the bed entirely, pulling your shaking body down onto the hardwood floor. He would sit with his back pressed firmly against the wooden frame of the bed, pulling you back between his thighs so your spine was flush against his broad chest. Your legs would be forced wide apart, spreading you completely open in front of the full-length mirror leaning against the opposite wall.
"Look," Dean would whisper against your ear, his hot, uneven breath making you shiver as his heavy arm wrapped securely around your waist, trapping you against him. "Watch what I'm about to do to you."
You would be forced to watch in the reflection as his free hand slid down between your thighs, his fingers damp as they parted your sensitive skin. He would draw his hand back, and instead of one heavy strike, his fingers began to rain down on you in a flurry of small slaps—very, very fast, small taps that peppered your swollen, wet pussy. The sound was a rapid, obscene, pattering rhythm that echoed off the glass. The sheer speed of the tiny taps sent a jolt of pure, blinding electricity straight up your spine. You would try to twist away from the ticklish, hyper-sensitive ache of it, but his grip around your middle would only tighten, holding you perfectly still as his fingers continued their relentless, rapid pacing, reducing you to sobbing his name into the empty room.
Five — his personal favorite (both at the same time)
This was the absolute finale—the position Dean turned to when he wanted to completely break you down and rebuild you. He would lean comfortably against the headboard and drape your body completely over his lap. You would be lying flat on your belly across his thick thighs, your head hanging uselessly off one side, your legs slightly parted over the other.
Dean loved the absolute helplessness of this position. You couldn't see him, you couldn't move away, and you were completely at the mercy of his hands.
He would start slowly, building a relentless, punishing rhythm that you had consented to, but that still made your mind go entirely blank. His heavy palm would come down on your ass first—a deep, thudding strike that left a wide, pale imprint that slowly turned a throbbing crimson. But before the heat could even begin to fade, he would slide his hand lower, his fingers catching your highly sensitive pussy. He would alternate between the two: a heavy, resonant thud on your ass cheek, followed instantly by those rapid, stinging slaps directly to your slit.
The contrast was maddening. The heavy, aching bruise of the spanking on your ass cheeks followed instantly by the blurring, rapid-fire electricity of his fingers stinging your front. Your hands would grip the bedsheets so tightly your knuckles turned white, your hips twitching helplessly against his thighs with every single variation. Dean would take his time, listening to the shift in your cries, building the heat higher and higher until the sting transformed into a heavy, uniform, throbbing ache that colored your entire lower half red. He wouldn't stop until you were weeping openly, completely undone by the overwhelming intensity, right before he finally pulled you up into his arms to hold you close against his chest in the quiet afterglow.
1 ⧽. if you could sit down and finish any one of your wips without anything stopping you (time, tiredness, etc), which fic would you choose? tell us about it if you want!
2 ⧽. if you could sit down and finish any completely new fic without anything stopping you (time, tiredness, etc), what would you write? tell us about it if you want!
3 ⧽. what's something you like about your writing?
4 ⧽. is there an au or trope that you haven't written before, but would want to try?
5 ⧽. is there a certain kind of fic that feels the most satisfying to finish? any reason why?
6 ⧽. if you were to write a part two/sequel to a fic, what fic would you want to write it for?
7 ⧽. is there a fic you wish you received feedback on, but didn't get any/much? this ask game is asking someone else to then give feedback on said fic, pretty pretty please!!!
8 ⧽. what part of [insert fic] is your favorite?
9 ⧽. tell us about a wip/idea that you're excited about!
10 ⧽. what genre is generally the easiest or most enjoyable for you to write? which is the hardest?
11 ⧽. if you were to rewrite [insert fic] with [insert different character/ship] how do you think it might change?
12 ⧽. what's a song or two you associate with [insert fic]?
13 ⧽. do you have any writing projects/goals/plans you're working on/want to work on?
14 ⧽. is there anything outside of your normal content that you want to write?
15 ⧽. if you wrote a fic called [insert title] with [insert character/ship] what do you think it might be about?
16 ⧽. if you wrote a fic called [insert title] what character/ship would you want to write it for?
17 ⧽. are there any songs you want to write a songfic for?
18 ⧽. how do you want your writing to feel to your readers?
19 ⧽. give a hint/teaser about something you're writing without any context or explanation! tease us haha
20 ⧽. answer any one of the other questions that you want to!
lowkirkenuinely going to sink into the earth and beg Mother Nature to take me back into her womb.
Hi! I'm puckingcuckbunny, this is my main account, aka my f1 account!!
I accidentally sent in an ask meant for you, to another account- because I got the two of you mixed up. crazy ik, but I felt like a wacko because I referenced some of your works specifically with specific praise and I forgot to even mention who I was in that ask, so I just sent in borderline hallucinations to another off campus writer. sigh. fml.
I sent in another message clarifying what happened to them- so now im here for you!
I love your writing, and am writing to give back the love 2000000 times, I really appreciate your message and believe you genuinely deserve just as much, if not more love that I have received in the fandom because your work is gorgeous.
Specifically the way you write emotions and developing relationship dynamics between reader and the characters. Personally, I see reader as their own character, so when I read your work (the one where theres 7 different variations of fuck being used in different scenarios) I loved the way you built up the relationship with Logan, because it genuinely felt like enemies to lvoers, where the two of them have seen the worst of eachother, and managed to overcomee it and strip away the need for perfection in the early days of a relationship, since they've already been at their worst with one another.
esp their argument over tucker, I loved the dialogue and how raw the emotions were and how it felt like the crest of a wave, and what followed was a natural fall into something more intimate.
So yea, thank you so much for your love, and I send it back a billion times over <333
- Bunny xoxoxo
BUNNY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! ohhhhhhh my god, please don't sink into the earth. I am literally crying and kicking my feet at this message lord help me 😭❤️
First of all, the mix up is absolutely hilarious i'm sorry!! It's so relatable, and honestly, I’m just so glad you found your way to my inbox anyway.
Hearing that you loved the logan fic makes my heart melt. I love that you view the reader as their own character, because that’s exactly how I try to write them ! Honestly knowing it resonated with you is the best compliment I could ever receive cause your writing is just SO BEAUTIFUL and I look up to you !
I am sending a billion times more right back to you! Thank you for taking the time to send this and share your good vibes here <333333333333333333333333333333333333333
currently working on a shameless desperate and painfully needy john tucker fic that may or may not be heavily focused on those massive texan farmboy / hockey player thighs wxljhgkglmtmpomzlndjdkps
currently working on a shameless desperate and painfully needy john tucker fic that may or may not be heavily focused on those massive texan farmboy / hockey player thighs wxljhgkglmtmpomzlndjdkps
